Wait until next year

Putting off what could be done tomorrow, today

Month: February, 2010

We just can’t get enough of the stench

Ah, posts at this blog are like buses. You wait ages for one, then two come along  at once.

Anyway, amid all the Cheryl Cole/Ashley Cole/Tiger Woods/John Terry muck-raking and tabloid scandal, here’s what, in an ideal world, would be the final word on the matter, from The Outspoken Omphaloskeptic:

“It’s not actually about the ‘celebrities’ involved but about our collective need to create empty celebrity vessels that we can constantly redraw according to our whims. Apparently it’s big fun when can ‘discover’ that they aren’t the archetypes of virtue, perfection and good-living we pretended to think they were. It’s the metaphorical equivalent to my dogs rolling in fox shit. We just can’t get enough of the stench.”

From the post Sympathy For The Hotdog. In the comments section, but the whole thing is worth reading though (apart from yours truly sticking his nose in).

The modern football schedule is spoiling my season

I really should be enjoying this Premier League season. However, I’m finding it harder to keep up, keep interested and truly stay excited. But why?

I guess the easiest answer would be my own team, Liverpool. Yet another year of promise and expectation has been dashed. They have put in good performances (against Manchester United, Everton), but have put in far more bad ones (too many to mention).

But that would be too easy an explanation. There is still so much to potentially enjoy about this season. There are three teams still realistically in contention to win the thing. At least four sides are battling for the last Champions League spot. Relegation is not a foregone conclusion for anyone, yet. This season, every single game has had the potential to be competitive. On their day, any team can beat any other. Burnley beat Manchester United, Portsmouth beat Liverpool. This is surely progress, and sign of a season to savour, at least from a neutral’s perspective?

Then why my apathy?

I think it’s down to the scheduling of the modern game. It’s not a new argument, but I think it is still a valid one.

No longer do all games kick off at 3pm on a Saturday afternoon. Last week, only a minority did, while several games were played on Sunday. Match of the Day is no longer the complete record of the league’s progress that week. It’s merely a snapshot. With games strewn across the week, it’s hard to get a true feeling of the chase developing, especially with a multitude of games in hand to take into account.

In a broader sense, modern football is pretty disorienting now. 6pm? Thursday? Well, that must be Europa League time. 5.30? Sunday? FA Cup, of course! There may now be a game to watch every day of the week, but that, for me, dilutes the impact of football.

The many international breaks we have seems to stall the momentum further. It can seem like the season is restarting every six to eight weeks. The story of the season is continually being put on ‘pause’.

Well, enough of my moaning (for now). Do you find the modern schedule baffling? Do you yearn for everyone playing at 3pm on a Saturday? Or do you love being able to watch game after game, day-after day?

It might as well be Spring

Today in London the weather is glorious.

It’s still pretty cold. The daily commute was still long and infuriating. Work is still the same-old, same-old, at best. But, with that bright, piercing blue sky, things seem just that little bit more positive. Setbacks, stresses and strains are eased just that little bit by the daylight streaming in, fighting against the omnipresent striplighting.

If only for a day, Spring seems to be on its way. The days are getting longer, and the clear skies suggest we might be able to enjoy those longer days soon.

Spring, as we all know, is the season of new beginnings, of births and rebirths. Spring brings warmth and light to encourage new efforts.

It’s funny how nature and culture offer us so many opportunities for new starts. The calendar prompts resolutions each new year. Every birthday can foster thoughts of making the next year worthwhile. There are new seasons in sport and in art. Lent, starting today of course, focuses the mind on new efforts.

It sometimes seems easy to drift along, let time pass and not strive to be a happier, better person. It can seem impossible to escape the rut we’re in.

Yet, a day like today can wake us up to the potential of the future, can remind us to think about the important stuff we want from life, and to try and go get it. There’s a whole life of new starts and new beginnings for us all.

Thank you for indulging the navel-gazing. Sorry if that was a little new-age-y, certainly not my intention. But you should see how lovely today is here. I wish I wasn’t in the office…and I’m already not sure it was wise to give up chocolate and crisps for Lent. What have you given up, if anything? Or what new starts have you got in mind? And what on Earth am I doing with these italics? What’s that all about?

Me at BaseballGB

Apologies for the shoddy lack of posts here this week, but I have (kind of) got an excuse. I am the newest columnist at BaseballGB and my first post went up today. Do check it out!

Normal service will resume here shortly, so expect plenty of rambling and nonsense here soon…

And a big welcome to anyone who has ventured over from BaseballGB for a peek. Good to see you (er, virtually)!

What would Joe DiMaggio do? – Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea

After this blog’s one moment of international fame, I thought I’d make a brief return to the work of your friend and mine, Ernest Hemingway.

So, to bring you up to speed on my Hemingway adventure, on the advice of this parish’s Steven Harris, I picked up the complete short stories late last year in one of those beautiful Everyman hardback volumes, using my Borders vouchers just before the place went belly-up. Then, for Christmas, as part of an array of writing-inspired gifts, my wonderful Significant Other gave me Ernest Hemingway on writing, a brilliant little book compiling many of Hemingway’s thoughts on writing and the life of the writer. So…I’ve been keeping up.

Last week I popped into one of those strange discount bookshops, that sometimes have some incredible bargains and other times have nothing but hopeless junk. This time, I got lucky. I picked up the slim The Old Man and the Sea, the story that won Hemingway a Nobel Prize for Literature.

My verdict? Well, I loved it. It is one of those stories that will stay with me a long time, hopefully forever.

And I used the word ‘story’ rather than ‘book’ quite deliberately.

Here we have a real tale, a fable even. Here we have an old man, a young boy, a fish and little else. Everything is honed down and necessary, like a good story should be. In its 100 or so pages there is no room for flowery prose, or padding. And while it is set in contemporary times, the 1950s, it feels like the kind of story passed from generation to generation, as old as the act of fishing itself.

The one concession to the modern-day is baseball. Oh yes, there’s another reason why I loved reading this, apart from Hemingway’s prose and its brevity (I do love a good short book to rip through). The Old Man’s mind often wanders to baseball, and in particular the great Joe DiMaggio, wondering how the Yankees’ great centre fielder would deal with the Old Man’s situation, being the son of a fisherman himself.

So, concise, timeless and it namechecks baseball. It’s as if this was written for me. Don’t you just love getting that feeling from a book?

I haven’t read a whole lot around the book yet, but it is clear that this is a book that divides opinion. There seems to have been a fair bit of criticism in terms of its symbolism, and if it veers too far from the writer’s famed realism.

I’ll just let the man himself reply:

“No good book has ever been written that has in it symbols arrived at beforehand and stuck in. … I tried to make a real old man, a real boy, a real sea and a real fish and real sharks. But if I made them good and true enough they would mean many things”.

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