Saturday 25 August 2012

The Death of Van Dine

I recently came across a rather fascinating list published in 1928 by S.S. Van Dine entitled Twenty rules for writing detective stories. He remarks with a self-assured certainty that "for the writing of detective stories there are very definite laws - unwritten, perhaps, but none the less binding; and every respectable and self-respecting concocter of literary mysteries lives up to them."

Ignoring for the moment that Van Dine's detective fiction has fallen completely out of favour, and that the man is now little more than a footnote of the sort he was so fond of using in his novels, it takes such a staggering amount of chutzpah to decide that you're the man to define an entire genre - and to compose a pompous and patronising list of rules that you expect people to take as read - that I'm almost in awe of him. Almost.

As it is, his way of thinking was incredibly restrictive. Even literary rules are there to be broken. Any attempt to escape the supposed limitations of the detective genre - even if it were to end in failure - would be more worthwhile than anything written using Van Dine's mindset. With this in mind, I am undertaking a new project, a self-imposed literary challenge: the writing of a crime fiction story that goes against every single rule Van Dine drew up. You can find it here:

The Death of Van Dine

Monday 20 August 2012

Adventures in Modern Literature #2

Skios by Michael Frayn

Although my intention to read all of the novels on the 2012 Man Booker Prize longlist may well be commuted to "most" or "some" depending upon various factors, the award has captured my attention in a big way. This year's dozen are an interesting cross-section of the work emerging from the Commonwealth, with an impressive variety of styles and genres represented.

Take Skios, for example, in which Michael Frayn offers classic farce of the sort that has fallen out of favour in the 21st century. On a fictional Greek island, the lives of a varied cast of characters are thrown into complete disarray following a series of mishaps at the local airport. Charming conman Oliver Fox picks up the wrong bag, and feeling a profound dissatisfaction with the way his life is panning out he decides to assume the identity of Dr Norman Wilfred. Meanwhile, the real Dr Wilfred finds himself without his suitcase and without his ride to the Fred Toppler Foundation, where he is supposed to be giving a speech the next day. From here, everything falls apart, with the sense of confusion escalating at every turn and only the reader being fully aware of the full picture.

In this sense, the novel acts as a mediation on order and chaos, and how quickly and thoroughly the latter can destroy the former. Indeed, it fully embraces the chaos theory concept known as the butterfly effect, whereby a small change can result in massive differences at a later point. It also questions the nature of identity throughout, asking what it is that make us who we are: is it our actions or simply our names? Characters lose sight of who they are or opt to play the role of someone else, and sometimes even find themselves happier in their new identities.

As with most farce, Skios is plot-driven rather than character-driven, and the players of the piece are archetypes deployed for maximum comic effect. Frayn isn't concerned with developing them, or with watching them change and grow in keeping with their varied experiences; he simply wants to see how they react when they're placed outside of their element. Fox is an infamous gadabout who plunges himself into disastrous situations with such gusto it's difficult not to like him, even if his actions are usually both self-destructive and harmful to others; Dr Norman Wilfred is a typical buttoned-down academic, who veers between delusions as to his own importance and crippling self-doubt; Nikki Hook is a dynamic personal assistant with an obsession for order and her eyes on a promotion; and Georgie is simply looking for a bit of illicit fun with Fox, even though she knows he's bad news. The cast is rounded out by a sprinkling of gangsters, oligarchs, taxi drivers, and disgruntled ex-lovers, all of whom make for very easy company. Frayn certainly succeeds in creating a world you'll enjoy spending your time in.

However, Skios is not without its faults. All of the material focused on comical misunderstandings due to language barriers falls flat, partly because the trope has been beaten into the ground and partly because it has certain xenophobic connotations that do not lend themselves well to comedy. At points it becomes a little difficult to juggle the extensive cast, particularly once identical twin taxi drivers are introduced to the narrative and more characters are given a starring role. And for such a light story to end in such a violent fashion feels unnecessary, meaning the ending reads as though it were taken from a different novel altogether. Whilst such a twist puts an exclamation mark on the novel's points about the often random nature of life, it also undermines the lightness of the events that precede it, damages several of the protagonists (either by letting them get away with murder or punishing them unfairly), and ultimately feels needlessly cruel, which is jarring after all the silliness.

With all this in mind, is Skios the sort of novel that should be winning literary awards? The simple answer is "no." Although Frayn takes the reader on one hell of a ride, he doesn't push the boundaries of the form or the genre, delivering instead a farcical tale that is rather traditional in its leanings. But what it lacks in innovation it makes up for in entertainment value, and the pace the story moves along at means you're never likely to be bored reading it.

Worth reading? If you're looking for a holiday read that's a cut above the usual offerings, Skios may well be the perfect choice. A lighter-than-air farce that ramps up the ridiculousness (occasionally at the expense of plausibility), it is never less than entertaining, even if you're likely to forget it almost as soon as you put it down.

Friday 10 August 2012

Adventures in Modern Literature #1

The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

With the 2012 Man Booker Prize longlist recently announced, what better way to start this series than with last year's winner. Julian Barnes' The Sense of an Ending is a slight novel that deals with weighty themes, and for the most part does so effectively. The first chapter tells the story of a group of young men who stand on the precipice of adulthood, narrated in the present day by Tony Webster, who has retired and thus has plenty of time to think about the past. However, it turns out these breezy recollections are but a precursor to the second chapter, which suggests that everything we thought we knew may be wrong, with the twist being that due to the inherent unreliability of memory, and the tendency we all have to shape past events to suit the narrative we most want them to tell, Tony may not have told the story to a very high degree of accuracy.

It's a clever move that questions the way we remember our lives, offering an interesting take on the unreliable narrator trope. The shift in gears between the two chapters is pronounced, with the novel switching from an amiable ramble through one man's adolescence to a thriller (albeit a sedentary one) with a mystery at its heart. The story becomes more and more engaging as its true nature slowly unravels, with Barnes masterfully building suspense ahead of the final revelation.

Alas, the ending doesn't live up to the build. The tales hinges so entirely on what is best described as an adolescent mistake (of the sort that all of us have or will make from time to time) that its impact is dulled. Of course we'll one day look back on the actions of our younger self and think "wow, I was a bit of an idiot when I was younger." I'm 27 years old and am already plenty familiar with that feeling. If you're going to worry about actions or words some 40 years removed, they need to be earth-shattering, and a nasty letter doesn't meet the criteria. The words he penned were cutting, and more than a little cruel, but they were also fuelled by emotions he was only just learning how to process. The events that unfold (unbeknownst to him) after he sends the letter are unfortunate to say the least; however, he was but one small player in a much wider story, and didn't force anyone to make the choices they did. Put simply, whilst I fully believed that the character felt his past actions were unforgivable, I didn't believe they were myself, which rather fatally undermined my reaction to the revelation.

And then there's Veronica. An ex-girlfriend of Tony's who re-enters (and massively complicates) his peaceful retirement, Veronica is a thoroughly unlikable character whose actions both as an adolescent and as an adult have an artificiality that grates every time she's called into action. She keeps up the pretence of being unknowable for so long that the question becomes not "what happened to make her this way?" but "why would anyone stick around her long enough to find out?" Aside from being a cheap narrative device designed to maintain suspense, having someone repeat variations on "you don't understand and you never will" is a surefire way of turning the reader against them, as it casts the character in question as an irritating barrier to plot advancement (1). By the time she finally becomes knowable (when the reason for her present day coldness is made clear) I disliked her so much that it didn't really matter; it was going to take one hell of a reveal to explain away her vast pettiness, and the reason given wasn't good enough. All of us suffer over the course of our lives, but few can justifiably cling on to hurt revolving around one specific incident for 40 years, and in the end Veronica had no-one to blame for her unhappiness but herself.

So does a denouement that falls flat completely undermine everything that preceded it? In this case, I'd argue not quite, that the journey is as important as the final revelation, and although the behaviour of Tony and Veronica is at times ridiculous, it strains suspension of disbelief rather than shattering it. Barnes offers an interesting take on both memory and the aging process, crafting characters that for the most part are recognisably human and marrying them to a tale that starts off deceptively light before moving on to heavier themes. And in one respect, its brevity works in its favour; had the revelation come at the end of 300+ pages, it would have been a crushing disappointment. Instead, it is merely a minor note in an otherwise impressive work. The precision and economy of the writing stands out above all else, with Barnes rarely wasting a word on unnecessary flourishes but still creating something that is, at times, almost lyrical (2), and rarely less than engaging.

Worth reading?: Yes. Whilst no classic, The Sense of an Ending raises some interesting questions, and is likely to linger in the memory for some time after you put it down. Just don't assume you can trust your recollections of it.

(1) Another problem: after about the third time of Veronica repeating the words, Tony's refusal to tackle her on it became infuriating, and made him more unlikable too.

(2) It could be argued that this becomes distracting on occasion; critic Stephen Lee had a point when he suggested that it "occasionally feels more like a series of wise, underline-worthy insights than a novel."

Tuesday 31 July 2012

Adventures in Modern Literature

Introducing Adventures in Modern Literature (1)

Like myself, I'm sure that many of you out there have picked up novels by the likes of Jonathan Franzen and Jennifer Egan having been told they're monumental literary works, only to be left disappointed. Both writers are impressive enough, but their efforts to date have done nothing to suggest that they'll one day produce a truly great novel. A Visit from the Goon Squad was fine for what it was (a collection of decent short stories dressed up as an ode to Proust), but I found myself bored by the events that were unfolding on more than one occasion. Franzen, meanwhile, seems to equate length with worth. With some judicious editing, both The Corrections and Freedom could have been every bit as thematically dense without the meandering passages, but instead wound up as sprawling books that never quite justify the page count. (2) I suppose these are my feelings toward modern literature in a nutshell.

Of course, a cross-section of two is hardly sufficient when contemplating the last 12-and-a-half years of published work, and isn't what I'm basing my apathy on. I've crossed paths with plenty of modern authors, and enjoyed some and loathed others, but I'm yet to find anything that will stay with me forever. That's what I'm looking for, because at its best that is what the form is all about: efforts that are worthy of being passed down from generation to generation and regarded as classics of literature. (3)

This is a voyage of discovery, one I'm partaking in because of my general disdain for or disinterest in 21st century novels and my desire to change. It's unreasonable to be a student of literature who dismisses the era they're living through out of hand as minor or irrelevant, so I'll be reading through supposed modern classics or highly lauded (or awarded) efforts published from 2000 onward in search of novels that reach the glorious heights the form achieved in centuries gone by. I would be delighted if you'd join me.



(1) I briefly considered calling this Modern Literature is Rubbish (possibly with a question mark at the end), because it'd make for a snappier, more provocative title. But that would be unfair on the thousands of 21st century books I haven't read (and don't intend to read/will never find the time to read), and besides, this is supposed to be a positive exploration rather than an extended condemnation.

(2) "It's too long" is often fingered as one of the weakest criticisms a person can make about a novel, but it really isn't. It's a perfectly valid way of attacking a plot that takes too long to deliver too little, and often speaks of an author's vanity. As far as Franzen is concerned, you can feel the strain he puts himself under to write a Great American Novel whilst reading his work; he reaches for epic but doesn't achieve it because a not unreasonable proportion of what he writes is best described as "padding."

(3) I know the notion of a canon is a tad ridiculous, but then so is the suggestion that "people like what they like" (true enough, but if you take the statement at face value then you render all forms of criticism redundant). Just because opinion is subjective doesn't mean it cannot be useful.

Thursday 12 July 2012

Tales from Barcelona 4

Chapter 2: Under the Shadow of the Arc de Triomf, part one

Living in Manchester means the novelty of tapas wore off many years ago, once a glut of establishments realised they can sell piddling amounts of food for massively inflated prices to gullible customers convinced they're trying something exotic. For example, the following is a list of what £25 of my hard-earned money got me during a recent trip to a tapas restaurant in Chorlton:

1 chunk of chorizo
2 chunks of fried potato
2 bites of chicken stew
2 bites of lamb stew
1 calamari ring
Some bread
2 pints

Money well spent, I'm sure you'll agree. So is eating tapas in Spain a revelation that words can barely do justice? Certainly not in terms of taste; despite my varied slurs, Manchester is capable enough of delivering delicious tapas (and it's not like many of the dishes are particularly complex to put together in the first place). It's just that it always feels so forced. You can replicate the food, but you can't match the experience of actually being in a foreign country, nor can you benefit from the decent weather, and whilst it would be foolish to assume that eating tapas in Barcelona is as authentic as it was before the place became such a massive tourist hotspot, there's still a value to sitting outside in the sun, drinking beer and eating what are essentially bar snacks as the city bustles around you.

After arriving at the hotel and dumping our bags that's exactly what we set out to do. The nearest spot for it was Rambla del Poblenou, which proved to be everything La Rambla isn't; quiet and unhurried, the closest point of comparison in Manchester would probably be Burton Road: an area with all the local amenities you need and an abundance of food and drink options, albeit somewhere you wouldn't want to spend every night.

The winner of the evening was La Buena Vida (which translates as "the good life," I believe), a little bar and restaurant helpfully subtitled Oh My God Tapas! that delivered us artichoke crisps and an inexplicable dish of gyoza-style liver dumplings with a strawberry, paprika, and creme fraiche dip (all of which worked very well together). Before that, we'd sampled various Spanish sausages; afterward, we made a decision that in retrospect might have been influenced by our alcohol intake, strolling into a fish place and ordering a platter of deep fried seafood. After the trauma of our Ryanair flight, it was the perfect way to unwind.

*   *   *

The next day we mooched around the city, collected our festival wristbands, and ate and drank plenty more before making our way to the Arc de Triomf, where a free gig marked the opening of Primavera 2012. We caught the majority of Jeremy Jay's set, which was entertaining enough, proving a solid accompaniment to the slowly setting sun and the cold beers we'd bought from a nearby shop filled with revellers who'd had the same idea, eschewing the expensive on-site stalls. His brand of alt-pop is probably best described as "infectious," given that a few of his songs are still stuck in my head over a month later, the highlight being "Caught in a Whirl," which is basically a Wes Anderson movie distilled into four minutes of evocative music.

Having seen The Wedding Present tear through Bizarro in Berlin a couple of years back, I had pretty high hopes for their latest run-through of a classic album. In comparison, Seamonsters is a much slower and heavier affair, the sort of thing Lou Barlow sang about in "Gimme Indie Rock." This worked against it in the early going, with the sound a little muddy to begin with, but things quickly improved, allowing the material to become as powerful and imposing as it is on record. Gedge was as on as ever, singing songs of heartbreaks twenty years gone, breathing new life into their meaning and validating their existence by holding on to them.

*   *   *

I first caught The Walkmen, when they supported Idlewild at the big Academy in 2002, and was so impressed I talked one of the members of the band into selling me a copy of their debut album Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me is Gone at a slightly reduced price due to a lack of funds on my part. Since then, it's been a case of diminishing returns; neither that record nor any of their subsequent efforts have ever lived up to that transcendental first experience. I give each new album a shot upon release, typically enjoying it but not being moved by it in any way. I like the idea behind the band more than the execution, the way they're described on paper more than the music they produce. To my ears there is an emptiness at the heart of their music that I just can't move beyond, and with a few exceptions their output leaves me cold. Still, in marked contrast to my All Tomorrow's Parties 2010 experience (stay for "The Rat," leave immediately afterward), they struck a chord with me this time. The vastness of the setting gave their songs space to breathe, allowing their grace and elegance to shine the way it deserves to. Maybe I'll come to love them yet.

*   *   *

Deciding to call it a night so as not to burn ourselves out before the festival proper, we headed to the nearest Metro station, where we were lucky enough to hear a busker play the most approximate cover of "You Shook Me All Night Long" of all time. Meanwhile, on the station platform a big screen played basketball highlights, and under the influence I decided that I missed my calling coaching the sport. Before heading back to the hotel, we couldn't resist another trip to La Buena Vida, stuffing ourselves with Iberian kebab and the most delicious chicken strips in the world. Even though we didn't need the food, it seemed ridiculous to order drinks and not grab a bite to eat. It's what they do in Barcelona, after all, and why go against tradition?

Sunday 1 July 2012

5 Reasons I Haven't Watched Any of Euro 2012

1. "Come on England!"

How can any reasonable human being not hate everything to do with the way we support England? People hanging flags from their windows or attaching them to cars. Tabloid newspapers rehashing World War II with lame, offensive humour every time we're drawn against Germany. The ecstasy of victory and agony of defeat suddenly becoming crucial to national self-esteem. People talking about "the mood of the camp." England's Brave John Terry, possibly the most unsupportable man to ever have represented his country. Post-mortems that last for weeks and yet always reach the same conclusion: the players simply aren't good enough. Even people like me, who rebel against this common cause and support whichever team England are facing. These three words - and all they entail - make fools of us.

2. An international tournament without South American and African teams is a waste of everyone's time

The truth is that modern international football tournaments are almost always a letdown. Think about it: since Euro 96, which competition has stuck in your memory as a great sporting event? Certainly nothing that has taken place in the 21st century. If you don't believe me, think about the victors, which include probably the worst Italian and Brazilian sides to ever win anything. Face it: the few great games are vastly outweighed by interminable dreck that punishes a person for taking an interest in the first place. But at least at the World Cup there's always one or two South American teams with genuine flair, and one or two African teams capturing the hearts of neutrals as they chase the continent's first ever World Cup, in both cases playing exciting football. Meaning we get to enjoy spectacles such as Uruguay vs Ghana at the quarter-final stage of the 2010 tournament, an instant classic that had just about all the drama you could hope for. Who was the non-partisan viewer supposed to root for this time round?

3. Spain are the new Greece

On that same note: when Greece won Euro 2004, it was pretty much mandatory to laud their achievement: massive underdogs overcome the odds to lift their first ever international trophy. It wasn't mandatory to actually enjoy their achievement, though, nor was it possible, given that their tactics essentially comprised of boring the opposition into submission and nicking a single goal somewhere along the way.

When Greece adopted this approach, it was understandable; after all, their squad was entirely lacking in quality. Spain, however, have any number of word class players in their ranks, including a midfield that at Barcelona outpass and outplay almost every team they go up against AND score an abundance of goals in the process. Whilst Spain's Euro 2008 success felt like just desserts for a great footballing nation,
 their progress through the 2010 World Cup was essentially one massive prolonged yawn, and by the end I was hoping Holland would butcher their way to victory. Despite their very best efforts to do exactly that, Spain proved triumphant, and in the process validated their approach to the game.

It would be unfair to say that Spain are like watching paint dry. I think of it more like staring at a metronome for 90 minutes. Which of course is an equally dull way to spend one's time. Never again do I want to subject myself to sitting in front of the television as they eke out a 1-0 victory against a side they could put five past if they were willing to shoot a little more.

4. Almost all pundits and commentators in this country are awful

Let us consider that statement in greater depth. Naming a favourite out of hosts Gary Lineker and Adrian Chiles is like Sophie's choice, if instead of her two children she had to pick between a sack of shit and a bottle of piss. Alan Hansen gave up trying years ago, shortly after "you can't win anything with kids" destroyed his professional credibility forever. Roy Keane is too filled with contempt for all mankind to offer anything in the way of insight. Lee Dixon: if by any chance you're reading, being described as "the best of a bad bunch" really isn't a compliment. And the parade of unemployed or unemployable managers on display is like walking through an animal sanctuary: it breaks your heart just a little, especially since you know that most of them have no chance of finding a new home.

Dreadful though they may be, none of the above are the worst offender. That honour is shared between Alan Shearer and Mark Lawrenson. Can you picture anyone sat at home as Shearer offers his patented brand of talking a lot and saying nothing whatsoever in the dullest voice in recorded history and thinking "that's some spot on analysis, Alan"? As for Lawrenson, his asides on commentary often paint him as a man who has not only lost touch with the modern world, but is slowly losing his sanity. When he insults Twitter users, or cracks jokes with racist or homophobic undertones, remember that your license fee is paying for him to do so.

In the battle of the networks, ITV "wins" by virtue of the fact that a) it doesn't employ Alan Shearer; b) it doesn't employ Mark Lawrenson; and c) at least adverts truncate the amount of time the viewer has to spend listening to jibbering inanities delivered by idiots. But the only true winner is the person who opts out.

5. Between live blogs and Twitter, actually watching football is pointless

Despite my refusal to watch any of the tournament, I've still retained a passing interest in it. Not enough to read the infinite number of think-pieces it has inspired, but certainly enough to follow the BBC and Guardian live blogs. For the uninitiated, they provide minute-by-minute coverage and analysis, with plenty of humour thrown in too. I'm free to check in on them as and when I please, and read over what's happened when I've not been paying attention, all the while doing more productive things with my time.

To supplement that, I have wonderful Twitter, and the people who dedicate themselves to cracking jokes. Enjoy shots at Spain not naming a recognised striker in their team, jibes at the obvious futility of England's efforts, or ribs at the cameramen and their propensity to spend a rather disproportionate amount of time lingering on shots of attractive Sweden fans? Twitter has you covered. It's difficult to imagine that any of the actual football could've provided more entertainment than, say, the Betfair Poker Twitter account, a surrealist masterpiece that described the Spain-Portugal match as a "bleak, humourless restaging of Waiting for Godot" and claiming that an iPad wielding Joe Hart was preparing for the penalty shootout against Italy "by watching a DVD of season 2 of Breaking Bad." Or how about News Manc taking the piss out of UEFA's practically unfathomable system for group qualification: "If Denmark manage a victory by two or more goals over Germany and the Dutch beat Portugal, Tottenham still only go into the Europa League." I haven't watched a minute of the tournament, and yet I feel confident in saying that nothing on the pitch topped the online humour it inspired.

Thursday 21 June 2012

Schrodinger's Mailbox: Epilogue

Today I decided it was finally time to check the mailbox. Inside were seven letters containing bills from utilities companies, an absurd number of flyers and circulars, and one dead cat.

Monday 18 June 2012

Schrodinger's Mailbox

Life as an adult can be difficult, and there are still certain responsibilities I haven't gotten used to. Paying for the likes of water, electricity, and gas is one of them.

But before you think I'm getting all #firstworldproblems on you, let me put your mind at ease. I don't hate or resent having to pay bills; such transactions are entirely reasonable in nature. No, it's the act of paying bills I hate or, more specifically, can't be bothered with. The typing of endless information into an online form, or else the phonecall to a line that starts off automated before plunging you into human interaction without warning, or else trying to locate a Post Office that is open at sane hours of the day: each choice a task so arduous it could be chronicled by Tolkien. They haven't yet devised a payment option that doesn't strike me as the biggest inconvenience of all time.

The solution to my woes came to me by accident, in the form of a well-known thought experiment that I've unknowingly been carrying out for the last two months, the same amount of time that has passed since I last checked the mailbox. Partly because the tiny little key that opens the box is missing. I know that it is somewhere in the flat, but its exact location is unknown and its absence unlamented, so the search was called off before it even got started, largely because of a nonsensical complacency: I'm so certain that I could find it within two minutes of looking that it's like I've already found it, and if I've already found it, why would I need to look for it?

Because of this attitude, I find myself in the perfect situation. It goes without saying that nestled in the mailbox are several letters from utilities companies, all requesting money. It's been two months: of course the bills are mounting. However, because the box has not been opened, and the letters containing the bills not retrieved, it is impossible to say with absolute certainty that such letters exist. So at the same time they exist and do not exist, a glorious paradox that both critiques the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics and means I do not have to contend with the reality of my debts.

I'm sure Erwin Schrodinger could only dream about such a practical application of his theories.

Tuesday 12 June 2012

Tales from Barcelona 3

Interlude: You Get What You Pay For

Ryanair CEO Michael O'Leary hates you, your friends, your family, and your favourite childhood pet, and will continue to do so no matter how often you pay to use his airline.

Every time someone books a Ryanair flight, Baby Jesus cries.

Ryanair's terms and conditions includes sections dedicated to its "right to cancel flights on whims and fancies," its "right to fly you to an airport other than the one advertised, or to a different country altogether if the mood takes us," and its "right to plant drugs in your luggage if Ryanair staff are bored." The terms and conditions document runs some 500 pages, and is designed to rob customers not just of their rights, but of their dignity.

Ryanair specifically requests that airport security frisks its customers particularly roughly, regardless of whether or not they set off the metal detector.

Ryanair pilots spend the entirety of each flight idly daydreaming about anally fisting you without lubrication. Ryanair co-pilots think about what deep fried kitten would taste like.

It is forbidden to look Ryanair stewards and stewardesses directly in the eye. Any breach of protocol regarding this rule will result in the guilty party being ejected from the plane. Whilst midair.

All products sold on Ryanair flights contain nuts. That includes duty free items such as alcohol, perfumes, and stuffed toys. In addition, the stewards and stewardesses rub every seat with nuts before take-off. O'Leary has hated people with nut allergies ever since a classmate's condition forced the cancellation of a promised school trip to a local cake factory.

Ryanair charges its customers for breathing, with one complete in-and-out cycle costing 10p. The cost rises to 50p per cycle if the oxygen masks drop (supply and demand in action). In the event of the plane plummeting to the earth and wiping out everyone on board, passengers' billing information is recorded on the black box, and the debt is passed on to the deceased individuals' families.

O'Leary caused controversy when claiming the ash clouds that disrupted travel in April 2010 were "mythical." In the past, he has made similar statements concerning armadillos, table tennis, Margaret Thatcher, the Great Fire of London, and Lithuania.

There is at least a 50% chance that the next time I fly it will be with Ryanair. My greatest hope in life is that one day I'll be able to get that percentage down to zero.

Thursday 7 June 2012

Tales from Barcelona 2

Chapter 1: Me and Barcelona

It started six years ago, as I exited the Metro station outside of Sagrada Familia to be confronted with the most amazing structure I have ever seen with my own eyes, an insane church straight from the mind of one of the few men worthy of the tag "genius." It ended with a classical version of "The Winner Takes It All" playing in the underground, followed by the ABBA version soundtracking my last minutes in the airport a few hours later. Of course, that's assuming that the story has come to a close, which seems unlikely. Chances are I'll find a reason to return to Barcelona.

*   *   *

In many ways, Barcelona is something of a mess, a perennial work-in-progress, the spirit of which is best embodied by Antoni Gaudi's aforementioned masterpiece, which started construction in 1882 and won't be finished before 2026 at the earliest. A sprawling mass of high rises that seems eternally stuck in the 20th century, punctuated only occasionally by breathtaking architecture and the odd modern glass structure, still trapped beneath the weight of a dictatorship that came to an end less than 40 years ago. The constant regeneration that has occurred since then has had a relatively limited impact, and in many respects Barcelona is a relic.

But a city should never be defined solely by appearances. Barcelona is one of the most alive places you could ever hope to spend time in; not in the "never sleeps" sense, like New York or Berlin, but in the sense that during the peak hours of human activity it is absolutely relentless. It hasn't been neutered like so many major cities; tourist traps exist, but wandering off the beaten track pays off big time, and any given back alley can be a hub of activity, home to an amazing restaurant or a blink-and-you'll-miss-it bar. I could spend an entire post elucidating about the grid system much of the city was built in. And although the regeneration moves at a slow pace, it remains a sign of the constant evolution that is likely to continue well into the future. Barcelona has a character completely of its own, and for that it should be cherished.

*   *   *

On my first visit I fell in love with the place, even after accidentally finding myself on a date with another guy, being assaulted by a prostitute whilst walking along La Rambla, and spending the early hours of one morning asleep on a bench. Or maybe because of those things; a city isn't worth much if you don't have stories to tie you to it. I tried to fit everything in - the Picasso museum, the Joan Miro Foundation, the Nou Camp, Parc Guell, Montjuic - and despite my best efforts only managed to scratch the surface. Still, the impression I was left with was overwhelmingly favourable.

That goodwill was wiped out almost entirely by my second visit, although I'll be the first to admit that I got the mechanics of the trip wrong from start to finish. Much like this year, the primary reason for flying out was the Primavera music festival. However, at times it was disastrous: flights with Ryanair at ungodly hours of the day from Liverpool to "Barcelona" Reus, which is actually close to two hours outside of the city centre; a ridiculous schedule of moving from hostel to apartment to hotel to hostel; the combination of the above conspiring to deny me the time needed to enjoy the beats and rhythms of the city. Add in some poorly thought out food choices and some truly brutal hangovers, and the good times - the actual festival, basically - were contained in one tiny part of Barcelona, rendering the rest of the holiday superfluous. Still, Primavera was enough fun to convince me to return.

What follows is primarily the story of my third visit, although I reserve the right to veer from a linear path in order to ramble on about other experiences - and about nothing in particular - whenever the mood takes me. Hopefully you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed living it.

Tuesday 5 June 2012

Tales from Barcelona 1

Prelude: Remembering the Dead

The Cure went on stage at ten fifteen on Friday 1st June for their Primavera 2012 set, and they stayed there for the next thirty hours. In the buildup to the festival, the weak-willed promoters had continually acquiesced to Robert Smith's repeated demands for more time, eventually allowing him and his band to both headline the second night and close the third and final night without interruption.

The Cure played many of their obscure songs, b-sides, and album tracks more than once, whilst dropping in their hits at a rate of one approximately every two hours. They saved "Boys Don't Cry" for last. "Play Boys Don't Cry" shouted every single Primavera attendee at least once during the course of the band's set. "Not yet," Robert Smith replied calmly each time. "We're going to play another mostly instrumental cut from one of our less popular albums. We know that's what you want to hear really."

The thousands of loyal Cure fans in attendance never did give up hope that they would hear "Boys Don't Cry," and remained rooted in front of the San Miguel stage for the entirety of the performance. Their happiness was diminished, however, when they realised that the band's selfishness had robbed them of the final day of the festival. En masse, they unleashed their anger along the coast of East Barcelona, razing much of it to the ground. Many of the male rioters were visibly in tears, softly singing Cure songs to themselves and repeating the question "why does Robert Smith hate me?" to no-one in particular. It took three days to get the violence under control, and amidst all the destruction over 50,000 people died.

Their blood is on your hands, Robert Smith. Their blood is on your hands.

The story that follows is dedicated to their memory.

Friday 18 May 2012

My Days as a Mover and Shaker

Between the champagne reception and the breakfast on expenses I knew one thing: I had well and truly arrived.

Of course, it took a fair bit of time to get there. Two hours and eight minutes, to be precise. That's how long the train from Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston took. The train that tilted from time to time, and did nothing for my travel sickness. The train with free Wi-Fi and an onboard shop. The train that drove me to bigger and better things: my two days as a mover and shaker.

*   *   *

I've never had much cause to think of myself as a businessperson. Life has never much required me to wear a suit. But as we get older, and our careers progress, such occasions are bound to crop up from time to time. Which is how I found myself travelling down to London, to attend a conference dedicated to young leaders.

In preparation, I had purchased a brand new business suit, as my old one was looking decidedly rough around the edges. It is important to make a good first impression, after all. I even packed three ties. I own five ties altogether, although how I've accumulated so many I have no idea. They just seem to turn up from time to time, buried amongst the debris that builds up in any bedroom. I lugged a heavy travel bag onto the train, sat myself down, and spent the entire journey writing. Every single word I penned I'd somehow lost by the time I got back to Manchester, including one of the most perfect paragraphs I have ever been responsible for. My attempts to put it back together again from memory have completely failed.

*   *   *

As soon as I exited Euston station I was comprehensively lost, in that I had not bothered to research where my hotel was located and thus didn't have the slightest idea how to find it. For about five minutes it seemed reasonable to assume that I would remain lost for the rest of my life, but then I rooted around in my bag, pulled out a couple of maps that were rather lacking in detail, and managed to gain my bearings. I immediately walked past a film set, which is how I imagine every day in London must be for those who live there.

Upon arriving at my hotel, the girl who checked me in was both in training and a very colourful character. She engaged me in humorous banter, but due to creeping exhaustion I was of no use to her, either as a straight man to her comedic stylings or as a human being offering normal conversational responses. Toward the end of our exchange I attempted to crack a joke of my own, but it fell flat. Both of us were glad when our dealings were complete.

The room I stayed in was modest but well-appointed. There was a Bible and everything. I skimmed through it, making a mental note to replace Anthony Powell with Genesis as my bedtime reading. Switching on my computer, however, my worst fears were confirmed: no free Wi-Fi. The only two options were to bankrupt myself paying BT Openzone rates, or begrudgingly go without. There was a TV, but I hardly ever bother with TV these days. Unless I stream it, of course. With nothing else to do, I filled up the kettle and put it on to boil.

After a cup of tea came the realisation that I needed something to eat. I briefly considered finding a restaurant of some kind and eating there, alone, but as time was getting on I decided that I wanted neither the bother nor the expense. I remembered that on my way to the hotel I had passed a Sainsbury's. I contemplated wearing my new business suit to Sainsbury's - being anxious to take it out for a spin - but decided that the formality of the dress would not be in keeping with the occasion. I headed back out, trudging past the film set once more, this time paying a bit more attention to the trailers. There was one for a guy called Guy and one for a guy called Josh. And one for Nat and one for Chloe. And an entire trailer dedicated to an unnamed dialect coach.

When I arrived at the supermarket I was disappointed to discover that I had left my wallet at the hotel. The duck and hoisin wrap I had been hungrily eyeing up remained on the shelf as I exited and walked past the film set for a third time. By that point the novelty had worn off. I spent the minutes that followed traversing the hotel's corridors pretending that staying there was a profound meditation on loneliness and isolation, just like Lost in Translation. After an interminable period I had finally secured a sandwich, and just about had enough time to eat it before I fell to sleep.

*   *   *

The conference itself was great. Lots of networking and keynote speakers. Presentations and teamworking activities. The type of stuff they don't teach you in schools, because they're too busy teaching ancient mathematics with no practical day-to-day usage. They taught us how to get ahead. And who doesn't want to get ahead? Better that than standing still or heading backward. Alternative culture has a lot to answer for, teaching generations of individuals that ambition is a bad thing. And the only lesson I remember from school is what an Oxbow river looks like.

A lot of people had iPads and iPhones. All I had was a water damaged Samsung that refuses to send text messages. But in the cutthroat business world, you can't let such disadvantages get you down. At the end of the first day, we walked by the canal toward Camden, en route for an evening of free food and drink. All dressed up with somewhere to go. The luxury of the surroundings suited me far better than the fluorescent lighting of a takeaway joint serving tragic fried chicken and soggy fries at three in the morning. And when servers are constantly topping up your wine glass, it becomes impossible to tell whether you've consumed two glasses or two bottles.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and once the conference wrapped up I was simply a commuter, elbowing past people in a desperate dash for any available seat. As the train pulled out of London Euston I knew one thing: I had well and truly departed.

Thursday 22 March 2012

;-)

Let us take a trip back to June 2010, when I posted the following:


"Let me note that Kilgore Trout and I have never used semicolons. They don't do anything, don't suggest anything. They are transvestite hermaphrodites."

Just as the semicolon was becoming a vital addition to my writing, Kurt Vonnegut - one of my favourite authors of all time - had to go and ruin it for me. Still, I bow to his superior literary genius, and accept that I'll have to modify my style accordingly. The above quote is from Timequake, which I've just finished rereading. Just one of the many examples of his brilliance.


Back in 2012, I still admire and enjoy Vonnegut a great deal. However, when I penned the above my own writing was still in its formative stages. Almost two years on I'm much more confident, and therefore much more inclined to take on sacred cows. The semicolon is a perfectly useful literary tool in the hands of those who know how to use it; one that can be deployed effectively in order to establish the mood or flow of a sentence, much like commas and full stops can be. Vonnegut was wrong to dimiss it, and wrong to suggest that writers should avoid it at all costs.

It's a stance he reasserted and expounded upon often, further dismissing the semicolon by suggesting that "All they do is show you've been to college." In this sense, his complaint takes on a distinct air of anti-intellectualism for anti-intellectualism's sake. If we accept that he's wrong then the comment becomes nothing more than a cheap shot at the educated, Vonnegut playing to one crowd whilst trying to make another feel foolish. The notion of blacklisting any grammatical device is ludicrous and restrictive, in a way that inhibits writers rather than challenging them. It's no more a valid statement than Stephen King's "don't use adverbs" mantra, but it's more celebrated simply because Vonnegut is held in higher regard by literary critics and "educated" readers (funnily enough), whereas King is more a man of the common people, and thus seen as easier to dismiss.

The point, of course, is that you shouldn't listen to anyone who would attempt to impose barriers on the way you write, or influence you away from certain techniques and devices. Guidelines are fine, and often very useful indeed, but cast iron rules only narrow what can be achieved. Vonnegut may well have been a genius. He even had a great many of the answers. But not all of them.

Links of interest:

Jon Henley considers the semicolon's place in modern literature.
A spirited defense of the semicolon.
An explanation of how and when to use a semicolon.

Saturday 17 March 2012

Reflections on seeing Jeff Mangum live

It can be difficult to write about a music festival. Offering a straightforward review doesn't really work, simply because the "I saw this band and they were good, then I saw another band and they were also good" approach quickly becomes repetitive. Which is why many writers attempt to add some colour to proceedings and tell the "story" of their festival.

Of course, that has its own unique set of pitfalls too. Some people will tell you every detail - from getting on a train to travel to the festival to walking back through their front door once it's all over - but don't have any aptitude for making the mundane fascinating. As an example:

"Woke up hungover. Ate bacon sandwich(es). Contemplated going swimming. Went swimming/did not feel up to swimming. Felt pretty certain there was no way I'd be able to drink. Cracked open a beer at around four in the afternoon and got on with it anyway. Continued drinking until it was time to sleep. Both the craic and the bands were great."

The above neatly summarises my Saturday and Sunday at Jeff Mangum's All Tomorrow's Parties, but fails to say anything interesting whatsoever. Plus I only used 61 words. Imagine reading that stretched out to essay length. Hell, you don't need to imagine it: you can find plenty of examples across the internet.

Still, better that than the over-earnest souls who make out their festival experience to be life changing. Music can, on occasion, have such a profound effect upon a person, as can music performed live. But a music festival? I'm not convinced. There are too many factors at play, far too many variables to worry about. Too much time spent hungover, too much time spent drinking through it, or, if you're not consuming industrial quantities of alcohol, too much time spent in close proximity to people who are. Too many uptight people, too many people who could do with toning it down a little, too many people who by the third day are clinging on for dear life. Festivals are communal experiences, not transcendental ones, more about the fun of spending a weekend intoxicated amongst friends and other somewhat likeminded individuals than specific artists and performances.

This holds true even when the artist is as seminal as Jeff Mangum. Few albums mean as much to me as In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, and when All Tomorrow's Parties announced that he would be curating one of its two December 2011 events, tickets were immediately purchased as excitement struggled to contain itself. Unfortunately, for reasons that still have not been adequately explained, the festival was postponed until March 2012. No problem: it just meant there was more time for the anticipation to build.

He played two shows over the course of his ATP weekend. The first was early Friday evening, and it was good - and given the quality of the songs, most likely even great - but it wasn't incredible, and in the aftermath came the search for reason. Was it some failing on my part, an inability to truly appreciate a performance I'd wanted to see for so long? Was it the audience: were they somehow not up for it, into it, enjoying it enough? Maybe it was the venue? Was it the timing of the show, the fact that is was on relatively early, when everyone had spent the day travelling to get there and hadn't quite shaken the exhaustion associated with their journeys nor drunk enough to disguise it? Was it Jeff's choice of "Two Headed Boy Pt. Two" to open proceedings, a song so full of a sense of finality - both in its thematic/lyrical content and in the fact that it closes the second and final Neutral Milk Hotel album - that to start with it just didn't seem right? Or was his decision to tour solo rather than with a full band to blame?

One friend offered up the possibility that it was Jeff himself, arguing that maybe he just doesn't care about the songs enough anymore to truly do them justice on stage; that for him, the music of Neutral Milk Hotel is part of his past, no matter how much a part of the present and future it may be for his devotees. The post-mortem didn't produce any definite answers, so we chose to revel in the fact that we'd seen him play (something we never thought would happen) and convinced ourselves that the Sunday show would be better.

And it was. Much better, in fact: far closer to the experience I'd longed for than Friday's set, more inspired and emotional on Jeff's part, played to an audience who seemed more appreciative second time around. However, it didn't entirely dispel the notion that maybe he was wrong to return to performing altogether. Even now, I wonder if his story had more value as that of a man who decided to turn his back on music after recording his masterpiece, rather than that of a man who has put his reclusiveness/reluctance to perform to one side in order to play his songs to a generation of people who never had the chance to see them live. I wouldn't have missed him for the world, but in truth those people who chose not to see him didn't miss too much. It didn't change my life, but then it didn't need to. Seeing incredible songs performed well by one of my heroes was more than enough for one weekend.

Friday 2 March 2012

Despite defeat, Pearce may still be the best man to lead England forward

I was about halfway through writing a glowing testimonial to Stuart Pearce's handling of his role as England caretaker manager Wednesday afternoon when I realised that were his side to lose to Holland, any such piece would instantaneously be rendered null and void. When Ashley Young equalised late on, I celebrated in the belief that my endeavours had not gone to waste. Arjen Robben had other ideas, however, destroying my carefully crafted words with his heavily deflected goal. So it goes.

Football is a results game, and if no-one was clamouring for Pearce to take over before Holland came to Wembley, the 3-2 defeat may well have damaged his case irreparably. Yet there were plenty of positives to be taken from the performance. Scott Parker excelled as captain, leading from the front rather than simply resorting to pointing often and shouting loudly, the template for many of those who followed before him. Daniel Sturridge had little over half the game to make his mark, and did so impressively, furthering not just his case for inclusion in the European Championship squad but as one of the first names on the teamsheet. None of the younger players looked overawed by the occasion. And a major plus point in favour of Pearce was the fact that the changes he made after England went two goals down had a positive enough effect that England were able to draw level, albeit briefly. Putting things into perspective, defeat against a Holland side that finished runners-up at the last World Cup is nothing to be ashamed of, and should not lead to panic.

Let's consider the man who is most likely to land the role. Harry Redknapp has naturally been the subject of a fair amount of discussion as far as his tactical nous - or lack thereof - is concerned, with some proclaiming him to be naive in that area whilst others insist that he only pretends to be. Whichever stance you take, his stock wasn't helped by Tottenham's 5-2 defeat at Arsenal. Ignoring the scoreline, it was the manner of the performance that was worrying, with his side somehow taking a 2-0 lead before capitulating, making the much maligned likes of Theo Walcott and Tomas Rosicky look like world beaters in the process. Redknapp's attempts to influence the game - such as his introduction of Sandro and van der Vaart at half-time - had a negative impact, and the defensive ineptness shown by Tottenham's back four (all regular starters) was more profound than any of England's failings on Wednesday night.

The success of tactically astute ex-players such as Josep Guardiola and Antonio Conte is evidence of a sea change in the priorities of coaches, of a shift to an approach that is less focused on motivating and more focused on tactics, and formations, and the ability to read the game well enough to make adjustments on the fly. No-one is claiming that Pearce is on the level of Guardiola or Conte, but he does have the advantage of being extremely familiar with England's younger players, having coached most of them at U21 level. The mistakes against Holland appeared to be the temporary aberrations of an unfamiliar and inexperienced back four playing together for the first time, rather than any kind of failing on Pearce's part; the type of errors one would assume a few weeks of training together would eliminate. It seems reasonable to assume that a man who has spent the last five years as part of the England set-up has a better chance of pulling things together at this late stage than a man parachuted into the position at the last minute.

Pearce's own suggestion that he could coach the national side at Euro 2012 but not beyond the tournament is patently ridiculous; either he's capable of doing the job or he's not. The Football Association have clearly been grooming him to eventually lead the senior side since he first joined the England set-up back in 2007, as evidenced by the increased responsibilities they have bestowed upon him. Much like this country's younger generation of players, he both needs and deserves his opportunity sooner rather than later.

Looking at it another way, were Pearce to bomb at the European Championships, would that really be a disaster? If we're honest, England are in the midst of a transitional phase, and cannot be considered serious contenders. Even in the short term, appointing someone new could do more damage than good. If, for example, Redknapp were to get the job, what happens if England fail to make it past the group stages? Could he really claim to be the right man to lead the side forward? If Pearce fails, on the other hand, then it would be reasonable to dismiss him from his duties as both caretaker and U21 manager - thus getting rid of the last person associated with the Fabio Cappello era - and the FA could search for the right man without the need to rush the decision. In other words, with Pearce in charge there would be positives to take from even the worst case scenario.

And the best case scenario? That Pearce fulfils the promise many people see in him, and coaches a young England side to at least the quarter-finals, delivering as much as any of his predecessors and marking the nation out as one that may well be capable of challenging for major honours come 2012. Sound fanciful? Perhaps. But we'll never have a better chance to find out where the truth lies than Poland and Ukraine this summer.

Monday 27 February 2012

A Few Thoughts on The Artist

Predictably, another awards ceremony was dominated by The Artist on Sunday evening. Its success at the Oscars didn't quite match its achievements at the BAFTAs, but it still took home a good proportion of the most important awards. Best Director for Michael Hazanavicius. Best Actor for Jean Dujardin as George Valentin. And Best Picture. A final victory lap for a film that has earned outpourings of critical love and devotion from almost everyone who has encountered it. And yet I can't be the only one wondering if the tributes to this film - one that so unashamedly wallows in the past - have gotten out of hand.

Firstly, lets cast aside the underdog narrative that some are trying to attach to it. The Artist has been a clear Oscar favourite for months, it had the weight of Harvey Weinstein behind it, and it was perfectly pitched at Old Hollywood. Given that approximately 86% of the near 6,000 Academy voters are over the age of 50, they were always going to appreciate a film like The Artist; even if few were old enough to actually experience the silent era firsthand, it no doubt played a significant role in their cultural upbringing. Hazanvicius was preaching to the choir from the off.

So, taking the film on its critical merits, what are its themes? What are its ambitions? What does it set out to achieve? It spends so much of its time carefully homaging (and occasionally pastiching) silent films that it largely lacks a unique identity of its own, one separate from its inspirations. Its two main themes could be summed up as 'you can't stand in the way of progress' (which I suppose is a somewhat subversive point for a film largely dealing in reductive nostalgia to make, although both the ending and the entire premise of The Artist arguably contradict said theme anyway) and 'love conquers all' (although the love story is really more of a background element than a key driver of the plot, and plays out more as admiration than heartfelt passion). When you add in the fact that many of its biggest laughs come from either ridiculous slapstick or the Animal's Do The Funniest Things-level antics of Uggie the dog, it doesn't seem unfair to say that The Artist is a film of limited ambition, an interesting novelty that the average viewer will forget about almost as soon as it is over. Beyond a post-film discussion over a pint, I had no cause to dwell upon The Artist until it became omnipresent on the cultural landscape. I thought that it effectively and faithfully mimicked a bygone era, raised a few laughs, warmed the heart a little, and achieved nothing else besides.

(it also has at least a couple of major problems, the most pronounced of which is that the reason for Valentin's opposition to the introduction of sound only becomes clear at the end of the film, and as a result his motivations are only given meaning retroactively. This just about works, but it still leaves Valentin looking like a stubborn, foolish man for the best part of 100 minutes, and it requires a fair bit of suspension of disbelief to accept that no-one in the film would've called him on his attitude at any point. There is also one key scene toward the end of the film that felt like an artificial, overly melodramatic way of extending its running time.)

In terms of the acting, Dujardin and Berenice Bejo are winning, to be sure, but their performances aren't exceptional. The film's very premise hamstrings the pair, who resort to what could at times be described as overacting (or, less generously, mugging for camera) in order to convey emotion. The silent medium isn't made for great performances, and it was the rare talent who overcame the inherent limitations it imposed. For me, Dujardian and Bejo did enough to carry the film, but never quite approached greatness.

Even acknowledging that no-one particularly holds up the Oscars as a barometer of quality, The Artist can best be described as the beneficiary of a groundswell of short-term fascination and sentiment that will not translate into any kind of enduring appeal. History, I fear, will not be kind to it, and that is at least partly because so many have done so much to elevate it above its standing, from the interesting curiosity it is to the object of rapturous critical acclaim it has become.

Wednesday 15 February 2012

Andres Villas-Boas: living on borrowed time

Roman Abramovich is developing a trigger-happy reputation on a par with some of his Spanish and Italian counterparts, having shown a willingness to dispose of a manager as soon as they don't quite meet his exacting standards. Just look at his form: Claudio Ranieri was the boss Abramovich inherited, and despite steering Chelsea to second place he was sacked as though he were an afterthought; like him or loathe him, Jose Mourinho is a great manager, and would have brought continued success to the club; Avram Grant had cause to feel hard done by after leading Chelsea to their only Champions League final to date (a match they would have won but for John Terry's slip); and Carlo Ancelotti won the club its first league title in four years. In relative terms, these men were successful in their roles. In Abramovich's mind, they weren't quite up to the job.

Which is why Andres Villas-Boas's position looks dangerous. Mourinho, Grant, and Ancelotti were fired for flaws and failings much lesser than those that have afflicted Villas-Boas's first year in charge. The club currently reside in fifth, behind Arsenal on goal difference; given Tottenham's 10 point advantage in third, it looks likely that Chelsea will record their lowest ever finish under Abramovich. However, that only tells part of the story.

To trot out the old cliché about Villas-Boas having lost the dressing room would be a tad hyperbolic, but his man management skills have rightly been called into question on a number of occasions, with this week's report of a training ground row between him and his playing staff just the latest in a string of incidents that have marred his tenure. Although he has shown absolute loyalty to John Terry following Anton Ferdinand’s accusation, he has managed to upset a number of senior players whose importance to the club’s success and history far exceed his own. His attempts to phase out some of the older hands have at times been exceptionally clumsy, and his handling of the transfer requests handed in by Alex and Nicolas Anelka was the most damning of his failures, highlighting a vindictiveness and petulance that won him few admirers both within and outside of the club.

What’s worse is that these issues appear to have been reflected on the pitch, with Chelsea turning in a number of abject performances, the spineless defeat at the hands of Everton just the latest. A return of four wins in the last 10 league games suggests that the manager is struggling to impose his ideology. Teams no longer show quite the same fear when faced with Chelsea mainstays such as Frank Lampard and Didier Drogba, and one wonders if Villas-Boas's attempts to downplay their importance has handed a psychological advantage to opponents. Meanwhile, David Luiz and Fernando Torres have continued to struggle, and Gary Cahill has made a grand total of one appearance since joining in the middle of January. There haven't been too many positives to take from the current campaign.

No-one would reasonably suggest that Villas-Boas deserves to lose his job. However, past form suggests that Abramovich is not always a reasonable man when it comes to such matters, and it seems unlikely that he'll keep the faith if his manager fails to deliver Champions League football for 2012-13.

Tuesday 14 February 2012

For those of you who may be wondering what, football posts aside, I've been working on in recent weeks:

- My first unsigned bands piece was in the December/January edition of Manchester Chimp magazine. You might still be able to find copies in the shops; if not, it's available online from their website. The next issue is due out soon, with the featured bands including biederbeck, The Gentrymen, and G R E A T W A V E S.

- The first post charting my year in reading is up over at Onward, Manchester, featuring Moneyball by Michael Lewis, Misery by Stephen King, and Everything's Fine by Socrates Adams.

- On the same blog, my coverage of X-Men Regenesis is in progress (part 1) (part 2). It's moving at something of a glacial pace, but that's okay; whilst I'm happy to recommend comicbooks to people, I couldn't in good faith recommend that they buy single issues. Hell, the only reason I don't wait for the trades is that I'm a holdover from before the collected edition took hold, programmed to turn up at a shop each Thursday and peruse what's on offer.

- I'm preparing something that could loosely be described as "proper journalism" about Manchester's Metrolink service and its place in the city, primarily as a reaction to MP Graham Stringer's assertion that the network is "damaging the city's reputation and economy."

- I also started work on a novel in January, with the vague aim of getting much of it written within the year. A resolution of sorts, if you will, or at least an attempt to spur myself to write more fiction, which so far has proven somewhat successful.

Thursday 9 February 2012

An Ignominious End for Fabio Capello?

When I previously wrote about the John Terry situation, I suggested that the FA had four options:

1) Terry is stripped of the captaincy but allowed to play for England.
2) Terry is stripped of the captaincy and banned from selection until the conclusion of the trial.
3) Terry is allowed to play, given that he is innocent until proven guilty.
4) Terry is dropped altogether for "footballing reasons."

Whilst realistically 4) is a bit of a stretch, I'm sure we can all agree that 1) is the least sensible option on the above list, and unsurprisingly that's exactly what the FA opted for. Or so we thought until Wednesday, when it became apparent that the FA had instead selected 5): Terry is stripped of the captaincy against England manager Fabio Capello's wishes but remains available for selection, and "oh, look, we don't have a manager anymore. How about that?"

Having mooted (but not, admittedly, wholeheartedly embraced) the idea that keeping Terry as captain was the right thing to do (in that removing him implies that he has done something wrong, when nothing of the sort has yet been established), I'm going to follow another unpopular path and suggest that the way the affair was handled (and mishandled) left Capello with no choice but to quit. He was clearly right to claim, in the aftermath of his resignation, that the FA damaged his authority, and that taking the Terry decision out of his hands (or not properly discussing the issue with him, at the very least) critically undermined his leadership, which in turn made his position untenable.

He did what any good manager did and fought for his player, defending Terry against those who seem intent to cast him as a guilty party before a verdict has been rendered. In a sense, his loyalty was admirable, and it would be harsh to condemn him for it, as some seem ready to. Would it have been so hard for the FA to stage a proper meeting to discuss the issue, listening fully to Capello's arguments as to why Terry should remain as captain before amicably overruling him and asking him to support the decision? Perhaps such an approach would have prevented his departure.

It's also worth remembering that Capello's win percentage as England manager is better than any of his predecessors. Better than Ramsey, Greenwood, Robson, Venables, and Eriksson, yet in terms of available talent I'd argue that he's had less to work with than most of the managers before him, and that he inherited England's recognised world class players (Ferdinand, Terry, Ashley Cole, Lampard, Gerrard, Beckham) at a point when most of them were in the midst of their inevitable decline.

At the same time, however, it goes without saying that Capello was his own worst enemy, and that choosing to express his displeasure to the media once the decision had been made was arrogant (and unnecessary) folly. The disastrous 2010 World Cup campaign rests largely on his shoulders, and since taking over he's struggled to win over the press and the public. If his principles can be admired, his decision-making skills when under pressure have been exposed as questionable at best; if we applaud his loyalty, we must also ask how much of his stance was born out of stubbornness; and if we acknowledge that progress has been made since the South Africa debacle, we must also admit that none of it has occurred on a stage that truly matters. At this point, a parting of the ways was probably the best for both parties.

Friday 3 February 2012

The Plight of John Terry

Being a figure of hate is nothing new for John Terry. The entire nation seemingly ground to a halt following the January 2010 revelations concerning his supposed affair with the ex-girlfriend of ex-teammate Wayne Bridge. The newspapers and the public in general were obsessed with the story, calling for his resignation as England captain and all but calling for his head, all while greedily devouring every bit of information or mis-information that was printed about him for months on end. Few people were interested when later that same year both the Mail on Sunday and the News of the World offered apologies to Vanessa Peroncell, for breaching her privacy and for printing a story that was untrue.

That furore temporarily cost him the England captaincy, but Rio Ferdinand's injury problems and general decline meant that within little over 12 months Terry was reinstated. The clash with Anton Ferdinand followed a few months later, however, and with it a whole new controversy.

Unlike his previous form the current situation is no minor frivolity. The accusation is serious; serious enough that the Crown Prosecution Service saw fit to charge him with using racist language. The Suarez incident was contained within the confines of football; Terry will be dealt with by the courts.

Wednesday's decision to delay the trial until July 9 was a curious one, seemingly made so as not to disrupt Chelsea's season, and indeed England's European Championship campaign. Not that the affair hasn't already caused ample disruption. Terry has been on the receiving end of plenty of unpleasant chanting, and here we are in February and the debate about his suitability to represent his country is already raging, with the tabloid newspapers once again leading a crusade. To delay the trial seems at best incredibly shortsighted, at worst a deplorable concession to the demands of a game that is apparently more important than justice being delivered in a timely fashion.

Mentioned in passing in a previous paragraph, the shadow of Rio Ferdinand looms large over the whole affair, and not just because he and Anton are brothers. Jason Roberts and many others have cited the 2003 incident that saw Rio left out of an England squad pending the investigation into his failure to attend a drug test, claiming that it should be held up as some kind of precedent. How exactly the two cases are related remains a mystery, given that said investigation was to determine whether or not his reason for missing the test (which was, quite simply, that he forgot about it) was an acceptable justification; in other words, Rio was guilty of the offense he was accused of, and the only question that remained was whether his explanation mitigated his guilt (the answer, unsurprisingly, was a resounding "no").

Roberts also mentions the situation involving Jonathan Woodgate and Lee Bowyer, both of whom the FA banned from international selection until the court case relating to the pair's alleged assault of an Asian student was concluded. As far as precedents go, that would appear to be a rather important one, although one suspects that if the FA were going to impose a similar restriction this time around, it would have done so already.

In the meantime, where does that leave the humble football fan, the men and women who just want to cheer on England in the European Championships? No-one is going to feel comfortable cheering on a team captained by a man who may or may not have used racist language in a hurtful manner; then again, is anyone going to feel better about cheering on a team only starring said man, rather than led by him? To wit: if Terry can't captain England, surely he can't play for England in any capacity? To strip him of the captaincy and still name him in the squad would be a frankly ludicrous decision, a declaration that we're against the sort of behaviour John Terry is accused of, but only up to a point.

Another question worth considering is to what extent should Fabio Capello and the FA be expected to pander to public sentiment? In this country, our entire justice system is predicated upon the fact that an individual is innocent until proven guilty beyond reasonable doubt. Any sanction against Terry would be a punishment, and to punish a man who has not yet been found guilty of anything would be an injustice, a bizarre acceptance of "there's no smoke without fire" as a binding legal argument. In many respects, keeping him as captain is the right decision, even though it certainly wouldn't be a popular one

Finally, we must ask whether or not Terry's recent form has been so great, so magnificent, so reminiscent of past glories that simply leaving him out of the squad is a possibility not worth considering. Great player though he remains, he's clearly lost a step or two in recent years; Fabio Capello could choose to be bold, selecting four younger defenders (Cahill, Richards, Jones, and Smalling, for example) and passing it off as an attempt to give valuable tournament experience to players who may prove to be the future of the national team. Such a line would fool no-one, of course, but it would put a contentious issue to bed swiftly and effectively. Whatever happens, any solution to the current situation will more than likely carry an air of uncomfortable compromise about it.