Category: Longform
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Taking the Piss
Last night I arranged to meet a beautiful young woman and we spent an hour together alone in a dingy bedsit.
Two weeks ago, I reported a crime. A broken window in an empty first floor flat, a couple of empty cans of Stella Artois in a small black plastic carrier bag, and a toilet bowlful of urine – the water tank had been drained and capped weeks ago, so there was no running water with which to flush away the evidence, or remove the stench. I know this because I work for the landlord.
Yesterday, after several answerphone messages, crossed wires and missed opportunities in the previous fortnight, Sam from forensics called me and asked me to meet her at the scene in ten minutes.
Half an hour later, in the freezing cold, she arrived, alone, in a small van and armed only with a large suitcase. I wondered about offering to carry it for her, as she was quite small, but thought better of it.
I took Sam up the flight of steps to the disused bedsit, and apologised for the diligence and speed with which our Caretaking and Repairs teams had disturbed the scene of the crime and replaced the broken window without telling me. I had deliberately not reported the broken window to avoid such a scenario.
Sam opened her case and spread out on the floor her clipboard, forms, torch, evidence bags, swabs and other items of detection. She began writing and soon filled up half a page of notes. I apologised for generating so much paperwork for her and joked that she appeared to have even more to do than me. Finally, Sam got down to the nitty gritty. She put on her gloves and took the two empty cans of Stella Artois from the small, black plastic carrier bag and placed them strategically on the floor, several inches apart. She took out a carefully wrapped cotton bud swab, squeezed out some special liquid from a small bottle on to the bud and began rubbing the bud all around the top of the can, paying special attention to the opening and inside the hole. She then placed the swab inside a fresh evidence bag, sealed and signed it. More note taking. I wanted to ask what she was doing, just to break the intense silence, but thought better of it.
Sam wrote another page of notes before examining the now repaired window. She asked me to hold the net curtains up as she couldn't reach, while she dusted the pane for prints. 'Just rub a little bit of washing up liquid on to it to get it off,' she said.
'Thanks. I think I'll leave the washing up until later, though. So what are the chances of finding whodunnit?'
'We'll probably find out who it was. But whether they'll be charged with anything is another matter. They've not done any damage. Probably just looking for somewhere to sleep.'
'Yes. I was kind of hoping you wouldn't find anyone. I feel quite sorry for them. Only two cans of Stella. Although it's premium beer. Quality over quantity, I suppose. It's a shame there are so many empty properties here.'
'Yes, that's the real crime. It makes me really angry. I just wish we had some politicians who listened and did something. But I don't have much hope that anything will ever change.'
Sam gathered up her things and put them back into her suitcase, which she'd been using as a small bench to sit on.' Right, I'm done,' she said, and switched off her torch.
In the gloom, I noticed a square of material on the dirty floor. 'Is this yours?' I turned it over. It was some kind of advertising leaflet. 'Candlelit Dinner For Two,' I heard myself say out loud.
As we left, I thought about asking Sam why she didn't take a sample of the urine, but thought better of it.
Inconsiderate Constructor
Lorry driver on his phone while leaving ‘Southall Village’ building site, right next to school entrance during school run.
Got a load more verbals from the driver and his colleagues on site - ‘Did he hit anyone?’, ‘He doesn’t work for us!’
All part of the Considerate Constructors Scheme, aka Couldn’t Care Less Scam.
Something for the weekend
Or, why I became a soccer manager.
Not Top 100, SM or even football-related. Three years out of date. Depending on this last stab at pop stardom, I will be resigning from my post as Hamburg boss in the New Year, to focus - Pablo/Dani Osvaldo-style - on my musical career.
Same old England
I've been writing (if that's the right word) about the England football team elsewhere since 2006, and this is basically the theme: (even when we win) England are shit.
If that's not depressing enough in itself, and you are curious for more, here's a little summary of what to expect should you enter the rabbit hole:
The best place to start is my preview of England's ill-fated plan to get to the final of the 2012 World Cup in South Africa under the guidance of disciplinarian Italian capo Fabio Capello.
That post links to all my previous writings on England's proud tradition and long history of international failure, humiliation, and general, all-round shittiness on the football pitch. But in case you prefer a handy list, here you are, in chronological order:
2006: A new Scotland? Why England's football team will soon be as shit as Scotland's
2007: Why we're crap: the problem with English football
2010: Why England don't have a hope in hell of winning the football World Cup in 2010
2010: No future in England's dreaming? Inside the mind of Fabio Capello
2010: The World Cup on drugs: pure-grade heroin cut with shavings of Clive Tyldesley
2012: Why England don't have a hope in hell of winning Euro 2012
By 2014, I got sick of all this, and so turned to music, with my adaptation of Billy Bragg's classic song: A New Ingerland
While I'm at it (self-promotion, that is), and in case you're still with me and wondering what the Jimmy Carter thing is all about (and you have the stomach for more football-related musical adaptations):
2011 (There's Only One) Jimmy Carter (the footballer, not the peanut farmer)
2014: Whatever happened to... Jimmy Carter?
How to be a Top Football Manager
Leaked documents and video reveal the FA’s shortlist and assessment interview questions for the England manager’s job.
Stuart ‘Psycho’ Pearce, who presided over some of the least attacking and creative Manchester City and England U21 sides in living memory, was asked to give some expert coaching advice on how to play more attacking and creative football in line with England’s DNA blueprint. In a rambling and incoherent response, he finished off by reminiscing about how he used to psych out opponents. 2/5
‘I used to be’ Alex McLeish was asked how he would motivate England’s players to perform at the highest level. The dour Scot explained how he reduced all the players he managed to quivering wrecks unable to perform under pressure. All except fellow Scot Barry Ferguson. 1/5
Gus Poyet was asked about dealing with the media and how to get England scoring goals. The fiery Uruguayan stressed the importance of ’timing when to go’, presumably not referring to his ill-timed public thoughts on when he might leave Brighton that got him sacked shortly afterwards. He then presented a Powerpoint video on scoring goals in which he was the only one who managed to put the ball in the back of the net. 3/5
Alan ‘I haven’t done much coaching lately’ Curbishley failed to answer any questions at all, and just got all bitter and twisted about the time Charlton might have finished two places higher in the league if Scott Parker hadn’t left mid-season. 1/5
Lastly, and perhaps most bizarrely of all, Tony Pulis, not long ago sacked by Stoke City for not playing attractive-enough football, was asked how he would help a team play more attractive football, and focused on lumping it up to the big man up front. 4/5
Sam Allardyce pipped Tony Pulis to the job by virtue of not being Welsh.
Louder than words
We are all consciously or unconsciously re-enacting previous unresolved experiences of loss, or absence, of relationships. These disappointments evoke in us resentment and anger, which control us until we can forgive - to see the victim in the perpetrator.
We remain victims all the while we are unable to forgive, and all the while we are unable to let people into our inner worlds of pain - to protect ourselves from breakdown, but also to protect other people from this part of our experience for fear of what it will do to them, and how they will react to us.
A New Ingerland
I wasn't even born when we won the World Cup
I'm forty-six now and all hope I've given up
My wife asks me now 'Why don't you be a better fan?'
But all the players I loved at school already failed for Ingerland
I loved you then, but I don't love you still
I bet you'd beat Portugal, but it ended nil-nil
I don't feel bad about letting you go
I just feel bad about letting you know...
There's no way we'll win the World Cup
Unless we play like a new Ingerland
And win at penalties
I loved the games in Italia '90
But that was bloody years ago!
I can't survive on the rubbish since then
Every time we go down to ten men...
I saw two shooting stars last night
I looked at them, but they were only highlights
Is it wrong to wish on the BBC?
I wish, I wish, but here's reality...
Whatever happened to... Jimmy Carter?
A little under three years ago I eulogised about Jimmy Carter (the footballer, not the peanut farmer) in a musical response to 20lb Sounds eulogising about Jimmy Carter (the peanut farmer, not the footballer).
I wondered why Dan, the band’s Liverpool-supporting singer-songwriter, had neglected the opportunity to write about a player who is widely acknowledged (from a cursory search of fan forums) as one of Liverpool’s worst ever signings?
Two years later (thanks to the wonder of the internet, and possibly also the wonder of Doug Whitfield and his Music Manumit Podcast), I received a reply:
Around this time, I also received another reply:
(For those of you of a technical and/or inquisitive nature, I’ve posted screenshots of these comments because I lost the ability to link to them as actual comments on the original blog post during one of my many blog migrations.)
Now, I don’t know if this is the real Dan Lynch or if it is Doug Whitfield pretending to be Dan to somehow boost his podcast ratings, but who cares?
I tracked Jimmy down and found a recent interview with him on the Millwallant podcast, in which Jimmy ‘tells us what it’s like to be a professional footballer and also demonstrates his genuine knowledge and passion for the game.’ I found it really quite insightful, all the more so coming from a player who most people have forgotten, never heard of, or so easily disparage based on his ‘failures’ at Liverpool and Arsenal.
If you prefer to read, there’s a similar interview on the Arsenal website.
What got me obsessing about a fairly obscure ex-Millwall, Liverpool, Arsenal and Portsmouth footballer again? Well, Dan’s band 20lb Sounds took five quid off me in time for Xmas 2012 on the promise of an album release in February 2013. Since then there have been a few updates about how the album would be ready ‘next month’, ‘in time for Xmas’ and how much Dan and the boys were enjoying their holidays in the sun. But no album. Until now. A year later. But only for backers, for the time being (see footnote 1). I had a listen this morning, and, really, it sounds great. Well done, to all concerned.
So I decided to have another go at my own take on 20lb Sounds’ Jimmy Carter. I could have teased and tormented you all by not releasing it for another two years, and only to people who had given me money to do so, but I’m not like that.
So, without further ado, and introducing MC Jimmy ‘The Cartz’ Carter rapping an intro (footnote 2), and Richard ‘Smash it!’ Keys rapping the chorus-to-verse bridges (footnote 3) as part of his rehabilitation and bid to replace Richard Scudamore as chief executive of the Premier League, here’s my new, updated easy listening version of Jimmy Carter:
- The new 20lb Sounds album is now available to all!
- Jimmy Carter rap intro lifted from the Millwallant podcast interview somewhere around the 49 minute mark.
- Richard Keys, for it is he, smashed and grabbed from Millwall 2-0 Sheffield Wednesday, (old) Division One, 23-9-1989.
Xmas 2.0
Abstract: Not another Festive Fifty podcast. Tags: podcast, jamendo, music, freedom, xmas
Following on, naturally enough, from episode one, I’m pleased to announce that, this morning, I finally got around to knocking out episode two of my much anticipated and eagerly awaited annual Xmas podcast. So here it is, at last, available for the listening pleasure of children of all ages.
As usual, I can’t be bothered to produce any show notes, but if you want to find out more about the songs I played, you can head over to Jamendo where you can listen uninterrupted by my dulcet tones, and even download said music for free.
Lastly I’d like to wish all three of my dedicated listeners a very Merry Xmas and a Happy New Year. On the publishing frequency of this podcast, if you would like me to give it to you annually, please leave a comment below, and I will do my best to ignore it.
Careers Advice
“When I grow up, I want to play football for Manchester United!”
For an eight year old boy growing up in rural Lincolnshire in the 1970s it seemed like an honest and rational response to an impossible question. No one else at my school wanted to play football for Manchester United. Leeds, maybe. Liverpool, definitely. Other kids said they wanted to be firemen, soldiers, doctors, and nurses. More of that later. Maybe their parents were firemen? Or maybe not. I didn’t know what my parents were. My dad went out before I got up every morning, and came home after I went to bed. At weekends, he told me stories about George Best, Denis Law (his favourite), Bobby Charlton, and the Busby Babes. About Manchester United and how they had the best team and had the best players. Not any more. That was all before my time. I was born in the year United had won the League for the last time, the year before they went on to win the European Cup. The Glory Days. Now, in my time, United were in Division Two (although I didn’t understand what that meant at the time). What I did understand was that I got to see highlights on Yorkshire TV occasionally, with a young and annoying Martin Tyler commentating on matches against the likes of ’local’ teams Hull City, Sheffield Wednesday and York City. United were good that season. Stuart Pearson was my favourite then. Stocky and powerful, he played with the passion that I came to expect from United players. He was never the best, but he scored goals and looked like he meant it. I meant it when I said I wanted to be a footballer.
“Think of something realistic,” I was told.
“You’ll never make it.”
“Concentrate on your studies.”
I couldn’t wait to prove them wrong.
I got in to the school team. In games lessons and playtime, I was a stocky and powerful centre forward who scored goals. Our first proper match was against another village school.
Five years later, in big school, I’d had my chips pissed on, but I still wanted to make it. I wrote to East Stirlingshire Football Club (just before a young Alex Ferguson took charge) offering my services. I got a polite rejection letter back.
No one ever told me why. I was too upset to ask.
Later, in Art class, I put together a morbid collage of war and that terrible question in cut-out newspaper headline letters:
“Why?”
“Don’t be so childish!” the teacher scolded me when he woke from his alcoholic stupor.
Well, pardon me. I was a child. Surely I was allowed to ask, and expect an adult answer?
So instead, I told them I wanted to join the Army. Not because I wanted to, but because that seemed to keep them happy.
Later still, when approaching school leaving age, after filling in countless forms asking me what I liked doing and what I was good at, I was told by a ‘careers advisor’ to study chemical or electrical engineering at university. I didn’t know what they were or why they’d been chosen for me. I resolved to go on the dole.
(Has careers guidance gone off the rails?. Was it ever on the rails?)