The Skuttlebutt

Receiving a Sporting OchoCinco

2011-03-23T17:40:00.018Z

Chad OchoCinco fancies himself as a footballer. Well, we all know that, but I'm talking the other kind of football. The non-gridiron pursuit also known as soccer or, to be entirely accurate if a tad cliche, "the beautiful game".

Apparently the publicity savvy Cincinnati Bengals and former Oregon State wide receiver, he who famously changed his name from plain old Chad Johnson to big up his No. 85 jersey, hopes that he can slip into a Major League Soccer (MLS) team to keep himself busy through the NFL lock out.

He is currently involved in a four-day trial with Sporting Kansas City, formerly the Wizards, whose moniker changed ahead of the current season to coincide with a move to a new stadium. I wish him luck but, at age 33, it will take a supreme effort to succeed in the game he last played at high school in 1995.

There is no doubt that the man will have the requisite fitness and athletic capability to match any of his prospective Kansas teammates and his passion is not in question. As he told Sporting's internal TV channel, "Although I love football, this (soccer) was always my first sport."

But it will take more than desire and a few days of ball work to up his skill level to professional levels. Unless OchoCinco is a natural and phenomenally gifted to boot, I can't see how he can make the Kansas roster. And how does the mind of an NFL wide receiver, honed to finding space and collecting the ball at pace with his hands, shift its focus to an entirely different discipline in which the ball is controlled by anything except the hands and arms?

OchoCinco himself does not yet have the answer.

"It was as difficult as I imagined it to be, transitioning to another sport at this level," he admitted after Wednesday's session. "To be good at it takes more than just speed. It's not just about running around, there's a lot of skill to it."

I spent 30 minutes watching his trial live online at http://www.sporting85.com/tryout.php. It would be churlish and spiteful to judge the man on such a tiny snapshot, especially given his honest, almost boyish wish to make the grade. However, what I saw did not particularly excite - at times I cringed.

Part of me was smugly pleased. You see, I want every other American sports star or fan out there to realise what OchoCinco already knows, that soccer is a sumptuously nuanced game that requires a serious player to exhibit a hell of a lot of skill, ball intelligence, tactical awareness and selflessness alongside innate athleticism and developed fitness. For that reason, the darkly cynical side of my character had a smirk of glee at every missed kick or skied shot.

But I also believe wholeheartedly that OchoCinco really does have a love for the game. He warms up before NFL matches by keeping up a soccer ball; he numbers Thierry Henry, Kaka and Cristiano Ronaldo among his friends; he visited Real Madrid in January and met the "special one" himself, Jose Mourinho.

If OchoCinco does make the cross-over and successfully transitions from NFL All-Pro to MLS star, think of the publicity the league will garner in a vastly apathetic nation currently wrapped up in March Madness. People are already taking note of the fact that he is merely on trial. With the season only a week old and Sporting having won its opener in a 3-2 thirller against Chivas USA, the timing couldn't have been better.

The man is taking it seriously and, judging from his comments, he is humbled and honoured that Kansas has invited him to fulfill a long-held ambition.

"Kansas City offered to bring me out and treat me like a normal person (not a football star). There are a lot of other things I could be doing in my off-time but the opportunity to be here is just awesome," he said.

"Cristiano and Kaka said if I make it they'll come out and see me in a game."

OchoCinco is following a childhood dream. As someone who often dreamt of such a chance, I for one am rooting for the guy. Maybe there are better players out there who will never be offered the opportunity OchoCinco's privileged position has handed him but so what? As I've already noted, he has a mountain to climb just to get through the trial and if he does, he will have done so deservedly. For the sake of MLS and soccer's profile in the US, I hope he makes the team, in fact I hope the dream ends with Kansas' new No. 85 held aloft after scoring a fairytale winning goal in the MLS Cup.

That would be one for Hollywood!

UNITED END ARSENAL’S FA CUP QUEST

2011-03-12T22:26:00.009Z

Manchester United turned the screw on Arsenal with a decisive 2-0 victory in the FA Cup quarter-final at Old Trafford tonight, a result that sent the Gunners crashing out of a third major competition in a fortnight following a Carling Cup Final loss to Birmingham and Champions’ League defeat at the hands of Barcelona.

Goals for Fabio Da Silva and Wayne Rooney not only sealed Sir Alex Ferguson’s men a place in the semi-final draw but gave the Premier League leaders what could turn out to be a crucial psychological edge over their closest pursuers as the season hurtles towards its climax.

United fielded a starting 11 bereft of Ferdinand, Berbatov, Scholes, Giggs and Nani in a 4-5-1 formation that gave the brothers Da Silva opposite berths on the flanks outside the blue collar pairing of Darren Gibson and John O’Shea, while Javier Hernandez led the line ahead of a deep-lying Wayne Rooney.

In the absence of Cesc Fabregas, Arsenal boss Arsene Wenger looked to the artisan Jack Wilshere to pull the strings and the England youngster masterfully played the role of ubiquitous fulcrum, receiving and distributing with an assuredness beyond his years.

With Denilson utilised as a spoiler in front of the Arsenal back line, alongside the industrious Wilshere, Arsenal dominated early possession as wide men Andrey Arshavin and Samir Nasri probed down the flanks, backed by the marauding Abou Diaby.

In only the second minute, Arshavin exhibited quick feet to skip by the floundering United right back Wes Brown before playing a one-two with lone striker Robin Van Persie.

The little Russian’s weak shot, easily saved low to his right by United’s veteran goalkeeper Edwin Van De Sar, set the tone for Arsenal’s night that produced no goals despite 11 shots on target and 54% of possession.

Three minutes later, Diaby played a push and go around a flat-footed O’Shea , slipped a pass to Nasri on the right flank and continued his run into the box. Nasri chose to cut inside, striking a poor shot straight at Van Der Sar.

And so it continued, with Arsenal stringing together sequences of silken passing but with no end product.

United’s central defensive pairing of Nemanja Vidic and Chris Smalling, backed by the brilliant Van Der Sar, kept at bay the Arsenal attack and on 15 minutes, the home side gave warning with a counter assault that should have produced the game’s opener.

Gibson took a leaf out of Wilshere’s book as he cleverly engineered space in the centre and spread a delightful pass wide left to Fabio Da Silva. The young Brazilian’s whipped cross found the charging head of his sibling Rafael, who headed powerfully over the crossbar from six yards out.

Arsenal failed to take heed. With the clock approaching 28 minutes, Van der Sar flashed an underarm throw to Fabio in a central position. The winger advanced at pace into the Arsenal half before playing an exquisite pass with the outside of his foot to Rafael on the right, who returned the ball to his brother.

Fabio dropped a short pass to Rooney , spun his man and continued into the box as Hernandez peeled off his marker and found himself in space at the back post. Rooney looped a perfectly weighted first-time ball to the little Mexican who powered a crisp header goalward.

Manuel Almunia stretched low to his left but pushed the ball into the path of the oncoming Fabio whose sliding shot rifled into the roof of the net.

Arsenal continued to press forward after the re-start and Van Persie went close just after the half-hour with an angled shot across goal from the right side that Van der Sar did well to flick around the post.

At the resultant corner, Van Persie blazed a header past the upright from six yards out.

Fabio gave way to the returning Valencia for the second half, back in action for the first time since breaking his leg against Glasgow Rangers in September, but the pattern of play remained the same as Arsenal came out fighting yet lacked a knock-out punch

First Van der Sar pulled off a brilliant double save, preventing an own goal with his legs and denying Laurent Koscielny with a left-hand reflex save on the follow-up, then Arshavin weaved through red shirts only to hit a tame shot wide of the target.

Again, United punished Arsenal’s profligacy when on 48 minutes Van der Sar once more started a goal scoring move as he fed Rafael who sprinted down the right flank and fired a low cross into the six-yard box towards the advancing Hernandez.

The admirable Johan Djourou stuck tight to the lunging Hernandez and succeeded in blocking the Mexican’s shot but the loose ball bounced up to Rooney at the right-hand post and the United man made no mistake as he headed cleverly in off the far frame.

Wenger attempted to shake things up with the introduction of Marouane Chamakh on 59 minutes but the Moroccan proved as impotent in front of goal as his teammates, missing a free header from a delicious Bacary Sagna cross with 15 minutes left on the clock.

Tomas Rosicky had replaced the increasingly ineffective Arshavin on 71 minutes and shortly after Chamakh’s tame effort, the Czech midfielder struck with venom from 22 yards out, forcing Van de Sar to produce another fine instinctive block.

However, it was Rosicky who missed arguably Arsenal’s chance of the night four minutes into injury time, when Sagna delivered another exquisite cross from the right flank that found his teammate in glorious isolation just four yards from goal.

Rosicky’s deer in headlights failure to make a meaningful connection with his head signalled the end of Arsenal’s FA Cup campaign.

Due to the eight minutes of overtime played as a result of Djourou suffering a season-ending dislocated shoulder, there was still time for a Paul Scholes booking and an uncharacteristic miss from Hernandez, who shot straight at Almunia from six yards.

Unlike Arsenal, Manchester United march on to the next round with a 12th FA Cup victory in their sights and still fighting for Premier League and Champions’ League honours.

Despite Arsenal holding a game in hand on United and being only three points behind their rivals, Wenger will have to use all of his experience to instil not only belief but also an elusive killer instinct into his players if they are to end their six-year trophy drought this spring.

Referee: Chris Foy

Attendance: 74,693

Midday in York

2010-08-19T16:45:00.010+01:00

It was the Yorkshire Oaks today and oh, what a race we expected to see. Three crack distaffers. Sariska and Midday representing the cream of the older brigade, Snow Fairy the queen of the current Classic crop. Match ups like that don't come along every year.

It wasn't even a three horse race. Eight of them lined up on the Knavesmire, all fillies and mares.

Trumpeters heralded their arrival at the start. Off-time, 3.25pm. Midday, a Breeders' Cup winner no less, let it be known that she'd be entering the starting gate at her own leisure. Sariska and Snow Fairy, dual Oaks winners both, meandered in as they pleased. Barshiba, the old lady of the field, needed four little men and a blindfold to convince her to load. Good horses have character.

All in. Under starters orders. Gates open. They're off!

Well, all bar Sariska. She was going nowhere. Jamie Spencer could push and shove all he liked, that lady was not for moving. Character, you see.

Barshiba set the pace. Midday skimmed along in mid-division. Snow Fairy stalked. Sariska sulked.

It was all over with three of the 12 furlongs still to race. Midday was cruising under Tom Queally. At a glance, Snow Fairy looked good too but Richard Hughes was on the three-year-old. Hughes always looks good with three furlongs to go. The trained eye could see that filly was beaten.

Midday shifted into overdrive. Snow Fairy chased her; Eleanora Duse ran on from deep. Nothing got near.

It was three lengths at the line. It would have been more if Midday hadn't got bored and drifted in the lead. Ears pricked, head slightly raised, I think she was posing for the crowd. Queally straightened her and kept pumping away. He didn't know about Sariska's strop. Sariska had beaten Midday three times already. Queally was expecting the big bay to loom upsides. She didn't.

Henry Cecil was presented with a rose bush before the race. It was for Midday, to recognise her second win in the Nassau Stakes at the end of last month. Henry said he'll plant it in his rose garden behind Midday's box. That's why he's a master trainer. So good with fillies. Wonderful with roses. I wonder what he'll get if she wins a second Breeders' Cup.

I love York races.

Primal recognition

2010-03-02T12:26:00.005Z

Saturday was quite eventful in its way. Not only did my wife and I march to protest against cutbacks being imposed at our local hospital, we also dropped into Starbucks for a hot chocolate. Okay, so in and of itself, going to Starbucks is not in any way cool. But Starbucks, Highbury Corner branch, at 11.45am on this particular February morning was the exception.

One thing about London is that famous faces are never far away. I've seen quite a few in my time and most I have not really been bothered about. I mean, the actress Juliet Stevenson was close by us on the Whittington Hospital march but so what. Most encounters with celebrities are of little consequence and barely worth noting. They are merely people, after all. In fact, I have forgotten about more such encounters than I actually remember. The exceptions being the ones like the time Jeremy Paxman almost ran me down on his bicycle outside the National Gallery or when the Queen gave me a dirty look at the Derby.

Starbucks on Saturday was up there alongside my brushes with the reigning monarch and the BBCs chief interrogator. In fact, it probably edges in front.

As we stood in line, debating whether to go tall or short, my wife turned to me and said that she was amused how the guy in front was telling his young son about the evils of the world. About how the capitalist masters screw the people - that kind of thing. I glanced at the said bloke and child. They were both lean with black shoulder-length rock legend hair. As I turned my attentions back to the menu, he turned his head and I caught a telling glimpse of his face.

It was double-take time. Was that really who it appeared to be? I looked again. He glanced sideways at me. I was wearing my aviators so he couldn't see my eyes. I was sure it was him. But maybe it just looked like him. Then he spoke. The Scottish accent was unmistakeable. It was him.

For the next three or four minutes, until our peppermint infused chocolate arrived, there was a barrage of swift, edgy, furtive glances cast in my direction. The great man was either wondering what kind of a fool wears sunglasses inside when it is actually dark and raining outside, or he knew that I knew.

Bobby Gillespie knew that I knew.

Marching for the cause

2010-03-01T12:46:00.013Z

If you have embraced a creed which appears to be free from the ordinary dirtiness of politics - a creed from which you yourself cannot expect to draw any material advantage - surely that proves that you are in the right?
George Orwell

I marched on Saturday. I marched because I was angry, because I wanted to make a noise. I marched to scream and rail aginst the soul-sapping corruption of self-serving hypocrites messing with the lives of ordinary people. I'm tired of them interfering with my life and the lives of my family, friends, neighbours, colleagues and fellow citizens.

I marched because I believe deeply that the health and wellbeing of every individual is of incalculably greater importance than the balance sheet at Lloyds or the Bank Of England.

I marched because I know that mortality is fragile and life is precious.

I marched because I believe that the National Health Service, for all of its failings, is a beautiful concept and should be protected at all costs.

I marched because I am angry at this cock-sure government that has dictated for 13 years, the supposed party of the people that is in reality a parasite, sucking the blood out of those that gave it life.

I marched because we the people should not have to pay with our lives when politicians and bureaucrats make a mess while fiddling the nation's accounts.

I marched because I still believe in democracy.

I marched to say to Gordon Brown and politicians of every hue: "Keep your vile, incompetent, greedy, meddling hands off this country's hospitals."

I marched for my wife and my unborn child.

I marched to save the Whittington.

The modern art of conceptual deception

2009-12-08T16:56:00.004Z

Modern art is rubbish. Not all of it, just a lot of it. I realise that I'm sweeping a broad brush in making that infuriatingly general statement but after watching last night's BBC show School of Saatchi, I can't help it. After so much grey, fudging, blurring, smoke and mirrors twaddle from the various wannabe Damien Hirsts and Tracey Emins, I feel the need to rail in simple black and white terms.

For those of you that have missed out on this gem of terrestrial entertainment, let me fill you in. Charles Saatchi, marketing mogul and self-styled Don of the modern art world, has hand-picked half a dozen hopefuls straight out of the pretentiously cool Hoxton set. In The Apprentice meets Art Attack, the said sextet must impress Saatchi and his team of expert confidantes through a series of challenges. One budding Jeff Koons will ultimately have the honour of showcasing his or her talent at the world famous Hermitage in St Petersburg as part of the Newspeak: British Art Now exhibition.

Now, to my mind and eyes, a large number of modern artists are in fact con artists. Hirst has no fewer than three exhibitions running in London. One of those, No Love Lost, at the Wallace Collection, shows the shark pickler to be an average painter at best. And of course Emin is most famous for passing off a dirty bed as a modern masterpiece.

I am reminded of an incident at Tate Britain's Art and The Sixties exhibition in the summer of 2004. Gustav Metzger, the "inventor" of auto-destructive art, had one of his sculptures thrown out with the rubbish. Well, hardly surprising when the piece itself was actually a plastic sack full of waste paper. It was quickly replaced with another polythene bin liner holding a new batch of waste and no one was any the wiser for a while. As auto-destructive art is defined as "paintings, sculptures and constructions having a finite existence - after which they will be destroyed," I reckon the sculpture's disposal was merely a fulfillment of its being. But can you imagine Rodin chipping the last piece of marble from The Thinker, looking it up and down and then taking a sledgehammer to it?

Of course, what I'm really objecting to is conceptual art and the "if you don't like it, it's because you just don't get it" mantra of its acolytes. This is where School of Saatchi is brilliant. From Saad Qureshi with his 2,000 stacked chipati breads to fellow Slade student Eugenie Scrase and her DIY-gone-wrong, the show has hilariously exposed several of the artists as cynically conceited blag merchants, mickey-taking charlatans or simply spaced-out fantastists with little demonstrable talent.

In last night's show, the artists were taken to Sudeley Castle in the Cotswolds, home of Lady Ashcombe, the last resting place of Katherine Parr (Henry VIII's sixth wife) and a treasure trove of art down the ages. Cue Qureshi and his bread, baked lovingly by his mother in the family's Oxford semi and transported to Sudeley's historic library.

"This work is not about food, it's about the love we share and we're going to give it on to Lady Ashcombe and her family," cooed Qureshi, who was on the verge of a hissy fit when renowned artist Mat Collison asked, "isn't it a bit...lame?"

Qureshi fully embraced the performance aspect of his piece by mailing a chipati to her ladyship prior to the big unveiling, for which, by the way, he took along his entire bemused family. After laying down his mother's old rug in place of some or other renaissance carpet, Qureshi slapped down his chipatis in piles and proceeded to tell us how every individual wheel of unleavened had a story to tell.

"Each chipati talks of the action we did at home."

Now call me cynical, but at no time did Qureshi reference his work to the library, despite his remit to produce a piece that connected with the room's history. Well, that was until fellow hopeful Suki Chan ruffled his feathers by trying to scatter black books across the floor. In objecting to Chan's arrangement, the chipatis embraced a new message. They were in fact not just the embodiment of love, the bread actually represented the pages of the books in the library. Beautiful bull!

But the best tosh came from Scrase who had constructed a bizarre motorized clothes line above a radiator in one of the castle's bedrooms. Powered by what looked to be a Black & Decker drill, a tassle taken from one of the curtains whirred around and around the line. She said she liked the idea of movement and was inspired by The Generation Game with its conveyer belt stuffed with prizes. Apparently, Sudeley Castle's treasures reminded her of Bruce Forsyth and Saturday night gameshow goodies. Shame there wasn't a cuddly toy in the room!

Scrase mimicked Qureshi in giving the distinct impression that she was making it all up as she went along. After a bit of trouble with her drill speed, she suddenly came up with a new and inspired take on her work.

"I had a bit of a change of heart" she revealed, gazing intently at the motionless tassle. "I decided I always liked the potential of movement but never liked the actual movement, and so I was actually thinking, I might keep it static. It's even more powerful when it's not working. They'll imagine it go round so there's a bit of effort coming from the viewer's point of view. It makes them think about...things."

In slagging off the subjects of the BBCs attempt at higher-brow reality TV, I don't want to sound as though I'm against all forms of what we generally and incorrectly lump together under the umbrella of modern art. For every crass Koons there is a wonderful Warhol; Hirst's horrors are counterbalanced by Dali's brilliance; Rothko's mundanity takes a back seat to a vibrant Pollock. And of course, the great caveat rings loud and true - it's all subjective.

Indeed, one of the Saatchi candidates, Matt Clark, seems to have potential. There is certainly merit to his work.

But when all is said and done, conceptual art can so often be fraudulent art. When Marcel Duchamp started the "movement" in 1917 with his signed urinal entitled Fountain, he was making a point. He was making an original statement that did not need repeating. Too many artists are simply revisiting Duchamp. Many lose sight of art as a thing of recognisable beauty in their increasingly blinkered quest for acceptance from the art elite. In a warped way, and despite artists apparently seeming to push boundaries, true originality is actually swamped beneath an unconscious adherence to what is deemed in vogue. A swathe of artists appear content to blag and bull their way to acceptance from a clique so wrapped up in a pretence of superior cultural wisdom that it can no longer distinguish the Fountain from the bedpan.

Put the tinsel back into Christmas

2009-12-02T16:53:00.003Z

Yesterday evening, the wife and I got to talking about Christmas decor. As newly-weds, I felt it was important to gauge her opinions. First point of discussion: real tree or fake tree? No debate. We're both real people (I'll be picking one up next Monday after work).

We live in a small but delightfully homely studio flat. Space is at a premium. So, second point: large girth, six-footer, or quaint little table-topper? Now, we would love a bulging, bristling Norwegian Spruce. But not enough to endure hacking through needle-infested branches every time we want to get to the bathroom. Naturally, we both agreed on a three-foot miniature verison.

Ah, it was all so easy. I was suddenly awash with excitement at the thought of transforming our abode into a Christmas wonderland. The sweet aroma of pine needles, cranberries and cinnamon. Aled Jones soaring from the stereo. Chestnuts roasting on the open fire. Multi-coloured fairy lights twinkling from the tree. Lanterns, stars and shiny, red, gold, silver, purple, blue and green streamers hanging from the ceiling...

And that was the snag. Apparently, shiny doesn't work in the 21st century. Shiny is 1970s glam. Shiny is 1980s kitsch. Shiny died an ignominious death sometime around 1997. Shiny is not the done thing.

Don't get me wrong. I love my wife, so her distaste for shiny streamers and garish giant stars will not be held against her. She even admitted to a liking for tinsel. She will gladly aquiesce and throw a bit around the place, even on our mini Scots Pine. But bright reflective coloured baubels are out. She's still considering the streamers.

*And therein lies the crux of the issue. In those pretentious circles that dictate "style" in the 00s, Christmas trees are to be decorated with popcorn on threads and dried orange peel. Bits of twig and holly leaves. Colours are to be carefully co-ordinated. Lights must be of one hue, preferrably white. Things should not dangle from the ceiling. Shiny, glittery paper is a major faux-pas.

Cobblers! I am leading a fight-back in favour of those unashamedly loud, garish, in-yer-face shiny Christmas decorations. Yes, Christmas is undoubtedly first and foremost about the birth of Jesus Christ. But it has a great side-line as a time to party and have fun.

I'm firmly in the Clark Griswald camp here. The hero of National Lampoons Christmas Vacation really gets Christmas. Huge tree, too much eggnog (whatever that actually is), Santa's sleigh on the lawn and enough lights on the house to burn a hole in the ozone layer as big as the Isle of Man! Bring it on! Rather that than endure a too-cool-for-yule sneeringly superior Christmas. Where's the fun in that?

I mean, think about it. Religion and faith aside, what makes Christmas magical? Obviously it's slightly different for everyone but essentially it's Santa Claus in his ridiculous red costume, elves in their silly green outfits, reindeer with harnesses festooned with shiny gold bells, colourful Christmas crackers and daft party hats, turkey and stuffing, Only Fools and Horses on the telly, a giant tin of Quality Street, ecstatic kids tearing brightly coloured wrapping paper, trees enveloped in tinsel and Noddy Holder in silver platform shoes screaming "It's Chriiiiiistmaaaaassss".

Give me tinsel any time!

* NB these are not the hard and fast views of my beloved, merely general observations.

Albums of the decade

2009-11-19T14:51:00.007Z

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?

2009-11-12T12:21:00.007Z

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

2009-11-06T13:34:00.010Z

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

2009-11-03T12:36:00.027Z

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.

Question Time failed to deliver answers

2009-10-23T14:47:00.006+01:00

Last night's Question Time has caused a bit of a stir. I was always in favour of the BBC giving the British National Party a platform. It seemed to me a great opportunity to fully expose the abhorrent underlying aims of the party, while at the same time bringing to the fore issues that so obviously need to be addressed in contemporary Britain. But I'm afraid the programme failed to deliver.

Jack Straw was a disgrace, as were the liberal drip Chris Huhne and the awful Tory Baroness Warsi, failed MP, and, insultingly introduced as the most powerful Muslim woman in Britain. The BNP's hideous leader Nick Griffin was exposed in the first 10 minutes. Not hard to do - anyone with an ounce of intelligence could achieve that. Bonnie Greer, the fourth member of the panel, has more than a few ounces of intelligence to spare. She was superb, cutting down Griffin with scathing charm and sassy wit.

Sadly, Greer was shunted into a siding for much of the programme, being called upon only for enlightening soundbites, as it descended into a tasteless game of "who can be the most anti-racist" between the aforementioned trio. Such political one-upmanship around the issue of racism was awful to watch. There was no intelligent discussion and real issues were not debated.

Griffin and his core racist beliefs are vile, on that point there is no debate, but the fact is, some of his policies resonate, to varying degrees, with growing elements of the low-income working class. They should have been addressed. When he questions why soldiers have to pay to watch TV in hospital and why the NHS is now a lumbering, semi-privatised bureaucracy with inadequate care structures, that strikes a chord. When he says that education has been dumbed down and many graduates cannot even spell, some people nod their heads in agreement. When he tells the disaffected unemployed that he will rebuild British manufacturing, he gets approval, however grudging it might be at first. The audience missed the opportunity, in nailing Griffin, to also pin down Straw and demand answers, as did Warsi and Huhne, who have no answers themselves.

As for the audience, which was obviously stacked by the BBC and fell straight into pantomime mode, everyone was so riled up on the anti-racism bandwagon that a great opportunity was missed. Griffin's policies can be pulled to pieces with ease but within his lies there are some truths, so why weren't those real issues discussed and thrown at Straw. Answers should have been demanded. Griffin was roasted but the main political parties were let off scott free.

The only bright spot was Bonnie Greer.

As I watched, I could not help wondering if things would have been different if the show had been filmed in say Blackburn, Bristol, Doncaster or Sunderland. I was therefore not surprised today as I heard Griffin complain to Sky News: "That was not a genuine Question Time; that was a lynch mob.

"That audience was taken from a city that is no longer British ... That was not my country any more. Why not come down and do it in Thurrock, do it in Stoke, do it in Burnley? Do it somewhere where there are still significant numbers of English and British people [living], and they haven't been ethnically cleansed from their own country."

Of course the slant he takes is his own warped vision of reality and I for one, as an Englishman with roots most likely leading back to the ancient celtic inhabitants of these isles, find his use of the term "ethnically cleansed" to be thoroughly repulsive. To my mind and eyes, all human beings are equal. However, there is no doubt that in the places he cites and more, there are a growing number of disaffected individuals that feel neglected by the ruling political class.

I do not have the answers but what I do know is that concerns regarding rising poverty and depleted public services are mixing with fears about unemployment and identity in a rapidly changing society. These fears, however irrational they may seem to the political class, are real fears to those who experience them and can feed xenophobia, which in turn gives rise to extreme elements. If the governemt does not address these issuse, it does not matter how much of the moral high ground politicians take or how much of a deranged racist idiot they make Griffin look, there will be a price to pay somewhere down the road.

The truth is out there

2009-10-21T13:01:00.010+01:00

It seems to me that truth is becoming elusive. Everywhere you turn, whether it be in the direction of politicians justifying self-serving agendas or marketing men unscrupulously bending words to peddle their wares, honest language is being subverted.
It is not truth's fault. Given her place in the spotlight, truth will stand tall and elucidate with unerring clarity. She will rise above the morass of artifice and deflect deception's darts with resolute integrity.

Sadly, we live in an age when truth's message is increasingly over-dubbed and reworked to meet the requirements of the PR executive, the spin doctor or the politically correct lobbyist, to single out but three. They take truth and polish her rugged, resolute form into a slippery sheen that eludes ones grasp and reflects a bewildering glare.

The thing is, this almost universal toying with the truth has crept into our day-to-day lives to such an extent that its pervasive infiltration is now largely taken for granted. Almost everyone is doing it!

But what has prompted this little rant. Well, a whole host of things. I could go on about the evils of New Labour and its propensity for deceit. Or politicians at large - one only has to consider the expenses scandal. I could also bang on about the arch deceiver, Peter Mandelson and the half-truths he is so keen to push on us regarding the Royal Mail strike. And then there is the financial crisis, Afghanistan, the NHS and Tony Blair's all round despicability.

But no, although each of those and more have contributed, the hand that stretched out and pushed me over the edge today came, quite unexpectedly, from David Edgar, spokesman for the Rangers Supporters Trust.

Let me enlighten you. Last night, Rangers were thrashed 4-1 at home in the Champions' League clash against Urinea Urziceni, a largely unheralded team from south-east Romania. Hardly Real Madrid!

Well, the Rangers faithful were naturally angry and upset as they left the stadium. Two of them were so distraught that they hurled the bile building within at Maurice Edu as the young American was getting into his car. Edu is a Rangers player but did not feature in the game that night and so could not be blamed for the abject performance. Edu is also black.

He wrote on his Twitter feed this morning: "Not sure what hurt more: result last nite or being racially abused by couple of r own fans as I'm getting in my car."

Cue Mr. Edgar, desperate to avoid his club's fans from being tarnished with the slur of being racist!

"We would absolutely condemn that if that's the case. These are not Rangers fans and they should be caught and prosecuted to the full extent of the law."

Once again, truth suffers at the hands of a narrow-minded spin merchant and still the perpetrator is unaware of what a total fool he looks. But then, the issue will soon blow over, Edgar will move on to yet another ludicrous warping of the truth, the neanderthals who dished out the abuse will be disowned by the club and life will go on. This is life as we now know it. So, who is the real fool in all of this?

Channel 4 Racing is at it again

2009-08-21T14:32:00.014+01:00

This is getting ridiculous. Perhaps I'm missing something. I switched on the TV this afternoon to watch horseracing. Naturally, I turned to Channel 4, after all it is Channel 4 that is providing terrestrial coverage of the York Ebor Festival.

Why then, may I ask, is my enjoyment of a superb day of sport sullied by a five minute feature on flowers? I don't recall Gardener's World ever being interrupted by Alan Titchmarsh putting aside his azaleas to present a re-run of the Derby!

Note to Channel 4: your obsession with "bringing racing to a new audience" is laughable. People tune in because they want to see horseracing. Don't alienate those who love the sport.

Let's talk about faith

2009-08-21T12:35:00.010+01:00

I hereby declare that I am a man of faith. I believe that Moses parted the Red Sea. I am throughly determined that the 5,000 were fed from a basket of bread and a few fishes. I even believe that Darren Bent can score 15 goals this season to propel Sunderland clear of a Premier League relegation scrap. But England to rescue the Ashes? Faithless pragmatism rules where that one is concerned.

Here's the way I see it. England needed at least 450 in their first innings to stand any chance of victory. Even then they would have been reliant upon the Aussies suffering some sort of batting collapse.

As it is, Strauss' boys (for boys they appear to be), were bowled out for 332. I reckon the Aussies will match that for the loss of four or five wickets. Flintoff is physically incapable of bowling at any sort of intensity over a prolonged period. Harmison is destined to put in an indifferent and largely ineffective display on the Oval pitch. Swann, meanwhile, would struggle to find bamboozling spin if he was riding the waltzer at the local fairground and Broad's form simply does not inspire confidence.

Expect plenty of galling antipodean gloating before the weekend is out. At least we have York.

Speaking of old Eboracum (that's the Roman name for York if you didn't know), I reckon Forgotten Voice is a ridiculously short-priced favourite at 2/1 in the 2.15pm. He is espcially short when you consider the price available for Dream Lodge. James Given's gelding defeated Forgotten Voice on the same terms over a mile at Doncaster and was a relatively unlucky fourth under top-weight in a 10-furlong handicap here on Tuesday. He is available at 20/1! I know which one I'd be looking at backing.

Mind you, I can't take my eyes off old Lord Admiral. This is not a great Group Three and Charles O'Brien's veteran is one of only two performers proven in Pattern company. The other is Russian Sage. He's a South African Derby winner but I'm always a touch wary of South African Group One form transferring to England. My concern is that there won't be enough pace on up front for Lord Admiral's trademark late rattle to the line but it's worth risking at 12/1.

As value seems to be the order of the day, what about the 9/1 available for last year's winner Borderlescott in the Nunthorpe Stakes at 3.25pm? Maybe I'm letting sentiment get in the way but surely he'll be in the first three. Kingsgate Native is obviously the horse to beat but another to consider is Art Connoisseur. He pulled like a train to the start of the July Cup at Newmarket last time. The race was over for him before he was loaded into the stalls and he can be forgiven that subsequent poor effort. He's a Group One winner and he's 16/1!

As I've said before, I'm not a tipster, so don't berate me for failing to pin my colours to one mast.

Oh, what the hell. Keep the faith - Borderlescott!

Bored on Thursday

2009-08-20T13:46:00.014+01:00

It's raining at York. I know this because Channel 4 Racing showed a boy with a black plastic bin liner covering his head. I'm glad the director emphasized the point. It was evidently necessary. I mean, we couldn't tell it was raining, after all, his atmospheric shots of rain across the race track were totally obscured by, would you believe, inconvenient rain drops on the camera lens.

Tim Easterby trains a filly called Midnight Martini. She was anything but dry by the time she had sprinted the length of the home straight in the afternoon's first race. I doubt her owners will be dry by tonight, being as she just won them the best part of £150,000.

Neil Callan was far from dry either. You tend to get wet when you roll through sodden grass at speeds above 30mph, albeit at a rapid deceleration. Maybe Callan enjoys a roll in the long grass but this time it was definitely not by choice. None but a lunatic would choose to be pitched headlong from a galloping racehorse. His colleague, Ryan Moore, is the man he should thank. Moore was handed an eight-day ban by those adjudicators of such matters, the racecourse stewards.

There are two bankers at York today. One of them just won - a filly named Lady Of The Desert. Her mother was a champion. She could be too. I'm not a tipster (and I realise only I am going to read this anyway) so I have no qualms about retrospectively "tipping" winners.

The other apparent banker is Sariska. I'll be disappointed if she loses. Dar Re Mi is the only danger and she's a real threat. I won't be indulging. I never do.

I'm worried that the Yorkshire rain may actually also be south London rain. I would give a lot to see England beat the convicts at The Oval. I'm no fool though. I know it's a vain hope. But what is life if we can't cling to our dreams.

A swift perousal of the BBC website tells me that England are 149 for 2. That does not fill me with confidence. Captain Strauss just nicked one to the wicket keeper. He's gone for 55.

Back on Channel 4, the racing has been replaced by a re-run of The Clothes Show. No - wait, I stand corrected. It's that director again. Some Irish "fashion expert" is showing us all how to look our best at the races. It would be nice to see some horses but apparently we need to take the sport to a wider audience and the wider audience obviously wouldn't be interested in horses - obviously!

Tanoura interests me in the 4.05pm. She's likely to shorten up though. Snoqualmie Girl at 25/1 is one of those David Elsworth fillies who could one day win a nice race and everyone will be kicking themselves. Would anyone take the gamble today though?

Time to watch Sariska and Dar Re Mi go head-to-head.

I don't wanna be a soldier momma...

2008-03-28T17:17:00.021Z

In an earlier post, well alright, in my ONLY earlier post, I alluded to the fact that I enjoyed the typical pursuits synonymous with boyhood abandon. Among my favourite childhood games was the one we labelled simply and accurately "Armies".

"Armies" was exactly what it said on the tin. A bunch of kids would meet on the big green and split into two armies. This divison in iteslf was often determined along hierarchical lines. The oldest, most popular boy would impose his authority and declare that he was the commander of the English troops, quickly adding that his best friend was to be his Sergeant Major. This was a given and was never challenged (until the oldest boy eventually grew tired of warfare and deserted for some girl named Sarah Jenkins. The resulting mutinous squabble for power was an unpleasant affair as the Sergeant Major was mobbed and demobbed).

The popular or lucky, depending on how many had turned out for the game that day, would be called forward and seconded as the oldest boy's foot soldiers. The remainder, consisting of the young, weak, lame, dim, snotty-nosed and, urgh...girls, were to be the "filthy hun" - the German army - often captained by my year older sister.

The English would set up camp in the General's den. This was usually a sheltered spot amid the thick bushes and trees on the edge of the woods, fitted out with wooden walls collected from the "workies". The "workies", the site labourers and maintenance men, of course were not privy to the General having taken their wood for his HQ. Annexing building supplies was always a tricky business. The "workies" never seemed to embrace the spirit of the war effort. We were sure that they were secret German spies and treated them with the utmost caution.

The Germans made camp as best they could. Usually in the garden of one of the girls, but sometimes in the "backies", the narrow strip of semi-domesticated woodland between the back gardens of our homes and the farmland beyond, which linked up with the woodland proper. The German camp was generally a tidier, more fragrant abode than that of the English camp. The source of the fragrance was, in fact, a hindrance to the entire game and scuppered many a daring assault. You see, it's very off-putting launching an attack, only to find that the enemy is in fact engaged in picking rose petals, stuffing them in buckets of water and stirring the resultant concoction with a stick. Yes, the rose petal perfume industry did not mix well with warfare!

I recall one particular daring raid. The Germans had, for once, camped deep within the dense heart of the old plantation. The General had sent me on a reconnaisance mission. I was to spy out the camp and report back. The entire success of the operation depended upon secrecy. The Germans were to be located without suspecting that we knew their whereabouts.

I set out, Kalashnikov in hand. The said weapon of choice was of course my favourite old stick. It was gnarled and nobbly at one end - the thick end - and tapered down to a two-pronged fork. The three-foot weapon was the perfect machine gun, sword, lance, fighting staff or bow, depending upon the chosen adventure. It was the best stick in the Close.

Crawling through the long grass betwen the trees, clad in camouflage fatigues, face blacked out commando style, I spied the enemy encampment. I knew it was the enemy den because my sister was wandering about the entrance with a bucket full of the famed rose water perfume, her rifle recklessly propped against a tree stump. I noticed several of her company similarly preoccupied - about a dozen in total. Some had covered their camouflage with red, blue and even yellow water-proof kagouls. Rather sensible given the drizzly rain falling upon the greenery, but foolhardy in such a heated war zone, teeming as it was with expert spies and superb sniper marksmen such as myself. I had to chuckle. It was going to be a massacre.

I inched closer, my clothes drenched from lying in the lush, rain-soaked vegetation. On my hands and knees, I moved with the menacing guile of a leopard stalking a young doe. I was close now, they had no idea I was there, scoping out their feeble defences before reporting back to base and rounding up the troops for the slaughter. I laughed inside, struggling to stifle a broad, smug grin. The game was ours, the glory mine.

I was lost in thoughts of triumph when my right hand, edging forward, came down upon something soft, squidgy, slimy. For an instant I was confused. What was it? I stopped and came rapidly to a horrible awareness. Looking down, I realised what my hand had encountered. My flesh squirmed and crawled. A shiver ran through my entire frame. Then I saw them. All around me, fat, black, foul slugs. They seemed to be everywhere, on each blade of grass. I leapt to my feet with an URAAARRRGH!

Pandemonium!

Shouts rang out. Rose buckets hit the ground. Rifles cocked. Shots fired. Captured!

I don't play Armies anymore. I'd love to - so long as the only weapons are sticks with no triggers and the grass is devoid of slugs. I don't fancy being a real soldier. I don't want to die or see comrades die. I don't want my name on a memorial in a town square for teenage girls, 50 years hence, to pass by with their pushchairs, never thinking to stop and read. Not knowing which war is commemorated, never looking beyond the half-eaten kebabs dumped at the base. I don't want to be a statistic - a pawn in the politicians' games. I admire those who serve their countries for no gain and much loss. I hope I never have to be one of them. War has too many triggers and too many slimy gastropods lurking in the safety of the long grass...

I like climbing trees

2007-11-23T13:00:00.007Z

I was watching the 1pm race at Exeter today. Kirby's Glen led the nine runners over the first fence and then my mind wandered (I need to fix that hole, you know, the one where the rain gets in). My thoughts often drift. I find it better not to stem the flow....

There are lots of trees at Exeter racecourse. Naturally, my thoughts took me to tree climbing. I like climbing trees. It makes me happy. A large portion of my childhood was spent up trees. I defended many a tree fortress from marauding orcs, Norman knights and German panzer divisions. I had a happy childhood. I was highly-decorated and everything.

I remember a time when I climbed to the very top of an extremely tall tree. I think there is only a small window of opportunity for someone to climb to the very top of an extremely tall tree. I reached that tree-climbing zenith at the age of six. You see, in order to clamber so high, one must possess the necessary physical and mental attributes. Prior to my big climb, I was obviously too weak in the arms and legs to make the heady ascent and had thus been foiled in my lofty ambitions.

The intrepid tree climber must also be fearless. In 1982, I was undoubtedly fearless. I was Indiana Jones, Han Solo, Robin Hood, James Bond, Luke Duke and Tarzan all rolled into one. I could conquer any army, vanquish any demon, foil any agent of doom....and climb to the top of an extremely tall tree. But there was something else about that day when I was six years old that was fundamental to me achieving the defining feat. My six-year-old strength, stamina, agility and naive boldness were complemented by the fact that I was just the right weight for the top-most wispy branches of the great deciduous to bear my frame.

It was a hot summer day. It was stifling standing on the breathless woodland floor. I left my sister at the foot of the extremely tall tree and climbed. I was soon perched precariously in the breeze-blown branches of the crown. I could see for miles across fields to distant parishes, hedgerows and unknown worlds. There was nothing between myself and the white marshmallow formations in the sky above my head. I was higher than the tallest building. I could breathe. Ah, exhilaration.

My sister called from below that I had better come down before I fall. The seven-year-old voice of reason. I'd get wrong off my Mam if I fell...!

I haven't climbed a tree since June. I went to Hyde Park after work with my friend Ferne. It was the perfect sunny evening. We climbed lots of trees. Passers-by gave us funny looks. Ferne fell out of one (a tree...not a passer-by). She bumped to the earth and sat stunned for a moment but she was fine. It was fun. I couldn't reach the top-most branches. I nervously clung on half-way up. I'm too heavy. I'm also no longer Indiana Jones, Han Solo, Robin Hood, James Bond, Luke Duke and Tarzan all rolled into one. I'm an adult. I fear falling.

...Minella Tipperary won the 1pm at Exeter.