I may have allowed my fervour towards an opt-out organ donation system to take over the blog this week, so please accept my apologies if it's not as diverse as you have come to expect. It's a fascinating issue, though, and I hope that you will read it and become as passionate about it as I am.
And I've included two quickies after it as well. Generous, that's me.
Hart's in the right place Commercial breakdown Who You Gonna Call?
Hart's in the right place
Leave it to Wales to inject some hope into the state of healthcare provision in the UK. Leave it to Wales. And it seems the British Government is quite happy to do just that.
In the interest of fairness, I should say that this isn't always down to Westminster being rubbish – well, sometimes it is – but the Welsh Assembly being brilliant. Thanks to the Assembly, Wales has free prescriptions and free hospital parking. Good, innit? And now it may have an opt-out organ donation system ahead of England as well (not that it's a competition or anything), allowing every dead person's organs to be used for donation unless they specifically request they are not, instead of the current process of getting organs just from registered donors. When it comes to healthcare, the Welsh Assembly pulls out the stops the British Government seems happy to leave in.
Seeing Edwina Hart, Health Minister of the Welsh Assembly, refuse to dismiss the possibility of an opt-out donation system is more than encouraging – it's inspiring. Often, the Welsh Assembly seems braver than its bigger brother; more adaptable to new ideas and readier to make controversial decisions, especially in healthcare. This may be because any outcry in Wales is smaller than in England – the Welsh, as a rule, aren't big on political activity (look at that turnout: a quarter of the Welsh population actively wanted a devolved parliament) – and it may be because the Assembly's jurisdiction is simply smaller, but the fact is that on a political level, healthcare in Wales looks rosy.
And in this case, it has taken some balls – ironic, since Edwina Hart (presumably) doesn't have any. She has essentially overruled the Assembly health committee's decision not to apply for the right to adopt an opt-out system in Wales. Rejecting a committee's recommendation is a statement of intent and then some: the aptly-named Hart has told politicians that a change in organ donation is going to be discussed whether they like it or not.
Personally, I can't wait. Like TV licensing chiefs, I love hearing people's excuses, sad as they are. "We have a right to keep our organs when we die." "It's wrong to take from a dead person even if it might save a life." None as yet have beaten the excuse raised by John Reid, supported by many and picked up by a writer in The Telegraph a while back (sadly, I can't find a link but rest assured it was probably Simon Heffer because the man's an idiot): "I am not giving my organs to the state." No, you're not. You're giving them to a dying person who needs them to live. Listen to yourself: surely you cannot believe what you are saying. Leave 'the state' out of it, you tit, and stop dragging politics into this simple case of life and death.
Chairman of the spurned committee, Conservative health spokesman Jonathan Morgan (boo hiss) accused Hart of ignoring "the hypothetical reasons why presumed consent could prove difficult to introduce". Hmm, not overly specific. That sounds like a pretty poor excuse to me: an excuse for an excuse, even. And the conclusion to this article – "It is possible to make a case for an opt-out system that favours the living over the dead, but it is not consent and let us not pretend that it is" – is absolute nitpicking.
People may be coming around to the obvious benefits of a system that presumes consent to donate your organs after death unless you deliberately opt out. Prospects aren't as bleak as the future for thousands of patients under the current system. Gordon Brown has given the thumbs-up to an opt-out system, and a "UK Government taskforce" – whatever that may be – is due to report on the matter in a few months. If Wales can lead the way, the rest of Britain may follow. We can only hope. Maybe in just a few years, all of Britain will be able to enjoy an opt-out organ donation system, free hospital parking and prescriptions without charge.
Then again, maybe not.
Commercial breakdown
Everybody's talking about it: Lloyds TSB is ready to take over Halifax Bank of Scotland (HBOS). Halifax is just the first stop on "the journey" Lloyds TSB keeps promising us, and we can all look forward to them picking up Nationwide, Bradford & Bingley and Alliance & Leicester at various stations nationwide (including Bradford and Leicester, presumably) on the way to oblivion.
And all the repercussions of the Halifax-Lloyds merger are being considered: job losses, market shares and even the name of the new merger (I propose Lloyds TSB: Bank of Scotland, Halifax, or LTSB: BOSH for short).
One thing people haven't thought about is the adverts. Merging the incredibly irritating "Hoh hoh hoh hoh, hoh hoh, hoh hoh hoh hoh, hoh hoh, hoh hoh hoh hoh, hoh hoh, hoh hoh hoh hoh HAAAAAH" Lloyds TSB tune with the even more irritating Halifax song-and-dance adverts could be the most damaging symptom of the recession. It's bad enough that Thomas from Leeds singing "Something tells me I'm into something good" has taken on ironic quantities usually reserved for standing ovations at the Liberal Democrat party conference, without badly-drawn women with big noses elbowing him out the way and yodelling melodiously at the tops of their voices.
This Must Be Stopped.
Who You Gonna Call?
Here's an interesting one: a millionaire being chased out of his 52-room mansion by ghosts.
Obviously my heart goes out to Mr Rashid and his family, but some of the supposed supernatural activity does sound a bit... well... natural. Sounds of tapping on the wall? Voices? Mysterious figures? Ghostly presences taking the forms of their children? Is there not the slightest chance this crazy activity could be less due to Casper and his mates and more attributable to their children?
Rashid doesn't sound like he's the sharpest tool in the box. "The ghosts didn't want us to be there," he said, "and we could not fight them because we couldn't see them." I have this vision of Rashid charging around with an axe swiping at thin air. That might explain the blood stains.
Actually, yes, "unexplained blood stains on bedclothes" was another puzzle. Apparently the house dates back to the Norman period; I reckon the stains date back to a normal period. It's not much fun coming of age when you're a young girl, but I'm sure Rashid's seven-year-old daughter doesn't appreciate a national story being made out of it. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd been the one who told her dad it was a ghost in the first place, rather than her own body. Obviously she's a bit young to be experiencing that rite of passage at the age of seven, but they did call the blood stains "unexplained" and besides, it's never easy to tell your parents about that kind of thing – I should imagine "unexplained" isn't the half of it.
Alternatively, it's a bunch of racist landowners frightening off the rich Rashid family by dressing up as ghosts Scooby Doo-style (I heard the programme's become very politically aware these days). "Paranormal experts were unable to solve the problem." Strange, that.
This list is fast becoming an explanation of the learning process in music; how so many albums grew on me after I'd initially dismissed them. After narrowly choosing Gorillaz over Demon Days and learning to love I Am A Bird Now, we once again have an album that only found its way onto my list in recent weeks.
I've always sworn against the critics, friends and Eels fans who said Shootenanny! is a sly masterpiece, and sided with its highly underrated predecessor, Souljacker. There was no grand reason behind it; I just thought Souljacker, with its ace slogan 'YOU LITTLE PUNKS THINK YOU OWN THIS TOWN' on the cover, was a better collection of songs, thanks to such superb efforts as Bus Stop Boxer, Dog-Faced Boy and Jungle Telegraph.
But in giving both albums another listen when compiling this list (see, I do research and stuff!), I realised - once again - that I was wrong. Again. I'm always wrong, it seems, but at least in this case I have company. Fans and critics alike may love Shootenanny! but they don't appear to have listened to it properly.
Shootenanny! is described, from Amazon to the mouths of groupies, as E's 'happy' album, 'celebrating the joys of life' (no, really). I recall one review even said Eels had completely 'dropped the misery' that so defines them for one album.
This is bollocks. If these phrases were describing 2005's more optimisic follow-up Blinking Lights And Other Revelations they could almost work, but Shootenanny! is far from joyful - and that, by the way, is why it's so good.
With song titles including Agony, Rock Hard Times and Restraining Order Blues it's never going to be an easy ride emotionally, but that's what you get with Eels. Agony, in particular, is a heartbreaking piece of, well, agony that perfectly befits its jagged guitars and stabbing drums.
Most tracks are more obviously pleasant musically, but it's still tough stuff: Love Of The Loveless, an aching alternative anthem so subtly cynical E can only wearily murmur the chorus, is probably the most famous song thanks to The O.C. and it gives a good idea of the record's hurt.
What these happy-clappy easygoing critics probably mean to say is that, musically, E took a more middle-of-the-road approach to Shootenanny!. I'm still not sure I agree - every Eels album, even misery-fest Electro-Shock Blues, has had its mainstream singles - but there are, admittedly, more radio-friendly songs on this album.
Again, though, this is providing you don't delve deeper into the lyrics when twiddling those dials. Fashion Awards comes across as a light and lovely ballad until you hit, "We'll blow off our heads in despair" in the chorus (yes, it's ironic, but still). Rock Hard Times is pure bubblegum pop, except it features the words, "It's hard to laugh as you choke / Hope you like the rotten stench of doom." The music may be more upbeat at times but the words sure as hell aren't. You could list examples of the album's depressing lyrics until the cows come home and Anthrax themselves (one for the Izzard fans), but it still wouldn't convey the overwhelming misery of the record.
And it's fantastic. From the opening trio of quality tunes (All In A Day's Work, Saturday Morning, The Good Old Days - all excellent) to the semi-optimistic pay-off Somebody Loves You, via should-be indie classics such as Lone Wolf (wonderful song), Shootenanny! is a winner. I was wrong - again.
But, y'know, Souljacker's good too...
No Spotify link today, I’m afraid, nor tomorrow. Circumstances are beyond my control. Spotify links to #21 and #20 will come with #20 on Saturday.
I think it's fair to say Antony & The Johnsons are a band destined to split opinion: like Marmite and Manchester United, you either love them or hate them. And from hearing them for the first time up until fairly recently, I hated them.
Well, hated may be a strong word but I was certainly annoyed at all the hype. This appeared to be a band driving their USP - Antony Hegarty's unbelievably beautiful/unbelievably stupid (the clincher that divides opinion) voice - so firmly you were forced to wonder if they had anything else to recommend them.
Initially, I Am A Bird confirmed this for me. The deliberately sparse instrumentation placed too much emphasis on Hegarty's vocals, like an expensive table being placed in the middle of a scarcely-furnished room with the host standing behind you saying, "Look at this nice table. Isn't it a nice table?" The album relied too much, and too obviously, upon his voice.
But in time I've realised I was wrong, as I so often am. In fact, Hegarty only has sole dominion over the vocals in half of the tracks, thanks to contributions from Rufus Wainwright (the short and sweet What Can I Do?), Boy George (the wonderful You Are My Sister) and even Lou Reed (Fistful Of Love, another excellent track). He's happy to share the wealth to create an album of riches.
[Song from 0:12 to 2:40]
Furthermore, the album's minimalist sound isn't to brazenly show off his vocals, but to accompany them in the most appropriate way. They wouldn't work as well, or even at all, over anything loud, complicated or even fast (although this is a decent effort). The music compliments as well as complements Hegarty's voice.
Also, it's, y'know, good. Judging the backing only by how it presents the obvious is to do it a massive disservice. Although I'm personally not a fan of the rising crescendo of opening offering Hope There's Someone, which appeared in every 'Single of the Year' list, I do love the similar effect created in For Today I Am A Boy with a passion similar to that bestowed in each and every song.
Strings, too, which can make or destroy a record, are used to astonishingly good effect, turning nice into beautiful again and again (brilliant closing number Bird Guhl providing a good example). Fistful Of Love, meanwhile, concludes with a brass invasion that is no less than hugely uplifting.
I Am A Bird Now is, I have realised, superb from start to finish. Even extended sample Free At Last is there on merit, instead of merely delaying the end. And lyrically, it's just lovely: when a song with the chorus, "You are my sister and I love you - may all of your dreams come true" avoids being saccharine, you know he can write.
An album, and artist, I'm happy to have been wrong about.
Well hung, innit? I'm hanging like a parliament. Hang this. Etc. The jokes everywhere are from the news of a hung parliament, as the British public - well, 65% of it - went to the polls and voted for no one in particular.
Some of us were foolish enough to stay up all night to watch the results come in, and for a more in-depth, more drunken look I recommend trawling through my old tweets at www.twitter.com/weekspotblog. But for those of you with lives to lead (I did update so many times I broke Twitter and was told to stop posting), here's a summary of how no one bar the Greens can be happy with this result.
And fair play to the Greens. It's a fantastic outcome for the single-issue nutters.
Anyway, here goes: the Top Ten 'Oh Fucks' of the night:
1. Oh fuck. The Liberal Democrats had a shocker last night, and this is where it all started to go wrong. Clegg's collective had been making promises of a genuine challenge to Government and 110 seats. Instead, they lost five MPs, and currently stand on a paltry 54 (16 constituencies are still to be announced).
Again, it all started here. The LibDems' no1 target seat saw a 6.9% swing AWAY from the yellows and into the hands of a gleeful Tory party. No doubt for Doughty; no paradise lost for Milton.
Clegg considers his career options
2. Oh fuck. The Conservative Party actually had a pretty bad night of it as well, despite what this terrifyingly blue map of the UK might aver. Seriously, if they just counted votes in England, not Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland as well, the Tories would walk it.
But they won't be at all happy with failing to reach a majority, and it was in constituencies such as this that they fell. It really looked like the Blues would take Tooting, but despite a healthy 3.6% swing against them Labour and Sadiq Khan MP held on. 'Yes we Khan' were the chants. Yes we Khan. +10% turnout too. Good work, Tooting.
Not Tooting his own horn here
3. Oh fuck. Labour had to endure a torrid night (this was a particularly painful one to lose - just 54 votes in it), and what will really hurt is losing some big names. Two former home secretaries, Charles Clarke and Jacqui Smith, were among the casualties and although Clarke is anti-Brown and anti-Balls, he's an old head they didn't want to see go.
How fucked? This fucked
4. Oh fuck. Labour weren't the only party to say goodbye to some prominent figures and again, this was the beginning of the end for the LibDems. Lembit Opik, he of Cheeky Girl fame, lost his seat in Montgomeryshire as the Tories made another gain - this time, with a massive 13.2% swing. Cheeky.
5. Oh fuck. Evan Harris also went - a massive blow for the LibDems. There were only 176 votes in it.
6. Oh fuck. The British National Party didn't win any seats, which is great news, but I wish I could be more optimistic about half a million voters putting an X by their name. I can't. It's disgusting.
Interestingly, the BNP actually lost 1.7% of the vote in the constituency where Nick Griffin plumped his fat bonk-eyed arse.
Understatement?
7. Oh fuck. Essex has a lot to answer for. Chavs, white stilettos and Jamie Oliver aside, the county has a nasty habit of being pretty right-wing in its voting habits. The constituency that best summed up its extent of fail last night was Basildon South & Thurrock East, where they successfully got rid of a Labour minister, voted in a Tory and gave more than 2,500 votes to the BNP. Well done.
8. Oh fuck. Every time I switched over ITV's coverage was absolutely God-awful, from Alistair Stewart constantly interrupting everybody like he's king of the fucking world to filming outside a pub where David Cameron was drinking. It's a pub - just go inside!
9. Oh fuck. Jeremy Vine's house of wank was the reason I kept switching over in the first place.
10. Oh fuck. Last but not least, I was very sad to see this man lose his seat. Richard Taylor is a doctor who ran as a single-issue independent in 2001 to keep Kidderminster Hospital open, and absolutely slammed Labour's junior minister David Lock into the ground. He then held on in 2005 to become the first independent MP to retain his seat since the 1970s. He's such a hero that the LibDems didn't put up any opposition against him on either occasion.
Unfortunately, the Tories did and this time round they won. Bastards.
So, what a bust that was. Here's to a hung parliament seeing some good change put through. What? It could happen.
Oh yay. OK, then, one piece of good news: bag of balls David Heathcoat-Amory, 17 years in power, lost his seat in Wells, Somerset. He literally owns this constituency. It was pretty damn satisfying seeing him lose control of it.
I must apologise for some naughty words appearing in this post. Such are the dangers of talking about professional football. Rest assured, though, that it's not me providing the swearing – it's the managers. Irresponsible bastards.
The blog's also a bit truncated – i.e. short – this week. After a hefty analysis of the first Obama vs. McCain debate last week, I thought it might be best for me to give American politics a rest this time round, even with the Palin/Biden showdown having taken place this week. So this is more lightweight, in focus and pounds of virtual paper.
Finally, you may have noticed a new section to the blog, available on the wall to the top-right of the page, as promised in my last post. There's nothing on it yet, but it'll happen, and it'll be about online journalism (well, I find it interesting). You may choose to ignore it or you may choose to read it. Obviously I'd prefer it if you did read it but just so you know: it won't be my opinions on the week that passed, as this is. It's not really affiliated with Huw Davies' Week Spot. Well, it is, because it's me writing it. But it's not the same blog. It's not the same sphere. It's not the same Huw Davies.
It's blogging, Jim, but not as we know it.
And now: normal service resumes.
Chancer of the Exchequer Churchill vs. The Daleks FuKinnear
Chancer of the Exchequer
The BBC reports that Alistair Darling, Chancellor of the Exchequer, has said he is willing to take "some pretty big steps" to stabilise British banking and the economy.
GOOD.
I'm not saying he should, necessarily, because I don't understand economics enough to suggest whether interference would be appropriate or not, and whether taking steps would be better than waiting it out. But I'm certainly glad to hear he is willing to take pretty big steps. You'd hope so. Otherwise, what is the point in government?
He also said he was looking at "a range of proposals". That is not convincing. Apart from the fact that every politician in the history of the world ever has said that exact sentence – or at least, none that I know of has said, "We are not looking at a range of proposals" – it's disconcerting to hear it from the Chancellor of the Exchequer because it doesn't tell us anything.
It is not news. Or rather, it shouldn't be. I'd hope that we are confident enough in our government to know they would take the steps necessary to bring this country out of a hole. We should be. We shouldn't, however, have to be reassured they would.
The fact is that people want something more concrete than that. Back in the day it was good enough to hear "Hey everybody, it's gonna be OK" when the economy was hitting the fan, but now, when people are completely, horribly terrified of losing their money, they want to know the Government has a plan – not that it will find one, but that it has one. Until then, words are not enough. And, as Obama and McCain's failure to immediately convince the majority about their plans for the economy proved (sorry, that's the last I say about America), people are happy – well, not happy, but prepared – to learn a bit more about financial politics than they previously were. That's the level of trust we have in our politicians now. And given that Darling thinks we can still be placated by vague promises, it's justified and probably necessary.
Sad, innit?
Churchill vs. The Daleks
It was Magazine Week all last week (or this week, if anyone reads this as soon as I post it), and to celebrate, Borders booksellers offered a buy-one-get-one-half-price deal on magazines and magazine subscriptions. Huzzah! Reason at last for me to buy The Oldie without feeling I should spend the money on pretending to be young.
There was also a poll, sponsored by the Periodical Publishers Association (PPA), to find Britain's favourite magazine cover. I know what you're thinking: what kind of sad bastard remembers their favourite front cover to a magazine? So to help us all out, a team of industry experts nominated some and whittled them down to a 'best of the best' shortlist of 16. Here they all are.
As those of you who have just looked at that link know, the Radio Times Dalek cover won. I'm not disappointed as such; more indifferent. I mean, it's an all right cover, I suppose. I'm not overwhelmed, but I'm not underwhelmed either. I'm 'whelmed'. It's a striking image to put on a front cover, but the 'Vote Dalek' slogan doesn't actually make any sense – it's just a very tenuous tie-in to the General Election that was happening at the time (if anything, it probably gained some votes from people taking the slogan as an order). So it's not all that clever, or clever at all in fact. Still, it doesn't need to be, and that's why it won. It's simple and it grabs your attention – and that's the point. Still, it'd be a downright lie to deny that a lot of those votes were members of the public thinking, "Ooh, Daleks!"
I honestly thought the NME's Beth Ditto cover would win, but I just as honestly hoped that Time Out would. It takes some balls to stick it to Winston Churchill – look how badly Hitler fared – but to do it on the anniversary of his death in the midst of some serious Churchillmania is about the bravest thing you can do as the editor of a magazine. Not only that but it's an amazing, attention-grabbing front cover; not to mention beautifully ironic in using Churchill's own 'V' sign as a 'fuck you' to the man himself.
It's a shame that Time Out is purely just a 'What's On' read now because we need some more political ferocity in our magazines, but maybe a guide to London isn't the best vessel for that. Still, we need something – before we all start voting Dalek.
FuKinnear
I'm sure you've all heard by now about Joe Kinnear's verbal tirade against certain members of the media in his first official press conference as Newcastle manager. If not, here it is in its full glory. I love The Guardian for printing this, but in all honesty it's hard not to when, as a journalist, you hear, "Write what you like. Makes no difference to me."
Choosing the best bit of this fantastic rant – please read all of it – is hard, but my personal favourites are the start –
"Which one is Simon Bird?"
"Me."
"You're a cunt."
- and the end:
"Enjoyed getting back in the swing of things?"
"Absolutely. I've loved every moment of it."
I actually don't have much to say about Kinnear's outburst except that I would love it to happen in football more often – love it. It's great to see a football manager wearing his heart on his sleeve and holding his career with invisible tongs. And it's not as if it was a one-off: brilliantly, Kinnear had to watch his first game in charge of Newcastle from the stands because he never finished serving a touchline ban at Nottingham Forest four years ago.
He was, of course, wrong to have such a go at the press. They reported the truth: that he had taken a day off from training on his first day of work, and they merely cast aspersions to tensions at the club – which, when you're in the relegation zone with allegedly one of the strongest squads in the country (uh... ), is likely to be the case. And as manager, however temporarily, of a team in difficulties, Kinnear should be trying to calm the waters, not rock the boat.
But I can't judge someone who provides me with that much entertainment. And thanks to Everton's wavering concentration before and after the half-time break, Newcastle grabbed a 2-2 draw today. Maybe there's life in the old Toon yet.
It's surprisingly easy to get the news in Madeira. I know I shouldn't be surprised - Funchal is a popular tourist spot on an island off the coast of Portugal, not a windswept rock in the middle of a cultural black hole - but given that all I'd be able to understand in a Portuguese paper would be 'Obrigado' and 'Cristiano Ronaldo', and considering how difficult it can be to get foreign-language papers in the UK, I find myself delerious with delight at seeing an English newspaper, even if it is The Mail.
Truth is, there's a newsagent's on practically every corner offering an impressive range of English rags. They're printed in Europe and imported as soon as they can be, generally being ready to buy around lunchtime. They're also quite expensive: a Guardian costs me €3.90 (about £3.25), which I personally think is a bit cheeky. Still, it's worth it to keep up-to-date and free hotel internet access makes a happy Huw.
And, you may be asking, why aren't I off enjoying my holiday instead of lying in the sun beside a rooftop swimming pool, admiring a spectacular view, drinking a cool beer and writing what I think about the world?
Well, I'm committed, 'tis all.
(So committed, in fact, that I got a bit carried away with these stories and they turned from blog posts into epic blog posts into full-blown articles. Sorry about that.)
The price of progress The appealing's Mutu-al Flogging a dead horse (then rigorously washing my hands)
The price of progress
So, A-Level results time once again. And once again, it's a record-breaking year, with the pass rate topping 97% for the first time and more As being awarded than ever before.
Shit! Disaster! Continuing success! A-Levels must be getting easier. If seven-year-old twins can get a D in an AS-Level Maths paper, how hard can it be? Void the results. Better still, scrap the entire system. When one in four results are As and one in ten pupils are getting three of them – and when my old school comes first in the national league tables (schwing!) – something must be wrong. Right?
Or maybe – just maybe – schools are getting better, pupils are getting cleverer and those twins are just geniii. Maybe this reaction to A-Level results is the wrong kind of euphoria. I know it's terribly British to fail and everything, but when the Government is discussing plans to reduce the number of happy, successful pupils, it makes you wonder what they want from them.
To be fair, some changes in the A-Level system may be required. 5000 pupils who went on to get three As were turned away by Oxford last year, and that number is expected to have increased this year. Pupils are doing so well that it is becoming harder to distinguish the best of the best. But that's not their fault, and I resent the automatically negative response towards them, as if they have chosen an easier ride; as if they have taken advantage of the system; as if they have cheated in some way. No, their results are not meaningless. Regardless of how easy to attain good results may or may not be, most pupils have worked bloody hard for them and we can't – or shouldn't – take that away from them.
But while hard-working, intelligent pupils are missing out on university places because others are doing just as well (again, no one's fault), Something Must Be Done – but to help them out, not set them back. There needs to be a better way of setting apart pupils with similar results, even if that does mean more work for them. It's fairer on them in the long run.
So what's to be done? Here are a few suggestions off the top of my head, and off the tops of the heads of others (i.e. I've stolen them from existing plans).
--- Drop General Studies. It's pointless, nobody takes it seriously (least of all universities) and even if you don't revise for it, it takes up lesson time and exam period time that could be spent revising for real subjects.
--- Encourage universities to demand four A-Levels from a student instead of three. More results = a greater chance of differentiation. I'm not sure about this one, because although there's room in a student's timetable for a fourth subject (seeing as most drop one after AS-Level) it would increase workload and resultant stress to potentially harmful levels. Admittedly this would separate the men from the boys – statistically, the girls would probably be fine – but three A-Levels are stressful enough (in fact, pupils' stress levels are apparently higher than ever before). Still, one to think about.
--- One Government plan is a university-style dissertation to be taken alongside A-Levels, in the form of an extended project. I think this would be good. It's more suited to Higher Education, helping students to prepare for the intellectual rigours of university and helping universities to gauge who the more promising applicants are. It would also encourage A-Level pupils to show a bit of initiative, accustomed as they are to the highly specific narrow-field approach to learning, with practice papers and mark schemes telling them exactly what to write (though plans are afoot to change this). A pilot of the dissertation scheme saw pupils discussing global warming and voting ages (danger: General Studies!) but another approach could be to incorporate the longer study into a subject. This would avoid too much added workload (see above), though the current plans are for the projects to be worth half an A-Level, not a whole one.
--- Introduce an A* grade. This is probably going to happen in 2010 and provided it's hard enough to get one, it should help significantly. Incredibly, some big universities have said they'll ignore the A* system because it will favour better-prepared, better-educated students from more affluent areas. What the hell?
--- Interview more students. Whatever happened to the university interview anyway? If you have two or more students of precisely the same academic calibre, it only makes sense to compare their performances in an interview.
--- Leave the International Baccalaureate well alone. It's crap. Just say no, kids.
--- Most importantly, leave the poor sods alone. They've done what they were told, worked hard and achieved some good grades. What benefit is there in telling them they're worthless?
The appealing's Mutu-al
Sport often welcomes greed – just look at Michael Phelps' diet, guaranteed to get kids begging their parents for the right to eat handfuls of crap all day – but Chelsea FC really rolls out the red carpet. That's the common perception, anyway, and it's hard not to agree when the club tries to fine an individual nearly £14 million for an indiscretion four years previously.
And, to the probable indifference of Roman '£12 billion' Abramovic, it has succeeded. Adrian Mutu will have to pay the London club £13.8 million in damages
(depending which paper he reads – some reckon it's actually £13.68 million). Mutu, now at Fiorentina, was a bit of a scamp in his Chelsea days and in October 2004 was caught red-handed and white-nosed chin-deep in trough full of cocaine. All right, that's a slight exaggeration: he tested positive for cocaine after Chelsea got suspicious he was up to something, having put in some lacklustre training performances (not surprising: if you're being paid five-figure sums of money a week for doing very little you should at least look like you give a shit). Mutu was sacked by the club, banned from football for seven months and had to pay a £20,000 fine. Such is the price of coke these days.
And now Chelsea want £13.8 million from him in compensation. For what, though? What did Chelsea suffer as a result of Mutu's shenanigans that justifies demanding that amount of money from him?
Reputation is the first thing to spring to mind. Employing cocaine junkies isn't exactly keeping up appearances. But when you consider they're not exactly beloved by all anyway, how much did Chelsea's reputation really suffer from the bust? Not much. Not at all, really. Mutu got the flak, and rightly so. The PFA (Professional Footballers' Association) accused Chelsea of failing in its “duty of care” towards their players in sacking Mutu; after all, he'd committed himself to rehab and was having a difficult time of it, what with his wife and kids having left him (the reason he'd fallen into drugs in the first place). But Chelsea received almost universal support for their decision, because it made professional sense – they bought Mutu to play football and he got himself banned from the game for seven months. It doesn't matter that he would have spent most of that time on the bench. Harsh as it was, Chelsea made the right decision, and people knew it. And how cares what the PFA thinks anyway?
The real issue, of course, is that Chelsea want their money back. They feel a bit short-changed from the £15.8 million they gave Parma for Mutu's services (in 2003!), and want the player to reimburse them. But, come on, guys... really? Water under the bridge, man, water under Stamford Bridge. Besides, in the world of professional football faulty purchases don't have a warranty. You can't seek compensation for a signing that went awry. If you could, you'd think Chelsea would want some money back from the £10 million they paid for Chris '28 appearances, 1 goal' Sutton in 1999.
What it comes down to is that Chelsea want Mutu to pay for showing them up. That's pretty unreasonable in my eyes – and £13.8 million? That's just plain greedy (especially when you consider it was originally £9.6 million and Chelsea appealed to make it more).
Mutu is expected to appeal. Damn right. He's got himself clean – time to wipe the slate clean as well.
Flogging a dead horse (then rigorously washing my hands)
Blimey.
An article I wrote on obsessive-compulsive disorder that some of you may have read recently got snapped up by that excellent purveyor of high-quality journalism The Guardian and was in G2 last Monday (the 11th). Obviously I´m very proud, and not above plugging it wherever possible. But given that this blog is me commenting on what I read in the papers, I thought I'd share my views.
On the whole, the piece was fairly well-written and not too painful to read, but I would have appreciated more information on OCD rather than one individual's relatively minor battle with it. This, I understand, was in its original publication in Cardiff University's award-winning newspaper gair rhydd, but giving the readers what they want demanded a more personal approach, I hear. Never mind - it was interesting to read about the chap's issues. He clearly needs to get out more.
After his decision to 'go straight' with Regeneration, it was with open arms that I welcomed the real Neil Hannon back to the stage. He's complained before that Regeneration is an underrated album, but it's completely the other way round. Fans love it. Critics love it. And it's fucking awful.
I agree the overblown scores and comedy sound effects of Fin de Siècle et al undermine Hannon's brilliant, clever, gently comic lyrics, but Regeneration made the music boring and the lyrics worse. There's a song in which he lists things he's lost. The whole album's neither funny nor deep. It's horrific.
The superb Absent Friends, then, made me breathe such a sigh of relief I blew away a small child.
But the thing to remember about Neil Hannon as a lyricist is that he's actually bloody miserable. Tell anyone you're a Divine Comedy fan and they sing National Express at you (it's really annoying); they don't know he's made nine albums, each more depressing than the last.
And in Absent Friends, he found the music to fit the words. To fully express every minutiae of sadness in its core, a full orchestra with string-led melodies are used to perfection, although Hannon still lacked the confidence to really pull off his massive orchestral gigs at the Royal Albert Hall and the Palladium (though the second half and encore of the latter is excellent).
But in Absent Friends, it's a perfect fit - chamber pop at its very best. Case in point: Sticks And Stones, with its stabbing cello and sweeping violins. The song absolutely soars. It's also hard to dislike a song that begins, "You and I go together like the molar and the drill." The title track is another cracker, uplifting and melancholy at the same time.
Hannon knows when to show restraint with his instruments, though: My Imaginary Friend is a quiet, friendly, banjo-led ditty very much in the middle of the road, but it's so utterly lovely you'd be a bastard to hate it.
The same goes for album closer Charmed Life, which, being a sugary sweet tribute to his young daughter, should by all rights be awful. But it's not. So there.
Let's not go around thinking this is happy happy fun times though. Leaving Today, about leaving his family behind, is a heartbreaker of pure misery. Musically, it's no less than haunting. Lyrically: "So suddenly awake," it begins. "No light through yonder window breaks. No crowing cock; just my old clock... "
Our Mutual Friend - definite emphasis on friends in this album - is the true standout, however. Listen to it. From the opening confession, "No matter how I try I just can't get her out of my mind" to its shattering conclusion (via the lovely throwaway line, "I woke up the next day all alone but for a headache), it involves you completely, and every individual line is perfect. The scene is so beautifully set, it's impossible not to feel for the speaker when it closes.
Sad, observant and wryly comic, Absent Friends is the album to give Divine Comedy fans hope. Can't wait for the new album.
Sorry, that was a terrible review of a wonderful record. Please listen to at least a bit of it. Merry Christmas! I'll be back with #6 on Boxing Day. Until then, here's a present, made around the release of this album:
Bad news for Team GB: eight sports have had their funding slashed ahead of the 2012 London Olympics.
They're all relatively minor sports, but the cuts are major enough: water polo is losing half of its budget and shooting will be forced to scale down from 46 funded athletes to 10. Several teams, including water polo, may be forced to pull out of the 2012 Olympics, scuppering the Government's plans to field athletes in every... field.
Well, that's not good, is it? Especially after Britain's success in the Beijing Olympics last year. I can see a lot of people being disappointed with this - and not just the athletes. The British public has fallen in love with the idea of hosting the Olympics, and knowing their own country won't be able to compete in some events will be a major blow to morale. Also, the UK was given the Olympics on the basis it would be cheap - much cheaper than Beijing. I don't think withdrawing their own team was the idea they had in mind.
It's easy to say this kind of disappointment is inevitable in a recession, and to an extent it is, but that's not the direct reason for this. No - it's a £50m funding shortfall. Yeah. OK, enough beating around the bush: the Government failed to raise ANY MONEY AT ALL from the private sector. Not a single penny. Nothing. At. All.
So yes, indirectly the economy's general downward spiralling motion is arguably to blame because private companies aren't happy to be chucking about money at the moment, and certainly not into the training of younger athletes, contributing in turn to national success (much better to invest in Iceland, eh?).
But ultimately, the Government itself must take some responsibility for failing to marshal the private sector into investing in Britain's sporting future. I don't know quite what its level of campaigning was, but clearly it wasn't enough.
I know one thing, though:
taxpayers will not be happy. Reading The Metro tomorrow morning on the bus to work, I can see them choking on their Nutri-Grains reading about how private business has let them down once again. "Why should we pay the money if they don't?", they'll ask. I don't think taxes will rise as a result of the funding shortfall - too unpopular, even with the excitement over the Games - but it's not going to help public attitudes towards companies that many see as having helped to land Britain in this economic mess in the first place. Class war, here we come: public vs. private sector. Now that's sport.
I'm a bit uneasy about including (the wondrously superb) Lemonjelly.ky in this list because, well, it's not really an album. A collection of their three EPs leading up to its release (two of which were, ahem, made before this decade), Lemonjelly.ky isn't as much of a masterpiece made in a moment of time as a damn good record made over a number of those moments. Does that make sense? Yes? Good, I'm glad you're with me on that.
You might remonstrate: why is it here ahead of Lost Horizons or '64-'95? They're both 'real' albums, and brilliant to boot. Plus '64-'95 has William Shatner on it! Why isn't that on this list instead of a miniature Best Of?
Because Lemonjelly.ky gives a good idea of how its creators were able to make those follow-up albums - and also because it's better (sorry).
In The Bath is a chunky beast that somehow manages to soothe and intimidate at the same time. His Majesty King Raam is lighter than angel tread and can transport a person from a packed London tube to a Philadelphia advert. The Staunton Lick is... well, it's just brilliant, is what it is.
The highlight, though, has to be ident-friendly Homage To Patagonia, a violent two-act epic complete with ponderous keyboard prods, Spanish guitar and heavy breathing that comes together into a seamless montage of aceness (slightly altered version below).
Lemon Jelly have never been afraid to innovate: see their note on '64-'95's cover sleeve for proof of that ("This is our new album. It's not like our old album."), or their replacement of support acts with audience participation overseen by a giant figure of Death (Bingo, anyone?).
But if their two albums hence showed what else they could do, it began here. Who says ambient trip-hop has to always be background music? Who says you can't make nine-minute instrumentals both catchy and inventive? Balls to the lot of you, say Lemon Jelly, before apologising, smiling mischievously and putting on another slice of understated magic.
Lemonjelly.ky might be lacking the happy choruses of Lost Horizons' semi-hit singles Space Walk and Nice Weather For Ducks, but anyone who says it's any less joyful hasn't heard the amazing use of The Staunton Lick to end seminal Channel 4 sitcom Spaced for good.
Something missed by so many tryhards is that instrumentals (come on, they are instrumentals) can put a big stupid smile on your face, and nowhere do Lemon Jelly show that better than on Lemonjelly.ky.
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Spotify link non-existent because Spotify doesn't have this album because Spotify sucks arse sometimes.
Just the mention of the word evokes vivid images in my mind. Camping with my family. Sitting by the campfire and making S'mores. The Energizer bunny pounding his drum at the top of Nasty Grade. Shuffling up the never ending Mile 5 hill. Running through the amazing crowds in Redondo Vista. Drinking ice-cold post-race beers (maybe the best part of all.)
It is my favorite race on the calendar, not just for epic nature of the race itself, but for the entire Wildflower experience.
This year was our third trip to Lake San Antonio for this event. In 2006, I did the Olympic distance race and in 2008 stepped up to the Long Course. This year, once again, the Long Course was on the menu. The Long Course is the event that truly defines Wildflower. It is a half-ironman distance event and as the saying goes, the only flat spot on the entire course is during the swim. Over 5000 ft of climbing on the bike, and over 1100 ft on run course that is 60% off-road trails and 40% pavement. Brutal.
Thursday morning, we got on the road early and after a few stops we arrived at the race site around 3. After entering the gate, we stopped by the AVIA booth where they were giving out free gelatos... a welcome treat. Kenny Sousa himself hand-delivered them to our car... pretty cool. We hopped out for a minute and another AVIA athlete, Saul Raisin, was at the booth signing copies of his book, "Tour de Life: From Coma to Competition". He has an incredible story and it was a pleasure to meet him and get a copy of his book. I just started reading it and it is amazing.
This year, we camped in Harris Creek once again with a crew of Cal Poly Alums that have been working the run aid station for over 20 years. We met them last year (through our kids) and had a blast. A great group of people and there were over 15 little kids in our area so our girls had a fantastic time the whole weekend.
I spent Friday doing typical pre-race stuff... in the afternoon I went down to the festival area to get my race packet and went for a short swim to make sure the wetsuit still fit. Water temp was just touch on the chilly side (64 degrees or so), but not an issue. After my swim I cruised the expo and had a chance to catch up with Sebastian Linke from SLS3, who set me up with some of their new compression socks to wear on race day. Check out their stuff... the best compression gear on the market.
Saturday morning, I woke up at 5 to get an early start on some calories and coffee. Typical race-morning breakfast... cereal with soy milk (I am trying to cut back on dairy), banana, wheat bread with peanut butter, coffee and water. I caught the boat shuttle at 7:00 and got into the transition area around 7:30, plenty of time to set up for my 8:35 wave start.
Swim - 28:02 (10th AG). HR (156 avg, 160 max) Swim start was super aggressive. I lined up front and dead center, which was probably asking for trouble, but my swimming has been strong lately so I was confident in my ability to swim near the front of the group. After the mad sprint into the water, there was lots of contact and elbows the first 150 meters to the first bouy... guys were hammering! I was swimming just about flat out to try to stay in a good position. Fortunately, things settled down after the first turn and I was able to get into a rhythm. One thing I like about this swim course is that since there are no waves, sighting is super easy. Got back to the boat ramp and chuckled to myself, my swim time was identical to my split at Oceanside. One of these days, I'm going to break 28 minutes!!
T1- 3:29. I was racked in an ideal spot, dead center of the transition area on the end of the row at the center aisle. For some reason, I had a hard time getting my left leg out of my wetsuit and nearly fell over twice trying to get it off.
Bike - 2:49:56 (19.8 mph, 42nd AG) HR (139 avg, 172 max) The course is just hard. Coming out of transition, I just tried to get the legs moving by staying in a small gear on some rollers near the lake and up the Beach Hill climb. Once out of the campground, I pushed the pace for the first 20 miles out to the right turn on Jolon Road and maintained my HR between 145-155. At the turn, I dropped the intensity a touch and just focused on staying aero and maintaining a good rhythm. The miles between 20 and 35 are rolling with some long gentle descents so I used this opportunity to let the HR drop and recover slightly. Felt very strong going up Nasty Grade and the final hills into the transition. Total bike was much better than last year (2:56:59)... wanted to go under 2:50 so am happy with it.
At the top of the Nasty Grade nutrition 2 bottles of GuH20/CarboPro (325 cals each). 1 1/2 btls of water. Also took a few pulls off a Gu flask..but I didn't finish it (maybe had 1-2 gels). total cals on the bike. 750-800. 5 Thermolytes per hour.
T2 - 1:47 A bit slow. I took a few seconds to put on my new SLS3 compression socks. By having them rolled up beforehand, they went on quite easily.
Run - 1:43:57, 7:56 per mile (49th AG), HR (164 avg, 194 max) This course beat me again. I came out of transition feeling good and started out very easy. Mile 1 split was 5:50..so I knew the markers were off... I'd estimate I ran something around 7:15. Just tried to find a rhythm in the first 4 miles, but couldn't seem to get my HR under control. Got to the monster hill at mile 5 and had to walk a pretty long section. After going down the descent, my hamstring started cramping. Stopped to massage it and stretch it out. That seemed to take care of it, it didn't bother me again. After mile 6, I started to feel better and managed to maintain a decent pace. The markers were all off so I don't know how fast, but I would estimate low 7 min pace. Maintained a decent pace through Redondo Vista and through the pit (no walking like last year). I did walk through the final aid station at mile 12 though, but at least it was only for a few seconds.
suffering on the run course Nutrition. Carried a GU flask with caffeinated TriBerry GU, which I sucked on before every aid station. Alternated Gatorade and water.
Strange, I felt like I did a lot better than last year (much less walking), but my time was only a little over a minute faster. I am disappointed with this... 1:43 is pretty embarrassing. This course is slower than Oceanside, maybe 5 minutes slower. But not 14 minutes slower.
Next year, I am going to change my prep entirely for this. More run mileage, lots more hills and I will need to get a lot leaner.
A side note on the socks. It was my first time racing in compression socks. It's hard to say if they helped me on the run course. But the day after... OMG. Normally, my lower legs are trashed after a race. This time, my legs are only a bit sore. That alone is worth the few seconds to put them on.
Final time - 5:07:14 (36th AG, 158th OA).
About 10 minutes faster than Wildflower last year, but 28 minutes SLOWER than Oceanside a month ago. I have a few theories. My running has been inconsistent the last four weeks... my slower than expected 5K was an indication of that. I also had a lot of work travel this month so my diet was a way off. I am about 3-4 lbs heavier than when I raced Oceanside, on a hilly course those extra pounds are a killer.
Racewise, I am not happy with the result, I believe I performed way under my potential. Back to the drawing board.
Someone started a thread on Slowtwitch asking for a triathlon haiku. Here's my contribution:
must get off the couch go ride my bike, run or swim you know, this is fun
I’m no poet.
My training has been coming along. My goal right now is to build base for next year and compared to last year, I’m way ahead of the game.
To compare:
Nov ‘07 - swim 29k, bike 170.4 miles, run 128 miles = 34.5 hours.
Nov ‘08 - swim 9k, bike 427.2 miles, run 121.6 miles = 43 hours
I'm pretty happy with that.
December is starting off pretty well also and I managed a decent week of training. Wasn’t without some juggling though. The wife and I decided at the last minute to go visit my mom for her birthday and ended up staying the weekend, so my original plan of riding on Saturday and running Sunday were out the window. I ended up running Saturday morning and doing my long ride Sunday night on the trainer after we got back.
Map and HR chart from long run:
Some people hate riding on their trainer... but for some perverse reason, I kinda enjoy it. One thing that I like is the fact that the time is precise. I can plan a 3 hour ride and I’m done in 3 hours. If I go for a 3-hr ride outdoors, three hours of ride time ends up being 3:30 door to door with stops, etc. And if I go with a group, I’m usually gone for 4 hrs or more to manage the same three hour effort.
So when we got home on Sunday evening and we got the girls down to bed, I filled up my bottle and I hopped on the trainer for a 3 hour session. Thanks to Coach Troy Jacobson, his Spinervals Tough Love DVD and a good iTunes playlist, the time went by pretty quickly and I had a very solid workout.
I spent some time last week writing a long post, breaking down in detail my training totals for 2008, evaluating my race performances and trying to determine what I can change this year to become a fitter, faster triathlete. That long post can be summed up in four words.
I. Must. Bike. More.
So, I decided the right way to kick off my 2009 training was to do a really long ride. A 200KM (120 miles) brevet with the San Diego Randonneurs.
A map of the route.
I've done two Ironmans and a handful of century rides, but 120 miles is my longest ride ever. Not to mention that this route contains nearly 7000 ft of climbing... all the North County classics like Del Dios, Old Castle, Couser/Rice Canyon, and finishing off with Torrey Pines at the 115 mile mark. I knew it would be a tough day.
We started the ride promptly at 7AM in a light rain and the temps were in the mid 40's. I wore my bib shorts, full length leg warmers, a base layer on top, a short-sleeve bike jersey, arm warmers and a rain jacket that converts into a vest. I also had on ear warmers and wore my full finger winter gloves. Despite all that, I was still cold.
The first section of the ride was over rolling hills through Sorreto Valley, Carmel Mountain and beautiful Rancho Santa Fe. There are some beautiful estates in that area, wow. There were a number of riders stopped repairing flat tires... I guess the rain caused a lot of road debris to collect on the shoulders of the road. I think I counted six in the first 30 miles. The first major climb was San Elijo Road, 1.9 miles at 7% avg. gradient. I dropped into the 39x26 and spun up with no problems. Checkpoint #1 was at the top of the climb, then we were rewarded with a long and steep 1.5 mile descent into San Marcos. I rode my brakes the entire way down... with the wet asphalt, I wasn't taking any chances. With the damp and the wind, it was cold and my feet and hands were numb.
In San Marcos, we had a nice flat section up Twin Valley Oaks Road to Deer Springs Road out to the second checkpoint at I-15, roughly 44 miles into the ride. By this time we had been riding about 2:45, and I had gone through 2 bottles of GuH20/CarboPro and 1 Clif Bar. I was carrying one spare bottle in my jersey pocket with enough drink powder for 2 more bottles and with this, I mixed two more bottles of sports drink.
Here's a pic of me... contemplating the fact that I still have nearly 80 miles to go.
Out of the second checkpoint, we headed over the 15 Fwy, then north on Old 395/Champagne Road past the Lawrence Welk resort. A nice long gentle descent before what, in my opinion, was the toughest climb on the course. Old Castle Road, nearly 4 miles at about 6% avg grade with about a mile at nearly 9%. Fun.
From here... only two major climbs left. A short steep ascent up Couser Canyon Road and a long grinding ascent of Rice Canyon before arriving at the final checkpoint, Rainbow Market at mile 65. By this time, we had been rolling for over 4.5 hours in the cold and rain. I was cold. So, I was happily surprised to find hot soup and bread waiting at the checkpoint. SO GOOD! This was exactly what I needed. After a quick bathroom stop, we headed out again... starting with a fast descent of old 395. So much for being warm... the fast descent chilled me to the bone once again.
Miles 70-90 were through the rolling hills of Fallbrook with some nice descents down Live Oak Park and Mission Road. After so much spent climbing the front half of the ride, it was great to have some fast sections. This part of the route was a lot of fun to ride. After brief stretch on Hwy 76, it was a jaunt through the Morro Hills area and then to the most boring (boring-est?) section of the entire coast... the dreaded San Luis Rey bike trail. Most North County cyclists know every inch of this 7.2 mile path and true to form, there was the typical afternoon headwind. I just geared down, zoned out and ate my second Clif Bar.
Once back to the coast (the final stretch), I just mentally checked off the towns that I passed through..first Oceanside, then Carlsbad, Encinitas, Solana Beach, Del Mar. In Carlsbad, I caught a group of other randonneurs. The last time I had seen them was back in Rainbow; they were leaving the soup stop as I was arriving. We exchanged some encouraging words and I pressed on. I was riding slightly faster so we were only together for a mile or so.
The biggest test of the ride for me, mentally at least, was the final climb up Torrey Pines. This is not a huge climb by any stretch. But after 115 miles... it felt like I was climbing Everest.
Once over top of Torrey, it was only a few rolling miles through the UCSD Campus to the finish. I pulled in at 3:36 pm for a total time of 8:36. My rolling time was 7:40, a 15.7 mph average. Turns out I finished 5th out of 41 finishers, which I'm pretty happy with. Not exactly in keeping with the non-competitive nature of the event to be talking about my placing, but at least I know what I wasn't out of my league in attempting this.
Once I finished, I quickly got out of my wet cycling clothes into some warm gear and ate a couple brownies.
Some of the other guys tried to convince me to do the 300K later this month. That one has 12000 ft of climbing. Not sure I'm ready for that yet... we'll see.
'O Brother, Where Art Thou?' The Soundtrack - Various Artists [2000]
The record that launched a thousand careers.
This compilation, soundtrack to what I personally think is the most perfect film ever made (but let's put that aside for now because that's another list no one will agree with), collected the finest crafters of folk and bluegrass the world has to offer, and in return for their rewarding viewers and listeners with unbelievably good music, rewarded these masters of their art with recognition not before known or appreciated.
Sorry, that was a sentence more unnecessarily long than Nelson Mandela's. Heigh-o!
Legends such as Alison Krauss (God, I love her voice), Gillian Welch and even Emmylou Harris do feature, it's true, but it was wonderful to see some appreciation for producer T-Bone Burnett, Dan Tyminski and, yes, Ralph Stanley. On his 75th birthday, he sang O Death - a capella - at the 44th Grammy Awards. I'm sorry, but I just find that unbelievable. In retrospect, it's a miracle Kanye West didn't turn up promising to let them finish but first adding by gum, Bob Dylan was robbed.
Yes, Dylan lost out to the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack for Album of the Year. I imagine he was very happy about it, actually. Fellow losing nominees OutKast and U2 (hah!) were probably less thrilled.
The award, and Stanley's, were just two of five Grammies won by the record - and deservedly, fully deservedly.
Anyone who knows the Coen brothers' films know they care deeply about their soundtracks, and each song fits its moment in the film perfectly, but it works so well in its own right too. To hear modern legends recreate classic bluegrass songs and make them their own is no less than incredible in effect.
Highlights? Ooh, not easy. The Soggy Bottom Boys' acoustic and full band recordings of Man Of Constant Sorrow both go down as classic versions of the song, and rightfully so, thanks to Tyminski's artful arrangement and damn fine singing.
The aforementioned O Death is another fantastic song, crooned with such fragility by Ralph Stanley it's like hearing his soul be ripped apart with his ageing body. But, y'know, more cheerful. Stanley also turns up on album and film closer Angel Band, which is just bloody lovely.
What else? Down To The River To Pray and Didn't Leave Nobody But The Baby are much-admir'd thanks to Alison Krauss' involvement, and they are both beautiful renditions, but credit must also go to Chris Thomas King for his heartbreaking version of Hard Time Killing Floor Blues.
John Hartford is responsible for two gorgeous string-laden instrumentals, there's a brilliant rare 1920s recording in Harry McClintock's Big Rock Candy Mountain (corking song) and actor Tim Blake Nelson has a more than decent stab at In The Jailhouse Now. Give that man a recording contract.
To be honest, there's only one recording on this 19-track album I would call any less than wonderful, and that's because it's excruciating - three pre-teen girls murdering In The Highways. Still, they're young. I'll forgive them.
What an album. What bluegrass. What gospel. What brilliance.
So I suppose the final question is: does this count? I wasn't going to include the album on my list because I wasn't sure if a soundtrack created by various artists should be included on an albums of the decade list. But then I took away the rules and thought about it simply: it's one of the best records of the decade. Simple as that.
How nice. My 100th post on this silly little blog, set up well over a year ago, and I get to celebrate my favourite film as well as one of my favourite albums.
Tomorrow, I'll probably pick the Being John Malkovich soundtrack (does it have one?) just so I can drone on endlessly about the film.
I was in Tuscon last week for the Gorilla Multisport Winter Training Camp. My original intention was to blog every day while at camp to give the daily update on the experience. But, frankly, I was too tired to manage it. So, now I am typing this from home in San Diego after a few days of recovery and decompression.
I had been looking forward to this for a while... five days of nothing but training, learning and hanging out with some other like-minded triathletes.
We arrived on Tuesday, I'll call it Day 0. After the long drive I was pretty wired, so I went for a quick run before some grub and bed. Our hotel was about 2 miles from the Kino Sports Complex, which is where the Arizona Diamondbacks do their spring training... made for a nice turnaround for the out and back route. Workout #1 in the books.
Day 1 - Wednesday The other campers were not due to arrive until mid-day, but since we were in town and had some free time, my friend and Gorilla Multisport Coach DeeAnn and I went to a Masters workout at the University of Arizona. They run a nice program over there and the pool is amazing. With the week of heavy training ahead, I was glad to find out that the workout was an easy one. Lots of fast 100's and 50's with lots of rest, along with some technique work. I ended up with just over 3000 yards for the workout. After some coffee, breakfast and a short rest, I headed out for a run out to the Kino Sports Complex again. One of the campers from Florida, Joseph, had arrived, so he joined me. We ended up with just over 4.5 miles of easy jogging. After lunch and "registration", the entire crew convened for the first ride of the camp, Gates Pass. The ride began with a flat stretch through urban Tucson, which was not great due to all the stoplights. But once we were out of town, the scenery was amazing... spectacular views of the desert and endless miles of cactus and beautiful landscapes. The highlight of the ride was the climb up and over Gates Pass, which has a section at the top that rivals some of the steepest roads I've ever climbed on a bike. Out of the saddle in the 39x26, just trying to keep the pedals turning over. After a photo opp at the top, we bombed down the backside and back into town. Total ride was 38 miles. After getting back to the hotel and cleaning up, we were treated to a nutrition presentation from Bob Seebohar (www.fuel4mance.com), elite coach and sports nutritionist for the 2008 US Olympic Triathlon Team. I learned a lot about metabolic efficiency and picked up some tips that I will definitely incorporate into my own training.
Day 2 - Thursday AM - 50 mile ride out to Colossal Cave Mountain Park. Coach Bob and Seton Claggett from TriSports.com joined us for the ride. Both are great guys and strong athletes. Overall, an moderate ride with lots of false flats and gentle inclines. The best part was that all the climbing was in the first 30 miles and the entire 20 mile return trip was a gentle descent. Immediately upon returning, our group headed out for a quick 20 minute transition run. Coach Bob rode and ran with us and gave us some great tips on run cadence. After a quick bite to eat, I put my legs up for an hour to rest up for the afternoon ride. PM - 38 mile ride, the bottom half of the El Tour de Tucson route. By this time, the day had turned hot and windy... so we were treated to a pretty tough ride, starting out in urban Tucson, than out to some less-traveled roads in the north part of town. As soon as we could get our bikes in the hotel rooms and showered up, we headed over to a strength workout with Coach Bob. We focused on a concept he calls neuromuscular activation... essentially a series of pre and post-workout movements that activate the key muscle groups. Again, I learned a lot... great stuff.
Day 3 - Friday AM - The Shootout is a regular Saturday hammerfeest that has been taking place in Tucson for over 30 years... its a fairly challenging route famous for attracting the most competitive cyclists and is typically full of attacks and counterattacks. We choose to do The Shootout ride on Friday on our own to get a sample of the route without the blistering pace and a big peleton. Seton Claggett from TriSports.com rode with us again. It started out with an easy 15 miles in town than a long 15 miles of false flat... nearly dead straight... before it finally kicks up with a final short steep climb. I was feeling pretty strong so I kept the pace high on the false flat, but once the hill came Seton dropped me like a rock as he disappeared up the steep incline. The local knowledge proved to be pretty handy! After regrouping, we headed back into town at a pretty good clip (22-24 mph) thanks to the mostly flat and gently descending route. PM - Late Friday afternoon, I had a swim analysis and video scheduled... but beforehand, for the first time in three days, I had a couple hours to relax. So I napped by the pool. After my nap and a shower, I headed over to TriSports for my swim video. They have a sweet two-lane Endless Pool set-up with underwater and above water cameras. The instructor told me that my stroke was pretty solid (I hope so!), but gave me a few suggestions that I think will be helpful. In particular, one thing that I discovered is that I tend to pull up short with my right arm on the pull. So I need to concentrate on finishing my stroke on that side. Good feedback and something I probably would have never figured out on my own without the video feedback.
Saturday - Day 4 AM - This was the big day. Mt. Lemmon. A 26 mile climb rising from 2500 ft to a peak over 8200 ft. I've ridden San Diego's big climb, Palomar Mountain... which is tough. But the top of Palomar is at just over 5000 ft. When climbing Mt. Lemmon, the 5000 ft mark is not even halfway up the climb. Palomar is steeper, but it is the length of Mt. Lemmon that is killer... over 2 hrs of consistent work going up the mountain. We started the ride with an easy 15 miles of riding through Tucson and regrouped at a coffee shop about 2 miles from the Mile 0 marker at the base of the climb. After some pics and a double shot of espresso, we started up. There were 5 of us (myself, Norm, Manny, Joseph, and Greg) in the group that agreed to ride the whole mountain... the rest of the campers would climb for 90 minutes as far as they could go and then turn around. The summit team (sounds cool, eh?) all exchanged numbers and arranged to text or call each other if for some reason we needed to turn around. Otherwise, we would all meet up at the top. We got going and could see the road twisting up the mountain ahead of us... it was pretty intimidating. About 50 yards past the Mile 0 sign, Norm informed me that my rear tire was flat. Crap. He stayed back to help me get it changed while the rest of the group proceeded ahead. Once I fixed the tire, we proceeded again. The first 5 miles of the climb were tough, there were some killer headwinds that made it tough just to stay upright on the bike. I thought to myself that if the entire climb was this windy, it was going to be a very, very difficult day. Fortunately, as the road twisted and turned up the mountain there was some shelter from the wind and it got easier. I made a concerted effort to keep my HR in high Zone 2 (130-140) and just stayed on my 39x26 gear keeping the cadence high. This netted me a blistering pace of about 10-11 mph. Ha. Every few minutes, I shifted up to my 25 or 23 and climbed out of the saddle to give my hamstrings and lower back a rest. At Mile 7, I caught Manny and Joseph and we all took some pictures from the Seven Cataracts viewpoint. Spectacular. After the short break, I continued up the climb and quickly separated from the other guys. The views up the mountain were simply unbelievable, incredible rock formations and of course, the view of the valley falling further and further away... the closest thing I can relate them to is the Grand Canyon. It's hard to do them justice with words or even pictures. The rest of the climb went pretty well. Every time my legs were screaming for a break, the slope softened a bit and I was able to recover just enough for the next tough stretch ahead. Finally, I got to the first peak at Mile 21 and was treated to a descent. A descent? Wait, I'm not at the top yet! The final few miles of the "climb" were a bowl that drops about 400 ft before re-ascending to 8200 ft at the village of Mt. Lemmon. At the base of the final climb, I caught Greg whom I hadn't seen since I flatted two hours before. We laughed about how tough the climb was, and rolled into town together. A great sense of accomplishment that we indulged by getting some hot chocolate (it was cold!) and huge pieces of banana cream pie. About 10 minutes later, Norm rolled in and about 30 minutes later, Manny arrived. Shortly thereafter, we got a text that Joseph had turned around. So we finished up our good, got some pics and then headed back down the mountain. It was about 30 degrees cooler at the top, so I put on my arm warmers and shoved some loose paper (the cafe to-go menus!) in my jersey front to block the wind. It took about 25 minutes of work to get back out to the first peak, which after the long break and food was tough. But once back to Mile 21, it was literally all downhill from there. The descent is somewhat technical and super-fast. By the time I got to the bottom, my hands were cramping from constantly being the brakes trying to moderate my speed. On several occasions I was touching 40 mph and that was trying to be conservative. Finally, after regrouping again at the bottom, we headed back for the final 15 miles toward home. The full day was 85 miles, about 8000 ft of climbing. A great day on the bike and one that I will remember forever. PM - Once we rolled back into the hotel at about 3pm, we slammed our (late) lunches and got ready to head over to the University of Arizona pool for a swim workout. I was tempted to bail and just relax, but the idea of splashing around the pool for a drill workout sounded good. Finally at 5pm the tough day was over and we all gathered around the hotel pool for pizza and beer. Good times.
Sunday - Day 5 Final day of camp... no cycling. After four tough days of riding, it was nice not to be getting on the bike first thing in the morning. Besides I was running out of clean cycling clothes. Actually, I ran out of clean stuff on Friday... but was able to make do with some Woolite and the hotel room sink. Anyway, I digress. After a quick breakfast, we piled into the cars and headed out to Saguero National Park for an amazing trail run. There is a 8 mile loop that is simply spectacular. Everyone was on their own to decide how far they wanted to run, we simply had a two hour time limit. Most choose to do one loop. My legs were pretty toasted from the riding, but I wanted a little more than 8 miles. My lower threshold for a "long" run is 12 miles, so I ran one loop and did a 2 mile out and back to bring it up to the requisite dozen. The quads were not happy with me as I climbed back into the van for the 20 minute drive home. After some more breakfast and a shower, we packed up the gear, said our goodbyes and got on the road back to San Diego.
Overall, it was a tremendous few days. Training wise, it was my biggest week ever... with over 270 miles on the bike, 30 miles of running and about 7k of swimming. To think that pros do that every week!! Aside from the training, the other campers were awesome... good people all of them. It was great to spend some time hanging out, we had a blast.
Here are some pics from the rides.
Entrance to Colossal Cave Mountain Park
Joseph, Manny and Me - The Shootout Loop
Heading toward Colossal Cave Mountain Park
The Mt. Lemmon Summit Crew - Manny, Norm, Me, Greg, Joseph... before the climb
At the base of Mt. Lemmon, right before I flatted.
Somewhere near Mile 10 of the Mt. Lemmon climb
Mt. Lemmon - Looking down, around Mile 14.
Banana Cream Pie and Hot Chocolate at the top of Mt. Lemmon - delicious.
Taken while descending at 35+mph. Not recommended.
How is it that the break that I took ended up being more stressful than when I was working around the clock? Maybe it was the work that was keeping me going the whole time. I’m more exhausted now than I was a week ago at this same time. I thought that taking a break would have helped me deal with some deeply unsettling personal matters, but somehow it only helped to solidify my ever growing break with humanity and just how little I believe in it as a whole.
My desire to scream at everyone over their entitlement and privilege reached an all time high this week as on an almost continual basis all but a very tiny handful of friends and acquaintances found new way to let me down and depress me even further.
Without going into massive specifics – and I HATE even bringing this up in a public forum – due to circumstances beyond my control I don’t have a place to live for the next two weeks. If you want to know the story, ask me in person and I will tell you. It’s a clustercuss of ups and downs, a maze of paperwork, a load of idiocy on the parts of people you would think would be able to help (city, province, charities), but there is a solution in sight. It’s been going on for the past several weeks and again briefly at the beginning of the year, and it’s simultaneously embarrassing to talk about and hurtful for me to write about, especially since this isn’t the first time this has happened to me. It’s actually the second time in several years that I’ve had this rotten luck.
Again, this isn’t about the ones who try to or have helped. This is about those who can’t step outside themselves to just do anything for anyone other than themselves. And for those of you joining my life really late, both of my parents have been dead for over a decade now and I don’t have family to fall back on at all. Not even extended family. That is, unless you want to give me five grand to track them down and go to the States and find them, but honestly if you want to give me that much money to fly down there you could just as easily keep me here.
Now, I know that not everyone I know is capable of helping out when I need it or sheepishly ask, and even those who can help will only be able to do it to certain degrees based on means, availability, and comfort. I will never begrudge those who have already been there to help out wherever they could and so grateful and humbled. Some of them are close friends that have been around since the beginning and others are only casual friends with hearts made of pure gold. Some people just simply can’t and I totally get it. I could get into how some people are unable to grasp various degrees of what constitutes help (i.e. how it’s not all about just straight up giving me a place to crash for a night or two or a few dollars for something to eat), but that’s a different story.
My problem and something that I’ve become uniquely attuned to is that everyone around me seems to be blowing their money now more than ever on some of the dumbest shit imaginable. They are unable to help because they have lived so far beyond their means that they can’t even fathom what helping another human being is. I asked, again, embarrassingly, for $20 last Tuesday from two separate people, the use of which I will get back to in a second.
One of them said they couldn’t do it (or help with a place to sleep for even a couple of hours due to having a small apartment, which is more understandable), and yet they just came back from a trip to Florida and torment me still with pictures of their happy, lavish trip every day. The other similarly declined yet had bragged on Twitter two days earlier on donating $200 to the Kickstarter for the Veronica Mars movie.
That $20 would have gone to the following: a TTC day pass (the fares for which are one of the most overpriced things on the planet for return on service, but that’s another gripe) to get around since the weather was unremittingly shitty about and food for three days. By food for three days that means one McChicken from McDonalds every day for three straight days while eating nothing else. Wasn’t going to be the most glamorous $20 ever spent.
So what ended up happening that day was there was an ice and sleet storm. I started the day with $3 in my pocket which I had to spend to meet a friend to borrow $5. Then, when I left my friend the weather was even worse and I had to go to work I had to spend another $3 of that 5 to get back on the subway. This left me with $2. That same afternoon I see the friend who went on vacation eating in a really nice restaurant on Yonge Street. I wanted to go in and flip the table over. And this, contrary to what you might thing, was actually a closer friend to me than most.
So you might say, “But Andy, you have a job. Several, in fact! Several good jobs, even. How do you not have anything?” Good question. First off, as I stated in my last post, this was never a good paying a job and now more than ever I almost have to quit entirely and take a fast food gig just to get money fast. Don’t laugh, I’ve applied. I’ve also applied for assistance on various levels, but being a single male with no dependents and actual employment, you don’t qualify for anything. On top of that, I already put all the money I had and borrowed more into getting a new place that I can move into on May 1st. I absolutely couldn’t get anything sooner without paying out the ass for a temporary room in a shady, suspect place. So I have negative eighty dollars in my bank account as is, and as we all know, that’s a pretty bad spot to be in.
Second, in the past month I have had two paycheques bounce on me and one outlet just hasn’t paid me. Another outlet that pays me on a regular basis doesn’t pay until the end of the month (with all of last months getting spent on getting me out of this mess ASAP), and yet another is three months past due on paying me. Another outlet doesn’t pay until an article runs and I have nothing running for them until June. Finally, I don’t get any of the advance money for the book I’m working on until I can prove a certain amount of its done.
I’ve just grown fed up and I have no idea where exactly to go from this point on, but I know it shouldn’t be this difficult to turn to those who allegedly support you on a friendly level to help me. I’ve reached the point where the few people who can help me are stretched to the point where they just can’t do anything anymore. So if you see me or know how to contact me or care, just know that it’s reached the point where I have to make it public knowledge that things are shitty, just know that this is going on even if I haven’t brought it up to you directly and until the end of the month, know that I won’t turn down any help that I can get. Pretty desperate at this point just to get back on track. Also, I can’t spend another night sleeping at the airport since they caught on last night that I wasn’t actually flying anywhere. Today is literally (meaning the dictionary definition of “in the strictest sense”) the last day I have to come up with some sort of plan for the next two weeks. I have tried for the past seven days to do something on my own and nothing at all worked or panned out. There are sadly no more options other than looking like a complete and total bum.
So if you can offer any of the following, here’s the kickstarter I am willing to propose:
For a donation of any amount of money for food or transportation, I would be willing to pay it back as soon as I possibly can. It won’t be immediately. Admittedly, I am already in a small bit of debt from this ordeal already. BUT what I would be willing to do – for any loaning of money $20 or more - is to write you an original story on any topic of your choosing OR I will write about or review any movie you want me to review. This can also be claimed by anyone willing to cut out the middle man and buy me a TTC weekly pass for either this week or next OR anyone willing to offer me work space during the day.
If you want to buy me lunch, I will send you a PDF copy of my collection of short stories and essays from 5 years ago titled SLEEPLESS. Since the book was finished and published ages ago, you would think this would be a lesser offer, but I really can’t think of anything else equal to a lunch in terms of pricing that I could offer. Also, since part of my “get back on my feet” plan is to re-release this for this summer via eReaders, I can’t really just throw it around like I did the past couple of years.
For a donation of having me over for dinner, I will do the dishes and clean your kitchen for you. And by clean your kitchen I mean the basics. Counters, floors, a brief once over of the fridge. I’m not cleaning the oven… unless you want to pay for that. An extra $20 and I’ll clean the oven, but I would prefer not to. Last time I tried to clean my own oven I broke out in an allergic rash from the cleaning foam even while wearing gloves.
For an offer of a place to sleep for any amount of time, the donator will get the perks listed above as well as more general housework done. In addition, if the donator provides ingredients (or just gives me cash and trusts my taste, which given some of my reviews, you might not want to go that route), I will make a home cooked meal for the provider. I can cook. It’s a side of me no one else really sees. It’s a pretty special offer.
Any other offers (including work and commissions) can be discussed. As you can see, I am trying very hard to have a sense of humour about this, but I really just need something, anything to go right. And when some of your closest friends find ways to let you down (again, not all of them, you guys), what other options are left?
If you have any questions, chances are you know where to reach me.
Yesterday, I ran the the San Dieguito Half Marathon as my inaugural race of the 2009 season. This was the 41st edition of the event, making the event one of the longest continually running events in the country. The course is a difficult one... not a flat spot as the athletes make their way through the rolling hills of gorgeous Rancho Santa Fe.
The last and only other time I've run here was three years ago (seems like forever), when I was just getting back into shape. The hilly course kicked my ass on that day, I ran 1:36 and it just about killed me.
Saturday night and early Sunday morning, we got a quite a lot of rain. On the way down to the race, it was still raining... but spots of clear sky were shining through so I was optimistic that once the race started it would clear up. Things weren't looking good as I picked up my race packet and it was still coming down.
But, in typical San Diego fashion... by 7:30 or so, the rain stopped and a beautiful blue sky appeared.
Before the race, I did a quick 15 min jog to get warm and loose, stripped off the warmup gear and lined up about 2 rows behind the front. Then I realized I forgot to wear my HR strap. Oh well... it was too late to run up to my car to get it.
The mile splits tell the story. These are from my Garmin, the actual race mile markers were way off.
5:47 - downhill and fast. 6:07 - mostly flat. Tried to settle into a pace. 6:54 - big ass hill. OUCH. HR is probably 300 at this point. 6:08 - downhill and then rolling. Tried to recover from big ass hill. 6:25 (31:22 for 5) - another hill. 6:31 - ok, another flippin' hill. 6:34 - a small hill and then flat to the turnaround. Tried to count to see what place I'm in, stopped counting at 20. 6:08 - mostly flat. 6:00 - downhill 6:30 (1:03:07 for 10) - up again. 5:52 - down, down, down. Quads are hurting. 6:01 - pretty flat. Just hanging on now. 6:30 - UP. This sucks. :47 for last.1 (6:12 pace) I got passed by one guy about 300 yds from the finish. Tried to accelerate to bring him back but was toasted.
1:22:17 watch time 25th overall, 6th age-group.
Post race, my quads were pounded from the downhills and I developed a nice blood blister on my left pinky toe. This is pretty unusual for me... but running downhills is tough on the feet, I suppose.
Overall, happy with this. Not a PR, but considering the course, I'll take it.
One (or rather two) of the most interesting and appealing things about blogging is its immediacy and its brevity. Why wait a day for a full-scale investigation into a story by a national newspaper when you can read a journalist's opinions on it straightaway, and in just five minutes?
Then I come in and cock it all up by blogging regularly once a week and at great length. I suppose one way of looking at it is that I'm stripping down the boundaries, man, and I'm not restricting myself to a blog's... restrictions. But alternatively, it might just be that I trust my readers to have good attention spans and a good enough memory to return later if they're short on time.
Why am I saying this now? Because, writing a piece on American politics as I speak – well, not literally, since I'm obviously writing this as I speak and as it happens I'm not actually speaking at all – I can tell you that it is going to be epic. There's just too much to say. Sorry.
So if you're looking for a quick opinion on the American presidential election, here it is: I am expecting and dreading a Republican victory. But if you want a bit more than that, read on. And if you don't have long to read this, as you are perfectly entitled to be, what with this being a blog and everything, you can always take a look at the other stories and bookmark the first one for later.
Hell, who am I to give you advice? This blog is for you, not me. I hope you enjoy it. Until next Sunday then.
McCain in the fast lane but no home straight yet God Save The Queen Medicine flatlining in the comedy stakes Alex Ferguson is a tosser Admin: a word to the wise
McCain in the fast lane but no home straight yet
No blood on the carpet, but then it wasn't that dirty a fight. The first televised debate between John McCain and Barack Obama has been and gone and there was no clear winner. It was a surprisingly clean affair, with Obama's assertiveness, using the words "when I'm President", seeming a bit incongruous in a debate between two candidates striving to seek legitimacy rather than state a case for election.
Whether this will last remains to be seen. But equally fascinating were the shenanigans on McCain's side beforehand. The Republican candidate tried to postpone the debate to allow a greater concentration on the current financial crisis. He did not succeed.
It may look like weakness, but trying to delay the debate was actually a very shrewd move by McCain. Not only did it give the appearance of a candidate in touch with the common man worried where his money's going; it neutralised the blow the financial crisis has had on his campaign by showing that he acknowledged the problem and wanted to resolve it straightaway. Obama, on the other hand, was in danger of appearing a power-hungry outsider not interested in the people he wants to lead.
But he pulled it back with aggression and good old common sense. You want to help the economy, John? Don't we all? But people want to know – now – what you're planning to do and I don't see why that should happen behind closed doors. Doing two things at once is an integral part of leading the country and hey, if you're not ready to do that, I'm happy to step in.
The bail-out is interesting. It looks like a bit of a rabbit out of a hat, but it was always on the cards. Matt, the cartoonist in The Telegraph, drew a fantastic cartoon, reproduced here with thanks, that sums it up quite well.
And the debate itself? Well... it's complicated – which is why analysts are choosing to strip it down by saying that McCain won on the all-important foreign policy front, but it was essentially a draw. I'm not sure about that. Obama made the better points but McCain made the better appearance and sadly, that's what's going to count. I would say that although neither candidate emerged a clear winner, McCain probably just edged ahead in the stakes.
He drove home the experience card. I mean, he rammed it home. Everything new that Obama suggested was brought back to his alleged inexperience, and although that is his stock response, McCain was able to highlight
his own experience to bring up good decisions he made on foreign policy (apparently there are some) earlier in his career. At one point he reacted to Obama's plan to negotiate with foreign threats by saying, "So let me get this right: we sit down with Ahmadinejad and he says, 'We're going to wipe Israel off the face of the Earth' and we say, 'No, you're not'? Oh please." That was damaging. Even though McCain was parodying Obama's supposed naïveté to an extreme, it made the Democratic senator a laughing stock in the hall and suggested he's... well... just too nice to tackle terrorism.
McCain automatically has the problem of having to admit to mistakes the Republicans have made in office, but he's somehow working it to his advantage. "We Republicans came to power to change government, and government changed us." Humility, however false. If Obama points out errors made in the Bush administration – such as landing the country in $700 billion of debt – then unless McCain is personally involved he can reply, "Yes, we've made mistakes, but I can change that", or even "I regret that mistake but I've learnt from it", bringing him back to the advantage of his experience. He also wins the award for stating the obvious: "We cannot allow a second Holocaust – let's make that very clear." Thanks for that, John.
And most powerfully, he can rally the troops. He used the debate over the financial crisis to say he has a fundamental belief in the American worker, whom he claims is better than any other in the world, to pull America out of this hole through sheer hard work. Who cares that an individual's hard work can't pull a country out of a $700 billion debt? McCain realises how much sweat I put into my job. He's on our side, unlike that black commie. I'm great! We're great! U-S-A! U-S-A!
Combine this with Obama's perceived class-related elitism and you have a problem: how can he win the blue-collar worker away from 'working man' McCain? Yes, this is bollocks, but that's their respective reputations in working-class America.
Obama's wry humour on politics can not only undermine him beside McCain's serious 'I care about American people' approach, but also appear patronising. Saying things like, "We had a 20th century mindset that basically said, 'Well, you know, [Musharraf] may be a dictator, but he's our dictator'" can come across as belittling the American public, suggesting they can't understand global politics without it being dumbed down, and however true that may be, that's not an image you want. It's a shame, because Obama has a head for a great turn of phrase, but his superb rhetoric may well act against him, not for him.
He also stuttered a bit in the debate, which I wasn't expecting, and has the unfortunate verbal tic of saying "y'know" a lot. However quickly he says it and however hard he swallows it, that "y'know" makes him appear less confident and less certain about his views. McCain's catchphrase seems to be "I'll tell ya", which is a lot more grabbing. Amazingly, his is often the real oratory.
The fact is that McCain 'won' the debate, at least on foreign policy, because he connects with more Americans. If one candidate responds to a question about Russia by talking about energy resources, and the other says he looked into Putin's eyes and saw three letters: a K, a G and a B, guess which will have workers talking by the water cooler about him. Yes, it's cheesy, yes, it's glib, but it's popular and it's going to win him the election.
I'm sorry. Excuse my pessimism. But mark my words: come Christmas, John McCain is probably going to be President of the United States of America.
We're in trouble.
God Save The Queen
Not another poll saying the Tories are ahead of us. I'm not holding a bloody election. I'm Prime Minister, not Cameron. We need to do something. What do people care about? Quick, Bryant, hand me that Daily Mail. Ah, the monarchy, eh? Very well – let's do something about it. That'll show 'em who's boss.
After a constitutional review by MP Chris Bryant, the Government is planning to rejig the way succession of the throne runs in this country. The law stating that Catholics cannot be King or Queen, and indeed that anyone inheriting the throne must make before parliament a declaration rejecting Catholicism, is to be thrown out, and so too is the requirement that the crown is automatically passed to a male heir. This means that Prince William's firstborn would be monarch upon his death even she was female.
It's a sound suggestion that obviously makes a lot of sense – there's no reason why even monarchy, the least democratic concept in the country, should be party to sexism and Catholic-bashing. I'm sure it's news that thrills Catholics and women alike, not to mention Catholic women. Finally, that insurmountable barrier is gone. They too can be Queen.
Hang on one crazy little minute though – don't you still have to be part of the royal family to do that? Isn't there some sort of requirement for someone to be born to a monarch to become one? Isn't this basically a minor amendment to an undemocratic system, perpetuating an antiquated outdated practice through supposed modernisation, and probably designed to get people behind the Labour Government again even though it affects them in absolutely no way?
I do love how people are celebrating this 'widening out' of succession, as if anyone can be King or Queen of the country now. It doesn't quite work like that. And it's a bit stupid to claim the current rules prohibiting women and Catholics from taking the throne 'clashes with the Human Rights Act'. The whole bloody idea of monarchy clashes with the Human Rights Act. Stop trying to polish a tiara-shaped turd.
Still, it's just making it fairer to those who are in line to the throne, and that runs deeper than you might think. The current law banning Catholics from the throne also applies to sons and daughters of Catholics, and those who marry them (honestly, this makes Catholics sound like mutants or something). Earlier this year Princess Anne's son Peter Phillips married Autumn Kelly, who was baptised a Catholic. He would have lost his place as 11th in line for the throne (blimey, that was a close one) but Kelly recanted her Catholicism.
Things have changed a little since the days of Thomas More. Put a crown and a sceptre in front of a wavering Catholic and they might just do a quick St. Peter impression – Jesus who?
Medicine flatlining in the comedy stakes
Are you CTD? An FLK? NFN? How about GROLIES? Let's hope not. But rest assured you won't be for long – these abbreviations are falling out of fashion.
In medical circles these terms used to be thrown around like confetti, but apparently, no longer. Since you ask, they are acronyms used to describe patients, and just to warn you, most of them aren't that positive. CTD means 'Circling The Drain' (as in, dying quite rapidly), FLK means 'Funny-Looking Kid', NFN stands for 'Normal For Norfolk' (nice) and the innovative GROLIES denotes the description 'Guardian Reader Of Low Intelligence in Ethnic Skirt'.
Clearly these are brilliant, and should never fall out of fashion. My favourite was once DTS, used to describe obese patients. It means 'Danger To Shipping'. Now, though, I have fallen in love with the medical phrase TEETH, an abbreviated form of 'Tried Everything Else; Try Homeopathy'. One more secret of the medical world blown apart there.
But these acronyms aren't being used much any more, and who can be surprised? We live in a compensation culture: if you can sue somebody, you sue somebody. Twice. Surgeons are in constant fear of losing thousands if they don't get an operation exactly, perfectly right; why are they going to take risks with their job, reputation and wallet by calling a patient 'GPO' (Good for Parts Only)? What if the patient finds out? The doctor's immediately trying to settle out of court.
I don't know. Modern life is just ruining medical comedy. To quote Thornton Reed in Garth Marenghi's Darkplace: "The main reason I went into [medicine] was for the laughs – that and the pussy, and the pussy dried up a long time ago if you get my drift."
Sorry. Please don't sue me.
Alex Ferguson is a tosser
I've never liked Alex Ferguson.
When I was a naive young Spurs fan (i.e. from toddlerhood up until a few months ago, when I tore up my figurative season ticket through protest at how the club treated Dimitar Berbatov) I became increasingly frustrated with Manchester United grabbing last-minute equalisers/winners against us in the eighth minute of questionable injury time, and for this I blamed Ferguson's obvious manipulation
of referees and referees' assistants. Add to this his supreme arrogance, his absurd excuses and above all his incessant whining about referees being biased against his team – even though United have clearly had more luck with decisions than any other club in the world, ever – and you get a man that I would immediately consign to Room 101 without a second thought for his family, his friends if he has any, or the mistreatment of a grand Orwellian concept by BBC television.
But in recent months and years my intense hatred towards this waste of human tissue has been quelled slightly by another manager of equal detestitude (yes, I made that up). Arsene Wenger. Never before has such a whining hypocritical coward walked this Earth, and frankly I find it hilarious whenever Arsenal lose just because their manager is an arse.
But Ferguson's comments after their 2-0 win over Bolton have brought it all flooding back. Manchester United got a dodgy penalty after a fantastic tackle by Jlloyd JSamuel of JBolton was adjudged to be indecent. United took the chance and took the lead after an hour of being held at 0-0. Bolton boss Gary Megson called the decision "absolute nonsense" and "an absolute howler" (someone give the man a thesaurus). Ferguson responded, "I was surprised because it looked as though their lad got a foot on the ball," then, "But Rob Styles turned us down four or five times last year so maybe it is payback time. But he still owes us another four."
SHUT THE HELL UP. There is not some great conspiracy against your team, Fergs; on the contrary, referees have spent the last 15 years losing themselves in your colon. If it's beginning to even up now (I'm told decisions have finally been going against United) then that's justice, and to be honest, not enough of it. Rob Styles has not been giving bad decisions against Manchester United, and if he has it's pathetic bringing it up now. Let. It. Go.
I've never liked Alex Ferguson.
Admin: a word to the wise
Sorry, just a brief bit of shopkeeping. I have recently undertaken a new university course and for my studies I will need to keep a blog. It won't be in the same vein as Huw Davies' Week Spot, and it won't be updated only on Sundays. It will be on this site, or perhaps another site connected by an internal link, but I will endeavour to keep it separate from this review of the week's events. So if, in the next few weeks, you see a new section to this blog, don't be scared - it's all part of the plan.
Last night I found myself watching a much heralded little British film called Happy-Go-Lucky on FilmFour, directed by Mike Leigh of Secrets & Lies and Vera Drake fame. It wasn't very good, to be honest: a pointless non-journey with a terrible script and an incredibly annoying soundtrack (think when Lottery-funded films have 'quirky' scenes). Without stellar performances from Sally Hawkins and the ever-brilliant Eddie Marsan, it would have been a complete waste of everybody's time.
But even though it wasn't going anywhere, I wanted to know what happened at the end. I'd been sitting through this film for two and a bit hours waiting for something to happen (caveat: a film can be good, even brilliant, without anything happening; it's just that this was not an example) and finally it was petering out to an inevitably saccharine conclusion. Still, I wanted to hear what the final words were. It's the end of a film, isn't it? Of course you do.
Then, over the final scene: "And next on FilmFour, blah di blah di blah di fucking blah."
What? You're joking, right? Now? Right now? Over the final words of the film?
But no - it happened, and in the film's closing scene. Not over the credits, which immediately followed. Over the film itself. The last bit we heard, after the voiceover, was two characters laughing. What were they laughing about? I don't know.
This is absolutely inexcusable. In fact, it's unthinkable. Further than that, it's mental. Completely, utterly mental. I can't think of any way of justifying this argument because, surely, surely, it's just so bloody obvious. YOU DON'T TALK OVER THE END OF A FILM. Even I know that, and I used to talk over films all the time.
And yet this isn't even the worst example of plugging the next show during the current one. On Christmas Day, I was watching one of the many millions of A Christmas Carol adaptations that always turn up. In fact, through circumstance more than judgement, I think I watched four or five that year. Patrick Stewart, Jim Carrey, Michael Caine and the muppets, the cracking Alistair Sim... thank Dickens I was saved from the Kelsey Grammar musical shocker.
ANYWAY, the film was drawing to its close and we all know what's going to happen. Still, we've had 90 minutes of misery and here comes the big ending, right? The closing speech in which we find that Scrooge went on to be a good man and Tiny Tim, who did not die, etc. etc. etc.
Nope.
"And next on BBC1, blah di blah di FUCKING BLAH BLAH."
Unbelievable. I mean that. I couldn't believe it. It's not just one of the most famous endings of all time in any medium, it's the whole point of the fucking story. It's the fucking moral. What the HELL is a child meant to take from that film without the final monologue? Did Tiny Tim die? They'll never know, but at least they'll know that Sue Barker's wearing Christmas holly for a predictably shit seasonal edition of Question of fucking Sport.
This has to be stopped. Now. If you're running late (these weren't) and have to - HAVE TO - talk over the credits, do it. But you don't talk over the end of a film. You just don't. I mean... that's it. No argument here. You just don't.
This says a lot about society, I think. We find ourselves accepting this And next week on Huw Davies' Week Spot, your not-so-intrepid occasional blogger rants about the BNP and asks, how can we let ourselves be in such a position that this party can exist? Make sure you stay tuned to www.weekspotblog.com for intellectual discussion end up dying in a fucking sewer with pokers in our eyeballs.
In the blink of an eye it seems, the month of January has nearly passed and the resolutions set for 2011 are either works in progress or becoming a distant memory. Time flies when you're having fun, as the saying goes. And, despite the cold and seemingly never ending winter, I am having fun... workouts are coming together. I've started running again. I am getting stronger, fitter and even a little leaner. The last part has been pretty easy actually, after being a complete and utter glutton during the month of December, losing a few pounds has simply been a matter of all the pie being gone. You might be wondering why I chose the title for the post and it's pretty simple actually. I've been struggling with the why. I enjoy my daily workouts, that's not the issue. And I've chosen a few events to focus on later in the year to provide some additional motivation and allow for some structure to my training. But the big why is lacking. Yes, daily exercise is healthy of the body and soul. But, come on, that's kind of boring. I need something more.
Over a decade ago, I signed up for an Ironman on a whim... and I trained my ass off, primarily driven by fear. Fear that I couldn't complete the distance and that I would fail. And that fear pushed me out of my comfort zone on a daily basis, doing things that, at the time, seemed impossible, even stupid. For example, ride 100 miles in the northern Virginia summer and then run 10 miles afterward. Now I know the game of triathlon to know that such a workout is not unusual at all for Ironman prep, but at the time (before the Internet), it seemed a little crazy... but fear is a powerful motivator and it got me out the door.
Of course, there was a happy ending, I finished in a respectable time, I lived happily ever after, even doing another Ironman and a bunch of other marathons, half ironmans (click on the 'racing' tag to the right to read some of the race reports). But the sense of accomplishment and pride at Ironman finish line #1 has yet to be equaled.
So what next? I don't know the answer right now, but I'm thinking a lot about it.
Today is my birthday, which means two things for this blog: it'll be shorter and less cynical than usual. Gone are the diatribes of Homeric proportions on the horrible financial state we're all in and gone are the complaints about how bad parts of the national press are (though they are). No, for this week, I am going to bright, breezy and brief.
Which means, yes, there may be some silliness. Sorry.
To that end, I have just opened one of my birthday presents, which is a collection of crap jokes. So, in the spirit of silliness: where was the Declaration of Independence signed? At the bottom. Boom boom.
No, I don't know what happened to this blog either.
D-I-V-O-R-C-E Dollocaust Is Manchester United the ugliest football team in the world?
D-I-V-O-R-C-E
So clearly the biggest news this week is the impending divorce between 75-year-old lingerie model and Joan Rivers impressionist Madonna and her lovable cockney geezer of a husband, Guy 'cor blimey guvnor' Ritchie. Apparently this split has been a long time coming. Apparently bears defecate in heavily wooded areas.
It's interesting that the announcement supposedly came earlier than planned: the couple had wanted to keep up appearances until the end of Madonna's new tour (I imagine this was her idea, not Guy's). Maybe it's just me believing too much of the little celebrity gossip I read, but I was under the impression that everyone knew they've been growing apart over the last few years, so they can't have done brilliantly in the 'keeping up appearances' part of things. Still, waiting until the end of your tour to announce your divorce? Isn't that a little cynical? Call me naïve, but even the end of a marriage should have its priorities, rather than being "highly stage-managed", "announced when it [is] convenient" for one of the two people involved. Madonna "didn't want the distraction while she is trying to concentrate on her tour," The Sun reveals. With a thought process like that, how has she has the nerve to question Ritchie's emotional capabilities?
With this in mind, I also find it very interesting that the announcement came from Madonna and not the couple, as usually happens. Even soon-to-be-divorcees usually manage to be in the same room as each other for one more press conference, for old time's sake, perhaps. But, although Ritchie's representative co-signed the statement, the news was revealed by Madonna's cohort. Maybe it was seen as her responsibility as the more famous party, but I wouldn't be surprised if she's quite happy to take the reins with the press on this one.
She has, after all, been more vocal about the divorce than Ritchie. The other night at a concert in Boston – her first after announcing the divorce – Madonna gave Ritchie lock, stock and two smoking barrels, introducing the song Miles Away with the words, "This song is for the emotionally retarded. Maybe you know some people who fall into that category. I know I do." She then powered through her set like a true rock 'n' rolla, although it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to notice that in those clothes you can very clearly see her snatch.
Apologies for the appalling punnery and quite crude (but accurate) observation that for the millions of dollars she spends on her stage show, Madonna still dresses like a cheap whore. We shouldn't be too surprised by this sort of behaviour from someone who has released singles called Bad Girl, Hanky Panky and the less-than-subtle Erotica in the past, but she's 50 now. Apart from anything else, she could at least start saving some money for retirement. Allegedly her new tour, called 'Sticky and Sweet' – the woman has no shame – involves £1 million of jewellery, 3,500 individual wardrobe elements, 100 pairs of fishnet stockings and 69 guitars. Strangely, it's the last of these statistics that concerns me. Even The Clash, at the height of their instrument-smashing mayhem, didn't get through that many.
Anyway, back to the divorce, just briefly. One final piece of interest, for me at least, is Guy and Ritchie bringing out the old privacy chestnut, requesting that the media "maintain respect for their family at this difficult time."
Optimistic, I feel.
Dollocaust
A line of Fisher Price dolls has been withdrawn from sale at a number of toy stores in America after parents complained they were spouting such questionable messages as "Satan is king" and "Islam is the light".
Americans? Paranoid? Nah.
I'm pretty sure this could only happen in the Bible Belt of America (in this case, Oklahoma). Not only is it a hotbed for insane Christians hitting pro-choicers with bricks, it's a hotbed for insane Christians insisting that everyone in the world apart from them is a heathen/Islamic fundamentalist/the Devil/all three. Add a dash of 9/11, a whiff of Jerry Springer: The Opera and a soupcon of 'Holy shit, there's a black man running for President' and you get full-scale terror.
Listen to the clip attached at the top of this link and tell me that gurgling, babbling baby doll is saying "Islam is the light". It's not. If anything, it's saying "Me ears are alight" in an obscure reference to a Maxell advert. Equally weird, but probably less terrifying to Americans. Still, I expect somewhere in the Palestinian Bible Belt – the Qur'an Colony? – there are families complaining that an evil Western doll is saying, "Ooh ooh, the Israelites."
Or maybe they're more understanding than crazy American bible-bashers.
Is Manchester United the ugliest football team in the world?
It's been discussed before, this, but watching their match against West Brom made me realise once more that United's players are uglier than Route 1.
This is a team that has produced and since released such Elephant Man cast-offs as Luke Chadwick and Phil Neville, and yet they still keep up an impressive ugly quotient. Maybe it's part of Cristiano Ronaldo's contract. Maybe it's an obscure EU law. Whatever the reason, it's slightly eerie. If you don't believe me, look for yourself at this full XI of hideous United players (in a 4-3-3 formation, notice). To be fair to them, a lot of these pictures have been taken with the players at the very height of gormlessness, but I don't care – they're funny.
