Hope has sprung

The fat lady is warming up. I am going to bed.

Hope springs eternal or Waiting for the great leap forwards.

I remember 1992. I remember expecting Labour to win the general election and the crushing disappointment that followed. I couldn't believe that after 13 years, people still wanted to vote Conservative.
What crushed the spirit were the polls. Right up until the exit polls, Labour were destined to be the largest party in parliament. The result would reshape Britain's political boundaries. The pollsters got it wrong.
At least, the pollsters were said to have got it wrong. Perhaps they asked the wrong questions or wrote the answers down without really listening. Perhaps people were ashamed to admit that after 13 years of social division and policies that began the credit boom which is only now unraveling, they were still voting for the government.
Anyway, it's unfair to say anyone got it wrong. That would suggest that people used their democratic right frivolously and I'd hate to think that anyone would ever do that.
Well tonight my fear is that it is 1992 all over again. I had personal reasons to be deeply interested in the outcome of the 1992 general election. I have personal reasons for being deeply affected by the outcome of the 2008 presidential election.
In the last 18 months I have met and befriended more Americans than in the previous 34 put together. In under a year I am marrying an American and it's possible we may eventually live in the States. In the last four days I have become acutely of my dependence on prescription medicine. My heart condition is controlled by various prescription drugs and being without one of those drugs over the last few days has been intolerable.
And so I have been following the debates about health insurance with great interest. Only, there haven't really been any. It's been a non-existent issue.
It does rear its head in conjunction with the rhetoric of the campaign. From the right, the rhetoric has been all about socialism. Considering one of the main ways to get at Obama is to call him a socialist, it is amazing to think that no one in the US knows what a socialist actually is.
To think that anyone espousing a health scheme that still revolves around private insurance is a socialist is idiocy and juvenile propaganda. To claim that taxing those earning over $250,000 to help lower (not remove, lower) the cost of health care is as far removed from socialism as I am from a getting a book deal. Taxing the wealthiest to help the middle classes is not socialism. It's a glimmer of the redistribution of wealth.
Can you imagine a European socialist party with a limited tax plan to slightly reduce the cost of private health insurance by slightly raising the tax of a few? A socialist government would destroy the private system and replace it with a universal, centrally funded system that ensured equity regardless of social standing or wealth. A socialist government would increase the safety net for the poorest, funding it with the excessive wealth of those who had previously benefited from tax breaks designed to win votes rather than improve society.
Obama is no socialist. But until that term stops being thrown around with the same weight as thief or murderer, then sensible political debate will not happen.
But then calling him a liberal didn't stop people telling the pollsters they were going to vote Democrat. Socialist is one step further down the line. And I'm worried that the label will stick, that enough people will believe he cannot be trusted and it'll be 1992 all over again. That the (mental) energy invested in this election will bring only disappointment.

Anyway, I'll honour the outgoing president with one of my favourite Steve Bell cartoons:

Hope springs eternal. Every four years.

Were you just being kind?

I can't seem to stop sighing. What's that all about?

In an ideal world

In an ideal world I'd buy one of the huge houses at the top of Oram's Arbour in Winchester. I'd enjoy the view through the trees across this magical strip of urban park. The view expands over the city itself and onto the Downs, rising proudly on the other side.

This isn't an idea world. So, although we are planning a move out of London, it wont be to Winchester yet. Instead a more affordable house in Ascot awaits and yes, you did read that correctly. It's a nice house, about the best we can afford even at this time of dropping house prices and although it's not the Arbour, it is next to the strip of land below. And, for the moment, that will more than do.

If at first you don't succeed

History is a funny old thing. Or not as the case may be. But with history it is possible to take yours eyes off the present.
We are currently so obsessed with 1929 and the depression that followed that we are in danger of missing impact of the depression.
There are two major government initiatives that must be stopped. Firstly the attempt to alter the rules of detention so that someone can be detained for up to 42 days without charge. The second is the expensive farrago of the identity card scheme. I abhor these ideas without reservation.
I abhor them because of the manner in which the whole nature of innocent until proven guilty is challenged by them. I abhor the necessity to collect information to which the government in not entitled. But I fear what could happen should the benign, paternal nature of modern government be replaced by something more repressive or authoritarian.
It couldn't happen here? Could it? Britain escaped fascism in the 1930s and has, whatever anyone may tell you, avoided extremes of governments. Although the Thatcher government seems to have been located on the extremity of British politics, its driven ideology has, until the last two weeks, become the norm. From 1979 until 2008 the centre of British politics shifted so that monetarist, decentralised, deregulated economics has been the accepted way for the economy to be run. Want to do it differently? Look at the States where anyone who disagrees with this philosophy is automatically a dangerous liberal or even a socialist (although let's face, those are tags used without any understanding of what they actually mean).
What would it take for our system to collapse? A sustained economic crisis perhaps? A collapse in faith in politicians? A charismatic figure to draw attention away from the issues and create folk devils to feed on an irrational hatred? Well, two out of the three are in place. Thank god for the lack of charisma in this country.
But who might these folk devils be? Well, Facebook groups suggesting that if people don't like it they should return home, do not help. Even if some of the comments may be attempts at humour, these groups do more damage than the Daily Mail ever could. By normalising these opinions it becomes easier for them to be expressed publicly in a manner which can become accepted.
The underlying current is that someone must be blamed. We are not conditioned to be able to challenge those who may actually be responsible. We ought to be attacking the monsters who have deregulated everything. We ought to be attacking upwards. As usual we are attacking downwards.
So, it couldn't happen here could it?

Love knows no boundaries

Love overcomes all barriers. Apparently. That includes the Home Office Border Agency.

There was a time when obtaining permission to get married meant appeasing parents.

More recently it alluded to convincing priests that you really had been going to church all this time, not just at Christmas and Easter if at all. Now getting a certificate of approval is required for all non-British people who dare to marry someone from these shores.

There will be those who say that it will stop marriages of convenience. But charging £295 and requiring a couple of photographs is hardly the way to do it. It’s not a measure to stop illegal immigration; it’s a method of raising revenue. Just like the £500 it cost for Diana’s Leave to Remain (and the £500 is cost last year too). Now doubt, once we’re married Diana’s visa will need to be altered to reflect her right to remain here indefinitely. That’s the big one at £795.

Marriage will not get Diana her ‘indefinite leave to remain straight away’. Marriage will give Diana another two years on her visa. After a further two years she will get resident status.

There are many conflicts here. First is the desire amongst our politicians to promote the family as the means of fixing an apparently broken society. Second is the desire amongst our politicians to promote strict immigration controls as a means of preventing our society becoming ever more broken. Third comes the promise to keep taxes low, direct income tax that is. Well, taxing foreigners who want to come here, or who are already here is hardly going to be unpopular as it helps to reinforce the fears stoked by numbers one and two.

And so marriage becomes a political football. Except for those involved. So, for those invited, forgive us if we don’t have a brass band at our wedding in October 2009, if we try and pass off the wedding cake as dessert or if we don’t have the finest champagne. Just remember the £1100 we’ve had to pay the government and enjoy the party we have managed to put on.

No news might actually be good news

Pre-season. Ah the joy of a few brief football free hours. David Mitchell wrote in the Guardian about the pain of constant media focus on football in the summer and he's right, although not funny which is, after all what he's there for.
For Crystal Palace fans, it has been a pre-season of unrelenting gloom. Players leaving. Players not coming back. Chairman leaving.
None of which individually bother me other than the probable departure of Ben Watson. It's just that taken together, it spells another mediocre season where the focus is on anything other than football.
My enthusiasm is slightly tweaked though by an email from an American here in London. He's got friends coming over in September and wants to know if the Palace Swansea game was likely to sell out. Not at £30 a ticket. I'll break the cost to him nearer the time.

You make me brave

I'm sure there are cliches that go here. I'm sure that the first year is the hardest. I'm certain there are millions of people worse off than myself, whose pain is greater and constant, whose lives are masked by pain, poverty and hunger, humiliation and exploitation, disease and despair. It doesn't mean I can't feel loss and be affected by it on a daily basis. The suffering of others should never prevent you from
This Thursday is dad's birthday. I used to feel embarrassed that he would take flowers or wine to his mother on his late father's birthday or their anniversary. I felt certain that she would be over it or that she wouldn't want to be reminded of his absence.
And as I approach what would be his birthday, the first since he died I am drawn to follow his lead. And I see that it is what I have to do. Not just to help mum with her pain but to get help with my own.

That was the river

There are certain things I know now:

• I know that when you try to make conversation with the butcher and he says, "Like I said, sir..." then you should just be grateful that you have a butcher you can go to. But don't expect him to be grateful that you're grateful
• A conservatory is fine in the heat but it's even better when it's raining
• You shouldn't really mention having a conservatory
  
• Sometimes you have do a bad thing to appreciate all that is good
• There are green parrots in the wild in Twickenham. I suspect they're following me. I used to see them in Greenwich Park. They may not, of course, be the same ones
• Bristol is a nice city. I'm going back there soon
• Radiohead didn't deliberately become avant-garde and obscure. They just forgot how to write songs
• I'm not celebrating England's win over New Zealand. It felt like a low quality game between two low quality teams. A win only confirms that Michael Vaughan is a great captain. Michael Vaughan is not a great captain.. Ok, he might be quite good but he's such an arse. His interviews are limp cliches held together but simplistic, political analysis designed to promote the self than express honest emotions
• Spot the odd one out in this picture (clue: the answer is Michael Vaughan)

• Why is he the odd one out? Well, much like his interview technique, he's trying to be something he's not. He wants to look tough. He actually looks camp. Very, very camp
• It doesn't matter what I think
• It doesn't matter what anyone thinks
• Strangers are often the people who help you to see more clearly
• These days I only write in order to avoid writing. It would be nice to think that this essay really might write itself. Somehow I doubt it
  

Five months on

Diana and I took mum out for lunch. There was an empty chair. It still hurts like hell.

Never Again. Never Ever Ever Ever Ever. Until Next Year

New Year's Eve on a plane. All bonhomie, champagne and good wishes? Not a hope in a million. Instead, it's blinds down, lights out and not even the merest sniff of an announcement. So this year I celebrated New Year (GMT) at 17:00 on a bus between the car rental office and Phoenix Airport (they call it a Sky Harbor, I wont be doing such a thing). I celebrated New Year (actual) twenty minutes late and somewhere over Ohio.
That said, it's more than I'd usually do. Celebrating and New Year aren't things I'd normally put together. I'd be more inclined to celebrate if it took an effort to move the clock forward but as time moves on regardless it hardly seems like it's done anything to deserve my praise.

New Rules For Monday

Learn about business in sport. Quickly.
Avoid all HMV/Virgin type record shops.
Avoid all independent record shops too.
All participants in property programmes should be forced to buy a property by the end of the show. Unless they're selling, in which case the production company should hand over the cheque if their advice has not lead to a sale.

For reasons I wont explain because it's far too nauseating, I was in a Virgin Megastore (sic) on Saturday, somewhere in a mall in Kent. It was one of the more depressing moments in my life so far. Not because I was in a Virgin Megastore on a Saturday afternoon somewhere inside a ghastly mall in Kent which is depressing enough. It had more to do with with the quick trawl of the album section (rock and pop). With my little eye I spied a large number of records I currently own, have owned and dispensed with or have downloaded. The remainder of the CDs on display were ones I have absolutely no interest in owning or by bands I have heard of but sound vaguely reminiscent of something I already own.

There are no CDs I want anymore. My music buying life seems to be over (unless I suddenly take an interest in Country or Hip Hop and that's fairly unlikely to happen). That may not be such a bad thing.

As for business in sport, well lets simply say that's a flight of fancy. I'll probably stick to reading David Conn in the Guardian. It's a lot easier when someone does the footwork for you.

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.