Dude, Your Movie, Like, Totally Sucks!

For want of anything better to write (I can't bear to write about Trump or Brexit, it's all too depressing) I've decided to jot down a few thoughts about the last 5 movies I've watched (on DVD). Roger Ebert I ain't, but it might be fun*.

*This is not going to be fun for any of us, including myself.

Stand By Me (1986) 

You know what movies make me nervous? Movies like 'Stand By Me'.

They make me nervous because a lot of people LOVE these movies - the 80s movies that they grew up with and have adored ever since - and I'm scared I'm not going to like them and become a bad guy.

A good example of this is 'Ferris Bueller's Day Off', which I just didn't like. Or was it that I just didn't like him? I dunno.

Anyway. No need to be nervous here. 'Stand By Me' is brilliant. It's sort of like the grown up version of 'The Goonies' (loved that too) and what it lacks a little in plot it makes up with with character and spirit.

'Stand By Me' may not speak to me as strongly as it does to 80s kids, but it still sucked me in all the same.

Rating = 8/10

Vertigo (1958)

Ol' Alf Hitchcock and I have a love/hate relationship, in the sense that I LOVE his films until they get to their conclusions, which I HATE.

'Strangers on a Train', 'Rear Window', 'Shadow of a Doubt' - all great films, until you reach their laughably stupid endings.

'Vertigo' builds up the same way, but then suddenly hits you with A) A really good twist and B) An ending which is...well...OK. It's still a bit silly, and very Hitchcock, but it kinda works.

The reasonable ending makes this a very strong film, and I'm always a sucker for anything Jimmy Stewart is in.

Rating = 8.75/10 (although I could stretch to 9/10 if persuaded)

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)

Watching movies on DVD, on a relatively small TV and years after their cinema release, is both a curse and a blessing. It's a curse, in that it's very difficult/almost impossible for a movie to "wow" me with special effects. On the other hand that's a blessing, as it means I can concentrate on the plot of a film and watch it more analytically than I would in a cinema.

In the first few moments of 'Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon' then, the characters gliding over rooftops still looks good, but feels cliched. It's hard to get pumped up for a scene you've seen 1000 times before in a Snickers advert featuring Mr. Bean.

So let's hone in on the plot of this one, then. Frankly, it's a bit of a silly one, and very much plays second fiddle to the beautifully choreographed fight scenes throughout.

Is CTHD a great film? Debatable. Is it one of my favourite films? No. Is it a really fun and enjoyable film to watch on a Saturday night with a big bag of Doritos? YES.

Rating = 7/10

Dazed and Confused (1993)

Ah, Richard Linklater. The director of two of my most beloved films (the Befores Sunrise & Sunset) and a bit of a genius, in my eyes.

I judge each case on its merits, however, and I call a spade a spade, and I have to say that despite my love for the director, I didn't like this one at all.

Maybe if I was a teen in the 70s myself, getting high all the time and listening to Foghat all day, I might have appreciated this one a lot more. But I wasn't, so, I didn't. 'Dazed and Confused' has lots of Linklater flourishes, a truly great soundtrack, and some nice lines of dialogue. But that's about all it has. Not for me, Clive.

Rating = 5/10

The Maltese Falcon (1941)

Everything about 'The Maltese Falcon' is fast. Bogart speaks quickly. The plot moves quickly. Scenes come and go quickly - as do characters (Bogart's partner in the detective agency is in the film for about the first two minutes).

With most films, I can take a moment to take my eyes off the screen - to have some water, perhaps, or to look at my phone, or to (and this is most likely, let's be honest) break off a triangle of Toblerone and stuff it in my mouth.

I could do none of these things with The Maltese Falcon. The plot moves so speedily that it's fatal to take your eyes off the screen - particularly as, apart from Bogart's character Sam Spade - every single fucker in the film is lying. So you absorb a two minute story by a character, think "OK, cool, got that" then find out that Bogart knows she's lying and that the entire story was bunkum. Cool.

Nevertheless, this is a good film, and one I'm pleased I've now watched. I do, however, prefer Bogart in 'Casablanca'.

Rating = 7/10

See ya next time knuckleheads!

So. Farewell Then.

We are all, in our own ways, a fan of something. Yep, even you.

Whether it's a foodstuff, a sports team, or - in the case of Katie Hopkins - thinking up something "controversial" to shout online to get attention, there is something on this planet we enjoy and take an interest in.

I'm a fan of a lot of things. Manchester United. Curry. Bill Bryson. Sussex CCC. Boobs. Those little tubs my mum used to get me every Friday after primary school where you dunk the breadsticks into the chocolate dip.

I am (was?) also a fan of the Serbian (ex) tennis player Ana Ivanovic, who yesterday announced her retirement from the game at the age of 29. Man, that sentence felt weird to write.

Being a fan of an individual sportsperson is, frankly, asking for trouble. They can only let you down - a sentiment I know only too well having been a huge Lance Armstrong fan growing up. Nobody is perfect, and the world isn't made up of "good people and bad people", and that's a life lesson you have to learn as you mature.

When you hold someone up as an idol, however, that common sense approach to life goes out of the window when they fall from perfection. You feel...betrayed. Which is mad, I know, but true.

Being a fan of an individual you don't know, will never know, and will probably never even meet, doesn't make any sense. But yet we do it. I do it.

I first became a fan of Ana Ivanovic in....2009? 2010? No, must be earlier. Late 2008? I can't remember. Certainly after her 2008 triumph at Roland Garros, anyway. Since then, Lord knows how many of her matches I've watched, or, on one particular occasion, listened to on the Australian Open radio station because her match wasn't being televised.

I'm probably going to regret writing this forever, but the reason why I became a fan of hers was mainly because of how nice she is. As I mentioned earlier, this is a problematic attitude fraught with danger, but at least with Ana her crown is, as far as I can tell, thoroughly merited:

Ana Ivanovic will go down as one of the nicest human beings to ever play professional tennis. And that counts for a heck of a lot.

— Courtney Nguyen (@FortyDeuceTwits) December 28, 2016

@FortyDeuceTwits Completely agreed. Always so gracious to #USOpen staff, media and her fans. We will miss her!

— US Open Tennis (@usopen) December 28, 2016

Ana Ivanovic, like Petra Kvitova, seems universally liked in the locker room. Another one of whom I've not heard a bad word uttered.

— DavidLaw (@DavidLawTennis) December 28, 2016

What a babe. Gorgeous inside and (obv) out 😉 tennis will definitely miss you #AnaIvanovic pic.twitter.com/L86hX1InjG

— Heather Watson (@HeatherWatson92) December 29, 2016

That smile, that grace, that forehand, that class....@AnaIvanovic ... Tennis will miss you... BUT, what a rich life you have ahead of you!!!

— Chris Evert (@ChrissieEvert) December 28, 2016

As Heather Watson alluded to, it also helped that Ana is staggeringly, bewilderingly, impossibly gorgeous - the kind of woman you'd want to lie down next to and just look at for hours. The nicest person imaginable and one you'd marry in a heartbeat? Yeah, that will do for me - and let's not forget her work for UNICEF either.

But now she's gone - retired, I should point out, not deceased. Let's not be melodramatic. But one minute she was there, the next...she wasn't.

Her retirement still hasn't sunk in, and I doubt it truly will until the draw for the Australian Open comes out early next year and I excitedly search for her name only to find it isn't there.

No more plotting her way to the final, working out who she'd likely play round by round. No more of that blistering forehand. No more of that laughably terrible ball toss. No more taking the train to Birmingham just to see her play in the Wimbledon warm up tournament. No more "ajde" after winning a point.

I was fortunate enough to meet her in 2011 and it remains one of the most memorable days of my life. We had a bit of banter about her not being able to spell my name (picture below, she went with Patrik initially until I had to correct her) and she was every bit as lovely as I had hoped.

So thanks for everything, Ana. I'll miss you.

Dead Man Walking

I'd like to begin this blog post, if I may, with an anecdote about an eccentric Dutchman by the name of Louis van Gaal. The use of this particular anecdote will make absolutely no sense to begin with, but stick with me, OK?

For those of you who don't know, Louis van Gaal (or LVG, if you prefer) is a rather odd football manager from the Netherlands. Currently manager of Manchester United, he previously managed the German giants Bayern Munich, and it is here where we begin:

Van Gaal has mellowed with age somewhat, but not entirely. At Bayern Munich, one of the most bizarre of his outbursts occurred early in the successful 2009/10 season. Striker Luca Toni, who was sold by the club in the summer of 2009, detailed the following incredible anecdote:

“The coach wanted to make clear to us that he can drop any player, it was all the same to him because, as he said, he had the balls. He demonstrated this literally by dropping his trousers. I have never experienced anything like it, it was totally crazy. Luckily, I didn’t see a lot, because I wasn’t in the front row”.

And so onto Jeremy Corbyn.

For those of us who predicted that Jeremy Corbyn would be a disaster as leader of the Labour Party, this should be a period of smugness. But there's no satisfaction on my part.

I'm not a Labour Party member, because I don't particularly fancy giving any political party a chunk of my money every month, but I have voted Labour at every single election since I turned voting age, I identify myself as a Socialist, I believe in Labour's cause, and I hate the Tories more than I hate peanut butter.

Believe me, watching the Labour Party tearing itself apart isn't a time of celebration. It just makes me feel sad.

As for Corbyn himself, I like him. I really do. He has his beliefs - many of which I agree with - and he's a throwback to the older, better, Labour. He just isn't a leader, and that's why I wouldn't have voted for him and didn't have any confidence in his time as Labour premier.

The discontentment with Corbyn's election among the Labour MPs began on Day One, and has been bubbling away ever since. Unwavering belief in his leadership has been in short supply, and that's putting it kindly.

All this has reared its head at the time when Corbyn faces his first big test as leader - the issue of Syrian airstrikes. Corbyn, as I'm sure you know, is the UK's new celebrity pacifist, and refutes David Cameron's claims that airstrikes against IS/ISIS/ISIL/DAESH/whatever the fuck they're called today are necessary.

Amusingly, his shadow cabinet largely disagree with him - including his foreign secretary, Hilary Benn. This issue will be put to a vote tomorrow, and with the support of Labour MPs, David Cameron will win, and bombing over the Syrian skies from UK jets will begin.

First big issue for Corbyn, then, first logjam.

Newsnight reported two interesting nuggets the other night. Firstly, Labour MPs have already spoken to legal experts, trying to determine that if a coup is sprung, Corbyn can't just place himself on the next ballot and win again.

Secondly, Newsnight heard from well placed sources that this coup is already being lined up for just after the upcoming by-election in Oldham West. Corbyn hasn't even been leader for three months.

It's clear that there is terminal disharmony between shadow cabinet and leader - and it cannot continue. All in Westminster know it.

What's happening to Jeremy Corbyn is a long, torturous, painful death. He'll try and hang on, and hang on, and hang on, until he's finally forced to resign/booted out, with the whole sorry shambles leaving Labour in chaos for months.

Question: what can he do? Answer: not a lot - he's fucked either way.

But let's go back to Louis van Gaal. Because here's something that Jeremy Corbyn can do - he can show his bollocks.

Not literally - I'm not asking him to display his testicles to Angela Eagle - but to do the political equivalent. On the issue of Syrian airstrikes, he should have put his foot down. We know his view - he's against them - so rather than giving his MPs a "free vote", he should have taken charge.

"I'm the leader. Here is my decision. We're the party of opposition, I'm opposed to it - we vote no. Back me, or fuck off. We'll carry on without you."

Political suicide? Maybe, but here's the point - he's dying on the job anyway. If you're gonna go down, go down swinging. In short - be a leader, Jeremy. Because right now, the Labour Party is sliding its way into being a pressure group mired in complete chaos.

I see the irony here, by the way. Asking the nation's #1 pacifist to take "the nuclear option" is pretty ironic. But if you open the "How To Win a General Election" booklet, Page 1, Paragraph 1, Sentence 1, says this:

"Everybody needs to be on the same page."

Forget about anything else. If you can't get this right, you don't stand a chance of winning. Voters aren't stupid - they know when a party is in disarray.

It's time to take charge, Jeremy. It's time for the big fight. Prove me wrong, and be a leader.

Marconi Didn't Die For This

Hello again. Fancy hearing about the shittiest radio programme of all time?

Course you do.

My Friday night began normally enough - Assassins Creed on the XBox, Hall and Oates greatest hits on Spotify, a nice glass of iced water on the go (don't tell me I don't know how to live) - when a tweet popped up on the eyePad which caught my eye...

I quite like Lynsey Hooper, she knows her stuff and seems like a cool cat, and I've been an on/off talkSPORT listener for years.

So, as 10pm edged closer, I had a decision to make. Could I really abandon "Kiss on My List" for somebody called Terry Tibbs?

I decided that the answer was "yes" - a decision which will go down in history alongside boarding the Titanic or that time I drank a glass of port on the night I started taking Citalopram as the worst choices EVER made.

Because "Talk To Me", hosted by 'Terry Tibbs', his 'son' Lionel, and featuring poor old Lynsey Hooper as "the studio guest", was the worst radio programme I have listened to in my 28 years of being on this planet.

You may think I'm joking. Or exaggerating. I am not.

I've been listening to talkSPORT for decades, and I've experienced the good (Hawksbee & Jacobs, the late Mike Dickin, James Whale, Ian Collins), the bad (Rushden & Glendenning, Patrick Kinghorn, Ronnie Irani) and the downright bizarre (Champagne and Roses with Gerald Harper, George Galloway), yet nothing in those latter two categories comes anywhere close to this.

Nothing on ANY other radio station comes anywhere close to this, either.

So, let me tell you all about it. 'Terry Tibbs', apparently, is an alter ego of somebody called Kayvan Novak, who, apparently, fronted a comedy show called 'Fonejacker'. No, me neither. Novak was born and educated in London, so naturally he supports Liverpool.

The show begins with Tibbs, in a rather bizarre accent I can't really place, rambling on about Slovakian chewing gum, or something. Ordinarily I'd have already switched off by now, but I soon begin to realise that this is so extraordinarily shit I can't. I literally can't.

Throughout the show 'Lionel', with an increasing hint of utter despair in his voice, beseeches the listeners to call/text/tweet/email into the show - anything to give them some material to work with.

Nobody does. The only calls are plants - presumably Novak's mates, or members of the production crew - who engage Tibbs and Lionel in bizarre conversations which tick precisely none of the boxes that constitute good radio.

20 minutes in they bring in Lynsey, like a Wulfrunian lamb to the slaughter. So far we've had precisely 0.00% of the billed "Terry Tibbs hosts the nation's funniest football phone-in", but I'm optimistic that that will soon change.

It doesn't.

Lynsey Hooper is well known for co-creating "The Offside Rule"podcast, which is a podcast specifically created to make neanderthal men understand that women like football too, and they get it, and their opinions should be treated with respect.

As such, Tibbs and Lionel pick up on the pioneering work Hooper has done in this field, by barraging her with questions about her private life, such as which footballers she fancies, and whether a player has ever tried it on with her.

As you can imagine this is fascinating stuff, which Lynsey plays along with gamely until the "lads" ask her what her relationship status is. "I don't know if I want to say that" she quietly replies, and if you listen closely you can actually begin to hear the will to live swiftly leaving her body as she does so.

More hilarious bants swiftly follow as Tibbs screeches the "O" in newsreader Lisa O'Sullivan's name in an faux-orgasmic way whilst she's on air, chalking up another victory for misogyny in the process.

Do I need to go on? During the two hours(!) this pile of excrement is on air, the sole highlight - and I use that term loosely - is the occasions when Novak's cod accent keeps on fading, transforming him from an Arabian-esque ranting cleric to, amusingly, sounding peculiarly like Bob Mills.

Into the second hour we go, and at this point, a Twitter search for "talksport terry" brings a smile to my face:

(There were more, but you get the picture)

After a crude impersonation of the Chinese segway rider who felled Usain Bolt the other day - so you can add racism to the list of everything that's wrong with this show - I begin to notice something. Lynsey has disappeared. Where has she gone?

From 11pm to the time I finally gave up on this shit sandwich - 11:43pm - Lynsey is AWOL. "She was only booked from 10-11pm" I consider, a logical conclusion that still doesn't stop me fantasising about her exiting the studio and coming back with a Kalashnikov, 16 rounds of ammo, and a severe loss of temper.

I'm not going to go on. I won't even mention the toe-curling phone interview with an American "naked life coach" or something. Remember folks - this is "the nation's funniest football phone-in"!

Instead, here's a link to the whole sordid, depressing, amateurish, embarrassing, shameful, putrid affair: http://talksport.com/radio/listen-again/1440795600#

Listen to that, and whilst you do so, remember - this is a national radio station with over 3 million listeners.

To conclude, you might be wondering why I care. Why do I care so much about a terrible radio programme on at 10pm on a Friday night when every normal person is out clubbing, and why do I care so much to ramble on about it for god-knows-how-many-words.

My answer is a simple one. Think about all the talented radio presenters out there, on local radio stations, who work their fucking arses off to hone their craft in front of 17 listeners and a small dog called Kevin. They'd give their right arm to present on talkSPORT - even at 10pm on a Friday - to host a show which could be informative and entertaining.

Instead, talkSPORT serve us this pile of cold sick. Shame on them, and shame on me for listening to it.

Benefits Street

If you live in the UK, you probably already know about the Channel 4 programme 'Benefits Street', a documentary series which has attracted an awful lot of attention and controversy over the past month or so.

For my overseas readers, a very brief synopsis - 'Benefits Street' is a crude nickname for James Turner Street, a suburban avenue in a rough part of Birmingham in the West Midlands. According to the programme, the street has acquired this nickname because the majority of residents there are unemployed and living on benefits, with some never having worked at all. The series documents these people's lives over a year by shoving cameras in their faces and talking to them etc. The programme has generated controversy because many believe that our current Government - with the help of their friends in the media - are demonising poor people/people currently living on benefits. We're encouraged to believe that these people are "scum", are an inferior race, and should all be shot, or something.

The first two episodes of 'Benefit Street' were grim. Episode One centred on a chap called Danny who has a penchant (great word, I'm pleased with that one) for nicking things, selling them, then buying drugs with his "earnings". We saw Danny's tactics - lining a shopping bag with foil to stop the alarms going off - and we saw him being forcibly arrested in Birmingham city centre.

Episode Two wasn't much better. This time, we saw a group of Eastern Europeans move in to James Turner Street, having been promised work doing fruit picking on a farm, or something. To their horror they soon realised that they were being treated as slaves, and with no money and about twelve grown men trying to share a house suited for a family of four, they upped ship and cleared off, presumably back to their own country. They originally fled their country for a better life - one guy's sole aim was to earn some money and send it back home to help feed his starving child - but they soon found they were being treated worse over here than they were back home.

Grim stuff, but Episode Three was painfully tough to watch, and the episode which has made me want to put pen to paper (or the blogging equivalent, anyway). Episode Three centred around a young couple, Mark and Becky, who - and I'm kind here - aren't going to be winning Mastermind any time soon. Mark has never worked (more on this later), and spends his time with Becky looking after their two young children, Casey and Callum.

Callum is, to be polite, a problem. Over the course of the episode we see Callum demanding a bowl of cereal at midnight, not going to bed until 5am, not going to nursery because ????? and having rather impressive temper tantrums that see him ending up in 'Punishment Porch' - a lovely little prison cell for him between the front door and a stairgate contraption.

Watching between my fingers, I soon began to realise why I found Episode Three so much harder to watch than the first two episodes. It was because I was watching a child's life being utterly destroyed. A child destined to grow up without a fucking chance of making anything of his life.

Callum's childhood seems to be a vicious circle of bad behaviour, violence, imprisonment, no education, verbal abuse and a twisted body clock. Unless there's an urgent intervention, we can see Callum's adult life following an eerily similar pattern - bad behaviour, violence, imprisonment, no education. Callum has no chance in life. None. And it isn't his fault. When he hits his mother and screams "Me hate mummy" it's hard to disagree with him, or blame him for his incorrect grammar.

As I touched on earlier, Mark, the father, has never worked. During Episode Three we saw him - to the obvious shock of his partner Becky - land a "job" doing door-to-door for a charity for 100% commission. Yep, that's right - any penny Mark received had to be off the back of a successful encounter. He absolutely tried his best - he put on a smart suit, and grafted all day, but he wasn't very good, to be kind to the lad. He came home shattered having earned precisely £0.00.

Now Mark might not know what the capital of Andorra is, or the square root of 225, but he's not thick enough to know that this was a load of bollocks. "Hard work pays" shouts our Chancellor, but for Mark it didn't. He jacked in the job and went back to his benefits. Blame him? I don't. I really don't.

Instead I just feel sorry for Mark. At one point he reflects on how nobody is going to give him a job, and to be fair to the lad he's absolutely right. I know how hard it is to find work at the moment, and I have a degree and work experience, am astonishingly intelligent, good looking, and modest. Mark has nothing. He can't put anything on his CV. He can't win - a problem which then filters down to his child, who can't win in life either.

When I think about the residents on James Turner Street, I sit back and I wonder what their dreams were when they were, say, 10. White Dee, Fungi, Danny, Black Dee, Mark and Becky - I bet none of them daydreamed as a child about a soul-crushingly boring life on benefits, going through life "existing" rather than "living", until they die and they're buried somewhere and nobody gives a shit.

At the beginning I mentioned how 'Benefits Street' has proved controversial. Many believe that programmes like this are put on solely to demonise these people, to encourage society to label them as "dossers", "scum", "lazy scroungers" etc etc. When I watch the programme however, I can't bring myself to think this. Instead, I just feel sorry - sorry for them, but also sorry for society. Mark and Becky went to their local food-bank during the episode - not because they particularly wanted to, I don't think, but because they had to, just to feed their child.

Think about that. In the United Kingdom, 2014, people are having to use food-banks to feed their children, whilst the Government tries their hardest to turn one section of society against these people. It's enough to make you weep, and think "There but for the Grace of God...." I wish I knew what the answer was, but in the short-term, sniggering at these people and thinking of them as a hopeless underclass probably doesn't help.

Help. That's what these people need, but right now they're not getting much of it.

Shame on us. Shame on us all.

Bucket List 2013/2014

Well then, here we are.

Another year is (almost) in the books, and in the process we've again said our farewells to a load of talented, famous/infamous people. Off the top of my head, 2013 has seen us lose: Nelson Mandela, Margaret Thatcher, James Gandolfini, Tom Clancy, Dennis Farina, Peter O'Toole, Seamus Heaney, Lou Reed, Paul Walker, Stan Musial, Ken Norton, Sir David Frost, Marcia Wallace, Michael Winner, Richard Griffiths, David Coleman, Iain Banks, Richard Briers, Paul Shane, Lewis Collins, Mel Smith and Bill Foulkes.

With the exception of Thatcher, we will miss them and look back on their lives fondly for ever more.

But how has the 2013 crop affected the result of the Bucket List Game? Unless something rather dramatic happens in the next 12 hours, here's the final scores:

ME, YOUR PAL, EWAR 

Margaret Thatcher, Nelson Mandela, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Clint Eastwood, Denis Norden (2)

@JLQPR

Nelson Mandela, Paul Gascoigne, Bruce Forsyth, Denis Norden, Kirk Douglas (1)

@THE_DARKPHOENIX

Fidel Castro, George Bush Snr, Christopher Lee, Andy Kershaw, Paul Daniels (0)

@CONOROBYRNE

Nelson Mandela, Prince Philip, Bruce Forsyth, George Bush Snr, Margaret Thatcher (2)

@GONGCLOUGH

Nelson Mandela, Prince Philip, George Bush Snr, Margaret Thatcher, Maradona (2)

@BORO_MONKEY

Nelson Mandela, Prince Philip, Margaret Thatcher, Keith Richards, Christopher Lee (2)

@DANTHEDAZZLER

Margaret Thatcher, Rupert Murdoch, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Hulk Hogan, Dick Cheney (1)

@JOOK

Margaret Thatcher, Prince Philip, Eileen Derbyshire, Liz Dawn, Lisa Scott-Lee (1)

@ERNDOGZ

Ian Watkins, Barbara Windsor, Mickey Rooney, Dave Whelan, Dame Maggie Smith (0)

SNIDEYSIMON1919

Nelson Mandela, Margaret Thatcher, Muhammad Ali, Dennis Skinner, Frank Worthington (2)

@DOLPH7800

Arsene Wenger, John Bardon, Jimmy Carter, Phil Taylor, Sol Campbell (0)

@MYFANWY365

Margaret Thatcher, Prince Philip, George Bush Snr, Justin Bieber, Harry Styles (1)

@_STRAWBS_

Nelson Mandela, Bruce Forsyth, Susan Boyle, Sir Alex Ferguson, Giovanni Trapattoni (1)

@STADS365

Raymond Briggs, Englebert Humperdinck, Paddy Ashdown, Sir Bobby Charlton, Brian Blessed (0)

@KNOW_THE_LEDGE

Bruce Forsyth, Nelson Mandela, Scott Hall, Muhammad Ali, Kirk Douglas (1)

@ALEXPERRYESPN

Bruce Forsyth, Margaret Thatcher, Prince Philip, Hugh Hefner, Ian Watkins (1)

@CAPTAINSTE3LE

Nelson Mandela, Prince Philip, Kirk Douglas, Betty White, Pete Doherty (1)

@MARKO_VB

Norman Tebbit, Alex Reid, Mikhael Gorbachev, Henry Kissinger, Colin Powell (1)

A) Yes, Kirk Douglas is still alive.

B) With two deaths each, it's a 5-way tie for the win between me, @conorobyrne, @gongclough, @Boro_Monkey, and @snideysimon1919!

C) Apart from the "big two", our predictions this year weren't terribly successful....

Many thanks to all who took part in the Bucket List 2013, but the fun doesn't end there! Like London buses, here comes the next one - it's the Bucket List 2014 Game!

"This looks like fun, but tell me, what are the rules?"

Thanks for asking! Here are the rules:

A) Five famous people who you think will peg it in 2014. How do I define "famous"? For this game, the definition is that they must have a Wikipedia page, and be 'known' to some extent.

B) Entries are NOT limited to British people - figures from across the world are acceptable entries.

C) Famous figures with terminal illnesses are NOT allowed. That would be cheating. Poor health is acceptable - so, at this moment in time, you could select Michael Schumacher if you so desired - but a figure with a terminal illness is not allowed. Final call on that one ends with me.

D) Please do not kill the people on the list yourselves, or arrange for them to be bumped off. This will find you disqualified from the game.

E) If you played in 2013 (see above), you CANNOT pick any of the five figures you picked for 2013. They must be different. However, you can select figures which other people picked in 2013.

F) There is no prize for winning. I'm not that morbid.

G) There is no time limit for submitting entries. You can submit your entry next December, if you want.

H) To play, either: Leave a comment on this blog entry, or tweet/DM me at @Bruno_Di_Gradi

2014 is going to be interesting, mainly because the two traditional entries - Maggie and Mandela - have shuffled off, meaning those two predictable/obvious choices can't be chosen any more. A bit more thought is required. Is this the year that we lose a Royal? Are Zsa Zsa Gabor and Kirk Douglas finally going to prove that they're not indestructible? It promises to be fascinating.

So here's my List of Five for 2014:

Kirk Douglas, Carl Douglas (not related), Ian Watkins (paedo one, not the one from Steps), Peter Fonda, Ken Rosewall

Good luck y'all!

Feel the Moyes

Supporting Manchester United can be a funny thing. People always seem to have a question for you, eager to know what you think about the club, the players, and so on, or to offer you their opinions. Wayne Rooney, David Moyes, The Glazers, the atmosphere at the ground, the pies they sell there, etc etc - every thing is fair game when it comes to United. Sometimes, when a stranger asks me who I support, I'm tempted to say Aldershot, or Bristol Rovers, or Cheltenham, just so I don't have to answer their questions for the next twenty minutes about what's wrong with Patrice Evra, or listen to their opinion on Roy Keane.

Of course, this is particularly the case at the moment, as every fucker lines up to give their thoughts on our manager, David Moyes - a 1-0 home defeat to Everton the latest twist in the United roller-coaster which shows little sign of levelling out any time soon. So as I'm a massive big head, and this is my blog, here are a few of my thoughts on everything that's going on down M16 way.

(I wrote that bit before Saturday's game, so the "latest twist" is another 1-0 home defeat, this time to Newcastle, why aye mon)

First and foremost, I genuinely believe Sir Alex Ferguson is the greatest manager of all time. Now whether he is or he isn't, it's fair to say that David Moyes (or whoever) was never going to replicate what Ferguson did. It wasn't impossible, but it was, frankly, unlikely. To expect that would be foolish in the extreme - I'm a believer that us United fans have been spoilt rotten, but surely not even the biggest spoilt brat believed that Moyes would just waltz in and 26 years later leave with a bundle of European Cups and a statue of himself outside the ground.

We're not going to win the league this season and that's fine. Our realistic targets at the beginning of the season should have been a Top Four place (more on this later), the knock-out stages of the Champions League, and runs in the two domestic cups. In terms of Moyes, our thinking should have been that he'd be given time - and by time I mean "years" - to take the current, inherited squad and shape it the way that he wants.

So let's look at where we stand right now, Monday 9 December 2013. We've qualified for the knock-out stages of the Champions League, so Moyes has landed that one. We beat Liverpool in the League Cup and are still in it, so that's great, and we haven't played an FA Cup tie yet. The case for the defence, however, breaks down there. Because it's the league that's the worry - the big worry.

United HAVE to get a Top Four finish. HAVE to, because their business plan is based on continued success. You get Top Four, you get into the Champions League, which = lots of ££££, your good players wanting to stay, and the continued ability to attract the big name players from elsewhere.

(At the end of last season, the Arsenal players celebrated on the pitch when they had sealed fourth place in the league. That seemed pathetic at the time, but Champions League football enabled them to sign Mesut Ozil, a top class player - an impossibility if they had missed out)

You don't finish Top Four, and you get stuck in a cycle which is very difficult to get out of - you can't attract the world class players, and the good players you do have will want to leave, meaning you either have unhappy players playing against their will or a happier dressing room without any world class players in. You're pretty much fucked either way.

At this moment in time we've lost 5 games out of 15, and are 7 points off fourth place. That isn't an insurmountable gap, particularly as we'll (presumably) strengthen in January and United tend to finish the season strongly, but blimey, it's a worry - we're nearer relegation than Arsenal!

Now if this was bad luck, I'd be OK - if we had hit the woodwork five times against Newcastle, and Tim Krul had a blinder, and their goal hit Rafael on the arse, then hit a goat who had somehow wandered onto the pitch, then went in - I'd be content that our luck couldn't get any worse. But the football is TERRIBLE. It's really, really, really poor. Newcastle deserved to win, quite frankly, and against our friends on the blue half of the city we were humiliated. It was 4-1, it could have been 8-1.

I'm prepared to give Moyes time, as said earlier, although I do have three concerns. Firstly, clearing out the old coaching team and bringing in all your own men seems foolish. I understand why he did it - Moyes proving he's his own man, new broom etc - but to bring in coaches who have won nothing, to coach players who have won everything? Is the apple cart worth upsetting that much?

Secondly, as mentioned, the football is REALLY bad. There seems to be little/no creativity, a lack of accountability, a lack of leaders on the pitch. I've always enjoyed watching United, and I knew that after a bad performance, the backlash was up next. Right now though, watching United is a bit of a chore - there's no pace in the team's play, no urgency, no flair.

Thirdly, some of the things David Moyes has said recently are a bit worrying, to say the least. Before the Newcastle game he threw out there that "we're going to make it as hard for them as possible"; afterwards he admitted he didn't take van Persie off (when he needed to come off) because he was mindful of the reaction of the crowd/pundits. Think Sir Alex would have said either of those things?

(One final thing - how much better under Roberto Martinez do Everton look?! Eeek!)

So, what to do? Well, I'm not a hypocrite. I was happy with the appointment of Moyes, and as said earlier, he should be given time - so I'm sticking by him. (Besides, if we did sack him now, who the hell do you appoint then?) Nevertheless, some of the things he's saying and the football on show makes me sympathise with those who believe he's a Ford Mondeo driver asked to chauffeur a Rolls Royce, and that he simply isn't up to it.

Time will tell, and that's how it is at Manchester United - there's always intrigue around the corner,  there's always something to talk about.

Would we have it any other way?

I Miss Her

I miss her smile
So cute and pretty
I miss her dad
Even if he supports City

I miss Carluccios
Our favourite Italian food
I miss being with her
Whatever her mood

I miss The Wrekin View
But not the hill to it
I miss their quiz machine
Even when it went shit

I miss her at the quiz
Stealing my pen
I miss kissing her
Over and over again

I miss her hair
Brown and frizzy
I miss how she made me feel
In love and so dizzy

I miss her accent
"Dawley", "bath" and "looks"
I miss our shared interests
Books, books, more books

I miss teasing her
For being short
I miss "Together, forever"
Or so I thought

I miss her little phone
Including the flags game
I miss her beauty
Including her surname

I miss "credit the bank"
I'm almost ashamed to say
I miss our time at TCAT
Especially Albert Hay

I miss Monty
Particularly his yap
I miss our language
"Stahp, bby, stahp"

I miss making plans
Whenever, wherever
I miss holding hands
Whatever the weather

I miss the ideas for the future
Greece? Cyprus? Siena?
I miss the places I had in mind
Edinburgh. Paris. Vienna.

I miss Stratford upon Avon
Where scribes go to die
I miss the mad landlord
With his bow tie

I miss Ironbridge
My favourite date
I miss her kindness
Love, never hate

I miss Shrewsbury
The Quarry, the castle, the river
I miss making her scared
With my exaggerated shiver

I miss her eyes
Big, beautiful and blue
I miss the free McDonald's tokens
Very very sad, but true

I miss the Severn Gorge
The night it all started
I miss those days
Before we parted

I miss Twister
And Saturday night's shit TV
I miss LoTR
Despite my scepticism - all three

I miss the meals out
"Who's doing the talking?"
I miss spending time afterwards
Walking and walking and walking

I miss her quirks
The costumes, the cosplay
I miss all of them
Even the anime

I miss her
More than she'll ever know
I miss her
Why did she have to go?

DeLilLOL

**AUTHORS NOTE - Every section of this blog entry in italics are directly taken from the book in question. Enjoy them.**

I like books.

I like the feel of them, the smell of new ones, the cover designs, their colour (or lack of, perhaps), how they feel in my hands, and many other things. I like good books (obviously) and I also take a perverse pleasure in bad books. It's a lot of fun reading Dan Brown.

At least, that's how I felt until I settled down to read a book I had bought for £2. "What a bargain" I had thought at the time - a book by the great American novelist and celebrated scribe, Don DeLillo, for just £2! Sorted! Alas, dear reader, alas. Because the old pearl of wisdom is true - sometimes things are too good to be true.

The book in question is "Cosmopolis" and, having finished it earlier, I can now take great pride in announcing it as the most hateful thing I've ever had the displeasure to read. How bad is it? Very. Look, it's antagonising enough to make me dust off this blog and write about how much I hate it, for God's sake.

He said, "My prostate is asymmetrical."

"So is mine," Benno whispered.

They looked at each other. There was another pause.

"What does it mean?"

I'm so full of bile about this book that I need to be careful that this blog entry doesn't just become a rant. So, let's take a deep breath and try and walk through this one together.

"Cosmopolis" is about a man called Eric Packer. Eric is a billionaire, and a cunt. He really is - I can't sugar-coat that in any way. In fact, every character in the book is an obnoxious, horrible, aggravating shit.

So Eric is in New York and he wants a haircut, because damnit he's Eric motherfucking Packer! So Eric gets driven in his limo through the NYC traffic in order to get his haircut on the other side of town. Along the way he encounters protesters, a rapper's funeral, a visit from the President and the collapse of his business empire, caused by his own greed. Meanwhile, there's a former employee of his waiting to kill him.

There's not much story there, and the book isn't very long - 209 pages in fact, mercifully - so DeLillo fills his pages with the most extraordinary pseudo-philosophical bullshit AND the most awful dialogue you have ever seen.

I used to lick coins as a child. The fluting at the edge of a common coin. The milling it is called. I lick them still, sometimes, but worry about the dirt trapped in the milling.

On and on it goes, page after page of the most tiresome, awful nonsense, the likes of which you'll have never seen before or since. I've disliked books before. I've read bad books before. But Cosmopolis is the first one I've actually felt embarrassed to read on a train. "Oh God" I think, as I pull it out of my bag, "What if people think I actually like this book?"

He had mass but no flow. This was clear as he lay there dying. He had discipline and a sense of pace, okay, but no true fluency of movement.

But wait a second. Let's go back to one of my earlier gripes - that the characters are all shits. Packer's downfall comes through his own greed, and the book is heavy with the themes of capitalism gone bad - DeLillo wrote this garbage when the dotcom bubble was bursting. So maybe this is an acute commentary on the dangers of capitalism, and DeLillo should be applauded for his stand and his perception?

If it is, however, DeLillo blew it. There is no subtlety here. Packer et al are so egregious in their awfulness that there is no joy here - no pleasure in understanding that this is DeLillo attacking decadence. Instead, the whole thing is so "in your face", so ghastly, so sledgehammer-esque that even getting through the 209 pages is difficult. "HATE THESE PEOPLE!" DeLillo screams at us, and we do, but we hate him along the way more.

He liked paintings that his guests did not know how to look at.

At the end of the book, Packer is shot dead (I'm sorry for the spoiler but you shouldn't be buying/reading this book anyway). We feel neither happiness or sorrow when this happens. Not even relief. We're so fucked off with the whole debacle and so angry with ourselves for committing time/effort to the book that the ending matters not.

He said, "Stun me. I mean it. Draw the gun and shoot. I want you to do it, Kendra. Show me what it feels like. I'm looking for more. Show me something I don't know. Stun me to my DNA. Come on, do it. Click the switch. Aim and fire. I want all the volts the weapon holds. Do it. Shoot it. Now."

The film version of Cosmopolis was released last year. It "stars" Robert Pattinson and currently has a not-very-good-at-all IMDb rating of 5.1/10.

"Say the words."

"I want to bottle-fuck you slowly with my sunglasses on."

It's still better than the book.

The Day We Caught The Train

It is 7:50am, and I'm standing on a cold platform (serious question - why are railway stations ALWAYS cold?). I've been doing this for two weeks. The train I'm about to board is heading to Wolverhampton, where I now work, so every weekday morning my alarm goes off at 6:30am and I wake up bleary eyed and wondering just what the fuck I'm doing up at this time and whether I could go back to bed for a few more hours and tell my boss that all the trains were massively delayed or something.

Having now become a dab hand at this "commuting" lark, I know I won't get a seat, so I decide to not bother trying and instead take the next best option - to lean on the nice cushioned thingy just by the doors where a commuter can leave his/her bike. Meh, it'll do. I pull my phone out of my pocket, and fire off a quick "good morning!" message via Facebook to my girlfriend whilst I'm in an area where my 3G works, and then I put it back in my pocket. Gaming apps don't really appeal at 8am.

(This will get more interesting very soon, I promise. I'm just setting the scene, OK?)

I decide to survey the people around me. There's a few, and they're all the same - they all look really bored, they all are wearing business suits, they're all holding cups of coffee....apart from one man. He's...well, fascinating. He's an elderly man - I'd place him roughly about 60 - and he has white hair and glasses. He is wearing a long tan coat, and he's carrying a battered old blue suitcase. He is fascinating me because he simply cannot stand still.

He paces up and down. He goes into the toilet, then exits 30 seconds later. He puts his suitcase down. He picks it up. He walks into a carriage, then walks back out again. He walks past me, and I realise he smells a bit. He holds the rail that I'm holding, then he lets go of it. He seems...troubled. He isn't talking to himself, or making strange noises, or anything that suggests serious mental illness. He's just...behaving a little oddly. "Maybe he's anxious about being on/having to stand on a train, and he's just fidgety" I think.

It is 8:05am. We're just outside Wolverhampton when the ticket conductor walks into our little area. I've bought a monthly season ticket, so I'm OK, but our friend in the tan coat isn't. Putting down his little suitcase, he admits to the conductor that he doesn't have a ticket...

"I have no means of paying" he begins. "My wallet was stolen, and it's been handed in at Wolverhampton police station. That's where I'm going."

"Sir you shouldn't have boarded the train. Why did you not speak to someone at the ticket office? Why didn't you come and find me?"

"I'm very sorry, it's very unfortunate..."

And this conversation carries on for about another 30 seconds. I'm trying not to listen, but when it's happening right in front of you it's difficult not to, isn't it? The chat ends with the conductor moving on through the train, and the man picking up his suitcase and waiting to get off the train at Wolverhampton, presumably to walk straight to the police station.

It is 8:10am.

My routine is pretty set in the mornings. I'll get off the train, pausing only to pick up a Metro paper from the concourse, before striding out of the station and to my place of work. It takes me about 10 minutes, and once I'm in I'll make myself a cup of tea, and then sit down at my desk to have a browse of the paper. My colleagues don't tend to arrive until sometime between 8:45am-9am, so I have a little time on my own. I quite like that.

Not this morning, however. Because this morning I'm too intrigued by our friend in the tan coat, and I can't shake off the feeling that he's lying. If your wallet was stolen, and handed in at a police station, would you take a suitcase with you when you go to fetch it? Wouldn't you hitch a lift, or sort out a train ticket somehow beforehand? No, there was something "Dodgepot McDougal" about this man - this elderly man, with white hair and glasses. He looked like a typical grandfather, not a criminal. I'm being stupid. This man isn't a liar.

I need to get to work.

But I don't, do I? Not yet, anyway. I'll be sitting in the office on my own for about 30 minutes, if I head straight to the office, so why don't I follow this story to a conclusion? Is this man a model citizen, or is he a big, fat liar?

(See, I told you it would get interesting)

We're now off the train. He walks slowly out of Wolverhampton station. Turning the collar of my coat up and fancying myself as the next Dick Tracy, I follow him, about 20 paces behind. "God I'm good", I think to myself, before about 3 seconds later he stops and pulls a cigarette out of a packet in his coat pocket. Shit. I stop, then decide a change of tactic. I walk past him, and begin making my way up the path towards the bus station. At a convenient point I stop, pull my phone out, pretend to text someone and look back towards the train station. I can see him, puffing away on his fag. I hate cigarettes, so I instantly change my opinion of him to "fare dodging, criminal bastard". Funny how we think stuff like that, isn't it?

A few minutes pass. He walks past me, and I give him 20 paces before sloping off after him, putting my phone back in my pocket. God, this is amazing. I'm a real life spy! I begin to imagine the screenplay. I see a sexually frustrated blonde wife, a complete brat of a child, and a really fit mistress who I have sex with in an apartment whenever I want to. It'd be awesome. I'm too busy thinking about this when I realise that he's stopped yet again. I let out a little sigh. This "following" lark is proving to be a little harder than I anticipated.

It is 8:15am.

What do I do? I pull out my phone again, but this time I actually do send a text. I message my friend Dan, who is undoubtedly still asleep but what the hell, I'm not really after a response:

"8:15am and I'm following an old man through the streets of Wolverhampton. No time to explain!"

And indeed there isn't, because he's off once again. He's walking down towards where the metro stops - walking away from my place of work, by the way - when suddenly I realise, to my absolute horror, that I don't actually know where the police station in Wolverhampton is. If I could find that out, it'd help. Out comes the phone again. I Google "Wolverhampton police station" and I'm greeted with a postcode of WV1 3AA. Splendid. I open up Google Maps, and, keeping an eye on our friend, I quickly type it in and ask it to go hunting for me. Seconds later, the app tells me where the police station is, and where we are in relation to it.

We're about 30 seconds away, and he's walking in the right direction.

How fucking stupid am I? I let out a little laugh - laughing at my own stupidity - before I stopped and turned round to walk to work.

But....not just yet. It was OK. I could keep on following him round the corner, and then when he went into the police station, I'd just continue walking straight on and up to the high street, and then just follow that all the way back to my place of work. I'd be in the office for 8:30am, it was OK. Another two minutes.

He walks past the police station.

And he keeps on walking. He crosses the road, crosses over the tram tracks, and walks down the road. He is now actively walking away from the police station. What do I do? "I've come this far" I think to myself, so I too cross over the road. Fuck it. I'm in the office every single day about 30 minutes earlier than I should be. I'm allowed to be a few minutes late just once.

I'm worried, though. I'm worried because I'm now walking into a part of Wolverhampton that I simply don't know, nor do I know where the frig our little fare dodger is going, and how long it'll take him. Thankfully, my fears are swiftly allayed. He turns left, and disappears out of my view. I follow about 15 paces behind, and, turning the corner myself, I'm greeted by the entrance to a Sainsbury's. Looking like any other kind, gentle and honest OAP in the world, he picks up a basket and serenely makes his way into the store, presumably to do his shopping.

Sneaky bastard.

Round The Wrekin

I'm overweight.

That's official, by the way. If you go by the BMI Calculator (which has its critics but for simplicity's sake let's run with it) I have a BMI of 27.4, as I'm exactly 6ft and I currently weigh between 14-15 stone (I'm 202 pounds, to be precise).

The BMI Categories are as such:

• Normal weight = 18.5 to 24.9
• Overweight = 25 to 29.9
• Obese = 30 or more

So a calculation of 27.4 means I'm smack bang in the middle between "normal" weight and obesity.

I don't feel obese. I've seen obese people - they waddle down the street, stuffing their faces with pasties they've bought from Greggs, their disgusting bellies protruding out underneath their tops - and I don't think I'm one of them. I do know that I'm overweight, however. I could really do with shedding a few pounds. Christmas has been a big factor in this regard, as it always is. Pre-Xmas I was down to 14 stone exactly, the leanest I've been for a long time. I stopped drinking Coke at home, I stopped drinking alcohol entirely, I was cutting down on stupid foods quite successfully, I was doing a lot of walking. Then Christmas arrived, then the snow arrived, then the comfort eating arrived, and now I'm back up to 14 stone 6.

So what do I do about this? A quick glance at Twitter and Facebook alerted me to a thing called "Insanity". I pondered it, for roughly 0.7 seconds, then firmly said "no". What does it entail? I've no idea, but it's called "Insanity" for fuck sake. I can't run for more than a minute and I can do about 3 press-ups, so even the notion of doing an exercise regime called "Insanity" is well and truly off the menu. The longest journey starts with a single step. If I was to do this, I had to do this carefully. Giving myself a heart attack and dropping dead wasn't really what I had in mind. Then I thought about a gym, but again, no. Gyms scare me, quite frankly, and besides, I don't have the money. I can't see myself ever getting a gym membership and "pumping iron" or whatever it is the meatheads do in there, so that idea was out. What could I do, then, for exercise? I sat at my desk and looked out of my window, pondering this dilemma. "Where could I go" I wondered, whilst I sat in my chair looking at the woodland at the back of my house and The Wrekin off to the right. If only there was a place......hey! Wait a minute! What about The Wrekin?! It isn't the biggest hill in Shropshire - The Stiperstones is definitely more elevated - but I'd wager that The Wrekin is the most famous. It towers over Telford and Wrekin, and inspires local phrases such as "Going round The Wrekin" to describe someone rambling on almost as much as I am right now. I've walked up The Wrekin a few times - I've lost count, roughly about 7 - a record which is better than others, but still not great when you consider that I've lived here now almost 14 years. With this in mind, a plan came to mind.

To walk up The Wrekin, at least once a month. But that was boring. I needed an edge to it, a target. Something that would make me interested in doing it. I pondered a bit more, then I picked up my phone. Because I have an app on my phone, Endomondo, which is like an exercise companion. You can start the timer, then when you complete your walk/run/bike ride you press "stop" and it tells you your time, calories burnt, average speed, top speed etc. I'm sure I had used it before, when I walked up The Wrekin last year....aha! All the logs are stored in the "History" screen. I had used it before - last Spring, I had walked up The Wrekin in a time, according to Endomondo, of 32 minutes. A slight shame that it hadn't been 2 minutes quicker, and so sub-30 mins, but never mind....hang on. That was it - there was my target. The foot of The Wrekin, to the top. 30 minutes or less. I could attempt it as many times as I liked, but I had to do it at least once every month. The cold of January, the heat of July, the possible snow of December. Every month.

A terrific idea, in principle, but there was no way I was going to do it. I'm overweight, and I'm asking myself to shave 2 whole minutes of the time I clocked up the last time I went up there? Nah, not going to happen. But it was worth a go, right? So last week, at the end of January and after the snow had finally gone away, I was standing at the bottom of The Wrekin, phone in hand. I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere near 30 minutes - roughly 35 was my aim - but I was going to give it my best shot. Off I trundled, putting my phone in my pocket for safety. I decided I was only going to look at my time once - half way up the hill, when I passed Halfway House (I've no idea why it's called that) - so that I could just set my mind on walking, and not worrying about the clock.

Up I went. Having walked up The Wrekin a few times I know the climb by now, which does help. A long drag up to Halfway House, then a kick up as you walk over three false summits, the trees giving way about 2/3 of the way up, the path leading to the peak of the climb now exposed to the conditions. At the top, it is always windy and cold. My brother's friend lives at Halfway House, and I've walked up there before. I know it takes roughly 15 minutes. Last week, as I walked past, I slipped my phone out of the pocket of my fleece. 11:30. 

11:30? Eleven minutes, 30 seconds? 

How the fuck? I panicked. Walking up The Wrekin has caused me to break down in the past, after I thought "Wow, this is easy!" during the first half of the climb, racing up it, before being made to really suffer on the second (and much tougher) section. It was 15 minutes to Halfway House, I was sure of it, but here I was over 3 minutes quicker than that. It made no sense. I slowed down a little, but I felt good. I kept on going. I scaled the three false summits, wincing as I almost went over on my ankle scrambling up the last upslope where the rocks are interspersed with loose stones. I kept on going however, and soon I was within touching  distance of the top of the hill, the trig point and toposcope so agonisingly close. I could almost touch them, I was 30 seconds away....

....and then came the wind. It had been blustery at ground level, but now, 1330ft up, the wind was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I gasped as the wind - literally - took my breath away. I couldn't look forward, I had to turn my head to the side and try breathing in snatches. I tried putting my hood up on my fleece, the wind just knocked it straight back down with contempt. I was about 10 metres away from the summit, but the wind was so intense I couldn't actually walk straight. I was blown sideways, off the path, and had to compose myself before even attempting to walk forward again. It felt like I was in a wind tunnel, yet I ploughed on. After an epic struggle with the wind, I touched the trig point. I was at the top.

I took my phone out, stopped the timer without even looking at my time, then quickly shoved my phone back into the safety of the pocket. I was terrified it was going to blow away. I couldn't stay here, at the summit, so I immediately turned round and began walking back downhill to a clump of trees about 100 metres away. With the wind now behind me, I was convinced that I was about to take off, to be airbone and go whirling through the air. I shoved my hands in my pockets and made it to the trees, where I sat down at the base of the tree right in the middle of the miniature woodland. Here I had a shelter. After sitting for a moment and getting my breath back to anything approaching normality, I remembered my phone, in my pocket. I was a little annoyed. I thought I had walked really well, yet my chances of getting anywhere remotely near 30:00 had been compounded by the ferocious winds towards the summit. This was only January, though. It was my first attempt at this mark, I had at least 11 more to go. It was fantastic to get a time logged regardless of what it was - I knew I could beat it in more favourable conditions. I got out my phone and glanced down at the screen.

29:06

Doctor, Doctor!

Before I begin - I am not a doctor. I never have been, and I never will be. I do not speak for doctors as a whole, nor any doctor in particular. Everything in this blog post is simply my own outside opinion. I might be wrong, but it is what it is. I thank you very much.

=============================================================

Yesterday I had to pop down to my local medical practice. It is a squalid, grey, unappealing building in a particularly dubious area of town, and I certainly don't make a habit of going. I had to go yesterday however because like the IDIOT I am, I had lost my repeat prescription - I must have chucked it out by mistake when having a post-Xmas clear out - so I had to saunter on down to fill out a form so I could get my next batch of medication before the stuff I have at the moment runs out and I turn into a werewolf.

Whilst I was filling out the form however, something caught my eye. Lying on the desk was a pile of leaflets, roughly A3 size, bearing the slogan "DOCTOR FIRST IS COMING TO *INSERT TOWN NAME HERE* MEDICAL PRACTICE!". This intrigued me, so I picked up the top copy, folded it and stuffed it into my bag, promptly forgetting all about it until a few hours later when I was on the train going to the dentists. As the train rolled along the tracks, I read the leaflet and it concerned me a little, so I thought I'd write about it here. Again, I don't speak on behalf of doctors. This new system might be magnificent, but I'm unsure. The literature is in bold, my thoughts in this normal font....

DOCTOR FIRST IS COMING TO *INSERT TOWN NAME HERE* MEDICAL PRACTICE!

We are very pleased to announce that in February 2013, the Practice will be moving to the Doctor First appointment system. This leaflet will tell you what it means for you as a patient, and how you will be able to access Doctors quickly and easily in the New Year!

It can be a bit of a nightmare getting into the doctors, particularly at this time of year when the Norovirus is flying around and elderly people are struggling etc. To put this into context - I've never met my registered doctor. In fact, I wouldn't know him if I walked past him on the street. I know his name, and I know he's at my local medical practice, but I've never met him. Every time I've been fortunate enough to get an appointment in good time, I've had to be assigned to a doctor - any doctor. You hope you get lucky and get a decent one, basically. Now that's not necessarily a huge deal - they're all qualified - but I do find it a bit bemusing that the guy I put down on forms as my doctor is someone I've never actually met. So a new appointment system? Interesting. Let's read more.

What is Doctor First? 

Have you ever tried to get an appointment with a Doctor and been told that there are none available?

Yes.

Doctor First is an appointment system that will make this a thing of the past! With Doctor First you will ALWAYS be able to access a Doctor on the same day!

That's a very, very bold claim. How do they plan to do this, exactly?

With Doctor First you'll receive the healthcare you need when you need it! Doctor First puts Doctors in control of appointments in order to put our patients needs first!

OK - alarm bells already.

I (and everyone else) go to a doctor for a reason - we are poorly in some way and we need a bit of help, whether it's depression or a broken arm, high blood pressure or schizophrenia. We go to doctors because they're medically qualified, right? They know how to help when it comes to this stuff - they know more than you or I do. As such, I want my doctors to be doing this - helping poorly people, whether that's at their surgery or via home visits. What I'm not sure I want them doing is the stuff that the people on reception do - booking people in for appointments and general other admin duties. Anyway, let's carry on.

How will I get an appointment when I need one? 

With Doctor First, being able to access a Doctor is easy. Contact the surgery in the usual way and advise the receptionist that you would like an appointment with a Doctor. The receptionist will ask for a brief description of the problem and a telephone number on which the Doctor can contact you. The receptionist will put you on a list for the Doctor of your choice, where possible. The Doctor will contact you by telephone that day. The Doctor may be able to give telephone advice without needing to see you. However, if after assessing you, the Doctor feels you need to see an appropriate healthcare professional, he/she will book you an appointment for that day.

I see the logic here - if nothing else, this cuts down on the people walking into the surgery and seeing the doctor. But...

Firstly, are we not just transferring the doctor's time, rather than freeing it up? What changes here - the doctor doesn't talk to you face to face, instead he talks to you over the phone. No time has been saved there, unless this initiative is designed to let doctors fob you off, to put it bluntly. And then how does that help the patient? Do doctors even want to spend their time talking on the phone to people?

Secondly, talking on the phone if you're a patient? Telling a receptionist about your problem? I'm very fortunate in that I've never had genital warts, touch wood, but if I ever do get them I'm not sure I'd want to tell a non-qualified receptionist about them, thanks very much. It'd be hard enough to talk to a doctor about it. Like lots of people I'm not a huge fan of talking on the phone about anything, let alone private health problems. This to me seems like cutting corners, with the rather ambitious promise that you'll "ALWAYS" get your doctors attention on the same day the sweetener to convince patients that this is a good idea.

The back page of the leaflet is essentially more of the same, so I'm not going to copy it all down for you. One bit in particular did stand out though...

Our receptionists will ask you only for brief details of your problem, so that it can be put on the list which the Doctor will see when he calls you back. This brief information will allow the Doctor to prioritise patients effectively.

I have a problem with "prioritise patients". Here are five ailments that I've just thought up off the top of my head:

Glandular fever
Depression which has led to suicidal thoughts/self-harming
Irritable bowel syndrome
Norovirus
Shingles

Now. Who do you phone first? Who do you phone last?

Earlier on I argued that you should leave the medical stuff to the doctors, and I stand by that. If anyone is qualified to rank those five ailments in order of seriousness/priority, it's probably a GP. Do we want them to, though? Never mind "What gets priority?" - should there be a "priority" at all? The cynical side of me thinks that if we go down this road, in 10 years time the questions the receptionist will ask you will include your postcode, your occupation and whether you can pay by card or not. Remember, this is a Tory government - privatisation is always just a shot away.

On paper, "Doctor First" seems brilliant, but I'm unconvinced. I can see a future where doctors have to juggle their medical expertise with their admin/diary planning skills, and that could become an issue. Doctors are people too - they get stressed, unhappy and down just like we do - and I worry that they'll hate this system which has been burdened upon and that their morale will drop. I hope not, but I guess we'll have to see.

New Year, New Me!!!!!

Tis the season for people to make ridiculous resolutions, resolutions which they can't/don't even bother trying to manage, so why should I be any different? Here's a few that I've thought up off the top of my head. Some are more serious than others.

1) Get a job - standard.

2) Do some voluntary work - good for the CV, gets me doing stuff, makes me seem a lot more charitable than I actually am.

3) Start sponsoring a Dogs Trust dog like I used to - this admittedly depends a lot on 1)

4) To start cracking down on "should of" and "would of" - Twitter users, I'm coming for you, and I'm correcting you, whoever you are. Be warned.

5) Walk up The Wrekin once a month - yeah, you know when I said some of these were less serious/realistic than others?

6) Subscribe to Private Eye - again, can't help feeling that this is in relation to 1)

7) Read more - I'm not going to set a target on how many books I read, because that will make it tedious, invite pressure and make the whole thing completely joyless, but I'm eager to devour books at a pace I haven't done for many years. University seemed to suck the fun out of reading, truth be told.

8) Watch every Al Pacino movie - can this be done in a year? And do I want to watch/re-watch the shit ones? Will I get paid for watching 'Jack and Jill'?

Oh god, I've just seen that he was in 'Gigli' as well. WHAT HAVE I DONE?

9) Lose more weight - LOL

10) Cut down on Coca Cola - because it's full of shit and I'm annoyed that it's taken me this long to realise that.

11) Check Facebook a lot less often than I do now - a waste of a life, quite frankly.

12) Cut down on reading the letters page in The Shropshire Star - it just makes me angry, and I can't be doing with it any more. Not every day, anyway.

13) Play more sports - back when I was about 4 stone lighter I played a lot of sport. Where did those salad days go?

Salad being the key word there.

14) Complete more XBox games - in other words, play XBox games that aren't Lego ones.

15) Listen to a lot more Radio Shropshire - especially in the mornings.

16) Get myself a bit more organised - and not leave everything to the last minute like I usually do.

I think 16 is enough. I'll probably stick to about 3 of them, but life is too short to sit around doing nothing like I usually do. Onwards and upwards, eh guys?

Happy New Year!

Gizza Job

Apologies for the two "personal" blog posts in a row, but I really wanted to write this one, for a few reasons. Regular readers will remember my last blog post, where I mentioned about the college course I had been enrolled on by the Job Centre. I just wanted to talk a little about that course, if you don't mind.

When you're on benefits and looking for work, the Job Centre like you to use their "SOC codes". What this means is that at your first interview, you discuss with the person what areas of work you're ideally looking for, what areas perhaps suit you re. your work experience, what areas are good for jobs etc. You discuss these areas, then you get allocated your "SOC code" for each, and you use that to narrow your job search down on their website. So, Admin jobs will be 4150, Librarianship 2451, and so on and so forth. Because of my previous experience, which was working in an office, a lot of jobs I go for are the Admin jobs, 4150. A lot of these jobs I'm not getting, however, because I don't have any experience with a thing called SAGE. I'm not going to tell you about SAGE because it's as boring as fuck, but it's essentially a piece of software that assists you with double-entry bookkeeping. Financial stuff, bookkeeping, accountancy - that's not really me to be honest (I did Business at A-Level but struggled with it and only got a D) so Lord knows why I agreed to do a six week SAGE course down at my local college, but I said I would be interested, and before I knew it, there I was taking the 30 minute walk down to the Arts and Technology college one cold October morning.

Six weeks, Mon-Thurs, 9-4. What the fuck was I doing? Why was I doing a course I wasn't particularly interested in? Well, fast forward six weeks, and the course is over, and my thinking has altered ever so slightly. Our exam was last Thursday, 1-3, and I think I did well. We don't find out our results for ages (about 8-10 weeks) but with 70% needed for a pass, and the ease at which I rattled through the paper, I think I've done enough. Yet for all my joy about doing well (I hope) in the exam, I feel an overwhelming sadness that the course has finished. I appreciate that's mental, considering how much I was dreading these last six weeks, but it's true - I'm already missing the course, and my fellow job-seekers on it, desperately.

It's crazy, I know. It was six weeks, that's all, but it's mad how quickly you can get attached to people, recognise their quirks and habits, identify what you like about them and how to behave around them. These people weren't my friends, and most of them, I'll probably never see ever again, but I was fortunate enough to be in a classroom with people that I liked - all of them - and I will miss them. I'll miss Howard's moments of genius. I'll miss Jon, always happy to help and patience personified. I'll miss Madeleine's laugh and I'll miss her because I secretly fancied her a bit. I'll miss Diane always looking smart. I'll miss Matt and his 'Pantera' T-shirts. I'll miss Steve - just in general. I'll miss Wera, a genuinely lovely lady. I'll miss Crystal whinging. The only person I won't miss is Becky - but that's not because I didn't like her, but because I'll hopefully be seeing a lot more of her in the future.

(We're dating, by the way. I'm not going to stalk her).

I've given them all a namecheck for two reasons. One because I know in five years time I'll have forgotten their names, so this blog post will be a handy reference to remind me of the "glory days". But secondly - and more importantly - because they were all interesting, smart, capable people, with fascinating employment histories, and they were all in that room with me because they're all currently unemployed. We were all in that room because the Job Centre put us forward for the course, and the course proved to me one very important thing - that some people's attitudes towards the unemployed need to change, and quickly. Nobody in that room was "scum", or "cheating the system", or a "layabout", or whatever adjective the Daily Mail wishes to use next. We were all in the room by 9am every day, so no-one was lounging about in bed until 10am and then sitting around watching Jeremy Kyle. Everybody in that room worked bloody hard, and several times I looked round at everyone working well and in complete silence and thought "I wish a Tory minister could come in and see us now - see that the people they constantly vilify aren't as disgusting and useless as they think".

Apologies. I'm a bit bitter about this, and I also know full well that there are people out there who "fiddle" and play the system. You don't need to tell me about them. But I do get angry when people try and bash the welfare system in this country. It makes me even angrier when the people bashing it are the Government themselves.It makes me angrier still when they don't target healthy young people like myself, but the sick and the disabled:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2012/nov/30/sick-disabled-work-benefits-programme

When I was growing up, my parents told me that it was how you treat the people with the least that says the most about you.

Cameron, Gideon Osbourne et al are easy targets here, but for once I'm not going to make this a political attack. After all, it was Labour who introduced ATOS, it's Labour who also have a leader who looks like he's never stepped foot in the real world, and it's Labour who are now occupying the same ground as the Tories. Let's not even mention the Lib Dems. Any wonder that people don't bother voting anymore?

It's Monday morning. My alarm went off at 7am (admittedly, this is only because I forgot to turn it off) and I got up to get ready for college until I remembered. None of that any more. So it is back to the old routine - scouring websites for jobs, applying for jobs, sending out CVs, writing covering letters, and then not hearing anything back 90% of the time. In a few weeks time I'll slow down for Christmas, before starting all over again with earnest in January. New Year = new start and all that shit.

Still, there are people far worse off than me. I'll never lose sight of that.

I'd Rather Have a Piece of Toast

Hiya.

I knew I hadn't blogged for a while, yet I was aghast to load up Blogger just now to find the last time I had scribbled some utter nonsense was almost two months ago. TWO MONTHS! Time to rectify that, I think. I haven't blogged for two months(!) because since my last blog my life has gone a bit mental, and that's not even taking into account the rather lengthy column Nigel Hastilow penned about me in The Shropshire Star a few weeks ago. Thanks for taking my constructive criticism on board, Nige. So what on Earth has been happening? I'm not too sure where to begin, so I'm just going to start typing and hope for the best.

A few weeks ago I was sitting here at my computer when something caught my eye out of the window. It was a cat, wandering around our garden. That wasn't unusual, as Tom Jones might say - our neighbours either side of us have a few cats, and they are always jumping into our garden and being chased by our dog. But I hadn't seen this cat before, and it was loitering by the gate at the back of our garden, which leads out into a neglected field covered in brambles and nettles. I didn't think too much of it, until the next day I saw it out there again. So I went to investigate, and found a gorgeous tortoiseshell who was worryingly thin and had no collar. She wasn't going away, so we put up a bed for her in our greenhouse and fed her whilst we asked around the neighbourhood whether they knew where she had come from. Nobody knew, so we took her down to the vets, where they confirmed that she wasn't chipped...but she was pregnant.

It was a beautiful cat, but with a dog already in the house we couldn't keep her, and she deserved to have her kittens in peace. So after phoning several cat shelter places, all of which were full, apparently, we decided to take the vets advice and "leave her to it. Cats are very resourceful". Meanwhile, our next door neighbours were in the process of moving, hiring a skip to chuck all their rubbish in before they left (can you see where this is going?) The cat disappeared for a few days, and when I next saw her her "saddlebags" had gone, and she was sitting on the fence in our front garden, peering into the skip (which was full of rubbish) before diving down into it. Again, I didn't think too much of that, until my mother saw her doing the same thing. Either the cat was very hungry, and was scavenging, or...but surely not?

Alas, it was true. The cat had gone off and had her kittens in the bottom of a skip, which was filled to the brim with sodden junk thanks to the insane rainfall we'd been having at the time. Any of you ever knocked on someone's door and asked them if you can root through their rubbish? If you haven't - trust me, you feel wonderfully awkward doing so. They probably thought we had gone bonkers, as we stood on their driveway in the drizzle rooting through their trash. We knew what we were looking for, but we didn't find it. The skip went the next day. It wasn't a nice experience, but the cat didn't seem bothered at all. Maybe they were already dead. The cat soon became the newest member of our family, I'm pleased to say - our fears about the dog failing to materialise after the cat whacked him one and then stood her ground after he tried to chase her. They're best friends now.

(God, this is boring. When is he going to talk about interesting stuff and shut up about cats?)

Finally graduating from university was a huge weight off my shoulders, but my mental health still wasn't improving. It turns out that my tactic of "try to ignore it and hope that one day you'll wake up and it'll be gone" wasn't the best, so I needed to re-think things. Against my masculine urges, I decided I needed to go to the doctor. I've had some horrific experiences down at my local health centre, but the doctor I landed with this time was honest, clear, and actually bothered to listen to me, which some of the dickheads down there don't. I'd been on tablets before, but I hadn't really got on with them and I had given up on them far too readily. The doctor listened to my concerns, prescribed me the same medication but in a lower dosage than before and then told me to stop being a knob and actually take them. I've been taking them for a month now and - touch wood - they're working brilliantly. I feel much more content with 10mg than I did 20mg. They're not miracle pills - I'm not suddenly "cured", and it's still a battle sometimes, but I'm fighting.

Away from cats and happy pills, the main reason I've not had time to blog is because I've started doing a course down at my local college. Like the idiot I am, when my advisor down at the Job Centre asked me if I wanted to do a six week SAGE Accountancy course, I said I wouldn't mind. The next thing I knew, I was booked onto their next one. True to form for the Job Centre, their communication was absolutely bollocks. I was told the start date for my course, that it was six weeks long, and....that was it. So on the Monday morning I walked down to my local college for 9am, not knowing: if I needed to be there for 9am or later, what hours I was doing, who I was with, who was taking the course, what room I was in, whether the course was just SAGE or with other stuff included. What a mess.

After eventually finding out what room I was in, I walked in with a very pleasant but also very confused German lady called Wera, and we sat down at a table with ten others. At the other end of the table there was a cute brunette, looking a bit nervous and shy. "She's pretty", I thought, but I didn't get the chance to talk to her until the following day, when our employability teacher (as part of our course, we have to do "employability skills". The Job Centre didn't tell me about that, naturally) put us in a group together. With all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, I engineered it so that I could sit next to her, and I tried to make conversation and make her laugh. At the end of the day, we swapped numbers, a process made a little harder than it should have been by me taking half an hour to pluck up the courage to do so. I'm glad I did, however. Things have snowballed a little since then, but we're taking it slowly. I dunno about her but I'm a happy bunny right now anyway.

(That doesn't make any sense - why did they exchange phone numbers when they're doing a college course together and see each other every day?)

Because, my irritating little friend, after two days of the college course I thought I was done with it all. I had an interview for a position at the university, one which I felt I wanted to do and one which I felt confident I could get. The position was to be part of a team, conducting a survey on behalf of the university. Every uni has to do this survey, apparently - getting in contact with graduates and finding out what they're up to now they've left education and (hopefully) in the workplace. Drawing up a survey, sending it out, getting the forms back in and inputting the data onto a computer system for decent money and the chance to work at the university? I could do that! I wanted to do that!

So the interview was going well until the catches began to appear. Catch 1 - we had to hit a target of 80% of forms returned. Catch 2 - the overwhelming majority of people can't be bothered, don't want to do it, so don't do it. Catch 3 - it'd be my job to phone up these people, and go through the form with them on the phone. Catch 4 - there'd be roughly 3,000 of these people. Catch 5 - some people, unhappy with the fact that they're unemployed, get emotional/upset on the phone. Catch 6 - some people, unhappy with the fact I've phoned them up, get arsey on the phone. Catch 7 - the university would be setting up a "call centre" for us to do this job. It was the second that the words "call centre" were uttered that I mentally bailed out on the position. I still tried my best at the test they gave us, still tried to give a good interview, but I walked out of the university a bit despondent. This wasn't what I thought it was. This wasn't what I wanted to do.

I had a tough decision to make. I was unemployed after all, and it was decent money. I was secretly hoping they'd turn me down, but no, there was the email - they had offered me a graduate internship. So the choice was a stark one - a job and money, but a job I had lost interest in before I had even started, OR no job and no money but the chance to complete a £600 course (which I was getting for free via the Job Centre), which will look good on my CV, which might open some doors and which I could do alongside a girl I fancied like crazy and wanted to get to know a bit more.

What would you do?

I finish the course next week, and whilst I'm not assured of passing the exam, I feel confident that I can iron out the little problems I'm having with SAGE and get it licked. Then it's back to the daily grind - applying for jobs, not hearing anything back, applying for jobs, not hearing anything back....

So that's roughly why I haven't blogged for a while.

The other day I was sitting on a train when a weird sensation came over me. I realised - for the first time in 7 years - that I was happy. My soul felt....happy. It was a nice feeling. Life isn't perfect - never is, is it? - but it's getting better. Slowly. And that's all I can ask for.

Until next time knuckleheads!