Run with Eric [Search results for Life] 

Stainless Style - Neon Neon [2008]

It should never have worked.

Stainless Style was a collaboration between Super Furry Animals' frontman Gruff Rhys and American producer Boom Bip, who had worked with Rhys on the Furries' Phantom Phorce remix album. It was, in their words, a "bonkers disco record" steeped in 80s electro-pop, and it was a concept album about playboy car designer John DeLorean. Needless to say, it should have been a complete mess.

It wasn't.

Despite loosely tackling the whole of DeLorean's life with the help of a Benetton family of guest musicians, the album comes together as a coherent whole - not the scattered collection of singles it could have been. So yes, there's a song about Raquel Welch and a song about Michael Douglas, but they're not just random namedrops - they're part of the puzzle of their subject's life. It's amazing, really, how much they seem to care about this guy given, well, it's John DeLorean.

Like its very concept, so many aspects of Stainless Style shouldn't work, but do. Having a pun for a title, for example. Or Fatlip leading a rap exposition of DeLorean's life to a eurotrance synth riff, crashing headlong into Rhys and The Magic Numbers of all people melodically 'ahh'ing the album out like a cherubim choir.

Yet it works so well it couldn't be any other way: Luxury Pool strikes the right balance between stylised hip-hop bragging ("Baby, if you ride with me, I'll make you famous") and a genuine character study, and the title track's closing harmonies provide a perfect coda.

You also wouldn't expect the album to translate well into a live arena, but it sets up a great live show. Obscure album track Michael Douglas is transformed into a juddering anthem, and say what you like about Har Mar Superstar, who guests on Trick For Treat and MCs their gigs - he's a great stage presence. It's like watching a Simpsons character brought to life.

What else? The straight-up quality of I Told Her On Alderaan? I Lust U unexpectedly being one of the best pop records of last year? I could go on.

So why isn't Stainless Style higher on this list?

Because for all the brilliance, there are duds. I'm a big fan of Yo Majesty (T-shirt and everything - go me) but Sweat Shop isn't exactly their finest hour. Actually, it's a bit embarrassing. And having listened to this record about eight times, I still couldn't tell you how Steel Your Girl even goes.

It's an age-old argument: can an album be a true great if it lets through some missed targets or, even worse, filler? I'd say yes - but in this case they take the shine off a classy album. It's stylish, but not stainless.

Still, this is merely nitpicking against an incredible feat of musical bravado and a very fine album. Gruff Rhys has said there won't be any more Neon Neon - it was a one-off concept album after all - but he and Boom Bip may work together again on another project.

Good. More please.

Spotify link.

The holidays are nearly upon us. It seems that only yesterday, it was the middle of summer and now Thanksgiving is only a week away. Time truly does fly by! Life has been keeping me very busy of late. My work commitments seem to multiply by the hour. Of course, spending time with my wife and kids is a high-priority. I'm embarrassed to admit that I have not watched a single football game this year from start to finish. And it's week 11. What kind of fan am I?? Oh well, thank god for my DVR.

On top of all that, I'm starting to ramp my training in preparation for Oceanside, which is only about 20 weeks away! The map above is my ride from this past Saturday... right on 5 hours in the saddle. Good stuff. As the saying goes, 'cycling is a blue-collar sport, you have to do the work.' So, I'm doing the work and doing my best to log lots of quality miles now and over the next several weeks. It will pay off in April.

You could say I'm burning the candle at both ends right now. That's ok, sleep is over-rated anyways. :-)

In all seriousness, balancing these multiple commitments without short-changing any one of them is my biggest life challenge at the moment. Indeed, it is a problem facing every age-group triathlete.

Some of the small things I try to focus on when things are getting hectic.

• Stay present and in the moment - i.e. avoid multi-tasking and the risk of being preoccupied. Put down the Blackberry at night when I'm with my family. For me, this means no computer, email or text messaging from around 5:30-8:30 pm every weeknight and very limited computer use on the weekends.
• Be flexible with my training - Life with young kids precludes any sort of rigid schedules. That's part of the adventure. I build some 'overage' in my weekly training program. While I have a full seven day schedule of workouts, inevitably one day becomes an off day due to some unforeseen circumstance. So one missed day, no big deal. Now two days in a row, that's a different story.
• Go to bed early. Or Don't. - I'm a natural night owl... so I'll often choose to hop on the trainer at 9:30 pm rather than get up at 4am. As long as it gets done, its all good.

Howl - Black Rebel Motorcycle Club [2005]

Where the hell did this come from?

After two albums with good singles but on the whole worthy of the description 'not bad', a pretty decent but by no means special rock band suddenly delved deep into their hearts, found their inner blues, which I don't think anyone thought existed in them, and pulled out a bloody stunner of a record. As I said: where the hell did this come from?

The title says it all. Howl is raw to the core. It's a cry of justice, injustice and misery. It's, well, a howl.

I'm born and weary but life's just begun
And I've run from the reasons and roamed to the gun
They say I'm the killer and thy will be done
And the doors won't be open when I finally become
And I've seen the battle and I've seen the war
And the life out here is the life I've been sold

It could be said there's a lack of invested feeling in observant third-person ballads such as Restless Sinner - though I don't agree; it's a brilliant song with wonderful guitar work - but that never hurt Dylan, and if it's personal emotion you want, look no further than Fault Line. With copious amounts of harmonica, that most underrated of instruments, and a refrain of "Racing with the rising tide to my father's door", it's really quite moving.

But it's not all one-paced: Shuffle Your Feet, all handclaps and bottleneck guitar, and Ain't No Easy Way, one of the few indie singles of late to feature an instrumental mouth organ chorus, raise the tempo and are both absolute stompers in their own right. They provide a perfectly judged antidote to the bittersweet laments of the rest of the album's noose-fearing gospel.

It is, quite literally given their previous guitar anthem dreams, an incredible modern blues album.

And yet no one else seems to think so. From the universally acclaimed Since I Left You yesterday to the largely deplored Howl today, it's a bit of a fall. But I don't care.

This is gem of an album. What a shame that as soon as they could, BRMC went back to their old rocky road. But at least we are left with this - Howl.

No Spotify link because Spotify doesn't have this album. It's all on YouTube, though - give it a listen.

The truth about long-distance triathlon (or any endurance sport, for that matter) is that you can't fake fitness. Sure, if you are reasonably fit and have some raw talent, you can go fast at a shorter distance. But a half-ironman is too long to fake it, no matter who you are.
So, I started the race with a solid base of swim training, some good work done on the bike, but nowhere near the consistency I would have liked to have in my run training. Life, sickness, the occasional little injury... it happens.
Based on the above, my race pretty panned out exactly how I thought it would.
Swim - 27:41. My best split in a half-ironman by about 30 seconds and my first time under 28 min. My swim training fell off a bit over the last month, so if I can keep up the frequency that I had over the winter, I am sure I can get down in the 26's. The swim itself was uneventful, aside from getting once kicked in the stomach and again in the mouth when I swam over some slower swimmers (hey, it happens). The stomach kick actually hurt, I had to flip over and do a few strokes of backstroke to catch my breath.
Got into transition, did the switch into my bike gear and was off. I still need to work on my transition speed. 3:58... geez, you'd think I stopped for a cup of coffee while I was in there.
Bike - 2:36:42 (21.44mph). About a minute slower than last year... but about what I expected. The three climbs stung a bit more than I remembered, but I felt very good on the flatter sections. My recent bike changes (new Adamo Road saddle) and switch to S-bend aero bar extensions worked out great... rock solid in the aerobars for everything but the steepest part of the climbs when I got out of the saddle. Which is more than I can say for a lot of guys I saw on super-blinged out Cervelo's, Trek TTX's and various other super-bikes with deep Zipp wheels with aero helmets, sitting up with their hands on their bar ends on the flats. Seriously, just buy a damn road bike. The conditions were the windiest that I've seen the four years I've competed here, there were a few sketchy sections. Some of the other athletes running super-deep front wheels were getting blown around quite a bit. Even with a (relatively) shallow 50mm front wheel, a rear disc, and weighing 190lbs I was holding on for a dear life on Deadman's Curve (this is a speed-limited descent where an athlete died in 2000 when the race was a full Ironman). However the wind was a quartering tail wind on the run back into transition, which made the last 10 miles a lot of fun.
Off the bike and into transition. 1:48 then off onto the run course
Run - 1:34:16 (7:11/mile). Felt pretty good coming out of transition, but I was cautiously optimistic. 6:50's the first few miles. Just tried to stay relaxed. Water and gatorade at every aid station. Added Coke to the menu at Mile 7. Based on my overall lack of mileage, I had a feeling that I might run (excuse the pun) into trouble around mile 9 or 10. That's exactly what happened. Self-fulfilling prophecy? Regardless, I stopped to work out a cramp at around Mile 8.5, walked though the aid station at mile 10, drank two cups of Coke and got back on my way. The 6:50's became 7:30's... managed to hold it together and even put on a little surge to pass two guys on the final stretch.
Overall time: 4:44:25, a whopping 34th in my AG... damn I'm glad to be aging up next year.
For those who care about this stuff... here's my nutrition plan for the race... which despite my poor finish, was pretty on target. Good nutrition can't give you fitness that isn't there..
pre-race brekkie2 cups of coffee2 slice of wheat toast, pb and jellysipped on water bottle all morningimmediately before swim - 1 GU
bike2 bottles with 2 scoops of First Endurance EFS + 1 scoop of CarboPro (roughly 300 cals each)1 bottle of water9 Thermolyte salt tablets (5 at 1 hr mark, 4 at 2 hr mark)2 GU's
rungatorade and water at every aid station, Coke starting at mile 7. 3 more Thermolytes at mile 4

So, farewell then, the 2000s. It's been a good decade, if you ignore all the shit stuff.

Before #1 - this.

I won't go into all the albums that nearly made this list, but a couple of absentees have grabbed my attention. So please let's charge our glasses to Absent Friends. No, not the album at #7; the albums that didn't make it. Apologies to:

- Re-releases etc. I know fully enhanced mixes of older recordings are being put out like fires in a flame factory, but I refuse to count them as new albums. Except, of course, the Love reworkings of Beatles tracks, but that's not in there just because I don't love it. Kudos to the people who made it, though. KUDOS.

- Classical music. I won't pretend to know who's new on the scene, but I do really like Katherine Jenkins' Living A Dream. You can all throw things at me now.

- Hip-hop/rap/grime/etc. Oh, I don't fucking know, OK? Honourable mentions (I know these artists are very different; I'm just lumping them all together): Boy In Da Corner by Dizzee Rascal; The Red Light District by Ludacris; Original Pirate Material by The Streets.

- Messiah J & The Expert. See above; an artist in and around the above genres that I very nearly included. I'm a big fan of their album Now This I Have To Hear, and not just for its album cover, but they were squeezed out when I, uh, released I'd picked 31 albums instead of 30. Damn you, Cat Power! Lingering in the back of my mind and not on my spreadsheet...

- The year 2002. Looking through my selection, there's a lot from the start of the decade (11 of the 30 were released in 2000 or 2001), yet nothing at all from 2002. I feel a good year is being a bit hard done by, so off the top of my head, in no particular order, here are ten very good albums released in that year: Original Pirate Material by The Streets; Sea Change by Beck; American IV by Johnny Cash; Melody AM by Röyksopp; Souljacker by Eels; Come With Us by The Chemical Brothers; Life On Other Planets by Supergrass; Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots by The Flaming Lips; Come Away With Me by Norah Jones; and Highly Evolved by The Vines. 2002, I salute you.

If I could have written the list again, yes, I would have done it to bring music and joy to people's ears, no, I wouldn't have done it because it took more time out of my life than I expected, and no, I wouldn't have included Lemon Jelly either.

And so for number 1 - the Album of the Decade. Call me predictable; I call it perfect.

---------

Rings Around The World - Super Furry Animals [2001]

Perfect. Completely perfect. It's annoying, actually, because I know I can't write a review to do it justice.

I know I'm not the most creative, but I can't think of a way in which this album could be improved. Even the opening and weakest track Alternate Route To Vulcan Street has grown on me that much. It's a slice of serenity interspersed with explosions. Only the Furries could make that work.

Ostensibly an album about technology and progress, Rings Around The World - a mesmerising and damn cool concept in its own right - muses about a Revelations-style armageddon, brought on by humanity's desperate desire to move quickly, no matter in what direction.

But it has time to diverge into religious fundamentalism (the brilliant epic Run! Christian, Run!: "Bang on the hour of 12, to a forest clearing we'll delve, with guns to our heads for we know that Heaven awaits us"), rising house prices (the sublime Juxtaposed With U, originally intended as a duet between Brian Harvey and Bobby Brown) and, brilliantly, the Bill Clinton-Monica Lewinsky affair (Presidential Suite: "Honestly, do we need to know if he really came inside her mouth?"). It's a diverse album, to say the least.

Not least in its sound. After the unsubtle and goshdarnit fun Britrock of their first two LPs, experimentation with Guerrilla and Welsh-language jazz in Mwng, Rings sees the Furries delve into their more natural home of laid-back orchestral pop for the first time.

In doing this, many bands could have slipped into a musical coma, but SFA are wiser to it, largely because they get bored quite easily. So, Sidewalk Serfer Girl is a juddering slammer of a song, juxtaposing (sorry) gentle folkish guitar with thumping guitar chords on its way to a strangely heartwarming chorus - heartwarming in its tenderness; strange in that it comes in a song about comas, famine and bungee jumping.

The title track is simple, no-nonsense stuff, but then it's also the song that first got me into SFA and as such, a personal favourite. In fact, it's one of my favourite songs ever. Sounding the whole way through like a warm-up into a bigger song, it also hits its stride from the off and finds a refrain to stay in your head until you die. Nice video, too.

Fan favourite and live masterpiece Receptacle For The Respectable is almost as fantastic, skipping between genres like they're on a hopscotch pattern. From pop to swing to metal, it sweeps you up and away before throwing you nosedeep into one of the best miniature techno instrumentals you'll hear, [A] Touch Sensitive (another great song title).

Oh, I could go on. The brilliance of folk ballad-turned-industrial rave No Sympathy. The video to It's Not The End Of The World?. The beautiful build-up of Shoot Doris Day, which transformed in my mind from average to extraordinary in a couple of listens (it's a microcosm of the whole album in that it's a grower; if you don't like it straight off, you'll love it later). Even Paul McCartney turning up on Receptacle For The Respectable chewing celery down the phone in an homage to the Beach Boys (well, why not?)

But I won't. I sense the job's not done, but that's because I'm writing about an album that must be listened to. So listen to it. Now. Lush in sound, intelligent in words, fun in spirit and imbued with a fragile happiness, it's probably the best thing made this decade.

Spotify link.

Thanks for reading, if you did. If you didn't... well, you're not reading this.

Come back tomorrow, next year as I begin my daily countdown of the 365 Best Songs Ever Written.

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.

To close out 2009, here are some thoughts on some of my recent reading. Listed below are three excellent sport-related books that I highly recommend.

More Fire: How to Run the Kenyan Way, by Toby Tanser
If you wonder why Kenyan athletes dominate world distance running, this book is a good place to start. The author has spent alot of time in Africa, working with and training with the local athletes and he opens a door into the world of elite Kenyan runners... explaining in some detail the history, culture, the development programs, training regimes and the spartan day-to-day existence of these incredible athletes. He goes into detail about Kenyan training philosophies about nutrition (simple), how training plans are structured, the importance of rest and the
dynamics of group training. Of particular interest to me, were the section containing detailed profiles and training schedules of many of Kenya's most successful runners from distances from 5K up the marathon. There is sometimes a bit more detail than needed... for example, the section entitled "A Typical Kenyan Training Run" is 29 pages long. Nonetheless, it is a compelling and eye-opening read that I would highly recommend to any endurance athlete or coach.

A Dog In A Hat, by Joe Parkin
Joe Parkin is an American cyclist who was among the first to squeak out a living as a European pro in the late 80's and early 90's. His book is a gritty and honest glimpse into his not-so-glamorous life as a touring pro and is filled with hilarious and sometimes sobering stories and anecdotes of his life before, during and after races. If you're a fan of pro cycling, particularly the Belgian one-day races... this is a must-read.

Gold In The Water, by P.H. Mullen
Another profile of the lives of elite athletes... this time, swimmers. I related to this one more than the others because I spent some time in a fairly rigorous age-group swimming program, however the story of Coach Dick Jochums and his Santa Clara Swim Club's elite team's preparation brings new meaning to the words dedication and commitment. The book focuses of three individuals, up-and coming breaststroker Tom Wilkens, Olympic team veteran Kurt Grote and their coach Jochums in their preparation for the 2000 Olympic Games. Mullen does a great job of expressing the monumental physical toil these men undertake, which is compelling on its own, but he also explores the mental anguish these athletes experience. Get a copy and take a read, you won't regret it.

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?

La Peste - Alabama 3 [2000]

Sorry.

The good thing, I suppose, is that in knowing I'll never justify this selection to anyone who takes their music seriously, I can write pretty much whatever I want about it.

But I do want naysayers to know this - it's not a comedy record. I've heard, and detested, enough comedy records to know that. The tongue that was planted so firmly in cheek for their brilliant debut Exile On Coldharbour Lane (at least listen to the first track, Converted, before you judge it) is still there in La Peste, but as the title and cover sleeve suggest, it's a darker and much more serious album, more likely to draw on the absurdism of Albert Camus than take the piss out of the orchestrator of the Jonestown Massacre, as they did in their debut.

It's true that Alabama 3 have since lost sight of their original goal. They've gone MOR; 'sold out' into Midwestern country-pop. Setting aside 2005 release Outlaw, which is really rather good, it's not that bad an idea to pretend they stopped making music after their first two albums.

So, for that reason and the fact it's bloody marvellous, La Peste should be remembered. Whether it's the opus that defines their career or whether that honour belongs to Exile On Coldharbour Lane depends on how much you like your gospel, but even the most pretentious of tryhards should at least give this album a go. You never know. There might be a guilty pleasure within.

La Peste certainly starts brilliantly. Too Sick To Pray is actually, just, wow. Not always have the band succeeded in effortlessly blending their yin and yang of blues and techno - that "sweet country acid house music" - but Too Sick To Pray sees them on fire. The spirit of Hank Williams is more present than the first verse's namedrop, inspiring lyrics of defiant deathbed faith as the music spirals into a perfect mesh of slide guitar and 21st-century (ish) production.

The pace doesn't let up with Mansion On The Hill, one of Alabama 3's shortest and most dance-influenced efforts. There's not a whole lot of religion in a song about housebreaking, but it's hard not to enjoy a shouted refrain of "The meek ain't gon' inherit SHIT."

There's some very nice balladry, too, in Dylan-referencing Sad-Eyed Lady Of The Lowlife and Walking In My Sleep, which, once you get past the oddly off-form rambling of The Very Reverend Dr D Wayne Love (aka Jake Black) at the start, shows itself to be a downbeat little corker. Larry Love/Rob Spragg's hushed vocals have, at this stage of his life, hit the perfect blues pitch, croaky while still intact and filled with both frailty and venom. The first line is enough to send a shiver down your spine.

From there, it's a bizarre but splendid mix of acid raves (Cocaine Killed My Community) and whisky-fuelled country ballads (The Thrills Have Gone), plus a fantastic slice of good old-fashioned Christian rock - never thought I'd ever use those words in a positive light - in the sublime Wade Into The Water. Admittedly, the breakdown house cover of The Eagles' Hotel California may have been ill-advised. Some fans swear by it, but it is pretty bloody awful.

It's the only bad track on a funking great album, though. You couldn't ask for a much better finish than bible-bashing 2129, lyrically depraved techno thumper Strange and Rime Of The Ancient Mariner tribute Sinking... , which ends with a wonderful Beatles-esque horn outro and singalong of "It's gonna be all right." Quality.

I think La Peste is a great, great album.

Sorry.

Spotify link

The most frustrating thing about being injured is not getting to do what you love. Running on a nearly daily basis has been a part of my life for so long now that not being able to do it is screwing me up.

I'm trying to fill the gaps with hitting the weights, riding the bike and the pool as much as I can. But it is sort of like trying to fulfill a burger craving with a Big Mac. Yeah, its a burger. But it's no Double-Double.

And as much as I love getting out on the bike, which I truly do... most of the time, my schedule doesn't really allow for daily outdoor rides. So, instead of the daily run to get my head straight, I'm lifting weights or hitting the trainer or jumping in the pool... when most of the time, I'd rather be slipping on my running shoes.

But, the good news is that I'm on the mend. After a handful of short treadmill runs to gently test the Achilles, I went for my first outdoor run yesterday in nearly 2 (!) months. 30 minutes. 3.6 miles... at a glacial 8:10 pace. Well, it didn't feel glacial... actually it felt like I was running pretty hard, but I guess that's what happens when you get out of shape.

The achilles still has some twinges every now and then, but I'm cautiously optimistic that I'm out of the woods and will be back to the daily runs within a few weeks.

On the flip side of the coin, while my run fitness has fallen through the floor, my cycling is getting stronger. On Sunday, I did a ride I'm calling the Three Sisters. For those familiar with North County San Diego, the climbs are West Lilac, Old 395 to Deer Springs and Twin Valley Oaks to San Elijo. Below is a pic of the profile... the overlying graph is my HR. Twin Valley Oaks in particular is a pretty tough climb, not long..only about 2.5 miles at about 6%. But there is a section in the middle at around 11% that definitely puts the sting in the legs. Gave me a chance to work on my Contador-esque climbing style.

Next time, I'll take some pics...

Wildflower.

Just the mention of the word evokes vivid images in my mind. Camping with my family. Sitting by the campfire and making S'mores. The Energizer bunny pounding his drum at the top of Nasty Grade. Shuffling up the never ending Mile 5 hill. Running through the amazing crowds in Redondo Vista. Drinking ice-cold post-race beers (maybe the best part of all.)

It is my favorite race on the calendar, not just for epic nature of the race itself, but for the entire Wildflower experience.

This year was our third trip to Lake San Antonio for this event. In 2006, I did the Olympic distance race and in 2008 stepped up to the Long Course. This year, once again, the Long Course was on the menu. The Long Course is the event that truly defines Wildflower. It is a half-ironman distance event and as the saying goes, the only flat spot on the entire course is during the swim. Over 5000 ft of climbing on the bike, and over 1100 ft on run course that is 60% off-road trails and 40% pavement. Brutal.

Thursday morning, we got on the road early and after a few stops we arrived at the race site around 3. After entering the gate, we stopped by the AVIA booth where they were giving out free gelatos... a welcome treat. Kenny Sousa himself hand-delivered them to our car... pretty cool. We hopped out for a minute and another AVIA athlete, Saul Raisin, was at the booth signing copies of his book, "Tour de Life: From Coma to Competition". He has an incredible story and it was a pleasure to meet him and get a copy of his book. I just started reading it and it is amazing.

This year, we camped in Harris Creek once again with a crew of Cal Poly Alums that have been working the run aid station for over 20 years. We met them last year (through our kids) and had a blast. A great group of people and there were over 15 little kids in our area so our girls had a fantastic time the whole weekend.

I spent Friday doing typical pre-race stuff... in the afternoon I went down to the festival area to get my race packet and went for a short swim to make sure the wetsuit still fit. Water temp was just touch on the chilly side (64 degrees or so), but not an issue. After my swim I cruised the expo and had a chance to catch up with Sebastian Linke from SLS3, who set me up with some of their new compression socks to wear on race day. Check out their stuff... the best compression gear on the market.

Saturday morning, I woke up at 5 to get an early start on some calories and coffee. Typical race-morning breakfast... cereal with soy milk (I am trying to cut back on dairy), banana, wheat bread with peanut butter, coffee and water. I caught the boat shuttle at 7:00 and got into the transition area around 7:30, plenty of time to set up for my 8:35 wave start.

Swim - 28:02 (10th AG). HR (156 avg, 160 max)
Swim start was super aggressive. I lined up front and dead center, which was probably asking for trouble, but my swimming has been strong lately so I was confident in my ability to swim near the front of the group. After the mad sprint into the water, there was lots of contact and elbows the first 150 meters to the first bouy... guys were hammering! I was swimming just about flat out to try to stay in a good position. Fortunately, things settled down after the first turn and I was able to get into a rhythm. One thing I like about this swim course is that since there are no waves, sighting is super easy. Got back to the boat ramp and chuckled to myself, my swim time was identical to my split at Oceanside. One of these days, I'm going to break 28 minutes!!

T1- 3:29.
I was racked in an ideal spot, dead center of the transition area on the end of the row at the center aisle. For some reason, I had a hard time getting my left leg out of my wetsuit and nearly fell over twice trying to get it off.

Bike - 2:49:56 (19.8 mph, 42nd AG) HR (139 avg, 172 max)
The course is just hard. Coming out of transition, I just tried to get the legs moving by staying in a small gear on some rollers near the lake and up the Beach Hill climb. Once out of the campground, I pushed the pace for the first 20 miles out to the right turn on Jolon Road and maintained my HR between 145-155. At the turn, I dropped the intensity a touch and just focused on staying aero and maintaining a good rhythm. The miles between 20 and 35 are rolling with some long gentle descents so I used this opportunity to let the HR drop and recover slightly. Felt very strong going up Nasty Grade and the final hills into the transition. Total bike was much better than last year (2:56:59)... wanted to go under 2:50 so am happy with it.

At the top of the Nasty Grade
nutrition
2 bottles of GuH20/CarboPro (325 cals each). 1 1/2 btls of water. Also took a few pulls off a Gu flask..but I didn't finish it (maybe had 1-2 gels). total cals on the bike. 750-800. 5 Thermolytes per hour.

T2 - 1:47
A bit slow. I took a few seconds to put on my new SLS3 compression socks. By having them rolled up beforehand, they went on quite easily.

Run - 1:43:57, 7:56 per mile (49th AG), HR (164 avg, 194 max)
This course beat me again. I came out of transition feeling good and started out very easy. Mile 1 split was 5:50..so I knew the markers were off... I'd estimate I ran something around 7:15. Just tried to find a rhythm in the first 4 miles, but couldn't seem to get my HR under control. Got to the monster hill at mile 5 and had to walk a pretty long section. After going down the descent, my hamstring started cramping. Stopped to massage it and stretch it out. That seemed to take care of it, it didn't bother me again. After mile 6, I started to feel better and managed to maintain a decent pace. The markers were all off so I don't know how fast, but I would estimate low 7 min pace. Maintained a decent pace through Redondo Vista and through the pit (no walking like last year). I did walk through the final aid station at mile 12 though, but at least it was only for a few seconds.

suffering on the run course
Nutrition. Carried a GU flask with caffeinated TriBerry GU, which I sucked on before every aid station. Alternated Gatorade and water.

Strange, I felt like I did a lot better than last year (much less walking), but my time was only a little over a minute faster. I am disappointed with this... 1:43 is pretty embarrassing. This course is slower than Oceanside, maybe 5 minutes slower. But not 14 minutes slower.

Next year, I am going to change my prep entirely for this. More run mileage, lots more hills and I will need to get a lot leaner.

A side note on the socks. It was my first time racing in compression socks. It's hard to say if they helped me on the run course. But the day after... OMG. Normally, my lower legs are trashed after a race. This time, my legs are only a bit sore. That alone is worth the few seconds to put them on.

Final time - 5:07:14 (36th AG, 158th OA).

About 10 minutes faster than Wildflower last year, but 28 minutes SLOWER than Oceanside a month ago. I have a few theories. My running has been inconsistent the last four weeks... my slower than expected 5K was an indication of that. I also had a lot of work travel this month so my diet was a way off. I am about 3-4 lbs heavier than when I raced Oceanside, on a hilly course those extra pounds are a killer.

Racewise, I am not happy with the result, I believe I performed way under my potential. Back to the drawing board.

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.

Oh Daily Mail, obsessive-compulsive disorder is SO last year.

Of course, it doesn't bother me that there's another article in a mainstream national newspaper on OCD - far from it. I want to see the condition get as much coverage as possible so people actually understand it, instead of thinking, "Oh come on, how hard can it be to just have to wash your hands lots?"

The problem is that this is The Mail, and therefore any suggestion of respect is immediately going down the plughole with that soapy water. And indeed, they live up to form by making a complete hash of it.

My main issue with the piece is its conclusion. Personally, I think some progress can be made without professional consultation, but anyone with any OCD knowhow, professional or otherwise, would always say: see someone first. It's not an easy battle, and you'd be a fool to dismiss it entirely as a matter of willpower. Get help, then try to defeat it.

The article concludes:

The experts might say that you can't cure it yourself, but I'm living proof that you can.

I'm casting a lot of aspersions here - look, there they go, fluttering into the sunset - but it is an absolute certainty that some OCD sufferers will, as a consequence of reading this article, try to handle the condition entirely by themselves, without any help, and that is the wrong thing to do. It's something you need to conquer personally, no doubt about it; but turning down help is just stupid.

So what else bothers me about the article? Well, it's slightly uncomfortable reading some of the supposed diary extracts, not because they're disgusting or because the truth is too horrible to bear, but because it's a woman baring all in the worst way possible - smiling to the cameras. Or in this case: weeping with a smile in her eye.

My point is that parts of the article are discomfortingly pity-seeking. The writer becomes the martyr. I'm all for a writer with OCD revealing her inner battles and just how low the condition makes her feel, and in that sense the diary format makes sense, but it repeatedly collapses into wanton melodrama.

Now I don't think this is necessarily the writer's fault; I think it's the editor's. Either the writer is exploiting her own condition for sympathy's sake or the Mail's exploiting her. I think the latter is more likely. Having been in similar positions (I turned down an offer to appear in a trashy woman's weekly because I would have been made into a sideshow freak), I can see how a brutally honest but reserved piece was mutated like Frankenstein's creature into a stumbling monster of gruesome soundbites and misunderstood intentions. I can see the e-mail now, asking the poor writer to "spice it up". I can see the subeditors battling over a headline - "'Obsessive Compulsive Disaster', brilliant". And I can see the writer in tears over its treatment.

Or - equally possible - she's fine with it, it's a decent exposé and I'm just jealous at having my spacky thunder stolen (not true, I'm afraid). But to be fair, I genuinely do want to see obsessive-compulsive disorder in the press as much as possible.

Just not like this.

So then, this is the 25th (kinda) and last Week Spot blog post as you know it. From next week, it will be updated as and when something in the news catches my eye - as, indeed, a blog should be.

Maybe I'll do a weekly round-up again, but I doubt it. So until that day does or doesn't come, here's a bumper final edition of strange stories for you.

And everything's changing, mainly to do with people being removed from the public eye. OJ Simpson's been locked up, Diana Vickers has been voted off X-Factor and Darren Anderton's retired from professional football.

I think that's good, good or bad and bad news respectively, but I'd appreciate your input on that. What do you think?

OJ loses common sense, freedom
The British public loses another Diana
Official: left-handers plagued by statistics
Andy Fordham hits the maximum in weightloss
The Discman makes a comeback
Sicknote Anderton hangs up his boots

Dear oh dear. Opinion still seems to be divided over whether OJ Simpson murdered Nicole Brown and Ronald Goldman, of whose deaths he was found innocent in 'the trial of the century' in 1995, but we can all agree on something – he's stupid.

Surely OJ should have known for more than a decade now that every move he makes would be watched like a hawk by people aggrieved with the 'not guilty' murder verdict, the authorities and conspiracy theorists. He should have been wary of picking his nose in case it turned out to be holding evidence against him.

So with this in mind, his reaction to the supposed theft of some memorabilia was, well, a bit special. For a start, it's not like he was actually robbed. Two people were trying to sell memorabilia from OJ's footballing days and he claimed it still

belonged to him. Now, what do you do in that situation? Get legal on their arses? Let them peddle the useless wares? Or kidnap them at gunpoint and force them to give the stuff back? The latter, apparently. I think he's started to confuse his life with the movies he's been in.

Yet OJ claims, "I did not know that I was doing anything illegal." Uh... really? What part of it did you think was nice and legal, OJ? Was it the kidnapping or the armed robbery? Honestly, it's like he thinks he can get away with murder or something.

And so this time he's been sent down – down for 33 years (though it'll more likely be nine, when his parole is heard). Interesting. What's yet more interesting is that he was found guilty of this charge 13 years to the day after being acquitted in the murder trial. Some will call this justice; I just think it's the most beautiful irony.

Still, he's got only himself to blame. Silly boy.

So, Diana has been voted off X-Factor just one round before the grand final. I hear Mattel are desperate to get her voice into a range of Barbie dolls (complete with claw-like hands) to capitalise on the publicity. And the reaction of the rest of us is... conflicting, to say the least.

I haven't been watching X-Factor at all – I've drying paint that needs monitoring – but like many sceptics, I've been dragged in a bit by the drama. From the couple of performances I've seen, I know that some of them can sing, some of them can't, and Diana Vickers is definitely memorable.

That is to say, I don't know if I like her or hate her. She somehow manages to sound bloody awful and absolutely amazing at the same time – something not done since Bob Dylan, albeit in a very different way. I think yesterday's show proved that faster, louder songs don't suit her, which may well be why she was voted out (well, that and she annoys people), but she can belt out a ballad in at least a distinctive way. Put it this way: I don't know if I like it or not, but I still have her version of Coldplay's Yellow in my head. And since the winner is going to sing Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah and you know no one's going to do it better than Jeff Buckley, at least hers would be different from the norm.

The winners are generally dull. Leon? What's happened to him? At least he could sing, I think, which sets him apart from Ray Quinn, who is without a doubt one of the worst singers I have ever heard, and yet he came second a couple of years ago. Listen to him sometime. He doesn't sing any consonants.

Anyway, like her princess namesake, Diana's gone now – cast aside like the proverbial rag doll she physically resembles. As if it matters – she'll get a record contract and, like her 16-year-old rival and potential squeeze Eoghan, will add to the list of people more than 5 years younger than me (she's 17) and phenomenally more successful than I am.

Bastards.

More useless education statistics emerged recently. After the classic that was 'pupils born later in the year do worse in exams' (I've already written an article on that one), we're now told left-handed students don't test as well as their right-handed counterparts. Oh good, so we'll just make sure our children are right-handed, shall we? I'm sure a return to the 19th century will do us good, and make sure we all grow up in a right-handed utopia. But just to make sure, let's move back in time and culture completely and burn lefties at the stake for being witches.

This goes out to the BBC and educational researchers: STOP SPREADING ALARMISM. Non-stories of non-studies like this just lead idiots to worry, and they don't need the persuasion.

I'm not left-handed. But 7-10% of the population are, and please, just leave them alone. Five of the last seven Presidents of the USA – Ford, Reagen, Bush Snr., Clinton and Obama (and McCain as well) – have been left-handed. No one talks about that. Actually, that's probably for the best: the rednecks have enough to go on without our telling them the world is not only in the hands of a black guy, but a left-handed black guy.

I wonder if they've had to move the red button on his desk.

What the hell has happened to Andy Fordham? I am really, really glad he has decided to kick the drink (seriously, 23 bottles of lager a day?) and lose some weight but he looks emaciated. I mean, I suppose that's what losing 17 stone does to you, but I genuinely don't recognise him. I think it's an actor.

Oh well, good for him, I suppose. But he does look terrifying.

So the lesson here, kids, is if you want to avoid inevitable surgery, don't play darts.

And yet I can't find N64 controllers anywhere.

So. Farewell
Then
Darren Anderton.

You have played
Your last game. 599. You
Scored a volley in the dying minutes to grab a dramatic win for Bournemouth.

Well done.

Sicknote. That
Was your name.
People called you that
Because you were always
Injured.

Now you're
Retired.
But you're not dead.
Yet.

(With apologies to E. J. Thribb, 17½)

How is it that the break that I took ended up being more stressful than when I was working around the clock? Maybe it was the work that was keeping me going the whole time. I’m more exhausted now than I was a week ago at this same time. I thought that taking a break would have helped me deal with some deeply unsettling personal matters, but somehow it only helped to solidify my ever growing break with humanity and just how little I believe in it as a whole.

My desire to scream at everyone over their entitlement and privilege reached an all time high this week as on an almost continual basis all but a very tiny handful of friends and acquaintances found new way to let me down and depress me even further.

Without going into massive specifics – and I HATE even bringing this up in a public forum – due to circumstances beyond my control I don’t have a place to live for the next two weeks. If you want to know the story, ask me in person and I will tell you. It’s a clustercuss of ups and downs, a maze of paperwork, a load of idiocy on the parts of people you would think would be able to help (city, province, charities), but there is a solution in sight. It’s been going on for the past several weeks and again briefly at the beginning of the year, and it’s simultaneously embarrassing to talk about and hurtful for me to write about, especially since this isn’t the first time this has happened to me. It’s actually the second time in several years that I’ve had this rotten luck.

Again, this isn’t about the ones who try to or have helped. This is about those who can’t step outside themselves to just do anything for anyone other than themselves. And for those of you joining my life really late, both of my parents have been dead for over a decade now and I don’t have family to fall back on at all. Not even extended family. That is, unless you want to give me five grand to track them down and go to the States and find them, but honestly if you want to give me that much money to fly down there you could just as easily keep me here.

Now, I know that not everyone I know is capable of helping out when I need it or sheepishly ask, and even those who can help will only be able to do it to certain degrees based on means, availability, and comfort. I will never begrudge those who have already been there to help out wherever they could and so grateful and humbled. Some of them are close friends that have been around since the beginning and others are only casual friends with hearts made of pure gold. Some people just simply can’t and I totally get it. I could get into how some people are unable to grasp various degrees of what constitutes help (i.e. how it’s not all about just straight up giving me a place to crash for a night or two or a few dollars for something to eat), but that’s a different story.

My problem and something that I’ve become uniquely attuned to is that everyone around me seems to be blowing their money now more than ever on some of the dumbest shit imaginable. They are unable to help because they have lived so far beyond their means that they can’t even fathom what helping another human being is. I asked, again, embarrassingly, for $20 last Tuesday from two separate people, the use of which I will get back to in a second.

One of them said they couldn’t do it (or help with a place to sleep for even a couple of hours due to having a small apartment, which is more understandable), and yet they just came back from a trip to Florida and torment me still with pictures of their happy, lavish trip every day. The other similarly declined yet had bragged on Twitter two days earlier on donating $200 to the Kickstarter for the Veronica Mars movie.

That $20 would have gone to the following: a TTC day pass (the fares for which are one of the most overpriced things on the planet for return on service, but that’s another gripe) to get around since the weather was unremittingly shitty about and food for three days. By food for three days that means one McChicken from McDonalds every day for three straight days while eating nothing else. Wasn’t going to be the most glamorous $20 ever spent.

So what ended up happening that day was there was an ice and sleet storm. I started the day with $3 in my pocket which I had to spend to meet a friend to borrow $5. Then, when I left my friend the weather was even worse and I had to go to work I had to spend another $3 of that 5 to get back on the subway. This left me with $2. That same afternoon I see the friend who went on vacation eating in a really nice restaurant on Yonge Street. I wanted to go in and flip the table over. And this, contrary to what you might thing, was actually a closer friend to me than most.

So you might say, “But Andy, you have a job. Several, in fact! Several good jobs, even. How do you not have anything?” Good question. First off, as I stated in my last post, this was never a good paying a job and now more than ever I almost have to quit entirely and take a fast food gig just to get money fast. Don’t laugh, I’ve applied. I’ve also applied for assistance on various levels, but being a single male with no dependents and actual employment, you don’t qualify for anything. On top of that, I already put all the money I had and borrowed more into getting a new place that I can move into on May 1st. I absolutely couldn’t get anything sooner without paying out the ass for a temporary room in a shady, suspect place. So I have negative eighty dollars in my bank account as is, and as we all know, that’s a pretty bad spot to be in.

Second, in the past month I have had two paycheques bounce on me and one outlet just hasn’t paid me. Another outlet that pays me on a regular basis doesn’t pay until the end of the month (with all of last months getting spent on getting me out of this mess ASAP), and yet another is three months past due on paying me. Another outlet doesn’t pay until an article runs and I have nothing running for them until June. Finally, I don’t get any of the advance money for the book I’m working on until I can prove a certain amount of its done.

I’ve just grown fed up and I have no idea where exactly to go from this point on, but I know it shouldn’t be this difficult to turn to those who allegedly support you on a friendly level to help me. I’ve reached the point where the few people who can help me are stretched to the point where they just can’t do anything anymore. So if you see me or know how to contact me or care, just know that it’s reached the point where I have to make it public knowledge that things are shitty, just know that this is going on even if I haven’t brought it up to you directly and until the end of the month, know that I won’t turn down any help that I can get. Pretty desperate at this point just to get back on track. Also, I can’t spend another night sleeping at the airport since they caught on last night that I wasn’t actually flying anywhere. Today is literally (meaning the dictionary definition of “in the strictest sense”) the last day I have to come up with some sort of plan for the next two weeks. I have tried for the past seven days to do something on my own and nothing at all worked or panned out. There are sadly no more options other than looking like a complete and total bum.

So if you can offer any of the following, here’s the kickstarter I am willing to propose:

For a donation of any amount of money for food or transportation, I would be willing to pay it back as soon as I possibly can. It won’t be immediately. Admittedly, I am already in a small bit of debt from this ordeal already. BUT what I would be willing to do – for any loaning of money $20 or more - is to write you an original story on any topic of your choosing OR I will write about or review any movie you want me to review. This can also be claimed by anyone willing to cut out the middle man and buy me a TTC weekly pass for either this week or next OR anyone willing to offer me work space during the day.

If you want to buy me lunch, I will send you a PDF copy of my collection of short stories and essays from 5 years ago titled SLEEPLESS. Since the book was finished and published ages ago, you would think this would be a lesser offer, but I really can’t think of anything else equal to a lunch in terms of pricing that I could offer. Also, since part of my “get back on my feet” plan is to re-release this for this summer via eReaders, I can’t really just throw it around like I did the past couple of years.

For a donation of having me over for dinner, I will do the dishes and clean your kitchen for you. And by clean your kitchen I mean the basics. Counters, floors, a brief once over of the fridge. I’m not cleaning the oven… unless you want to pay for that. An extra $20 and I’ll clean the oven, but I would prefer not to. Last time I tried to clean my own oven I broke out in an allergic rash from the cleaning foam even while wearing gloves.

For an offer of a place to sleep for any amount of time, the donator will get the perks listed above as well as more general housework done. In addition, if the donator provides ingredients (or just gives me cash and trusts my taste, which given some of my reviews, you might not want to go that route), I will make a home cooked meal for the provider. I can cook. It’s a side of me no one else really sees. It’s a pretty special offer.

Any other offers (including work and commissions) can be discussed. As you can see, I am trying very hard to have a sense of humour about this, but I really just need something, anything to go right. And when some of your closest friends find ways to let you down (again, not all of them, you guys), what other options are left?

If you have any questions, chances are you know where to reach me.

Love And Theft - Bob Dylan [2001]

To release your 31st studio album is pretty impressive. To still be touring 300 days of the year aged 60 is quite an achievement too. To use those rare days off to record one of the best albums you've ever made in a 40-year career is just plain extraordinary.

And it is. It really, really is. With no exaggeration, I would genuinely place Love And Theft in a top five - even top three - list of Bob Dylan albums, with the legendary likes of The Freewheelin' and Bringing It All Back Home.

Dear God, it's a good record. Where to start? Dylan opts for Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum, a song that sets the tone and pace of the album with a rolling, rollicking delta blues rhythm. It's not the strongest song on the album, but it's great fun.

The desperate regret of Mississippi provides a superb follow-up, creating intrigue and empathy in the bars of an easygoing melody. Then Elvis takes over for Summer Days, at least if the opening guitar riff is anything to go by - except Elvis didn't reach 60 in time to sing:

Well, I'm drivin' in the flats in a Cadillac car
The girls all say, "You're a worn-out star"
My pockets are loaded and I'm spending every dime
How can you say you love someone else when you know it's me all the time?

Well, I had to go down and see a guy named Mr. Goldsmith
A nasty, dirty, double-crossin', back-stabbin' phony I didn't want to have to be dealin' with
But I did it for you
And all you gave me was a smile

With a thumping bass drum, tambourine and deathrattle groans for backing vocals, High Water is musically stunning. It transfixes you. Indeed, it's so good the whole of the Richard Gere/Billy The Kid segment of the film I'm Not There appears to have been made just so this song could be included. Then you have Dylan's typically marvellous scene-setting, of course:

They got Charles Darwin trapped out there on Highway 5
Judge says to the High Sheriff, "I want him dead or alive.
"Either one - I don't care."
High water everywhere

As for Dylan's love-it-or-hate-it singing voice, he finally seems to have found the husky old-timer's hushed whisper he's always wanted. Since the age of 21 he's done an impression of an old man with a whisky-sozzled blues croak; now he has it, it sounds damn good.

What with Love And Theft, modern classic Modern Times, the even better Together Through Life (in which his vocals hit their absolute best) and his incomparable Christmas album, this decade has turned out to be pretty fruitful for Dylan fans. Here's to another.

Spotify, you're really not impressing me at the moment - less, even, than YouTube, which has NO videos of songs from this album in their original arrangement (Dylan fucks about with them live).

Tomorrow: the album of the decade, revealed on its last day. Gasp in shock! Choke in horror! Roll your eyes in indifference!

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.

News has been singularly... singular this week, focusing on very little more than the fact we're all going to die. Sorry, I meant in relation to the credit crunch. Money isn't everything, people will tell you, but you can guarantee those people don't have investments in Iceland. People are justifiably terrified. And so it is that everyone equates losing their money with ultimate doom, on a personal as well as a global scale.

And no more so than the media, which has used this financial meltdown to give a masterclass in epic reporting – epic not just in the apparently apocalyptic situation, but in the sheer amount of space devoted to reporting it ("Read our coverage on pages 1-9!"). It's impressive, it's arguably necessary and it's definitely an opportunity worth taking if you're an editor, but the dramatic approaches taken by tabloids and broadsheets alike have made the mayor of New Orleans, clearly auditioning for a role in a disaster movie, look positively small-town.

I mean, I'd expect it from The Independent: if the Indy's front page isn't telling us we're all going to die it's because it's telling us to stop killing all the other species first. But The Guardian leading with the headline 'Staring into the abyss' was unexpected, especially when it came after a potentially encouraging bail-out proposal from the Government. They could have presented that very, very differently. Still, as much as people want to hear good news it's bad news that sells papers and at the moment, bad news is one of the few currencies in good stock. Even in the crunch, newspaper sales are booming. As far as the media's concerned, this is the Golden Age.

Banks not waving but drowning
Mugabe in 'Bastard' shocker
To Boo or Not To Boo
Square Pegg Round Hollywood
Banjo surgery

Due to the nature of this once-a-week blog, it's actually incredibly difficult to comment on the current economic crisis because it develops far too quickly. Even during the course of a Government meeting people were losing money. There's not a lot I can add that will remain new by the time this goes live – but I do find it interesting that as I write, four major British banks have just asked the Government for up to £50 billion of taxpayers' money. With what I said above in mind, I look forward to Monday's headlines.

With an announcement being planned before the markets open on Monday, I won't attempt to predict nor evaluate the Government's response. The request itself intrigues me. It's highly unlikely RBS, HBOS, Lloyds TSB and Barclays would try to pull a fast one and capitalise on capitalism's crisis because the risk is just too great if the public ever finds out these banks were being charlatans with their hard-earned money. So they must actually need this money urgently. Nevertheless, you do wonder what they were expecting to have to do in return. Money doesn't grow on trees, even for the biggest branches.

Dear God, that was awful.

The Government is expecting to demand something back from these banks such as a curb on executive pay, although the terms will be decided individually. This is likely to have been predicted by the banks; either that or someone has made a monumental cock-up in the ideas department on the 17th floor. "Look, the Government's giving out freebies – let's get it in on this." "We heard back, and they said they'll give us the money, but you have to give up your bonuses." "Ah. Bugger."

It's more likely, though, that the banks saw this coming and still asked for the money, suggesting that they are, indeed, in trouble, or at least in need of a little shoring up (not that that is any more comforting to their customers). Such is the danger of getting loans from American banks in questionable financial situations. As a great Allied Dunbar ad once said, there may be trouble ahead for customers of RBS, Lloyds TSB, HBOS and Barclays. Not that it mentioned those banks specifically, 'cos, y'know, that's libellous.

There's also a danger that the Lloyds TSB-HBOS acronymic nightmare of a takeover might fall through, because Lloyds TSB wants to pay less now that HBOS managed to raise £12bn for the buy-out (more here). Sorry, guys. Read The Small Print. Try Before You Buy. Don't Save A Drowning Man If He'll Make You Drown Too. Look Both Ways Before You Cross The Road. Maybe not the last one. But yes, if they want to pay less money now because circumstances have changed then they should be told 'bad luck but that's life'. You'd think they'd know that right now.

Still, the Government might swing their way – and the ways of Barclays, and HBOS, and RBS. It'll be interesting to see what happens.

Disclaimer: I may or may not know anything about economics. And if you're wondering if I'm personally concerned about what's going on, don't worry – I'm fine. My money's with IceSave.

A few weeks ago I expressed my concern over Morgan Tsvangirai, Prime Minister of Zimbabwe, admitting he would just "have to trust" co-leader President Robert Mugabe. Obviously Tsvangirai's not an idiot, and knew of what was in store when he agreed to share power with one of the most evil men to walk this earth (excuse the bias). Just a month later, however, the man Zimbabwe is relying upon has threatened to pull out of. It's all very well to mutter the words 'can't', 'stand', 'heat' and 'kitchen', but Mugabe's not just pulling funny faces – he wants to choose what government ministries his Zanu-PF party can control.

Were it a lesser offence you could claim, probably inaccurately, that Tsvangirai is just throwing his toys out the pram, but this negotiation over the division of ministries is one of the most important, and deadly serious, parts of the power-sharing deal. Mugabe is demanding that Zanu-PF is responsible for 14 of the 30 ministries, the main MDC 13 seats and the splinter faction of MDC, led by Arthur Mutambara, 3. Not so bad, you might think, but what ministries does Mugabe want? Defence, the media (i.e. Zanu-PF propaganda), foreign affairs (including aid) and, most terrifyingly of all, 'justice'. It would be funny were it not so tragic.

Tsvangirai, whose jurisdiction as leader of the MDC would include sport, the arts and the largely redundant ministry of constitutional affairs (the power!), has, thankfully, opposed this, but sadly he is not in a position to do much more than threaten resignation. This would effectively make governing Zimbabwe impossible, throwing quite a large spanner in the works, but it is worrying that he has to resort to this: threats to leave government himself, rather than threats to force Mugabe out. He is still very weak in this supposedly equal power-share, and although this is clearly a better situation than it was, it's not going to be enough for Tsvangirai to threaten a walk-out every time Mugabe tries his usual tricks, because he'll just keep doing it.

In short, if it's going to be a case of two steps forward, three steps back, then some sort of intervention is still needed.

(As a side note, has anyone noticed that Tsvangirai looks a bit like Guy Goma, the bloke mistakenly interviewed live by the BBC when they got the wrong man? Just me then.)

As much as I hate to sound like someone writing into Newsround, I think it's very sad that Ashley Cole was booed after his mistake led to a Kazakhstani goal in England's 5-1 victory at Wembley. I don't like the guy either – he cheated on Sheryl Crow! – but this was just one of those things. Everyone makes mistakes, and ultimately, it didn't matter. Picking out an individual player to harass because of one error when the entire team has spent the first half playing like lemons is a bit harsh, even if he is crap.

Since Americans supposedly love nerdy British charm, it's no real surprise that übergeek Simon Pegg has been welcomed into Hollywood. His new film How To Lose Friends And Alienate People, based on the memoirs of journalist Toby Young, has been a hit despite being, well, rubbish, and he's playing Scotty in the next Star Trek film. And now he has himself a book deal.

A three-book, seven-figure book deal, no less. The first will be an autobiography on his career, and the second and third will be non-fiction also.

Fair play to him, I suppose. But none of this seems right somehow. I know he's got to move on from Spaced and the like, but I've not been impressed by some of his recent career decisions.

There is definitely going to be a final part of the Edgar Wright/Simon Pegg/Nick Frost/Nira Park film trilogy, which is fantastic news, but I wasn't impressed that he apparently turned down the role of Rorschach in the new Watchmen adaptation – a nihilistic straight role in which he could potentially brilliant – then he appeared in a woeful romcom version of a true story about someone that nobody likes. Maybe he liked the challenge of trying to make Toby Young popular, but I don't think it's his responsibility to do that. He also alienated his good friend and co-worker Jessica Hynes somewhat when he took the departure into films; according to an interview she gave a couple of months ago, she felt she lost a friend. The book deal just seems to confirm that he's becoming less interested in making exciting new films, which is a shame.

Still, who am I, his mother? I'm sure he'll come good. The man's a hero for squares everywhere.

Finally, this is interesting.

I've always said banjos have a great purpose in life.

Huw Davies is a young writer and sub-editor pursuing a career in journalism, spending his time reading articles, writing articles and watching Neighbours. He recently completed a postgraduate diploma in magazine journalism at Cardiff University, a course so rigorous he developed pneumonia.

Huw is now sub-editing at Haymarket's Medical Imprint, while also maintaining a weekly Premier League predictions blog on fourfourtwo.com. Occasionally, he gets one right.

Before this work began Huw wrote for a wide range of publications, including G2, Psychologies, The Big Issue Cymru, The South Wales Echo, One In Four magazine and The Essex Chronicle, who still owe him a phone call.

His most successful work was arguably for Cardiff University’s award-winning weekly student newspaper gair rhydd, editing the Editorial & Opinion section and writing fortnightly columns under the pseudonym Rasputin. Huw won four Cardiff Student Media Awards, including Best Interview for a one-to-one with Welsh rugby hero Shane Williams and Best Opinion Writer two years running. The judges were impressed with a selection of articles written under the guise of Rasputin on subjects ranging from education reform to links between his beard and international terrorism.

The fourth award came with a feature in gair rhydd, which more importantly won him the coveted Student Journalist of the Year award from leading mental health charity, Mind.

Huw confronted his problems with obsessive-compulsive disorder to search for the truth about the condition in a piece that judges called a "down-to-earth take on living with OCD", "imaginatively written from first-hand experience". Huw accepted the award at Kingsway Hall Hotel in London, where he met Mind President Lord Melvyn Bragg, who has giant hands. The piece also saw him shortlisted for Best Diversity Writer at the Guardian Student Media Awards.

Having graduated from Cardiff University with the postgraduate diploma in magazine journalism and a BA Hons in English Literature, somehow finishing second in the year and achieving a First despite spending most of his time playing snooker (much to the amusement of anyone who saw him try), Huw is settling into working life and wondering whether he should update his blog more often.

Shortlisted, Diversity Writer of the Year, Guardian Student Media Awards 2009
Runner-up, Best gair rhydd Section (Editorial & Opinion), Cardiff Student Media Awards 2008

You are looking for opinion writing that either a) shows versatility and good research or b) tells you something special…So Huw Davies’ ability to blend personal experience and some decent research findings just topped my bill.

Huw Davies and Chris Croissant deserve congratulations for putting together such a diverse and original set of articles.

A gripping and well-written feature which managed to be informative, non-self-pitying and witty.

Huw writes with both authenticity and rigour, balancing personal experience and thorough and creative research in his feature with a high degree of professionalism... This was a strong example of the voice of someone with personal experience breaking down the stigma surrounding the condition.

Huw Davies – ah Huw Davies again – makes the OCD spread so much fresher by approaching it from a personal point of view.

Keeping The Faith, Keeping The Facial Hair (November 2007)
Why is it excusable for the authorities to treat Muslims (and me) as potential terrorists?

Living With OCD (August 2008)
A look into obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), as featured in The Guardian's G2 supplement

Living With An Obsession (February 2008)
My original look into obsessive-compulsive disorder

Williams the Conqueror (March 2009)
An exclusive interview with Welsh rugby legend Shane Williams

Blair. Fair. (February 2007)
The Government's firmness towards Catholic adoption agencies spells good news for gay parents

Poor Old John Prescott (June 2006)
Leave the big guy alone

Bland Designs (May 2008)
The ambitious plans for Cardiff University's Students' Union building make absolutely no sense

Vocation, Vocation, Vocation (February 2008)
Underqualified graduates have overly theory-based degrees to blame

Highlight Of The Year Or A Right Summer Balls-Up? (June 2008)
Whoever organised Cardiff University's Summer Ball doesn't seem to care about the students

The Rise And Rise Of Moral TV (October 2007)
Programmes need to stop preaching

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.