Frank Pepys

Before I begin this blog entry about diaries, a quick mention of my favourite bit in the diary of Samuel Pepys, that mad bastard who, according to Wiki, went on to become a Tory MP for Harwich. You learn something new every day, don't you? Here's Pepys talking about an incident which his unfortunate wife managed to walk in on:

"For my wife, coming up suddenly, did find me imbracing the girl con my hand sub su coats; and endeed, I was with my main in her cunny."

Dirty bastard.

Anyway. The other night I was talking to a friend in a chat room thing she had set up when we were gatecrashed by a 12 year old from southern California. Being the charitable type that I am, I asked my friend to kick him out but she refused, so "Oliver" stayed for a little while. During the course of the conversation, I began thinking about words of advice for the young man - things I could tell him based on my own experiences, trials and tribulations that I've encountered along the road to reaching "adulthood". After giving him a few nuggets of wisdom, I suddenly thought about something else - my diary. I kept a diary, years ago - where was it? What did it say inside? Did I still have it?

So whilst the others chatted, I hunted around my room for the diary, eventually finding it in the storage space at the end of my bed which is crammed full of old board games and jigsaws and various other assorted junk. Making myself comfortable, I sat down in my chair and began to read. Here's what I found:

First thought (based on title page) - The first page is very interesting. Under "Book Title" I've put 'Diary of 2002', which gives me a sense of context. I was 15, living in a post 9/11 world, at secondary school hurtling my way towards GCSEs whilst obsessed by a girl. Further down the page, it gives me the chance to list "Important telephone numbers", "Important e-mail addresses" and "Important web site addresses". Looking at it, I realise with a jolt that I can still remember the home phone numbers of my friends Rich and Ivan from that time, and other people's e-mail addresses. For the websites, I have put:

• www.eurosport.co.uk
• www.kazaa.com
• www.hotmail.com
• www.sky.com/sports
• www.theseagulls.co.uk
• www.tufc.co.uk

I am stunned/delighted to see that Kazaa is still going.

Second thought (upon reading my diary) - God I was staggeringly boring.

Because I was. Flicking through this diary, my whole life seemed to revolve around football, and eating curry. OK, that last bit hasn't changed, but this diary has made me realise that whilst I still love football and it's the greatest sport in the world, I don't spend hours of my time obsessing over it any more. As a 15 year old Manchester United seemed to dominate my life (though I don't include their website in that list shown above, interestingly) and it's all I seem to care about:

March 29th 2002: Good Friday and boring. We're playing Leeds tomorrow so we better win!!"


That's it.

April 6th 2002: United won today 1-0. Ole Gunnar scored. A good result but a shame that Arsenal also won 2-1. Brighton about to win Division Two which is cool. Back to school on Wednesday!


And that's it. On and on it goes, horrifically boring stuff that makes me want to think back and recall whether I had ANY interests or hobbies around the time. Thank God I've changed, in that respect.

Third thought - The diary runs from March 2002 - June 2002, and then there's nothing until April 2003 where I wrote three entries before giving it up for good. Here's the very first entry:

March 10th 2002: Mothers Day. Woke up late and was soon packed off to Manchester to see little Joseph. Karen and Mike were a little late to arrive but both did look well. Joseph a typical screaming baby!


I can't remember my cousin Joseph being a baby, interestingly. Sorry, I interrupted...

But is very cute. Car journey on way back seemed to take ages but I still enjoyed my day. Came home to over-excited dog - quelle surprise!!


The dog we had put down last Friday.

Is St Patricks Day next Sunday. Monday in the morning - d'oh! More school. At least I'll see my friends and Alice again.


Ah yes. Now there's a name that certainly conjures up memories of teenage love. Crushing disappointment, glorious happiness, despair and futility, anger and resentment, clarity and hope - and everything else in between that goes on inside as the teenage hormones go into overdrive. I was going to go out with Alice, and then we'd get married and have children and live together FOREVER without ever having a cross word and that was that - end of story - and nobody was ever going to convince me otherwise. Ten years on, I have no idea where she is, what she does, who she's with - and quite frankly I don't care.

May 4th 2002: Boring day again I'm afraid. Arsenal won the Cup final, and I had pizza for tea. Haven't spoken to Alice for ages and ages...still, at least I see her in PE :)


Once a perve, always a perve, but fuck it, I'm a bloke.

I'm not going to go through much more in here because the entry above illustrated the rest of it perfectly - Football. Alice. Junk food. That's it. Even the final three entries, a year on, aren't much better:

April 26th 2003: Bolton 2-2 Arsenal, with Ljungberg, Lauren and Cygan all going off injured. A major day! If we beat Spurs tomorrow we go further in front at the to.....


You get the idea. Maybe it's all about the context. My best friend at school was an Arsenal fan, and I'm United, and at the time those two teams (alliteration) had a serious rivalry going. In summary, it's all your fault Bergman.

June 5th 2002: Completed about 40 games of Solitaire today. Actually, scrap that last sentence. It was Freecell I played.


And I've read enough.

Final thoughts - A decade later, I'm still the same person, in the same family, in the same house, with the same friends, yet so much has changed. I don't recognise the person in that diary, really. Oh, I remember some things in it very well, but I can't place myself in those shoes any more. As stupendously boring as most of it is - and trust me, it is - I also found it fascinating because it made me realise how much I've changed.

So here's the idea. March 2002 was the first entry, and next month it'll be March 2012. It seems to me a little weird that I was reminded of the diary out of the blue the other night, a mere month away from its 10 year anniversary, and now I've got that in my mind I can't shake it. So, next month I'll write something in it - a few lines every night, just like I did a decade ago - and whilst I'm doing so I'll reflect on all the differences I'm seeing as I write a 25 year old's perspective compared to a 15 year old's.

Once March is done and dusted, I'll shove the diary back in the storage space and forget about it all over again until March 2022 comes rolling around. Fingers crossed I'll still be here to see it.

Live-Blogging (kinda) "Britain's Gay Footballers"

Over the past year or so, the private/personal life (I never really know which one to say) of Ryan Giggs has been at the centre of many a heated family debate. On one hand, as a Manchester United supporter, I couldn't give a shit who/what Ryan Giggs is having sex with. It doesn't concern me in the slightest - I support the club, not individual players - and if he's doing the business on the pitch, what matter is it to me? As long as a player isn't breaking the law, I'm pretty liberal about what they get up to. Look at the glee Man city fans express over the various antics of Mr Balotelli. My parents disagree - his actions reflect badly on the club, his reputation has taken a hammering, can't see him in the same light etc etc.

Whoever you agree with on that one though, it does seem that we have an awful lot of interest - perhaps perversely - in footballers lives off the field of play. There was even a fictional TV series on ITV a few years back on this very subject, as millions settled in every week to watch playboy footballers romp with women, drive fast cars and sport ridiculous sunglasses. That programme played up to stereotypes, yet in reality a sport which contains 92 football league clubs with 30+ men in each squad must house men who go against the stereotypes. Men who are homosexual.

Yet there isn't a single openly gay professional footballer in this country. Homosexuality in the game is seen as football's biggest taboo, and no-one seems able/wants to tackle it head on. If you ask the man on the street to name a gay sportsman, chances are that sooner or later Justin Fashanu's name will crop up, and in this documentary I'm "live-blogging" (I'm re-watching it) his niece, Amal, goes on the hunt for answers about his life/death and for a footballer prepared to come forward and out himself as gay. Whilst it's still on iPlayer, let's have a watch and see what we think:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b01bncfg/Britains_Gay_Footballers/

03.00 Amal tells us that she's into fashion, which is.....nice? A chap with a silly hat on, who I suspect is homosexual, believes that football is the "gayest sport", an interesting comment since surely he must have seen a game of rugby at least once in his life. Anyway, going to try not to be flippant about this programme, because it's tackling an important issue. Let's carry on.

08.00 Amal is trying to contact high profile footballers for a chat but none are willing to come forward, so she goes to Brighton to take in a game. Born on the South Coast, and a former regular at The Goldstone Ground (google that, kids) I can tell you that homophobic chanting towards Brighton fans isn't a new thing. But is it incredibly offensive? "We can see you holding hands" and "We know why you've got soft seats" et al - abusive or just football banter playing on the fact that Brighton is seen as having a large homosexual community? Sadly, Amal doesn't seem to know herself, telling us that a gay player would probably get chants directed at them if they came out. True, and worrying, but a bit flimsy for a documentary.

18.00 Amal is upset that legendary manager/notoriously shit person Brian Clough openly described her uncle Justin as "a poof" so she travels to Nottingham to meet his former team-mate John McGovern. Upon telling him about Clough's remarks, McGovern giggles like a girl and tells her that he's laughing because that's just how it is in football. This is astonishing television. Amal then asks him if he personally knows any gay footballers. Again he laughs and speaks to her like she's just asked him if she can shit on his dick. This is really, really bad stuff.

21.00 Time for Amal to stick the knife into McGovern and turn it....but instead she's going shopping with her friend. Look, clothes! This is odd.

22.00 Max Clifford. Sigh.

26.00 Amal meets Gareth Thomas, an openly gay rugby union player. Good idea, but once again the documentary falls a little short. Gareth seems happy and other players still like/respect him, so what's the difference between rugby and football on this one? Again, these questions are left unanswered.

32.00 After watching a documentary about her uncle and reading his harrowing suicide note, Amal visits Millwall's training ground and is pleased to be able to speak to a select few squad members about homophobia in football. Darren Purse makes the good point - an openly gay player would want to be surrounded by banter in the dressing room, as that would constitute a form of acceptance from the other players. Banter, not abuse, though - where's the line on that one?

39.00 According to Amal, an assistant referee was prepared to come out and speak to her on camera, but FA policy dictated that he shouldn't give any interviews/views about issues outside of football. Ah, good old FA, ballsing everything up for so many years now.

43.00 Amal speaks to her father, John, who is positively dripping with insincerity. The programme has shifted from "gay footballers" in general to a family conflicted over one in particular, but perhaps this is understandable. Justin Fashanu came out - no other footballer ever has.

48.00 Amal goes to meet Anton Hysen - son of former Liverpool player Glyn - who is, apparently, "the world's only openly gay footballer". This is a welcome scene, because it shows us that this issue isn't just confined to our shores. This isn't a national problem - it is an international one.

52.00 Not the biggest Joey Barton fan, but good to see him standing up and doing an interview here.

We've reached the end of the documentary and it wasn't as hard-hitting as I'd hoped it would be. Having said that, considering it was fronted by a girl into fashion and the fact it was on BBC3, perhaps I was foolish to expect it to be a modern day version of The Cook Report (you'll need to google that one as well kids)

I mentioned the Ryan Giggs situation earlier because a gay player playing for my club would instigate a similar reaction from me. If we signed a man called Bryan Wiggs and he announced he was gay, I wouldn't give a fuck. Nor would I be particular bothered if my team were facing a gay player who was lining up for the opposition. But is every football fan as sane and rational (even if I do say so myself!) as me? One look at Anfield this weekend, where a Liverpool supporter made a "dubious" gesture towards the black footballer Patrice Evra, and you realise that football still has some very serious problems to address. The FA have a long running scheme entitled "Kick racism out of football" - and credit to them for that - but recent events such as the one above, Luis Suarez and John Terry tell us that it might be working, but it isn't working well enough.

On the issue of homophobia, it's difficult to acknowledge anything the FA are doing about the problem. So what is the solution? I don't have it, but watching Amal's programme, I was frequently reminded of one of my heroes. Major League Baseball in the United States had a colour barrier in place for the first half of the 20th century. If you were white, you could play. If you were black, you played in the Negro Leagues and you kept out of the way of the white folk. On April 15th 1947 that changed, as Jackie Robinson became the first African American to play in the "majors" in the 20th century. He suffered dreadful abuse from players and fans - and the opposing players and fans gave him a pretty hard time as well - but he came through it. Robinson was no saint - by all accounts he was a tough son of a bitch - and that's exactly why he was "the chosen one", so to speak. He was the one prepared to stand up and fight, to carry that burden, to keep his cool and maintain his dignity throughout.

Justin Fashanu wasn't equipped for that. It is perhaps naive to say that abuse from the terraces contributed to his downfall - he had retired from the game and was embroiled in scandals towards the end of his life - but the stress he must have been under on the football pitch must have been immense. For gay footballers to come out, they need a Jackie Robinson, someone who can take all of that pressure, soak it up and still perform to their abilities. You wonder if anyone ever will.

Education Education Education

This blog post is on education, something which I feel quite passionately about, and it is on something I saw over on the blog of that there Plashing Vole. I'll be analysing the initial article in a second but here it is in full: http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2012/jan/23/chief-inspector-schools-michael-wilshaw and here is Vole's reply: http://plashingvole.blogspot.com/2012/01/leave-those-kids-alone.html


Let's meet the new head of Ofsted, Sir Michael Wilshaw!

(PS As I'm about to copy and paste, and due to the fact that Blogger is shit, my font is about to go mad. Apologies for that, can't see how to change it)

Walking through Mossbourne academy's long, high, glass atrium you have to speak in whispers, for every classroom door is left open to reveal rows of neatly uniformed children, heads-down in concentration. You could literally hear a pen drop. Sir Michael Wilshaw, the Hackney-based academy's first principal and now England's new chief inspector of schools, believes every school could be like this.


Straight off the bat we have a pretty clear implication - this is the way it should be! This is the dream! As it is, I think it's junk. Nobody wants a raucous, disruptive classroom, but a classroom dominated by fear and utterly silent ain't brilliant either. The best and most productive lessons I had at school came when I was working with my friends - we communicated, we worked in teams, we could have a laugh with the teacher. School didn't seem quite so terrible when it was like that.


I don't want to over-egg this pudding because we've a lot to get through, but now that I'm sitting back and reminiscing - I remember the teacher who did quizzes for us, I remember the maths teacher who warmed our brains up every lesson with a 10-minute mathematics game, I remember the teacher who picked a student at the end of every lesson to count down whilst reciting an animal ("1,497 giraffes, 1,496 giraffes, 1,495... etc) and I remember how much fun that all was, and what good teachers all three were. On the flipside, I remember the teacher who everybody feared, who seemed to suck the joy out of everything. We sat in silence, we got out our books and we read, and woe betide anyone who spoke. That wasn't much fun, nor was it particularly productive.


Just one final point on this paragraph - the glee expressed over the rows of neatly uniformed, silent children remind me a little of Ritzer's "McDonaldization" term. Control! Efficiency! Standardization! Yay!


"There's a 'no excuses culture' here," he says. "We tell the youngsters and we tell the parents we don't care really what background you're from; it's where you're going that's the most important issue."


I'm not sure this article tells us the age of these pupils, but as it later mentions GCSE results I'm going to assume it's a secondary school. I don't know about anyone else, but I found secondary school hard at times because it was a real period of upheaval. Things happen in people's lives, and it is foolish to just dismiss them. "No excuses culture"? "We don't care what background you're from"? We're suddenly running into another worrying theme here - you don't fail. Failing is for losers, so forget about where you're from or what's going on, you pass, yeah? You fail, we don't want to know you.


But that's also bollocks. I've failed - too many times to remember. Lots of people fail things. Ever seen that Nike advert with Michael Jordan in, when he talks about how often he's failed in life? Nobody is perfect, and perhaps this is the right time to once again enquire how many times it took Michael Gove to pass his driving test. "No excuses culture"? So the kid who can't concentrate because he has ADHD - what happens to him? Rejected? The kid who comes from the broken home - because his father walked out on him and his mother- who lives on an estate where the police are round every night? Gonna despise him because his mother who works two part-time jobs to make ends meet can't afford to send him on an educational trip abroad? How about the kid whose mother has just died from cancer? He fails a Geography exam four days after her funeral - oops, sorry! No excuses here!


I promised myself I wouldn't get angry over this but I am, because two of those three examples are based on real people - people I went to school with, and it sickens me to think that they'd be branded as hopeless failures because that small thing called "life" got in their way sometimes.


The article is really long so I'm not going to analyse it in full. Let's fast-forward a bit...


The new chief inspector of schools, who took up his post this month, certainly inspires strong emotions. The education secretary, Michael Gove, has described him as a "hero"


Yay!


Wilshaw has not set out to endear himself to teachers. Even before officially taking up his Ofsted post, he made a speech in which he said that in future a "satisfactory" rating by inspectors should be viewed as unsatisfactory, and that Ofsted should look at whether heads were being too generous to failing teachers when allocating performance-related pay.


'Well done Mr Jones, that's a rating of "satisfactory"....except that means "unsatisfactory". Yes, sorry Mr Jones, we can't find anything wrong with your teaching in particular, everything seems fine, yet that now means you aren't good enough and you totally suck, your pay is being docked and you are the weakest link goodbye!'


Here's the best bit folks.


A good head would never be loved by his or her staff, he added: "If anyone says to you that 'staff morale is at an all-time low' you know you are doing something right."


How many times have I looked at that quote today? Possibly about fifteen times, and it still baffles and fascinates me in equal measures. Unless I'm reading it horribly wrong, Mr Wilshaw is suggesting that an "all-time low" level of staff morale is a good thing - "you are doing something right."


Hmm. Well, let's follow this one through.


The teachers in a school aren't happy. They don't like the new headmaster because he's introduced a climate of fear, hostility and unnecessary competition. Remember, under this guy's Ofsted, "satisfactory" is now BAD so teachers must strive to be the best, goddamnit we want results! I've been told by a former teacher that a staff room is a funny place as it is - where bitchiness, mutual dislike and jealously prevail - but now it's going to get worse. These people are no longer colleagues, they are now competitors. Lots of experienced, reliable and GOOD teachers can't be bothered with the hassle, so they leave after being tapped up by a private school twenty miles down the road, and are replaced by wide eyed yuppies straight out of teaching school. Some are good - let's not presume otherwise - but some aren't. Parents and students aren't happy - where did all the good teachers who knew the place inside out go? Some teachers can't cope with the increasingly hostile environment, so go off work because of stress - quick, we need some supply teachers who are notoriously bad brought in to help us out! The school gets the worst Ofsted rating they've received since 1974, parents aren't happy, board of governors aren't happy, local education authorities aren't happy = more stress and a heavier burden on teachers = the rolling stone of decline starts on its journey = staff morale at "an all-time low". Still, sounds great!


If all that sounds a tad melodramatic, you are probably right. So how about this real life example for you. My secondary school was excellent. Well respected and liked headmaster, very good teachers, healthy Ofsted reports. Headteacher left and was replaced by a man that most of the staff (I'm going on word of mouth here) didn't like. The good teachers all left, within five years the school was branded a "failing school" and the last I heard is that it's going to be knocked down and the students will be shipped off somewhere else as the school gets incorporated into another to make a "faith academy". Good stuff! Still, I imagine staff morale is pretty low right now so that's okay.


The reaction from teachers has been predictable: one internet poster compared Wilshaw to a South American dictator. "The lunatics have taken over the asylum," remarked another.


It's almost as if teachers understand teaching.


"Little things like insistence on uniform, pupils standing up when the teacher walks into the room are all important in giving structure to children's lives," he says. "We have a very long teaching day for some children – if they are falling behind we keep them back at the end of the day so that they can improve their qualifications."


Wrong again Wilshaw!


My brother is eight years old. His literacy, comprehension and reading abilities are extraordinarily good for a child his age, apparently, and an educational pyschologist told us that she's never encountered a child like him before. However, his maths isn't very good. He may have dyscalculia, and he really needs help with his maths because he struggles. At the moment, his school have provided him with a qualified person trained in all of this stuff to come in once/twice a week and help him, and his headmistress works with him in an isolated environment as well. That's all appreciated, and it is helping. But what if they decided to do those individual sessions after school? 


He's tired, he's seeing his friends leave and off to kick a football around somewhere, he's hungry because lunch was three hours ago, he's not sure why he's been asked to stay behind because for the past god knows how many years he's been told that staying after school was a punishment, called "detention". But my brother hasn't been bad, he just struggles at a particular subject. So whilst he's thinking that this is unfair, and the teacher is thinking "I've got marking to do, plan tomorrow's lessons and get ready for parents evening on Thursday, why is this kid still here now?" he just gives up. He can't be bothered, and he wants to go home. Productive?


One final thing on that bit - I'm all for the first half of that sentence. No problem with uniforms and being respectful towards teachers and headmasters. We had that at my school and it didn't do us any harm. Just the way these things are addressed in this article seems scarily sinister - as Vole alludes to, very "Demon Headmaster"-esque.


There's no disputing that the strategy has paid off in terms of exam results. Eight out of 10 gained five or more A*-C grades at GCSE including English and maths last year –well above average. This year, 10 have been offered places at Cambridge.

Yet suspicions abound – could Mossbourne be attracting brighter pupils than other local schools? Certainly the academy has a wide catchment area, so it is likely to gain applicants from motivated families – currently 60% of its pupils come from within a kilometre of the school and 40% from further away.

Living where I do, this is very familiar. The school near me, Thomas Telford, takes in all the academically bright students in the area - usually white from affluent families - gives them all a laptop and incredible facilities and then boasts that its exam pass rate is excellent. Funny that.

While Mossbourne may look like a school with a tough pupil population, five minutes in George Green's says it isn't. A small batallion of helpers in red jumpers nurtures and cajoles the pupils here.

"I feel very intimidated by this government, and I'm not a woman who's easily intimidated," she says. "I don't think they understand what we're up against, and I don't think they want to.

I find it difficult to believe that a Government made up of multi-millionaires are either out of touch or don't give a shit.

Conversations with leaders in the world of education about the new chief inspector of schools are revealing. A real sense of anger is mounting, yet most aren't quite ready to express it publicly yet.

Chris Keates, general secretary of the National Association of Schoolmasters Union of Women Teachers, couches her remarks in broad political terms – she's due to have her first official meeting with Wilshaw later this week. After all, she says, chief inspectors never have easy relations with the teaching profession, nor should they. But she adds that last week's announcement of an immediate inspection of Downhills, a Haringey primary school the government wants to force into academy status, leads to suspicion that Ofsted is now a political weapon.

I think I've read enough. I thought that idiot boy Gove was bad enough, but this article has made me fearful about the future of Ofsted, their motivations and their accountability. I'll be out of (higher) education soon, fingers crossed, but my brother has a long way to go yet, and I worry for him.

The Great Big New Year Blog Entry (NWS)

You want a really shoddy, pathetic, basic and ill-thought out review of the year? Of course you do! And who better to give it to you than me, Mr Ewar Woowar!

(I criticised someone yesterday for starting a sentence with the word "And" and then I go and write that. Ha.)

Anyway, Letsby Avenue!

Man of the Year - Jeremy Clarkson


We have a lot to thank Maggie T for, you know, particularly when it came to the bully boy trade unions. Oh yes, they didn't like it when she crushed them under her stiletto, did they? Poor old Ricky Tomlinson and the like soon realised that whacking people with baseball bats wasn't going to change a thing with The Iron Lady in charge!

Ahem. Sadly Maggie is no longer with us - she isn't dead (yet) just conveniently out of the way - and the trade unions have slithered their way back into prominence. Have they changed? One look at Bob Crow - genuinely one of the worst people of all time - should give you your answer. But fear not! Because finally there is resistance, and it comes in the form of my god. My deity. The saviour of the BBC. CLARKSON.

It takes a real man to announce, live on TV, that people on strike should be shot in front of their families. It takes a real man to attach a toilet to his vehicle whilst driving around India, in preparation of the dreaded "Delhi Belly". It takes a real man to say words like "torque", "revs" and "grrrrrrrr".

O Clarkson! My Clarkson!

Woman of the Year - Liz Jones

A horrible woman, a mentally ill woman, or a fantastic comedy creation that has us all fooled? The Daily Mail's Liz Jones could be any of those things, and in 2011 she ramped up her game to an impressive level. Every week there seemed to be yet another astonishing and bewildering column from Liz, but two in particular really stand out. Firstly, her piece on Joanna Yeates's murder will live long in the memory, especially the section where she takes time to break away from the horror of the crime committed and complain that the veggie burger (FFS) she ordered in the bar Joanna was in the night of her death came "without the burger - and without the bun!"

Secondly, who can forget her vivid description of going into her bathroom and "sperm-stealing" from her partner? Wonderfully candid and honest, you have to admire Liz for her forthright views, her sincerity and her magnificence. Why aren't more journalists like her, you wonder?

Band of the Year - Westlife

For having the guts to call it quits. We'll miss you boys.

Record of the Year - "Good Feeling" by Massa Chussetts






I genuinely think that's the only record I've heard this year. When is Elvis coming back, FFS? I'm bored of all this shit modern stuff.

Quote of the Year - Mohamed Al Fayed


"Football fans love it. If some stupid fans don't understand and appreciate such a gift, they can go to hell."

Yer man Al Fayed on erecting a Michael Jackson statue at a football ground. Seriously.

Sportsperson of the Year - Novak Djokovic


Finally, the Serb ditched the japes and the impressions, realising instead that whilst the comedy can wait, the tennis couldn't. Before he got hurt, Novak dominated, winning three out of the four grand slam events and losing a handful of games all year long. Outstanding.

TV Moment of the Year - Adrian Lewis's 9-darter in the World Championship Final




Immense, immense dartistry.

Worst TV Show of the Year - Big Brother


Kill it now, please.

Sorry To See You Leave Us In 2011


Gary Speed
John Barry
Gerry Rafferty
Dean Richards
Eric Parsons
Elizabeth Taylor
John Sullivan
Elisabeth Sladen
Terry Jenner
Christopher Hitchens
Dan Wheldon
Amy Winehouse
Sir Jimmy Savile
Steve Jobs
Nick Clegg's political career

Best Advert of 2011 - John Lewis




Love it? Hate it? Doesn't matter. You know what it is, so it's a huge success.

Chump of the Year - Nick Clegg


Byeeee!

Most Pointless Letter Writer of the Year - Val Duncan


More EU-bashing to come in 2012, you fear.


Best Photo of the Year - Jawad Laouira


Congratulations to Jawad for this very impressive photograph. The perspective, the shades of light and dark, the calming background - everything about it is simply splendid:

http://lockerz.com/s/162604138

Blog of the Year - Cynical Ben


For the second time, Cynical Ben wins the accolade for my favourite blog of the year. "Who the fudge is Benjamin Judge" is a triumph, even if it is WordPress. I feel 2012 could be an exciting year for The Cynical One.

Twat of the Year - Nick Clegg


Yes.


Football Moment of the Year - #19




Goal of the Year - Wayne Rooney




Hottie of the Year - Kate Upton

UK News Story of the Year - Murdoch/Millie Dowler/Phone Hacking etc


The Leveson Enquiry is strangely addictive viewing.

Man Most Nervous About 2012 - Nicholas Sarzoky


Or is it David Cameron?!

Film of the Year - Moneyball


Not seen it, but it's a film about the second best sports book of all time, and apparently it's great, so that's amazing and cool.

2012 Resolution - Kick start "Project Renford", get my own personal website up and running


Farewell, then, 2011. It's been emotional.

Das Boots

It's hard to believe, typing this today as the rain absolutely shnozzes it down outside, but the past few days I've taken advantage of the mild weather and gone out walking. As I've got nothing else to blog about, here's a few pics of my adventures. I've cheated - one or two of these pics were taken a few months back and I'll tell you which ones they are - but the rest were taken on two really nice days in late December, a statement I never thought I'd write.

(Clicking on the pictures will make them a bit bigger and easier to make out, hopefully)

The stone that greets you as you enter the quarry between The Ercall and The Wrekin. There is a poem engraved onto it, but it doesn't rhyme so naturally it's shit.

A plague about 2/3 of the way up the quarry. You wouldn't know it if you've never heard of caching, but this plaque is an "Earth cache". You can find out more about those at www.geocaching.com














This is the view from the plaque. In the distance you can see The Wrekin which I would be trekking up the next day.

The top of The Wrekin, looking towards the south and Ironbridge.

What I love most about the views at the summit are how they represent the different ages. Look one way on a clear day and you can see some of the Cambrian mountains, a stark reminder of just how old Earth is and how beautiful it can be. Look another way, and there's Shrewsbury - a market town with windy lanes and wooden houses, an important place for commercialism in the Middle Ages. To the south, there's the furnaces of Ironbridge, the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution. One final turn of the head and you see Telford town centre - a new town which boasts tall glass buildings hiving with people wearing suits and working for private businesses.

There's something really powerful about slowly making a 360 turn and taking in those different views. When I do I wonder what a person 500 years in the future will be looking at when standing in the same place.

Two pictures of the terrain at the top of The Wrekin. There's a conventional path to follow, but if caching sometimes a little "off roading" is needed. There is a cache buried down a hole near the rocks in the first picture.

The Toposcope at the summit of The Wrekin. These two pictures were taken a few months ago.

Hunting another cache I thought I would take a quick picture of the summit from a bit further away. The dark thing in the middle is the toposcope, the thing in the air just to its right is a crow which was flying around all the time I was up there generally making a nuisance of itself.

Final picture, and I've deliberately left this one till last. This is a bush about 2/3 of the way up The Wrekin in which someone has placed a bouquet of flowers. Why? There's no note, no plaque, nothing to suggest any motive whatsoever for doing so. The writer in me finds that fascinating - you can get 10 short stories out of that picture, I think.

I know nothing about flowers so maybe what type they are signifies something - anyone know? The obvious guess is a remembrance of  someone who passed away in that location but I guess we'll never know.






It's still pouring with rain here. The shopping and the gift buying is done, all I have to do now is wrap and then eagerly await all the food/celebrations/sport we enjoy over these next few days. I'll be back just before 2012 with a round-up of the year or something but for now I'll leave you with this:

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Ken Dodd's Dad's Dog

Getting a dog proved to be a bit of a rigmarole, truth be told. It was 1998, and though we already had a cat, my parents decided that what the household really needed was a puppy. So, one day when I was at school, off they trundled to the nearby Dogs Trust (called the NCDL back then) re-homing centre and picked the one they wanted. They couldn't take her home, mind. What followed was a lengthy process that involved people checking out our garden, our house, our family and our sanity before we were finally able to bring her home and add one to the family. Even then, she wasn't allowed to walk out on pavements for the first week or so, for reasons I'm still not entirely sure of.

She's not able to give us her life story - she's a dog - so all we know about her past is what the NCDL people told us, and that might be one tall tale. Nevertheless, they told us that she belonged to a farmer based somewhere in North Wales, until he realised that she wouldn't be suitable for a farmers dog, so he promptly dumped her on some mountains somewhere and left her to die. Fortunately she was found by someone before she froze to death and was taken to the re-homing people. That's the line I've always been given anyway - quite how she went from North Wales to the NCDL place in West Sussex is anyone's guess, to be honest.

But whatever her past, she ended up with us, and the past 13 years round our gaff have been accompanied by barking, whining, begging for food and loose bowels - those last two attributed to me, admittedly. Sadly though, very soon that's all about to change, because the dog is old. The dog is on her last legs. The dog, alas, is almost out of time. The first notable sign of decline came about a year ago, when we noticed that one of her eyes had gone a bit cloudy. Since then, they've both deteriorated - she has cataracts, and the vet told us she's pretty much blind now. The second sign came at the end of a walk one day, when her back legs suddenly gave way beneath her and she struggled to scramble back upright. The third sign was the tumour.

It's awfully difficult to know what to do. The tumour is the main issue - it's the size of a tennis ball, and with it hanging down under her her mobility is severely restricted - not to mention that she has arthritis and her back legs are now very weak. She's fallen down the stairs a few times, and most nights one of us has to pick her up and carry her as she can't climb them any more. As mentioned earlier, her eyes are going/gone, and she spends most of the day sleeping. All of which leads us to one conclusion, except...

She walked three miles the other day. I don't know how - at one point I didn't think she was going to make it - but she did, even if she just plodded several paces behind us. She still barks like crazy at anyone at the door, still begs for food - though she can't jump up any more - and can still chase after next door's cat at an impressive rate. She still eats very well, and whilst her bowels have never been the greatest she's not incontinent. She certainly hasn't given up on life, of that we're sure, and we're pretty confident that she's not in any pain. There's no evidence to say she is. The last time we took her to the vets, he told us that the tumour is probably cancerous, but finding out would mean anaesthetic, and she certainly wouldn't survive that.

So what do you do? The first sign that she's in pain, the decision is made, but right now that's not a factor. From a purely selfish point of view, we don't want to make that trip to the vets over the Christmas period - although we will if we have to - and there's no reason to say goodbye just yet. But deep down, we know it's coming. It's 50/50 whether she'll see this Christmas, 0/100 that she'll see the next. I'm prepared for it, although the sadness will be inescapable, as will the puzzlement when the doorbell rings and there's no sound or no running to the door. I'm just hoping that she goes in her sleep, peacefully and at home.

I've never taken a photo of the dog, so the other day I went into the lounge with my phone and looked at her. She was sleeping, her tumour sticking out a mile, and I realised I couldn't do it - I couldn't take a photo of her like that. I've always thought that when I "grow up" I would like a dog - a big, cuddly, immensely loyal thing - but now I'm not so sure. They break your heart, pets.

We Need To Talk About Stan

If there's one thing I like, it's a routine. I don't mean a dance routine - although I like it when 'Diversity' chuck the little kid with the mad hair around, I can't lie - I mean a routine which makes my life have a bit of a structure to it. My main routine comes in the morning. Upon waking, I stretch my arm up to my bookcase and grab my phone. With bleary eyes, I first check my emails, then I load up my Twitter app and scroll through the tweets that I've missed whilst slumbering. After I've caught up on the news, it's downstairs for a cup of tea (milk, no sugar - I'm sweet enough) and some toast (usually only with butter on but if I'm feeling daring then Bovril) before I head to the bathroom. I can't shower in silence, so it's either talkSPORT if I'm in a "talky" mood or Classic Gold if I'm in a music mood. After that, I....

Sorry. Not interesting, is it? I don't find it fascinating either, but I'm telling you about my morning routine for two reasons - firstly, the Twitter catchup alerted me to Stan Collymore's fascinating and emotive tweet this morning, and secondly because a counsellor once stressed to me the importance of a strong and basic morning routine. I saw a counsellor - and last year attended group therapy - because since 2008 I've had an on/off battle with mental illness. I did write about this subject once on here, only to delete the post a short time later. In an unlikely turn of events, Stan Collymore has inspired me to tackle it again.

He's a funny fellow is our Stanley Victor. I don't agree with everything he says, and some of his actions in the past have been inexcusable (even if I might cheekily add that if any woman needed a slap, it was Ulrika) but his frank honesty in documenting his depression scored many points with me. "Attention seeking" some people have claimed, but they're wrong - they're wrong because being in a similar position (albeit nowhere near as extreme) I know how hard it is to talk about these things truthfully and directly. I also believe that exposure of and awareness about mental health is a very important thing. The stigma is still there, and it's still large.

(At this moment, I need to break off the blog to tell you that everything you just read, I wrote on Saturday evening. It is now Sunday evening, and the tragic, awful death of Gary Speed is very much on my mind. What caused Speed to do what he did? At this moment, we don't know, so whilst the depression aspect is rumoured, it is only that - a rumour. I'm going to focus this blog on Stan Collymore, but whilst I don't mention him, Gary Speed is not far from my mind)

I don't know why I began to feel anxious, but I know when it started. 2008 was a tough, life changing year for me, and one I haven't forgotten easily. Since then, I've been battling Anxiety. It isn't much fun. At times - the worst times - its been crippling. You over-analyse everything, to the extent that a walk down to the local shop is an ordeal, a long car journey is dreaded. Right now, I'm coping okay. I've educated myself about Anxiety, a tactic Lance Armstrong felt was helpful when he had cancer and one I was determined to employ. Owning books, using websites and talking to professionals has really helped. It's given me insight, an understanding about the illness, and also defence mechanisms which I can use. It's still a battle, and I wonder whether it can fully be beaten, but I'm in a lot better shape than I was about 18 months ago.

There might be some people who know me quite well who feel shocked reading this. They didn't know. I haven't told them. Partly that's because I don't want to make a fuss, partly it's because I don't want friends or family to treat me like I'm mad or somehow a different person, but mainly because talking about mental health is fucking difficult. Many times I've stood outside the office door of a lecturer at university. I can see they're in, and I'm going to go in and talk to them, but I never open the door. Maybe one day.

How does it feel? Perhaps it's best if I tell you how it doesn't feel. How it doesn't feel is what Stan Collymore and many others are going through right at this moment. I will link Stan's tweet for those who haven't read it at the bottom of this blog entry. It is sobering stuff, and thankfully an experience which - touch wood - I'm a million miles away from. Sleeping for 18 hours? Not seeing sunlight for a week? Going to the bathroom a difficult experience? I can't even begin to imagine any of that. Anxiety is closely linked with Depression - both mental health issues, medication for Anxiety comes in the form of anti-depressants, and I notice Stan mentions how initially he felt anxious - but I find it as difficult to see the world through the eyes of a manic depressive as you do.

I mention the word "stigma" a few times, and there is still an ignorance over mental illness, but how do you change that? What is it going to take? Who will it take to stand up in the public eye and make perceptions change? I'm currently looking at a list of people who suffered with Depression. It's a "Who's Who" of famous people - a long list of fabulously talented, clever, funny, smart and good people. Buzz Aldrin, Woody Allen, William Blake, Frank Bruno, Winston Churchill, Charles Dickens, John Kirwan, Hugh Laurie, David Foster Wallace and SO MANY more. These people aren't weak and they aren't failures. Fancy telling Neil Lennon to "man up"?

Yet I don't have the answers. I don't know how the mental health stigma will ever be eradicated. I wish I did. What I do know however is this - awareness helps. Exposure helps. Whilst my experiences are nothing compared to Stan Collymore's and others, his honesty made me write this blog post. And whilst it's sprawling and not the most polished piece of writing I've ever slammed down, it might just be the one I'm most proud of.

http://www.twitlonger.com/show/ecoqm1