Albums of the decade

This past week, NME released its list of the Top 100 albums of the waning decade. Such lists used to drive me apoplectic as I ranted in consternation at the choices made by the so-called experts in the music press. Nowadays, I make do with a superior and knowing shake of the head.

Such lists are obviously entirely subjective and largely pointless. The NME holds itself up as the arbiter of all that is cool on the music scene. But when a magazine's target audience is 15-year-old boys, how cool can it really be?

Anyway, here is the NME Top 10:

1. The Strokes - Is This It

2. The Libertines - Up The Bracket

3. Primal Scream - Xtrmnatr

4. Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say, That's What I'm Not

5. Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Fever To Tell

6. PJ Harvey - Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea

7. Arcade Fire - Funeral

8. Interpol - Turn On The Bright Lights

9. The Streets - Original Pirate Material

10. Radiohead - In Rainbows

For what it's worth, I don't really have a gripe with the Top 10. A couple of those albums I haven't even heard and so I can't pass judgement. Some of them would grace my personal list. However, I will say this, The Streets should never make it into a Top 10 of anything!

I'm going to share my Top 10 albums of the past decade. In doing this, you have to realise that tomorrow it could be a slightly different list and in a year's time, it could be radically different.  I had to think long and hard about leaving out Sufjan Stevens, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Arcade Fire, Primal Scream and The Coral. The 10 listed are the albums that really grabbed a hold of me and which have, up to now, endured the test of time.

1. The Strokes - Is This It

2. The Libertines - The Libertines

3. Pulp - We Love Life

4. Kings Of Leon - Youth And Young Manhood

5. Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not

6. Regina Spektor - Begin To Hope

7. White Stripes - Elephant

8. Richard Hawley - Cole's Corner

9. Laura Gibson - If You Come To Greet Me

10. The Shins - Wincing The Night Away

Post-script

 In compiling this list, I have to say that, upon initial consideration, the past decade seemed to have fallen slightly short when compared to the 1990s. Maybe it was my age and that sentimental longing for my youth but, to me, albums like the Stone Roses's Second Coming, Pulp's Different Class, Definitely Maybe by Oasis, Radiohead's brilliant offerings like The Bends and OK Computer, the exquisite Sleeper album Smart, The Verve's masterpiece, Urban Hymns, The Great Escape by Blur, Belle & Sebastian's Boy With The Arab Strap, Beck's Odelay and Nirvana's MTV Unplugged set seemed to me, as a collective, to have been on a different plane. But having given it deeper thought, I believe that initial impression was wrong. Overall, the cream of this decade is certainly equal to the best of the previous.

Sudan, anyone?

Paul Carberry can think himself lucky. Okay, so the Irish Turf Club referrals committee just handed him a 30-day ban and his employer, trainer Noel Meade, has told him he is fast running out of "second" chances, but it could be worse. He could work in Sudan.

Carberry is a barmy character. One of the finest talents of his generation, the Grand National-winning jockey and archetypal party beast is also prone to bizarre behaviour. In 2003, he was forced to miss a week of racing after being headbutted by a stag while out hunting; two years later, he was arrested for setting fire to a newspaper when travelling on an Aer Lingus flight from Spain to Dublin.

His latest brush with authority is due to his penchant for a drink - or lots of drink, to be more accurate. When he arrived to ride at Naas last month, the pre-race breathalyser did for him. It was his second such infraction, following on from a violation at Galway in 2007, and the powers that be were seemingly not amused. As well as the 30-day ban, Carberry was hit with a 5,000euro fine.

Meade has gone on record to say that the punishment is harsh. Carberry has expressed his disappointment, as well as a determination to beat his drink problem.

But it really could have been worse. He could have been sentenced to 40 lashes!

That is the punishment awaiting Nigerian footballer Stephen Worgu should his impending appeal fail. The pocket-sized striker has fallen foul of the Islamic shariah law that holds sway in Omdurman, northern Sudan, where he plays for powerhouse club Al Marreikh.

Worgu was convicted of drink-driving and sentenced to a flogging. He must also pay a fine of 250 Sudanese pounds. 50 pounds of the fine is for drinking alcohol, which is illegal in the muslim north, and 200 pounds for driving while under the influence.

I'm certainly not excusing Worgu's actions, but as Carberry reflects and no doubt engages in some self-flagellation, he might spare a thought for Stephen Worgu.

Tilting at windmills again

There is a lot of trash being talked about this year's Breeders' Cup in California, especially the Classic. The hype merchants are already proclaiming the 2009 renewal to be the best this century, possibly ever. All this based on the fact that we have 10 Grade 1 winners in the line-up.

Sorry, but there are Grade 1 winners and then there are Grade 1 winners. This lot are around about par and no better. The US three-year-olds seem an average bunch and the apparent wonder filly Rachel Alexandra is already in winter hibernation. That leaves the freak Kentucky Derby winner Mine That Bird and the Belmont Stakes victor Summer Bird - the latter slammed by the aforementioned filly in the Haskell Invitational - as the chief representatives from the Triple Crown crop. Zenyatta, the unbeaten five-year-old California mare is undoubtedly the star act (she's the one horse that could be the real deal) but she still has something to prove on her first foray into mixed gender company.

To press home my point, America's top turf horse, Gio Ponti, is taking his chance on the Pro-Ride surface in the big one rather than the Breeders' Cup Turf, which would be the more conventional option.
Rip Van Winkle heads the European assault but he was put firmly in his place each time he met Sea The Stars, who has swerved Santa Anita on his way to Gilltown Stud and his new life as a stallion. Rip's two top-flight successes were impressive, and he is obviously a class act, but I question the strength of his opponents in both the QEII and Sussex Stakes. As for Twice Over, I love the horse and hope he can collect, but he is not an extraordinary Group 1 performer.

Last year's Classic, when Raven's Pass held Hennrythenavigator, with the supposedly awesome Curlin back in fourth, surely rates as a better renewal. And don't get me started on other recent contests when horses of the calibre of Ghostzapper and Tiznow prevailed. I mean, really? Could any of this lot match those two? As for the Sunday Silence/Easy Goer Classic of 1989, well, I'm not even going there.

I'll step down from my high horse for a moment.

All right, so I quite fancy one in tonight's Breeders' Cup Juvenile Fillies'. It's a tricky race to predict and I'm a fool for going public with a selection, but I can't stop looking at Always Princess. Blind Luck is favouite after defeating the selection on the track in the Oak Leaf Stakes last time but I think Bob Baffert's filly can reverse the placings. She was sent to the lead too early on that occasion, a big no-no at Santa Anita, and duly paid for it. She has two and a half lengths to find with Blind Luck tonight but if connections revert to the hold-up tactics that brought victory on her only other start, then I think she has a big chance.

Lillie Langtry should win what appears to be a weak Juvenile Fillies' Turf and I'm siding with Cocoa Beach in the Ladies' Classic, purely because I think she is value and could be coming back to her old form.

Tomorrow night, Pyro can upset the favourite Mastercraftsman in the Dirt Mile and Beethoven is ridiculously huge odds for the Juvenile. Lord Shanakill is also worth a look for a place in the Turf Sprint.

Unsung hero

About 23 years ago, on a lowering, wet, autumn afternoon, I ran out onto the sloping football pitch at Stephenson Way Primary School and warmed up for kick-off. At the top end of the field, the purple-shirted opposition milled around and took turns crossing and slamming the football into the crudely pegged net.

During such rituals, I always took a moment to observe the competition. On that particular occasion I was struck by one kid. He had white-blonde hair, cropped short like Action Man , a frame two years ahead of his age and a bellowing voice that marked him out as the leader of the pack. I hoped to goodness he was a defender and not a striker.

As I took my position at the heart of defense, the two captains came together, the blonde Goliath won the toss and lined up at centre-forward. Oh, great - I was marking the big kid. He was physical, determined, a tough opponent for someone as slight as I was, but, thankfully, his ability with a football did not match his intimidating presence and my school took the spoils. That was my first encounter with the kid they called "Ibby".

Our paths would cross again many times. We moved on to the same secondary school where we were assigned to the same house. He was a person I came to admire and perhaps fear in equal measure. I actually question whether Ibby elicited fear. I think wariness would be more apt a description. But then, I do recall a few instances when I was most definitely teetering on the precipice of fear. One day I could be sharing a table with him at lunch, the next I would be fearing a firm fist in the stomach. Some might have considered him a bully. Maybe he was - aren't we all in some ways given certain conditions. I just thought he was hard. Besides, for all that he could be construed a bully boy by definition, he always seemed to have a certain sense of honour about him. That trait set him apart from the general bully element of toe-rag types, usually allied to groups, who thrived on malice. Ibby was a stand-alone character. Ibby really was hard.

I have several memories of the kid. I will share my favourite, the one that I have told many times down the years for laughs. The incident occurred during a PE lesson when I was about 14. We were playing rugby. I picked up the ball in the right-wing position, jinked past one tackle, rode a second and sprinted towards the try line. Behind me, I suddenly heard Ibby in pursuit. He was usually faster than I was and if he caught me, I knew I would feel it...for the next week! As I kicked up a gear to what I always thought was full speed, Ibby closed to within striking range. I had about 20 yards still to run when his words came cold and clear to my ears.

"Drop the ball or I'll kill you."
I kept running. Ibby kept closing.

"I said drop it or I'll break your scrawny neck!"

Of course, I couldn't drop the ball. I would have been the laughing stock - the soft kid - and my pursuer would have had even less respect for me. Nor could I risk being caught. If Ibby sensed the slightest weakness, if he were to succeed in grabbing a hold of my collar, he would make me pay with a few blows that would leave me bruised and sore. It is funny what fear will do to a person. As my arms and legs pumped away for all they were worth, from somewhere within, I extracted an extra burst of pace and strength that took me to the try line. I grounded the ball and kept running. Ibby kept chasing. The teacher blew his whistle...then blew it again and again. I kept running. Ibby kept up the chase. I arced back round to the safety of the teacher, followed by a smirking Ibby.

The last time I saw him, it was a Saturday morning and I was on my way to play 5-a-side football. We were 16 and he had not long left school. I was doing my A Levels. I remember it like it was yesterday. Ibby marching towards me, proud and erect in military uniform. As we passed one another he barely broke stride and maintained a metronomic focus.

"Now then," he said.

"All right, Ibby," I replied.

Everyone knew he was in cadets and wanted to join the army. Through the passing of the years, I have, on occasion, wondered what happened to Ibby or Ibbo as he was also known. I always imagined him as a commando and toyed with the notion that he could have made the SAS. Even in his teens there was an almost unnerving quality about him, a steely, ice-cool determination that made one think the kid was one of a rare breed. Sometimes I admired it. Other times I just thought he was a nutjob.

I found out just this week that Ibby, or Stephen Paul Ibinson to give him his full name, died in Afghanistan at the end of April. I also discovered that, following our brief, Saturday morning encounter, his life scaled remarkable heights of achievement.

He joined 2 Para at around the time I last saw him and served in Northern Ireland. At some stage he made the grade with special forces. He set up his own private investigation firm in Belfast at the age of 27 and turned his skills to undercover reporting. He put his life on the line as he infiltrated neo-nazi groups and dog-fighting gangs; tracked down murderers and paedophiles. He even won a Bafta for a BBC Panorama investigation. The father of three received numerous death threats in his time but never any public recognition of his feats, at least not while still living. The nature of his work did not allow him to be publicly credited.

Ibby died while infiltrating an Opium ring in Afghanistan. One would expect that Taleban gunfire or perhaps a mortar shell would have claimed him. In the end, it was a heart attack.

I was not a friend of his. I simply went to the same school as him. I know nothing of Stephen Ibinson the man other than what I have read in a few news reports and obituaries. What I have read has caused me to reflect and ponder. Here is a man who grew up on the streets of my small home town, who walked the corridors of my school. A man with whom I once shared the sports field, the dinner hall and the classroom. A man who made a difference in his short life, who literally placed himself on the front line time and again for the greater good.

It is strange how people have an effect on our lives. On the face of it, he was merely a peripheral character in the story that is my life and yet, on reflection, Ibby has perhaps had a greater impact on me than I had ever really considered. I doubt that I even registered in his thoughts after that last fleeting meeting but the fact that I have certain encounters indelibly etched into my memory says a great deal about his effect on me. If I am honest, I harboured a certain admiration for him. In saying that, I must confess that any admiration was also tempered by intermittent moments spent wondering if Stephen Ibinson would turn out to be a "psycho" or a hero. Maybe there was a bit of both in him, I'm not in a position to judge. I am not out to deify him either. He was human, therefore, like the rest of us, it follows that he had flaws and weaknesses. But from what I know of him, there is cause to believe that on many fronts the big kid grew into a hero of a man.