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.