And today's lesson is on 'delusion'.

If you're not doing what you want to do, do what you want to do.

Make sense? If not why not?

I'm not doing what I want to do but I am doing what I trained to do. It's time to change. Going back into teaching was a mistake. I was a teacher. I got terribly ill. I left teaching. I recovered. I went back into teaching because it was easier to find the jobs, fill in the forms and be successful at the interviews than for any other line of work. I knew what I was doing. And now? Well, apart from asking questions like, 'And now?', well I guess I'm finding there's a danger of becoming ill again. So out of the way everyone, it's looks like I'm going to have to do the difficult thing for once.

There, that feels better. You know, that's the reason this thing is here. It's not because I actually think anyone will want to read it but because it's cathartic. That's stage one. Catharsis. Stage two is actually publishing. But let's not get carried away or anything, after all this is the first thing I've written on here since the end of May.

By the way, that restaurant was absolutely the worst I have ever had the misfortune to visit. But you'll need to look at the previous posts to check up on that. I love the way you can write on here as though someone might actually read it. A quick, cheeky little second person address is all you need to raise the spirits. Some call it second person address, others self-delusion. I'll stick for second person delusion and see how far that gets me.

Much has happened in the last five months. Most of it is none of your business, so don't go asking questions. Quite nice to have the man Kelner add a comment to a previous post although it does make me worry Mr K that you engage in the pursuit of entering your own name into search engines. Now there's an additional delusion folks, the one that suggests that just because someone has read this blog before they might come back again, especially when it's someone who might get recognised on the street (in Wakefield at least).

Ok, so this is going nowhere fast. I'll be gone then.

I'm not brought up that way, like.

I don't mean to be rude although often it just happens. And I'm not normally one for restaurant reviews although I used to enjoy Will Self's in the Observer all those years ago and I'm rather taken by Martin Kelner's reviews of Jay Rayner's reviews in an oddly post-modern way.

But the point I'm slowly dawdling towards is that there a fair number of websites where diners can leave their reviews of restaurants. I happen to be going to a restaurant called Sarastro on Drury Lane tonight and I'm not entirely comfortable with it as a choice. It stems from knowing that it was chosen more for the decor, as a place to go, rather than as a means to eating enjoyable food. From reading the reviews, which can be described as extreme to say the least, I have trepidation writ large across my face (not a pretty sight).

It could be that the negative reviews are penned by other Drury Lane restaurant owners and the glowing ones by Sarastro's owners. But I've seen the menu. The cheapo set meal offers you the choice either hot or cold salmon. Well thank you very much. And I know that cheapo set meal in London, blah blah blah, what do you expect you snob and all that but there's no effort to make it sound anything other than what it is; a begrudging effort at raking in numbers rather than diners.

The meal is all in the name of entertaining my girlfriend's parents. Since they flew in from the States they've experienced from fairly mixed service at the hands of cafes, pubs and restaurants. And fairly mixed food too. I'm keeping my stomach crossed that tonight's meal doesn't live down to expectations. They're good people. I'd like them to come back. They deserve better.

Review to follow...

Did I hear that right?

I'm having a bad day. I normally have some every two or three weeks. It used to be a lot worse. Today is like one of bad days from the bad days (if you see what I mean) so please forgive me if this starts with the following phrase:

I was lying in bed listening to the World At One... (see what I mean?)

Anyway, having spent two hours wrestling with the temptation of popping up to Lord's for the last day of the Test and having the temptation removed by my poor state of health and the rain, I retired to bed have a little dignity and decorum as I suffered. Little did I know that the World At One, that venerable Radio 4 institution was now asking for opinions.

I'll give you mine Martha. I don't listen to shows like yours in order to hear the views of the public on issues such as the Cutty Sark fire. And I really don't want to hear the view's of the public when they arrive in text format.

I'm hoping it wasn't Martha Kearney's idea because she is a journalist I have some time for. However, the whole moment reminded me of Jeremy Paxman's on-air huff against the lowering of production standards on Newsnight. Perhaps Martha is too new in the job to be able to arrange such a protest.

It's a million miles away from the half hour of magical radio that took place on Radio 4 Long Wave and Five Live Sports Extra etc in the run up to the official lunch interval at Lord's. The three current long-standing Test Match Special commentators, Messers Agnew, Martin-Jenkins and Bloefeld. Together the just talked, mostly from memory, about their time as commentators. The pleasure at hearing three professional broadcasters just talk was overwhelming and so refreshing when compared to numb skull ex-pros who litter broadcasting simply because they are ex-pros (and I know Agnew played himself but I feel he's served his dues but why is Andy Townsend still so poor?).

And feminism has yet to take root in the sports world either. Can you name the four major(ish) sports broadcasters who are also daughters of successful sportsmen/coaches? Sisters are doing for themselves, although they are willing to take on board any help that their standing gives them. Sure, they're probably all very good and are no doubt breaking down barriers for everyone else, blah blah blah. But it's only a matter of time before Zara Phillips is a roving reporters on Derby Day.

Ranting again. Sorry about that. It was so much more fun when the writing was strangely odd instead oddly angry. Which reminds me of something else but that can wait. I've had enough for now.

Protecting Us From The Hooded Claw Since 1821

I really like Martin Kelner. I can't help it. His podcasts are truly terrible, a totally unprofessional mixture of bad jokes, appalling accents and woeful singing. And yet I have subscribed even though I now have to pay. From time to time I listen to his BBC Radio Leeds show, even though I live in London (although his untimely sacking has led to him charging for his podcasts...). And I make a point of reading his Screen Break column in the Guardian.

Today I have been rewarded with this excellent piece on my current bete noir ("Edouard, what's the French for bete noir?" "Martin, we don't have one."), Inside Sport.

Read. Enjoy. Complain to the BBC about the utter shite they are passing off as journalism. Or you could try posting on their "blog" (cough) and wait to see if they bother to add it to their celebratory comments.

I'll have egg and chips please

And maybe some baked beans. And a sausage. Or four.

That's what I'd put on the Great British Menu.

Actually I'd probably make it slightly more sophisticated as I've never cooked egg and chips anyway. But that's not the point. But then nothing ever is. With my militant Marxist head on I'd like to question why a group of chefs who produce expensive food out of the range of the ordinary people are producing expensive food that doesn't fulfill its primary purpose of sating hunger to be served to a group of elitist Frenchmen (that's not all Frenchmen, just the group the food will be served to) in the opulent surroundings of the expensively produced British Embassy.

However:

With my lazy arse head on (?) I find it very hard to get worked up about it at all. It's just not interesting enough. A bit like that whole Paris Hilton thing. Friends expect me to be angry with her for whatever it is she did and rant about how it is typical of the celebrity obsessed nature of English-speaking societies that she can seek to overturn her sentence because of who she is. But I can't be bothered to have an opinion about her at all. Someone please explain to me why I should have an opinion about her or the Great British Menu.

And for the record, I'd serve toad in the hole. As her last meal.

I got yet another email from the Daily Telegraph this morning

The editor of the Telegraph wrote to me. He did! The email had his picture and everything. He said he wanted to know what I thought of his paper so I followed the link. Of course, imagine my surprise when it turn out to be nothing more than a brazen effort to find out what products they can sell me. So, back to the original email I went and low and behold I discovered that the silly man had left his email address on it. I'd have used a 'no reply' jobbie (if I knew how to do it of course).

Mr William Lewis - Editor, Daily Telegraph

Anyway, this is what I wrote:

Thank you for your email. I don't expect you to read this. Perhaps one of your junior bods will have the pleasure of ignoring it on your behalf.

Here's what I would like to see. I would like to the Telegraph contribute to a debate rather than spout one dimensional Tory propaganda. I'd like to read columnists who have something to discuss rather pour personal bile and prejudice out. I'd like to hear alternative view points given and considered. I'd like the Telegraph to actually admit when someone with an alternative view is correct or has done something good. I'd like you to admit that not everything this government had done has been to feather its own nest and that perhaps it has made the odd decision on the basis that they think it will improve the country. I'd like the Telegraph to admit that the country isn't going to the dogs (stop apeing the Mail) and I'd really like you to get Alan Hansen to write something outside his comfort zone. Get him to actually research a piece and prevent him from using cliches. For goodness sake, he was interesting once (about 1999 I think) but like many who receive unquestioning support from their employers because they mistakenly think their name brings readers to the paper, he has got lazy and predictable. And I'm not even going to start on your other one-dimensional sports "journos".

Thank you for the time it has taken to delete this email. I'm sure I will sleep better tonight knowing that you will automatically assume that you know best. On the other hand, feel free to get in touch and criticise the quality of my writing.

It's called Dovetailing. No one really knows why.

Consider the lilies. Consider the rousing climax in the snooker. Quickly go back the lilies.

Two things are apparent tonight.

For the love of god will someone stop calling Inside Sport 'journalism'. If that's journalism then there really is a need for Steve Davis to be wearing fulling evening regalia at a quarter to one on a Tuesday morning. Guess what? Andy Murray, a tennis player, nominally from these fair shores, would like to play tennis in the Olympics when they come to these fair shores.

Well bugger me sideways with a fish fork. I'd never had guessed that he might dream of wanting to do that.

And to cap that, the BBC's investigative sporting shit stirrer Mihir 'Conspiracy' Bose has revealed tonight that someone from a foreign country wants to buy a football club from these fair shores.

Mind you, he then rather ruins the story by claiming the club is Charlton. He could have picked a club someone cares about rather than the archetypal 'well-run/family orientated/community/too lazy to do anything other than send a border collie out to do my research and then rehash some tired old generalisations' tripe that follows Charlton around.

What worries me the most is my genuine love for the BBC and my acceptance that they still do this tripe better than anyone else (cue rousing rendition of "There's Always Be An England" with England scrubbed out and replaced with United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland). For all the Murdoch Millions behind Sky Spots (sic) News, if there isn't a Sky Sports product to be promoted then it aint getting on.

If a wicket falls in the forest and there's no one watching county cricket, can we truly say that it's out?

And the BBC is sadly going the same way. News programmes cover blatant adverts for TV programmes to follow later in the day. Consequence? They depend upon each other. News journalism can go soft in the knowledge there's always a story to be thrown their way. Programme makers know their product can be promoted across the BBC networks and can even create a news story (Gary Richardson you useless bastard, I'm talking to you here even though you're on radio you Alan Partridge wannabe) for the many platforms to gobble up because they're too lazy to find something themselves and so on.

Breathe.

Now, about those lilies...

Quick poser

9pm.
Monday 7th May.

You have 45 minutes to salvage an entire year's work.
No one really cares if you make it or not.

Who are you?

Answer in 45 minutes?
Although probably not due to a total lack of interest on the part of anyone whatsoever.

I don't mean to be rude. Was I being rude?

Sports journalism is one of those over-confident areas, so sure of itself because it deals in big names and big fan numbers. When a new show comes along that wants to be taken seriously and is described in these terms:


Inside Sport is new, so it's not emulating anything. Our aim is to have a good balance of original journalism, features that other areas of television don't have the inclination to do, and interviews that have more depth about the individual.

then the inclination is always going to be to knock it as pretentious twaddle. The nature of this programme is to create news content for all the 24 hour providers connected with the channel (in this case www.bbc.co.uk, BBC News24 and Five Live). Here's the big scoop the BBC's new sports journalism programme Inside Sport managed last night:


Chelsea captain John Terry says he has spoken to the club about becoming their manager when he retires.

Stunning. Absolutely stunning. The blurb has pretentions way and above the content. Once again proving that simply because we have more information, it doesn't mean we have better information.

We wait, more in hope than expectation

Secure Mail Services, neither secure nor much of a mail service, are hopefully, finally scheduled to be here between 12 and 2. I wait, all baited in the breath department.


UPDATE: They came at 13:55.

Secure Mail Services (Part Two)

Dear sir,

You are a liar. We did try to deliver your package. Your door entry system may well be linked to your caller id telephone. And it may well display DOOR when someone presses your number. And you didn't have DOOR displayed on Friday other than for the other two people who came to your property when they said they would. And we didn't call your mobile number even though we specifically asked for it. But you are a liar. We did try to deliver the package.

Yours

Secure (sic) Mail Services

Secure Mail Services

So secure, in fact, are the services of Secure Mail Services that they don't deliver. Security therefore is threefold. You are secure in your residence. Their drivers are secure in the cafe. My package is secure in the depot. Everybody is happy, even if they don't realise it.

Dear Sir,

Or Madam, because in fact we couldn't be bothered to read what you sent us, that includes the letter attached to your other sheets, I suppose we should call them a manuscript. Anyway, the basic gist is that whatever you sent us to read is being returned in this envelope because we couldn't be bothered to read it, however we are sending you this note to give the impression that we at least glanced at it although we are aware that only a monkey in the middle of lobotomy conducted by some half-eaten scampi will be gullible enough to believe us. At least we're keeping the Post Office busy and, in the end, isn't that the most important thing?

Yours, with a distinct lack of sincerity, whatever the letter says,



A.N. Agent

The Marching Song of the Covert Battalions

"Within minutes flames leapt into the sky along the banks of the Thames from burning warehouses and factories... Acrid black smoke from the bombed warehouse of the Silvertown rubber factory flowed across the North Woolwich Road, bogging down fire engines, ambulances and Civil Defence vehicles. The ghastly fumes of rubber, tar and paint mixed with a sweet odour of caramel as Tate & Lyle's sugar barges blazed."


North Woolwich, April 6th 2007 Photograph "borrowed" from flickr.com (http://www.flickr.com/photos/iandh/448204305/)
There is, of course nearly sixty seven years between the report and the picture. The report is taken from Juliet Gardiner's Wartime: Britain at War 1939-1945, a period of history, an element of the war that seems to be neglected, much like the area round here which took a fearful pounding. But much like the area today it scarcely warrants much of a mention. It's not a pretty area and although the north bank of the river may well get the boost of the 2012 knock on effect, it's still an area in need of regeneration. Of course, regeneration only works if it also regenerates the community currently living there, giving them a greater reason to participate and integrate. It's amazing how often solving the poverty gap reduces the social gap.
The fire last week was reported. It made the news! Well, the local news but considering the local news has a reach of around 8-10 million people (although an actual audience of three bored children waiting for their tea and a stoned hamster).
It's a shame no one made the link back to September 7th, 1940.
I've been reading about wartime Britain to aid some research I'm undertaking. It's a confusing period but a fascinating one. Descriptions of the Blitz leave me shuddering but wondering whether or not we bother to appreciate the bombing we conducted. We all know what images the word Dresden brings to mind but there's still a feeling, albeit relatively unspoken these days, that they had it coming. But us noble Brits, well, we really suffered.
We still haven't really come to terms with the idea that wars are brought about by a few people and conducted by the masses. Dying on someone else's behalf if not my idea of fun. Being the victim of bombing as a non-combatant (as I believe the terminology makes us) is even more pointless whether you are German, Japanese, British in World War Two or Iraqi, Iranian, British of Brazilian in the War on Terror (sic). But as Juliet Gardiner's book makes clear, there were many people who profited from the wartime economy, legally or otherwise. Although the Sun and ITV are £100,000 poorer and an individual member of the armed forces £100,000 richer, this is not a cause for celebration of redistribution of wealth. As a national it leaves us morally bankrupt.

And in all the excitement of multiple seaside visits I nearly missed it.

The return of Danger Mouse



Ah, them were days, when men were men and international heroes were mice. Gawd bless BBC2 for showing it. A quick glance at the old schedules suggests it's not on next week (crikey!). So for all you who've missed it this week (crumbs!) it's off to the DVD store for you.

Mind you the animation is/was pretty crappy anyway.

You went where?

Four days ago I got back from lovely Bilbao.
Twenty four hours ago I was trekking back from



Or sunny Southend as it's otherwise known.
Now it's a bit of an unfair comparison due to the time of day/quality of camera etc etc etc.
But there's a world of difference between stepping off the train at Southend Victoria to be confronted by a concrete circle of hell and the graceful style of Bilbao. There's several hectares difference between the sophisticated if somewhat faded chic of the sea-side suburbs to the north of Bilbao and the bright lights of the front at Southend in February. And you have to cross the galaxy to find a greater difference than the one that exists between the cool, cultured (if decidedly weird) Basque variations on the tapas theme and this:



Didn't Teddy Taylor used to MP for Sarfend on Sea? Teddy, "I'll defend England 'til I die even though I'm Scottish" Taylor? I could be wrong. But if he was, I get the feeling he was defending the indefensible. Those crazy continentals know a thing or two, Teddy. Perhaps we could even learn something from them about food, culture, bars, transport.
And football. Despite the glory of the mighty Crystal Palace's thumping (i.e. extremely lucky) one nil win over Southend United, the game was of the most atrocious standard (and I use the word standard with due caution). So bad was it that we felt no guilt about arriving late and leaving early. And as much as I loathe the indentikit blandness of Pride Park, the "Walkers" stadium, the Stadium of Light and so on, the sooner Roots Hall gets turned in low-cost housing the better everyone will feel. When the best things about a football ground are the turnstiles, you know you're in for a bad evening.

Where in the world is this monster?

Te he he.
A few days in the sun, a spot of culture and Rioja. And although these pictures do not really show Bilbao at it's most beautiful (and it is, in places, very beautiful) I'm putting them here anyway.



I have often been accused of being obsessed with the Woolwich Ferry although that exclusion order is frankly a disgrace. So I have to travel to the Basque Country to get satisfaction. It's an odd attraction, the transporter bridge. It's even funnier how they charge you 30 cents to ride its mechanised transporter thingy and 4 euros to walk across the non-mechanised bit at the top.



Everywhere you look their trees are ready for the next shot of the Magnificent Seven.



And now that the actors are here...



Ok already, that's enough. It's early and I have the gym to go to and an essay to write...

And the last shall be first and the first shall be last

Or to paraphrase Billy Bragg:

Help Save The Youth of Australia.

There was a moment, just one special moment for me. When Strauss caught Ponting. The reaction of the England team was not one of surprise but of belief. At that moment they weren't mopping brows because the greatest batsman of his generation was out cheaply, they were celebrating in a manner that suggested a win was inevitable.
And they won.
So I guess it was.
But thank god that tour's over and I can rest my radio until the latter stages of the World Cup (not that I'm expecting us to beat the giants of Bolivia and Guam (or whoever it is that clogs up the group stages of the second most pointless world cup - after rugby league...)

About fucking time too.

Rickey Ponting, Glen Mcgrath, Don Bradman, Alf Ramsey, John Howard, all the bar staff and supply teachers in London, Paul Hogan, David Campese, Jim Robinson, Burke and Wills, Men At Work, Skippy the Kangeroo, Oliva Newton John, Dame Edna Everage:
Your boys took one hell of beating.*




Picture from BBC website courtesy of my license fee.



(Ok, here's a slightly more accurate take on the actual translation but the first one was much more fun)
We are best in the world! We are best in the world! We have beaten Australia at cricket!! It is completely unbelievable! We have beaten Australia! Australia, birthplace of giants. Paul Hogan, David Campese, Jim Robinson, Men At Work, Skippy the Kangeroo--we have beaten them all. We have beaten them all. John Howard can you hear me?
John Howard, I have a message to you during your election campaign. I have a message to you: We have knocked Australia back in the Commonwealth Bank series of cricket. John Howard, as they say in your language in boxing bars around Madison Square Garden in New York: Your boys took a hell of a beating! Your boys took a hell of a beating!"









(Just don't mention the test series, please)

Normal service resumed...

Left flat at the end of the second over of England's reply. By the time I got to the gym three wickets had been lost.
It's better now.
We still wont win.
But in the spirit of the day I salute our dour bravery (?) with this:

Er, this doesn't sound right

I woke up around five and as has been the habit, stuck the cricket on the radio expecting to hear doom, gloom and disaster. And I did. Ponting and Hayden were on the go, and how. One hour later and suddenly it's time for a jig in the style of:



Now, I'm not suffering any delusions of associated grandeur. I know how this teams work. They shall overcome, we shall be undercooked. However, I know a bit more about cricket then your average media commentator/mug punter and there's always hope. That's why 170-1 can become 250-9.
Of course, to use the expression us followers of both Crystal Palace Football Club and the England cricket team are only too painfully aware of, and in homage to Escape To Victory:
"Come on lads, we can still loose this."

There's No Smoke Without Fire

I'm sure that's probably not entirely true. What do I know? I have an F for my GCSE in Chemistry which I often proudly told students, especially when covering Science lessons for weird professor types who, despite being exactly forty-three brain cells and two A levels short of starting a medical degree, should really have known more about looking after themselves in the winter time.
If there a point? Not usually. Anyway, here's a question for those of you out there in Her Britannic Maj's United Kingdom of So On And So Forth. The estimable Matt Haynes has said that for the third issue running he'd quite like to use something I'd submitted for Smoke (see links on the side guys). And that's brilliant because I love that magazine. But I feel I need to branch out a bit as well. Don't get me wrong, I plan to keep submitting to Smoke as long as I have ideas in my brain (stop drumming your fingers dear reader). Well, where are the opportunities? Ambit looks a bit, well, erm, pretentiously intimidating. Same for Stand. And don't even bother mentioning Granta. And there are some ho-hum websites around. Come on, I challenge you, where are the British Lit Mags that take things from little old writers like little old me?
And I'm not bothered whether or not they pay. Really. I'm not.
So, what do you think?
Out with it?

Riding Along In My Automobile, My Baby Beside Me At The Wheel

Every time I start one of these I know picture myself narrating The Wonder Years. And frankly that's getting annoying. Little did we know at the time...
Worth mentioning that Decoration's new CD, Flippant, is out and jolly fine it is too. Candidate is a blinder of a song in anyone's book although I'm not convinced this is the best version of it that exists. Oh, get me. Anyway, follow the link on the right and by the latest CD from the least hard working band in British rock! (makes stupid gesture with his fingers even though the term "rawk" doesn't actually apply to Decoration because they're the band that could make you like the Wedding Present, should you be so inclined, which, let's face it, not many people are. So, big recommendation from me then) Ok, I've got a reason why you should buy it, how many albums do you own that have songs with the word "fickle" in the title? Well, this one has got two! There you go.

So, this weekend I will be:
Using words like fickle and harrumph.
In the Bluebottle pub in Crystal Palace, annoying Liverpool fans while they try and watch the "Merseyside Derby" (insert squeaky voice) by adapting their songs to suggest that they might not win anything this year or by telling them they should support their local team however crap they are.
Supporting my local team, however crap they are (actually, technically Charlton, Millwall and West Ham are now more local than my beloved CPFC but that's not the point).
Getting half cut in The Cut (geddit, huh, huh, oh ok, it's a street near Waterloo with some bars on it).
And, retrieving half of my CD collection from the world's most environmental pixie (he's the man who put the mental into...) on Sunday. This will be the best part of the weekend, not because I love my CD collection (harrumph) but because the pixie and I haven't seen each other for ages (he lives in some backward country now, Gloucestershire I think it's called. It may be near the Cook Islands) and he wont have seen me in my new, improved, thin, contact lens, vaguely all right looking state. As Brian Moore (whose head looked uncannily like the London Planetarium) once said as Alan Pardew actually managed to pass the ball accurately for Ian Wright to score in the play-off final, second leg, against Blackburn in 1989, "That's the part I like."

Every picture tells a story but sometimes the story is similar from picture to picture

Get the picture? Right, let's go.
This was last Monday. Or was it Tuesday. Anyway, the water over the rail covers a footpath. I live in sight of the Thames Barrier. The wrong side of the Thames Barrier. The high tide level was high anyway but the whole of the barrier was up. Now, call me thick if you like but this surely means that the tide level down 'ere in old Woolwich Town was even higher as a result. I'm in one of the thin white buildings on the left here, sixth floor, don't panic the water wasn't that high. What do you mean you weren't panicking? What do you mean why are talking to yourself? What do you mean... enough already.

The sign here being obscured by the flash gives out details of how to contact the coastguard. Previously thought this was a redundant sign but if the tides keep rising then I may need them (or a small boat of my own) if I want to walk along the path there. The path that leads to Thamesmead. I appear to be able to hear the drumming of fingers on tables.

Or if I can't find a boat then I could always find an alternative means of transportation...
(Warning, you may need to tilt your head to view this picture properly. Grrrr, grrrrrrrrr, hrumph)

Now, lets all have a long hard think about this.

And we need to have a think too. Primarily we need to think about the last week because although the big story appears to be solely a media issue, it does actually reflect the way in which we use language in this country. And homophobic tendencies are just as apparent as racist ones. And sexist and so on.
So, when the "woman" as the centre of the storm is quoted in the News of the World this morning as saying

"things that I may not think are racist can actually be racist"

then we have to take notice. This is a simple, profound statement. Read it. Think about it. Read it again. Once we accept the point then we can move forward. I may not intend to offend but if someone finds my remarks offensive then they are offensive and in the future I shall have to consider my remarks, better still I must try to understand why someone might find my remarks offensive and learn from it. If we do not accept this simple point then we are stuck as a society. And think, Jade Goody (and her advisors) could end up being a force for good. Now who would have thought that?

Let There Be No Doubt

Who knows, who knows / I might never have found you / Touching your toes / in the alpine section of the garden centre / where anything grows

From time to time it's hard to avoid this sounding like the Wonder Years, a drippy voice over about things we learnt that weren't previously aware of. It's also annoyingly tough to actually write something here sometimes because I want to be specific but feel uncomfortable without hte backup of being able to say "aha, it's only fiction." Fiction hides everything. It can be about you but also an extension of you, you are a starting point. And yet really it is you. Or at least the you you wanted to be. still want to be or were afraid that you had become.
So, it's not really a surprise that I'm finding it hard to write here about the genuinely brilliant situation that has developed over the last 7-10 days. Really genuinely fantastic. And I can't write about it. But I think I get it. It's because I want to live it first. The moment it turns into a piece of writing then it is an experience to be shared with all manner of other people. But in truth it's an experience that only two people ought to share. I'm not saying you don't deserve to know. Hang on, that might actually be what I'm saying. No, maybe, I'm not sure.
Not every moment of everyone's life needs to be shared as a mediated experience because then the experience is no longer your own, you no longer own it for yourself. So, I think I've got there, I want to own this experience for as long as possible. So, still with me? I'll make sure I waffle on here about any old crap because, for the moment, I'm keeping the good stuff to myself.
And I make no apologies for it.
And I'm sorry about that.

I lied, I lied, I lied, I lied, I lied, I lied

Tag mission no nearer completion.

Things I like this week:
New Mexico
Ticking boxes
Reorganistion
Change (and not the small kind)
The NFT (Maltese Falcon last Friday, Casablanca next, who needs new releases? Well, ok, I am going there to see a preview of Hot Fuzz in February so I guess I do - the level of excitement I'm feeling explains the small change gag)
And the rest.

Bear with me.

Oh labels. How exciting. Now, wait a second or two while I go through and label up the posts and then refine the labels. Ok, it may take me quite a while, not becuase of the number of posts but because of the shame of using the word nitwit in the previous post. I may never live that down.
The shame, the shame.

And now, with the time coming up to eight forty, it's thought for the day.

Institutional blogging must stop.
Whilst the BBC and the Guardian are two of the media institutions I hold dear (well, probably the only two really) their insistance on calling everything on their websites "a blog" to indicate it is an opinion piece is really an abuse of terminology. It's an editorial, it's a column, it seems it's whatever they want it to be. But in truth all they've become is an excuse for nitwits that while away a couple of hours at work by getting in to a slagging match at the end of said "blog".
This is not democracy guys, this is not an expression of your communicative rights. It's, oh what's the point.

Notes and queries

1) I really need to get up off the sofa now.
2) I guess Gabor's on his way back.
3) Good intentions can only last for so long.
4) Can we define what exactle constitutes "false idols" in the year 2007 because I swear there's a lot of worshipping going on.
5) We really ought to have a bash at "worshipping" as well. If it boils down to doing something for only an hour a week then I've got this West Wing thing going on. We should clear it up. Is it possible to worship without realising? If so we need to check back on that false idols thing again.
6) Is it possible to be a practising aethiest? And yes, I know I am asking a simple, naive blah blah question based upon a common misunderstanding.
7) I appear to have lost my mug. It was here a moment ago.
8) Yup, good intentions are gone (oom bop bop good intentions). She's giving me excitations.
9) Can I make ten?
10) I guess the answer to that is no.

With no particular axe to grind. Part Three.

Prendre vous vu se que ils faits à Dial Square?
C'est maintenant une parc de stationnement.
(I suspect this translation website I'm using is a dial of steaming manure but until my A level French comes back to me - I failed - I'll keep on using it)
I have no particular axe to grind against Arsenal. I'm a Palace fan. Four times I went to Highbury to see my team play (my team! Delusions) and we lost 4-0, 4-1, 4-0 and 5-1. Thanks. Highbury is now on the way to becoming a housing estate. But Dial Square is now a car park. For those of you who don't care enough to know/read on, Dial Square is the original name of Arsenal FC, it being the part of the Woolwich Arsenal where the players worked. Only one side of the square remains but as the whole site is being constantly developed (and it looks pretty good actually) more car parking space is required.
I think I think it's a shame (if you see what I mean) but I'm not sure. I suppose that everything changes at some stage but it seems a shame that when so much of the site is listed that this one relatively small area couldn't be set aside for, I don't a Square with a bit of grass and maybe even a couple of goals. Still, I wonder if any Arsenal fans care. Perhaps they'll all be clambouring for the spaces.
I don't really know if I'm trying to make a point about anything. The importance of football in our culture? Whether or not concrete is part of our culture? Preservation of historic sites and whether or not we sacrifice recent history in favour of the more glamourous past? Does history matte anyway? Is it anything other than a series of codes devised to impart a sense of an artificial national identity?
But maybe it's just a story about une parc de stationnement. But sometimes a cigar isn't just a cigar. Sometimes it's a smoke
Enough already

With no particular axe to grind. Part Two.

Répéter après moi.

Ça matinée J'ai acheté une paire de pantoufles.

Je m'appelle Andew.

Je suis soixante-dix ans.

Merde.

With no particular axe to grind. Part One.

Do you think it bothers the French that although the main language across the globe, culturally, economically, politically and diplomatically is English although we still use the expression lingua franca (which to the best of my knowledge isn't even french).
Answers sur une carte postale (or is it un carte postale? You see, that's where it all goes wrong).
Anyway, today nous celebrate the gloire de francais (except sans les accents if you know what I mean) until I get bored of it.
Cinque minutes peut-etre?

Of spice and zen

If you can discover that the same man wrote the screenplays of North by North West and The Sound of Music.
If you can stop this worrying trend of eating pickled onions straight from the jar.
If you can continue listening to Test Match Special even though you're 4-0 down and already behind on 1st innings score before lunch on the third day.
If you can still hope that maybe, just maybe your football team wont embarrass themselves against lower league opposition in the third round of the FA Cup on Saturday.
If you can ignore that twat in the pub who confused place of birth with the artificial construct of national identity and finish your IPA without stabbing in the eye with your Anti-Nazi League badge.
Then you'll be a slightly confused alpha male my son.

And so the conversation turned

Bloody Christmas opening hours at the gym. Nine o'clock, nine o'clock? How dare these people have lives? Don't they know I'm not sleeping well and looking for something to do at 7 each morning.
Although speaking as someone who has worked the Christmas rush (in my distant youth I must admit) I do have every sympathy. Funny how we can build a society in which someone must always be working, someone is always at our beck and call, to clean up our problems and make our lives easier, wet nurses to us all.
But I digress (and why shouldn't I? Haven't I earned that right? Or have I earnt that right?) Anyway Christmas is nearly through and even GMTV have started wishing their viewers a Happy New Year instead. Gosh. It's almost gone. We're nearly back to normal or whatever version of reality constitues normality in your eyes.
A few weeks back I started getting the same symptons that put me in hospital in 2005. For a while it was agony. Imagine not being able to sleep because every time you rest your head you start to choke. And then consider that the repeat visits of heart failure seem to be the ones that kill. How organised was I with the list of phone numbers I took into hospital? How scared did the very junior doctor look as she told me that it did indeed sound like the first stages of heart failure? She did have a startled bunny countenence to savour. But anyway the contradiction was that the tests were clear but the symptoms were not. My own doctor knew the problem and sorted it fairly quickly once I got to see him. And the situation has returned to normal (it appears it was merely a lung infection but I'm still not sleeping although the choking has gone, I guess it's a mental thing now). The funny thing was that for the second time in my life I was preparing myself to die. The first time I knew it was a distinct possibility. But the second time was worse. Imagine dedicating a year of your life to something and it still turns out shit. Try it. Go on. See what I mean. The funny thing was that when I came out of hospital I went back to my flat, got my gym "kit" and went to find an exercise bike. At four a.m. I thought I was going to die. At six a.m. I had heart failure. At eight a.m. I was on the bike. Perhaps I knew all along it wasn't as serious as the junior doctor thought. Perhaps. But perhaps I am so determined to put right the mistakes of my past that I am prepared to push myself to the limits. Perhaps I want to overcome the stupid, pathetic laziness that engulfed me and consequently if I do push myself too hard and unravel it all then at least I will be able to say that I tried. At least I will be able to say I did something rather than nothing, rather than wait and see.
The gym opens in twenty minutes. I'm off to do some stretching before the stroll along the river.
Better to die of something rather than nothing.
Useful Simpsons quote: "They say she died of a burst ventricle but I know she died of broken heart."

All present and correct

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.
Phew.
Shibboleth

When you walk with the animals, talk with the animals...

I feel smug. I should too, all Christmas presents bought and wrapped a week ago. They're pretty good as well and only one was bought over the Internet so at least I've given myself the gift of human interaction this year. Ahhh, bless.
I feel slightly vindicated. I have a season ticket to Crystal Palace Football Club. I have missed six home games this year including the last four before last night's fog fest. I can't say I missed much. For reference, two of the four I was on my "Gadding and Gallivanting Around Places I Used To Live Tour, 2006" and for the next two I was quite ill having not really been up to the gadding and gallivanting etc. But that's fine because last night I very nearly didn't go and having gone and suffered through a foggy one-nil win to find that my weakened circulation had virtually stopped I was able to claim some bizarre sort of moral superiority. I was right not to go to the other games because, face it, we're not that good so I didn't miss much. But having gone, I suffered badly. It's a funny old game.
I feel odd. One week ago I was having the best night of my life. And I know circumstances mean that we haven't been in touch since I was kind of hoping that circumstances could be overcome. It turns out they can’t. And I guess they never will.
I feel better. Well better than I did midweek when out with another potential person of additional interest. But she didn't really. The good news is that now that I'm dead* I feel a lot happier about letting people down rather than chugging along for fear of upsetting anyone. The fact that I haven't done it yet is neither here nor there although it probably is somewhere but I don't think I can get here from there right now.
I feel vindicated. So this is Christmas, what have you done? Well, John let me see, I think I've changed most of the negative elements of my personality, lost 6.69 stone, 42.50 kilos or 93.69 lbs depending upon your weapon of choice and hauled this old ship around so convincingly that I fully expect 2007 to be as brilliant as 2005 was bad (2006 doesn't really count due to it's nature as a repositioning year). So if I hear Mr Lennon on the radio asking the question and then informing me that war is over merely because I so desire it then I will be able to declare that I am nearly ready to consider the salvation of the world due to my new found ability to save myself.

* Refers to previous illness and fact that in Oct 2005 I was so ill I now regard the morning I woke up in hospital as the day I died. There is some scientific evidence to back this point up so it's not simple self-pity. In fact it's the opposite because now, whenever I'm stuck in a moment that has the potential to re-establish my previous ways (dull, dull, dull) then I ask myself this, "Now that you're dead what are you going to do with your life?"

Key Phrases For All Spies in London in December

This is London calling.
The fog has lifted.
Repeat.
The fog has lifted.
The ferries are running.
Repeat.
The ferries are running.

The magic formula

Lunchtime meeting with a friend in a pub near Victoria Station
+ My tendency to get to pub early
+ My wanting to have a drink to help oil the brains over the complications of Saturday night and Sunday morning
Multiplied by my friends ability to turn up thirty minutes late
= drunk by two o'clock and posting bollocks on blog when back home by half three.

Nice pun, shame about the face

Beta blogger? I geddit. Sounds a bit like... Arf arf arf. Yeah, ok. But apart from that what is the point? Speaking as someone who is on beta blockers, I don't know how it is meant to be anything other than a trite play on words. The similarities end with the name.
As cheap and as shoddy as a tabloid newspaper. And we love it for exactly the same reason. Still at least the "profile views" seem to count each time the profile is viewed (unlike before) however it doesn't appear to count unique views. Not that I care. If I have a really boring day I might be able to view my profile a couple of thousand times. Man, I'll never get tired of seeing that counter go up one at a time.

Ok, huddle up

Let's recap.
Words only have the meaning you give to them. Meanings change. One man meat is another man's murder. I know this and I know that the sentimental drivel that passes for 95% of pop music is simply a series of vaguely connected words hastily arranged into a form that scans and suits the not-so randomly written notes. I'm quite happy to admit that I probably like a reasonable percentage of the 95% of pop music that qualifies as sentimental drivel but I know that no one is speaking to me about my life, no one is speaking for me.
So why is it that I'm getting all misty when listening to "There is a light that never goes out" and "Let it be". It's not that they're deep and meaningful. I mean, "Let it be". Let it be what you blithering idiot. Let it be an unfinished sentence? And the thought of the world's least sexual man giving out romantic pearls of wisdom (I'm talking Morrisey here, not McCartney. Although now I come to think of it...) sends shivers.
I'm intelligent. I know these songs (sorry about this) say nothing to me about me life. It's just that at this sentimental time of the year I'm allowing myself to think that these songs are saying something to me about my life. Only I'm not quite sure what they're saying other than (sorry again) I want the one I can't have and it's driving me mad. Are the songs helping me to cope with this? No, but it wont stop me projecting.
But if words only have the meaning you give to them then I'm giving these words too important a meaning and I really should stop.

Let us not beat around the bush here

CAUTION: This posting may actually contain beating around bush and a distinctly high level of waffling and not getting to the point.

You get two people together who want to be together. But circumstances stand in the way. Life gets in the way and not in a "two houses divided" manner, not in an "already in another relationship" kind of way. In a "circumstances make things really complicated" kind of way because of where you live, what you do and where you're going. When you think you know that this is someone you really want to be with and you have a great time with them but you know you'll only ever get to see them once a month, twice a month at most, that work will always get in the way for all manner of reasons that you cannot possibly begin to imagine.
I may have said this before but life is shit. It's shit because it's linear. I guess I need more time. I'd like to have some time back please. I'd like to be in one of those crappy movies where minds or bodies switch. I'd like to have my current shape/weight/frame/state of mind in my mid twenties body. Maybe early. If anyone knows of a god/Hollywood studio who can do that for me, I'd like to be told. But then the circumstances would never have occurred and I think I like my life to be complicated after all.
You think you're confused, try it from where I'm sitting. All kinds of walls have been pulled down that should not have been pulled down and I am officially the most confused person in town.
Right, where were we?

Riding the Woolwich Express

I have a Freeview box. The gym to which I have recently been attending on a regular and dedicated basis has all of the Sky Sports channels. It is, therefore, no surprise that at 7am this morning I was in the gym preparing to saddle up on an exercise bike in front of Sky Sports One to watch the cricket. Seemed to be more productive than lying in bed listening to the radio, trying to work out if England were doing better when I was lying on my left or my right side.
Sadly, the gym opens at 8am tomorrow by which stage the match will either be over (and the Ashes with it) or Australia will have batted us out of the game so convincingly that watching will be unbearable.
On the upside, I managed an hour on the bike and twenty six kilometres. I don't know if that's good or bad but it seemed pretty decent to me.

Stare not at your navel lest the fluff stares back

Last effort at self-analysis before moving on:

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 146

Old Friedrich's got a bad reputation, gained from those who misused his work. But it seems to me that this quote says more about how I used to be.
Screw navel gazing.
Just get on with it.

It's not just weight you loose

it's money too. Think about it, with a whopping eight inches of the waist there's little I wear now that I was wearing three months ago, let alone twelve. And tonight I realised that I needed something "smart casual" in order to go out tomorrow night. Now the weight is stablising, it's time to spend, spend, spend. It'll be worth it, right? I'll find out tomorrow night.

Look, the picture in the profile is slightly out of date.

And very far away. And rather indistinct.
Anyway, here's me wearing my 1994 Rag Week T-shirt!!! It didn't fit me in 1994. It's fits now. That says a lot. As does the fact that I've still got it when it hasn't fitted for 12 years and it was all I did during Rag in the first place.



On the other hand, I may have updated the picture in the profile by the time you read this. In which case just pretend you haven't read this.

Hello. Are you still here?

Well it has been a long time, hasn't. I expect you thought I got lost. Well before I get totally back into the swing of things I'll lay down some highlights of the last six months.
God, Crystal Palace are awful at the moment.
My nephew is doing much better than Crystal Palace.
As indeed am I.
6 and one quarter stones lost since 1st February 2006. 6 and a quarter. Go measure that out in bags of sugar.
Not working but I reckon I'm nearly bag to full health. I'm certainly nearly back to full mental health, most of the time. Well, that's enough of this frivolity for the moment. More will inevitably follow. And it probably wont take six months.
Honest.

Your feet are the gateway to the soul

And my gates are in an awful state.
Turns out I'm not quite fit enough yet. And I think it's a bit more than twelve miles. At least I hope so because including diversions in Deptford (not well sign posted) it took four hours twenty to walk to London Bridge. At that point my body had just about given up.
The beta-blockers are really doing their job, the average heart rate was 97 with the highest being 107. Without the drugs it would extremely high (still doesn't make this kind of walk a good idea though). Walking back from the station to the flat (around 25 very long minutes indeed) the average heart rate was 109 and the highest being 127. Weird.
Anyway, I may bore myself with some other details about the walk later. For now, I'm going to soak my feet. Again.

Windows are dangerous things

Well, kind of.
As part of my recovery I've been building up the walking. I suppose it's an attempt to force the weight off. So far it's involved going east, to Crossness a couple of times (and routes along the way) and Beckton today (which technically involved going west to start with and of course if you go east then you have to come west to get home and anyway technically Crossness and Beckton are variants of north-east from here).
Tomorrow I think I'll check out the fitness levels. Tomorrow morning, early, very early, I'm going to head for one of the sights visable from my living room window. Tomorrow I'll walk to the London Eye. Should only be about twelve miles. At current speeds it should only take me between three and four hours.
Living next to the river (albeit a cheaper part of it) has made me slightly obsessed by it, by travelling on or alongside it. I've just been looking at a website of a man who has attempted to create a Dave Gorman style challenge to walk the length of the path, setting down rules for the journey but the last two stages remain incomplete (and the website hasn't been updated for two years). Perhaps he got bored. Perhaps I will too.

This is now.

And England (soon to officially change our nation's name to Engerland) have finally struggled past mighty Trinidad and Tobago. We huffed and we puffed and we finally blew in the house of paper. Only took about eighty five minutes for the love of god (small g deliberate).
And in contrast to ten years ago, the flats all around are alive with the sound of cheering. Loud and sustained too. Even now I can hear a distant stero blaring out 'Vindaloo' (those of you not from our fair isle might wish to research Fat Les on Google/Wikipedia/iTunes and the like).
In fact virtually every goal in the competition has been cheered so far although it is somewhat heart warming (in a one-dimensional male kind of way) that England is extremely well supported in what is a culturally diverse area.
Now if only we had a team that reflected this level of support...

That was then...

Ten years ago I was living in Glasgow. For those of you who don't remember, ten years ago the European Championships were being held in England (ah the irony). When it got to the semi-final my street, Langside Road, roared in collective excitement when Southgate missed the all important penalty in the all important penatly shoot out and Germany progressed to the final. Scotland loved it. I resolved to leave.
That said, I was fairly loud in celebration of Shearer's early goal. It was probably revenge. Even my tub of Sommerfield's strawberry ice-cream and all the Marlboro light's in the world (plus one or two other things, cough, cough, fear not I don't do that sort of thing anymore) weren't going to pick me up.

Right, now the picture thing really is back up and running

This is my nephew, Ben. Tomorrow he will be two months old, no one expected him to live for an hour. He is my little miracle (well, actually my brother and his wife's but you get the idea).

My role in his life is minimal so far. Due to my illness and his we have not been able to meet up. I'm not able to go to Armagh from London just yet and strangely, Ben hasn't learnt to drive yet. Still, the one contribution I have made is to supply him with enough Crystal Palace kits to see him through his first year.
Look kid, if you end up hating football, I will understand. If you end up loving football but hating Crystal Palace, well lets just say that we've all been there.

There is something self-fulfilling about dressing up children in football kits but as the song sung by a gay icon and adapted by some many burly football fans, que sera sera. He will make his own mind and my brother and I can only try to influence his choice for the best. But for those of us amazed and thrilled that he's alive at all, what will be, will be and two months on we should all be happy about that.

Although it only took 30 minutes

to go from
to this
Mind you, even on that first one, central London is obscured by the rain clouds drawing in. It's almost back to normal although the Eye is still obscured. Just.

Another quiet day by the river

Yeah, if I bought that I'd be cross too

"Is it worth it?" once asked Elvis Costello. "Der dum de dum di di dum, it's just a rumour that's been spread around town, somebody said that people get killed in the results of their shipbuilding."
"Why?" I hear you ask. "I have no idea," I reply.
But once thing worries me about the strange rise of World Cupitis. And it's the George Cross, the England flag. I don't mind people buying it and displaying it. What I genuinely don't understand is why people who claim to be so patriotic need to have the Geroge Cross that has England written across it in large letters. We know. We understand. We live in the country. We know what the flag is. Buy the one that actually is the flag. And don't get the ones that have a sponsor (ie the Sun or the News of the World) or the name of the shop writ large upon it (JJB being the main culprit here).
This has pointlessly troubled me since, that rare creature, the Olympic medal winning English athlete, instead of reaching for the union flag, goes for the Geroge Cross from a spectator who bought it in the sports supermarket advertised in the bottom right hand corner of the self-same flag. National pride? I think not.

Good flag (well, within reason)
Bad flag
Very naughty flag

It's a good job I'm ill

The great quest is but a few minutes away from starting. I have bought a desk, a cheap desk, a self-assembly desk but a desk that the store said can only be delivered. It will turn up today. I was given a time. Well, in truth it could be any time between 8 and 6.
So, today I shall sit and wait. And wait. And wait. And time my trips to the toilet very carefully.
Wish me luck.

Dear Mr Blogspot

Any chance of letting me post some pictures? They're really nice ones. Go on. Please?

Well, obviously, you know, I mean...

I know it was hot out there but we'll try not to let it affect the blog, obviously. Spirit is like, you know, high in the camp and we'll put our difficulties behind us as we've got fifty posts in the bag. It don't matter how you get there, getting there is the key thing.
Now, if you don't mind I'm suffering from World Cup Fatigue, a worrying illness which prevents the sufferer from being able to concentrate fully on three football matches per day. I spent most of the Netherlands - Serbia & Montenegro game putting up curtains in the living room. And an entire match later I still can't decide whether or not to pull them down and start all over again.
The only known cures for this illness is to spend an hour watching Space 1999 on ITV4 (Seriously, are their channels breeding? ITV4 is basically the spawn of Lou Grade thirty years on. ITV4? ATV4 more like. Ah, those were the days) and three hours in the sun.
I tried the sun option this morning walking from here to there to buy the bloody curtains. I took the Thames Path away from Woolwich (and that's a good thing I hear you say) and towards Thamesmead (and that's no so good). In fact the Path is fantastic, especially early on a Sunday morning (all right before 10). Even when it gets to the much loathed Thamesmead, the buildings aren't as disasterous as one is led to believe although they are startingly unorignal. And at the least the Path itself is as wide there as it is anywhere else along the river. The Thames was quite this morning and although it is a working section of water it seemed calm and beautiful. I prefer it around here with its wide open stretches, low rise buildings (if any) and long views all around.
From here to there meant going to Crossness (three miles) to kill the time before the shops opened, and back to the shops (Argos! Please don't judge me by my cheapness, it has a reason) before taking the long way round back to the Thames.
So, if there is a point it's this:
Space 1999 is as rubbish as everyone belives. Thamesmead might not be. The World Cup takes more energy to watch than to play.
One of those might be inaccurate. In the best traditions of modern television, I'll let you decide.

The unlaid plans of Mike and Ben or How I learned to stop worrying and love the World Cup

Guide to not worrying:

Focus all your frustrations on the pathetic foibles of the commentators. Two games on ITV later. Oh my god, I think my brain is going to explode.

And on with the show:

Right. Have now lost three stone since the start of February. On my early morning walk I tried a bit of jogging. Emphasis on the 'bit'. Not sure how long I lasted, I suspect it was under two minutes. I don't understand the jogging bit. I think I was going too fast, not a sprint, but definately a run rather than a jog. I get the impression that if I slow it down to a job it will the equivalent of a plane not going fast enough to stay in the air and my body will stall.
In the mean time... I'm thinking about joining a gym but I'm worried about paying £20+ per month to use the exercise bikes and I'm not buying one in case I have to move fairly soon. I think I'll just up the walking again instead.
All of which should be a blessed relief while three games are on each day during the first two weeks of the World Cup. Lengthy walk in the morning. Sofa action in the afternoon and evening.
And to exercise my hands I'll be keeping a firm grip on the remote control and testing my reflexes. Anytime someone from ITV tries to speak, mute goes on. Pre-match and half-time, change channel or get up and do something else (carpet needs cleaning, yikes!). Post-match? Well, I think I'll try making my own mind up. I'm a grown man, I can concoct my own opinions, thank you very much, using the evidence placed in front of me by the miracle of television.
Listen to the pundits? Christ, that's as bad as listening to a phone-in. Just think, a world without Garth Crooks, Clive Tydlesly (don't know how to spell your surname and I'm certainly not going to demean myself by looking it up and Clive your Telegraph column is poor as well, why do any research when you can write about the same two or three teams all the time?), Gaby Whatherface, Ally McCoist, Boring Boring Shearer, Lineker (is he stupid, arrogant or merely homophobic?) and the rest.
Makes me wish I had Sky Sports so I could watch the West Indies vs India Test Match whilst listening to the football in Radio 5live (stupid name, reasonable commentators).
Failing that, I'll go and get a life.

Garth Crooks

As much ability for "post-match" interviews as Sally "How do you feel?" Gunnell. The BBC continues to employ this Yoda wannabe. Today's gem? A poor second half performance from England and although Paraguay never really threatened it all got a bit tense and nervous. So, Garth has quite a period of time to prepare his questions, to think of something intelligent to ask, possibly about tactics or motivational techniques. And what do we get?

"The Trinidad and Tobago game is a must win game. Will you be looking for a better performance?"

Er, back to the studio for some analysis. What the fuck do you think Garth? You talentless free-loading bastard. Thanks to the unique way the BBC is funded you have been gifted a post-playing career. Can you actually learn how to do it properly?

Never Mind The Running Time, Here's The Ruler

Buy a film guide, such as Time Out's Film Guide and marvel at the thousands of pages and bitchy comments about films that you once thought were kind of all right really. Then let your imagination run away with you and leap from page to page looking at random entries.
Find a silent film. Look for the running time. In it's place is the length of the film in feet. So, The General is around 7500 feet. Try putting that on the poster. You'll be telling me next that they had no sound as well.
It interests me when people do things differently and it depresses me when something new takes on old fashioned characteristics. Take the ferry up to London. Tomorrow morning I'll board the 7:30 from Woolwich Arsenal Pier to London Bridge. Lots of other people will get there or further up the river. What will they do? Read a paper. Avoid eye contact with everyone else (except to scare them away from sitting anywhere near them), tut at those wearing something other than a suit and so on. All the conventions of the train adapted to the river. It's a new way of getting to work. We had a chance to do something different. We fucked it up.

Life is a sequence of trivial events

Worrying signs as I got my hair cut on Saturday. It was a barbers, a normal barbers although a hair cut now costs £9 and only a couple of years ago it was around £4-5. Two things I thought were strange. Firstly the barbers asked if he could trim my eyebrows. This I thought was a sure sign of aging. Fair enough, I thought, if I can compare the Arctic Cheeky Monkeys to Ian Dury than I am getting old.
Then the second strange event. He started massaging my scalp. And it went on for about three minutes. He threw lotion on my head and worked it around. It smelt ok, it felt ok. He muttered something about its effects but I was too deeply in shock to pick it up. Only at the till did the whole shebang become clear as he attempted to flog said lotion product on me.
I politely declined and walked away wistfully wondering where the days of cheap haircuts and something for the weekend, the whole wonderfully seedy world of barbers, had gone. And when it had been replaced by this regal refinement?
And since when did I start attempting alliteration?

For Amy Elizabeth Scowcroft (14/12/1920 - 20/05/2006)

Eulogy to be given at her funeral - 30/05/2006.

It is impossible to talk through a rich life of eighty five years so I hope you’ll forgive me if I engage in primarily personal reflections. I thought I’d try to explain how important Nana was in my life but that’s bit of an impossible task as well. As I set about preparing this I realised, more clearly than ever before, the depth of her influence.

And as I can no longer tell her, I’m going to tell you.

It is a shallow life that doesn’t give a person a few scars. And Nana bore a few scars. For most of us here it will be impossible to think of Nana without thinking of her husband as well. That’s just the way it was, even death was unable to separate them.

My grandfather died before my second birthday and I have no memory of him. To be honest, this makes it hard for me to have the emotional attachment others do. But over the last thirty one years, Nana built up a fairly complete mental picture for me. Her devotion to him remained as strong in 2006 as it was on the day they married. It saddened her that she lived 31 years without him but in all that time she remained loyal, faithful and committed to their marriage.

Barely a visit to her house passed without some memory of Pop being mentioned, and mentioned in a touching way. And through her he attained a kind of immortality. The future is always rooted in the past and though Nana is now a part of our past, through us she too will attain immortality.

Nana knew that technology would play an increasingly important role in our lives. And I think that Paul and I helped to complete the circle when, on what turned out to be her deathbed, I was able to play her a film of her first great-grandchild through my laptop, a film that Paul had recorded and sent over from Northern Ireland shortly before.

She was thrilled by the film of little Ben because it made her feel young again and she felt better knowing that the Scowcroft name had moved on another generation. She was also thrilled that we had a firm enough grasp of the various technologies involved to be able to show her the film at all. After all, it was a process she started for us.

Back in 1982 she had bought us our first computer. It was a tool to help us learn and grapple with the technology to come. In truth, we should have spent more time using it to conjugate French verbs or understand Venn diagrams but I hope she understood that these 10 and 12 year old boys were more interested in the exciting world of football and cricket computer games.

And here we are in 2006 and I know that IT is a huge part of my work. Part of the A level course I teach is about technology and its development and thanks to Nana’s foresight I have been able to draw upon many personal experiences in the classroom.

Nana’s influence goes deeper still. In 1979 she promised me half of all her money if Labour won the general election. What prompted such a promise is lost in the midst of time. But try as I might there was only so much influence a child of infant school age can have upon the result of a general election. All I knew was that I didn’t get my money and now I had someone to blame.

This was reinforced the following year when through, and I love using this phrase, her contacts at the Ministry of Defence, she secured some excellent seats for the Trooping the Colour. So good, in fact, were these seats that to get to the right position we had to traipse past various Whitehall seats of power.

And so, aged seven, I was openly encouraged by Nana to engage in an act of terrorism as we walked past the front door of 10 Downing Street. Fortunately for democracy, our bags had already been searched and in the end we agreed that there was little a carton of orange juice and a cheese and pickle sandwich would do to alter the political status quo. In the end we simply booed quietly and strode on.

Once I was old enough to appreciate that no one believes in socialist ideals for the money, we often held lengthy discussions on politics. Although in truth this was mostly a means of winding dad up. The more he rolled his eyes at the mention of Ken Livingstone, the more we mentioned him.

And she also inspired a thirst for travel. She travelled to America long before it became fashionable. She ventured to the Middle East, to Israel and the Lebanon before the region fell apart again and she went to Russia while it was technically still impossible or at least impossible for anyone to travel in the opposite direction. But she went, not to gawp at other cultures but to learn from them.

Travel also made her appreciate her home and she could often be found up a ladder, painting, clearing gutters or felling trees. If a job needed doing she needed to do it herself. Although, in the end, this ruthless streak of independence caught up with her. And woe betide you if you tried to visit her on a Friday. Nothing was allowed to stand in the way of her Friday cleaning sessions. Mind you, you were not also not allowed to visit unannounced. You had to phone ahead for an invitation. I used to think I was visiting royalty.

Although her illness caused her pain and sadness, it provided some pleasure too. She was unable to use the tickets to the English National Ballet that I bought for her birthday. And, however much he went under sufferance, I know exactly how proud she was that her son felt it important enough to go in her place.

She was also incredibly proud that both her grandsons have ended up in the public sector as teachers because she was so incredibly proud of her own career in the civil service. There was a time when I thought seriously about following in her footsteps. I wanted to join the Foreign Office but by that stage I was struggling to conjugate verbs for my French A level and as a career it slipped out of view. But the principles of the public sector, the belief that as a family we had been treated well by our country, stayed with us. And so did the belief that those in such a fortunate position could give something back through their labours to help others. Hers was indeed a generous nature in both spirit and deed. And I can only try to live up to it.

I thought it only fair to ask my brother for his memories. He chose to emphasise her sense of humour, often wicked, blunt and honest but always with a touch of warmth. When Paul informed her that she was to be a great-grandmother, Nana replied “Well done, but it’s about time. You two are both Catholics, you should have had seven by now.”

Paul followed this up by writing:


Dear Nana,

Thank you for all that you have done for me. I am so glad that I got the opportunity to see you and say goodbye. I have many memories of being with you:-

The special Christmas cake,
Birthday pictures by the apple tree,
A white Mini,
Welsh Guards uniform,
The view over Croydon,
Mastermind,
Making tapes in your living room,
Washing and fixing a blue peddle car,
Crumpets and scrambled eggs,
Pressure cookers,
Reading tea leaves,
Lemon cake,
Telling Dad off again!,
Working at Oxfam,
Your smile on Wednesday 17th at seeing me and the new pictures of Ben.

All of these recollections I will treasure. They will remind me of you and I will tell Ben all about them so that he will know what kind of person his Great Grand Nan was.

Love always.

Paul.


It isn’t important whether you remember her as a mother, grandmother, sister, aunt, friend or benefactor. Whether she’s mum, Nana, Amy or Joan. A Scowcroft or a Davy. What’s important is that she meant something to us all.

As for me, I’ll remember her at odd times. If you turn right out of what, for me, will always be her house, you will see a wall of trees running up a hill. On the other side of that hill, about a mile away is Selhurst Park. And on alternate Saturdays during football seasons to come when Crystal Palace are underperforming as usual, I’ll look up from my seat and see the hill and I’ll remember the house on the other side. And I’ll remember the wonderful, warm, caring, generous, loyal lady who lived there throughout those crucial years of my life.

And I’ll say thank you.

No. No it isn't.

Bet you didn't see that coming.
Well it is a beautiful day and all the previous comments apply. Add to that the impending issue of Smoke (see links on the right hand side) which includes only my second published piece since various University pieces in a friend attempt at a lit. mag (I don't think I was listening to what he wanted to do and just wrote loads of really juvenille pieces including a series about a man who by day was a stupid, mild mannered Tory MP but by night was a stupid superhero called Parliament Man. Anyway, Smoke, it's really good. No actually it is.
But it's been a hectic week. Even if you take out the Dowie and AJ news (which to be honest, isn't really that important anyway) it's still be a push and a rush. My nephew has finally made it out of hospital! He's home which is fantastic news. But I'm still not up to the trip from London to Armagh to see him. Even with half-term approaching, the journey is too much for me in my current state. So it will have to wait until the summer.
My last remaining grandparent is no longer remaining and the cremation is on Tuesday, so | wouldn't have been able to go over anyway. It turns out that she had primary lung cancer and secondary bone cancer. She was quite literally falling apart. No wonder she wanted to die.
But in death comes hope. For in death she has enabled me to make some serious decisions about my own life. You know, the hardest part of visiting her in hospital was having a dying lady seem more concerned about my health than her own. And so I have to take her views into account and my inability to drag myself into work recently has proved that heart failure and large, unruly inner London secondary schools do not mix and as of 01/09/06 they will not mix. Thanks to my nan (once the will is sorted out) I will be able to take a year or two out and finish my MA. Thanks to my nan I will be able to have another go at living. Thanks to my nan I will hopefully be able to reasses and reorganise my life. Thanks to my nan I have got my life back, at least for a short while.
May she rest in peace.

Is that a rhetorical question?

The sun is shining. I've got the cricket on the radio, England are perofrming superbly as we have come to expect. A long weekend approaches. My weight is at a new record low (still another stone and a half to go before the big reveal though).
What could possibly be wrong on a day like today?

You can't see the other side, where they live

I thought I wouldn’t be around to watch the FA Cup Final today. I thought it might be the first I’d missed since 1986. But then I couldn’t work out if it was 1986 or 1989. I know I was with my mum sorting through grandma’s flat in Hailsham but 1986 is two years before she died and 1989 is one year after. But I know it was one of the Merseyside finals. One too soon. One too late.
Anyway, that thought reached totally immaterial status once cottoning onto the fact that having attended the 1990 final (and replay, bloody Mark Hughes/Les Sealy/Lee Martin/Allan Gunn etc), I was playing cricket in 1991 and football in 1992 (the Student Union should have known better). In 2001 I was at Lingfield Park and can remember very little about some of the others in between, striving for some form of twenty year significance with my last remaining grandparent struggling with nasty, virulent, terminal cancers.
But then I didn’t watch Wimbledon’s win. Or Coventry’s. And in 1985 I was playing cricket for Croydon Schools (very grand) against Sussex Schools at Sussex University (Mark Butcher was our captain, I opened the batting with him and took twenty minutes to get 0 before being bowled by one that barely skimmed the grass).
I guess it just doesn’t matter anymore. It’s not really a day that the neutrals care hugely about. And there’s more live football around the corner. I grew up watching Arsenal’s three straight finals (they lost two, hehehe) but that was when it meant something to watch a live game on television, when you were lucky to even see an England game outside of World Cups and European Championships.
It’s not an event anymore.
Nor is visiting hospital to see relatives in trouble.
I’ve done it too much recently, too many near death experiences (four in the family in just over two years, all different people, no deaths to speak of though). And now the near death experience is a nearly dead experience I find myself empty. Too many close calls and now an actual call. And my reaction? To be an emotional void. Is being practical and logical only possible by being detached?
Should I force myself to be visibly upset? Would that help others? Should you really get ready to grieve for a wonderful 85 year old lady when she has lived a long and fruitful live and now only seeks to die quickly and peacefully? To grieve when death would be a release seems a paradox to me, something designed to make me feel better. But what I want is for her to get what she wants. She wants to die.
It’s her time to go. Why so sad?
And if that's too depressing then here are a couple of pretty boats that went past the flat this week:

The fence is high and wide where we live.

Brief update on life in general.
And the baby is now doing fine. Out of his cot and soon to be in possession of his first two Palace kits (sad uncle thing, had to do it). Little Ben is, after two and a half weeks, out of his incubator and into his cot. Well done little man. And, considering he is one of us, he is a little man. He could make a footballer, hopefully a combative (yet skillful) midfielder. And if he plays in red and blue all the better.
But hey, I'm projecting again.
And my nan is still in hospital and up and down but looks like she'll live. Thought we were doing the one in, one out, thing. Turns out it's everybody still in.
Not sure about me though.
Having sorted out three days a week back at the ranch and been delighted by their attitude, I found I could only do two.
On top of everything else that has happened recently, even after six months on sick leave I am not ready to go back. And I think it is as much to do with where I work as me. I think I know that now.
Although it has taken me four days to get over working two. And I'm not sure it wont take at least another day or two. Which is a pity because those are the two I'm meant to be working.
Anyway, once I find a more interesting way to write all that down, I'll return.
Oh yeah, and (thanks to my decent pay and conditions) I'm now on half-pay (and that was not sarcastic). I appreciate the whole half-pay thing. What I'm not so keen on is having to dash half way across London to collect my half-pay in cash because some inept town clerk forgot to process my pay properly (she admitted it!), although it's hard to dash at that time of day, and then dash to find a bank to pay it into and panic about getting it in on time to pay the mortgage. That was a major load of stress and exertion my old ticker could have done without.
And so the point it, anything that could go wrong, seems to be going wrong for me. But then at least things are getting better elsewhere.
Ah, so conflicted.

The family that wees together, stays together

Well, well, well. Well, well, well. There are now four generations of this family on diuretic. What have we started. It's my dad's fault. He's been on them for about two years now. I followed last October. Ben (six days and counting) joined our club a couple of days ago. Today my nan went into hospital and wound up on the wonder of diuretics as well.
For those of you who don't know. They make you pass urine (oh, how posh was that?). With little Ben and I it's to get rid of excess fluid that the heart is unable to pump round the body and make useful. I think nan has something wrong with her heart as well now so it maybe that she needs them for the same reason.
I couldn't go see her today because of my diuretics. I went into work to sort out my timetable for next week, three days, gentle re-entry, they couldn't have been nicer, more than I expected. I got back to the flat around 11 o'clock and weighed myself. I was, get this, 6.7kgs higher than my lowest weight of one week ago. Think about that. Why is it so high? Well, the consultant suggested reducing the dose of diuretic. I did but for a couple of days only. Also I greatly increased the amount of "work" I was doing. Well, basically that means that I was seeing my nan twice a day, doing her housework, shopping and cooking for her and so on, caring for her while she starts to slip away. And while mum was away in Northern Ireland with my brother, his wife and their new born, I guess I spent a lot of time organising and looking after dad as well. And it was too much. It was all too much. My heart couldn't cope and if I'd kept it up I be back where I started.
So, without knowing that dad was at his mother's dialing 999, I was increase my dose and extracting the urine to extent of 6.2 kgs. Before I carry on I should say that as far as I know, the last I heard was that nan is comfortable. Hopefully dad will phone when he gets home. I'll head over in the morning.
When you piss 6.2 kgs worth of urine over six hours (and I do feel better for it), you can't go anywhere, seriously.
Where am I going with this? Well, I'm not sure. Perhaps it's that I'm not ready to do as much and if I want to live as active and full a life as my nan then I need to slow down now until I am ready. Perhaps I am simply trying to justify my reasons for not going to visit her today. But I promise I'll be there tomorrow.
So I am ready for a little work. But not a lot. And no lifting. Visiting only. Leave the hard work to others or the others will be visiting me.

Don't mind me

I'm just playing around. I've nothing better to do so I'm seeing if I can work out the HTML thingy. There may be a few slight changes while I get the feel of everything.
But the changes will only be slight. Or the whole thing will disappear. Now, now, don't all cheer at once.

Hank the DJ, Hank the DJ, Hank the DJ, Hank the DJ (repeat until funny)

What's in the news? Who cares? After all, if Hank the DJ plays songs that say nothing to me about my life, why should I care what's in the news? I have no opinion to give.
Ben's off the respirator. I have an opinion on that.
Middle East situation bad. I have no opinion on that.
The fluid seems to be off Ben's lungs and he's approaching a normal weight. I have an opinion on that.
My trade union, the NUT, attacks education policy and "cronyism". I have no opinion on that.
And neither should you.
Look about you, look at the things that happen in your life and try to make them better. Have an opinion on things you really care about, things that affect you directly, things that are central to your life. If it's isn't something you can touch then forget it, get a good night's sleep instead.
So far so good Ben. I'm sure Hank will play you whatever song you want when you are older. Choose well.