Run with Eric [Search results for HOPE] 

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?

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.

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.

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.

My money's on an insurance claim. And so is his.

OK, so last week Huw Davies' Week Spot became Huw Davies' Weak Spot as I failed to post, well, anything of note. But hey, that's in the past now! So let's get back on track with a fresh look at the week that is now, uh, in the past.

I knew there was a flaw in this somewhere.

(By the way, the title 'No. 10' refers not just to the focus on Downing Street in the first article, but that this is also the 10th Week Spot post. Thanks for sticking with me through the rough patches.)

Move along, nothing to see here
Tsvangirai ready to dance with the devil
In defence of Andy Murray
One small step for reality TV; one giant leap for mankind

Divisions in the Government mean it's to the bunkers again as The Sunday Telegraph proclaims 'LABOUR IN CIVIL WAR'. It'd be enough to get you worried if it wasn't for the fact that this is probably the fourth time they've declared a civil war in the Government in the last few weeks. When did it start exactly?

Anyway, rifts do seem to be rife – but leadership challengers AWOL. It seems that many Labour MPs have nothing better to do than shout for a new leader, but when it comes to suggesting one they mutter, grumble and draw cartoons of Gordon Brown with an arrow through his head.

Brown needs a good autumn and a better winter. It doesn't look as though he is going to deposed now, because no one seems ready to take his place (alternatively, this makes interesting reading). This is why the timing of the Glenrothes by-election is crucial. If Brown waits and waits, toughing it all out all the while,

rides out the storm to emerge the other side and somehow wins that by-election, he's right back on track. But if he waits and loses, he is done for. If he holds the by-election now and loses (which he almost certainly will), he might just get away with it. Is it right to lose a seat to save the PM? Sometimes a pawn must be sacrificed for a king. But then I was never any good at chess.

The point is this: no one is coming forth to lead the country, so Gordon Brown is safer than he may seem. The Labour Party is not. They are at a crossroads and they need to take one of two paths (uh, maybe more of a fork in the road, then). Either unite and resolve to force a leadership challenge or shut up, show some genuine party unity and get behind Brown.

And yes, some of this is up to Brown himself. By carrot or by stick, he needs to regain control of his party. The party needs to either let this happen, or find someone else to take control instead. This is government, for goodness' sake – the country needs a leader with his own people behind him, not behind him with a dagger at the ready.

Decisions, decisions. Someone's got to make one.

Forget 'WORLD WAR 3 BREAKS OUT'. Forget 'McCAIN WINS AMERICAN ELECTION'. This may well be the most terrifying headline I can ever imagine.

'MORGAN TSVANGIRAI: "I WILL HAVE TO TRUST MUGABE"'

That sends a shiver down my spine. I don't pretend to understand African politics all that well, but I do know that Robert Mugabe is one of the most evil men alive – stop me when I get too emotionally involved – and that trusting him may be a risky strategy. Apologies for succumbing to Godwin's Law, but Chamberlain trusted Hitler and look where that got us. He invaded Britain, won the war and now we all speak German (wait, what?).

Sorry. I don't want to make a mockery of what is a seriously tragic situation in Zimbabwe. And to be fair, I don't think Tsvangirai wants to trust Mugabe. He just realises he may have to. But this is why the power-sharing solution isn't a solution at all: Tsvangirai's MDC will only ever be a junior partner to Mugabe's Zanu-PF, they will struggle to exert any influence over him and atrocities will continue.

But then, I suppose, what else could Tsvangirai do? Not a lot. It's still up to other nations to intervene in some way, and I worry that this new development involving a sharing of power will only delay that, while governments naïvely think they can stop worrying about this troublesome country for a while. More positively, they may be giving the new system time to work, and I suppose this has to happen – but surely, a few months should be enough to see if there is at least any movement towards change. And again, I'm not confident, because Mugabe is not some repentant sinner looking o right his wrongs. He never saw his crimes as wrongs, and sees no reason to change the status quo.

Tsvangirai told The Independent on Sunday, "When you negotiate, you ought to have faith and confidence in each other. Otherwise, there is no point in negotiating, because you are bound to fail. I am therefore giving [Mugabe] the benefit of the doubt." Except of course, in this case there WAS point in negotiating without having faith and confidence in your partner, and that's that there was no way Tsvangirai was going to win through the ballot box. Hell, he did, and he still didn't prise Mugabe from power. This is not a man to whom you give the benefit of the doubt.

I know he's been pressured into this, and that it's not ideal circumstances for him. But I just hope Tsvangirai knows what lies in store. Because mark my words: this is not the beginning of democracy in Zimbabwe. I hope and pray it is, but I'm a man of lesser faith than its new co-leader.

So on Sunday 7th/Monday 8th September (depending where you live), Andy Murray played Roger Federer in the US Open final, and lost. It was a sad day for him and a predictable day for everyone. All in all, it was probably a lovely birthday present for Tim Henman, who turned 34 the day before the final: for all his proclamations of support, confidence and hope for Murray, the fact remains that it's hard to like anyone doing your job better than you, especially when that job is entertaining the British crowd as well as looking like you might win something, neither of which Henman could do.

But 'Tiger Tim' can sleep easily at night knowing that, inexplicably, he's still more popular than Andy Murray. For some reason, soon to be discussed, everyone – or at least everyone I've met – hates the talented young Scot.

And I think the reasons lie in those three words: "talented young Scot". The first two are an unhappy couple in jealous armchair sports fanatics: it's hard not to feel a bit useless when you're watching someone achieve so much more than you ever could at the same age you finished university (and I'm not just talking about myself here, although I am struggling to come to terms with being older than two of the top four tennis players in the world – Murray and Djokovic – and only four months younger than one of the others, Rafael Nadal). So Murray's young and talented, and finally, he's Scottish. And therein lies the hatred. Good old-fashioned racism.

To be fair to Murray-haters, they probably aren't racists and I doubt most hold anything against the Scottish apart from perhaps a mild xenophobia. It may be the same general mistrust that a lot of people – not least the idiot Kelvin MacKenzie – love showing towards Gordon Brown now the 'mean, Scottish, money-grabbing Chancellor' has become the 'mean, Scottish, money-grabbing Prime Minister'. It may be that English tennis fans don't like the idea of a Scotsman representing the UK ahead of anyone else. It may just be that they don't like the premise of a Monty Python sketch being ruined (do your own research for that one). It may be any of these things, but it seems that regardless of how well he does, Murray is in for a hard time from his own compatriots. Still, he's only got himself to blame. Because it can all be traced back to this comment:

"I'll be supporting anyone but England."

These words, spoken in reference to the 2006 Football World Cup, consigned him to a lifetime of antipathy in the views of many, many English people. It doesn't matter that he has no reason to support England; it doesn't matter that he was joking. It's too late now. He spat in the eyes of English sports fans, and they don't want their beams messed with, thank you very much, but by the way, you've got a mote in yours.

Obviously not everyone feels this way about Murray, or at least claim they don't. But the other arguments for disliking him do seem pretty thin. Most say it's because he's arrogant. Really? The man who told everyone not to get carried away when he first burst onto the scene? The man who readily admits to having faults in his game and confessed to not having prepared enough for the Olympics? The man who, after his recent defeat to Federer, was self-effacing, had only praise for his opponent and avoided making excuses such as a lack of time to prepare? Sorry, where's the fault there?

Is it all the emotions he pours out in a game? Yes, he does look like a bit of a tit. He's practically demonic in this photo, with the rectangular mouth and all. But why should we hate him for wearing his heart on his sleeve? He's showing a bit of fire; that he cares, and after following in the footsteps of a British no1 who looked like farting was just too much effort, he should be applauded for it.

Or is it that he does well? Deny it all you like: the British love a gallant loser. But as a sporting nation, we're starting to thrive. Look at the Olympics! Look at the Paralympics! Look at the Champions' League! It's OK, we can win things now!

So we're back to the racism card again, which wasn't an issue until he said he wouldn't support the English football team. I don't expect you to agree with me, but I think that's what it boils down to. Sorry.

My next and last subject matter may surprise some of you, since a) it relates to something that happened a while ago and b) I hate reality TV. But I've heard a lot of talk about it this week, making it suitable for a 'week spot', and it means I get to include 'Gossip' as a topic tag now.

So, as I understand it, there's a once-popular programme every year on Channel 4, T4, E4, More4, EvenMore4, YetMore4, SurelyThereCanBeNoMore4, YourFour, MyFour, OurFour, TheirFour, Channel 4 + 1, E4 + 1, More 4 + 1, More 4 + 2 = 6, 4OD, 4COD, 4ADHD, ScoreFour, BoreFour, ChoreFour, PoorFour, HardcoreFour, Softcore4, IntermediatecoreFour, ForeplayFour, WhoreFour, SoreFour, LawFour, WarFour, I Can't Believe It's Not Four, I Can't Believe It's Not Four + 1 and certain frequencies of Al-Jazeera that's called Big Brother. And, as I understand it, someone called Rachel won this year (?). Finally, I am led to understand that she's incredibly boring and may have spelt the death of reality television.

Give the woman an MBE.

But yes, she won, did she? And she beat some bloke who was really nasty? Called Rex? Is that right? And Rachel winning when she's, like, sooooo boring is bad for the programme?

But good for humanity, surely. The British public chose someone nice over a complete and utter bastard (American election voters, take note). That's very encouraging. What with Jade Goody's illness turning people into monsters who think she's somehow faking cancer or if not that she deserves it – I mean, I hate Jade Goody but I wouldn't wish cancer on her... maybe that she stubbed her toe one morning – it's good to know there might still be some hope for humanity yet.

And when you're drawing that conclusion from reality TV, you know you're in trouble.

I'd have written more, but I'm afraid the BNP might lynch me.

[Disclaimer: to my knowledge, Jeff Stelling is not a Nazi.]

The BNP's 'little list' comes to light
The Sun drops the ball on Hitler
Countdown to oblivion

One of the funnier news stories this week has been the online publication of the BNP's members list. Everyone in the UK who is a member of the British National Party has had their names, addresses, phone numbers and in some cases e-mail addresses, professions and hobbies (racism!) broadcast to the world via the internet, and unsurprisingly, perhaps, most of them are now cowering in fear. What happened to the BNP being loud and proud?

OK, I'll be nice: it is understandable that these people are worried about having their membership and details leaked. After all, the BNP is a divisive party that has attracted its fair share of opposition.

Having your personal details made available for all to see is a bad experience for anyone (don't forget this is a pretty big invasion of privacy) but when you're hated by a lot of people, it's very dangerous. I know it'd worry me if people on the internet knew my home address, and I'm not on a vendetta against half of the country. And think how much worse it must be for these BNP members. In their minds, any violence or crime in the country is committed by immigrants, and now these Untermenschen know where they live. To the bunkers! Child, get my gun! The blacks want their revenge!

But again, I shouldn't laugh at the fact that BNP members, however detestable, have their details on display because guess what – the backlash has already begun. And when you add to these personal threats the potential for identity fraud and violence, you can see why the list should probably be taken down.

Still, it's funny, isn't it? And it is at least good for them to feel how they make so many others feel: threatened. Even if their details are removed from the internet tomorrow (and regrettably, they should be), they have had just under a week of discomfort, anxiety or even terror. That is definitely worth it.

It's just a shame that members have, in fact, been threatened, because it only contributes to their feeling of victimhood. Whenever anyone calls the BNP rubbish they claim we're denying the truth (look at their response to Hazel Blears' recent accusation) and whenever we stop them spreading their racial hatred they claim we're denying their right to free speech, which only helps their cause. So for humanity's sake, we need to stay above their level. I only hope no one uses the publication of its members' details to start some actual violence against the BNP.

If you're interested and/or suspicious of anyone, here is the list at the imaginatively-titled www.bnpmemberslist.co.uk. Speaking of moral responsibility, I'm not sure how mature the e-mail responses made by the site's creator are, but I did laugh at the line, "I realise it must be tough for you during these times of free speech, democracy and gangster rap", followed by, "I hope you enjoyed the US election."

Fine, I'm a child.

If there's ever been a story to have tabloid editors wetting themselves in delight, it's this one. It's official: Hitler had only one ball. Let the mocking, singing and football hooliganism commence.

What I want to know is: where did The Sun find that absolutely perfect photo?
Still, it's good of the newspaper not to launch a campaign against Johan Jambor, claiming he should have killed Hitler when he had the chance. There's actually a surprisingly small amount of anti-Germanic feeling in the whole article. Good on you, boys.

But then that's the The Sun for you: occasionally, they show evidence of having ethical standards in their paper. Now never mind the bollocks – here's the sex pictures.

Oh God.

The daytime TV staple for tax-dodging students and coffin-dodging geriatrics everywhere, Countdown, has announced its new presenter and sidekick combo. The new Carol Vorderman is to be Rachel Riley, which is one hell of a graduate job for the 22-year-old and hopefully one that won't lead to her demanding huge salaries and repossessing people's homes through dodgy debt consolidation agencies, and the new Richard Whiteley/Des Lynam/Des O'Connor is to be Sky Sports presenter Jeff Stelling. Jeff Stelling! Wowzers!

For those of you who don't know, Jeff Stelling is the presenter of Soccer Saturday, and one of the most annoying men on television. Have a look at the man in action. He's insane.

Stelling is quite famous for doing crazy stuff such as this, but look beyond the James Brown bit into the way he actually speaks – like he's desperately trying not to go to the toilet and keeps being prodded in the back at unspecified intervals. He just keeps shouting random words for no reason. He's going to be bloody awful presenting Countdown "A SEVEN, eh, GORDON? That's NOT BAD but it's not a 9-LETTER WORD, IS IT? SUSIE! What have YOU GOT over there in Dictionary CORNER?" They'd be better off with Brian Blessed.

Actually, that would be brilliant.

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

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?

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.

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.

Perhaps not for Spurs though.

So, tomorrow's football.

For those caring less about England's friendly with Brazil and more about a game that actually matters, the eyes will presumably be swivelling towards the first leg of Europe's final World Cup qualifiers, and specifically Ireland vs France. Can the Irish overcome the former world champions to reach the finals in South Africa? Was it right for the play-offs to be seeded so they had such a tough game? And is there any basis of truth in this exchange at all?

Elsewhere in Europe, Ronaldo's Portugal have a tricky encounter against Bosnia-Herzegovina, erstwhile European champs Greece look to restore some pride against the Ukraine and Russia take on Slovenia.

But to be honest, I don't care. Because tomorrow, World Cup history could be made in a completely different part of the world. So does anyone know a pub anywhere in the UK that will be showing Togo vs Gabon?

After an epic two-year tournament, the African qualifying stages come to an end tomorrow with a flurry of teams trying to book a last-minute berth. Some of the big names are through (Ghana; Cote d'Ivoire); some are not (Nigeria and Egypt both need to win and hope results go their way).

The biggest fixtures, though, come in Group A - the Group Of Death.

Only one of the group's four teams can make the World Cup Finals, and three qualify for the African Cup of Nations. So when Gabon, a medium-sized west African country with around a million and a half inhabitants, none of whom have played in the World Cup Finals before, drew in their group Cameroon (featuring Samuel Eto'o, traditionally Africa's best team), Tunisia (regular qualifiers) and Togo (uh, Emmanuel Adebayor), it's fair to say they had the shortest odds on making neither tournament.

But amazingly, Gabon have a real chance. A chance to stop the likes of Samuel Eto'o and Alexandre Song playing on the world's biggest stage. A chance to stop Morocco even playing in the relatively minor African Cup of Nations.

A chance for this group of amateurs and semi-pros, whose most well-known player is probably Daniel Cousins of Hull, to play in the World Cup Finals for the very first time.

All the Black Panthers need to do is to beat Togo - which they did 3-0 at home - and hope Cameroon manage only a draw away to a Morocco team they couldn't beat on home turf. Gabon may need a result to go their way, but success is within their grasp.

So if you see me in a pub in Portsmouth tomorrow only keeping an idle eye on the England or Ireland game while frantically refreshing my phone's internet browser, you'll know why. I'll be keeping tabs on a team on the brink of making history.

Well, well, well. Barack Obama has won the Nobel Peace Prize.

The Norwegian board awarding the prize said, "Only very rarely has a person to the same extent as Obama captured the world's attention and given its people hope for a better future." (More here.)

That's certainly true. But is this enough to merit the most prestigious award there is? I'd be the last to suggest Obama is all mouth and no trousers, and I'm confident he'll deliver on his promises - but the point is, in terms of world peace (the simplest of achievements, surely), he hasn't made a fantastic deal of progress yet. So what exactly is this Nobel Peace Prize honouring? An indirect inspiration to this fantastic poster?

Personally, I'd like to have seen Zimbabwe's Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai recognised for his attempts at overcoming corruption and restoring order in Zimbabwe. But then, I suppose he didn't succeed either; part of a tragic year in which he also lost his wife in a car accident. Perhaps it's right to reward effort, rather than results.

After only nine months in power Obama's Peace Prize is surely a sign of hope, not achievement. But maybe that's the point.

It's the age-old problem: how to get out of a regular commitment one time without everyone thinking you're rubbish.

Due to reasons that will absolutely not interest you, I simply have not had time to put together a blog this week. Not even a little one. I know: I managed it in Madeira and I managed it even when I was leaving to go to Madeira (making me late for the hotel), but this week it just can't be done. My deepest apologies.

I have thought of ways to try and do a short one and get away with it - the week in pictures, for example, or just one story - but I feel that would be lying to you, my readers. And you're all so lovely. I just couldn't do it.

So instead, I emerge from this smokescreen of cop-outs naked and embarrassed with nothing to cover my dignity. This week, you will not be able to read my opinions on the week that was.

Yes, this comes at a bad time, just after some more people have been drawn towards the blog and have been impressed by it. And yes, it's incredibly unprofessional to miss a week. But sadly, I have no option.

I hope you are not too disappointed, and I truly, truly hope you will come back next week. I promise you I will make it worth your while. Not literally, obviously, but it'll be a good one. Promise.

Much love

x

Five men have been cleared of raping a woman after it emerged she had spoken online about group sex fantasies.

The 24-year-old from Liverpool claimed she was raped after visiting one of the men at his home in Bolton, after making contact on the internet.

But the trial at Preston Crown Court collapsed when computer evidence was produced showing her entertaining the prospect of group sex.

Judge Robert Brown ordered the jury to return not guilty verdicts.

[Prosecutor Michael Leeming] formally offered no evidence after reading excerpts of MSN chatlogs of her conversations before the alleged offence.

He said: "It is right to say that there is material in the chatlogs from the complainant, who is prepared to entertain ideas of group sex with strangers, where to use her words 'her morals go out of the window'."

The woman said she had agreed to visit Mr Owolabi after meeting him on MSN.

She alleged she wanted to just have sex with him, but was then raped by the others.

Judge Brown told the jury: "This case depended on the complainant's credibility.

"Not to put too fine a point on it, her credibility was shot to pieces."

The law of innocent until proven guilty means the right decision has been made in light of evidence not being presented. But if the only reason it was not presented was because the prosecutor knew his client had slim chance of winning the case due to her reputation being in doubt, this is deeply worrying. I just hope he knows something we don't (i.e. that the alleged victim is lying); otherwise, a victim's quest for justice has failed purely because of incredibly flimsy non-evidence.

Because it doesn't matter if she'd entertained group sex fantasies or even rape fantasies before the alleged incident. All that matters is -

Was she raped?

America in 'still racist' shocker
The Sun in 'moral outrage' shocker
Footballer in 'stupid celebration' shocker
English cricket selectors in 'don't know what they're doing' shocker
Croatia in 'strict ex-Soviet state' shocker

I suppose it was only a matter of time.

What may also be only a matter of time is Barack Obama being assassinated. I am genuinely worried for his safety (and now they're taking away his BlackBerry, so we can't even e-mail him saying "Duck"). This really might happen. If it does, it's a tragedy not only for the obvious reason that, well, he'd be dead and his family would be quite upset, but because I can't see America electing another black man into the White House if Obama were to be assassinated. He has inspired millions, but a dead black president would be the final proof that America isn't ready. We can only hope and pray he doesn't become a latter-day JFK.

And these violent race crimes aren't encouraging, although they are predictable. Still, I am surprised by the burning crosses. You'd think even idiots from the Deep South would think that's going too far – not because everything else is OK (clearly it isn't), but because you'd think they'd be sensible enough to realise that associating yourself with the Ku Klux Klan doesn't do your argument any favours.

"Hey, Billy-Bob-Joe."

"How ya doin', Joe-Billy-Bob?"

"How'd that stunt go just now?"

"No prob, Bob. Those monkeys just got a window full of shit."

"Good work, buddy. Just let me finish this 'KILL OBAMA' sign and we'll head on down to the subway. Hey, do we still have any of those burning crosses from that, uh, fancy dress party?"

"Burning crosses?"

"Yeah."

"I dunno... isn't that a bit too far? I mean, we want this guy to die, obviously – he's black and he's in charge of the greatest country in the world. But don't you think burning crosses kinda make us look a bit stupid? It's not even like it's ironic."

"Don't black out on me, man. We put up burning crosses and people know we're serious. Besides, what have you got against the Ku Klux Klan? Those guys were national heroes."

"Good point, man."

"Damn right good point. U-S-A! A-O-K-K-K!"

(Disclaimer: I feel no shame if you think this is in bad taste. I mock because I always do, and racism doesn't deserve special treatment.)

No one does moral outrage quite like The Sun. Or The Mail. Or The Evening Standard. Actually, most of the British press does moral outrage in quite a big way, and you have to laugh because if you don't you just might cry.

But what does make me want to cry is just how powerful these papers can be. After this little shenanigan, a Gary Glitter song has been axed from a GCSE Music syllabus. Understandable, you might think at first, since he's a convicted paedophile and it would be 15- and 16-year-olds listening to his music. But think again. Why should it have to go?

They don't want children listening to Gary Glitter's music. Fair enough. It's awful. But it's not as if I'm The Leader Of The Gang (I Am) has subliminal messages in it telling certain listeners to take sweets from dirty old men, is it?

Listening to his music isn't going to hurt him. And then saying, "I dread to think what they may find searching online for him" – what? What will they find? His penis? Private videos of him abusing children? The only thing they'll find is that he's a paedophile, and if they didn't know that already they're intelligent enough to go "Boo, hiss" when they find out.

A lot of people are using the argument that he'll make money from the, ahem, exposure, but only if people buy his music. Are teenagers going to start buying Gary Glitter records? Really? Exactly.

I also find the browser headline interesting: "How can exam bosses ask kids to study Gary Glitter? ¦ The Sun ¦ News" Now come on, guys, that's not news. That's opinion. That's a liberty almost as bad as this related headline: 'PERVERT GLITTER'S £100k TELLY AD' – a fantastically misleading headline which makes it sound as though he's actually getting an advert for his services ("Hey kids! It's Gary Glitter!").

Maybe the song should have been removed after all. But I'm pretty sure The Sun's home brand 'got the bastard' bring-a-pitchfork whine party isn't necessary.

David Norris has been fined by Ipswich Town after seemingly making a gesture in support of ex-teammate Luke McCormick, who was jailed for seven years after causing the death of two boys in a car crash, having been twice the drink-drive legal limit after drinking at Norris' wedding.

I have one issue with this, and that's the club's response. The boys' mother was right to complain, and so reasonably too (call me inconsistent all you like – I think this moral outrage is justified), and I'm glad Ipswich Town looked into it. But they have come out in support of Norris and still fined him. What's the message there?

The club says it has heard Norris' explanation and is satisfied it was all a big misunderstanding, and that his celebration was misinterpreted. OK then. No problem there. But then they fined him an undisclosed fee for doing it. Why? If the gesture was so innocent, it's not his fault it was misinterpreted. Either he's guilty of deliberately making the gesture supporting Luke McCormick, in which case he should be punished, or he's the innocent victim of a giant misunderstanding, in which case he shouldn't be punished.

Mixed messages, methinks.

In an attack on the English Cricket Board's selection policy, Darren Gough criticised the selectors for picking Ravi Bopara only to do nothing with him.

I couldn't agree more. Ravi Bopara is wasted batting at no8. In England's 158-run defeat to India on Friday, he came into a match that was pretty much already lost and hit an unbeaten 38-ball half-century, including five sixes. Significantly, he ran out of partners.

He also didn't bowl, although Collingwood and captain KP did, conceding 31 runs in 3 overs. In total, England were hit for 387 in 50 overs, which is not far away from 8 an over.

So, why is a man picked to bat and bowl batting at 8 and not bowling? Bopara bats at 3 for Essex and does a damn good job of it. He is definitely a better batsman than new boy Samit Patel and Matty Prior, who again disappointed opening the batting. He deserves better than this.

Ravi Bopara is a quality player, and if the selectors don't believe this, then why are they picking him?

It's official: Croatia has cancelled Christmas. OK, so only in the public sector, but still: won't somebody think of the children?

Shootenanny! - Eels [2003]

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.

At last, then, it seems safe to confirm the death of Michael Jackson at the age of 50. Now the mania is over, we can take a look at the development of the story and how different parts of the media reacted to what were at the time mere allegations.

Sorry, that sounds incredibly boring. I'll keep it simple, then, and I'll keep it brief. Still, if you're expecting Jacko-related jokes ("His heart couldn't beat it any more" etc.), then you're better off trying somewhere else: I was bored of them after minutes, and we've still months of them to come. Joy.

News of MJ's passing first came from TMZ, a celebrity gossip site following a tip-off that paramedics had visited the singer's home. All that was known at that point was that he had gone into cardiac arrest (not the same as a heart attack, by the way), so the entertainment website responsibly responded by telling the whole world HE'S DEAD, HE'S DEAD OH MY GOD HE'S DEAD.

Sky News followed. Of course it bloody did: Sky News' long-standing motto, which it makes no attempt to deny, is 'never wrong for long'.

Which is why I didn't trust it.

Myself, I was waiting for confirmation from BBC News - a predictable but much more reliable outlet - who steadfastly led with nothing more hyperbolic than 'Michael Jackson taken to hospital'. For this, they deserve praise, which should also be lavished upon them for keeping constant coverage, including my hero and one-time pee buddy (don't ask) Lizo Mzimba. BBC Online's headline then graduated onto calling him 'gravely ill' and then the admittedly ill-advised 'Michael Jackson 'dead'' - ill-advised because 'these' just make it sound 'sarcastic' - before finally confirming the story some hours after it first broke.

So given that the story of Jackson's death was true, was the BBC just slow, perhaps even irresponsibly slow, to report it? No. It was waiting for reliable confirmation from official sources, not an entertainment website. As it should do. Take a note, Sky News.

Anyway, once TMZ had broken the 'story' (understand, BBC? 'These' mean 'sarcasm'), it was within minutes all over the internet, as people such as myself sought to learn the truth of the news from more people like myself. That is, people didn't know whether Jackson was alive or dead, so had to ask other people who didn't know either. This led to a hive of activity, soon becoming a hive of inactivity as the internet buckled under the weight of worldwide confusion. Briefly, Google died, Twitter died and even TMZ, who started the whole thing, died. Nice work bringing that on yourself, guys.

Will the interwebs be able to withstand another assault on their blogotubes? I don't think we'll ever know.

I can't think of many stories that would have such an effect worldwide - people talk about the death of the Queen and the like causing a global stir, but due to the decline in the British Empire and the release of best-selling album ever Thriller, she hasn't touched as many people in as many countries as Michael Jackson. Think of that what you will.

But it does show that social networking sites are now the best news aggregators you can hope for. Find a story, pass it on. Admittedly you have to wade through the shit (OMG HES DED!!!!!!!!!!!!!11), but Twitter, with its #hashtags and trending topics, is actually quite a good news source.

Anyway, now it's all over and his death has been confirmed, what have we learned? Well... nothing, really. The story was right. So TMZ and Sky News were right. Damn. I was hoping this would be a chance for people to realise they can't be trusted.

And Jackson's death itself? Well, with debt, illness and 50 concert dates he was never realistically going to make, the conspiracy theories are flying around almost as quickly as the jokes. But it's my firm belief that he's dead, and we should accept that. Sorry, kids.

Perhaps not.

So, it looks like Kaka may be coming to Manchester City. The quest for world domination continues.

First, though, they need to dominate the Premiership, and before that they need to stay in it. Clearly City aren't going to go down because they're too good, and I know I've said that before about Leeds and other teams, but City really are. No team with Robinho gets relegated to the Championship.

But they do need to start winning matches on a regular basis, because although they're in a state of flux while they bring these big names in - the point being that it's not strange to see a player like Robinho or Kaka join a smaller team like City because with unlimited funds, they WILL be one of the biggest clubs in the world sooner or later - they need to secure a decent league position to give hope to their players. Robinho isn't going to listen to excuses of "a changing team" if they finish 12th.

They can buy everyone they want, but first they need to concentrate on the players they have. Unite the players they've got and start winning matches. That's what their rivals Manchester United do, and that's why - annoyingly - they're so good. There's no future like the present.

That all said, I can't wait to see Kaka in the Premiership.

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.

Blimey.

Crikey.

My goodness.

Oh dear.

We can only hope Gerrard's innocent. He's an inspiration to many young people, and if he's guilty they've lost a hero.

Hmm.

In other news, the stock market is set to crash in the next few days. Great stuff.

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

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Thanks.

I Am A Bird Now - Antony & The Johnsons [2005]

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.

Spotify link.

For once, some
good news about social networking sites. Not that it will get anything like the kind of coverage an actual suicide would, of course. Ho hum.

Fair play to the American girl and her mother, though: they really went above and beyond the call of duty. Some hope for the human race yet.

Politics both sides of the Atlantic remains as hostile as ever as politicians bite, punch and scratch each other, grappling and grasping on the greasy pole of power for a slightly better purchase and a slightly better view before inevitably slipping, sliding and falling, falling, falling into public shame and ignominy, a seat on the back benches and an autobiography explaining how none of it was their fault and they're the nice guys really – it's the other ones you want to watch out for.

Elections mean one thing, and that's politicians electing to destroy one another. Or at least to kill their rivals' careers. This week, David Miliband elects to kill off Gordon Brown, John McCain elects to kill off Barack Obama and wives electing to kill off their abusive husbands get some good news from the Government.

All in all, it's enough to make you think that Britain's much-publicised problem with knife crime could be helped if Cabinet ministers stopped plunging them into each other's backs.

Miliband begins to play
On the negative campaign trail
Getting away with manslaughter

"It came to me in a dream," Foreign Secretary David Miliband told me over tea at high noon the other day. "I was contemplating the Lisbon Treaty when Tony Blair appeared in front of me, arms outstretched, clutching a sharp instrument. 'Is this a dagger which I see before me,' I asked, 'the handle toward my hand?' 'Yes,' said Tony. 'Now use it. Use it, David, and never look back.' And he disappeared to the Middle East, leaving only his smile.

"I crept by night into Southwold, thinking of nothing but power and glory – and on occasion the future of the Labour Party – as I drew closer to my goal. There lay Gordon, asleep, wearing a jacket and open collar shirt. I knew what I had to do. I thrust my dagger into his cold, Scottish heart. Then I turned to the crowd behind me and proclaimed myself King – of Labour, of the Government, and of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. 'Brown is dead,' I cried. 'Long live David Miliband, Prime Minister.' And the crowd went wild."

But it didn't quite work out like that, did it, David? No – instead your article in The Guardian was seen for the weak challenge to the premiership it was, nobody got behind your cause and rather than hoist you on their shoulders, your colleagues threw you out on your arse. And then a poll showed that your adoring public have even less faith in you than they do in Gordon Brown.

(This poll also indicated that the most popular Labour leader at the moment would be Blair ("Come back, Tony, all is forgiven"). Strange, since twelve months ago everybody hated him and couldn’t wait for him to resign. It just goes to show that hindsight is a wonderful thing.)

I would call it unfortunate that Miliband gauged the opinions of party and public alike so spectacularly badly, but it's just too funny. It must have seemed like such a good idea. But the fact is, despite voters coming to terms with politicians being on the whole sly, devious and ready to do anything for a vote, still no one likes a backstabber.

Miliband's reputation with the public at this stage in his career is as something of a nonentity. Foreign Secretary he may be, but he has not captured the public's attention. That's why he should have waited until he had more of a following, or learnt from the Yes Minister Christmas Special and organised a (better) publicity stunt and then waited for the press to tout him as a potential leader before presenting himself as one to an uninterested public.

However, while British voters can shrug their collective shoulders at his machinations, they can't actually punish his vaulting ambition. His party can. And that’s where the folly in his plan lay. With Miliband revolting and Harriet 'This is my moment' Harman changing the locks at No.10, Gordon Brown probably can't wait to get back from what is essentially a forced holiday (does he look like the kind of person who enjoys going on holiday?), and since he urgently needs to reinforce his authority and wouldn't be likely to suffer much of a backlash, his first act upon returning – apart from informing the milkman – might be to sack David Miliband as Foreign Secretary.

That would certainly be the sensible thing to do. But rumours abound that the PM might just give his errant Foreign Secretary a slap on the wrists and forget – publicly at least – the whole affair. This would be a sign of weakness, not strength. It's time for the chop.

Special offer this week: John McCain's oven chips, best served on his shoulder with a side salad of negative campaigning (and a dressing of poor metaphors).

McCain has hit out again at Barack Obama’s celebrity status. His new TV ad, 'Celeb', uses pictures of Britney Spears and Paris Hilton to accuse Obama of being all mouth and no trousers (though admittedly that worked for Bill Clinton until Hillary found out).

Obama has shrugged this off, but has unfortunately been drawn into a bit of negative campaigning himself, accusing the McCain camp of making his race an issue. While this is quite possibly true, it's not been obviously clear in McCain's campaign, so in pointing it out Obama runs the risk of doing his job for him, appearing to have a chip on his shoulder about perceptions of his colour, and playing The Black Candidate.

Negative campaigning is the way in American presidential elections, of course: it always has been and it always will be. Jeremy Clarkson argued in The Sun – sorry, it was in my Chinese while I was waiting for a takeaway and I've got into the habit of reading whatever paper is put in front of me for the news if not its opinions – that Obama’s pledges are "rabble-rousing gobbledegook" and bet that "no one can name a single one of his policies." He then says McCain is no better. But that’s American elections for you – all character and no politics.

Still, even by normal standards, McCain's campaign is a full-blown attack. He has stayed very quiet about his own qualities, for obvious reasons, perhaps. He is not saying "I can lead", but "Obama can't". He is essentially turning the election into a referendum on whether or not the American public want Obama to president.

Which, sadly, could prove very effective. It's easier to vote against someone than for them, and with McCain still playing the experience card, as Hillary Clinton did with the 3am ad (not that I can find it anywhere on YouTube amidst all the spoofs), there is doubt amongst American voters over Obama's aptitude for the job. As ugly as they are, McCain’s tactics could just win him the election.

Not if Ludacris has anything to do with it, though. It's a shame that Obama has had to distance himself from Ludacris' song Politics As Usual (though he did have to) because it has some absolutely inspired lyrics that confirm Ludacris' place, for me at least, at the top of the American rap pile. "Paint the White House black – I'm sure that's got `em terrified / McCain don't belong in any chair unless he's paralysed."

Brilliant.

Something that concerned me this week were strange changes in homicide laws. The old 'jealous rage' defence is no longer viable for men who murder their partner after finding her in flagrante, reasonably enough, but women living in fear of future violence from their partner could be charged with manslaughter rather than murder if they kill him first. Also charged with manslaughter instead of murder will be parents who kill a paedophile molesting their child and rape victims who kill an attacker taunting them for their misfortune.

First up, that's still murder. Even if you disagree with everything else I say – quite possible – we must agree on the semantics. Deliberately killing someone is murder. Self-defence can bring a charge down to manslaughter. But these cases are not self-defence; they are murders, planned and executed.

Secondly, I apologise for the gender stereotype that men kill their partners in a rage while women wait until the time is ripe, but that's how the law has been made. Melanie McDonagh writes a good piece on the gender generalisation of it all. I’d like to have seen fewer gender-specific words in the plans.

"It will end the injustice of the perpetrators making excuses saying it's not their fault," said Harriet Harman, Deputy Labour Leader, Women’s Secretary and Acting PM. Uh... will it? It will end the injustice of male perpetrators making excuses saying it's not their fault. But it positively encourages women to do it.

Battered wives who kill their husband after years of abuse can now use the defence that they acted in response to "extreme words and conduct" (for some reason, the word "extreme" is in Tuesday’s Telegraph but dropped from the online version of the report). This all sounds a little "He started it" in my eyes. Verbal provocation is not the same as physical abuse in the self-defence stakes.

Besides, what are "extreme words"? "You fucking syphilitic whore"? "I hope you die"? Or does it have to be more personal? "I'm glad you have cancer", for example? How extreme do the words have to be to justify killing the person who says them? The above examples are sickening, but they are still just words, and words are not incitement to murder (or, at least, shouldn't be). It seems that for abusive husbands now, sticks and stones may break your bones, but names can leave you dead.

I don't want to trivialise the issue. But I feel that's what the new proposals are doing. Obviously you will still be punished for killing your spouse, and '’m not saying there will now be a spate of 'justice killings' from raped or beaten women, but the new laws almost encourage people to take the law into their own hands. Allowing the deliberate killing of a rapist to be manslaughter because of his "later taunting" is worrying. It opens the door for people to 'right past wrongs' knowing they won't be charged with murder.

The most serious of crimes has been massively downgraded. Even neighbours' disputes that end in a deliberate killing may now be wiped clean of murder. That is downright scary.

You simply can't legislate for instances that are this specific. What constitutes self-defence? What constitutes provocation? What constitutes incitement to murder? Those are questions for the courts to decide.

This dangerous law needs to be stopped, by any means necessary. Kill it dead. It'll only be manslaughter anyway.

Changes in life, however small, can make you think quite deeply. New purchases can help us to take on fresh challenges, do new things and achieve our dreams. They can draw a line in the sand between the old and the new; the past and the present; the present and the future. They can represent a new you, or help you to develop the old one.

And I can write this on my new laptop in half the time it usually takes because Microsoft Word isn't crashing every few sentences.

An Impolite Police (Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love To Rant)
Bye Bye Beijing - Time for a Whole Lotta London
Here Comes the Science
Tories and YouTubers in 'Sense of Humour Failure' Shocker
Picture Puzzle: Another Prick In The Wall

Forgive me while I go a bit Daily Express "It's a bloody outrage" on you, but I find myself increasingly disturbed upon hearing about policemen and women abusing their authority. I'm not talking about inside men on bank heists or anything – this isn't The Bill – but minor violations of the law committed for no reason. They show there are a lot of officers who feel that because they wear a police badge they can do whatever the hell they want.

This week I read that a man was arrested for taking a photo of a policeman who had driven through a 'no entry' sign (well, not literally, but you know what I mean). Andrew Carter generously pointed out the officer's mistake, to which PC Aqil Farooq responded, "F*ck off, this is police business." Carter took a photo of the van and its driver, and Farooq, suddenly abandoning whatever business he had in the Bristol chip shop that was so important he could ignore road signs, ran out and knocked the camera from his hand. He then arrested Carter for being drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest and assaulting an officer of the law (none of which happened). Carter was handcuffed, had his fingerprints taken, was forced to give a DNA sample and spent five hours in gaol before being released on bail.

Somewhat defeating the object of opinion-writing journalism, I don't have much to say about this story, except that it makes me very angry. Yes, I know that most police officers aren’t like Farooq and that it's just an isolated incident blown up by a self-righteous alarmist press etc. etc., but I'm firmly of the opinion that anyone in a responsible public position – be they a politician or a lowly policeman – should have to pay the consequences for any deliberate misdeeds made on duty. Everyone makes mistakes, sure, but this wasn't a mistake. It was deliberate false arrest and wrongful imprisonment. Farooq showed that he was making a mockery of his job and, quite simply, should have been sacked.

Instead, he was made to apologise in person to Andrew Carter. Well, that’s all right then. Let bygones be bygones, let water pass under the bridge and let Farooq do it again to some other poor unsuspecting sod. Because he hasn't learnt his lesson. Why would he have done?

I've never liked the idea of having to apologise to someone being a punishment. When you're a child, maybe. But when you're an adult committing a professional crime, it's not quite enough, somehow. Farooq's boss also said, "he acknowledged what he did was wrong", which is taken straight out of the mouth of a chiding parent.

Pathetic. Sorry, is that not tabloid enough? It sickens me to the very core. That's better.

It's not often I agree with an idea suggested in a letter to The Daily Telegraph. I do enjoy reading them, usually for the terrified paranoia that Britain is going to be invaded by immigrant criminals at the behest of port-swilling Brussels bureaucrats (or the glum acceptance that it's already happened), but rarely do I agree with anything they're saying.

But one reader proposed that, if the British Government is so desperate for London 2012 Olympics money (and it is), it should make use of the fervour currently sweeping the nation and ask for voluntary donations to the fund. Good idea.

The public will have to put up some money anyway, and possibly for a long time afterward: Montreal hosted the Olympics in 1976, and Quebecian taxpayers were still paying for the main stadium, 'The Big O(we)', in December 2006 – more than 30 years later. Since no one likes taxes, raising them nearer the time to pay for the Olympics will make whomsoever is running the country by then very unpopular. It makes sense to ask for some of that money now, rather than demand it later. You may mock, but people have got carried away in the excitement of it all, especially since this British success has come as such a surprise (doesn't it always?). Ask the public to put its money where its mouth is and while it's still agape with shock, cash should come flowing out. Well, some will anyway; I'm not expecting millions to miraculously materialise overnight. But you never know.

The Beijing Olympics have, after all, provided an incredible spectacle. It takes some effort to sweep human rights abuses and some of the highest levels of air pollution in the developed world under the red carpet but by gum, they managed it (Chinese efficiency, you see). The opening ceremony stunned everyone into silence – even nine-year-old Lin Miaoke, who was meant to be singing – and the athletes did their bit too. I can even forgive Usain Bolt for being only two months older than me, because he's my kind of athlete. It's been a literally marvellous showcase of sport and athletics performed by competitors at the peak of their powers – exactly how the Olympics should be.

And most importantly for Britain in these crucial Games, we've done pretty well. 47 medals including 19 golds, placing Team GB 4th in the medals table, has shown that we'll be ready even if our stadiums won't. Cycling, sailing, rowing: it just goes to show that if we plucky Brits put our mind to it, we can be worldbeaters... as long as we're allowed to sit down.

And the British people want a great London Olympics. They're feeling inspired, but in all likelihood, most of them are too lazy to go down the gym or get the bike out of the garage; why not exploit their nationalistic euphoria by relieving them of their money and make them feel like they're contributing?

(Since you ask: no, I won't be paying anything.)

I did find it interesting, though, to hear that Led Zeppelin had to change the lyrics to Whole Lotta Love, which was performed at the handover ceremony on Sunday. Apparently "I'm gonna give you every inch of my love" is a bit risqué. It makes sense, perhaps, to change the line to "every bit of my love" – especially since Leona Lewis was singing it and, well, being a woman she doesn't have any inches to speak of – but it did remind me a bit of the Red Hot Chili Peppers' appearance on The Simpsons:

"The network has a problem with some of your lyrics. Do you mind changing them for the show?"

"Our lyrics are like our children, man – no way."

"OK, but here where it says, 'What I got you gotta get and put it in ya', how about just, 'What I'd like is I'd like to hug and kiss ya'?"

"Wow, that's much better. Everyone can enjoy that."

Personally, I find it ironic that in a celebration of Britain's emerging young talent, the music was provided by aged rockers reforming after nearly 30 years. Still, at least they're brilliant. It could so easily have been Take That.

One of my bête noirs – the one that isn't pretentious use of French – is scientists coming up with utterly useless discoveries.

Sometimes they're already obvious, sometimes they're just completely inapplicable to anything and sometimes they're both, but they happen all the time. If it's not a geneticist declaring that black parents have black children, it's a behavioural analyst claiming that people who had a happy childhood are more socially able than those who spent their formative years crying in a box. One case that irritated me last year was a study erroneously and irresponsibly claiming that pupils born later in the school year do "significantly worse" than those born up to a year earlier. My vitriol on that report has already been spent here.

Now Dr Will Brown has 'discovered' that men find "shorter, slimmer females with long slender legs, a curvy figure and larger breasts" most physically attractive. Well... obviously.

What is the point in dedicating time and money to this study? Even if the report has a scientific revelation somewhere (and I'm not sure it does), surely there is little merit in its results because everybody already knew them. It's so stupid. You get the feeling, too, that he would have found this out a lot quicker just by observing life had he not spent his in the lab.

The study also found that people prefer symmetry in a face, defusing the argument that "Everyone loves a face with character" (a character with a face, that's what you want). Again, we know this. And what exactly can you do as a result of these findings anyway? Get a face transplant? New body dimensions? Why would a scientist bother wasting his intelligence on investigating such a pointless issue?

It's not easy to make this argument as someone who wants to write for a living. After all, what am I doing to change the world? Would it be fair for me to say that anyone who commits themselves to a life of research should make sure it's cancer-related? No. But their research could at least be useful. And I personally don't believe that, when he was studying, Dr Will Brown dreamt he could one day blow apart the myth that most men are physically attracted to tall women with broad shoulders and no breasts. All we can do is hope that these people look inside themselves and use their experience more responsibly.

But I'm not hopeful. "In his next study, Dr Brown plans to prove how attractively tall men with short legs are able to dance."

WHY?

You can, of course, take the 'time and money' argument too far, as the Conservative Party did this week. I don't know if it was them personally or the Official Opposition line that has to be taken on things like this, but it did not endear me to Cameron & Co. in the slightest.

The Government recently released a short video response to the online petition asking for Jeremy Clarkson to become Prime Minister. Watch it here. It's less than a minute long and seems to have been made with a handheld video camera and Microsoft PowerPoint. No10 themselves admitted, "A member of staff put it together in a spare half-hour."

And what's the Tories' response? "While the British public is having to tighten its belt the Government is spending taxpayers' money on a completely frivolous project. This shows how detached the Labour Party has become from the concerns of the British people."

They're not alone. Some of the many angry YouTube comments include "waste of tax money" and "why are they using my money to make youtube videos?"

Surely this is some sort of joke? How much money can that video have cost? And isn't it good that the Government should try to cheer up a despondent public in the middle of a recession? Even if you'd rather politicians stuck to business, it would be insane to claim this is betraying the taxpayer. But that's what the Conservative Party is doing.

Grow up and get a sense of humour.

A fantastic action photo from England's 2-2 draw with the Czech Republic prompted me to think about its deeper meaning. Look closely at the England players in a wall and see what you can learn from their reactions to the free kick being taken. You may see more than you think.

(With thanks to Action Images, WNSL and The Daily Telegraph)

From right to left:

Beckham - distant from the rest, he looks on with barely feigned interest from his safe spot in America/at the far end of the wall. Also stupid enough not to know where his balls are.

Barry - trying hard but looks uneasy not in the middle and has Lampard and Gerrard standing in the way of a link-up with Rooney.

Lampard - wrestling for space with Gerrard and Barry. Higher than the rest but for how long?

Gerrard - holding his breath. So are we, Stevie.

Rooney - ugly bastard.

Ashley Cole - not the face. Or the balls - I need those for, uh, Cheryl. Jump? What do you mean, jump?

Consolers Of The Lonely - The Raconteurs [2008]

Well, this was a bolt from the blue.

After a mismatched first album from this Jack White/Brendan Benson lovemaking session, I thought this was a project gone wrong - a tiresome whim annoyingly taking songwriting time out of Jack's White Stripes commitments.

Then this came along and, not to put too fine a point on it, how wrong I was.

Consolers Of The Lonely is an astonishing roughtooth gem of an album, harking back to the sounds of Zeppelin et al but with an even older quality to it. Recorded in double-quick time then rushed out with absolutely no promotion for release a few weeks later (apparently the band liked the idea of people finding it on the shelves and wondering if it had always been there) it should have been an even bigger disaster than the first album.

(Actually, I'm being a bit harsh on Broken Boy Soldiers: it's all right, really.)

But Consolers Of The Lonely is much better than all right, and much better than the mixed reviews it received. Each one agreed the album was chaotic; not all agreed this was a good thing.

It definitely is in my book. The frantic pace of lead single Salute Your Solution gets the adrenaline running, and epic closer Carolina Drama is an incredible effort that thrives on the chaos of the record (no one knows how the story ends, admits White in the song). An account of violence and greed in, well, Carolina, it rattles along thanks to superb fiddling and anguished vocals and by the end seems to struggle to contain itself. As the orchestral mayhem rises, the song breaks free and breaks down into a joyful, anarchic nonsense refrain of "La la la"s, helping the album to reach a perfectly imperfect zenith - beautiful chaos.

It's not even the best song on the album, and neither is Salute Your Solution. Even the title track, with its sublime changes of pace and White and Benson swapping vocals so smoothly it takes a while to notice, doesn't win the honour. No, it's Top Yourself - not about suicide; about bettering oneself - with its amazing blues sound, all slide guitar, banjo and bitter, spitting lyrics, that most deserves listen after listen after listen.

I don't know what's going to become of The Raconteurs, but I really hope they make an album as enjoyable as this one. Shit, I didn't even mention You Don't Understand Me and its wonderful piano. Ah, just listen to it.

Spotify link.