...ruffles...

A good World Cup, not a great World Cup. Beautifully staged, fantastic stadia full to the brim, omnipresent sun, a pleasant way of spending a summer's evening after work. But then, so is Big Brother.



So why wasn't it great? In part, it's circumstance of the the modern era that even the most ardent fan has enough football on TV to satisfy their needs. Wall-to-wall-to-wall live football means that it's no longer a treat to see the games. Once upon a time live football was a novelty, from overseas was a positive curiosity. Now it's all a bit too familiar. All but a handful of the squads had players who play or have played in the Premiership and the even those who don't have players familiar from the Champions League, Spanish and Italian football. Very few players emerge at a World Cup. Once upon a time a Brazilian would arrive at a World Cup having played in his domestic league, he may be picked up by a bigger European club, but the gateway was the tournament. Now players outside Europe barely play in their home country, picked up before they get a chance by the hugely efficient scouting systems of the top European clubs. 



Overall, however, there's been no narrative. Every great World Cup has a narrative. The emerging nations failed to compete like they did in 2002, the hosts didn't fulfil their destiny like France in 1998, England failed predictably unlike 1990, Ronaldihno didn't turn up to complete the Holy Trinity of footballing greats joining Maradona's beatification in 1986 and Pele's in 1970. There have been great goals and moments of great skill, but no truly great games, like the 1982 France vs Germany semi-final. 



The rebirth of Zidane flickered briefly against Brazil with a thrilling performance of panache, but then age got the better of him and he was subdued against Portugal before going completely mad in the final. Italy's corruption backdrop, a mirror image of 1982, is a story, but, ironically, it's like the remake of The Italian Job - it may be well made and visually spectacular, but in the end it still stars the lead singer of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. Perhaps above all, this was the World Cup England were supposed to win, the nation was no longer enthralled by its betters, or charmed by those lower down the order. The country had a purpose, to efficiently dispose of all that came their way and win the cup. Perhaps next time we need to set our sights a little lower, and allow ourselves to be surprised about what's given to us.

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Labels: Football

When seeing The Mode at the Wireless Festival a couple of weeks ago, we came across the UK Garrison, a small outposting of Stormtroopers redundant from the occupation of the whole damn galaxy (c'mon Mr Bush, get in the game, you nobody unless you own the whole galaxy).

Stormtroopers, sinister anonymous androids with the ice cold glare of a mechanised man-fly. Devoid of emotion and cold and calculated whether patrolling the wretched hive of scum and villainy at Mos Eisley Spaceport or buggering womp rats out of sexual boredom whilst marshalling the supply line down the Kessel run. It's some fall from grace to have been stationed in the UK with a PR/peacekeeping brief, how they must lament, whilst manning little recruitment booths at six form colleges in Essex, that it's not like the old days of the Empire when they indulged in an endless orgy of violence all on expenses.

We resisted the temptation to wave two fingers in front of them saying 'these aren't the droids you're looking for'. Whilst they may not have been the actual 'Troopers to have been duped by the simple Jedi mind trick, the shame that it has brought on the good name of the Empire's finest must still smart today. That, and they'd probably heard it every hour on the hour for the five days of the festival.

We looked on, watching people having their pictures taken on their knees with the hands behind their back in a kind of Guantanamo Bay chic. The Stormtroopers posed for photos pointing their blasters at the craniums of the bowed, giggly, mildly inebriated festival habitue. How the temptation to engage in a little 'weapons malfunction' must have eaten away at them. These guys were running the galaxy, now they were turning tricks for buttons in some obscure outpost.

At least the Stormtroopers' fall from grace is shielded by their anonymity (read the FAQ's on their website, it's an enclosed netherworld, you can't join them, you get invited - presumably only if you can prove you are a clone of Jango Fett and pay your subs on time). Whilst it is easy to mock, you do know that there are millions more where they came from. Unlike Darth Vader, who is so iconic and whose story is so well known, that he is a mere parody of his original being. He was the Dark Lord of the Empire, a shadow across the galaxy, distanced from every individual yet capable of ordering their destruction with a nod. Now, there he was, stripped of his dignity, wandering around trying to get the attention of portly men in Nine Inch Nails t-shirts. There was a time when he would have ordered the destruction of whole planets for wearing aged industrial rock merchandise. It was like seeing David Beckham driving a taxi.

I may be wrong but I'm sure I heard him slurring to one disinterested punter that he'd 'had that Skywalker in the detention centre of his imperial cruiser last week'.

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Labels: Music

The bunion, the scar of women's battle for equality, the Blahnik and Choo, the spoils. Womenfolk place a lot of importance in their shoes. They're a celebration of sexuality, choice and independent wealth. A pair of women's shoes is an episode of Sex And The City distilled into footwear. Eclecticism, achievement, vivaciousness, cocktails and lunch.

Whilst the battle for gender equality has been a fierce one, women's shoes are also a place for the genders to meet. The passionate fixation of a woman on her shoe collection remains baffling, yet above all they openly recognise men as a component that is both required and sometimes desired. It is the terms and conditions that have changed.

Psychologists say that one of the reasons a pair of heals is deemed sexually attractive is because the shape of the shoe, and the angle of elevation offered by the heal make the toe look like a furry front bum. Shoes say, look at my fanny, but you're not actually going to get to look at my fanny unless I say so. Oh, and stop looking at my tits and keep your eyes on the floor, damn you.

The sexual subtext of the shoe is a deep and layered. You know, therefore, you're in the wrong party when one of the first things you hear is "Ooh Margaret those sandals look comfortable".

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Labels: General me

OK, I can't let it pass without comment.

The familiar pattern of England's exit from the World Cup on Saturday left me rather cold. There was a time when I would have got excited by the tournament. The squad recognised that the Quarter Finals no longer represent success, their interest was the final. For me also, only achieving something beyond the quarter finals would have raised the excitement levels.

And so to the aftermath. Was Eriksson overpaid? His agent, as agents always do, stresses that he was paid market rate. So if the buyer is willing to pay £4million a year for something, then it's not unreasonable to accept it. It would be unfair to blame Svennis for taking the money, but the FA ought to take a look at themselves for offering it. Argentina's coach was paid £100,000 a year. This recognised the facilitator role of a national coach; they can only work, for very short periods, with the product they are given. The national coach should be paid a premium for the pressure, but that's it. Seb Coe cited Jack Charlton's philosophy with the Republic of Ireland; choose the system, pick the team, practice set pieces, rest a lot, then let the players get on with it. The national coach's role is not to improve players, but to simply choose the best 11.

The billion pound Premiership machine has produced a slew of quality players coached to the highest possible standard. Sven needed to marshal this glut of choice, and resist the rampant media. The first choice eleven was self selecting. Take the Beckham versus Lennon debate. Lennon has just begun to emerge as a talent, Beckham, though not having the pace, has years of success behind him and contributed to 50% of England's goals. Using Lennon as a replacement for Beckham to chase a game, or stretch the opponents is a good one. But Beckham, though not as influential as he used to be, remained the obvious starter. That said, I hope he will retire from international football now, it would be a shame to watch him be dropped and remembered as a has-been.

Eriksson had precious few decisions to make, but the one key one, was wrong. To take only four strikers; two injured, one teenager and an acquired taste was a key error. Owen's injury against Sweden meant that Rooney had to play on his own. This was frustrating and exhausting, leading in part to his sending off against Portugal. Had he taken Defoe in place of the unused Jenas then there was a ready made replacement for Owen, the system didn't need have changed, the players could have got on with playing rather than trying to re-learn the pattern of the team. I'm not saying that England would have won the World Cup, but the over-complication certainly contributed to failure.

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Labels: Football

It's a bloggers bind; you have to have a life in order to blog but if you have a life there's no time to blog. Routine does not a good blog make, but routine is what I currently have. I've spent three years at work developing a department that functions so well we literally get to the end of the day having no idea what else to do... we're a bit like that now, Big Brother and the World Cup are a ubiquitous presence on the TV, even Millie has settled into a routine. I went to the O2 Wireless Festival to see Depeche Mode last week, and the week before we went to see Gifford's Circus. Great though both were, we knew what to expect, because we've been to both before.

It's not that I feel in any way restricted by the routine, on a meta-level there are many non-routine things happening, but you don't want to know that Millie has developed a phase 2 sleeping pattern at night that's different to the phase 1. As perfect as she is, I know you're not going to be as interested as I am.

The most routine of all is the gym. For a year now I've been going regularly in the morning. Up at 6.30, on the bike at 6.45, forty-five minutes and I'm out again, in the winter I'm sixth in, in the summer I'm 12th. I started going five times a week, but that's dropped to three. I'm a stone and a half lighter and people are starting to notice. Women in gyms are made up of two types; those who pull their trousers up after they get off a machine, and those who pull them down. The former are there to work out, tone up and burn calories, the latter feel the gym is an extension of their Heat inspired image, they buy the latest sexy skimpy gym-wear, including the low slung trackies that reveal their 'just above bum crack' tattoo and then use each machine on the lowest level for about 45 seconds each abandoning them when they feel an minor ache. When they've finished they leave swigging on bottled water dabbing the sweat off their forehead.

The 6.30am crowd is made up wholly of the former. Serious gym-bunnies. We're all acquainted in an eye-brow raising, half smile kind of way. Those who do the Spin class on Wednesday and Friday seem to talk to each other, everyone else just gets on with what they're their to do. I, being I, now know everyone only by what I've observed. So, in an occasional series, for this read, will get bored and/or forget about it before long, let me introduce you to some of the people from the gym:

Miriam T - can be quite abrupt and rude, especially when people leave the doors open rendering the air conditioning useless. She once commented that I'd really started looking good since coming down the gym. I said I'd lost over a stone, to which she replied 'Wish I could': I wasn't sure whether to give her a hollow reciprocal compliment or to laugh weakly. I did the latter. Actually, I don't think her name is Miriam T at all, it's a name on the signing in list, but I think that might be another women who gets in early. Miriam T will always be Miriam T to me.

The Kid From Fame - The Kid from Fame has a dizzying array of elaborate 80's-chic gym-wear. Cropped lycra tops under a t-shirt made of netting, three quarter length leggings and matching trainers is not unusual. The trainers change with the outfit. Serious about working out, serious about what she looks like when working out.

Tumble Turns - You can tell which of Tumble Turns' many routines she's going to do the moment she walks in the gym. Cycling shorts and she'll be on the bike for ages; running shorts and you know she'll be running. One morning I saw her head for the pool, which the gym overlooks. I couldn't see her in the pool until I worked out that the women powering up and down in a Speedo swimming hat, googles and doing tumble turns was, indeed, Tumble Turns.

The Robot - The robot is a woman who has been put together by a computer calculating the perfect female form. She's 5ft 6", slim, with pert breasts and a round, though not fatty bottom. She has long silky hair, white teeth and a symmetrical face. Her gym kit is subtly colour co-ordinated and fits perfectly without creases. There are no bulges anywhere. However like Laura Croft in Tomb Raider, she doesn't seem real enough to be attractive. She's being gently wooed by the Sales Rep, a man who looks like a sales rep. His tactics so far include writing 'nice bum' on the signing in sheet next to her name, and turning her running machine up whilst she's on it. It's horrible to watch.

Moby - Short and bald, probably not a sexually ambiguous Christian, vegan, techno rock behemoth. Not that it stops me thinking he is.

There are more, lots more...

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Labels: General me

At work we've got a World Cup prediction league going on. After a good first week, I've had a pretty poor run of form and I'm now lying second behind our work placement student who takes whole days off to get ready for England games. I had England v Sweden down as a 1-1 draw. Which is a good thing given that everyone else seems to have England down as winning every game 5-0. So, with nothing in the real world to really play for in the game, my interest was more in gaining some prediction league points...

England score, 1-0 - YES
Sweden equalise, 1-1 - YES
England score again, 2-1 - BOO
Sweden equalise - YES

I'm so confused.

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Labels: Football

I needed some t-shirts, not that this is something you generally needed to know, but it is the reason we went shopping. There hasn't been many tears as a result of losing a stone and a half down the gym in the last year, but there has been a shedload of sweat. My endeavours coupled with particularly unsympathetic washing detergent, has trashed many good and worthy t-shirts. The favourable weather in these parts meant that they needed replacing.

It wasn't the first time we'd gone out with Millie, but due to the heat it was pretty much the first time she could easily be seen in public from her pushchair. As we walked along people (women mostly) would turn and look, nudge their friends and saying 'Ooh look tiny baby'. As she's still pretty small, Millie looks like a brand new born baby, but she has the slightly more controlled demeanour of a six week old, where there for short periods at least, she coos sweetly looking like the most perfect baby in the world... which she is, of course.

When she did cry I took her out of the pram and carried her on my shoulder (a sure fire winner, although I do worry it only stops her crying because it restricts her breathing). As we walked along I began to sense particularly ethereal, barely audible, 'aahhs' from people. Women would tried to catch my eye, but I'm not best at engaging with strangers so I became increasingly conscious of my surrounds. it was like a rather cutesy version of the Blair Witch Project, where you could just about hear voices in the middle distance without ever actually working out which direction they came from.

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Labels: Babies

In China, people will tell you, women will give birth in the middle of a paddy field, sling the baby on their back and carry on working. In Britain the support received is somewhat more thorough. Once pregnant, the mother is assigned a community midwife. This is not necessarily the person who will actually deliver your baby, Emma had three additional midwives during her labour, plus a number of others who appeared and disappeared, and doctors, and anaesthetists, and other people. Then there's the post natal midwives who look after mother and baby. Once out of hospital you resume a brief relationship with the community midwife before being handed over to a health visitor.

The health visitor is part nurse, part social worker. A woman with no portfolio; which is probably why she's so keen to create one. The role is less than clear, she seems to have an array of surgeries, groups and meetings, none of which require pre-booking or an appointment, none of which is compulsory. From speaking to others, they're aim is to be as prescriptive and reactive as possible, scaring and stressing out new mothers at every opportunity. The advice they give is always retrospective and generally inconsistent. Emma's health visitor is full of nervous energy, when she first came over we told her that Millie was pretty much sleeping through the night. "EXCELLENT ARE YOU CALM PEOPLE BECAUSE GENERALLY CALM PEOPLE HAVE CALM BABIES ITS GODD TO BE CALM ISN'T IT, I LIKE CALMNESS, IT'S GOOD, BEING CALM, THAT IS". We were calm people until she walked through the door.

She wanted Emma to attend her post-natal classes held at a surgery a couple of miles away. This is despite the fact Emma already goes to a post-natal group and couldn't drive because of the caesarean. The reason given, breathlessly, was that the children that go are the ones Millie will be going to school with. I've just checked the calendar and Millie is 5 weeks old... school doesn't start for another 1,800 days. Feeling that she should at least try to attend, Emma spent the week trying to work out the logistics. She couldn't do it and had to tell the health visitor at the following week's meeting, the health worker, completely contradicting herself, replied "Oh no, I hadn't expected you to come".

Generally speaking Millie's is doing really well. She's alert, she's contented and sleeps well. We're in the rare position of actually enjoying having a new born baby (as opposed to coping with the culture shock on no sleep). What's more, Emma's feeling pretty good after the caesarean and is recovering well. The only issue is that having thrived in the first week, Millie's been losing a bit of weight, this is obviously something that needs reversing. After each weigh-in the health visitor presents a different pearl of wisdom. Looked at in one perspective, Milie has lost 3 ounces in a week, from another she's gained 5.5 in four weeks (or 5% of her birthweight). Not perfect, but not yet a crisis. When her weight did drop a little, the health worker said Emma shouldn't 'go home and cry about it'. She wasn't planning to, but it did get her pondering whether there was actually something serious going on, something to cry about.

If Emma was to take it all on board she would be eating six times a day, doing nothing and waking up Millie in the middle of the night to feed. Given that waking Millie up for a feed is a fool's errand (she just lolls around utterly uninterested) the net result of taking this advice on board will be to make Emma bloated, lethargic and tired. This, along with the fact it is Emma who has to visit the clinic, it makes the term 'health visitor' something of an anomaly.

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Labels: Babies

As Simon, Islay and I sat watched the first half of the Sweden versus Trinidad and Tobago game we lightly joked about which stereotypes the commentators would trawl to describe the West Indian debutantes. Simon searched for his answer having dismissed that it was the African's that would be labelled 'defensively naive'.

We concluded, well Islay mostly who claimed to have gleaned much from her mother, that comments would be about the colour they would bring to to the tournament, the constant partying of the fans who and above all, their nice smiles.

Indeed all three were insinuated throughout the game, but we hadn't banked on 'the Trinidad and Tobago players should really be wearing flip flops', that the game would have been fairer 'if it had been half a game of football and half a game of cricket' and that their time wasting was just 'them playing at Caribbean pace'.

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Labels: Football

Has hit, hasn't it? We've had a sweepstake at work (I got Croatia and Portugal), the whole thing caused an inordinate amount of excitement, particularly amongst the people whose knowledge extends to knowing that Wayne Rooney plays for Manchester Rovers.

Now, I don't wear novelty Christmas ties to work and I've never been one to dress thematically. A trip round Tesco on the Saturday morning of an England game will tell you that many people do. Lots of people must wake up in the morning and think 'Ooh, England game today, where's my England t-shirt'.

I can just about understand the psychology behind wearing an official England shirt, there's something in the assimilation to affluent, young, fit and celebrated individuals. A vintage England shirt, displays something similar, but a 1966 shirt suggests a deeper, historical appreciation for the game. But what does a generic loosely themed red and white England T-shirt with a number 7 on it say? 'Yes, I want to be assimilated to the affluent, young, fit and celebrated, but I'm clearly none of these and so to accentuate this fact, here's a £6 t-shirt from Asda to prove it.

And what does this fashion for flags on the sides of cars, communicate? Given that they're England flags in England and they only come out during the football it surely says 'I'm English, and I'm going to watch the football on the telly later'. Mindblowing.

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Labels: Football

I know what you're thinking. What was playing on Ruffles' new iPod whilst he made the dinner last night? Playing on shuffle and drawing from the 6827 songs on it, it came up with...

No for the 13th Time - The Wonder Stuff

Bruce Lee - Underworld

Mobeus - Orbital

Mercy in You - Depeche Mode

Hallelujah (Deadstock Mix) - Happy Mondays

Born to be a Dancer - Kaiser Chiefs

Rockin' It - Deejay Punk Roc

Sitting up Straight - Supergrass

Intro - Nas

And me - Beastie Boys

Izzy Izzy Ahh - Missy Elliot

Hit the Hi-Tech Groove - Pop Will Eat Itself

Potion - Ludacris

Highlight of the week on Big Brother has to have been the argument between Sezer and muscle queen Richard. Well not so much the argument but the aftermath. Tourette-y Celebrity Pete took responsibility to comfort Richard in the garden acknowledging that the pervasive bitching was what fuelled the blow-up.

"They're all a bunch of WANKERS" he said, his infliction attacking him once again... "Ooh, for one my tourettes has context." he concluded with pride.

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Labels: Music

Football is a wonderful wonderful game. It is, check out this site. Those who don't follow it should separate the business from the game itself. Its easy to play and understand; difficult to master. It's the same whether you're playing it in the street or at Old Trafford. It has no certainties and offers excitement, drama, boredom, despair and elation, sometimes all in the same game. It gives its fans focus and structure. This World Cup will see a team from Angola, where life expectancy averages 36, and Japan; life expectancy 81, playing on the same stage. It promotes racial, religious and political harmony; Iran and the USA will both be there. If they meet, like they did in France 98 (Iran won), nobody will die.

However, its not without its problems; the growing plague of celebrity football, for example. It enjoys a ridiculous media profile nowadays. It started years ago with Soccer Six, a tournament where teams from Blur and Oasis played against each other at the height of their Britpop battle. This year SKY dedicated a 6 hour telethon to it, despite there being no celebrities on it at all (the tournament included an Iranian celebrity team). Then there's SKY's summer schedule filler Masters Football, where its not unusual to hear things like "There's a goal from Willy Smith for the Motherwell Masters. Of course, he only played once from Motherwell reserves, he spent much of his career at Stenhousemuir reserves playing nearly nine times".

More recently, there's been The Match, where a team of celebrities train for a week to play a team of ex-internationals. This was followed by a charity re-run, sorry, walk through, of the 1986 Everton v Liverpool cup final. Liverpool won when John Durnin (a stalwart of all Liverpool Legends teams) scored after 89 soporific minutes. Durnin's legendary status being defined by his two League Cup appearances for Liverpool in the eighties scoring no goals.

The biggest of the lot was Saturday's Soccer Aid, teams of celebrities and ex-pros, lead by Robbie Williams and Gordon Ramsey, played in front of 70,000 at Old Trafford. Robbie's "England" team got to wear the full official England kit, like they were top professionals when surely they barely merit such an honour. Jonathan Wilkes, who is most famous for being Robbie's best mate (there's a site dedicated to him called Fansite for Jonathan Wilkes (aka Robbie WIlliams' flat mate), has a catalogue of showbiz career failures to his name and is now the closest thing you can get to a professional celebrity footballer.

The commentary, at one point, suggested that Wilkes had indeed been groomed to be exactly that in some kind of celebrity football academy. He had been a youth team player at Everton, where he played with the likes of Michael Ball. Although apparently, this was a rotund no-mark midfielder, not the bubble haired crooner your mum loves.

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Labels: Football

The composition of the Big Brother house follows a familiar pattern this year. Shahbaz was the fluffer, following a tradition that includes Kitten and Mary the Witch. They're not expected to last long, but they contain the requisite level of borderline insanity to kindle a fire of resentment in the house. Meanwhile, the motley assortment of over excited and sexually profligate act as the bellows to keep the fires burning. This allows the bevy of lad mad cannon fodder and boy candy to be the sausages cooked on the bar-b-que they create.

Presumably Channel 4 hadn't expected Shahbaz to move from charmingly bonkers to the early stages of a mental breakdown before his inevitable early exit. The frantic backtracking of Dermot O'Leary and Russell Brand whenever their guests put the words 'Shahbaz' and 'insanity' anywhere near each other suggests the channel are aware of the misjudgement they made when selecting him. Still, now he's out he seems to have steadied; albeit with a belief he has become some kind of Princess Diana figure.

There's little to admire in the house, which is how it should be. Nikki, who insists on over enunciating like a misfiring engine, can't drink tap water because it makes her 'PHYSically SicK' and is afflicted with being 'MIddle CLAss' although she was 'BOrn to have MOney'. She surely won't be tolerated simply because she has a nice bottom. Richard - 'Hi I'm a sexual terrorist' - no you're not you're a waiter - and the truly damaged Lea have styled themselves as a hideous house parents. The pre-requisites for this seem to be their age and experience, although few children would look for experience of 'hardcore pornography' and 'buggery' on any ideal parental check list.

The true mummy and daddy in the house are Imogen and Sezer, who in just over a week have settled into a pipe-and-slippers relationship without any problem. You suspect they will do little more than sit indoors worrying about the kids; the Chinese Jimmy Cranky, Lisa and Pete the 'Tourette-y Celebrity'. The long term aspirations of this duo will surely be curtailed due to the fact they're a bit of a novelty, thirteen weeks of 'WANKBOLLOCKSWHISTLE' will eventually erode any tolerance people will have for him and she's a, food fight/mis-directed vol-u-vent/argument/ejection, waiting to happen.

The evolution of the Mikey, Grace, George love triangle seems to have been born out of general boredom, although it's good to see how this has adversely affected Nikki, who is feeling generally left out because she doesn't have a house boyfriend, like Grace and Imogen, and has never been double penetrated on celluloid like Lea.

All of which leaves the door open to welsh speaking Glyn, who earlier in the week was chastised by Big Brother for 'speaking in code' after a chat in his native tongue with Imogen. This simpleton seems to have the winning formula, he's not offensive to anyone in the house and seems settled to simply sit back and enjoy the daftness around him, like everyone outside it.

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Labels: TV and radio

Some pearls of wisdom from the Midwife of Doom -

DOOOOM! - Her ex-husband once designed an educational leaflet about teenage pregnancy, when he presented his ethnically diverse designs they told him to take the Asian faces off because had only been one unplanned Asian teenage pregnancy in the Cardiff area in 40 years.

DOOOOM! - When she had a baby in Cardiff, she was moved to a ward for 'mature mothers'; she was 28, the average age of a Cardiff mother is 18.

DOOOOM! - Oxford has a terrible heroin problem.

DOOOOM! - If there'd been no intervention during Emma's labour she would simply laboured for days and then died,

DOOOOM! - and so would Millie

DOOOOM! - Level 7 at the John Radcliffe Hospital is where they take all the still born and deformed babies and the babies that have resulted in a maternal death.

DOOOOM! - In this country there area round 7 maternal deaths a year.

DOOOOM! - Maternal death is the biggest killer of young women in the world.

DOOOOM! - A popular celebrity London hospital is not popular with the truly posh because there maternal death rate is 'off the chart'... mainly because 80% of their births are 'too posh to push' caesarian births (national average 23%).

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Labels: Babies

Andy Gray was apoplectic about the pivotal moment in last night's Champions League final. Jens Lehmann's sending off, he said, ruined the game as a spectacle (though not, somewhat perplexingly, 'as a contest'). Richard Keys reinforced this by pointing out that people had spent a lot of money to watch the final (not least, one assumes, SKY themselves).

If football matches are simple 'spectacles' offering cast iron value for money why not make the goals bigger to guarantee goals. Or you could have a ball for each player - after all, who wants to see lumbering defenders hoof the ball into the stand when you've paid good money to see Ronaldinho's exquisite talents? Hell, why not get them to play the game behind closed doors then cut the best bits together; like a Nike advert.

If you didn't see the key moment; Barcelona's passing cut Arsenal to shreds, Samual Eto'o broke through, Lehmann came out and grabbed his ankle dragging him to the ground. The ball squirmed to Guily who slid it home. The referee chose to send Lehmann off and not award the goal because he'd already blown up for a foul. Technically there wasn't much wrong with the decision. The foul was clear and cynical, preventing a clear goal scoring chance. Once the offence was committed and the game was stopped. If anything, the referee was wrong not to send off Lehmann AND play the advantage therefore awarding the goal. In a sense Arsenal got away with it lightly.

Not in the eyes of Gray who managed to lose all sense and objectivity. When Eto'o slipped in to score the equaliser. Gray was adamant he was offside, firstly he wasn't, and secondly surely on borderline decisions like that you give the striker the benefit of the doubt... after all, you don't want to ruin the spectacle do you?

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Labels: Football

Woman standing up: "Have you eaten anything?"
Woman in a wheelchair: "I asked Nath to get me some Pot Noodle, 'e asked me what colour I wanted; i said brown and 'e got me red.... 'im and Naomi are going down the carvery today. S'pose they'd be finished by now."

As if to reinforce this, Emma overheard this as a woman had an internal examination:

Nurse: "Right, this could be a bit uncomfortable, so think of something nice."
Woman: "Oooh, MacDonalds."

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Labels: News

It was, for once, a classic Cup Final. The first Cup Final I remember was in 1978 when Ipswich beat Arsenal 1-0. Since then, of the 28 finals (and 5 replays) only a handful have fallen into the 'classic' category. This year's had everything; goals, near misses, lots of 'what could have beens' and a proper man of the match performance by Steven Gerrard. Oh, and cramp, lots of cramp. All great Cup Finals finish with the pitch looking like a particularly colourful interpretation of the Battle of the Somme. Yes, it was a very satisfying final indeed.

The Cup Final is the one game the super casual football fan will take time out to watch, after all, it is still the only domestic cup final that you can watch live without a SKY subscription. Unfortunately, this means it has become infested with the modern day phenomenon of ' celebrity communal singing'.

Presumably some marketing bod in a record company sees the Cup Final on the BBC as the single most valuable opportunity to present their stars of classical-light opera singing to a captured audience. Therefore, we get Michael Ball and Lesley Garret ladling their shrill talents all over the otherwise rousing FA Cup haka of Abide With Me. This is an corporate occupation of a national institution resulting from the increasing marketability of sexy, accessible, classical artistes such as Charlotte Church and Katherine Jenkins. With good promotion, a smile and a bit of cleavage (or nice hair, in Ball's case) there's good money to be made from selling your £9.97 'Emotions' CD from Tesco without disturbing the tawdry side issues of talent or originality; Jenkins, Church, Garret and Ball all have renditions of Ave Maria on their 'Best of' compilations.

I understand that a corporate marketing executive from EMI will pay a good few grand to the FA to get their man or woman pitchside for 3 minutes but I doubt anyone has been offered a Cup Final ticket and asked who's doing the pre-match sing-a-long before accepting. 70,000 emotionally charged football fans already singing themselves hoarse has, for many years, been quite enough to get the hairs on the back of the neck standing up thank you very much.

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Labels: Football

Thursday 4.00pm - Emma and I arrive at the John Radcliffe Hospital, Oxford for her scheduled induction.
4.45pm - With the delivery suite heaving nothing is happening. The midwife comes in to explain she will begin the process as soon as the delivery suite is clear.
6.00pm - Midwife explains that the delivery suite is still busy. We should go for a walk and come back at 8pm. We go an buy some chocolate from the nearby garage and watch some football in the park opposite the hospital.
8.00pm - Back at the hospital maternity suite is still busy. Shift changes, new midwife tells us she doesn't think anything will happen tonight.
9.30 - I go home.
Friday 5.00am - Emma sends a text to say that they are starting the induction. There's not likely to be any action for another six hours.
8.45am - I arrive, Emma asleep, nothing happening.
8.45am-6.00pm - A continuous cycle of blood pressure tests, monitoring the baby's heart and telling us that the delivery suite is still busy.
6.00pm - Finally the delivery suite is ready, we pack all our stuff and head down.
6.45 - Midwife applies second dose of gel to get some progress. Emma immediately starts to feel uncomfortable.
6.45-1.00am Saturday: During the next six hours discomfort increases, we walk up and down the corridor, slowly. Eventually Emma can only lie on the bed breathing slowly to 'ride' the contractions.
1.00am - Midwife attempts to break Emma's waters, she can't so she calls in the doctor, he's more brutal and 'thinks' he's done it.
2.00am Emma is permanently laid out on her side strapped to a heart monitor. Midwife suggests that it may be wise to introduce an epidural.
3.00am - Anaesthetist arrives to apply the epidural and the pain begins to subside. A drip is put in Emma's hand; this is designed to increase the contractions to progress the labour.
3.00am-5.00am - Emma continues to have contractions, continues to lie on the bed.
5.30am - Baby's heartbeat begins to drop, two more midwives appear. Emma takes a puff of Ventolin; an inhaler often used by hayfever and asthma sufferers. The baby's heartbeat starts to steady. The dose being administered by the drip is reduced and a heart monitor is attached to the top of the babies head so they can get an accurate reading.
5.40am - Doctor appears and suggests that a caesarian section may be the only option. As the baby's heartbeat is steady, there's no hurry, so we wait.
7.30am - Emma is exhausted, we decide to go for the caesarian. There's one other woman in the queue (they've done 5 c-sections during that shift alone). A new shift is on in about an hour. We'll wait.
8.30am - After phoning home I come back in the delivery suite. The baby's heart beat has dropped and then falls off the chart. More midwives appear, and doctors. They decide to open a second operating theatre rather than wait. The wires and tubes are unplugged and Emma is wheeled out the door. I'm on my own packing our bags and waiting for a porter.
9.00am - A midwife appears, baby is OK, she begins packing up the room.
9.30am - The porter arrives and escorts me into the theatre, Emma is waiting, happy and relaxed. everyone introduces themselves. They are friendly and chatty. Joking about how it's like Holby City. The anaesthetist turns the blips on the heart monitoring machine, to make it 'sound more authentic'.
9.47am - After a few tugs and shunts Amelia Winifred, Millie, is born... the team shout 'IT'S A BOY!.. no, hang on... IT'S A GIRL!".
10.00am - Emma is sewn up, photos are taken and everyone is brilliant. I'm escorted back to the delivery room to take the bags to the Observation Ward where Emma and Millie will stay for the next day or so.
10.15am - Emma is back, looking great and beyond happy. Millie is quiet and contented trying to have a feed. She's not doing too badly for a half-hour old baby.
10.15am-12.30pm Text messages are sent, phone calls are made, Emma's mum and my mum arrive then they have to go because Emma can't have visitors. Emma suggests I go to the football.
12.45pm - Emma's sister texts wanting to visit. After lots of umming and erring we decided to ask her to bring my season ticket so i can go to the game.
2.00pm - Emma's sister arrives and I go to the football.
3.05pm - I arrive just after kick-off on the way I hit something and take my wing mirror off. I might be tired. Oxford need to win to stay in the football league, Leyton Orient, their opponents, need to win to go up. It's a sell out and the atmosphere like a bear pit. There are people sitting on the fence at the open end of the ground and people standing in the aisles of the stand.
3.07pm - Orient are fluid and quick, Oxford huff and puff. After a swift exchange of passes Lee Steele, former Oxford striker, hits the post for Orient. Steele is brilliant throughout; it's clear he'll have a say in the outcome of the day one way or another.
3.14pm - Against the run of play Eric Saban, Oxford striker, scuffs a shot into the corner, 1-0, Oxford are staying up.
3.17pm - Orient attack, a cross from the right to the back post is headed back towards goal. Oxford's goalie can't keep the ball from going over the line. 1-1, Oxford are going down.
4.03pm - Orient striker, Gary Alexander, chips in for 1-2, now Oxford really are going down.
4.05pm - Oxford scramble an equaliser, 2-2, another and we'll be staying up.
4.40pm - Chris Wilmott lashes out waiting for a free and is sent off.
4.50pm - With both teams appearing to play with 5 up front, Lee Steele, a menace throughout the game slots home Orient's third. The Orient bench streak onto the pitch. Their 4,000 fans go ballistic.
4.52pm - Final whistle; Oxford 2 Leyton Orient 3; Oxford are relegated to the Conference and Orient are promoted. I walk out of the ground, I'm not interested in watching the Orient celebrations. Certainly not interested in the lap of honour some Oxford fans think their players deserve.
5.00pm - Nobby phones and rants about the referee and linesman. Some of it I agree with, some I don't. At the end of the day, crap football probably deserves crap refereeing.
5.00pm-5.40pm - Drive home. Listening to the radio the commentators are saying that fans need time to 'collect their thoughts' and 'reflect on what's happened'. It's like someone has died. Given my day, this is all a bit bemusing. Nobby comes on the phone-in repeating his views about the referee. He's cut off moments before he gives a shout out to Millie so they can interview the Oxford manager.
5.45pm - Get home. Watch telly. Have bath. Watch more telly.
8.00pm - Phone for a curry, not sure I really want it, but I should eat. It'll be 25 minutes. Catch opening scene of Friends, fall asleep.
8.40pm - Wake up, realise that I'm fifteen minutes late for collecting my curry. Go and get it. Eat it. Watch some of Match of the Day. Fall asleep. Wake up as Match of the Day finishes. Go to bed.

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Labels: Babies, Football

For the second time in six months my Powerbook has had to go in for repair. This time the backlight has stopped working making the screen too dark to see.

As before I phoned the Apple helpline and was instantly transported to a call centre somewhere in the world. I find being consumed by global corporations disconcerting. Its not natural to phone a helpdesk in California, talk to someone, then ring back five minutes later to continue the exact same conversation with someone completely different in Mumbai. This is magnified further by the fact it’s Apple, who are little short of a religious cult in computing terms.

Last time I chose to send the Powerbook off for repair; within what felt like minutes a man from UPS with a Powerbook sized box appeared on the doorstep and took it away. Days later it reappeared all fixed. In between I watched its progress via Apple’s repair tracking service online.

Brilliant though the process was, I found the experience quite troubling. It was too slick an inhuman.

This time I talked to Priya, who then helpfully sent me emails I couldn’t properly see (because my backlight isn’t working) these explained what we’d been doing. She was later joined by ‘David’ a product specialist who didn’t speak. Instead, Priya ended every sentence with “David agrees”. I wondered whether David was really there, or whether they can achieve greater credibility amongst middle Americans if every “foriegner” is supported by someone resolutely Christian.

Priya: “How can I help you today?”
Me: “When I turn on my computer the back light flickers, then it goes off so I can’t see the screen anymore.”
P: “OK, can you do a hardware test.”
Me: “I would, but I can’t see the pointer on the screen to move it to start the test”
P: “OK, let’s recap, you have a flickering screen problem, a backlight problem, and no pointer.”
Me: “There all part of the same problem, there’s no problem with the pointer, it’s just I can’t see the screen properly because the backlights not working.”
P: “David believes you have a hardware problem, but we haven’t isolated the pointer problem.”

I was tempted to throw in a few random words to see if Priya would process them.

"Yes and when I check my email I can't CHICKEN IN WELLINGTON BOOTS when I then hit send"
"Let me recap, you have a back light problem, a flickering screen, no pointer and a chicken in wellington boots?"
"Yes."
"We haven't isolated the chicken in wellington boots"
"Surely that's the easiest bit; Chickens can't go very fast in wellington boots"

Eventually David concluded, and then told Priya who then told me that the PowerBook should come in for repair. I chose the option to use one of their local service centres (basically a computer shop with a licence to fix Apple products). I phoned one in High Wycombe, there was no answer, as it was a bank holiday I wasn’t surprised, in fact I was rather comforted by the poor service.

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Labels: Technology

This week we will have a baby; this will change our lives forever. Everything will tilt on its axis, and I will be responsible for keeping a little person alive.

Next weekend if Oxford win at home to Leyton Orient we stay up. If we don't we are no longer a football league team. An Oxford win would mean we'd have 52 points. Then the loser of the Notts County Vs Bury game will go down; if it's a draw then Notts County go down because of their inferior goal difference. That's if Stockport, Barnet, Torquay and Macclesfield don't go lose and Notts get at least a point. Then one of that quartet will go down, probably Stockport, unless they win in which any of the other three will have to look over their shoulders nervously. For Oxford its simple, we just have to win. They're at home, and they're playing Leyton Orient. If Orient win they will be promoted. This makes them a. good and b. determined. Expecting a win is a big assumption, but at least its simple.

It's not the thought of Oxford slipping into the black hole of the Conference that concerns me. Many teams come back to the football league rejuvenated, and Oxford have a good set up so I wouldn't expect the stay to be that long (that's not to say we'll walk it next season, though that may be the assumption). It may be an opportunity to refresh things. The Conference is mostly professional and not that different to League 2. Its the tour of ignominy and humiliation that we will undertake if we drop down; playing Canvey Island, competing in the FA Trophy and qualifying for the FA Cup. For now, the humiliation isn't a factor, we know we've been rubbish, we've been through defeat after defeat; other fans telling us this doesn't register. Now we've set up this cup final scenario its exciting and I'm looking forward to it.

Now, I know the two events aren't comparable, but I've never had a baby and I've watched Oxford since I was three. This makes them both significant. I know where my priorities lie, should the baby start to come on Friday or Saturday, I know I'll be at the hospital not on in my seat at the Kassam. I know there will be those out there who are not interested in babies or football and who will read this in bewilderment. All I can say is that the timing is terrible and its building up a lot of nervous tension.

Not much is happening at work, thank god, because it's going to be quite a week.

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Labels: Football

Mining to the bottom of Emma's mum's daftness is a thankless and endless task, but it may be worth dedicating a whole website to it, if I wasn't dedicating a whole website to me that is. Aside from announcing that the cat has leukaemia and identifying my iPod as a baby monitor much of her time is spent letter writing. Usually this involves writing to Marks and Spencer to complain about how their pleated skirts are not navy but dark blue. She once wrote to the Times in response to an article about Eddie Stobart trucks to say she preferred Nobert Dentressangle. She even wrote to the head of a large charity to complain that the gold medals given to the best fundraisers was a misappropriation of charitable funds, the head of the charity being the Queen.

She reads This England; 'Britain's loveliest magazine' a fanzine 'celebrating' an England of yore; of teas, vicars and white people. The England they depict is based on a complete fantasy of harmony and nobility where the global empire was based on the exportation of scones and music hall. They don't like shopping centres, baseball caps and foreigners. Every day is sunny in This England; and slightly racist and jingoistic. Emma's mum doesn't see it, she just sees its loveliness.

Word reaches us that she's now decided to join The University of the Third Age, a community for the retired. Technically its for for those 'no longer in full time gainful employment'. Presumably the term 'economically useless' wasn't appropriate. A quick scan of their website reveals that the Lincoln chapter's programme of events is scrabble, history and bird watching. Go to Peterborough, however, for Shakespeare, patchwork, geological matters and swimming on Monday mornings alone. You actually have to apply to join the, *cough*, U3A; not everyone gets in. Emma's mum is applying because she 'never went to University', I think she knows that this isn't a real university, but she may be in for a shock if my suspicions about links to swinging and scientology are in any way founded.

* please note picture not Emma's mum

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Labels: General me

Still nothing. There was progress on Sunday when Emma experienced something inelegant that signalled something was happening. Ater that, nothing, nada, nowt. This movement eased the midwife’s mania for an internal prod, she was more interested in what Emma was wearing. The girls at yesterdays baby class coffee morning agreed that she shouldn’t be pushed into anything she wasn’t comfortable with, so the waiting game continues. This advice may change at today’s baby class coffee morning. Or next Wednesdays.

This advice could be from The Maker himself in comparison to Emma’s mum’s imparted wisdom this week. On Friday, 24 hours before the due date, she scared Emma silly by declaring with some vigour that the cat had Feline Leukaemia (prompting me to ask, with more vigour, ‘exactly how many years of veterinary training have you done?’). This was followed up yesterday with her saying that our new baby monitor was very neat… a baby monitor that is, in fact, my iPod.

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Labels: Babies

A extract from Chris Waddle's expert analysis of the FA Cup semi-final between Liverpool and Chelsea on the radio on Saturday...

Commentator: "Free kick to Liverpool just outside the box, Riise, Alonso and Gerrard are over the ball"

Waddle: "This isn't for Riise, its more a free kick for a right footer for me."

Commentator: "There's a lot of jostling in the wall, Makele has broken off ready to charge the ball down."

Waddle: "I hope they're not going to tap it, Makele will be two feet from it by the time they hit it, it'll be a massive waste."

Commentator: "Riise taps it to Gerrard who tees is up for Riise who curls it round Makele... GOOOOAAAAALLLLL!"

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Labels: Football

Today is supposed to be The Day, although all is quiet so far. Admittedly I'm sitting blogging this with headphones on listening to my first mix created on Ableton Live; which may be available as a download in enormous file-o-vision soon. I s'pose Emma could be upstairs rolling around in agony; but I doubt it. I'll go check in a bit, if I've got the time.

The midwife seems very keen to get the baby out before the bank holiday; maybe she has plans. She seemed a little disappointed that Emma's bump is not yet hard (and therefore ripe). Her solution, it seems, is to threaten bigger, more intrusive and rustier implements, all in the hope that Emma will be able to reach a pact with the baby and get pushin'

The baby is relatively (though not unhealthily) small which means it won't grow to the size of a small teenager as the days tick by, its also perfectly positioned for exit so there's nothing to worry about. it's not usual to go 10 days over.

The baby group had seven bumps, we have news that two have popped. The first to arrive was the last due; four and a half weeks early. At some point I will get onto the baby group's obsession with coffee mornings, but in the meantime, I go to the football, we wait.

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Labels: Babies

I can't let the day pass without marking the 20th anniversary of Oxford United's greatest ever day. Oxford beat QPR 3-0 to win the Milk Cup at Wembley in front of 100,000 people. I was 13, it was my first visit to Wembley and it was vast.

Oxford fans still sing "When Shots* went up to win the Milk Cup we were there, we were there" when you know most weren't. I was though, with my flag, Oxford shirt and my silky blue and yellow flatcap. I looked like a teenage football casual. Well, it was the 80's.

I still remember driving down the M40 with 35,000 Oxford fans, watching the Oxford team bus steam past with a police escort, seeing Trevor Hebberd take about twenty minutes to line up his shot and put away the first goal and being worried about losing despite being 3-0 up with 5 minutes to go.

Great days. Dad had watched Oxford since their non-league days so the transformation was even more startling. We're now 3 points off the bottom of League 2 with three games to go, it's not inconceivable that I too will be able to boast that I've seen the mighty U's at Wembley and Woking.

* Shots was Malcolm Shotton, the Oxford captain.

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Labels: Football

The house has never been more sorted out. You can walk in straight lines from a to b. There are no piles of washing, extraneous cables, cobwebs or rogue pasta swirls crunching under foot on the kitchen floor. We are ready to receive a baby.

The last remaining room to be sorted out was the cupboard under the stairs. We got everything out, had arguments about the difference between what things are worth and what they cost (old dresses are not worth £300, they cost £300, they are only worth £300 if someone is prepared to pay £300 for them) and threw away 38 bottles of booze (mostly free wine they give away with at the Chinese takeaway). The kitchen was a mess of ironing boards, laptop bags, paint pots and videos which had things like “Dirty Dancing – do not erase” written on the side.

At this point Emma announced that she was having an ‘unusual twinge’. I pleaded for her to not go into labour because a) there was junk everywhere and b) giving birth in the cupboard under the stairs would present a raft of unique problems not considered at the ante natal class.

“It’ll be fine”, she said, “Jesus was born in a stable”.

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Labels: Babies

Any of you who uses my feed to keep up with this site, and you should, it's terribly clever, you'll be impressed by my prolific morning of updates. Hundreds of them. You may also be disappointed to see the net result of all this work being this measily post. Sorry, I've been doing a bit of maintenence on my archives and hitting update blog too much. You won't see any differences unless you look really hard, but it makes me feel better.

And for anyone who thought I had a car crash on Monday (see post below). I didn't, IT WAS A METAPHOR.

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Labels: General me

There are few greater experiences than a car crash Monday. Its what happens when you exit Sunday too quickly, usually having been propelled by a fantastic Saturday, or in this case, Friday. This weekend spat me out at a such a velocity I don't think I landed until Monday lunchtime.

Friday was Katie and James' superb wedding, surrounded by my favourite people in the whole world. Saturday was our baby class, which despite all expectations to the contrary, has been excellent. We are now fully licenced to turn our lives inside out. Then I had a sleep deprived out of body experience at the football, which was absolute garbage, but I no don't care. Saturday night was more time with my favourite people (sadly not all of them, this time). Sunday, I had to endure some extreme nesting from Emma (which basically involves smashing the house to pieces), then over to mum and dad's for dinner, then...

Petoowee! car crash Monday. Ace. Again! Again!

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Labels: Friends

Ah bless, one cherubic poster on the Depeche Mode message board was ruing the fact so few people turned up to Friday's NEC gig in iconic Violator era Dave Gahan leather jacket, Aviator sunglasses and white jeans. Apparently this was his garb du jour. Some years ago it wasn't unusual to see Depeche fans dressed like this, but now they're defined by their girth, not their dress. Many still wear tour merchandise of various vintages (generally speaking Devotional t-shirts have survived years of wash and wear best) but most freakish obsessives limit themselves to comedy Gestapo leather coats because they're more slimming than white vests.

Despite the tired, lazy, media coverage about their doom laden Essex boy electro pop, The Mode still give great show. It's a little grungier than the polished electronica from the first time we saw them sixteen years ago, but sometimes its good to indulge in proper portentous stadium rock. Gahan makes no excuses for his well rehearsed rock god performance; happy to lead an arms in the air clap-a-thon or screech "C'MOWN!" in an odd LA drawl. He appears to have added a subtle Spanish theme to his stage show for this tour, and a 'bolted horsey' foxtrot. Ah well, he's 44, even he has to be embarrassing dad once in a while.

Of course he's supported by the awkward, but brilliant, Martin Gore who now seems permanently attached to his lead guitar. Conversely, the band's other stalwart, Andy Fletcher, sticks with what he knows; bouncing behind his space aged console on lead, em, Excel. His presence on stage disguising the fact his principle role is actually as the band's accountant.

The beauty of stadium rock is its slickness; video, song and sensible health and safety regulations meld as one. Films of demure, usually half naked, models bathed in brooding coloured light are interlaced with live action band close ups that reveal years of drug abuse and peculiar sex are not without consequence. Like the venue, the show is convenient, safe and well thought through. The live drums and guitar mean they're a bit more ragged than usual; they have to restart Personal Jesus after attempting to play the whole song in the intro, but even this cock up is suspiciously slick. In the end the set is predictable; a song from the new album, an couple of classics, a couple more songs from the new album, then classics right through to the encore; pop gems Just Can't Get Enough and Everything Counts are rounded off by the ever tumultuous Never Let Me Down Again. At the end Gore and Gahan stroll out to a small stage in the middle of the arena to do the ballad Goodnight Lovers. Its an unusual choice to end a show, but it reveals that, perhaps for the first time in years, they seem to enjoy playing together. Art, its not. A stupendous night out? Well, yes.

The baby enjoyed the show, dancing most to Enjoy The Silence. Emma, just three weeks from the pop, hobbled valiantly from the car park to the arena over a walkway. On the way back one of the stewards stopped us from going back the same way; "You're not walking over there again, I saw you coming down. There's a shortcut down there, ask my mate (another steward) to show you". The pain and suffering seemed to capture the mood perfectly.

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Labels: Music

Penny was a 16 stone teenager
Jo was a teenage goth
Katie is the member of a mafia family running a small Buckinghamshire village
Willy rents her husband from an agency

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Labels: Friends

I've heard some stupid things shouted at football matches, but Saturday capped it all. The triumphant return of Jim Smith to Oxford lit up what would have been a drab end of season meander against Peterborough, that's Peterborough in Cambridgeshire. Half way through the first half the Oxford crowd quietened, allowing the 'borough fans an opportunity to sing out. The bloke behind me shouted...

"SHUT UP YOU COCKNEY SOUNDING TWATS"

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Labels: Football

Although I like the idea of community hospitals and community shops; I'm not really a community person. I don't find myself on committees campaigning for new flower beds to be placed in the middle of the road or saving historic wheelbarrows (used by some dead bloke during the war). I guess I'm the kind of person that's destroying communities, I live in my own bubble of friends and family and shop at Tesco. My non-community milieu is probably the reason I have little need for community centres.

The uncomfortable plastic chairs and scuffed magnolia paint job was exactly what I expected, but probably not for the spiritual contemplation that was to be our ante natal class. I wasn't sure what to expect to be honest (which didn't help given that the first session was to write down what we expected). My only reference point was the midwife who made thinly veiled comments about how National Childbirth Trust classes would be more appropriate for people of our, ahem, background. This made me think that we might end up spending hours discussing homeopathic remedies and chi... on a Saturday morning.

The session opened with a bit of getting to know you. Whilst the girls compared twinges, the men made lame jokes about football, pints and pies; posturing whilst sounding each other out.. I can't remember who broke the deadlock of actually admitting we did care and that we weren't there under duress, but when it happened we all loosened up.

Thankfully, it wasn't all beanbags and scented candles, the class was pretty straightforward; we had lots pictures of wombs and foetuses in that 'Joy of Sex' 1970's line drawing style and simply worked through the birthing process. Some people were able to quote the parts of the womb in Latin and support their arguments with a rich supply of statistics and research papers, some (me) looked blankly and cracked jokes.

People I know who have done these classes have talked about the friends they've made through it. Personally I was wary of being enveloped in a little clique of baby bores. It's nothing like that, thankfully, it's a good group that's happy to have a laugh at what is a whole world of goop and poo. Maybe I am a bit of a community person after all.

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Labels: Babies

Emma’s grandma offered us a plethora of parenting advice yesterday, my favourites were:

‘Of course, you get no joy from your first’ (number of children she had? One)

‘Well, in my day Family Allowance was a Crown a week, nowadays they get POUNDS!’

The latter comment sparked a(nother) diatribe about the state of the social welfare system. Apparently people now get their benefits delivered 'to their door' (these people being all lazy good-for-nothings). When asked if she went to the Post Office to collect her pension she replied “Oh no dear, I get it paid straight into the bank”.

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Labels: Babies

I like the Money Programme's pop economics editorial policy - analysing the strategies of Tesco rather than meticulously tracking the nuances of futures and derivatives. Their slightly one dimensional analysis of Fifty Cent's 'business empire' was a bit of a let down though. It seemed to have been driven almost exclusively by the fact they'd managed to gain a brief audience with the man himself. For this read; they stood around some palatial hotel room while he absent mindedly played his own PS2 game. The programme basically concluded that Fiddy made a lot of money by putting his name to a lot of merchandise. This was validated by asking a self-confessed Fiddy obsessive, Chanice. They asked whether she would buy a pair of trainers with his name on. The answer was, it seems, yes, which is strange that from an obsessive fan. The conclusion was neither damning, praising or explanatory, the 50 Cent success story was just, y'know, a thing.

Lucien, a brand consultant with a public school education and an American drawl who pronounced leverage as beverage not lever as diva, concluded that Mr Cent had a gangster image, made a lot of money and that the corporations who associated with him may be taking a risk but it may be one that's worth taking. Thank you Lucien. DJ Semtex was equally enlightening when trying to explain why McDonalds had failed to attract a hip hop star to endorse their burgers. His explanation went something like "McDonalds, like, no way, its wack". They failed to mention that Destiny's Child and Justin Timberlake had both been successfully recruited by Maccy D; admittedly they're not very hip hop, but they are very big.

Chanice's mum didn't mind her daughter's obsession with the ex-drug dealing gangster so much (although she doesn't like it when he says "Mother F"). She said that 'he's only reflecting what's happening on the streets'. Really? asked the presenter who they'd deliberately dressed in achingly conservative brogues and Thomas Pink shirts. "Yes", said Chanice's mum, "In Rainham", she qualified with some force. They live in Gillingham, where presumably drive-by shootings are less frequent.

This is a common assertion made by hip hop stars, that their gansta flow is street commentary. But this makes no sense, Fifty Cent isn't reflecting what's happening on the streets. The reason he's hauled moderate talent onto a world stage is because he's been shot nine times. It's a fantastical story upon which an all action vigilante image has been built. He seems like quite a nice guy and understands his business, which helps; but the reason we know he's been shot nine times because most people are not shot nine times in their lifetime. He may be able to mumble humourlessly about his own life, but he's not reflecting what's happening in everyone else's life. If being shot nine times were a reflection of what's typically happening in the world; it would be the equivalent of me leveraging the fact I shop at Tesco in order to foster a multi-million pound music career.

On the otherhand, if Fiddy can rap about Candy Shops, maybe there is something to lever here... "I'm going to the Tesco shop, it has adequately varied stock"

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Labels: Music

E4's Beauty and the Geek is a majestic programme. OK, the geeks aren't quite as geeky as they're portrayed - they're university graduates, but one presents a radio show, another is a comedian and Will managed to end up on the front of the Sun snogging Christine Hamilton. The beauties aren't really that beautiful either; they're mostly second division lad mag standards managing to tick all the right boxes (tall, slim, good fetlocks) but never quite achieving that Keira Knightley natural allure. None the less, both sides play their roles with aplomb; the beauties are shockingly shallow, the geeks awkward and cerebral.

Anyway, like all great reality TV shows, Beauty and the Geek is a straight forward gameshow with a dark brooding undertone. Ably narrated with sneering cynicism by David Mitchell of Peep Show, what starts as a straight forward game where the beauties and geeks pair up for a series of science (for the beauties) and pop/fashion tasks (for the geeks) slowly evolves into a ferocious melodrama depicting the evils of greed over emotion (and we all know what a laugh that can be). Will "My idea of getting ready for a big night out is putting on a slightly stripier shirt" starts to fall for Elissa. Who in turn, realises that "not all geeks are, y'know, bad people" - because she claims that Will's massage (one of the early challenges) was 'like sex'. Will's partner, Alex, has other ideas and when it comes to nominating someone for eviction (the prize for winning a task is to nominate two couples for a survival play-off). Will wants to prolong Elissa's participation, having once brushed her arm or something equally intimate, but Alex views Elissa and partner, Ben, as strong contenders so she wants them off. Will's only opportunity of going out with a 'beauty' slips away, but hilariously, he's incapable of persuading Alex to change her mind. "I have a very strong affection for her" is the best he can do.

When Elissa and Ben survive; Ben, becomes a confidante for the permanently moody (and crying) Sam; whose basic beef is that Ed, her partner, is the gawkiest geek of them all. Ed wasn't very good in the massage challenge, mainly because Sam would let him touch her when they were supposed to be practising. Ben's gentle unrequited romanticism towards Sam ("I just want to envelope you in my arms") is roasted when Elissa wants Ed and Sam out (again, for being a threat to the £40k prize money). This causes Ben, the woosy sap, to burst into tears and run off. Ed, cast as the obtuse social commentator, believes the girls are simply seducing the boys for the purposes of survival - possibly because he's right, possibly because everything all he knows about girls is what he's read in books.

Quixotically, Ed and Sam survive, giving Ben more time to envelope Sam in his arms. Incidentally, that week's challenge was for the geeks to dress the beauties without the benefit of knowing their size etc. When Ed produced a dress Sam liked she burst into tears in relief; "I'm so proud of you, I didn't think you could do it" - she said as though he'd just returned from an unarmed mission deep into Iraq. At this point she crumpled on the bed and sobbed loudly; Ed could only stare, rock from one foot to the other and self consciously take his hands in and out of his pockets. The following week, however, the beauties were charged with giving the geeks a make-over. Jon, Teri's partner, who typically dresses in bright puffer jackets, elaborate hats and vintage sportswear like those jazz funk Svengalis you see bouncing around the back of the stage at a Bent or Young Disciples gig, is made over like a mid-table Premiership fringe player - all fake tan and multi directional hair.

Sam proving that she is not shallow at all, instantaneously announces Jon to be 'hot' and without warning cheers up and, with the power of hypnosis or perhaps drugs, lures Jon to her milieu. This instant switch marginalises Ben even further. Then they're presented with a challenge for the geeks to go to a club and collect telephone numbers. Newly galvanised Jon beats Ben to every girl in the club causing him to retreat to the toilets for a cry. Jon then attempts to progress his relationship with Sam, usually by deliberately dumbing himself down; but when he makes a physical advance she rebukes him, turfs him out of the room they're in and asks Ed to come back - which the dutiful puppy does.

Last week the challenge was to solve a series of puzzles which appeared more complicated than they actually were (neat, because they appeared to be aimed at the geeks, but they were more suited to the beauties). When faced with the challenge of getting a key from a block of ice, whilst Ed cursed himself for not remembering the molecular structure of ice, Sam kept asking why they didn't just "'Frow it against the wall?". She was right. Ed and Sam have a beautiful chemistry, making them my favourite couple for next week's final.

Come on you dozy geek and moody sow.

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Labels: TV and radio

“Auntie Emma, when you wee will the baby fall out?”

For a three year old to understand the link between giving birth and the hole through which it comes out of is impressive. Apparently my Grandma was unsure moments before she had my uncle because nobody told her what was going to happen. What’s less impressive is that although we know it won’t fall out, we’re not wholly sure why.

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Labels: General me

Ah human resources, what a fine profession you are. HR is all about taking an interest in people - this is an important point, to be addressed later. Originally, this interest was in a time and motion context; basically sickness and holiday records. It was little more than a mundane admin process. Like all admin processes; it was a cost to the business; there is very little benefit apart from making sure that people weren't off work too much and didn't take too much holiday. When times are lean, big bosses drive costs out of their business by reducing the amount of admin cost it has to saddle. This made HR people vulnerable to redundancy as well as generally unvalued (and therefore poorly paid).

In an attempt to protect these people-beancounters, the professional discipline of Human Resources was invented. HR people did more than holidays and sickness, they brought direct value to the business by hiring and firing (more admin) and providing training and development structures. Now, training has a very linear relationship between a need and how that need is satisfied - can't use Excel? do some Excel training - again, not hard to do if you put your mind to it. Development, on the other hand, is like spiritual enlightenment; no one knows what it is, how you achieve it, but you're afraid if you don't have it you're missing something. It's like trying to heard cats... cats made of jelly. Development is the emperors new clothes of HR; Did you know that Waitrose staff can actually get trips to the cinema and theatre paid for by the partnership because its viewed as a "developmental opportunity"? Development is such a rampant and conveniently amorphous beast, if you don't provide "developmental opportunities" you're a bad company. Why should we believe this? Because it's on every job advert... adverts that are written by HR people. And so HR's self fulfilling prophecy is complete; we're important, because we say we're important.

Every company is now expected to have an HR function to show what a progressive company they are. If you're a small company it's unlikely that you can afford a properly trained HR person or justify employing them full time. This means the role inevitably falls to someone who has an interest in people (i.e. the fundamental pretence of HR); what they earn, what their problems are and so on. In other words, this is a perfect role for the office gossip.

Being a gossip of any kind is all about power; having something that others haven't got. If you hold something others haven't got, that gives you one degree of power, if you're mandated to have some control over people then power increases exponentially. A mandate to write HR rules that dictate peoples lives is manna from heaven for an office gossip.

So why am I telling you all this? well, working for a small company and being the first person in its history to need paternity leave means I've get first hand experience of the small company HR person in action. Our HR person was detailed with writing a paternity leave policy. I'm the only person this policy applies to because I'm the only man in the company of a realistic child bearing age who isn't gay.

HR Woman comes in to tell me the policy is written and it basically says I get 2 weeks at £100 a week - what is known as the statutory minimum allowance. Like all statutory rates they're basically set to give some protection from unscrupulous employers to sweat shop workers whilst protecting small businessmen from being bankrupted with onerous payments. I'm not a sweat shop worker and my employer is not on the brink of bankruptcy, therefore our policy should reflect the attitude of the company towards its employees. However HR Woman is not enlightened to such thinking, she sees that the policy should reflect her ability to wield her power over others. The more onerous the policy, the more powerful she is. The joy of telling me I was about to lose nearly half my monthly salary on her whim was unconfined. I began my challenge, I questioned why the company has taken on board a punitive policy when a. it's a financially sound company, b. we readily spunk the said amount on a hopeless procession of consultants (including, it turns out, a consultant who suggested the policy to her in the first place) and c. that my salary was all budgeted for and effectively a sunk cost... and d. and e. and f. and so on.

In challenging her legitimacy in having and applying this power over me she began to recoil; she smiled broadly, suggested I talk to our MD, shrugged her shoulders and said... "there's nothing I can do... it's the law". I composed myself, gathered my thoughts and told her that was "fucking rubbish" and that did she really think that it was illegal for the company to pay over the statutory minimum. She shrugged. Then I realised that maybe she wasn't talking about the law of the land, but the law of the HR person; what she was actually saying was "Sorry, I have to ignore your personal situation and apply a rigid regressive policy just to make you unhappy... it's my job" her smile, however, reminded me that the company was at least supportive of my overall development. And for this, at least, I am grateful.

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Labels: Work

I could be painting the nursery but I'm not, of course, I'm compiling my second annual top 50 albums. Compiled with no reference to last year's list, I'm impressed, at least with the consistency. Only 9 albums made the list last year that didn't make this year's list, highest ranked being 26th, Louder Than Bombs by Smiths. Congratulations to 2 Many DJ's for shooting in at number 10... although why it wasn't in the top 50 last year I couldn't tell you.

Still, no logic or reasons given, here's the list.

1. It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back - Public Enemy (1)
2. 101 - Depeche Mode (2)
3. Tricks of the Shade - The Goats (3)
4. Live at the Heavenly Social Vol 2 - Jon Carter (9)
5. 70 Minutes of Madness - Journeys by DJ - Coldcut (7)
6. The Stone Roses - The Stone Roses (5)
7. (What's the Story) Morning Glory - Oasis (23)
8. Nevermind - Nirvana (20)
9. Pills 'n' Thrills and Bellyaches - Happy Mondays (6)
10. As Heard on Radio Soulwax Vol.2 - 2 Many DJs (-)
11. Music for the Masses - Depeche Mode (-)
12. O.K Computer - Radiohead (10)
13. Orbital 2 - Orbital (4)
14. Rage Against the Machine - Rage Against the Machine (8)
15. Paul's Boutique - The Beastie Boys (28)
16. Songs of Faith and Devotion - Depeche Mode (48)
17. Technique - New Order (17)
18. The Chronic - Dr. Dre (16)
19. Abbey Road - The Beatles (24)
20. Licensed to Ill - The Beastie Boys (-)
21. Dummy - Portishead (21)
22. Black Sunday - Cypress Hill (30)
23. Copper Blue - Sugar (37)
24. Hunky Dory - David Bowie (11)
25. Parklife - Blur (42)
26. The Beatles [The White Album] - The Beatles (25)
27. Republic - New Order (15)
28. Hatful of Hollow - The Smiths (-)
29. Leftism - Leftfield (12)
30. The Bends - Radiohead (13)
31. Violator - Depeche Mode (19)
32. MTV Unplugged In New York - Nirvana (14)
33. Raising Hell - Run DMC (27)
34. Low Life - New Order (-)
35. White Room - KLF (38)
36. Blue Lines - Massive Attack (29)
37. Protection - Massive Attack (18)
38. 3 Years, 5 Months and 2 Days in the Life of... - Arrested Development (-)
39. Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde - The Pharcyde (40)
40. The Queen Is Dead - The Smiths (22)
41. 3 Feet High and Rising - De La Soul (44)
42. A Rush of Blood to the Head - Coldplay (45)
43. Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld - The Orb (33)
44. Debut - Bjork (32)
45. Connected - Stereo MCs (50)
46. Screamadelica - Primal Scream (-)
47. The Prodigy Experience - The Prodigy (-)
48. Straight Outta Compton - N.W.A. (-)
49. Teaser and the Firecat - Cat Stevens (36)
50. Definitely Maybe - Oasis (-)

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Labels: Music

German, Ivorian, Ivorian, Swiss, French, Belorussian, Brazilian, Spanish, Swedish, Spanish, French, French

The nationalities of Arsenal's starting eleven tonight; the first English club to beat Real Madrid in Madrid. Don't get me wrong, I have a soft spot for Arsenal, call me old fashioned, but just how English is this team? 


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Labels: Football

The music scene is pretty good at the moment and this year's Brits was a demonstration of its general good health. Things are still a bit polite for me, though, I like to live vicariously through our naughty pop stars. Coldplay have mastered that MTV swagger (copyright: US MTV friendly 'alternative' bands); ramshakling onstage like a gang 'o' lads whilst ensuring the aesthetic of the camera's arena wide sweep isn't upset. James Blunt is such an endearingly bewildered buffoon you want to beat his legs with a bike chain and make him cry. And, if the world has to have a KT Tunstall, then this KT Tunstall is better than most. The Gorillaz were great because they're a multimedia project suited to multimedia performance. Unlike, say, the exceptional Kaisers, who play indie pop better suited to dark sweaty venues. I particularly enjoyed the (intentional?) irony of Paris Hilton announcing American Idiot as the best international song.

Anyway, in the spirit of all things celebratory; here's the Top 10 of Ruffles' 2005 purchases (Last year's winner: Felix Da Housecat).

1. If You Can't Join Em, Beat Em - DJ Format
2. A Bugged Out Mix - Erol Alkan
3. Silent Alarm - Bloc Party
4. Hot Fuss - Killers
5. Playing the Angel - Depeche Mode
6. Taste the Secret - Ugly Duckling
7. Fabriclive 19 - Freestylers
8. Brassbound - Ordinary Boys
9. Push The Button - Chemical Brothers
10. LCD Soundsystem - LCD Soundsystem

And whilst I'm fiddling around with iTunes, some random facts from my iPod...

Shortest tune: Runaway Dreamer - Felix Da Housecat (0 minutes 0 seconds)
Longest tune: Timeless - Goldie (21 minutes 3 seconds)
First in alphabetical order - A Ballad to Forget - Soulwax
Last in alphabetical order - Zuton Fever - Zutons

I could, theoretically, makes a compilation CD (74 minutes) with 125 songs on it. The shortest compilation would have 5 songs.
It currently has 13.6 days of music on it, which is 4,704 tunes, which averages out as 4 minutes 9 seconds... there are 15 'average' songs, two of which are by 50 Cent. Hmm.

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Labels: Music

The games of the 20th winter Olympiad; an opportunity to take an obsessive interest in sports you wouldn't normally glance at if they were played naked. In truth there are precious few winter activities that can be made into sports; ski-ing, skating, sledging, snowboarding. It's a wonder they haven't found a way of competing in snowballing or snuggling up with a big cup of cocoa. The Games are packed with derivations of these four principle activities with some differences invisible to the naked eye; downhill skiing is about skiing downhill, slalom is about skiing downhill with lots of twists and turns, giant slalom is about skiing downhill with less twists and turns than slalom but more than downhill skiing. They also have super giant slalom; which I'm sure is just a test to see if anyone's really paying attention.

Still, there's a lot to enjoy about the Games; not least their soporific quality. Most of the sports involve the competitors taking turns one by one dressed head to toe in a curious mix of Lycra cat suit and motorcycle protective wear. It's impossible to tell one competitor from another. What's more, they don't even wear anything like their national colours. Skiers from Austria are most likely to wear pink and yellow, figure dancers wear sequinned boob tubes. Add this anonymity to the indistinguishable differences between first and last - fractions of a second - it makes it fantastically undemanding to watch.

Secondly, British commentators rarely know what they're talking about, usually they rely on a 'British number 1' to provide expert analysis; even though they attained their status as the best UK speed skater through a rollerskating competition in a Tesco car park. For reasons I've yet to fully fathom I prefer Eurosport coverage to the BBC; perhaps because of their wide-eyed relentless 24/7 coverage. They seem so pleased to cover the event that they don't care whether anyone is watching the Nigerian cross country skier or Egyptian luge champion, they show it all in full regardless.

Last night we watched the final thrilling (probably) rounds of the Women's Freestyle Skiing. At first this simply looks like slalom in big trousers because the competitors wear cool urbanwear over regulation Lycra. Closer analysis reveals this is a sport that seems to involve skiing over knee-crunching bumps (moguls) until you hit a ramp and do a jump; this is followed by more moguls another 'air' and over the finish line. The winner is not the quickest; it's judged by a panel of anonymous judges (although for all I know it could be by a Scandinavian TV text poll). Originally invented for the cool snowboarding set, it's become detached from its roots because those who look coolest are the ones who are penalised for making it look really difficult and fast - those who are most tediously efficient win. Disappointingly, for the marketing men at least, It was won by the (comparatively) plain looking Canadian Jennifer Heil. Heil is a Matrina Navartilova to the Chris Evert Lloyd of Norwegian hotty Kari Traa who claimed silver. Traa spent most of the competition sparkling into the camera whilst her fellow competitors tried, and failed to beat her score. As the competition progressed the commentator's filling became more desperate. Finally he resorted to; "There she is, Kari Traa, with her classic Norwegian looks - blonde hair, blue eyes and a casual freestyle skiing technique"

Yup, you can tell a Norwegian a mile off by their casual freestyle skiing technique.

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Labels: Sport