Conferences, Enron, Double Pregnancies and The Godfather

Off to the Labour Party conference in Brighton this week in a working capacity. I'm looking forward to it, purely because I can sense many of the attendees will be going into alcoholic/painkiller/prescription drug meltdown. Also I hear Brighton is quite the place if you have a penchant for crap roller coasters, burnt Edwardian piers, Fat Boy Slim , gentrified coastal housing and rainbow flags wink wink, nudge nudge! I don't like any of these things so will stick to reading Wired indoors and drinking gin cocktails.

Wired is a fantastic magazine that is rapidly garnering an avid readership. Perhaps because it is so prescient it has recently entered the top three on my list of favorite mags (When Saturday Comes and Private Eye are one and two respectively) though this is nothing to get worked up about as I tend to change my allegiance to particular newsprint publications on a bi-monthly basis. Anyway Wired first piqued my attention because it appeared to discuss all those important things that the Economist mumbles on about; technology, science, business and culture, in a way that seemed genuinely innovative and involving. The fact that it is generally thought provoking and enlightening, even when the topics it tends to discuss (DNA manipulation, Cern, Twitter, Green technologies) tend to bore the fuck out of anyone with a vague social life, marks it out as special. It uses all kinds of interesting gizmos, graphs, graphics illustrations and faddy gimmicks to brighten the well written, easily accessible articles, whilst leaving the reader basking in the smug glow of someone who believes that they have actually glimpsed prophetically into the future. I'm looking forward to next month's edition explaining to me exactly how a woman who was already pregnant could subsequently get herself up the duff again only a month later, as some poor American girl was reported to have done last week. Actually really messed up.

Away from staying indoors with a technology magazine, I spent last Saturday watching Lucy Prebble's outstanding second full length play Enron which has sold out it's current run at The Royal Court. Also in attendance was Zachary Quinto (Sylar from Heroes, Spok in the new Star Trek) who I spied drinking a latte in the bar during the interval. Sick stalking! I was really bowled over by the play; a scathing fictionalized study of how hubris and greed transformed a small Texan energy supplier into a bizarre corporation devoid of assets, profits or any tangible direction. All it had was clever accountants and 'ideas.' I think Miss/Mrs Prebble has now become a new literary hero so watch out for a full length fawning dissection of the play over the weekend, along with my inexcusably late reviews of Inglorious and Rachel Getting Married.
On a final note watched The Godfather at the BFI on Sunday, in all its digitally remastered big screen glory. Perfect pace, incredible performances, iconic imagery, epic plot, stunning cinematography and emotional pull, it truly is one of the greatest films ever made.

Mickey Owen

Fuck me sideways, you couldn't really have written it any better could you? Unless you're a Bitter Blue of course. Five minutes into injury time, having just gifted City an equalizing goal after some exquisitely poor defending, and the little Welsh midget pokes home a truly memorable winner in front of the Stretford End. Cue pandemonium; delirious joy from United fans, salty fresh tears from the eyes of distraught Bertie's and Craig Bellamy running a full ten yards to chin a United fan who had waded onto the pitch. Fucking amazing scenes!

And all this stemming from the breezy right foot of a player who used to relish scoring against United at OT, who had once bathed happily in the adulation of the Kop and hoards of 'Ingerland' supporting numpties in the late 90's, an injury prone gambler who was almost universally shunned by United's support when he first arrived earlier this summer and perhaps most poignantly: a footballer who was deemed too greedy and too old by David 'Wheeler Dealer JD sports tsar' Whealan; Wigan's gregariously proportioned chairman.

Back in August many reds were quick to underline their total disdain for the player. Others swore blind that short of scoring a last minute winner against Liverpool in a European Cup Final they would never accept Owen as a United player, let alone the owner of our talismanic number seven shirt. After his dramatic introduction to the Manchester derby however the Welsh dwarf might just have cemented himself all but the most steely, anti scouse hearts of the Red Army.

I for one will freely admit that I was horrified by the signing of Owen; not because I thought he was a poor player, nor because of his past escapades with Liverpool and England. No it was the selfish disregard he seemed to have for players and fans at Newcastle that stood out. The stories of gambling debts and unreserved arrogance were thick on the ground amongst the Geordie ranks and Owen's attitude towards football had never appeared to involve anyone but himself. Equally his signing by Fergie highlighted a number of important issues regarding United as a club. On the one hand it confirmed that the Glaziers really are mired in the shit; selling your best player for £80 million and replacing him with an inferior product at a cost of precisely Zero pounds hints at an organization desperately operating in deficit whilst clawing back any sources of capital they can. It has also sadly emphasised Sir Alex's blatant disregard for fan rivalry and tradition. Given the choice between honoring the unwritten codes of United/Liverpool rivalry or taking a risky punt on an unproven star, Fergie takes the difficult option.

But oh how have I eaten my words. Humbled once again by Sir Alex and his footballing omnipotence I can do nothing but slink back to my desk to type out a drivelling apology to Mickey fucking Owen. What a hero!

Soho

For the first time in about nine months I'm back in full time employment. Monday morning is no longer reserved for Jeremy Kyle and staring mournfully at Sky Sports News in a pair of pyjamas. All those late mornings on Columbia's Caribbean coast only three months ago seem distant and vague, like a time when Manchester City resided in the third tier of English Football. Oh how the tables have turned!  The term 'employment' is also used loosely here as I'm working for free in that heady, intangible industry where people make films/TV programmes, hoping (well praying) that it will lead to something permanent and paid. Only two weeks ago United lost a competitive fixture to a club from a town smaller than Blackburn whose population could comfortably fit inside Old Trafford...so anything is possible.

                                Monday Morning style.

Anyway without naming specific names or companies (mine is actually very good!) I'm situated on the fringes of Soho; that thin sliver of central London synonymous with tacky sex shops, rainbow flags, excellent restaurants and members clubs full of whisky soaked/drug addicted writers/producers/actors complaining about the state of the business over lugubrious lunches and lines of coke on expenses. Well that's the myth anyway. These days everything is a bit more Pret a Manger than Quo Vadis and most people hanging around my locale have the suspicious aura of the desperate intern; all tight jeans and rubbish haircuts wishing they had got that boring job in finance so they didn't have to still live at home with their parents. Like me.

Soho Plugs

Talking about 'sad desperation' Saturday saw me take a trip up to White Heart Lane for Tottenham-United. I was prepared to exchange eighty hard earned pounds in return for an away end ticket from one of those truly despicable turds commonly referred to as a 'tout.' From my (sadly) extensive experience these 'men' are always uniformly hateful: scouse or wide boy cockney, dressed in a shit anorak and Velcro trainers, leering from the recesses of a gloomy ally with sets of teeth blacker than licorice and more disjointed than Portsmouth FC's starting eleven. They rarely acknowledge the anomalies of life that fund their seedy enterprise; the 'emotion' and 'passion' of 'proper' fans fuel their greed and they would gladly sell their grandmother for a mark up of 50%. Only 'touts' can claim to have more disdain for the paying customer than MUFC. They operate like ugly bands of trolls, a mobile phone constantly pressed to their ear, whispering sweet nothings to exec members of clubs like United; coaxing out precious away tickets and souls in return for 10% of the profit. Goes without saying that the snide cunts were demanding a ton for United's end and so ultimately it was a wasted journey, still it reaffirmed my absolute conviction that 'touts' lurk at the very bottom of the human gene pool; on the same level as petty thieves and wife beaters. 

'Two fackin' tickets to the premiere of Green Street 2 for a pony geez.'

Finally and most importantly of course, I saw two films this week (pilfered from the office) one shockingly bad, the other rather brilliant. How the Cohen brothers could go from directing No Country for Old Men to Burn After Reading is beyond me, but it really was a terrible load of shit (salvaged in part by Brad Pitt.) On the other hand Jonathan Demme's Rachel Getting Married was a brilliantly claustrophobic study of guilt, familial relationships and addiction stunningly carried by a mesmerizing performance from Anne Hathaway. Review will follow, along with a long awaited Inglorious Basterds appraisal.  

Fat cockneys, Notting Hill Carnival and a car journey of epic proportions.

Almost a week on from the 'horrific return to the dark ages of football violence,' as many sports hacks seemed eager to herald in their morally indignant press reports and hyperbole ridden columns and the whole tawdry affair has been pretty much forgotten. West Ham vs. Millwall we were told has always been a fraught fixture. Two rivals from the grim backwaters of East London, a history of fan on fan fisticuffs and a largely working class fanbase were supposedly the perfect preconceived conditions for the 'handbags at dawn' situation Sky News put on continual loop for most of Tuesday night. As some wiser journalists pointed out however, it was probably the questionable fictionalisation of hooliganism in terrible films starring Danny Dyer and Elijah 'I'm The Hobbit' Wood that led to the rather sad sight of teenage lads dressed in fake Stone Island running on the pitch, followed by fifty year old blobs of screaming flesh slightly resembling ordinary human beings but camouflaged by unbelievably bad West Ham tattoos on their gout inflamed legs. In the world of Nick Love's Football Factory this fixture is the ultimate titanic battle, the off field equivalent of Barca vs. Real; supposedly the two London teams with the hardest, most embittered followers all ready to get 'propa nawty' and throw bottles at one another whilst hiding behind a line of policeman. Sadly all they achieved were a couple of panicky Daily Mail headlines and a retired fireman in a serious condition after being stabbed by some chump, probably from the 'badlands' of suburban Essex. Though saying all that if this kind of posturing and conformity to ancient cliche helps scare off a few of the corporate flids who are rapidly sucking the life out of football then at least one good thing can come from the whole convoluted episode.

So this being a Bank Holiday weekend and all it was only natural that Notting Hill Carnival was hit, what with me being a Londoner short on cash with a passion for Jerk Chicken and loud Dub Reggae and less than favorable view of the Met. True to form it didn't disappoint, in fact it was an absolutely wicked day out with the highlight being the Sancho Panza stage which was playing distinctly Balearic beats. As the sound systems were shut down by 7:30 I was persuaded to venture to a house party nearby, and seeing a group of Nathan Barley esque twats heading into a ten story Notting Hill town house I supposed we had found our spot. Much walking up and down stairs ensued, recognising not a single other guest we began to question whether or not we were in the right location at all. Certainly pretty much everybody looked like a media graduate with a pad off the Fulham Road and our confusion was further exacerbated when a random guy tapped my friend on the shoulder and uttered the words 'Easy man good to see you here.' This from someone none of us had ever met. After an amusing episode involving a rather ravishing young girl spending ages in the toilet and us trying to guess whether it was a 'No. 2' or '2 lines' that were keeping her busy we decided to try and track down the right party. When said girl appeared to have locked herself in the toilet we concluded that it must have been Ketamine not Coke. So eventually we found the right party but we had a funny story to tell. Only in Notting Hill can one find a house large enough and with suitable levels of samey people to spend half an hour trawling through bedrooms and kitchens trying to find your mates.

Mind you I had an excuse for my questionable judgment. The day before I had traveled to Manchester and back for the Arsenal game with two fifty year old United fans driving the car. It was a day for deep introspection and personal reflection as I quickly discovered that coming close to pensionable age and continuing a vitriolic love affair with your football club does not make you a 'cool cat.' Equally playing Kasabian and The Prodigy at ear splitting levels whilst doing a double handed 'air' drum roll at the wheel of a 90mph car at one in the morning, does not lend fellow passengers a sense of safe security. There comes a time in every man's life when he just has to say no and give up on the joys of youth: the music, the football, the drink and the drugs and reconcile himself with growing old gracefully in the company of his dog and a wife who looks increasingly like a bag of spanners. These lads had yet to make that move. But they had some good first hand stories of United Euro aways; when men were men and football related violence was violent and United pulled off a lucky win against the 'Goona' fuckwits. So it wasn't all bad. Still it was like having a mirror put up to one's face and being warned: 'Keep going down this path son and by the time you're my age you'll be regaling some poor lad with tales of buying a roll over hotdog at Chelsea away in 2005 all to the sound of N-Dubz in the background.' Perish the thought! Till next time.