GETTING PUSHY IN PRESTON

On Preston platform, I did my soft shoe shuffle dance. No one cared, except me. And I didn’t care that no one cared - I’d always wanted to do it.

            I’d also always wanted to know what Preston was like since Jethro Tull sang about it on Aqualung forty years ago. And now I knew; sadly, it’s pretty much what I thought it would be – a dump.

            Leaving the station on a windy September afternoon, I went in search of the University of Central Lancashire. The young Asian man who ran the general store around the corner didn’t know where I’d find Corporation Street but did point me in the direction of the university.

            Corporation Street is actually across the road from his emporium; I followed my map expecting to make light work of the fifteen minutes that my downloaded directions suggested the walk would take.

            Preston, aside from being a dump, is also the world road-crossing mecca. To get from station to university would have taken less than five minutes were it not for the necessity to cross 27 roads. Perhaps there are so many roads because everyone wants to get out of the place.

            I managed to find Greenbank Building, which sits - if not serenely -at least unobtrusively at the hub of a campus that is not as bad as some I’ve seen.

            My meeting with Cathy Darby, the leader of the MA in Journalism went pretty well and, after an hour of chatting I was offered a place on the course. We talked about content, work placements and career prospects.

            “Of course,” she told me with a refreshing honesty, “there are no guarantees that you’ll get a job at the end of it. Or even be successful as a freelance, if that’s what you want to do.”

            “What are the prospects of me getting a work placement?” I asked, “I mean, would my age go against me?”

            “Not particularly”, she replied, “You just have to be determined and a bit pushy.” I reflected on this. “In fact, you have to be pushy in everything you do to be successful in this business.”

            Pushy; you mean how Sean Connery calls the cat at bedtime? No pushy – as in you don’t take no for an answer. I reviewed my list of characteristics: grumpy, vindictive, intolerant, at times aggressive. But not pushy. Pushy was for people who were driven, thick-skinned, focused and motivated. People who weren’t lazy, and lazy was the last word I’d just mentally added to my lengthening list of unhelpful character traits.

            This course is not for lazy people. People who can’t get up in the morning or do a five-day nine-to-five week with some weekend commitment and plenty of homework needn’t apply. A bit of a contrast to the last MA I took.

            I cogitated on this on my way home: train from Preston to Manchester Piccadilly, then to Cheadle Hulme and bus to Bramhall.

            At least this was the plan. Except that I went to sleep as the train pulled into a station – the sign read “…hulme” and I leapt from the carriage only to discover that I’d alighted in Levenshulme as the train left the station. Not the same thing at all, and several miles on the wrong side of Stockport.

            And so I did my soft shoe shuffle dance on the platform at Levenshulme. Not because Jethro Tull had sung about it forty years ago, but because I had nothing better to do for fifty minutes until the Bramhall train arrived.

            Other than to contemplate being pushy.

WHY VAN THE MAN? RAVE ON WHILE YOU CAN!

There are probably more than three reasons why your might go to a Van Morrison concert; but here are three to be going on with.

            First, surely he can’t be as bad-tempered as he was last time - or can he? Secondly, there will come a time when he’s not around - and good luck God, if one of your angels should sing out of tune. And thirdly, because of the love/hate relationship you’ve had with him since you were growing up – especially if your hometown was Belfast in the ‘70s.

            Friday night, and we’re sitting in the front row of the Empire, adjacent to Lime Street station in Liverpool; there’s a discernable buzz of anticipation around this splendid old auditorium. Surprisingly there are a few empty seats. Maybe that’s down to the nigh-on £100 tickets, or perhaps it’s a sign that the Belfast Cowboy is failing to engage a younger fan-base as the Baby Boomers begin to shuffle off.

             The last time I’d seen him – in the Albert Hall a year ago – I’d sworn I’d never come back. He had grumped off stage after barely 45 minutes of a performance that was both desultory and indifferent; the sell-out crowd had left speechless at the realization that they had paid almost a fiver per minute for the privilege.

            We’d had a sweepstake on the way down last night, for how long he’d hold out before retiring for his slippers and cocoa.

            So when we arrived at the Empire to be informed that the programme would start at 7.45 sharp and would be finished by 9.15, I felt confident that my prediction of 90 minutes was spot on.

            Off to the bar, then, to get a drink or two to take in with us. But as we queue to be served, we learn that alcohol is not allowed in the auditorium.

            “…Normally is”, the barman informs us, “but He’s specifically forbidden it for tonight’s performance.”

            “Grumpy old Irish bastard,” said a voice behind me. “Just ‘cos he’s bloody given up drinking!”

            “I have a thing about grumpy Irish bastards, you know”, says the lady next to me. “I go all weak-kneed for them,” she adds. “In fact I’ve just buried one.”

            “D’you want another one?” asks my girlfriend, a little uncharitably. “I’ve got one here you can have!”

            San Miguel guzzled and toilet visited, we take our seats, with noses virtually pressed to the stage. The show gets off to a low-key start. The seven-piece band slink onto the stage and apologetically slide into “Baby Please Don’t Go”. The Great Man waddles on and loosens his larynx amid a flurry of groveling technicians re-connecting wires. VTM responds with frenetic hand waving as if he were chastising a badly behaved dog. This doesn’t bode well, I think, revising my sweepstake bid. But after they seamlessly merge into “Here Comes the Night”, things start to pick up. The knowledgeable audience, whose initial groans suggest that they’ve been through all this before, begin to warm up sensing that this just might be a good one.

            A snappy rendition of “Moondance” and “Fair Play” do much to reinforce this sentiment. Before long, we are slapping our arthritic or replaced knee joints to the subtleties of Morrison’s adept musical infusions of Soul, Blues, Jazz and even R&B, as he works through his considerable back catalogue.

            The advancing years may have done little to diminish VTM’s enduring ability both to frustrate and to entertain, but they have done little for his dress sense. The too tight leather jacket groans with the burden of containing his expanding waistline, and the jeans look like the sort that return you change from five quid at Primark. The passage of time can be cruel to us all, but his heavily jowl-ed face bares testament to his former years of hard living.

            As he sings “Have I Told You Lately”, I can’t help noticing that he is starting to look a bit like Captain Mainwaring. Just swap the aviator sunglasses for a pair of bi-focals and the fedora for the peaked-cap and you’re there; probably a control thing.

            And that brings me on to the question that I ask after every concert of his: why does he always treat the members of his band so dismissively?

            During “Help Me” - the penultimate of the 19 numbers he performed - I clearly heard him say to Paul Moran, the immensely talented keyboard player and trumpeter: “Don’t play any more f**kin’ bum notes…just play chords…only chords.”

            Now this, I considered, was a bit harsh; particularly as he had hit a few fairly duff notes himself during the performance - in fact, some that were little more melodic than his repetitive mid-song nose blowing.

            Just have a look at Moran’s CV: not only is he Morrison’s “Musical Director” but he has worked with the likes of George Michael, Sister Sledge and Gilbert O’Sullivan. He also released a polished jazz album, entitled “Smokin’ B3” which reached number eight in the HMV jazz charts.

            And his fellow musicians, who managed - on this occasion - to escape the wrath of Morrison, are no less accomplished. Chris White played saxophone with Dire Straits, while fellow Irishman Paul Moore played with The Chieftains and Mark Knopfler, in addition to being the Musical Director for Riverdance for two years.

            The answer must lie somewhere buried in the fact that there is no shortage of talented musicians who would give absolutely anything just to play with him.           

            Because, like us all, there will come a time when he’s not around. And for all his faults and frustrations, sometimes - like last night – he proves that he is irreplaceable. Rave on!

I PREDICT A RIOT – SO GET THE IMODIUM READY!

A South African friend of mine once summed up his nation’s attitude to sport thus: “It’s not winning that matters, it’s humiliating the b**tards that really counts!”

            At 4.48pm yesterday at Edgbaston, Shanthakumaran Sreesanth raised his middle finger – albeit behind his back - to the crowd seated in the Barnes Stand. That gesture said more about humiliation than any South African ever could.

            The previous over, Sreesanth, a fiery and competitive young man, had reminded us that India were there to compete rather than to supply half-volleys for Cook and Bresnan to slap to the boundary, by threatening to throw down Cook’s stumps on his follow-through.

            The crowd had responded with derision, and a wag behind me reminded him loudly that this is a far more appropriate gesture when the opposition are 80 for 7 - not 680 for 7. Well, he didn't put it quite like that, but that was the sentiment.

            Warming to his theme and basking in the glow of the crowd's endorsement, the wag persevered when Sreesanth returned to field in front of us at Third Man. After a drink – ditto my friend behind, albeit of the alcoholic variation - the Indian bowler went through as elaborate a stretching routine as I've ever seen. As such, it almost suggested that his wicket-less tally and the 150 runs which his military medium bowling had contributed to the English total were attributable to a niggling back injury.

            “There’s nothing wrong with your back!” yelled the wag. “Your bowling’s shit!” he added a little unkindly. Sreesanth unwisely responded by raising his middle finger.

            “You’re shit - and you know you are!” chanted the wag, un-sportingly. Then he stood and urged the crowd to do likewise: “Stand up - if you’re Number One…“Stand up - if you’re Number One…ENG-A-LAND… ENG-A-LAND…

            By this time, Sreesanth had retorted by working his way through all of the obscene gestures that he had learned from his culturally varied cricketing travels, even the archaic pumping of the arm whilst slapping the bicep with the other hand.

            Whilst I don't approve of the abuse which Sreesanth received, this was, however, the single most interesting confrontation on a day when the cricket had been as absorbing as reading the Comprehensive History of Health and Safety.
            Sure, Morgan had reached a hundred, crouching, poking, and occasionally stroking a glorious extra cover drive for four, to record the milestone of three figures.

            Bopara came and went in the manner of a man as surprised to find himself on the England team sheet as were most observers of the game, LBW to the likeable Mishra for 7.

            The only real surprise of the day – other than that lunch was taken five minutes early following the second rain break – was that Tendulkar managed to hang onto a top-edged attempted pull from Prior, thus ending the Indian obsession with grassing simple chances.

            Earlier in the afternoon, the sumptuously refurbished Edgbaston had experienced a technical glitch in the form of non-functioning electronic scoreboards. There was speculation that the disappearance of Bell, who had been pedalling furiously on his static bike on the pavilion balcony, may have had something to do with this.

            However, of greater concern was the failure of the flood-lights. The four giant pylons with lights fashioned in the letter “E” – presumably for Edgbaston rather than Entertainment – had been on since late morning to brighten the gloom of a typically glum August day.

            When these and the scoreboards failed, play ambled along aimlessly for some time until Messrs Davis and Taufel adjudged that the light was too bad to continue. The fact that spin was coming from both ends mattered not a jot. It was at this point that I noticed that power to the scoreboards had been restored so, presumably, the lights could be turned back on.

            Not so.

            Apparently the Laws state that if the lights have been turned off, they cannot be turned back on until the light improves sufficient for them not to be required. Now, if that piece of legislative nonsense isn’t a good reason for a riot, I don’t know what is.

            But cricket folk don’t riot, they just plod off to the bar muttering how ridiculous everything is; how this wouldn’t have happened in their day when no-one wore helmets and when play went on uninterrupted by darkness, hail, earthquake or monsoon.

            I reached the “food village” to find, to my surprise, the big screen showing that play had re-started. Some sort of compromise must have been reached as the light had got worse, if anything.

            Armed with an over-priced pint of Pedigree and a bag of crisps that I could have manufactured cheaper myself, I returned to my seat to watch the England innings grind on…and on…and on…and on.

            What was the point, we wondered, in this? England long since passed 500, then six hundred, and as they headed towards 700, with a lead of over 450, even the most optimistic Indian supporter wouldn’t have given his side a poppadum’s chance in a fat boy’s mouth of survival.

            There could only be one reason for not declaring: to allow Alastair Cook to pass Gooch’s landmark 333 against the Indians at Lord’s in 1990. And then, perhaps, Wally Hammond’s 336 against New Zealand at Auckland in 1933…and then maybe Len Hutton’s 364 against Australia at the Oval in 1938? Bookmakers were giving 25-1 on Cook passing Gooch’s 333 that morning and, by tea this was beginning to look a good bet.  

            Being a Friday, it wasn’t the official fancy-dress day, but Batman chasing Mr Blobby along the lower walkway of the Eric Hollies stand was much more entertaining than Cook’s faultless shot selection. But Bresnan, to his credit - now considered more of an all-rounder than Broad - livened things up a bit with a couple of huge straight drives for six.

            Unfortunately, one narrowly missed a bloke sitting a few rows behind us who had been trying to contact his mate, Dan, by yelling to him in the Hollies stand. He obviously hadn’t worked out how to use a mobile phone, and so we all joined in to help him, in the hope that he might eventually find him and shut up.

            And then, as Cook moved into the 290s, it dawned on me that there was another reason for Strauss keeping the hapless Indians in the field for two days: this was all about humiliation; here was greatest Indian subjugation since the days of the Raj.

            But at ten minutes to six, having occupied the crease for 12 hours and 47 minutes, the unthinkable happened: Cook played a wild shot and was caught in the deep by Raina, six short of his triple century. England immediately declared and it was no surprise that they removed Sehwag – for his second first-ball duck of the match – to complete their utter domination. Humiliation achieved.

            As an aside, but one that I suspect may have occurred elsewhere that evening, I made the mistake of discussing English dominance and Indian ineptitude rather too enthusiastically with the waiter in the Indian restaurant where I ordered my take-away some hours later.

            Now I wonder, could that possibly have had anything to do with my urgent dash to the toilet at 2am…and again at 3am…and again at…4am?

            Humiliating the opposition is occasionally a necessary part of every sport. But we’re not used to it in England, and perhaps that’s a good thing. For now England have been moved to the top of the class, but let’s not take all of our books yet just in case we’re returned to the back in humiliating fashion– as we were after the 2006-07 Ashes.

           

          

            

WRITER’S BLOG – OR SHOULD THAT BE BLOCK?

 A bit of a departure this, from the old blog. I’m going to write a sort of a diary.

            The reason I’m doing this is to measure my progress – or lack of it - towards the completion of my novel “Cowboys and Indians”.

            It’s not easy to write; just ask any writer – they will do absolutely anything to avoid sitting down and getting on with it. They will even write about something else - anything else, and this will allow them to say: “I’ve done a day’s writing – look, this is what I’ve done today!”

            And this is what I’m doing now.

            Today is Thursday 11^th August, and I really don’t know where the summer’s gone. It’s been raining for ever and it’s nearly September. I’m staying in a friend’s house in North Wales (hence the rain) with a seven week-old black Labrador puppy at my feet. He’s officially called “Mungo” but is currently referred to as “Little Shit” as that’s all he’s done this morning.

            I’m putting this in (or should it be on?) my blog: a) because you might possibly find it interesting, b) it is making a commitment to myself to actually do some writing each day – well, five days a week, and c) it will be a record as to why I don’t actually hit my targets, which of course I won’t. Oh, and to catalogue the excuses for failure… like rioting and looting in our cities, which makes it so very difficult to write. I mean, who knows, a mob of hoody-wearing, baseball bat waving, vodka-drinking teenagers may burst in at any monent, steal my radio, smash my laptop and rape the puppy.

Mungo - aka "Little Shit"

                        He’s gone to sleep now, Geoff Boycott is on commentary on Test Match Special - as good a reason as any to turn it off - and I’m stuck on the Times Crossword (thickos version) so I’ve got absolutely no reason not to write.

            So here goes…

            …Oh, I’m going to day three of the Edgbaston test tomorrow, so I won’t get much done there. I will, of course, take my laptop on the train so that I can turn it on, read the paper and leave it behind when I get off.

            Here’s my target: to write 1,000 words a day, or a total of 5,000 a week. I’ve written 60,000 words already (but some of that will be cut out) and I reckon it will run to around 80-85,000. That would be…let me see…five weeks, plus maybe two to re-write the first part. So, seven weeks – eight at most to finish the first draft!

            Yep, sounds good! If I've got that far by Christmas I’ll be happy!

            Puppy’s awake again…

Letter to The Times, 2nd August, 2011

Sir,

Much has been written in your columns and correspondence page about the Spirit of Cricket, but I feel I must share this with you.

Cricket, in its purest form, is a game that is punctuated by meals. During a recent holiday game of beach cricket, my girlfriend (also occasional third umpire and tea lady) had just opened her well-endowed hamper, popped a champagne cork and arranged scones, sandwiches and slices of pork pie onto picnic plates.

Understandably, but prior to an agreed cessation of play, my fellow protagonists began to drift off in the direction of this gastronomic finery.  I was left to bowl to her 6 year old son, who (un-Bell-like) showed absolutely no intention of leaving the crease.

In order to be relieved from my duty of 5^th change bowler before the fare had been entirely consumed, I came in off my long run, sending his stumps to all parts. The promise of membership of the illustrious Primary Club did little to allay his howls.

My girlfriend ruled that unless he was re-instated for the post-tea session, not only would I be barred from the fruits of the table but fruits of all sorts would be off the agenda for the duration of the holiday.

This, to me, was a summary lesson in The Spirit of Cricket and thankfully one, which in keeping with events at Trent Bridge, was not shared with the crowd.

Common Sense and the Spirit of The Game.

As featured on Radio2, The Jeremy Vine Show

There was a wonderful moment yesterday when, in the second test at Trent Bridge, Bell emerged from the pavilion, to resume batting after tea.

            For non-cricketers, it was wonderful because sportsmanship and common sense had prevailed, and in the world in which we live, this so rarely happens.

            To the unenlightened, or for those of you with no interest in cricket, Bell (on 137) had been given out – correctly but somewhat unjustly – for an act of crass stupidity on the last ball before the tea break. Having stroked the ball for what he thought was another boundary, he walked off for a cuppa, only to find that he had been given out when an Indian fielder threw back the ball and another removed the bails. The ball had not crossed the boundary and was still live, so technically the umpires had no choice but to uphold the touring side’s half-hearted appeal.

            This could have resulted in a pretty nasty escalation of hostilities and would almost certainly have ruined an excellent series between the two top test sides which has been as good-spirited as it has been competitive.

            And this brings me on to the situation in Libya, which was got absolutely nothing to do with cricket; in fact, it is one of the few countries where cricket is not played. But what it has to do with is Common Sense and The Spirit of The Game.

            Can anybody tell me, what the heck are we doing interfering in the politics of Libya? Ostensibly the involvement of our military forces is to protect civilians – nothing more. But the government of this country, and that of France, have made it perfectly clear that the only outcome they will accept is to see the back of Muammar Gaddafi. Dead or alive, he has to go from office, although we’ve backed down a bit so he may now be permitted to live out his remaining years in his homeland and not face trial for whatever crimes the international community can throw at him. They can justify this by the UN resolution which specifies – nice and vaguely – that their secondary mandate is to prevent “…destabilisation of the region.”

            And the best way to do that, of course, is to give political and militaristic endorsement to a bunch of rebels who we know nothing about. Well, that’s not entirely true: we know that they dispense summary justice by murdering their own leaders if things don’t work out how they had planned.

            I have two questions about our intervention. Firstly why, and secondly why now?

            Personally, I don’t think we should be there at all.

            I had hoped that we had heard the last of William Hague’s whinny minor public schoolboy prefect’s voice when he lost tenure as leader of the Conservative party. John Humphries ran rings around him on this morning’s Radio4 Today programme. The only reasonably plausible argument he could come up with for this huge waste of tax-payers’ money is this: if we stood back and did nothing, Libyan refugees would flood the shores of southern Europe, and by that, we mean Britain. Bollox – it will happen anyway, because we don’t have either an equitable or an enforceable immigration policy. And as for the justification of freeing up Libyan assets to give to these rebels, the mind just boggles! Where this cash will go is straight into the back pocket of Al Qaeda. 

            Giving legitimacy to the rebels as “freedom fighters” is absurd. Perhaps we should we follow this logic and recognise the Real IRA or the UFF as well?

            There is, of course, the issue of lives of innocent civilians. I’m sorry, but that is just not our problem. We didn’t interfere in any of the other “Arab Spring” insurrections so why Libya?

            However it is the question as to “why now?” that really makes my blood boil.

            Gaddafi came to power in a bloodless coup in 1969 and has remained the undemocratic but undisputed leader of Libya ever since. But what is so great about democracy that we, in the West, feel we have to impose it on every banana republic or tin-pot state that we don’t like? Democracy has only brought us corruption in the form of expense fiddling, phone and computer hacking and thousands of quangos that cannot make a decision without cog-oiling levels of bribery. And look at Belgium for goodness sake: they cannot even be bothered to sort out a cabinet.  On 1 June 2011, Belgium matched the record for time taken to form a new democratic government after an election, at 353 days, held until then by Cambodia in 2003-04. Democracy really works for them, doesn’t it?

            The way in which Gaddafi has run Libya has changed little over the past forty or so years. Sure, it’s an unpleasant repressive regime based on autocratic rule and the subjugation of the masses, but his level of unacceptability has not changed over that time.

            Well, actually, that’s not strictly true. In 1985, with the miners’ strike in its second year, he formed an unlikely alliance with Arthur Scargill. The purpose of this was regime change – namely to bring down Margaret Thatcher. And then in 1987, a shipment of arms was discovered on-board the Eksund bound for Ireland and use by the PIRA. It turned out, that Gaddafi had been supplying the IRA since 1972.

            So why on earth did we not do something about these flagrant breeches of diplomatic relations? Both of these policies could have been considered acts of aggression and a threat to the citizens of this country. And yet we sat back and did absolutely nothing!

            And then, of course, we sent home Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi, the Lockerbie bomber, in August 2009. This was for no better reason than that we didn’t have the stomach to have him die in a British jail – not that he has shown the remotest intention of dying since touching down on Libyan soil.

            And so we come back to Common Sense and the Spirit of The Game.  Andy Flower and Andrew Strauss trooped off to the Indian dressing room yesterday, cup of tea in hand, to enquire of MS Dhoni if he really wanted to stand by his appeal. There were no umpires present. They didn’t need to be, as they had done their bit – they had upheld the laws of the game.

            We, the British, have taken upon ourselves the onus of umpiring every conflict that occurs even although it is not our job to do so. Bosnia, Afghanistan, Libya…and, of course, Iraq have all become theatres of conflict which have absolutely nothing to do with us and are policed by Western interventionists for the most spurious of reasons. And now, perhaps, Syria – why not?

            So my solution to problems in the Middle East (and elsewhere) is very simple. Let the players sort it out themselves. It is not our problem.

            That way Common Sense and the Spirit of the Game will prevail. Fat chance!

           

            

A Tribute to Amy...well, sort of...

 Tribute to Amy…Sort of…

With regard to the premature but unremarkable demise of Ms Winehouse, I have started a very popular 'thread' on Facebook, which I am now opening for debate through the portal of my blog.
One commentator suggested that a large number of popular musicians have died at the age of 27, thus depriving the world of their unfulfilled genius.

I replied that it may be an interesting and amusing diversion to compile a top ten of artistes whose early mortal departure would not have been missed by subsequent generations of music lovers.
Here are a few suggestions:

At No 10: Pete 'talentless'Doherty

No9: Dido - although mourned by people who like “music for people who don't like music”.

At No8: Charlotte 'where are my knickers gone to?' Church.

At No7: Cliff 'honestly I'm not gay' Richard. There was an IRA plot to assassinate him in the '80s but it was annulled by the Chief-of-Staff as his popularity was ranked even below that of Thatcher's, and, as such would actually be welcomed by the British public.

At No6:  Madonna - she's just a slut who sadly gave up eventing before a cross country fence could see her off.

At No5: Mika - now thankfully pretty much a spent force but rivalled Pinky + Perky as an irritant at his height.

At No4: All of the Bee Gees, the Monkeys, and any commercial male American-based band of the '60s, '70s and '80s.

At No3: in joint place: Michael Jackson and Elvis. Oh, sorry didn't realise they'd already gone. Still have to listen to the shite they pumped out though.

At No2: Bono - no explanation required for this inclusion...and at Number 1...
...Is...
Yes, folks...Sir Paul McShite McCartney. The wrong Beatle was shot if we are judging on potential musical heritage. Actually, if we're judging on any criteria.

Please note that some obvious candidates - such as Bob Geldof and Ringo Starr - have been excluded on the grounds that they cannot in any way be classed as musicians.

Van Morrison was suggested but rejected by the author. Middle aged Ulstermen have every right to be grumpy and say what the feck they want.

Feel free to submit your very own top 10.