The Obscurer | Page 12

Monday 21st January 2008

Give My Love To Kevin

There is much to agree with in this post from More Than Mind Games, much that I could have said myself in fact; except for the main point, which is that Newcastle United’s decision to (re)appoint Kevin Keegan as manager is “an astonishingly stupid idea”. Sure, Sam Allardyce’s sacking was bizarre, if quite amusing; you don’t need to have a high opinion of Sam to realise that he should have been given more time at St James’ Park (and in the interests of disclosure, I must admit that I don’t have a high opinion of Sam; the best thing he ever did for me was have a strop with the BBC, so refusing to appear on Match Of The Day, and sparing me from having to listen to his whining yap each week.) But with that done and dusted, Keegan’s return is the surely the stuff of dreams; and dreams are the stuff of sport.

Let’s get it right; I am all for a bit of level-headedness, indeed cynicism, and I can understand the desire to take a contrary position to the sheep in the media who have uncritically applauded King Kev’s second coming as manager. The parallel elevation of Alan Shearer to the post of future-great-manager reminds me of the other times the press have made that same prediction, about the likes of Ray Wilkins and David Platt. But there must also be room in football for those dreams, for romance. If anything there is an abundance of level-headedness about these days, the sort of blunt-edged reality that batters the hope out of you, hence my abandoning my Man City season ticket a couple of years back, when I finally realised that the best we could aspire to was nothing to get excited about.

The main criticism of Kevin’s appointment has a familiar ring to it; that by his own admission he hasn’t watched any Premier League football for years, indeed since he last managed a club. But the same was true when he was first plucked from a Spanish golf course in the ‘Nineties to become Newcastle’s manager; astonishing success followed. When he became City’s manager he arrived with a reputation as a failure and a quitter while at England; he left us as our longest serving manager since the ‘Seventies, and with memories of the best football I have ever seen us play.

That doesn’t mean he will repeat the feat this time around, but we can dream can’t we? And without dreams where does it end? It’s a rhetorical question. It ends in football being just another job; it ends in a club like Reading, Reading, eschewing the romantic ideal of FA Cup success in favour of the bread and butter of the Premier League, preferring a clean-sheet away on a dreary Tuesday at Craven Cottage to the possibility of a sun-kissed match at Wembley. In this world the only dream is of some billionaire buying up your club.

But football is also about the memorable moment, which can be memorable for all sorts of reasons; Keegan understood this, which is why, following Newcastle’s famous 3-4 defeat at the hands of Liverpool in 1996, while regretful that neither side would win the league, he was appreciative of the game itself, a game neither set of fans will ever forget. Most of today’s managers react to even a 4-3 victory with apologies, despairing at those defensive frailties as if a goalless draw would be preferable, while grudgingly accepting that the fans will probably have enjoyed it.

But it is those moments that stay with us, long after the statistics have been consigned to some soon-to-be-dusty record book; it is the hope of more such moments that drags us back to watch our side “one last time”, against our better judgement. That is why an Everton fan told me that his favourite memory of following his team is not from one of those championship winning seasons they enjoyed under Howard Kendall, but is rather from the game against Wimbledon on the last day of the 1993-94 relegation-battling season when they scored to go 3-2 up, having been 2-0 down at one stage and tumbling out of the top flight. It is why I doubt I will ever again experience the high of Paul Dickov’s last-gasp equaliser against Gillingham in the 1999 play-off final, not because it provided us with silverware, but because it averted certain disaster. And whatever happens to Newcastle United from here on in, the Geordie fans will never forget the instant they learned that their hero had returned, along with their dreams.

If even for the briefest of moments. Perhaps, as More Than Mind Games asserts, Keegan’s return is built on fallacy, and no good will come of it in the long run. But we all know where we will be in the long run, and in the short run even he believes that “Newcastle fans will enjoy the rest of the season”; and isn’t that what it is all about? It may all end it tears, but like the man said; “Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.”

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Wednesday 16th January 2008

In My Time Of Dying

The argument over a proposed policy of “presumed consent” regarding organ donation rumbles on. Well I say that; it rumbles on in the blogosphere at any rate. In the wider world – where according to this report around 66% of people support a policy where you would have to specifically opt-out of donating your organs in the event of your death, as opposed to the current policy where you have to voluntarily opt-in – I’m not sure there is the same level of debate. Based on the figures for Wales that feature in this report, while only 22% of people are currently on the NHS Organ Donor Register, 90% are willing to sign up for it; which suggest that if you are the sort of person who goes around presuming consent on the matter, you would be right far more often than you’d be wrong.

I have written before about how most objectors to a policy of presumed consent seem to have been blinded by their ideological instinct on the issue, bemoaning the “state taking ownership of our bodies”, and from what I have read this week I think that still holds. The main arguments put forward seem to be that such a policy would fundamentally alter the relationship between the state and the individual, that the state would now assume a degree of control over us when we die, and that we alone should decide exactly what happens to us once we are dead. Well, maybe; but consider

You arrive home one evening to a terrible scene; your house cordoned off, police conducting a fingertip search of your property, a loved one apparently murdered. As things currently stand there is nothing to prevent you from approaching the officer in charge and announcing “The deceased is…was…a lifelong Libertarian; so I thank you, agents of the state, for holding the fort, but if you could all just run along now I think I’ll take over from here. If you could just tidy up after yourselves when you leave; that powder’s getting everywhere”; but I’m just not sure how far it would get you. Similarly, there is nothing now to stop you from printing off your own cards bearing the message “In the event of my suspicious death I refuse permission for a post-mortem” and carrying one around with you wherever you go; but alas I fear that should you end up on the slab your card will interest the coroner for only as long as it takes him or her to locates the nearest bin.
If you die in testate, then as things stand it is for the courts to settle your estate. Unless you write a will, in effect opting out of this arrangement, then it is administrators appointed by the state who will divide up and apportion your property or debts, who will decide what goes to whom when you die. Either way, you end up paying inheritance tax. You may feel that it is wrong for the state to assume such powers, but it is still what happens under the current system. Now, you could of course argue with some conviction that there is a big difference between your property and your body parts, and you’d be right; in my case I can well imagine that my collection of Led Zeppelin vinyl LPs is far more valuable than any bit of me you could care to mention. I really don’t think you’d want my liver.
I can make whatever arrangements I like for my funeral, organise an impressive do involving white horses, a gilded carriage, paid mourners and a wake at the Midland Hotel; but it could all be in vain. If my family decide instead that they want to pocket the money and chuck my worthless corpse in next door’s skip in the dead of night, hidden beneath a defoliated Christmas tree and that old chipboard from the garage that won’t fit in the boot, then unfortunately that is exactly what will happen me, and there is nothing I can do about it.

None of which means that a system of presumed consent is necessarily the best way to alleviate the shortage of donated organs; perhaps we should instead make more of a proactive effort to try to increase the numbers on the voluntary register first (one Doctor working in Spain’s much praised system states in this article that in itself “a change to presumed consent doesn’t improve the donation rate”), while a controlled market for donated organs could be considered. However, the point I’m trying to make is that I don’t believe a policy of presumed consent would in fact be quite the fundamental shift that some people are claiming; because the real fundamental is that when you’re dead you’re dead, and there’s fuck all you can do about anything anymore. And no government bill is going to change that fact.

Monday 14th January 2008

The Obscurer Awards 2008

Firstly, my apologies if this site is intermittently running slow for you; I have looked into the problem and have narrowed it down to being something to do with computers. If you find it annoying then pity me, because all my WordPress admin stuff is running just as slowly. Hopefully it will resolve itself in time, but for now my only option seems to be to grin and bear it.

Secondly, welcome to the contractual obligation that is the Obscurer Awards. When I first did one of these, some three years ago, it seemed like a great idea. By last year is had become more like a chore, but something inside me still makes me want to write this rubbish, even if no-one wants to read it, so I will just try not to waffle on quite as much this time around, although I will probably fail in that endeavour. Any road up, here we go.

Single – Arctic Monkeys/Brianstorm. For me the year’s best single should be more than just a good song, but something you hear all over the place and that is not simply the latest track released from an already familiar album. This makes picking my favourite single tricky as I hardly ever listen to chart music. My largest dose of the stuff comes around May when I tend to go on holiday someplace that has a pitiful medium-wave reception and I end up listening to more Radio 1 than I would choose. Fortunately last year my holiday in Cornwall more-or-less coincided with the release of the Arctic Monkey single that preceded their 2nd album Favourite Worst Nightmare, so there was much singing along in the car to Brianstorm as we pootled to Praa Sands and Mousehole. And a very fine thing it is too; not as good, perhaps, as their more recent single Teddy Picker, but a muscular number all the same that dispelled any understandable fears that the Monkeys would be a flash in the pan. Meanwhile, Brianstorm’s evil twin was Jamie T’s Sheila, which I heard far too many times on my holiday; a painful number sung in the sort of mockney drone you associate with an alumnus of Reed’s School. But hopefully I won’t have to endure that crap ever again.
Album – Radiohead/In Rainbows. This is a far easier category to award, as there were a number of good albums out last year. The aforementioned Arctic Monkeys LP showed a nice developing sound, while Arcade Fire’s Neon Bible, if lacking the other worldly brilliance of their debut Funeral, was still an excellent collection of songs; but I think Radiohead’s album pips them all. I have already covered In Rainbows in some depth here, so suffice it to say that a few months on I can now put names to all the tracks and I am still listening to it regularly. Christmas also brought the £40 discbox featuring a second CD with six further tracks, all of which could easily have made it onto the album proper. They really have spoiled us this time.
Book – Magnus Mills/Explorers Of The New Century. When I finally, finally finished the Mao biography, I began a new regime of trying to read at least a chapter of a book a day in order to make inroads into my reading backlog, and it has been a great success. Of everything I have read Magnus Mills’ latest novel stands out. Written in his usual spare style, and in a tone reminiscent of his novel Three To See The King, it was great to be back in Mills’ strange and unsettling world as we discover the story of two groups of adventurers setting off with their packs and mules to see who can first reach the Agreed Furthest Point. Wonderfully bizarre as usual, it comes as a shock around three-quarters of the way in as the truth about the mules hits you like a thunderbolt, and the whole piece becomes that bit darker. Stiff competition, but I think this slim tome is Mills’ best novel yet.
Film – Pan’s Labyrinth. Every year I apologise for not having seen any of the previous year’s films, and this year is no exception. So I’m going to cheat by picking a film that was actually released right at the end of December 2006, which is as near as dammit last year, give or take, so I’m having it. Anyway. The story of a young girl who escapes into a fantasy land to get away from the cruel reality of her life with her stepfather, an army captain whose job it is to crush the resistance in the early years of Franco’s Spain, Pan’s Labyrinth manages to be both magical and brutal, a stunning tale that is visually magnificent, and which stays in the memory for days after you have seen it.
Sport – Manchester United vs Chelsea: FA Cup Final. Commonly regarded as the worst FA Cup Final for some years, the reason I have picked it as my sporting highlight is because of what it represents. In the lead up to the match all the talk in the media was about how epic the match would be, with the nation’s two top sides battling it out at the new Wembley. I personally wasn’t that bothered; what with United and Chelsea having so dominated the league all season I had no enthusiasm for the game. Little did I realise I was not alone. I was in Sennen on the day, and decided to pop to catch the last 10 minutes of the game at the Old Success pub; coincidently, I had watched some of the previous year’s final at the same pub. On that occasion the place was choc-a-bloc with people watching Liverpool defeat West Ham; this time the place was deserted, apart from a couple of blokes and the barman. Not exactly scientific I know, but for me it seems a striking example of how football’s trend towards monopoly means that the sport seems to be losing its way and its grip on the imagination, even while the media, clubs and FA continually talk it up.
TV – Frontline: Afghanistan. Much as I may moan that the telly is shit, I still end up with loads of stuff on my PVR that I have to wade through, and at this time of year as I try to pick a favourite I realise just how much good stuff there is amongst the dross. I should say a special thank you to In The Night Garden and Pokoyo, the Calpol and Calprofen of children’s television, for their hypnotic effect on my daughter, who can go from screaming teether to compliant angel in a blink of an eye the moment they come on. Elsewhere I enjoyed Channel 4’s anniversary, re-showing A Very British Coup and Dennis Potter’s interview with Melvyn Bragg; Flight Of the Conchords deserves praise for being the best new comedy show in ages; Screenwipe and TV Burp still beautifully mock the medium that feeds them; and Doctor Who continued its erratic but generally fine form – I thought the Christmas special was crap, but one episode in particular, Blink, was the best bit of drama all year (and which, if you read this in time, you can watch tonight at 7pm on BBC3; failing that, you can borrow my son’s DVD.) But for me the stand out piece of work was Vaughan Smith’s film for Newsnight as he was embedded with 12 Brigade of the Grenadier Guards in Afghanistan as they went on an operation with the new Afghan army in Helmand province. Newsnight’s films can be quite hit and miss, coming as they do from a variety of sources, and I had no expectations when I started watching the film, but I was soon gripped as I witnessed what the troops out there have to deal with. It was humbling stuff; and you can watch the whole 16-minute film here.
Radio – Radcliffe And Maconie. Mark Kermode’s demolition of Pirates Of The Carribean 3 on Simon Mayo’s show is one highlight of last year, but the combination of Mark Radcliffe and Stuart Maconie on Radio 2 has given me a great listening alternative between 8 and 10 of a weeknight. I don’t know how they came together, and in fact they often aren’t together as one of them may be on holiday or covering another show, but either way they are always good value. A highlight for me would have to be the serendipitous moment when I turned on the radio just as they started playing Madder Rose’s Beautiful John, a song I hadn’t heard for years but still love, made all the more special for Mark’s admission that he only played it because he stumbled upon the LP while clearing out his records. It jogged his memory, and in turn mine, as it took me back to when I first heard the song, at a time when I would alternate between Craig Cash on KFM and Mark Radcliffe’s old evening show on Radio 1. So that’s rather neat, isn’t it?
Blog – Chase Me, Ladies, I’m In The Cavalry. Late to the party as ever, Chase Me Ladies was just one of the many blogs that I had heard about but never read, until I came across it one day and realised what I had been missing. Harry Hutton has a wonderfully wry sense of humour and each brief and pithy post is a joy; what’s bloody typical is that since I have become a reader he posts less and less frequently, but when he does it is well worth the wait.

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Monday 7th January 2008

Dropping A Gear

Word arrives of a terrible event in the World of Clarkson.

When CDs containing the banking details of seven million Britons went missing late last year, Jeremy Clarkson insisted it was a storm in a teacup.

To prove no one would be able to access money by using the records, the outspoken broadcaster and columnist published his own bank details.

Now, however, the Top Gear host has ended up with egg on his face – after one entrepreneurial thief removed £500 from his account.

The fraudster set up a direct debit using Clarkson’s bank account details and paid the money to the British Diabetic Association, one of many organisations which do not require a signature to set up a direct debit.

Writing in his newspaper column, Clarkson, 47, said: “Back in November, the Government lost two computer discs containing half the population’s bank details.

“Everyone worked themselves into a right old lather about the mistake but I argued we should all calm down because the details in question are to be found on every cheque we hand out every day to every Tom, Dick and cash and carry.

“To hammer the point home I even printed my own bank account number and sort code.

“And guess what? I opened my bank statement this morning to find out that someone has set up a direct debit which automatically takes £500 from my account.

“The bank cannot find out who did this because of the Data Protection Act and they cannot stop it from happening again.”

A very sad state of affairs. Sad, obviously, that the prankster didn’t manage to set up a direct debit for Friends of the Earth, RoSPA or a similar organisation that would really wind up the fool. Far worse though is that I wrote a fairly sanguine post on the whole HMRC lost discs fiasco back in November that made much the same point that I now realise Clarkson also made; and that is sad indeed.

But there is still some hope. Clarkson now states that

“I was wrong and I have been punished for my mistake.”

“Contrary to what I said at the time, we must go after the idiots who lost the discs and stick cocktail sticks in their eyes until they beg for mercy.”

So he has changed his mind, which is at least something; he is no longer my ally, and even when he was I was blissfully ignorant of the fact. The worry is, though, that if we have agreed on this one matter, could we agree on others? Doubtful; but just to make sure I don’t upset myself I vow never again to read anything written by the silly sod.

Monday 7th January 2008

Undertaking

A morning spent fruitlessly trawling through a large tin of Celebrations attempting to locate just one last Snickers must mean conclusively that the Christmas period is finally over, so perhaps I should dust off this old blog and write something down here; but what?

Well some old things don’t change with the New Year; for one thing Inside Track are still mithering me. Once again I have received a mailing from them inviting me to attend one of their workshops where I can learn all about investing in property so that ~~they~~ I can profit to the tune of a tidy sum. Since having a chuckle while reading their first letter to me a few years back, I’ve always thrown their post straight in the recycling; for an organisation that proclaims that spaces on their seminars are limited and rapidly snapped up I can’t understand why they insist on sending unsolicited invitations to someone who has ended up on their mailing list for no good reason at all. But still the letters come.

However, they seem to have changed tack with their most recent mailshot; just take a look at their latest envelope.

Yes, Inside Track was responsible for making 200 people millionaires last year; now they want me – yes, me – to swell their number and become the 201st. Clearly for Inside Track the arrival of 2008 is no reason to rest on their laurels for 2007; oh no, not only do they want to make me rich, but they want me to join their rich list for last year, so boosting their already impressive statistic of 200 success stories. I can only assume that they don’t simply want to make me a millionaire, they also want to help me to travel back in time, to have become rich some months back; or at the very least they are going to backdate my windfall.

Perhaps I should be flattered by Inside Track’s continued interest in me, but why do I get the nagging feeling that their target audience is not the financially astute, but rather the gullible? Certainly they have hitherto been wasting their time with me, unwilling as I am to get roped into something that exhibits all the signs of financial charlatanry; but time travel? Well, that changes everything. Rather than wasting my time as I had assumed, will an Inside Track seminar instead afford me all the time in the world? Even the mere possibility of it excites me; perhaps I have been far too dismissive of the dubious clots.

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