Happy MO'N Days

Just heard that Martin O'Neill is paying for all of the fans who travelled to Russia this week (to see an under-strength Aston Villa team get beat) to join him and the players for a slap-up meal later on in the season.

My first reaction to this was 'the spirit of Cloughie lives on', until I remembered that Brian Clough rarely did anything so humble or generous...

My point is, Martin O'Neill is a one-off, a man who actually makes you feel proud to be a football fan. If any more proof were needed, check out this clip.

The S Word

In true blogger fashion, I have something I want to get off my chest, but I don't have time to research it properly. So excuse the polemic and feel free to leave comments/corrections...

I was FURIOUS when I heard that Peter Mandelson wanted to press ahead with plans for part-privatisation of the Post Office. Only a snake of his notoriety would have the sliminess to propose such a plan at this current time: relying on the fact that such a story would be buried beneath (and get this...) the news of the catastrophic failure of a more high profile public/private collaboration, i.e. the HBOS and Lloyds debacle.

At the very moment, the very moment the public has lost its trust in private banks, seeing them for what they are as short-term shysters, THAT's the moment a trusted public institution: available on every village green, High Street and newsagent, could be at its strongest. Surely a so-called Labour government should STRENGTHEN the public service element of the Post Office by allowing it to offer bank accounts and mortgages. They would be obliged to stick to the strict interest rates and codes of conduct set by the government - if people want to take a risk on more attractive rates on offer at private banks, that's their choice. It wouldn't kill-off choice, but it would force the private sector to raise ethical standards, knowing there was a whiter-than-white alternative that the public can turn to.

Sound old fashioned? Fogeyish? What's wrong with that?

The second thing the government should do is to build more council houses. This would stimulate employment in the building trade in the short-term and give people affordable housing options in the long-term. I told you I didn't have the stats... but I think I'm right in saying that just over 300 council houses were built last year. There are just over 300 councils in Britain. One house per district is hardly going to solve this problem. Because surely this gets to the heart of the credit crisis: families who in the 80s and 90s would have found council housing rents within their budget, were being forced into the arms of dodgy banks and loan sharks in the 00s, seeking mortgages they couldn't afford or extortionate rental prices. 

Neither of these things will happen. Not because they won't work, but because they pose too many thorny ideological questions for the ruling classes: using the Post Office as a national bank would be to admit the shortcomings of the private sector; building council houses would be to admit the shortcomings of the public/private housing association initiatives. Strengthening the public sector would leave the 'labour' party open to accusations of the dreaded 's' word, the word they posted down the memory hole some time in 1994...

The government hasn't just got into bed with big business. They've been sleeping together for years. But recently, the government has found out the nasty things big business gets up to when it's back is turned; it's found some money missing from it's handbag. In fact, big business has started to amble home drunk after a day at the bookies and slap the government around. But like all battered partners, the government is in denial: 'he loves me really' they lament.

The answer to this is the 's' word. I'm not afraid to say it: Socialism. Now is the time for socialism. The Labour government needs to realise that if they continue to have faith in doomed public/private marriages, David Cameron will casually stroll into number 10. Their only chance is to take radical action. And what could be more radical than socialism?

Das Zeitgeist uber alles

Jocky really beat me to it with this excellent post, but I also feel there's something incredibly special about Berlin. The ease with which it was possible to idly chat to people you'd just met (who seemed genuinely interested in all things English) was wonderful.

Somehow there's a stark beauty to the place, a straightforward elegance: humour, warmth and potential.

I'm so pleased my friends took me somewhere so special, and couldn't stand the thought of not returning. Start saving for 2010 gents...

Saint or Greavsie?

Jimmy Greaves once said: 'it's a funny old game'. It's largely believed that Mr. Greaves was referring to football, but given his penchant for a daily 'George Best breakfast' at the time, I don't think he'll mind if I tug his words out of context a little. To my mind, Greavsie could just as easily have been talking about existence in general, or more specifically, what it is to be a man.

I've always felt ill-at-ease with the masculine gender. It's not that I'm particularly feminine either; rather, I can identify more readily with the expectations and connotations of femininity: gentleness, sensitivity, consideration. Conversely, the demands of masculinity induce nothing in me but a sense of alienation: physical toughness, single-mindedness, the conscious concealment of true feelings.

Forgive me for swiping at the gender canvas with some decidedly broad strokes - I feel pretty confused on the eve (or is it the eve of the eve?) of my Stag-do.

Much of this soul-searching has to do with the fact that the precise nature and location of my stag celebration is a mystery to me. As such, fear of the unknown is mixed up with feelings of immense gratitude to my friends for organising something so special, which is, in turn, mixed with feelings of excitement, dread and suspicion. As someone usually known for worrying over every last detail, (dare I say, a feminine trait?) I'm now fretting over the fact that I know none of the details. I'm worried that I might be inadvertantly forcing my friends to shell-out at a time of economic hardship, not to mention the traditional stag worries about being placed (or left) in a compromising position.

The ultimate irony, of course, of any stag do, lies in the fact that your absolute best friend, the one person you'd most like to go on holiday/get drunk with, is the one person who's not allowed to go. In an age where it's socially acceptable to live with your girlfriend before you marry (of our 7 years together, Char and I have lived with each other for 4 or 5) it's therefore something of an anomaly that the 'stag' tradition is alive and well, and you're ritualistically taken from the cosy, loving home that you've made together. What's more, you're obviously forbidden from inviting any female friends, which is why I feel rather uncomfortable as a spotlight starts to shine on (what remains of) my masculinity.

I think the best course of action is to repeatedly ask the question: "What would Greavsie do?" My inner Jimmy will recommend drinking lots and having a good time with my team-mates/friends. Greavsie, of course, was also well-know for 'scoring' throughout Europe, but I don't think my masculinity (or this metaphor) will quite stretch that far.

A Black Cat Dies Every Fortnight.

Although blogs can't detail everything (for Gareth has impudently just kept listing) men never operate properly. Quite right. Sensationally tempted under virgin women - x-rated young Zimbabweans. 

*** This idea was inspired by the Twitterish need for short entries. If you haven't guessed, the challenge is to write a blog entry that makes some sense, sequentially using each letter of the alphabet as the first letter of each word. Please try it on your blog!***

Between The Lines

I started to become seriously interested in literature around the age of 16; a late starter, you might say, considering the way in which it has dominated my life ever since. During my A Level lessons, I scribbled notes in my book incessantly: furious underlinings, serious circling, and more sprawling arrows than the opening credits to 'Dad's Army'.

I know that some people think that books are sacred artefacts and should never be defaced in this way. Yet I always felt a rush of arrogant nihilism when I heard such complaints - I was adding to the book, enlivening and enriching it. And anyway, it's not like I'd ever afford a hard bound first edition of anything, so what was all the fuss about? If I were an author, I thought, I'd rather see a tattered and graffiti'd copy of my work (proof that it had been purchased and enjoyed) than a pristine copy, taunting me with the implication of never being bought/read/enjoyed.

And then I really don't know what happened... Perhaps it's an indictment of the way that Higher Education teaches us to focus on everything in literature (interpretations, theories, special interests, context, philosophy, history) except the literature itself. Perhaps it reflects my increasing dependance upon computers - rarely was there a pen 'to hand'. Whatever the reason, I got out of the habit of writing 'between the lines'.

That is, until last week. I was tired of re-hashing the comments and questions from the exam syllabus, to my students, and decided to generate questions more organically - put myself in the students' shoes and ask the questions that arose as I read. It now seems quite symbolic, but in order to do this, I picked up a pen and started scribbling. Soon my copy of Wuthering Heights looked as tatty and weather-beaten as the eponymous house itself. It felt exhilerating - as though the book truly became mine for the first time. The lessons were much better, and my appetite for reading has grown enormously: I bought two books at the weekend, dug-out a book I'd been meaning to read and devoured each of the texts I'm currently teaching. It feels fantastic, and it has snapped me out of the habit of just watching TV no matter how bad the programming. Instead, I sit with a pen in my hand and a cat at my side: bliss.

If your interested, my current reading 'feast' includes:

'Philosophy - The Classics' by Nigel Warburton

'God Is Not Great' by Christopher Hitchens

'Derrida for Beginners' by Jeff Collins and Bill Mayblin

'Othello' by William Shakespeare

'The Kite Runner' by Khaled Hosseini

'Wuthering Heights' by Emily Bronte

One Why-se Man

This morning, Charlotte and I attended our local church in East Finchley, for the first reading of our Banns of Marriage. It was the first time I had attended a church service for many years, and it left me with one question. Yet before I get to that (atheistic, antagonistic) question, I'd like to note the enjoyable aspects of the service. Firstly, it was the first time we'd been to any sort of 'community meeting', so it was nice to see some friendly, local faces. Secondly, there was a wonderful part of the service whereby everyone was invited to wander around the church, shake each other's hand, and say 'Peace be with you'. Now that's a sentiment even a cold-hearted scrote like me can get behind; particularly as our fellow 'worshippers' were from a variety of racial and ethnic backgrounds. Thirdly, it was lovely to be surrounded by children, playing, screaming and interrupting the vicar - one child was baptized so it was nice to witness a proud family coming together for their special moment. Finally, of course, it was great to hear our names read out and for the 'wheels' of our marriage to be put into motion.

So, I hope you'll agree, I approached the experience with something of an open mind and an accepting heart.

My question is this: If God exists, why does 'he' want to be worshipped?

I'm not trying to be clever - if anyone can suggest a reason, I'd be glad to hear it. I can understand why humans might decide to worship (some of the experiences I've noted above, such as building a community spirit and having a shared sense of belonging, to name just two) but why would an all-powerful deity want to be worshipped? Is there any evidence (or, at least evidence in the tenuous, religious sense: scripture, commandments etc.) which explains why God wants to insist upon this constant, fawning servility? I know that the bible is emphatic about not worshipping false gods, but why worship 'the big man', exactly?

To my understanding, the reason for God's incarnation as a human, through Jesus, was for him to experience the vulnerabilities and frailties of the human mind at first hand. If this is the case, surely he would have noticed that, within the human sphere, 'worship' (i.e. excessively being pre-occupied with one person or thing, obsessively celebrating their mere existence) is a wholly negative thing. To my mind, at least, it leads to dependency, repressiveness and low self-esteem: we can never live up to the example set by the object of our 'worship'. 

So why would God insist that we worship Him? I won't be so glib as to suggest it's sheer conceited arrogance on His part, but I truly can't come up with a better reason. 

I would welcome your (or His) enlightenment...

That Friday Feeling

The unadulterated joy of a Friday afternoon is a pleasure that transcends cliche. The prospect of the weekend is invariably better than the weekend itself - those two days seem to stretch into the distance like Route 66 - loaded with potential and unfettered delights. As a boy I remember the special feeling of keeping my school uniform on, well into a Friday evening, safe in the knowledge that it no longer served it's purpose - on Friday afternoons the uniform was a redundant signifier, an ironic statement. Wonderfully, in our house the Cadbury's advertising slogan 'That Friday Feeling' (used in order to flog Crunchie bars) was taken literally, as Mum ensured there was always a crunchie bar to be devoured after Friday tea.

With the advent of adolescence, paper-rounds and part-time jobs, Friday's aura diminished somewhat; one uniform, one set of rules and responsibilities, would be swapped for another.

Taking the academic route that I did, meant that I was deprived of the return of 'that Friday feeling' for longer than most. I worked in a bookshop and the busiest day for any shop is a Saturday, so it was never optional - my Saturdays would never be free. That is, until now.

Working as a teacher means that not only do I have my weekends back, but I'm surrounded by hundreds of young adults who have no problem articulating (quite loudly, at times) the sense of anticipation and promise that a Friday brings. It's like a mini-Christmas Eve every week, and I love it!

Manic Streak Features

Although I would never knowingly demean a diagnosed, chronic sufferer with what could well be petty hypochondria, I have always felt that I suffered from an (albeit mild) form of manic depression. I know it's more serious than just having a good day/bad day, because there's a knowing sense of self-destruction in both the 'up' and 'down' states. In a period of mania, I deliberately take on too much - I find it impossible to say 'no' to a job responsibility, a night-out or the chance to create a song/script/podcast with my friends. There's a breathless, frenzied feeling, whereby I need to work and to communicate frantically, almost in spite of myself. 

Inevitably these manic sprees of activity have the effect of me spreading myself too thinly. On a  micro scale, it has meant that in just one given week I've been committed to, for instance, several band rehearsals, web promotion, logistical organisation, the gig itself, part-time work, full-time study, drinks with work friends, drinks with band friends. On a macro scale, this past year I've been committed to: moving to London, finding a new job, completing a PhD, getting married and finding ways of paying for all of the above.

As such, my 'down' periods are (fairly obviously) filled with guilt - I'm not good enough to meet all of these challenges, I'm letting people down and the only logical thing to do is to stay in bed and eat lots of cheese. Okay, the cheese part is particular to me, but you get my meaning...

My reason for this quite startling confessional, is that I think the rest of the country is falling into my bad habits. It seems that at the slightest hint of good news, we celebrate wildly and project all of our hopes and ambitions, unrealistically, onto the object of our affections. For example, I've read broadsheet newspapers referring to Barack Obama as 'Superman' without irony. Sporting success is lavished with OBEs and Knighthoods; a few inches of snow is embraced by some as though miniature angels were falling from the sky. (Remember, I'm not criticising here - these are my habits that you lot are emulating - I had a brilliant snow day!)

The national 'downside' to all of this is almost too obvious to list here: the recession is biting, unemployment rising, trust in domestic politics is at an all time low, moral standards are (supposedly) in decline and 'why are we all making such a fuss about a bit of snow' etc etc. For more examples, just tune into Radio 5 live for a couple of minutes at any point of the day (it's the equivalent of a national psychiatrists chair).

Indeed, if we are to look for the cause of this polarising of the national mood, the media is a good place to start. I'm sure 20 years ago, the average person's exposure to the news consisted of a quick scan of the headlines in the morning and half an hour with Trevor McDonald at night. Nowadays it's inescapable - we're handed newspapers for free on our way to work, 24 hour news channels and internet sites are constantly turning the wheels of fear, spin and hyperbole. It can become addictive - I'm sure I wasn't the only person hitting 'refresh' every 5 seconds during yesterday's closure of the football transfer window. 

Yet it's not all the fault of the media. Just as I manically get the urge to start a new project or move house, without thinking about the consequences - the nation as a whole has been brandishing credit cards and plundering overdrafts, literally as though there's no tomorrow. The 'down' period is therefore inevitable, obvious, but painful nonetheless.

My personal demons have been addressed, somewhat, by embarking upon regular work and by embracing that cold, cruel mistress: routine. I now have fewer manic phases (being given a scholarship for 3 years meant that there was no routine - my mood was up and down like a yoyo) and fortunately less 'down' time. 

Perhaps therein lies the cure for everyone else - take a  deep breath and look around you, cherish the everyday and the mundane. Obama will make mistakes, British cyclists will win silver medals, the snow will thaw. But by the same token, the economy will improve and politicians will be held accountable. 'Moderation in all things' has always struck me as a decidedly depressing mantra, yet it could well be the solution to our national manic depression.

Episode 4

Tony Martin says: "Episode 4 of the Two Wise Men podcasts is now available here and via  iTunes. Download, listen and comment. Don't make me use force!"

Living within your means shows a lack of imagination

Just rifling through some old videos and stumbled across a VHS of Tokyo Beatbox live in Kentish Town 2006. Not only am I convinced we were the greatest band that ever lived, we were also the most prophetic. Listen to this, and remember exactly who it was that predicted the economic downturn... 

Makes Robert Peston sound like a hopeless amateur!