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.

'Snarking' in the Loop.

Great article published two weeks ago in The Times Saturday Mag on the rise of the 'Snark' in our cultural landscape. It was largely condemning the media commentators, political hacks and Private Eye satirists for their snidey, sarcastic brand of humor as well as their constant diatribe of 'in-jokes' that people outside of London's media-centric circles supposedly don't understand. One example cited was The Eye's referral to individuals involved in extra-marital shenanigans as being "engaged with 'Ugandan Affairs" though I thought this was a poor choice on the part of Hugo Rifkind who penned the essay.
Now personally I'm a great believer in 'Snark,' it is rightly the leading style of rhetoric in the condemnation of public personalities and erring politicos in this country and is a far more interesting and vibrant form of glib public discourse than the usual guff cooked up by the red Tops and Lads magazines that presuppose a level of knowing on the reader's part that would embarrass a nine year old from Burnley. (Sorry but I hate that glorified BNP voting town/Alistair Cambell supported football club right now for obvious reasons.)
I find that the magazines/writers I most enjoy reading: The Spectator, Private Eye, Red Issue Football Fanzine, United We Stand, Charlie Brooker, Craig Brown, James Delingpole ect employ large smatterings of 'Snark' in their musings on the world and its insanities and this not only makes them enjoyably rude but also gives one an agreeable sense of separation from a world where people actually think Richard Curtis writes funny films and that Sky Sports has had a positive impact on English football. I would argue that instead of alienating the reader 'Snark' actually allows them to nod their fatigued head with happiness; safe in the knowledge that at least some brave souls haven't subscribed to this bizarre, bland culture of free-sheet newspapers, Danny Dyer films and Tracy Emin beds.
As well as all this it was a fascinating article because it highlighted just how powerful the use of 'Snark' can be when used correctly. (See Sir Alan Sugar's litigation against Quentin Letts another serial abuser of 'Snark.') Someone somewhere once said the 'pen is mightier than the sword' or something along those lines. Now tell that to a disgruntled Iraqi poet or a whimsical drug dealer on the streets of Baltimore (a la The Wire) and they would tell you to shove your pen back up you're metaphorical 'sword' and fuck off. Lets face it that's one phrase that's about as realistic as Burley beating United in a competitive fixture. On the other hand a quote such as: 'The Snark is mightier than reasoned argument or balanced judgment' makes much more sense and underlines everything I've been trying to explain.
One writer who loves a bit of Snark is Armando Ianucci (is that how you spell it I'm lazy today?) From Partridge to The Thick of It he presupposes the viewer's encyclopedic knowledge of everything from politics to popular culture, Norwich to shit rock bands and Julie Andrews to Bond Films. And he does it fucking well. Having just ordered 'In the Loop' his scathing satire on Blair's decision to invade Iraq with White House hawks, I'm looking forward to watching Malcom Tucker, Armando's fictional Scottish spin doctor and general cunt, tell someone he is going to 'Punch them into a prolapse.' Or something similar. What a character and what a film, it almost makes me want to become a 'Spinner' or failing that a useless 'Civil Servant' just so I can enter this strange labyrinth of political intrigue, bumbling ineptitude and inventive use of swearing.
You see, this film is a great example of 'Snarking' and its positive influence. It subtly and poignantly ridicules the incredible idiosyncrasies of modern Britain, a country effectively run by the editor of the Daily Mail, Rupert Murdoch and a couple of slimy political spinners ie. Mandleson, by delving into areas of political and popular life that have hitherto been ignored. I know precisely fuck all about English government, the electoral process ect. but I still 'get' Armando's humor. It's as much about the delivery as the content which is why 'Snark' is good and 'Snark' is right. End of. Till next time.

P.S Check my review of 'Inglorious Basterds' over the weekend.

The Big Kick Off

Two weeks since the last post and three live games attended, each one a separate microcosm of English football and each one somehow both heartening and depressing at the same time.
First up was Chelsea in the Charity Shield. I tried to make a point of not buying a ticket directly from the club having attended a truly woeful tie against Portsmouth the following year; never has following United seemed so distressingly hollow. Anyway come a drunken weekend and the fact United would be playing up the road against the odious Rent Boys and I gave into temptation, heading up to Wembley Way still pissed from the previous evening and eager to get my first 'dose' of United since January 2009. What can be said about the Charity Shield that has not been said before? Thousands of fans hailing from the home counties wearing both Chelsea and United colors. A unabridged cross section of fuck wits, jester hat wearing numpties and hyperactive children drinking far too much Pepsi. People with about as much connection and love for their clubs as they do for a night at the cinema. An inconsistent referee, a cunt of a man in Ballack and a wonderful injury time equalizer from the Spud Faced Nipper to silence the braying clowns waving their stupid fucking sticks of celery. People taking a friendly Charity games very seriously. Basically a day of mostly downs turned occasionally by the odd surprising up.
Pre-match we found ourselves outside the famous Torch pub, which incidentally United always seem to get these days, drinking a couple of cans. A reworking of the Carlos Tevez song portraying him as 'a money grabbing whore' was appreciated and passing rentboys were summarily abused without exception. Personally I quickly returned to a state of incoherent pissedness which in turn resulted in me lobbing a couple of half empty beer cans into various Rent Boys on the concourse up Wembley Way. They appeared to be quite angry, an emotion reflected by the three mounted police who grabbed me out of the crowd two minutes later. A swift bollocking and a fearful apology later and I was handing a crisp twenty to a friendly Red for a face value seat up in the gods. All in all a mixed bag of a day out that taught me one invaluable lesson: piss in the can before you throw it at a hated rival/enemy.
Next up a rather surreal day out in the midlands for Peterborough-Sheffield Wednesday. Having promised my younger brother (who is a Wednesday fan) many moons ago that I would take him to a game as a birthday present, he persuaded me to take a detour en route to Manc for a visit to the Posh.
My previous trip to this strange town stuck between East Anglia and Leicester culminated in me throwing up for twenty minutes of the first half during a pre-season friendly between United and the aforementioned club. Sometimes all this drinking just gets too much. Anyway more sober and less excited I enjoyed a KFC and a swift pint in the away pub (truly a shocking establishment that took a good half and hour to serve ten cusomers) and then it was onto the Moyes End Terrace with the 2000 or so other Wednesday fans for 90 minutes of 'Leeds Scum' chants and fairly boring football. Observations: fantastic ticket price of £14 for a student and £17 for an adult, opportunity to buy away tickets on the gate, a good loyal Wednesday away following with the usual mix of dour old men, fat middle aged men and designer clad, drug taking young men dreaming of emulating Danny Dyer in a 'Football Factory' style ruck. Also Championship football ain't great, terraces should be brought back to every ground in the UK, Posh fans are shitter than most and the wonderful discovery that Leeds are universally despised as a nasty, scummy club supported only by sheep shaggers, sister fuckers and BNP activists.
Lastly but by no means least Manchester United's opening day at OT against newly promoted Birmingham. £36 for my ticket, and a stadium as resolutely silent as ever, though Strettie Tier 2 where I have moved this season is still standing and still loudish at times. Rooney and Berbatov look good, as did Darren Fletcher, John O'Shea and Evra. Foster made a nice save and Owen fucked up a one-on-one. Birmingham should stay up. By far the best entertainment however was provided by the plebs waddling around the ground proudly sporting their new Chevron emblazoned home shirts. Owen 7 was a dishearteningly common feature, as were slogans such as 'United 18' 'Fact 18' 'I 8 Scousers' and 'Cunt 1.' Ok I understand wearing the shirt is one way of proclaiming you're love for the club ect but why not invest in a T-shirt with United on, or a subtle polo shirt with the crest or just a fucking bar scarf for fucks sake, why spend a small fortune on an ugly piece of nylon covered with sponsors including as the odious AIG and then waste even more money plastering official premiership badges on the sleeves and getting some idiotic 'hey look at me' load of shite on the back? Kids up to the age of twelve are the exception but after that it should be nothing but the odd scarf, t-shirt or wooly hat.
So two weeks of differing emotions, surprisingly good value tickets and the Vermin loosing on the opening day. But then again so did United back in 1996 before going on to win the domestic double with 'kids' and making Alan Hansen look like a twat. It's going to be an interesting year, I just hope it doesn't involve too much of Alan Shearer on MOTD or people wearing stupid clothes. Til next time.

Bad Blogging, a trip to Greece and the Massives.

Fair fucks to the lad who wrote a comment below my last post, it was on reflection a badly written and faintly boring article but then again the title of my blog might give the game away. Will try to do better this week. 

Managed to swap London for seven days in Greece on the spiritual Ionian island of Zante, an absolutely beautiful place with proper food, shimmering seas and cloudless skies. Stayed in a quaint villa with my family but we were informally connected to a bizarre beach club called the Peligoni, which is a kind of Eton on sea. The entire complex was run in a similar manner to a boarding school: staff who were all suitably plummy and universally hailed from the home counties were like prefects trying to control consistently pissed lawyers, doctors, bankers, lords and their trophy wives whilst their teenage offspring chased down their craftily hidden Marlbro Lights with bottles of neat Ouzo. It was an entertaining time. 

Away from the madness of Zante all kinds of fucked up things have been taking place back in Manchester. It's been some time since I've alluded to anything 'football' and frankly this summer has been a particularly tedious one as soulless clubs like Real and City, blinded by delusion and ambition, have destroyed the last vestiges of morality and parity that might have remained in the game. Watching the Barcodes getting thrashed by Leyton Orient and playing to 16, 000 fans at St. James' against Leeds has been welcome relief. The thought of those two clubs playing in the Third Tier of English football in a years time is a beguiling prospect.

Despite all this embittered angst I actually couldn't be more excited about the forthcoming season, primarily United's game against City in mid-September. United fans have for a long time laughed at City's bitter resentment fueled by our success and wearily ignored their constant stream of lies and claims that our entire support hails from south of the M25, knowing full well that the majority of those who used to walk down Kippax Street hail not from Manchester but from Stockport. Their actions this summer however, especially that fucking poster of Tevez in the centre of town, has merely highlighted everything that is wrong about their club. Fuckheads like Gary Cook, City's chief executive and definitive cunt, can't resist petty sideswipes at United, building upon the misconceptions and blatant untruths dreamt up by the hoards of desperate loosers gloating from over the wrong side of the M60. As a result City are made to look stupid, Sir Alex who has little time for local rivalry and fan division at the best of times is forced to remark on City's 'small time attitude,' and most importantly this year's Derby promises to be nastier, edgier and more passionate than anything for years with the exception of the 50th Anniversary game two seasons back. Fingers crossed City keep their shenanigans up because without them the following season would feel about as hollow as Gary Cook's skull.