Untogether

I'm unable to walk past a football without kicking it. If the opportunity is there I'll take it. Do a few keep-ups or something. If I'm out and see others playing football my attention is drawn to the ball and away from whomever I might be with. I can't stop thinking about it. I mentally rehearse what I'll do should the ball come my way. Obviously I'll control it and pass it back from whence it came. But between the control and the passing back might come a few bonus moves. Yes, a few keep-ups, but maybe also a few more specialised moves, my favourite being the one where I kick the ball above my head and then, as it lands between my feet, step over it and use my right heel to flick it back over my head onto my left foot to continue the juggling. The difficulty of the move depends on a few different factors:

- My footwear
- Underfoot conditions
- Who I'm with
- Who is playing football (the less threatening-looking the players, the more likely I am to be a bit flash. Little kids offer the best opportunity to show off. They're easily impressed)

As often as not the ball will come my way and I'll get to kick it. I'll then feel a little bit of a warm glow and am normally unable to suppress a smile. I'm happy, just for a while. I'm doing that which comes naturally to me and it feels right. Having a football at my feet generally makes me feel that way, in any circumstance. This is a constant, I've never felt any different. I don't attain the same feelings of comfort from any other activity, with the possible exception of being at Glastonbury festival (less than four weeks away!!!).

The above is just a laboured preamble to what I really want to say here, which is that I don't get those feelings of comfort and satisfaction from writing. It's a struggle. The words rarely, if ever, flow with any kind of ease or confidence. When I play football there are normally a few who have to try harder than the others to get even the basics right. This is how feel when I'm writing and I don't like it.

This is my first post for over two months. Since that time I've wasted many, many hours doing next to nothing when I could have been writing. There are prison inmates with less free time than me, yet I haven't written a thing. I've logged on to Blogger about six times with the intention of writing, yet have only actually written anything on two of those occasions. Those two occasions have harvested a total of about sixty (promptly aborted) words, even though there's been no lack of worthy topics about which to write. I've had a good idea for a story but it remains in my head and nowhere else. It's like walking to the sink, turning on the tap and having nothing come out. It makes me feel quite useless.

So, here I am, reduced to writing about not being able to write. It's the best I can do right now. All this would be of little worry to me were it not for the fact that writing is my only creative outlet. I no longer play football competitively. I have no children. There's very little scope for creativity at my work. I've never built anything. I contribute very, very little to this world. That isn't to say that my writing contributes anything to anyone other than me, more that, as a human being, there is an imperative to bring things into being, to shape our environment in whatever tiny way we're able. It's one thing that separates us from animals. I'm creating nothing and what that says about me isn't something I like to ponder for too long.

Writing this, however, hasn't been too difficult and it hasn't been unenjoyable, although this is probably due to its cathartic effect rather than simply for the joy of writing. Still, it's been quite nice, like a small weight has been lifted. I think I'll be back.

And how weird is this? I'm just about to hit "publish" when I get a text message. A friend is starting up a football team, do I want to play? Too fucking right, I do! There's a word for this, I'm sure. Is it serendipitous? I think it might be. Whatever it is, I don't care, I'm quite excited.

Man, that's strange.

Village People

Yesterday, Good Friday, I didn't leave the flat until nearly 6pm. If someone asked me what I'd done all day I would have said I'd done nothing. By that I don't mean I pottered about the place, did a bit of housework or caught up with some paperwork. I mean I did as close to nothing as it's possible to do for an able bodied person in a flat in the western world. It was a crap day.

So, I left the flat at six. I needed milk to put in my tea. I find tea and lethargy go hand in hand - Hmm, what shall I do? Shall I do something? I'll just have a cup of tea and a fag while I think about it. It was bitterly cold outside and the road, which was still wet from the hail and sleet storms we'd had earlier, reflected the low sun's harsh light into my eyes. I was glad I was wearing some some extra layers and wrapped my scarf higher about my face.

As I turned the corner I noticed a man standing by the road. Actually, he was standing in the road, only stepping back onto the path when a car approached. As he did so he held an item of clothing out to display to the passing drivers, a blue shirt. Once the car had passed he stepped into the road again and held the shirt out until another car passed and forced him back onto the path again. As I got closer I saw a familiar tag hanging from the neck of the shirt. I don't know which particular shop it was from but it would definitely have been one of the charity shops that thrive in the local town centre. This man was attempting to sell a single item of second-hand clothing by the roadside. In the freezing cold, as the light was fading. In 21st century suburban England.

He wore ill-fitting jeans and a denim jacket that would have provided little protection from the elements. His greying hair and beard made him look older than I guessed he was. He was probably not much older than me. I prepared to give him a smile as I walked past but he kept his eyes on the approaching cars. I carried on towards the village convenience store, wondering what kind of life he thought he might have in England before he left Poland or Bosnia or wherever it was he arrived from. He might have planned owning his own business or maybe he had a trade that he wanted to apply here. Or he might have just assumed that the streets here were paved with gold.

I went to the shop and bought milk and a newspaper and left, hoping that the man would have moved on by the time I walked back past his pitch. I heard a noise to my right and looked over to see a man leaving the pub. He shut the door behind him and tried to walk off but couldn't. His legs wouldn't work. He held on to a lamppost for a second or two before setting off again. His first step was solid enough but this must have used up all of his powers of concentration since on his second his foot just gave way as if it had been planted on ice. He tried to grab on to a wall but missed and succeeded only in making himself look even more ridiculous. His elbow made a loud thud as it hit the concrete and he would have been in a lot of pain had he not been anaesthetised with alcohol.

I'm not good in these situations. I want to help but also know that some people in some situations don't want to be helped. I would probably want to be left alone. My next move was easy then - I crossed the road and went towards him since it was almost the direction I was going anyway and I could just walk on past if he seemed hostile. Yes, I'm pathetic. He saw me approaching and I started to ask him whether he was alright. I only got a word or two out before he started shouting at me and waving a fist. I walked on past. I'd barely gone a few yards before wondering whether his hostility was actually that. Maybe he'd tried to say, "Hi, I'm in need of assistance. Would you please take my hand and help me up?", and with his motor skills seriously impaired it had just come out wrong. I kept on walking. He's be okay.

The man selling the shirt was still there. There was little natural light and it was barely possible to see what he was holding out in front of the cars that, by now, all had their headlights on. How long would he stay there? Had he actually sold anything? Maybe he'd go hungry until he sold the shirt. For a split-second I considered buying it from him. Then I reverted to type and walked on past him and went home and had a cup of tea and a fag.

Did you just type Cheeky Girls into Google?

Cheeky Girls. If you've arrived at this page having typed those two words into Google or, even worse, Google images then you are very probably a sad, sad man. You aren't a fan of their work, are you? No. You were looking for pictures, weren't you? Yes. Why don't you just look at some porn? Proper stuff. Not the Cheeky Girls, please.

The Cheeky Girls, you see, are responsible for most of the traffic that arrives at my blog. Courtesy of a website called Feedburner, I am able to see not only how many people view my blog but also where they are in the world, the website that referred them, their internet browser, how long they stayed and also, if they arrived via a search engine, what they typed into that search engine. The most common term that people who who view my blog have used is Cheeky Girls. In fact it's probably true to say that most of the people who find it have been looking for stuff about the terrible Transylvanian twins and have arrived here because of a post I wrote back in 2006 that mentioned them.

I'm grateful that anyone reads my words. It's especially nice when I see that someone from the other side of the world has spent time here. It's also a little bit dispiriting, not to mention slightly demeaning, when I discover that they're not at all interested in what I've written but have actually clicked on a link and then quickly clicked the back button when they've not found any pictures of the girls wearing something skin tight.

Whilst typing Cheeky Girls into Google may be the most popular way of finding my blog there are also many other popular search terms that might lead you here. Someone, somewhere in the world, once found my blog after typing the following words into Google: Moustached man turkey porn. Just take some time to consider this. What on earth were they actually looking for? My best guess is that they were looking for a Turkish porn star. With a 'tache. I hope that my guess is correct since the alternative, that someone was searching for a Burt Reynolds lookalike engaged in relations with a turkey, is too horrible to contemplate. Each to their own, I suppose.

If you found this page having typed Cheeky Girls and are still reading this, a full four paragraphs later, then thanks. I really appreciate it. And also give yourself a pat on the back. I take it you're aware that part of your soul was evaporating into the ether every time you clicked on another Cheeky Girls link. Of course you're aware. You are, after all, the one feeling pathetic and inadequate. Well, having read this far redeems you just a little bit. Well done. You're not beyond saving just yet.

A little bit of Politics...

Many in the UK might question why we have to put up with daily coverage of what’s going on in the run-up to the US elections but I’m not one of those people. I love it, it’s pure theatre and far more interesting than our fusty political scene. It helps that since the last election I’ve read Hunter S Thompson’s Fear And Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72, a book which gave me an insight into just how low-down, dirty and devious you have to be if you are to have any chance of becoming the world’s most powerful person. The game is a much dirtier one now, too. Nixon was as devious as a fox with a degree in cunning but could he have actually stolen an election like Bush did? It’s very doubtful.

Up to now it has, for me, been fairly sedate stuff. The Republicans have been dull. There’s not enough in-fighting for my liking, but then they’re probably saving their efforts for a savage and barbaric assault on whoever wins the Democrat nomination. Today, though, the Obama-Clinton fight just got really interesting. Hillary is starting to panic and her staffers chose this day to circulate a picture of her main opponent wearing a turban and robe. He looks like *gasp* a Muslim! (We can safely ignore the denials coming from the Clinton camp about the source of the leak). It's a dastardly and impressive ruse. Obama, very understandably, isn’t best pleased.

This is what the Democrats seem best at – fighting amongst themselves. Unlike the Republican Party, which generally takes a fairly unified stance, Democrats seem to be best at knowing only what they don’t stand for and, in many cases, it seems that they don’t stand for each other. Who knows what racist or sexist depths the respective campaigns could sink to? Well folks, we’ll find out in the coming months! If the Democratic nomination came down solely to who could play dirtiest, though, Hillary would win hands down. There’s a wealth of experience in the Clinton camp for this kind of fight and it looks like they’re going to need every last ounce of it. I eagerly await the carnage…

What of the GOP? We’ll probably have to wait until the election campaign proper to see them really spring into action. The sole issue at the moment seems to be whether McCain is a little too pink for their liking, but his chances of nomination look pretty sound. What I’m interested to see is just how much effort they’re going to put into securing the Presidency for their man. Obviously they want to win. But could they have a longer term plan up their sleeve? Here’s my theory (well, not really my theory but one stolen from the work of the above-mentioned writer with regard to the Republican effort in the ’76 election):

There is a lame duck President. Right now he and his party are pretty unpopular. The Republicans don’t have an outstanding candidate. Basically, it’s not looking good for them. But it’s also not going to look good for the next President if he or she is unable to extricate the country from the problems that they will inherit: There’s a very unpopular and expensive war going on and the economy is looking a little green around the gills. The next President will probably have little chance of being a success. So….what would be the point, the theory goes, of wasting loads of time and money financing a campaign that would lead to further embarrassment and failure for the party when they could just let the Democrats win the dubious honour of inhabiting the White House for what would surely be four very miserable years? Why don’t they just concentrate on the future and groom a candidate for 2012 and 2016? Look at what happened when Carter won in 1976, the last time the Republicans had little chance of success - His win heralded three consecutive Republican terms. All the Republicans have to do here is let the Democrats win and then fuck things up. That’s my theory.

(Please, any American readers, excuse my ignorance if this is actually a popular theory that you think I’ve plagiarised or if you simply think I’m talking a load of limey bull. And please feel free to correct me. I’m just trying to get involved, y’know? It’s fun!)

Now, some news from England: I saw a man walking his pet ferret through London’s West End on a lead on Sunday. And there ends the news in England.

The Brits

The Brit Awards 2008 is on TV right now. I don't normally watch it but, since I'm currently lacking what many refer to as "a life", tonight I thought I'd give it a go. It's nearly finished now. As I'm typing this Alan Carr is presenting the best Single award to Take That. Alan Carr normally makes me laugh. He introduced himself tonight thus:

Hello Everyone, I'm a bit pissed. I just stuck a straw in Amy Winehouse's beehive. I'm really high now!

So, Alan, would that be the same Amy Winehouse who's currently undergoing rehab for a particularly severe and public drug addiction? Well done for that. Poor Amy, bless her tottering around in her heels looking like a little girl trying on mummy's grown up clothes. She's probably been the high point of a particularly crap Brit Awards just by virtue of not falling over. Maybe it's always this rubbish. I wouldn't know. I just found all the mediocrity on show quite dispiriting.

Mika. What is his purpose? We have Scissor Sisters. We don't need Mika.

Take That winning Best Live Act is okay, I s'pose. Better them than Kaiser Chiefs of Editors or some other piffling indie shambles. I decided that I wanted Take That to win whatever they were nominated for. They, at least, do what they do well. Which is more than can be said of nearly everything else here tonight.

After this comes one of those duets that The Brits like to put on at least one of every year. It's an abomination. Rihanna's Umbrella is a great pure pop song, one of those that only comes along every few years, like Britney's Baby One more Time. She looks and sounds fantastic. But she's playing it with two-bob Jesus Jones tribute band Klaxons. They're dressed like Doug McClure in Planet Of The Apes. Who on earth is responsible for this? It's an incredible mismatch, beauty and the beast, like David Bowie being backed by the Bay City Rollers. It really shouldn't be allowed.

Other winners? Foo Fighters. Meh. Kylie won something despite being not nearly as good as she was a few years ago. Kate Nash wins Best Female for her thrilling dittys about brushing her teeth and squeezing spots and having a dump. Has there ever been a pop star that was actually less glamourous than their audience? Kate is that pop star. Arctic Monkeys, fair enough. They're very good. And they also take the piss out of the stage school brats that have been positioned at the front of the crowd. That's a nice touch, by the way. Those poor underprivileged kids probably need all the breaks they can get.

The Osbourne's were presenting. They're a joke that wasn't ever funny in the first place. I wish they'd retire gracefully, although doing anything gracefully is probably way beyond them. Jack and Kelly were pretty good though, to be fair, they've turned out remarkably well considering (Actually, why should I be fair? Really, why?).

Having ruminated on the crapness of The Brit Awards for a few minutes now I've come to the conclusion that it's probably always been this bad. I just wasn't so bothered about it before. Getting old, me? Yeah, so what? If I can't be allowed to be a curmudgeonly old bastard in my advancing years then there's something desperately wrong and I shan't look forward to getting older any more.

News At Ten is on now, the first time I've seen it since it returned to our screens a few weeks ago. Good old reliable Trevor McDonald is still presenting (Hosting? Anchoring?), that's good. The main story is the nine year old girl who has gone missing in West Yorkshire. Let's hope she turns up soon as I get the feeling that the media and public won't be mobilised in the same way that they were for Maddie's disappearance. The girl isn't as photogenic, you see? And her parents are working class, unlike the dashing McCanns. Oh, I am cynical aren't I? I'm also right.

Ignorance is Bliss

I have one grandparent left, one grandmother. This has been the case for a few years now, since my other grandmother died. She was less than a year away from reaching her century and was still independent in her mid-90s where she, despite blindness, continued to live on her own. She was unable to read the labels on cans and used to have to guess what was in them with predictably amusing consequences. Less amusing was when she wasn’t sure that the oven hob was on and tested it with one of hands leaving a spiral shaped burn on her palm. She showed considerable resolve and strength throughout her life, not least when she was sectioned. A daring escape over a wall in my parent’s garden was attempted due to her insistence that we were all out to get her, particularly my dad who, she claimed, kept a tiger in his shed. She then hit a woman who was trying to stop her as she stumbled down the road, threw dirt and stones at a policeman and spat at the paramedics who came to take her away. The rest of her days were spent in a residential care home…

…Which is how my other grandmother lives. She has Alzheimer’s disease and doesn’t really understand what’s going on around her anymore, although she can be quite charming when her synapses crackle and stimulate some previously forgotten memory from her youth. Most of the time, though, her condition is distressing for her and those around her. When her dog died a few years ago she used to ask where Scamp was every day, and every day she would be told that he’d died and would then feel the grief of losing her dog all over again. This is why no one will be telling her that her only sister died this morning. She wouldn’t understand. The last time her sister visited my grandmother didn’t even know who she was. I don’t think she needs to be told.

Dishonour

What a crap month January was! I woke up all miserable and hungover on New Year’s Day and stayed like that for pretty much the rest of the month. I had little money to do anything with and my social life was fairly non-existent due to most people I know feeling similar to me. I have been bored and bereft of imagination. This is one reason I haven’t posted for a while but not the only one.

I was very grateful to receive an award from my friend Speculator who writes a lovely blog here. I’m not confident about my writing and it was nice to have someone telling me that they like what I do, especially someone who writes so well themselves. This post was to feature my acceptance of the award and a few crap jokes about placing it on my mantelpiece along with my other awards such as Playmate of the Year 1984 when I had really big hair and my commendation from the UN in recognition of my services to procrastination and misanthropy. I would then add my nominations and thoughts on what I believe make a good blog and it is here that I have problems since I only read two blogs – my nominator’s and someone he has already nominated.

I set off out into the blogosphere to find five worthy recipients to whom I could forward the award, as per the conditions of my acceptance of it. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for but hoped that something inspiring might jump out at me, a bit like my method for choosing presents when I’m Christmas shopping. I think I was looking for blogs that were a bit like mine. I didn’t want to select any that were written by someone who obviously took their writing more seriously than me for fear that they would think Who the hell does this idiot think he is? You’re not fit to commend my writing! Get off of my page!

I just wanted to find blogs where the author finds joy or beauty or absurdity or anything else in their day-to-day existence. There were precious few of these that didn’t fall foul of the condition outlined above. Maybe my search techniques were lacking but what I mostly found were blogs that were lacking in wit or creativity and were often horribly self-indulgent (yes, my irony detector siren is wailing loudly here too but I don’t care). Our lives are inherently interesting but you wouldn’t know it from the drivel that I took many hours ploughing through whilst hunched over my laptop. This is another reason I haven’t blogged in weeks. My next post had to be about this subject and I couldn’t post until I’d found some blogs I liked.

I found a total of two blogs that I enjoyed reading. That’s a poor strike rate. I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t like blogs. I’ve also concluded that the problem is with me and not with the bloggers of this world. I find it difficult to be interested in other people’s love lives. Or in their computer games. Or which restaurants they like. Or what their children are learning at school. Or their music tastes. I’m definitely not interested in their music tastes. I concede that there must be loads of worthy blogs out there but you really have to work hard to find them unless you know where to look. Which I don’t. I would rather be reading books. I love reading books. My boring year has allowed me time to read ten books so far. I love books. I don’t like reading blogs nearly as much.

I feel terribly rude about this but I can’t accept the award. I’m unable to fulfil the acceptance criteria: I can’t find a total of five blogs to nominate and, since it’s clear that I don’t actually like blogs, I can’t very well publish my thoughts on what makes a good one. I’m not the right person to ask. I’m truly sorry. I always hoped that if I ever turned down an award it would be from the Queen, and I would refuse it on moral grounds (although there's no way I'd really do that. Mum wouldn't understand). That would be quite noble. This isn't. Speculator, I'm sorry.

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In other news: I have a car! I’ve been a public transport user for four years and thought it was about time I had a car again. Where I live is quite isolated so it makes sense. And I love my little MX-5! So does everyone else who has seen it. I’ve certainly never owned anything quite so lovely before and can’t wait until summer so I can cruise around with the roof down. It might even make me more attractive to women! Well, slightly less repellent anyway. I can live in hope.