The Sun Wot Won It

I think Russell Brand summed it up best. To paraphrase the great swordsman:

"To me, The Sun is like a happy-go-lucky, yet ever-so-slightly-racist friend:

"Wahey! £7.50 holidays! Bingo! Dolly Birds! Too many immigrants!"

"What was that last one?"

"Dolly birds!"

Today's news that The Sun is no longer backing Labour comes as something of a relief. I've always had a strange relationship with The Sun; it was the paper of choice in our house growing up - I distinctly remember the 'Turn Out The Lights' Kinnock headline - and therefore I have some affection for it despite the fact that I'm repulsed by pretty much everything it represents.

I'm about to teach a night class so don't have time now to really explore this love/hate quandry. I can however recall my thoughts on the matter during my lyric writing days for the fondly remembered sham-rock outfit, The New Pirates:

The Sun and Sky
Brings us down
Invisible empires to which we bow
You're our Stalin now

Take away
My hopes and dreams
Fox and Times teach you what to see
Well you ain't gonna fool me

AOL say all is well
We say "Fuck You! How can you tell?
Your president can't spell"

Victory at Wapping
Gotcha bigger than Charles Foster Kane
There's murder in your name...

And we say Murder Rupert
Murder Rupert
Murder Rupert
Murder Rupert

Rhetorical Tear Gas

We didn't cause the credit crunch. The people who did were handed billions from the government. Those billions will be recouped somehow.

For those who have felt the effects of the global economic downturn directly, i.e. those who lost their jobs in the financial sector or those duped into extortionate loans or mortgages, it is, obviously, a tremendously difficult and frustrating turn of events. For the rest of us, the 'credit crunch' can appear to be a blessing: lower mortgage rates, reduced VAT, cheaper goods and a smug satisfaction that we were never greedy/stupid/unfortunate enough to get involved in any high-risk or highly dubious practices. If the bank is closed, we joke, just use the ATM.

The truth is, we have little reason for schadenfreude.

The truth is, the dubiousness hasn't stopped and the opportunism afforded by the current situation stretches way beyond popping into the Halifax in a cheeky attempt to track the base rate. Indeed, other opportunities present themselves, such as the opportunity to reduce pay and working conditions, the opportunity to 'balance the books' regardless of the long-term well-being of your work force and community and even the opportunity to cut jobs.

It stands to reason. Imagine that for years you had been irritated by an employee, a certain way of doing things or even an entire department under your control. Every day you were irked by petty squabbling or apparently unreasonable demands. The people above you want changes, the people below you want continuity. You become seen as indecisive and ineffectual by everyone around you - hamstrung by employment law and lively unions. The credit crunch arrives like a gift: a brilliantly vague term, like rhetorical tear gas, working on subconscious fears and miraculously rendering even the most ludicrous decisions 'justifiable'.

Sure, the direct impact of the credit crunch was devastating. But the indirect impact is somehow more sinister, slimy and destructive.

As a college lecturer I naively felt immune from the effects of the crunch, until this news:

On 5 June the Principal of Tower Hamlets College, Michael Farley, emailed staff a document called “Securing the Future” that hit like a shockwave. The ensuing 30 day “consultation process” left staff with the following:

Redundancies (voluntary and compulsory) in the region of 30 “full-time equivalents” (i. e. about 50 people) across teaching and support staff
The loss of 1, 000 of our 3, 000 ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Languages) students. The need for ESOL at Tower Hamlets is huge: last year there were 800 on our waiting lists.
Withdrawal of college ESOL classes from up to 11 Outreach centres on estates and in the community. Outreach students are almost all women, most of whom are only able to attend classes because they are near home. The plan is that the provision at the low levels will be provided by charities, mosques and churches, who can bid for government money to hire their own, (isolated and low paid) teachers.
Attack on our working conditions and working culture - in the weeks before the cuts were announced, a leaked email from Senior Management referred to the need for a “culture change” at the THC. Clearly this just the beginning of the attacks to come, with the recession used as an excuse to force the business and skills agenda further into a place with a tradition of creative and critical education.


There will be people like the management at Tower Hamlets at YOUR work place, and the credit crunch is their window of opportunity. Now is the time to fight back. Join your Union. Write to your MP. Donate to the strikers at Tower Hamlets. Join their Facebook group. Join their march on Saturday 12th September. Be vigilant and don't take anything for granted.

Reason to be cheerful

Despite a Summer of scrutiny for the Tories commitment (or otherwise) to the NHS, today's Guardian poll suggests that support for the Conservatives has actually increased. A Tory PM in 2010 looks more and more likely and the outlook bleak for traditional Labour supporters like yours truly.

Admittedly, there is very little to 'support' in the Labour party right now: Iraq enquiries continue to be fudged and covert and the expenses scandal attacked the very core of the party - many suggested that it was behaviour they expected from Conservatives, but deplored in so-called socialists. Indeed, this past year could be seen as a woeful failure of the Left in all its guises: the economy crashed and capitalism was exposed as being a fragile system, based on greed, exploitation and virtual accounting. This was the time for a radical change - what we got was slapped wrists and empty gestures.

Personally, I was cheered by Alastair Darling's increased taxation on those earning £100,000 or more (which, don't forget, includes pretty much everyone in the media and was therefore never going to be met with a fanfare) but still couldn't help feeling it was too little, too late.

So, is there a reason to be cheerful?

If there is, his name is Jon Cruddas. The war in Iraq aside (which he now openly admits was a mistake) Cruddas has an admirable voting record - opposing all Blairite evils from tuition fees to trust schools and nuclear weapons. If Labour are crushed next May, he's precisely the sort of person they need to elect. MP for working-class, industrial heartland of Dagenham, Cruddas seems refreshingly reluctant to maintain the status quo and his political record reflects firmly held principles.

In terms of presentation too, Cruddas doesn't seem as slimy as the Millibands or as smug as Harmen. Like Alan Johnstone, he has the appearance of a bloke trying to do a good job - the perfect antidote to Cameron's fadish, vapid style.

Of course, this could well be the kiss of death for Cruddas. Ironically, rather than voting for Cruddas in the Deputy PM election, I opted for Peter Hain, who a few weeks later was being investigated for financial irregularities. So, if he can survive my poisoned 'thumbs-up', Cruddas may well be the man for the future.

Brazilliant

One of the most cliched aspects of my life lies in the fact that it was George Orwell's dystopian masterpiece '1984' which really got me into reading. I've met many people who were similarly inspired by Orwell and (without ever being ashamed of my love for his work) have always been slightly weary of its predictability as a 'modern classic', feeling that presenting myself to the world as a fan of Orwell casted me as somehow humorless and needlessly earnest.

It was my love of '1984' which recently led me to buy the film 'Brazil', a dystopian nightmare whose working title was '1984 1/2' (Nineteen Eighty Four and a Half).

But, the brilliance of 'Brazil' (Brazilliance, if you will) lies in its comic sensibility, its absurdly brilliant satire. Just as we should expect from director and ex-Python Terry Gilliam (co-written with Tom Stoppard, no less) it is dark, weird and hilarious in equal measure. Although occasionally the satire is ladled on a little too thickly, this is quickly forgotten as you sink into the lavish retro-futuristic sets and the wonderfully astute performances from a stellar cast (Jonathan Pryce, Robert De Niro, Michael Palin, Bob Hoskins to name just a few).

The real strength of Gilliam's 'Brazil' is that, unlike Orwell's vision of a slick, all-powerful totalitarian state, the powers-that-be in Brazil are often incompetent, work-shy, buck-passers. In 'Brazil', there is no Big Brotheresque villian. Rather, the enemy is bureaucracy itself, the nightmare is the nature of administration. Seen in this light, it is '1984' that reads like a wildly imaginative fantasy and 'Brazil' as a disturbingly realistic documentary.

I wholly recommend this film and am surprised it hasn't been packaged alongside the other Python masterpiece 'The Life of Brian'. In fact, watching 'Brazil', you're reminded that the best jokes in LoB are those that satirise administration and bureaucracy:

"Judean People's Front? Fuck off! We're the People's Front of Judea!"

Long, Long, Long

Josie Long is ace! I first encountered her refreshingly positive, awe-struck style of comedy on the Robin Ince Paramount podcasts, but didn't truly 'get' her until her excellent appearances on 'You Have Been watching' inspired a YouTube search.

In my more idiotic moments, (cowardly sheltering beneath my battered old irony umbrella) I've joked that there are no funny women on TV. Of course, I knew this wasn't really true and have laughed heartily at the routines of Jo Brand and Joan Rivers to name but two stand-ups, loved the writing of Jessica Stephenson on 'Spaced', the sly sensuality of Isy Suttie in Peep Show and the perfect timing of Sally Phillips in 'I'm Alan Partridge'. (Hmm, the very act of listing seems patronising and restrictive - make no mistake, I'm aware of the flaws of this entire post.)

Perhaps what I was really trying to say, though, is that I'd never seen a female comic who spoke to me in quite the same way as some of their male counterparts - I always felt slightly removed, slightly at-odds with the material. Well, I need squirm no longer: Josie Long's is a fresh, sharp, poetic voice and (if she wants to, which she may not) I'm convinced she's capable of storming British mainstream comedy in the next year or two.

Enough eulogising from me: hot-foot it to YouTube now, or (even better) read the fanzines at http://www.ilovejosielong.com

Positive Discrimination

There’s a very obvious difference between the landscape of the town I was so expertly brought-up in, Market Harborough, and that of my current dwelling in North (our flat) and West (my job) London. This difference lies in the ethnic and racial diversity of the residents of these respective locations. To put it bluntly, in London I have lots of Black, Asian and East European neighbours/colleagues/friends and in Harborough had relatively few. Fortunately as I studied in Loughborough and worked in both Leicester and Nottingham, I was able to mix with people from a variety of backgrounds. However, aside from a few notable exceptions, Harbrough itself never really provided such opportunities.

As I say, a very obvious observation. Yet it was only the other day when I was due to meet my brother in Market Harborough that I strolled along the High Street and seriously felt that something was ‘amiss’. Absolutely everywhere I looked, there were white faces and after a year of living in London it genuinely felt strange, and, dare I say it... wrong?

Particularly as there’s such a diverse cohort of students at the college I teach at, I’m used to the (great) feeling of seeing an even distribution of white, black and brown faces every day. Of course, there was nothing wrong on Harborough High Street at all. But to my sensibility, it felt as though I was looking at a place I know (and love) with fresh eyes.

I was reminded of this frisson of discomfort today as Charlotte and I wandered around the cobbled streets of the beautifully picturesque city of Canterbury. We had a lovely day perusing the independent bookshops and taking in the majestic architecture of the famous cathedral. The thought of moving to a place such as Canterbury some day fluttered in my mind, until I scanned the people around me and, again, felt a pang of disappointment upon finding faces as white as my own.

Re-reading this post, I read the words of the most sickening and pathetically servile, bleeding-hearted, lily-livered liberal. Indeed, perhaps it’s not unfair to suggest that this is actually a form of inverse racism: that my feelings of disillusionment at finding fellow Caucasians are just as irrational as if I’d been uncomfortable among people of a different ethnic background.

Yet I can’t help but think there is at least something ‘positive’ in my ‘discrimination’, even if it does present a few thorny questions around our ultimate ambition to eventually settle down and have a family in Market Harborough.

Confessions of a Championship Manager

In an outrageous tonal gear shift from my last post, I'd like to talk about computers games and football transfers...

I have a strange relationship with computer games. Aged 27, I ought to be the perfect gamer: old enough to remember how monumentally awful graphics and gameplay used to be, yet young enough to hang around the games section of HMV without arousing too much suspicion. Yet I've still never really been a 'gamer'.

Growing up, my brother and I were lucky enough to be given, if always not the newest games console, then at least the 2nd or 3rd newest. Starting with the ZX Spectrum, we were both given Game Boys one (blissful) Christmas, then the Atari ST, NES, SNES, Nintendo 64, a GameGear my Dad somehow procured, Playstation 2 and finally, a couple of years ago a Nintendo Wii.

A list of my favourite games is a fairly predictable list of classics: Paperboy, Tetris, Starwing, Goldeneye, Grand Theft Auto etc, but one game towers above all of these in my affections: Championship Manager (now known as Football Manager after some sort of licensing dispute that I never bothered to find out about). 'Champ Man' as we called it, was and is the defining game of my lifetime. I remember my brother Daniel specifically asking for his Atari ST to be upgraded from a 500k machine (500k!!!!) to a 1Megabyte, just to play the inaugural 'Championship Manager '93'. At first this seemed quite an outlandish request (getting his entire computer taken away and fiddled with, just for one game?!) but it turned out to be a masterstroke.

It says a lot about my relationship with computer games that my fondest memories of lying on the floor in my brothers room, during hours and hours of Champ Man, was not the game itself, but the accompanying music my brother exposed me to. It was during this time (1993-1996) that he'd record songs from the radio, copy tapes from the library and swap them with friends and it seems quite fitting that as we currently witness waves of Britpop nostalgia that I remember my first exposure to some classic albums (Pablo Honey, The Bends, Definitely Maybe, The Holy Bible, Everything Must Go, Dog Man Star, Expecting to Fly etc.) was as they provided soundtracks to our attempts to sign Peter Ndlovu and Julian Joachim.

In essence, it was the atmosphere I enjoyed - the time spent listening to music with my wonderful brother - rather than the game itself.

Indeed, with all computer games, I tend to concentrate on the first couple of levels, but then give up once things get too difficult. Don't get me wrong, this isn't part of some innate snobbery on my part: I'm not one of those people who criticise gaming or see it as 'low art' - on the contrary I think therein lies the future of what we now refer to as 'fiction' and 'narrative'. But something in my DNA just switches off the moment things get tricky. And (confession time) this attitude also applies to Champ Man. If ever left to play the game on my own, I'll simply take control of 4 different clubs, get 3 of these clubs to pay millions of pounds for Nottingham Forest reserve players, quit the 3 dummy teams and steer Forest to glory by flashing this dubiously acquired cash around Europe.

The reason I write this today is that it seems, for the second time, life is imitating art. Around 5 years ago when Chelsea seemed to have an infinite supply of cash, I couldn't wait to buy the papers to read rumours of who their next superstar signing would be. Like my highly corrupt navigation through the Champ Man simulation - Roman Abramovic simply threw lots and lots of money at the biggest names in world football until, eventually, they joined the West Londoners. I'd never been so interested in a football club that I didn't support and I'm pretty sure that my Champ Man habit was to blame for this morbid fascination with greed and inorganic team-building.

Fast forward to this week and I find myself checking the Manchester City website daily, as the financial clout of their owners makes Abramovic look like a poor relation. For some reason I desperately want them to amble into the transfer market like drunk city boys stumbling into an All Bar One. It's gaudy, cheap, nasty and it's exactly how I behaved all those years ago, whilst tapping my foot along to Digsy's Dinner and Animal Nitrate.

So go on, Sparky, do it for me and all the other Champ Man cheats of my generation!

Speeches

It's with some trepidation that I post the following two speeches, and If I don't feel comfortable I could well remove them. The reason for posting is that friends have asked to read both of them over the last few weeks and I don't believe in being precious about my writing, no matter how wonderful or tragic the circumstances. All that remains to say is that I'll endeavour to post the 'Allotment' poem next time I get the chance.

04/04/09

Firstly, I’d like to say how beautiful my wife looks today! May I propose a toast to Mrs Charlotte Watts!

Charlotte and I have been together for seven and a half-years. After a couple of years together, whenever Char started hinting that it was time for me to pop the question, I used to say she had to complete a fifteen year probationary period. (I know, what a swine, eh?) Well, almost exactly halfway into that period, we’re now married, so she must’ve been incredibly well behaved to get such a reduced sentence!

By the way, for any gamblers in the room, I’ve heard Ladbrooke’s are offering good odds on the exact moment I start crying in this speech. If I stick to the script, I might just get through...

Char and I first met on the fruit and veg aisle at Co-Op. I was completely besotted with her, and if you’ve ever seen the uniform girls have to wear at Co-Op, you’ll know that she must have had quite some impact on me, to fall in love with someone in a multi-coloured blouse and blue tabard combination.

Which brings me on to my best man Chris. Because when I told him there was a girl I really liked at work, all those years ago, he stomped into the supermarket one day, stood right next to Char and shouted: “GAZ - IS IT THIS ONE?”

Other than that, Chris is a subtle, sophisticated man and I’m not going to say anything else about him for 2 reasons: 1) He’s about to do a speech about me and 2) I’m saving all that stuff for a speech I’d like to do for him, if he pulls his finger out and does the honourable thing with Cathryn.

Chris has been an amazing friend to me over the years, we’ve been through a lot together and I’d like to think we’ve always been there for each other.

Chris organised the best stag-do I could have possibly hoped for. He arranged for 8 of us to fly to Berlin: one of the most interesting and historic cities in Europe. No other city could claim to have been at the epicentre of so many extraordinary events over the past hundred years, so, of course ... we got drunk every night, watched the snooker on Eurosport and went go-karting!

It was like being in an episode of Auf Wiedersehen Pet.

Seriously, it was an amazing time and just great to let off some steam with my friends was fantastic. Andy had us all in stitches by refusing to speak English - rather he’d spend minutes earnestly consulting his pocket German dictionary before saying ‘Ja, das ist gut!’ Darren was always on-hand with a pithy one-liner that can’t be repeated in polite company, and Steve behaved like he was in an episode of Dad’s Army. I’ll always be grateful to all of you for making it so special.

Similarly, I know Charlotte was delighted with her hen-do, and would like to thank everyone that came along to her animal themed day. The girls visited London zoo, had a boat ride on the Thames and then a night out at a very trendy nightclub in Camden. Charlotte was dressed as a tiger during this night out - if you haven’t seen the photos I urge you to look them up on Facebook.

Personally, I found there were advantages and disadvantages to Char’s hen-night. On the one hand, there was an awful lot of wine left in the flat - greatly appreciated after a hard day’s teaching. But on the other hand, I keep finding what can only be described as ‘phallic’ shiny pink confetti, which was thrown around the flat, has stuck to my clothes. Not a good look for a teacher wanting to be taken seriously in the classroom.

I’d like to thank Charles for a wonderful speech. It’s also great today to finally be able to call him my brother-in-law. Where Charles is concerned, I do feel rather guilty: when I first met him he had chosen sensible, scientific A Levels. Yet, somewhere along the line, someone convinced him that studying English Literature was a good idea. He’s gone on to achieve a first in his English degree and is now doing very well with his Masters. Seriously, if I did have anything to do with this success, it makes me feel very proud indeed. He’s a scholar and a gentleman.

It’s also been brilliant to know Charlotte’s mum, Kate, for all these years. Perhaps it says something about living in a small town, but both Charlotte and I knew our Mother-in-laws before we knew each other: Kate and I worked together at Co-Op, Char worked with Mum at It’s A Gift.

I spoke earlier about falling in love with Charlotte whilst working at the Co-Op and I distinctly remember Kate pulling over in her car one afternoon, winding-down the window and saying ‘go for it, Gaz!’

For that, and for letting my band rehearse in your garage and making a right racket, I’ll always be grateful!

I promise I’ll shut-up in a minute. Apparently, at Ladbrooke’s, they have this moment as odds-on favourite... I’d like to talk a little bit about Mum and Dad. They are the most wonderful parents anyone could hope to have. Thanks to them, Char and I will be jetting off to Egypt for a week of five-star, all-inclusive treatment on Monday. Yet their influence on us goes far beyond a great honeymoon: more than parents or in-laws, they’re our friends. It goes without saying, that if we knew what we know now, we probably wouldn’t have moved to London when we did, and we probably would have got married a lot sooner.

Yet, therein lies what I’d like to express: Mum and Dad have encouraged me in everything I’ve ever done. I’ve never felt that anything was impossible, and without them I could never have dreamed of achieving my Doctorate, or of moving away to London to experience life there.

I’d like to think this goes both ways. Why else would Mum and Dad have seen so many Manic Street Preachers concerts? As I said, they’re friends as well as family, and we’re all going to do all we can to get our family back together and back to normal.

I need to remember that all of this hasn’t been easy on my brother, Daniel, either. He is the sweetest and funniest brother anyone could ever have and I hope he enjoys himself this evening too.

Before I finish, a few thank-yous. Many of us here recently heard the amazing news that Jim and Laura are expecting a baby - we’re all delighted for you, and I do hope McRae Junior will get to spend some time learning from his weird Northern uncle. Jim’s been there for me a lot in recent weeks, so I’d like to thank him. I hope I’ll be able to pay him back by helping out with the baby in the coming months.

Thanks especially to Catherine for helping with the Hen-do and for making this room look so wonderful, and thanks to Charlotte’s Nan for arranging the flowers in the church. Thanks to Jim and to Bobby for reading so beautifully in church. Thanks to my most handsome and erudite friend Simon, who I know has put a lot of thought into his DJ set tonight. As long as he plays some Bee Gees, I’ll be happy. Finally thanks to Andy and my brilliant brother, Dan, for being a comedy double-act masquerading as ushers. When Andy told his girlfriend Sarah that I was writing this speech, she set she thought she’d probably cry. He said: ‘It might not be that bad.’

Thanks to every single one of you here for making our day so special.

I’d like to leave you now with an old Harborian folk poem, called ‘Because’

Because you change the channel at the sound of the Hollyoaks theme,
Because you explain, in detail, your weird and wonderful dreams,
Because you sing along, in the car, to Tenacious D,
Because your ‘thing’ for Patrick Stewart doesn’t bother me...

Because you read Ulysses in the bath,
Because 99% of the time you’re just having a laugh,
Because you’re the greatest teacher I’ve ever met,
But your spelling and grammar make me a little upset,

Because you claim my greatest gift was one I got for free:
A crafty ginger cat that complains constantly,
Because you indulge silly hairstyles, silly songs, silly clothes,
Because what you see in me, Charlotte, God only knows,

Because you make packed-lunches and wedding cake,
Because your favourite film’s ‘Labyrinth’ for goodness sake!
But you’re quite content with a Blue Planet DVD
And your ‘thing’ for David Attenborough doesn’t really bother me (it does)

Because girlfriends are great, but best friends are rare,
Because I can’t imagine coming home without finding you there,
Because I want to be with you for the rest of my life,
And it makes me so proud to call you my wife.


19/06/09

“Isn’t it lovely, when the dawn brings the dew, I’ll be watching over you.”

Many people today will use phrases like “it’s not fair” or “Julie was too young” and of course in one sense they’re right. At only 55, Mum had so much more to give and one of the most heartbreaking aspects of her passing, for me personally, is the fact that if Charlotte and I are lucky enough to have children, they’ll have been deprived of surely the greatest Grandma the world has ever known...

But in another sense I don’t feel it was too early and I’ll try to explain why. Most of us in this room will occasionally have a good day: a day where we do something particularly generous or kind, where we touch someone and make them feel special. As I said, this is occasional. Speaking personally, if I do something nice for someone, it could be a matter of weeks before I feel compelled to do anything else!

But Mum wasn’t like that. She was humble and selfless and loving every single day of her life. Yes, in physical terms 55 is too young, but if you measured time in terms of love shared, Mum gave us a hundred years at least.

So try not to be bitter today. Mum gave us all something special and we should use this day to thank her and have a nice time in her honour - there wasn’t a bitter bone in her body.

“Night night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

There are several people I know Mum would like me to thank and if I’ve forgotten anyone please forgive me. Firstly, this church, first lead by Malcolm and now Nick and the dozens of wonderful friends Mum made here. It gives me such comfort to know that Mum found the right community here in which to share her gifts: like Mum, they are selfless, humble and loyal people who found purpose and salvation through faith. I know it was her time spent here learning and, of course, teaching the little ones, that gave her the strength to endure those difficult final weeks.

I’d also like to thank Grandma and Mum’s sisters and brother. I really can’t imagine how any of us would have coped without you. As sisters you all have a very special bond that goes beyond mere words, each sister has different attributes and when they’re brought together can be a quite formidable force that can achieve anything. Mum is proud of you all and I’ll say simply, on behalf of Dad and Daniel: ‘thank you’.

Which brings me to Dad. I’m sure a couple of years ago, none of us here would have had him down, particularly, as a nurse or carer. He certainly doesn’t look like Florence Nightingale. Yet such is his love for Mum, that he grew into the role to become the most gentle, thoughtful and caring nurse anyone could wish to have. Several health workers who visited Mum commented to me that it was the cleanest, most organised home they’d ever visited. Not only did Dad care for Mum, he was also determined to maintain her high standards, such was his pride in her and in their partnership. It wasn’t until the later stages of Mum’s illness that any of us really appreciated how much he was doing - for your superhuman effort, Dad, thank you.

“I stare at the sky and it leaves me blind. I close my eyes and this is yesterday.”

As her sons, I think it’s fair to say that Daniel and I saw a different side to Mum. We introduced her to new music, comedy, books and new ideas and we’d challenge her sometimes and Mum was always up for that challenge. I’m sure I speak for Daniel too when I say that the phrase ‘generation gap’ was always quite alien to us: if I was desperate for my favourite band’s new single to get to number one, Mum would be shouting at the radio with me. If Tottenham scored a late equaliser, Dan could be sure to get a text message from Mum: ‘nice one, Keano!’ The Mum we know is a sharp, intelligent and articulate woman, who always made us feel that we could achieve anything.

The most important element in the relationship between all four of us at home is humour and I know Mum would have appreciated the fact that, even in her final days, we were sharing jokes and laughs around her bed. Mum would have also appreciated the fact that, even when she’d gone, she managed to unwittingly play a joke on me. Let me explain:

When Mum’s illness was first diagnosed I bought her a journal and decorated it with pictures of her favourite comedy characters to cheer her up. The idea was that she should make regular notes about her condition, to keep track of her symptoms and appointments etc. So a few days ago, knowing I had to make this speech, I quickly flicked through this journal, in case Mum had left a message or note she wanted to be shared. Sadly there wasn’t anything particularly relevant to today, but at the bottom of several entries were two words: ‘feel hurt’. As you can imagine, this broke my heart - Mum feels hurt - but something wasn’t quite right about it. That phrase ‘feel hurt’ just didn’t sound like Mum, it was too Americanised, too dramatic. But sure enough, at the bottom of the page on most days ‘feel hurt’. I couldn’t read any more, it was too horrible. This really nagged at me, so I returned to the journal a few days later and eventually all became clear. It seems Mum had a habit of ‘crossing her ‘t’s’ very lightly. In fact, at the end of every day she’d noted feet hurt, feet hurt!

I’m sure she had a good laugh at that one.

“Wish me some luck as you wave goodbye to me. You’re the best friend I ever had.”

I’m going to let Mum have the final say in this speech. I’m really proud of the fact that she was such an eloquent and creative person and this is a poem she had published in 1992 called ‘The Allotment’. In the final lines you’ll notice that Mum makes a wish and I’d like to think that, wherever she is right now, that wish has come true:


The Allotment

My very favourite place to be
on a lovely sunny day,
is where the butterflies float free,
and cabbages decay.

Smell the smouldering bonfire smoke,
with rotting compost heap,
the gentle pace of country folk,
who chat and nod to sleep.

The quiet seclusion of make-shift hut,
Tin roof and propped up doors,
half-full well worn water butt
with sacks of onion stores.

Birds scared off by milk bottle tops
rustling in the breeze
straight, proud rows of healthy crops
carrots, lettuce, peas.

Spade and forks, small flower pots
slow maturing marrow
wallflowers and forget-me-nots
broken wobbly barrow.

I love allotments, always will,
Everything's home grown
All that lovely earth to fill;
One day I'll have my own

Julie Watts

None Like it Hot!

My father in Law told me this morning that it is supposed to be the hottest day of the year today. This got my brain thinking about global warming, a subject, quite rightly, that i have to teach to every year and age group at school.

As animals at the top of the food chain we can have quite a dramatic effect on the world around us; it is true that if we kill off a major phylum of insect then we are doomed, if we were to be wiped off the face of the planet then everything else would be quite happy and carry on evolving - no harm done.

So we are nothing and everything all at once. We could look upon our existance and evolution as completely natural, that us reaching breaking point and killing off complex life on Earth is just a natural step in earth's history. On the other hand as the only 'intelligent' inhabitants of this planet we should feel morally obligated to control our activities to limit our impact on the other poor wreched organisms which have pulled the short straw of sharing a planet with us.

What I'm getting at is if we decide to control our activities we prolong our demise and fulfil our moral obligation; that life on earth as we know it may continue a little longer. Life has changed immeasurably over the past billion years and will change again in the next billion, our demise will come sooner or later, it's natural and no-one else will care.

X-pense claims

Firstly, I'm going to admit that this post is ill-researched and a) could be completely wrong and/or b) could be an argument so old-hat it's being used by the 'Summer Wine' costume department. Nevertheless, it was my gut reaction to a recent news story, and if blogs are useful for one thing, it's disseminating ill thought-out knee-jerk reactions. Perhaps it's just my tendency to be contrary, but my first reaction to the MPs expenses scandal was: 'it's all our fault'.  Allow me to explain:

Let's say, for instance, you regularly vote for Party X. You think it's the party that best serves your interests and you trust it to assemble the best possible team of advisors and representatives, in order that they can win elections and, ultimately, represent you. With me so far?

So, somewhere along the line, it's someone's job to recruit the brightest and best to join the party. By the 'brightest and best', I mean Chief Executives of companies, powerful figures in the world of the media and PR (I believe David Cameron had an executive role at Carlton Television, before joining the Conservatives, for example) and the so-called 'Captains' of industry.

All very well. So Party X spots a Chief Executive they'd love to have on board, and said Chief Exec is quite keen on the chance to enter politics: it appeals to his/her ego and they relish a new challenge. There's only one problem. They're earning 300k a year in their current job, and even if their fledgling political career went extremely well, they still only stand to make around 60k at best.

As far as I can tell, Party X has two options at this point: 1) They reach lower down the food chain of expertise and recruit a sweaty middle-management type in a cheap suit, to whom 60k represents a significant increase in wages, or 2) Point out to the Chief Executive that there's an incredibly generous expenses and privileges package waiting for him/her at Westminster, that no one need ever know about.

So you see my point. If the political parties asked the general public 'should we pay MPs more?' the answer will always be a resounding and obvious 'no'. So, as always seems to be the case in modern politics, they've had to find a third way. If politicians salaries were increased to reflect those of other powerful, influential positions of responsibility, we could scrap the expenses system all together.  'Here's a load of money...' we'd say, 'do what you like with it, so long as you do the best job you possibly can. If you fail, we'll vote you out.' 

Fair enough? Maybe. I'm not entirely convinced of this idea myself, yet. However, I do think it would quickly put an end to the current abuses. It might even attract a better calibre of person to politics, rather than the slimy, robotic Blears-esque twatsalads we've got at the moment.

Of course, I was as outraged by the behaviour of the politicians as anyone else. But I can't help but think that one of the root causes of this type of scandal lies in the general publics churlish, willfully ignorant view of the real world. Take me, for example: my wage is ridiculously low and I have hardly any privileges. Yet the other day when I wanted to send something in the post to my friend Andy,  I didn't think twice about 'abusing' my position and sticking it in the outgoing post tray, even though the letter wasn't college business. The chance to abuse the system was there, so I took it. Perhaps this expenses debacle actually serves to prove that politicians are real people after all. 

Fan Fiction

As the football season crawls to a rather familiar conclusion, I've been reflecting on my own position as a football 'fan'.

I chose to support Nottingham Forest when I was about 6. I remember briefly flirting with supporting Coventry City: an act of childishly willful contrariness as the Sky Blues were playing Tottenham (my brother's team) in the 1987 cup final. I can't remember why exactly (a love of architecture, perhaps?) but I soon moved away from Coventry and pledged my allegiance to Nottingham Forest. A couple of my aunties and uncles supported the 'Tricky Trees'; they had a nice red kit and seemed to play at Wembley every year. I soon realise that these trips to Wembley were to battle for 3rd or 4th rate trophies such as the Littlewoods or Simod cup, but I was hooked nevertheless.

Supporting Forest in that era felt a little odd as the sense of awe and reverence that pervaded around the stadium for the drunk, bad-tempered, ticket touting manager was difficult to fathom. Of course, I would join in with the unquestioning Brian Clough worship, but looking back I do remember feeling a sense of relief when Forest were relegated, Clough left and Frank Clark took charge. Clark's Forest seemed (and has seemed ever since) to be my Forest: unburdened by the albatross of past success that I wasn't part of, this team captured my imagination and my football obsession went into overdrive. I even remember writing to Frank Clark suggesting a new 3-5-2 formation. Clark (or at least, his secretary) wrote a very sweet letter in reply, thanking me for my ideas! The Forest of Collymore, Stone, Pearce, Cooper, Chettle and Woan were immediately promoted and finished 3rd in the Premier League (as it was then known) the subsequent season.

It was to be the high water mark of forest's achievements in my time. Yet in the years that followed my dedication to the club increased. I shared a season ticket with my brother for a few seasons and was lucky enough to be friends with a Forest youth player who occasionally got me in for free. I imagined that as I grew up, every penny I earned would be spent on tickets and shirts - I even fantasised about becoming rich enough to invest in the club...

So it was with some considerable pride when, as a student, I was given a job as a matchday steward at Forest. There was nothing like the feeling of wandering into the stadium and simply waving an ID card to be granted access. I had a right laugh with my fellow stewards, and discovered that the staff behind-the-scenes at the club were thoroughly decent people.

Yet my attitude towards the club (and indeed, to football itself) was to change forever. I witnessed the police brutally kicking a fan. Skinheaded men showing off to their impressionable children by aggressively goading me about my (obviously rather dashing) hairstyle. I even saw a father lift his daughter up by her hair and threaten her near the hot dog stand. I'm pleased to say I reported all of these incidents, and after a few weeks got given a very cushy role in the Trent End, where all I had to do was watch the game and pick up some litter at half-time.

Nevertheless, the damage was done. Witnessing those 'fans' behave in the way they did made matchdays seem a rather empty, mind-numbing experience. Of course, you could point out that my disillusionment with football precisely mirrors the downturn in fortunes of my team - and you'd be right. But ever since those stewarding experiences, I've rarely been to a game, and really don't miss it that much at all. I'm still incredibly interested in football (I have a compulsion to check the Guardian's excellent football pages with alarming frequency) but my direct, obsessive, unquestioning allegiance to one team has undoubtedly diminished. In some ways I saw football for what it really was: an excuse to revel in the worst kind of unbridled, corrosive masculinity: a masculinity which detested anything that was different, a masculinity which relied upon the collective strength of the anonymous mass to cover-up the weakness of the confused, weak individual.

Of course, in rejecting these things, I'm faced with the reality of my own identity: I'm a man from a working-class background - in turning my back on Forest I was problematising my relationship with both of these notions, wasn't I?

Perhaps. And perhaps that's really a question for another day. Forest are still my team and I feel happy when they win and annoyed when they lose. But perhaps it's fair to say that my armchair support for Forest nowadays is actually more a yearning for the simplicity of childhood fandom: for the flutter of a young heart at the site of the red kit worn by Frank Clark's 11 brave men, for the reminder that I was part of a close, loving family that attended matches every Boxing Day. I'm as much a 'fan' of these fragments of childhood innocence, than I am of any side assembled by Billy Davies - and not even hooliganism could tarnish those memories.

I'll leave the final words of this entry to Albert Camus:

"All that I know surely about morality and the obligations of man, I owe to football."

London's Best Kept Secret (When you've got time for it)

Earlier this week, I needed a haircut. My previous 'trim' had been just before our wedding (a month ago) and as someone who is blessed with/suffers from particularly thick hair, it was time for a new 'do'.

Among other responsibilities, I had an appointment with students in the afternoon, so being the diligent professional, I got up early, hoping to get the haircut out of the way and be in work for 10am. On the off chance that they might be open early, I wandered along East Finchley High Street at 8.30am. Nothing was open, so I took the tube to Camden: self obsession capital of... well the capital. Surely there'd be planty of salons open?

Wrong. The only place I could find that was open couldn't fit me in until 11am. Presumably, the routine in London is to open late and stay open late. Dare I say your average coiffeur enjoys a late night shandy or two.

This was no consolation to me - I was on a mission. I had an interview coming up and felt that this morning was my only chance to get smartened up. I know, I know, in hindsight I should've booked an appointment somewhere, but I was still to decide exactly which establishment I'd like to frequent as a 'regular'.

Slightly panicking at this point, I hopped back on the tube and (knowing the area reasonably well) got off at Goodge Street. Yet again, I passed many hairdressers, but all had the shutters down. I broke into a jog and headed into Bloomsbury - still nothing. I was starting to despair and trotted down Gower Street towards the Tottenham Court Road. Then it hit me. In massive lettering, the length of four storeys: TONI & GUY. I was saved. My jog became a sprint and I headed towards this chrome oasis. As I got closer I noticed others going in: it was definitely open.

Upon entering, I was in for a bit of a shock:

"Hi there, I wondered if you could possibly fit me in this morning"
"Just wait there."

I couldn't believe the rudeness. It looked as though several stylists were just waiting around, surrounded by bored looking punters. It was akin to a refugee camp - what the hell was going on? Eventually, an Italian gentleman who appeared to be in charge (not sure if he was Toni or Guy) picked out eight people, including me. "We'll take them."

I was told to sign a disclaimer. I was just about to leave, thoroughly confused and annoyed by the whole experience, before I heard those magic words: 'You can have any style you want for five pounds'.

Well, I can't resist a bargain. But the price came at a price.

It turns out I'd stumbled upon the T&G training academy. The student working on my Barnet was warm and friendly - another Italian called Nora, she washed my hair and gave an excellent head massage - I couldn't believe my luck. Until, that is, the actual haircut began. Bless her, she would run off and fetch Toni (or Guy) to check after what felt like each third snip.

To 'cut' a long story short, it took three and a half hours and I only just made it to work for 2pm. I now feel guilty for repeatedly asking Nora "It looks done - can I go now?" but I was so stressed - what else could I do?

Suffice to say, I'm never getting a haircut anywhere else ever again. Only next time, it'll be on one of my days off, and I'll be sure to carry a copy of 'War and Peace'.

N2 Eden

Perhaps reflected by my lack of posting recently, I've been very stressed and occasionally upset of late. However, one refuge from the world's worries has been our garden. Charlotte is leading the way: choosing the vegetables and salad seeds, designing the planting rows and keeping on top of the weeding. But getting involved and helping her out has been wonderful: fresh air, red faces, simple hopes of growing and tending. It's the same perverse feeling of enjoyment I get whilst ironing - brief moments of order and humility - happiness in the mundane.

The irony is that the house we bought (in Harborough) has no garden, whereas the London flat we rent has a relatively large patch. We had to come all the way to N2 to get our slice of country life. 

With any luck we'll post some photos and give garden updates on this page. I hope so.

Fiction Fiction

- The worst thing. The absolute worst fucking thing are the fucking tennis matches. Squash, badminton, whatever. A pair of balding, middle-aged cunts - both suspiciously similar in appearance to the author and his smarmy fucking author friend, I might add - battle it out on the court. Sweat dripping, bright white trainers screeching, Evian gulping, witticism brandishing bollocks. If ever there was a more blatant case of lazy writing... You know they have a 'bad sex award' in novels? That's bullshit, however bad it is, at least the sex gives me the occasional twitch in my Calvins. Bad Sport award more like. Cunt comes home from a game cursing his backhand, which, by the way should be superb bearing in mind all the wanking he does, locked away with his trendy laptop in his so-called 'office', and what do you know? Thinly veiled, thinly haired Martin McFuckwit's main character has a problem with his backhand too. It's not writing, it's jizzing onto a keyboard, laughing at the morons buying this shite out of habit. No. Laughing at the morons buying this shite for other morons as birthday presents. Well happy fucking birthday, let me know who wins the cunting match.

- And that's what you wrote on the staff review card?

- Pretty much. Needed four cards in the end 'cos my writing's too big.

- And?

- Stayed there for two days and a morning before a woman complained. She had a necklace featuring a man being tortured, nailed to two planks of wood, and she had the cheek to call me 'sick'.

- Bitch

- Bitch

- Manager?

- Pissed himself, then told me to take it down. He hasn't seen the Richard and Judy bookclub sticker on Mein Kampf yet.

Identity Fiction Part 1

One of the less obvious pleasures of spending a week in Egypt with my new wife, Charlotte, was the amount of reading I managed to get done. Hours on a sunbed, coupled with a range of lousy satellite channels in our room meant that I finished four books during our seven days away. All four were thoroughly enjoyable, and each inspirational in its own way.

'Drown' by Junot Diaz had a particularly direct influence, because it was whilst turning the pages of this wonderful collection of short stories (having already read Diaz's 'The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao', I knew I was in for a treat) that I reached for the small pad of hotel headed notepaper and tried to compose stories of my own.

It was at this point that notions of my identity: British, white, newly married, began to dive and splash in front of me, like the surrounding teenage tourists, poolside. In Junot Diaz's world, there was an innocense, a wit, a legitimacy even, to crafting prose that centred around getting laid, the joy of oggling women with big breasts and bubble butts. I was inspired by the simple yet sharp sentences and, emulating Diaz's seedy-yet-honest approach, tried to write some of my own.

What I produced was okay, I suppose. If you read my tiny scribbles (the hotel notepaper was in short supply) you might conclude it better reflected my love of stand-up comedy than my love of literature. Indeed, I'm quite happy to accept I'm not as good a writer as Pulitzer prize winner Diaz(!) yet i think there was also something else holding back my stories. I've already mentioned the word 'legitimacy' - perhaps it's simply not legitimate for an adult (and, let's not forget, married) man to write so directly about such base male instincts. Perhaps if there is a legitimate place for this kind of writing, it's to be found in the pages of Playboy.

But I think the problem goes even more deeply. The knowingness, the casual (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) irony of my writing, simultaneously protected me from accusations of misogyny, but also coated the very words I used in an odourless plastic: distilled, sterile, inoffensive. Just bear that word 'irony' in mind for a moment. Because Diaz is also a grown man who should know better. Sure, he writes about the experiences of those in their late teens/early twenties, but does so with vigour: graphic, gritty, explicit vigour. The divide between us goes beyond mere decency, and I think it is our old friend 'irony' which can take me to the root of these differences...

Morons in this world will tell you that Americans have no sense of humour because they don't 'get' irony. How on earth they could have produced The Simpsons, Spinal Tap, Frasier et al without irony, I'm not sure. But as I dwelt upon this ugly, crude maxim, I did discover a kernel of truth. It's not that Americans don't get irony - far from it. But perhaps it is fair to say that because American writers aren't so immersed in and asphyxiated by irony's iron clasp, they can reach out and touch the more innocent and fundamental areas of life in ways that us Brits (particularly us white Brits) find impossible. Indeed, rather than boasting about our sleazy, animalistic relationship with this (let's face it) old fashined and frankly rather boring literary device, we should actually be ashamed of the tawdry motel room it's brought us to, and dismayed by the fact that it turns away from us and snores the moment its dirty work is done. Diaz, (in mixing the literary styles of the US with those of his native Dominican Republic) could tap-in to a voice of innocense and desperation - I could only stand back and laugh at it.

This tumultuous relationship I have with irony - one of the supposed cornerstones of British culture and Britishness - could be seen to be a more general struggle with my own identity. This inner conflict was brought even more sharply into focus as I read Barack Obama's wonderful memoir 'Dreams of my Father'.

... to be continued.

More Married Man

So the wedding is less than a week away and I'm really looking forward to it. I finally finished my speech today and feel pleased - I hope I've judged the tone, whilst also including some silly jokes. After the wedding, I might post it on here for posterity. Dad, Daniel, Simon, Andy and I had our final suit fittings on Saturday - looked smart, everything fitted and we had a right laugh.

Such is my scatterbrained, restless nature, my mind is already focusing on the next thing: after the wedding, I reason, our weekends will be more relaxed and restful. I might even have time for more podcasts, Char and I can visit galleries and drink in pubs, I might even (in the future) get involved in some guitar, bass, drums and vocal antics (also known as being in a band). 

I know, I know, I'm an idiot and I need to focus on the present. But as wonderful as it will be to get married, being married will be amazing. This time next week I'll be a more relaxed man, as well as a more married man.

Journal For Plague Lovers

I can't begin to explain or explore my long, strange and intimate relationship with the Manic Street Preachers, particularly as it's 8.30am and I'm supposed to be using my office computer for work.

However, I thought it might be worth noting how excited I am at the prospect of new album 'Journal For Plague Lovers', a collection of songs composed using lyrics left to the band by missing lyricist Richey Edwards almost 15 years ago.

There will be no singles released from the album, and therefore it's unlikely to be a commercial 'smash'. However, on the evidence of the only track given airplay so far (album opener 'Peeled Apples' was played by Zane Lowe on Radio 1 last night) it promises to be quite a record: dark, punchy, raw yet somehow slick at the same time.

With several major, major things going on in my life at the moment, I feel like my heart is being pulled in several different directions. Yet a new Manics record gives me a reassuring sense of clarity and purpose - I've invested so much of my personality and identity into the band (an unhealthy amount, I'm happy to concede) that, bizarrely, it's a reminder to me of who I am and what I want to achieve.

I've always felt that, at their best, the Manics simultaneously capture glory and oblivion: I'll treat those two imposters the same.

Air

It's 8am on Sunday morning and i have opened the window to let some fresh air in. As i lay in bed and breathe it in it smells absolutely divine! It doesn't smell 'nice', it doesn't have a strong smell of flowers, clean washing or freshly cut grass, or at least they are not strong enough for my nose to pick them out. So why does it smell so good?
Are the 'nice' smells (mentioned above) blended perfectly so they are subtle enough not to be picked out but give it the overall stamp of 'good' air? Is it because i spent the night recycling the 'old' air in the room, continually adding to the percentage of carbon dioxide, so now the oxygen smells good? Could it be that my body has evolved to reward me for finding oxygen rich air by making it smell, to my percepton, good? This would mean that others would find the smell different, with their brains choosing a smell that they too think is good, but if compared, the smell would be completely different.
Our brains rule our perception of the world, nothing is probably viewed exactly the same by each of us, so which perception is accurate, is true? Maybe nothing is true, it's just what we perceive to be true.
The air coming through that window is divine - fact!

The P word

Up for scrutiny in this week's fantabulously witty, erudite and wonderfully wordy blog: pretentiousness. Self-reflexive introductory sentences aside, I'm not sure if I'm a pretentious person - it's the sort of thing that's for other people to decide. Or is it?

These so-called 'other people' might be interested to learn that I have absolutely no problem with pretentiousness. In the strictest sense, isn't everything we do heavily steeped in pretension? The quality and style of coat we choose to wear in the morning, for instance, maintains the pretense that a) we care about the way we look and want others to know that we're in touch with current trends, or, b) we're not interested in fashion at all. Either way, an image is constructed, a conscious decision made, a pretense maintained.

Of course, in common usage, the word pretentious would usually only be reserved for the person in case a) - they want to look cool, modish, in vogue: this is often dismissed as pretentiousness. But isn't the person in case b) actually the contrary one, the cool arbiter of dissonance? Aren't they, arguably, the ones with more at stake in the pretension chess-game? They're the ones thinking two moves ahead: "Fashion's vapid, transitory nonsense..." they might say, implying that they've given the whole thing a lot more thought than those of us who simply grab whatever looks 'ok' on the racks at Topshop.

I've probably been both of these people at different times in my life. Both states of affairs have their benefits and drawbacks. Nowadays I'm pretty indifferent. The real reason I'm interested in the 'P word' is not because I want to establish who is and who isn't. Rather, I want to take on those people who use the contemptible term...

Children quickly develop (naturally, childish) ways of winning arguments. "You're it", "No, you're it times two", "Well you're it times infinity", "You're it times infinity plus one". "Bagsy I get the front seat of the car." You get the picture. We all grow out of these linguistic cul-de-sacs in our early teens. All of us, that is, except those who become seduced by the 'P word'.

To dismiss someone or something as pretentious is to impose a limit on life. It's a way of negatively categorising exuberance, playfulness and creativity. Of course, not all of us can be exuberant, playful and creative without occasionally making a tit of ourselves. But so what? Isn't that a good thing? If we really do have seventy odd years on earth before we become worm food, why the hell would we waste our time imposing limits on other people's energy? To brandish the word 'pretentious' is to paint yourself into a corner - it's a promise that you will never experiment, never flirt with mistakes, never dance with failure. It might help you to win an argument in a pub, but why spend your life winning arguments in pubs when you could be out there being pretentious?

If you're reading this, promise me you'll do something pretentious today. While you're doing that, I'll scour my U2 review for the P word.

(The P word is 2mins into this classic)

Thrill of the chase contd.

Article by one of my favourite authors here. This was what I was trying to get at. I think. Substitute 'Author' for 'God', 'perfect woman' or whatever you like - the thrill, the jouissance is in the chase, the discovery, the discussion, the speculation - the object of our enquiry is obviously important, but will not and should not provide an absolute truth or reading.

Thrill of the chase

Frustratingly, the uploading of episode 5 of the podcast Jim and I produce is being stalled because of website problems. In the meantime, there's an aspect of this most recent bout of philosophical pondering I'd like to focus on...

We were discussing Descartes, trying to wrap our heads around the great philosopher's undoubtedly tenuous justification for the existence of God. In summary: because God is perfect, he must exist.

Trying to explore this concept from several angles, James and I agreed that the pursuit, if not necessarily the acceptance of such a perfect concept, is an undeniably attractive thing. In fact, the search for perfection (tongue fairly firmly in cheek, we flippantly gave the example of searching for the perfect female body) could arguably be more satisfying than actually finding it. This is by no means a new idea - countless cliches run along these lines: 'be careful what you wish for', 'the grass is always greener' etc.

However, it did strike me that this is a truly universal principle that I really do have a lot of time for, and (I think) helps me to tolerate people with views that I would otherwise find risible. To go back to the God example, I can accept (accept is the wrong word - understand?, empathise with?) someone pursuing their religious faith, in the knowledge that they're on a journey of discovery: they're in pursuit of faith or a truth, even if I disagree with the underlying principles which they rely upon.

It's a subject I'd like to return to, but in the meantime I think these notions might sit quite snugly alongside Derrida's notions of deconstruction. Maybe we'll have to wait until Two Wise Men episode 68 to find out...

Me4U2? Part 2

I'm glad I listened to U2's new album, if only for the fact that I now feel entitled to an opinion.


'No Line On The Horizon' is by no means offensive to the ears in a musical sense. In fact, I had an overwhelming feeling that U2 were actually victims of their own success: as I listened, a rash of relatively new bands came to mind, who now seem able to pull off the U2 sound more convincingly than U2 themselves. For instance, opener 'No Line On The Horizon' lacked the punch of, say, similar-sounding Kings of Leon numbers, 'I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight' is schmaltzy and pompous, but somehow lacked the glorious absurdity of The Killers. Similarly, the more earnest gospel-esque tracks left me thinking 'It's been a while since I listened to Arcade Fire'.



Bizarrely, such seeming overfamiliarity with the album tracks meant that when lead-single 'Get On Your Boots' arrived (which, when I heard it on the radio, I despised) it came as a welcome relief. Ironically, this track sounds like U2 being influenced, with a hint of electro fuzz, and a heavy debt owed to 'Hail to the Thief' era Radiohead. Unlike the rest of the album, it at least portrays some sort of interest in music, rather than an interest in getting bums on seats at the Enormo-Dome. In the context of the album, it's a real shot in the arm, despite the terrible lyrics...


... which, as someone who rightly or wrongly privileges lyric writing, will always mean I cannot love U2. Each line is a compromise, each verse written with an open mind, each chorus vaguely inspiring. After 30 years of being in a band, you'd expect their words to reach beyond the awe-struck Americana of 'White As Snow' or the cod-irony of 'Stand Up Comedy'. It's all so safe, so fucking calculated.


I'll be phrasing all of this a little more diplomatically to my tutee. After all, it's not U2's fault that subsequent bands have evolved their sound; in fact, I'm sure it must be a source of pride. But as someone who was secretly hoping for a road to Damascus-style conversion, aware of the many 5 star reviews in the more 'serious' music mags, I do feel a little disappointed.

Me4U2? Part 1

One of my tutees is destined for a career as a music critic. Every day, he asks me for my opinion, either on a piece he has written or a new album that's come out. He's had several letters published in Q and the NME and his writing style is good, if a little critic-by-numbers. His energy and enthusiasm a) make me feel old and curmudgeonly and b) make me feel glad I chose this career.

However, it is true to say that our music tastes diverge to a considerable degree. I don't quite know how to put this: He loves U2. He brought the new U2 album in for me to listen to. U2!

So, as a professional, and as someone who certainly doesn't want to hurt my tutee's feelings, I politely declined his offer, saying "Thanks, but I think I'll check it out on Spotify."

Hopefully this weekend I'll do just that. But I'm scared, because, somehow, hating U2 is part of who I am. It's how I define myself. I once won a ticket competition to see the Manics play an exclusive gig in Cardiff. The competition was to see who could come up with the best question to ask the band in an interview. My question was: "Do you hate U2 as much as me?"

Like most other people on the planet, I own 'The Joshua Tree' and 'Achtung Baby'. I've heard their earlier stuff is even better. Could I actually like them if I gave them a chance? Famously there's a tribe of Native Americans who refuse to be photographed because they feel that each photo will strip away a part of their soul. Could the same happen to me with each track of 'No Line on the Horizon'?

What's worse is that, after hearing several radio interviews with Bono this week (R4's Front Row grilling was particularly good) it occurred to me that, despite all of the criticism and bile that's (rightly) thrown his way, he is a man who's nevertheless comfortable in his own skin. I always find that attractive in people. He's actually so arrogant and self-obsessed that he somehow comes across as humble. Is that possible? I guess it's so difficult to criticise the causes he fights for, that it somehow seems churlish to remain in the ranks of the Bonophobes.

So, am I being converted? I'll update with the verdict in Part 2 ...

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!

Turning Rebellion Into Money

There is one thing about the 1980s that isn't being revived right now...

For me, when I hear the term '1980s', my first thought is of Thatcher, miners strikes, the Berlin Wall, Marxism, Captialism, the free market, politicised students wearing army surplus. Extreme Left. Extreme Right. Extreme wealth. Riots. Unemployment. Everything, it seems, stemming from a set of principles, ideologies, convictions.

Not far down these asyndetic lists would be punk and post-punk - The Clash serving up their masterpiece, Johnny Rotten forming PiL and Iggy Pop's 'The Passenger'.

It's at this point that nostalgia turns to nausea: if you've past a poster or turned on a TV in the last few weeks, you've no doubt noticed Iggy whoring himself for Swift Cover insurance. Cringingly, he crow-bars in references to his biggest hits: 'don't be a passenger, it's no fun - get a lust for life' etc.

Don't get me wrong, I know I shouldn't be looking to 60 year old leather-trousered heroin addicts for moral guidance. But Iggy's current omnipresence is a stark reminder that, truly, nothing is sacred. The Clash lent their music to a Levi's ad campaign in 1992. Johnny Rotten is the current face of Country Life butter. In each example, an interesting, adrenalising legacy is compromised for the sake of a few quid.

The most sickening modern example of this is Jack White's involvement in Coca-Cola sponsorship. I can't look at a picture of him and Meg in their resplendent red and white now without feeling that those very colours have been bought. Like Santa, from now on The White Stripes are synonymous with that sugary drink. Was Jack aware that Coke were one of the principle sponsors of the 1936 'Hitler' olympics? Perhaps if he'd been around he'd have signed over the rights to Seven Nation Army...

I digress. But it seems that as we scrap over the corpse of the 80s, re-hashing Human League riffs and frizzy haircuts; the one thing we're not trying to pillage is that intangible sense of conviction, stoicism and principle. As unemployment rises and our political options diverge, it might be the one thing we really need.

Episode 3

Episode 3 of the Two Wise Men podcasts is now available to download here or via iTunes. Although perhaps not the most elegant, I think this episode was the best yet (it was certainly the most enjoyable to record). The Two Wise Men go from strength to strength!

Download, comment and enjoy!

Ad' Enough!

One of the drawbacks of having a google email account, is the targeted advertising. As I've been writing off to literary agents recently, trying to generate some interest in my book, all of the adverts have been along the lines of:

Struggling Writer?
Click: http://www.desperateloserswhocantstringasentencetogether.com/

This I can live with. But this morning when I logged-on, the advert was:

Just Been Dumped?
Click: http://www.useyourotherhandtojoinourdatingagency.com/

... ok, I can't remember the actual site, but you get the picture.

What is it about my email correspondence that gives google the impression I'm 'unlucky in love'? I'm getting married in 10 weeks! We share a blog! She plucks-out my grey eyebrows! Surely we are a great advert for love's relentless campaign. Is google trying to undermine our relationship? Sow a seed of doubt? Or is it just that I don't talk about how happy I am over email?

This idea makes me feel guilty, but email is hardly the most romantic of communication platforms. Compare the success of 'Sleepless in Seattle' with 'You've Got Mail!' - Tom Hanks will back me up.

From now on, every email I send will end with:

PS. I'm in a very happy and fulfilling relationship.

Let's see how those cynical google swines cope with that!