I'm about to leave work
I can't wait to
You know
Just
Push through those doors
Today I spoke to a colleague for five minutes about things I hate
And this is the distilled version
in no particular order
Richard Hammond
Smug twats
Poems
People who watch rugby
People who call football soccer
Dead chickens (Scousers beware)
The Glazer family
Top Gear
Afternoons
Carling
St George Flags
People who appear on Newsnight
Girls in gangs
That Boots Christmas Advert
All Christmas adverts
Phrases
Manchester United Ticket Office
Wembley
England fans
K-Swiss trainers
The Daily Mail
The Express
Twilight
Men who refer to themselves as blokes
Blogs
Fedex
ciddy
laptops
most kinds of cheese
chinos
trying to write stuff
living in London without money
christmas lights
x factor
loads of other things.
So...bored and I copied most of these out of UWS. (United We Stand)
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
A long break and new films
It's been well over two weeks since I last made an appearance on the blogosphere and much of my spleen needs venting. I'm sure I've been missed. We seem to have hit the most boring part of the year, as people begin to obsess about Christmas and complain bitterly about important things like impending bank bonuses, two Irish simpletons with gravely misjudged conceptualizations of what constitutes a legally permitted hairstyle and the Prime Minister's apparent failure to master basic handwriting/spelling skills. 'Hip Urbanites' and media commentators now appear to be taking two contrasting approaches to the doomed month of December, either foaming at the mouth because large retailers have started the annual round of mind numbing commercials even earlier than usual, or (if they listen to Capital FM and shop in BHS) going weak at the knees for terrible ceremonies involving a band called JLS switching on city centre Christmas lights. The whole thing has become so turgidly formulaic that, as Charlie Brooker noted in his oh so witty Guardian column, even the offending advertisers themselves have started to mock the misery of a 'consumer' dominated Christmas by sneering at the poisonous destruction of festive 'meaning' with cringe worthy attempts at irony.
Where I work (sorry intern) I have had the pleasure of listening to two separate celebrations of wasteful, pointless celebratory illumination. Firstly there was the Oxford Street 'Christmas Carol' extravaganza, starring the cast from Robert Zemmics' new 3D take on Charles Dickens' seminal fable, who led roughly ten thousand complete tools in the world's largest collective rendition of 'Come All ye Faithful.' As this reminded me of that sickening T-Mobile karaoke wankathon advert filmed in Trafalgar Square over the summer, the less said about it the better. To annoy innocent people like me even further the powers that be shut Oxford Circus tube station for the evening so all the carolling fuckwits could retreat back to their miserable suburban bungalows in relative safely whilst enjoying the resolutely Autumnal weather conditions and thus disrupting my commute back to North London by a full thirty minutes. Ba Humbug and all that.
The other celebration of shitness and wasted electricity came only a week later as neighboring Carnaby Street was invaded by what looked and sounded like a troupe of sorry individuals who clearly thought they were getting 'groovy' in a new Austin Powers film. There were the crass, inexcusably faux 'Swinging Sixties' blowup decorations, the rock songs that middle aged men suffering from alcoholism or terminal disease in Richard Curtis films always seem to adore and a compare who sounded suspiciously like DJ Dr Fox. I say sounded because I was sat in my office having to endure the forced bonhomie whilst conjuring offensive images of all the dipsticks cavorting in front of Soccer Scene without considering the distinct possibility that they were almost certainly wasting a precious few hours of their sorry lives by lowering themselves to such iniquitous indignity.
Anyway on an equally angry note I went to see Harry Brown last Thursday and was forced to endure two hours of tedious, right-wing harping, which lacked any semblance of actual research or intelligent dissection of what is clearly an incredibly important but complex issue. We've seen the horrors of 'Hoodie Britain' evoked many times before, in recent films such as 'Adulthood' and 'Eden Lake' stereotypes were accentuated to the detriment of plot and effective characterisation. What we get here is more of the same, coupled with a refusal to answer difficult questions with anything but violence and retribution.
I should state now that Harry Brown starring Michael Caine is not totally woeful. Telling the story of an elderly war veteran meting out his own brand of violent justice to a gang of teenagers terrorising his London estate, it uses the uniquely grim light of an exaggerated urban dystopia particularly well, and builds a profound sense of oppression during the tense opening quarter. Whilst Caine is controlled and graceful, managing to retain a sense of believable pathos the plot sadly looses direction and honesty, tarnished by a poor script, lack of budget and ridiculous, 'so over the top they become comedic' villains.
My primary problem with the film was its refusal to move beyond fantasy and conjecture and actually provide some form of imaginative insight. The young men wreaking havoc on this miserable corner of the city are all shown to have endured difficult, damaging childhoods. The primary charlatan (played by the very talented musician Ben Drew aka. Plan B) is the son of a violent gangster whilst one member of his 'crew' has clearly been a victim of horrific sexual abuse from a young age. Having created these detailed and harrowing back stories however, the writer and director choose simply to ignore them; Caine's victims are blown away in a hail of bullets without remorse or regret. This ethos is distinctly troubling, in that the origins of antisocial behavior are initially identified, but then dispelled in favor of violence and a style of retribution lifted straight from the Old Testament.
What Harry Brown seems to be prescribing is the absolute condemnation of British children who have grown up under the 'protective' arm of New Labour. Brought up in a state that has chosen to cloak its poorest residents in the damaging swaddling cloths of easily accessible welfare, by single mothers living out miserable lives addicted to drugs, the world of Harry Brown uses broad brush strokes to tar a whole swathe of the population, salivating at the sight of Michael Caine destroying the tainted products of broken homes it depicts with such voyeuristic delight.
Not intelligent, not enjoyable and inherently negative, Harry Brown underlines the continued failure of the British Film industry to confront an issue that resonates well beyond the front cover of The Daily Mail.
What Harry Brown seems to be prescribing is the absolute condemnation of British children who have grown up under the 'protective' arm of New Labour. Brought up in a state that has chosen to cloak its poorest residents in the damaging swaddling cloths of easily accessible welfare, by single mothers living out miserable lives addicted to drugs, the world of Harry Brown uses broad brush strokes to tar a whole swathe of the population, salivating at the sight of Michael Caine destroying the tainted products of broken homes it depicts with such voyeuristic delight.
Not intelligent, not enjoyable and inherently negative, Harry Brown underlines the continued failure of the British Film industry to confront an issue that resonates well beyond the front cover of The Daily Mail.
Monday, 26 October 2009
Nick Griffin and other idiots
Last week was a bad one for British Politics. The hysteria and gimmicky 'water cooler' gossip surrounding Nick Griffin's appearance on Question Time, was like Obama fever all over again, only this time the vast majority of media commentators mindlessly rushed to voice their disgust and impertinent anger without actually bothering to address the events of Thursday night with any basic sense of proportion.
Lets be certain about one thing: Nick Griffin is a complete and utter catastrophe, and his appearance on QT merely underlined what a thick fucking bag of spanners the twat really is. His semi deranged giggling and idiotic gurning, that fucking terrible hair cut, his wonky eye, muddled arguments that made about as much sense as The Sun rushing out to condemn him the following day and a proficiency for public speaking that makes Chelsea's Joe Cole sound like an eloquent sage, everything about the man suggested that he is still coming to terms with being the odd child everyone took turns to bully at school.
But whilst Griffin succeeded in little more than suggesting he's one raisin short of a fruit pudding, those up against him, and I include 90% of the audience in this, were even worse. Endless questions directed at the BNP leader began with comments alluding to personal disgust which were then applauded and cheered by the kind of people who knit their own porridge and live semi permanent Yurts somewhere in Islington. Jack Straw, supposedly an experienced elder statesman and a highly rated public speaker was representing the current incumbents of 10 Downing Street, but chose to read a complete load of toss from a fucking script. Bonnie Greer was deliberately positioned next to Griffin in a cringe inducing act of political pantomime. I could go on for hours ranting about the BBC's lack of judgment, that young twat in the Newcastle shirt who asked the first mind numbing 'question' (How the fuck does he represent London) and the fat, bald cunt (clearly a BNP fanatic) who started moaning about about British jobs for British people, but I won't. They were all foolhardy idiots in their own way and the only people who emerged unscathed from the mess were David Dimbleby; who has a knack of reducing those of a self important bent into stuttering blunderers, and the man who rose above the follies of the mob and asked an intelligent and cutting question about the government's refusal to address the problems associated with uncontrolled immigration to arch blatherer Jack Straw.
As Mathew Paris argued rather well in his Times column the saddest thing about last Thursday was the sheer stupidity of it all. The BNP have an incredibly narrow agenda solely based around hatred, race, nationalism and bigotry. What they don't have are coherent policies regarding the central concerns of modern Britain: the economy, the environment, technological revolution and scientific advancement. Why didn't the BBC and the audience challenge Griffin on these kind of issues? He would have looked like a spare prick at a same sex wedding had someone questioned him on the BNP's environmental agenda, approach to the Free Market or the arguments surrounding embryo research. Instead we had nothing but a stream of rhetorical, phlegm flecked diatribes; whose sole purpose was to elicit the foolhardy racism that Griffin is already famous for. Just as James Delingpole wrote in the Telegraph last week, the kind of people who appear to have a coronary at the mere mention of the BNP are as singularly stupid and emotionally driven as those they claim to hate. With the supposedly liberal left there is no analysis or argument, just loud wails of outrage and shock that achieve the princely sum of Fuck All.
Anyway as expected the ensuing twenty four hours saw the entire viewing public suddenly morph into experienced political commentators eager to display their disproportionate disgust by writing things like: 'Nick Griffin is horrible' as their Facebook status. Brilliant, full fucking marks, its like the whole class ganging up on the weirdo who smells of piss and stabs girls with his plastic protractor until he does something suitably quirky and then over much mutual backslapping reiterating to one other what a freak he is. Ultimately the whole process just reflects very badly on the general public.
Oh well never mind, what could be worse then having to sit through an hour of indignant Guardian readers and simpletons berating a man who looks like Hitler crossed with Uncle Fester from the Addams Family? Hmm well watching that pile of filthy, work dodging shite from Anfield Road beating us at the home of dole scrounging, murdering filth was pretty fucking terrible, I can tell you. I'm still trying to get the bitter taste out of my eyes.
Until next week, tootle pip!
Lets be certain about one thing: Nick Griffin is a complete and utter catastrophe, and his appearance on QT merely underlined what a thick fucking bag of spanners the twat really is. His semi deranged giggling and idiotic gurning, that fucking terrible hair cut, his wonky eye, muddled arguments that made about as much sense as The Sun rushing out to condemn him the following day and a proficiency for public speaking that makes Chelsea's Joe Cole sound like an eloquent sage, everything about the man suggested that he is still coming to terms with being the odd child everyone took turns to bully at school.
But whilst Griffin succeeded in little more than suggesting he's one raisin short of a fruit pudding, those up against him, and I include 90% of the audience in this, were even worse. Endless questions directed at the BNP leader began with comments alluding to personal disgust which were then applauded and cheered by the kind of people who knit their own porridge and live semi permanent Yurts somewhere in Islington. Jack Straw, supposedly an experienced elder statesman and a highly rated public speaker was representing the current incumbents of 10 Downing Street, but chose to read a complete load of toss from a fucking script. Bonnie Greer was deliberately positioned next to Griffin in a cringe inducing act of political pantomime. I could go on for hours ranting about the BBC's lack of judgment, that young twat in the Newcastle shirt who asked the first mind numbing 'question' (How the fuck does he represent London) and the fat, bald cunt (clearly a BNP fanatic) who started moaning about about British jobs for British people, but I won't. They were all foolhardy idiots in their own way and the only people who emerged unscathed from the mess were David Dimbleby; who has a knack of reducing those of a self important bent into stuttering blunderers, and the man who rose above the follies of the mob and asked an intelligent and cutting question about the government's refusal to address the problems associated with uncontrolled immigration to arch blatherer Jack Straw.
As Mathew Paris argued rather well in his Times column the saddest thing about last Thursday was the sheer stupidity of it all. The BNP have an incredibly narrow agenda solely based around hatred, race, nationalism and bigotry. What they don't have are coherent policies regarding the central concerns of modern Britain: the economy, the environment, technological revolution and scientific advancement. Why didn't the BBC and the audience challenge Griffin on these kind of issues? He would have looked like a spare prick at a same sex wedding had someone questioned him on the BNP's environmental agenda, approach to the Free Market or the arguments surrounding embryo research. Instead we had nothing but a stream of rhetorical, phlegm flecked diatribes; whose sole purpose was to elicit the foolhardy racism that Griffin is already famous for. Just as James Delingpole wrote in the Telegraph last week, the kind of people who appear to have a coronary at the mere mention of the BNP are as singularly stupid and emotionally driven as those they claim to hate. With the supposedly liberal left there is no analysis or argument, just loud wails of outrage and shock that achieve the princely sum of Fuck All.
Anyway as expected the ensuing twenty four hours saw the entire viewing public suddenly morph into experienced political commentators eager to display their disproportionate disgust by writing things like: 'Nick Griffin is horrible' as their Facebook status. Brilliant, full fucking marks, its like the whole class ganging up on the weirdo who smells of piss and stabs girls with his plastic protractor until he does something suitably quirky and then over much mutual backslapping reiterating to one other what a freak he is. Ultimately the whole process just reflects very badly on the general public.
Oh well never mind, what could be worse then having to sit through an hour of indignant Guardian readers and simpletons berating a man who looks like Hitler crossed with Uncle Fester from the Addams Family? Hmm well watching that pile of filthy, work dodging shite from Anfield Road beating us at the home of dole scrounging, murdering filth was pretty fucking terrible, I can tell you. I'm still trying to get the bitter taste out of my eyes.
Until next week, tootle pip!
Monday, 19 October 2009
A month away, Barnsley, the 52nd BFI Film Festival and Komodo Dragons
Been away a while and feel bad about neglecting my blog and all three of my loyal readers. Well thank goodness I'm back. Anyway I have my excuses: work has been keeping me from doing much else during the week and yet another political party conference; this time the Conservatives up in Manchester, wiped me out for a couple of days. Politicians are an odd bunch, both the Labour and Tory party representatives were far more polite than other clients I have previously worked with and many seemed genuine, conscientious people . I won't start bad mouthing those who showed themselves up but there were a couple from both sides who are clearly nasty little fuckers, and some in quite high positions too. Then again, who would you rather have running your constituency? A friendly know nothing nob or nobette from the home counties who pays far too much attention to the Daily Mail and opinion poles or an oily, backstabbing shit with the intelligence and political acumen of Malcom Tucker (of The Thick of It fame) who has the courage to make unpopular decisions? Tough choices will have to be made in early summer next year.
Meanwhile back on planet football, after the inflatable mayhem at the Stadium of Light on Saturday, Liverpool are swiftly morphing into Manchester City circa 2007 (ie. a laughing stock undone by balloons) whilst City are seem to be basing their game around the example set by the Dippers circa 2008 (ie grinding out fruitlessly boring draws at the likes of Wigan.) United still look far from certain but are doing remarkably well considering some poor performances. Apart from finding out what Wazza and Coleen are going to call their first born later this week and the longed for moment when broadsheet journalists eventually cease talking absolute shite about England and the World Cup, I'm also looking forward to my first United away of the season next Tuesday, all the way up in Barnsley. 5800 reds will be there for a midweek Carling Cup tie against relatively local rivals in an unfriendly and passionately partisan town. With a low number of day trippers this is one for the die hards and should be absolutely fucking class.
Returning to the world of film; where the majority of my attention is currently focused, it is good to see that London, albeit for two and a half weeks only, has become the focus of the industry; as stars, directors, producers, studio execs and enthused crowds mingle in Leicester Square or down by the BFI on the Southbank for the 52nd BFI London Film Festival. I have so far taken in two of the gala premieres: Men Who Stare at Goats and The Road, whilst also enjoying another prominent release; A Prophet on DVD courtesy of the office. All three were great films, it was fun to do the red carpet thing on Thursda for MWSG starring a rather famous American actor called George. He was there in person and I am glad to say that it was a fun film about depression, mental disorders and war. Strange topics for comedy but this kind of stuff is always suitably close to the bone.
A Prophet was a French release set inside a grim prison. Moving, powerful, engaging, realistic and poignant, the tale of an illiterate Arab, the type of fellow that total cunt Sarcozy labeled scum a few years back, not only surviving but actually flourishing in an environment dominated violence and misery was heartwarming and honest. A must see on general release.
Finally The Road. If you have read Cormac McCarthy's 2006 masterpiece you need little introduction. If you haven't then get it, consume it and watch the film when it comes out next month. It's a damn fine effort from John Hillcoat (last seen directing Aussie Western The Proposition) but its Viggo Mortensen as 'The Man' and Kodie Smit-McPhee as 'The Boy' who steal the show. It's not perfect, and finds it hard to match the quality of the book, but its a beautiful film which nevertheless leave the viewer shocked, terrified and troubled. I will try to review it some time next week.
Finally just watched a program on BBC1 called Life. It's a ten part Wildlife series from that golden oldie nature god David Attenborough, and though I often view this kind of stuff as nothing but Sunday night fodder for lonely Estate Agents and those absolute chumps who used to be head boy at school, it was really rather good. The final part showed a number of Komodo Dragons (fuck off venomous Lizards) poisoning and slowly killing a Water Buffalo. They then tore it to the bone in less than four hours. These slithering reptiles could teach scousers, politicians and maybe even some of the unsavory types who feature in The Road a thing about cold blooded killing.
It's Liverpool at Anfield on Sunday. Fingers crossed they won't be turning us into metaphorical Water Buffalo as they did at O.T back in April. Till Monday, G.
Meanwhile back on planet football, after the inflatable mayhem at the Stadium of Light on Saturday, Liverpool are swiftly morphing into Manchester City circa 2007 (ie. a laughing stock undone by balloons) whilst City are seem to be basing their game around the example set by the Dippers circa 2008 (ie grinding out fruitlessly boring draws at the likes of Wigan.) United still look far from certain but are doing remarkably well considering some poor performances. Apart from finding out what Wazza and Coleen are going to call their first born later this week and the longed for moment when broadsheet journalists eventually cease talking absolute shite about England and the World Cup, I'm also looking forward to my first United away of the season next Tuesday, all the way up in Barnsley. 5800 reds will be there for a midweek Carling Cup tie against relatively local rivals in an unfriendly and passionately partisan town. With a low number of day trippers this is one for the die hards and should be absolutely fucking class.
Returning to the world of film; where the majority of my attention is currently focused, it is good to see that London, albeit for two and a half weeks only, has become the focus of the industry; as stars, directors, producers, studio execs and enthused crowds mingle in Leicester Square or down by the BFI on the Southbank for the 52nd BFI London Film Festival. I have so far taken in two of the gala premieres: Men Who Stare at Goats and The Road, whilst also enjoying another prominent release; A Prophet on DVD courtesy of the office. All three were great films, it was fun to do the red carpet thing on Thursda for MWSG starring a rather famous American actor called George. He was there in person and I am glad to say that it was a fun film about depression, mental disorders and war. Strange topics for comedy but this kind of stuff is always suitably close to the bone.
A Prophet was a French release set inside a grim prison. Moving, powerful, engaging, realistic and poignant, the tale of an illiterate Arab, the type of fellow that total cunt Sarcozy labeled scum a few years back, not only surviving but actually flourishing in an environment dominated violence and misery was heartwarming and honest. A must see on general release.
Finally The Road. If you have read Cormac McCarthy's 2006 masterpiece you need little introduction. If you haven't then get it, consume it and watch the film when it comes out next month. It's a damn fine effort from John Hillcoat (last seen directing Aussie Western The Proposition) but its Viggo Mortensen as 'The Man' and Kodie Smit-McPhee as 'The Boy' who steal the show. It's not perfect, and finds it hard to match the quality of the book, but its a beautiful film which nevertheless leave the viewer shocked, terrified and troubled. I will try to review it some time next week.
Finally just watched a program on BBC1 called Life. It's a ten part Wildlife series from that golden oldie nature god David Attenborough, and though I often view this kind of stuff as nothing but Sunday night fodder for lonely Estate Agents and those absolute chumps who used to be head boy at school, it was really rather good. The final part showed a number of Komodo Dragons (fuck off venomous Lizards) poisoning and slowly killing a Water Buffalo. They then tore it to the bone in less than four hours. These slithering reptiles could teach scousers, politicians and maybe even some of the unsavory types who feature in The Road a thing about cold blooded killing.
It's Liverpool at Anfield on Sunday. Fingers crossed they won't be turning us into metaphorical Water Buffalo as they did at O.T back in April. Till Monday, G.
Monday, 28 September 2009
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.
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.
Monday, 21 September 2009
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!
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!
Monday, 14 September 2009
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
'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.
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