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.

THE BLOG IS BACK

THE BLOG IS BACK

My blog has had a bit of a rest recently as I’ve been concentrating on finishing the first draft of my novel, currently entitled: “Cowboys and Indians”.

For those of you who can read (this probably excludes most of our Facebook brethren) you can follow this link: http://www.authonomy.com/books/35262/cowboys-and-indians/ and read the first ninety pages on the Harper Collins website, Authonomy. Please feel free to leave a comment as I welcome advice and criticism.

Below is a synopsis of it with the “Strap line”.

Cowboys and Indians is a Black comedy set in South Armagh during the Troubles. Double agent "Fishknife" has one final assignment to perform to erase his past and pocket £5.5m.

John Harris has unique skills. Aged 17 and disaffected with life, he opts for a career as an IRA terrorist.

Diffident and cold, he soon becomes the perfect killing machine. Then he meets Ellen, the niece of the head of the PIRA and falls in love her. He is led to believe that she - and their child - were assassinated by Special Branch.

But when he finds out that he has been used and lied to, he “turns” and becomes a double agent working for the MI6 sanctioned Force Research Unit.

Given the codename “Fishknife”; his nom de plume becomes the harbinger for death and destruction across the province in a British Government sanctioned blood-fest.

But then the Good Friday Agreement makes him redundant. He passes the time in his native Derry working as a Life Coach for former terrorists, writing erotic fiction under a pseudonym and his Saturday nights as a ‘70s disco DJ.

And then he receives the phone call he has been waiting for.

To claim the £5.5 million in a Gibraltar bank account, he must assassinate Sir John Stephenson, whose report is about to reveal who he is and expose the depths to which the British Government sunk during The Troubles.

Before, that is, they can assassinate him.

Well, that’s it folks!

GERONIMO – WE’VE GOT HIM – OR WAS IT CAPRICORN 2?

So what about old Bin Bag’s despatch?  Good news, wasn’t it? Well of course it is some form of pay-back for September 9^th and July 7^th but you don’t have to be a political analyst to work out that this is not closure; satisfaction maybe.

            Of course the world now anticipates a huge backlash from the crazy house of cards upon which Mr bin Laden sat. But to take one man from the top of the Islam fundamentalist hierarchy will do no more damage to al-Qaeda than pulling Martin McGuiness or Gerry Adams from the streets of Belfast would have done to the IRA; and how easy would that have been?

            That is, of course, if you believe that Mr bin Laden is actually dead; which I don’t.

            Conspiracy theorists are usually regarded as whacky paranoid loners with too much time and technological know-how on their hands; I only tick two of those boxes, so go with this for a minute.

            Bin Laden’s “death” is a win-win situation for everyone with the possible exception of the Pakistanis. For Obama, it is the shot in the arm which his flagging popularity desperately needs; just look at those scenes on the streets of New York and Washington to witness a modern day lynch mob in action. Good job, Obama! Take another four years! And aside from the sweet taste of revenge, it demonstrates that obtaining Intel under duress – aka torture- is justified. He might even be able to pull a few troops home from Afghanistan. Ironically, “disappearing” bin Laden could do for Obama what 911 did for George Bush – keep him in the White House.

            And then bin Laden himself; what of the Saudi-born adventurer who cut his teeth with the CIA funded Mujahedeen before becoming radicalised and attaining the status of the World’s-Most-Wanted-Man? He had nothing more to gain. His World Vision for Islamic Dominance lies in tatters with the CIA fuelled pro-democracy insurgence spreading like a cancer throughout the Arab world. The Arab Spring is doing for al-Qaeda what Gordon Wilson did for the IRA. If he had serious political aspirations, he’d still be in the caves of Tora Bora.

            No, Mr bin Laden was offered terms, and he wisely took them. He was never going to be paraded in front of the world press or stand in the dock to account for his crimes against humanity. Everyone knew where he was for at least the last four years but no one did anything about it. Even the bounty hunters were warned off. Until, that is, last week when the Pakistanis decided to cash in their most valued asset and go public; then something had to be done about it. Bin Laden’s last reported location even suggests that he may already have been in American hands; just a short hop in a Black Hawk from Bagram Air Base.

            I believe Mr bin Laden will be under the protectorate of the CIA and left to live out his remaining years painting model passenger jets or assembling jig-saws of the Twin Towers somewhere where he will not be found; free to do anything in fact, except write his memoir.

            You may ask about those newspaper pictures of Obama and his inner circle in the aptly named “Situation Room”. You may see the casually dressed twelve in the “…Gee, this turn of events took us by surprise” manner of those suddenly summoned to witness the green light for decisive action that lead to that “Geronimo” moment. See them sitting, grim faced, hand to mouth (Clinton) or behind backs (Biden), watching the video feeds from the Navy Seals Six’s head-cams, evidencing the final moments play out in the life of their most feared adversary. Was this not what happened? Surely the invitation to the press to watch them watching is evidence enough? And wasn’t it a good enough reason for Obama to have missed the Royal Wedding?

            But that scene is eerily similar to another one – albeit perpetrated by Hollywood – in which the inner circle of JFK’s administration observed the moon landing; except the “moon landing” actually took place in a huge warehouse in a remote region of the Sierra Nevada desert. Remember Capricorn One?  Conspiracy theorists would say that there was more than a grain of truth in this: If you can’t actually get your rocket to the moon the moon will come to you – so the next best thing is to fake it. Just where did that shadow come from, and is there actually sufficient wind on the moon to make the Stars and Stripes flutter?

            If I’m wrong about this, there will be a video popping up pretty soon on Aljazeera, telling us that he is alive and had just popped out for a six-pack of Carling when his human rights were infringed, his property violated, a subsidiary wife and much valued courier murdered, and a Black Hawk dumped in his back yard.

            I mean, do we seriously believe that the analysts at Langley narrowed it down one house-stroke-complex simply because a $1m property ought to have a satellite TV and a terrestrial phone line?  You could target almost every house in Wilmslow on that basis. And as for the politically correct burial at sea? Too much information and too little evidence.

            So if this was, as I believe, “Capricorn 2” – and frankly I wouldn’t blame the Americans for one minute if it was - no one, Jews apart, really wants to catch and deal with war criminals these days.  

WILL THE REAL LONDON VIRGINS PLEASE STAND UP?

THE VIRGIN LONDON MARATHON IS 30 YEARS OLD NEXT SUNDAY – WANT MAKES IT SO SPECIAL?

At Mile 26, just about 400 yards short of the finish line of the 2010 Virgin London Marathon, Nick Martin pulled up with severe cramp, unable to run any further. Seeing this, fellow runner Mike Charlton, a 6’6” an ex-Royal Marine dressed in a pink tutu, stopped and offered a helping hand. Charlton was within throwing distance of completing his fifth marathon in five weeks in five different countries. He said later:

            “I must admit that I had absolutely no idea who he was, he was just another runner in need of a little help on Sunday, it was the least I could do. The London Marathon is not about times, it's about people. Thirty-six thousand runners with a story to tell, and the millions of spectators willing you to the finish. I couldn't leave him; it meant more to me to help than it ever would have to sprint to the line.”

            Sunday 17^th April is the thirtieth anniversary of the London Marathon, an event, like many other foot-races, which was born in a pub: the Dysart Arms in Richmond. John Disley CBE, and Chris Brasher CBE who died in 2003, were both former Olympic medallists who had run the New York Marathon in 1979. They returned inspired by the carnival atmosphere and determined that London should host a marathon that would reflect the magnificence of the city, and all that is inspirational and aspirational about being British. Brasher wrote an article for The Observer entitled “The World’s Most Human Race” which became the springboard for a lengthy and difficult gestation which led to the inaugural race on 29th March, 1981.

            And now, thirty years on it is an event which is still massively over-subscribed, draws hundreds of thousands to the capital simply to watch, and embodies everything which is good about the human condition: endurance, selflessness and compassion. It is simply known as ‘The Marathon’. There are many harder marathons; marathons run at high altitude over precarious terrain; marathons run across the Sahara or the Antarctic. And there are ultra-distance marathons: marathons which make road marathons look easy; marathons run back-to-back over several days – even several weeks. No sooner than someone comes up with the ultimate running challenge, someone else comes up with something harder.

            But whilst these extreme events may still be the province of the elite or the insane (and we should really slip in the “self-publicists” here) the fact remains that each of the thirty-five thousand or so runners who cross the finish line on Pall Mall next Sunday are also in some way ‘elite’. This, in no small way, explains the draw of the London Marathon: it is a race for ordinary people.

            Let me go further: ten years ago, I achieved my running zenith: I managed a creditable performance in the highest marathon on earth: The Everest Marathon. I’ll not bore you with the details, but I felt rather proud of what I’d achieved (sorry – one detail – I finished just behind a runner who had run the “London” that year in 2 hours 18 minutes).

            When I returned, and had sufficiently divested myself of the stench of the furthest reaches of the Third World, I walked into my local pub proudly wearing my “Reebok Everest Marathon” T shirt. I only wore it the once. I was bombarded with questions: “Did you run all the way to the top?” “Did that double glazing firm sponsor you?” “What was the weather like?” “Did your mobile work?” “Do you want to buy some raffle tickets?” Of course the question that really irked me the most and reinforced the triviality of my achievement was: “Have you ever run the London Marathon?” No amount of explaining that you had to trek in freezing conditions for three weeks to reach the start…or that it was -30 degrees and you had to dig yourself out of your snow-clad tent on race day…or that one runner was gored by a rampant Yak whilst another slipped and almost fell three thousand feet to his death in the Dudh Khosi river…none of this did anything to dispel the widely held view that: “…well, if you haven’t run the “London”, then you’re not a proper marathoner! Now, would you like to buy some raffle tickets?”

            And I suppose this is why the London Marathon is so special: it’s about community, it’s a carnival for the people, a huge rainbow of an event; it’s just as hard for Tsegaye Kebede or Paula Radcliffe at the front, as it is for Joe Bloggs from Swindon at the back running in a giraffe suit.

            And that, to be blunt, is why I would never want to run London. Crowds so dense that you are unable to jog for at least the first mile; the jolliness of the thing and the notion that I am a part of the Greater Good of Humanity, moving together towards some Laudable Goal is an anathema as to what running is for me. For me, running has always been about measurable and tangible achievement; it is about times, about solitude and isolation, long stretches of wild country where you never see another living creature. I have only ever run one road half marathon; I finished in a time of one hour and fourteen minutes; this, I decided, was a time that I was unlikely to improve on so I never ran another one.

            But for most, running is about fellowship and a shared experience; working towards some common end-point. Tracey Phillips, 45, has four children, and this will be her fifth “London”. She hasn’t trained as hard for this race as in the past and doubts that she will beat her personal best: 3 hours and 58 minutes. “Actually”, Tracey from Moss-side in Manchester told me, “I just want to finish this one; hopefully I’ll get a nice bit of mouth-to-mouth from a fit ambulance man at the finish!” Jane is running for “Refuge”, a charity for victims of domestic violence. “I was going to run in a bear costume”, she said, “But my husband said if he sees me bare I’ll be the one who’ll be battered…think he mis-heard me.” For Tracey, who is running with friends Fiona and Carol, it is all about the colour and the banter with other runners along the way. “It’s a bit like clubbing really, but everyone’s going in the same direction. I got asked out three times last year. Mind you, it was all by blokes running in bananas suits.” Tracey hopes to raise over £1500 for Refuge.

            And giving is another reason why “London” is so enduring: charities have done extremely well from The Marathon; half a billion pounds have been raised since 1981 from an event which may have never have got going were it not for a stroke of luck. With the necessary approvals in place – including a petition to Her Majesty to hold the changing of the Guard one hour earlier – Brasher and Disley hit a major obstacle: they anticipated being £75,000 out of pocket. Luckily, in stepped Gillette who had just dropped their sponsorship of cricket, which was about as popular as, well, cricket, and promised to stump up £75,000 per event for the next three years.

            The inaugural race was a massive success enhanced by American Dick Beardsley and Norwegian Inge Simonsen crossing the finish line together holding hands. While this was terrific for publicity - The Daily Mail daubed it: “The Hand of Friendship” - it didn’t sit well with everyone. At the finish line, the President of the Amateur Athletic Association declared that: “…if they ever do that again, I’ll disqualify both of them for impeding or assisting!”

            An hour and a half later, the “Wild Man of Running” ex-world 10,000 metre record holder David Bedford - currently Race Director - crossed the finish line. Bedford’s race preparation was, to say the least, unusual. He had no intention of participating until around 10pm on the night before the race when he was challenged to run by a punter in his nightclub. By this time, Bedford had consumed several pints of beer. He recounted on BBC Radio 4’s “The Reunion” how he rang Brasher at midnight to ask if he could run: “He said ‘don’t be silly – but I suppose I can’t stop you’. I eased back from the beer then and went on to Pina Coladas. Thought I needed to make myself a bit more healthy. I then had a curry at 3am and managed to get some sleep.” Never mind hitting the wall, the wall hit him when he reached mile seven: “…the king prawns started to get their own back and I was caught losing the rest of my curry into a drain.” Brian Johnson, who was commentating for the BBC observed this too: “…there’s Dave Bedford, not as fit as we’d expect him to be.”

            But the best anecdote from that first race has to be the story The Daily Mail ran three days later. A Japanese runner who spoke no English was spotted running through St. Albans. Apparently he believed the London Marathon to be a 26 day event and didn’t know that the race was over. Having read about his plight in the paper and spotted him running, a St. Albans man dragged a waiter from a Chinese restaurant in the hope that he may be able to communicate with the Japanese runner. The date was, of course, April 1^st.

            Back in 1981, the year that Brandon Flowers was born, Bobby Sands died and MTV came into existence, the sight of a runner was still somewhat pass-remarkable. Bedford recalled: “Marathon runners were few and far between in those days. The only people who ran marathons at that time were serious club or elite athletes not quite good enough to continue their track careers. Suddenly, after 1981, it snow-balled.” It had been left to John Disley to design the course. “We used the Thames as a handrail and only actually closed two bridges. It was quite easy to organise a marathon in the East End of London – nobody ever went there; there was no work there. You could run round the Isle of Dogs ‘til your heart’s content without interrupting anything.”

            But for the quintessence of the London Marathon spirit, look no further than the last of the six aims for the race, laid down all those years ago by its founding fathers. It simply says: “To have fun and provide some happiness and a sense of achievement in a troubled world”.

            Whilst Bedford’s race preparation and tight white shorts may have long been consigned to a different era, this goal is as germane today as it was thirty years ago.