The Boy From New York City

There was a good article in the Independent the other week on Welsh photographer Robert Haines, who took photos of the locals around Merthyr during his holidays from college in the seventies, it's not too dissimilar around those valleys today. I wish I could take some photos of the characters I come across on a daily basis and stick them up here, I'm not sure it would be ethical though, nor am I sure that too many of them would take kindly to it. The article has a link to some of the pictures and is worth a look.

Lets hear it for Brum. Again.

Michael Chabon reviews Richard Prices new novel, Lush Life, which isn't available here yet but gives us something to look forward to. There is no point me telling you how good Price is, Chabon makes a good enough job of that.

An extract from Mark E Smiths autobiography. And another. Brilliant stuff.

Grocer Jack

So what's all this cobblers about the market regulating and controlling itself then? Where's Adams Smiths famous invisible hand? How come we can bail out the bankers but the miners and the car workers can get on their bikes and retrain? How is this just? Capitalism, don't you just love it? What a fucking con. The trickle down effect........... it's a been a long time coming and it's not in sight yet.

Millions of people all over the world do not have enough food, there are food riots in all sorts of impoverished places, us affluent buggers over here complain about the price of bread yet every time I open a paper I see that we throw enormous amounts of food away. Does it make any sense to you? It doesn't to me. It's all the fault of the Chinese and the Indians anyway, cheeky fuckers, wanting a share of the good life.

Cheer yourself up with 30 of the worlds saddest songs.

I've been a bit poorly all week and feeling a bit out of sorts and sorry for myself besides, but I have had the opportunity to get stuck into Richard Russo's huge, magnificent and moving Bridge of Sighs. I am big fan of Russo, but I wasn't sure I would get through this and had I not been tucked up in my sick bed I probably wouldn't have, which would have been my loss.

His previous books, all set in small New York towns have been full of warmth and quirkiness, as is this, but it was the sympathy he had for his characters that was enticing.....his books are like drinking a hot chocolate. Initially, this one seemed a bit edgier, the tone a bit more bitter: he seemed at times to be consciously trying to write the Great American novel, it all seemed a bit cumbersome and I didn't like the characters introduced in Venice and I didn't like the size of it, it is massive. Which shows you what I know. Nothing.

This one is like enjoying a hot chocolate in a warm bath, but with an edge of spice to keep you from getting too comfortable, too complacent. Russo is brilliant on characterisation and I don't know, maybe it's my mood but he has the confidence to portray the most unsympathetic street rat as among the wisest people in the book. There is a theme within it that we cannot change, that the circumstances that we are born into will forever chain us, but he also shows that redemption is possible. The people from the wrong side of the tracks in Russos world would not be surprised at the current turn of events in our beautiful economic system.

As ever with Russo, the main themes are the small, imperfect lives of small town, flawed, but fundamentally decent people. He doesn't sugar coat the town, nor the people who reside within it and he doesn't ignore the tragic economic history which has left half the population poisoned. His basic humanity just shines through though, and you end up caring about these people, I still care about them, long after finishing the book, which, like the characters within it has a major flaw, not enough of a one to detract from the overall experience though.

An interview with Russo and an excerpt from the book here.

Hit The Road Jack

Brummie buggers: we are all thick.
When I moved to Cardiff, just short of 23 years ago, I had a job on the fruit and nut counter of a big department store in town and one day, when I asked a chap if I could help he and his Mrs beamed all over their faces and announced themselves as fellow Brummies. They said they had lived in Cardiff for 20 years and I thought, how strange. Funny how life turns out, innit?

I have never bought Mojo in my life, being too cool, obviously, for that old farts rag, until today, when the cover CD tempted me, and sticking it on in the car on the way home, the first track Skinhead Moonstomp convinced me that my money had been well spent. The rest of is is a bit shit though. Can you believe I can't find a decent link to Skinhead Moonstomp.

Blues reacquaint themselves with Steve Bruce tomorrow at the Wigan Library. We will moida da bums!

At the silly time of 11am on Sunday, on Channel 5 of all places, there is a programme devoted to the inspirations behind the music of trendy young folkies such as Seth Lakeman and Eliza Carty. Don't say you weren't told.

Thinkin'

I can't remember if I have banged on here much about meditation; I think I probably have, but I try not to be too evangelical, although I will not hesitate to recommend it in the real world, if I come across someone who might benefit from it. Actually, I do hesitate, quite frequently, but I will share my opinion on the subject when I think it might be appropriate. Today though, I shall evangelicise, because I have just watched a brilliant programme on the box all about it.

A babe doctor went off on all sorts of jollies to discuss meditation with various bods and then tried to put it to the scientific test. She was sceptical regarding it's claims to cure ill physical health, but was much more positive regarding its benefits on emotional well being and talked to scientists who are busy proving its efficacy. The point being, it has great benefits even when you are well, so don't just take my word for it when I say we should all be doing it, take hers as well.

The programme can be seen for the next 7 days on the BBC i player, and I really cannot stress how good and inspiring it is. As Charlie Brooker said when recommending The Wire...."oh, just ####### watch it!" One of the bods she talked to early in the programme was Matthieu Ricard, whose book I have read and which I heartily recommend (I said I was going to be evangelical)

The Village Green Preservation Society

There was a discussion on the radio this morning about literay critics versus bloggers. The blogger was asked what qualified him to pontificate on books and I though he let the side down a bit by telling us of his record in reviewing in the mainstream media. I think he could just have said that I buy books, I read books and I have an opinion on books, to which I am bloody entitled! You can hear the debate if you go to the Today page and click "listen again", it took place at 8.20. All aspects of the mainstream media seem to have taken against humble bloggers and seem to be offended that scruffy, inarticulate, poorly educated urchins should not only have an opinion but be willing to voice it.

I suspect I am the kind of shrill, opinionated blogger of which they would disapprove. I don't write thoughtful, considered, academic reviews of the books I read, I just say whether or not I liked it, and, where possible, will post links to more intelligent reviews and excerpts. I don't see anything wrong with that, particularly as much of the stuff I link to will be outside of the mainstream, and I will have come across most of it, not from high brow journals and broadsheets, but by seeing the work recommended on other blogs.

There are loads of books I would not even be aware of had it not been for bloggers. The mainstream, print press is made up of an Oxbridge elite which constantly reviews each others work and which concentrates on established, upper middle class authors. They operate in a zone of extreme comfort. So do Bloggers, I suppose, but our efforts are no less worthwhile than those of the establishment; in fact, they are more worthwhile.

Ken Bruen will have made an extra few bob this last year because Bob Piper recommended him on his blog, then I and others did, then still more did, and on it will go and a similar process has happened with probably a dozen other authors of whom you will not read in the mainstream press; and that's just the miniscule bit of the blogosphere (cack word, sorry!)in which I operate. A similar process will be replicated millions of times over.

Bloggers are like the Ranters of the 17 century. The internet, the opening up of the blogosphere (sorry again) is like the invention of the printing press. Those outside the mainstream, those outside a self perpetuating elite, those outside of the public school, Oxbridge system, have been given a voice, and the bloody elite are squealing like stuck pigs; it is hilarious.

Charlie Brooker has been missing from The Guardian for the last few Saturdays, but he continues to write on Mondays and today he has laid into The Apprentice, among others. I had my first taste of The Apprentice last week, watching it, open mouthed, for about 15 minutes. Outside of the world of parody, I hadn't realised that such people actually exist.

Naringo

There's nothing like a Blues victory to lift the spirits and we earned a very good victory against Manchester City today, having played with ten men for a significant portion of the game. Other results went our way and we will now need to screw up very badly if we want to achieve relegation. Once again, our football was pleasing on the eye and given that we were missing both Kapo and Mcfadden, this was a bonus. Mind you, we did have Zarate. A couple of games ago some of our fans were suggesting he is too lightweight and didn't have a football brain. I begged to differ then and I beg to differ now, not that anyone wants to differ anymore. This man is going to be a superstar; there is no way we will be able to keep him, but it looks like it will be fun while it lasts.

Our resident comedian, Liam Ridgwell was out and the defence looked much stronger as a result, with Quedrue looking very much the part until his sending off. It looks like we have finally found a decent centre half, by accident. When Benjani went through for the sending off incident I was bellowing for our defence not to foul him, but French Frank couldn't help himself. Why do players do that? It has to make more sense to let the opposition player have his chance against the keeper than to give away a penalty and get sent off? Didn't matter anyway, because Manchester City were not very good and didn't really threaten again.

We have played well in a good few games under Eck now (played badly in a few too)and have held our own against some good opponents. With a bit of consistency now we will be alright, and if Kapo, Mcfadden and Zarate play in the same team we will stay up comfortably. A victory over Wigan next week would be nice, because as well as making our position more secure it would drop them back in it. Steve Bruce gets on my nerves and I didn't like the way he left us; I would be quite happy to see them go down; not that I'm particularly vexed by it.

While I am on about managers whio get on my nerves, I don't suppose we will see Diaby in an Arsenal shirt again after his horrific tackle today, which was much more venomous and dangerous than the one that crippled Eduardo. Wenger is an honourable, decent and ethical man, surely he doesn't want that kind of player in his team? Perhaps he does "I was not upset with the sending-off because his foot was a bit high," he said. "I feel it was more a protective tackle than an aggressive one but he was too high" That comment demonstrates the shallowness and hypocrisy of Wenger. He had better watch out if Sepp Blatter gets wind of it!

Judge it for yourself:

May You Never

“Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of
throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.”

Apparently, 1 in 4 of us are possessed by anger. I would have thought it was more. I see angry people everywhere and I see people roused to anger in the most innocuous situations. In the supermarket, on the phone, in queues, on the road, at traffic lights, waiting for a lift, on internet message boards, where normal rules of civilty seem to have been abandoned altogether; at the football: everywhere, every day, I see people roused to anger; it seems to be a natural state.

I speak as a victim. At work, middle and senior managers seem to think that the natural tone to adopt when speaking to the likes of me is one of barely controlled fury. All day I have to take phone calls from people driven to anger, by some perceived injustice or failure on the part of society to allow them to lead a wealthy, but indolent lifestyle. People will shout at me for things that have happened to them over which I cannot possibly have any control.

I hear conversations every day around the office in which someone will complain about somebody or something. Something or someone isn't working properly and it simply cannot be tolerated. The more they describe their situation the more heightened their emotions become, and invariably, their co conversationalist will assure them that if the same thing had happened to them they would have "gone ballistic"; they would have "wiped the floor" with someone. No one seeks a calm, rational explanation, no one wants a calm rational explanation; there cannot be a calm, rational explanation, someone must be at fault and a head must roll.

Maybe I'm wrong, maybe it is only 1 in 4 and they all live in South Wales.

I've never been overly given to anger although there are times, especially when I am hungover, when I can be a bit quick to get pissed off. It isn't to do with age because some of the angriest individuals I have encountered have been old buggers. I was recently acquainted with a man, who was a good man, but could not control his rage. We would discuss football and he would immediately become irate, even when discussing teams he had no real interest in, and when he perceived that he or someone else had been unjustly treated he would fly into a rage. He maintained it was all to do with maintaining his dignity.

I would, at times get annoyed, if not angry, about the most stupid things. If someone pulled out on me at a junction, I would despise them and mutter uncouth comments, even though no harm had been done and the person would probably never cross my path ever again. Pointless. I would become pissed off when someone without nippers would park in the mother and child bay at our local shops, and might wonder aloud at the miracle of the invisible child. Really, really pointless. These types OF things no longer bother me overmuch.

I have read in various Buddhist and new agey texts about the futility of anger and have also cOme across the same while doing yoga, and I have come to believe it. Most of the stuff I read points out that anger only harms the angry person, and doesn't really have any effect on the other bugger, and I have come to believe that too. I have put this stuff into practice, and it works. If someone cuts me up and I just forget about it, it has gone, get angry and the incident lingers, as long as the anger is there; it festers and spoils your day, or at least that moment, but no matter how angry you get, that person will still have cut you up, you can't change that, so may as well just let it go.

A couple of articles........1...................2

And another, only loosely related, but a good read.

Anger -- CANTO XVII

221. Let a man abandon anger, let him renounce pride and let him get beyond all worldly fetters. No suffering befalls him who is passionless and clings neither to mind nor to form (nama-rupa).

222. He who controls his rising anger as a skilled driver curbs a rolling chariot, him I call a true charioteer. Others merely hold the reins.

223. Let a man conquer anger by love, let him subdue evil by good; let him overcome the greedy by liberality and the liar by truth.

224. One should always speak the truth, not yield to anger, and give, even though it be little, to the person who begs. By these three virtues, a man is able to come into the presence of the devas.

225. Those sages who observe nonviolence, who are ever controlled in body, attain the changeless state (nirvana) where, having gone, they suffer no more.

226. The influxes of passion disappear in those who are ever vigilant, who are absorbed day and night in spiritual studies, and who are bent on realization of nirvana.

227. This is an old saying, O Atula, not one merely of today: "They blame him who remains silent, they blame him who speaks much, they even blame him who speaks in moderation." There is none in this world who is not blamed.

228. There never existed, nor will there ever exist, nor does there exist today anyone who is always scorned or always praised.

229, 230. If wise men, after due observation day after day, praise one who is flawless in character, highly intelligent and endowed with religious insight and virtue, who is like unto a coin made of the purest gold from the jambu river -- who would dare censure such a man? Even the devas praise him; he is praised even by Brahma.

231. One should guard against the agitations of the body; he should be restrained in body. Having abandoned the bodily sins (1 ), he should cultivate good conduct in body.

232. One should guard against the agitations of speech; he should be restrained in speech. Having abandoned the verbal sins (2), he should cultivate good conduct in speech.

233. One should guard against the agitations of mind; he should be restrained of mind. Having abandoned the mental sins (3), he should cultivate good conduct in mind.

234. The wise who are controlled in body, who likewise are controlled in speech, those wise men who are controlled in mind, are indeed well controlled.

Tonight We Ride

Every now and then a case at work will become interesting and I will look at the notes and see I haven't written any for months, because nothing has been happening and will think, "oh shit". Then I will start frantically banging out a precis of recent events in the forlorn hope that somehow my arse will be covered if it all goes tits up. This blog has become a bit like that. I will come across something of interest and think "I must blog that" and then when I come here I will see that the poor thing has been ignored and abandoned for weeks. It's probably time to give it up.

Most people reading this blog will not have the pleasure of seeing and hearing Leighton James pontificate on Welsh football. He's like a low rent Rodney Marsh, always seeking controversy and like Rodney, he has overstepped the mark and been given the order of the boot by the BBC. His crime was to state that as a Swansea fan he would find it hard to stomach a Cardiff victory in the FA Cup. Nothing wrong with that, but it was too honest for the BBC. If you wonder why we have to put up the banal likes of Alan Shearer on the telly, there's why; our national broadcaster is scared stiff of an honest opinion.

For someone who claims to be “a simple Buddhist monk,” the Dalai Lama has a large carbon footprint and often seems as ubiquitous as Britney Spears

A photo essay on Coney Island, off season.

I'm reading Twilight by William Gay and while I'm only about halfway in, I think I can recommend it. He's a new writer to me and I am glad I came across him, because his writing is superb and reminds me of T.C Boyle, not in style, but in the sheer quality of the writing. The villain of this one is shaping up to be one of the great ones. If you like Daniel Woodrell, you will like this guy.

An excerpt

A short story

Another candidate for sporting quote of the year: Boca Juniors defender Julio Cesar Caceres says he wants to 'knock the head off' Gimnasia y Esgrima striker Diego Alonso after Alonso carried out 'an act of on-field man-love'. 'The guy stroked my arse. It was an unacceptable moment. Who does he think he is? At the time I wanted to thump his face, but I held my dignity. I didn't want the red card. But seriously - I am very masculine. He needs to take a hard look at himself.'

The Farce of Iraqi Sovereignty

"They create a desolation and call it peace"

 

 

 
 
 
 

 

Dance Stance

I haven't done any wrunning for weeks, I could blame the inclement turn in the weather, but the only reason is that I am a lazy fat fucker. I feel guilty, because people have been generous, and those kind souls that have donated can rest easy in the knowledge that I will be doing it, and I will be suffering. I won't be doing anything before Sunday............all that will achieve is more unnecessary pain.

I was in Cardiff earlier. The place was full of gangs of French males, all polite, all quiet, all sober, all enjoying themselves without behaving like Neanderthals. I had a rare night out in Cardiff the other week, full of gangs of blokes, all with hats on indoors and jackets zipped right up to the chin, all taking up too much space, all talking and laughing too loud, all being belligerent and obnoxious and all of them, even at 6pm, pissed. Mind you, it was Cardiff City territory and I doubt if I was a pretty sight myself by midnight.

Thanks to Steve for the tip re the Felice Brothers. Sat through an hour and a bit of gibberish to hear one track, it was worth it though. I was hopig to find some kind of a stream from South by Southwest but I couldn't, I did find a stream from last year of the brilliant, utterly brilliant Beirut

The two youngest were at swimming with the mother last night while I endured parents night at the comp with the eldest. His extended family will be proud of him, nuff said. While the others waiting in the crush for one lesson to end and clear and the other to begin, with bored parents and children just hanging around, the littlest one, my wrunning partner, piped up:

"is dad a Brummie"?

"yes" his mother replied,

"Well, whats a scouser"? he asked?

"It's someone from Liverpool", she said

"is it true that they steal everybody's hubcaps"? he enquired

Guess who got the blame for that?

Delia's Gone

Unfortunately, Delia hasn't really gone, but she has lost all credibility, and so has the simperingly florid Nigel Slater.

David Haye duly sparked out Big Enzo in the second round..........a brutal, magnificent display by the Bermondsey boy. I don't know if I'm oversensitive, but I find it really distressing to see proud warriors like Enzo not knowing if they are having a shit, shave or haircut. Typically, the beaten man was extremely gracious and sportsmanlike afterwards, unlike Alex Ferguson and his Portugese oil rag following their defeat to Portsmouth.

Talking of oil rags, I am about to become one myself. Those who read my other blog, before it became a chair advertising site, will know of my disdain for senior pricks, who are oil rags to the mechanic, or monkeys to the organ grinder. A chargehand, basically. Well I have been offered and will accept such a post in another borough. The living hell that has been my career over the last 18 months will be ended, and characteristically, even though it is a step up the ladder, I take a not insignificant pay cut while adding to my outgoings. But I am free. Relatively speaking!

The Wire has finished in the US and I suspect it will be difficult to avoid spoilers over the months until we see it here. I found a good clip from the first series on the Independent website. Be careful where you watch it, it may contain the odd profanity:

Cheers Bob:

Hangover Days

I took advice from experts and I read advice from experts and the consensus was that my shinbones ache so much because I am a fat git and I have overdone it. Rest and recuperation was recommended. So I rested, and rested, then I recuperated and then I rested some more. First I overdid the wrunning, now I am overdoing the resting. Now I feel guilty, because people have been very generous but I shall get back to it tomorrow, then I am going to have to keep at it, sore legs or not.

Arsene Wenger will be an inspiration when it comes to keeping on, because he keeps keeping on about that tackle, which was the cause of another poor performance by his team at the weekend, apparently. I don't care how well they played last night, I cannot bring myself to enjoy anything about Arsenal, because I can't stand Wenger and his constant petulant whining.

Regardless of the tackle, Blues performance against Arsenal has to be one of the performances of the season, but we got no credit for it, nor did we get any credit for hammering Spurs last week, they were hungover. Fit young men, hungover 6 days after the event.......... that must have been some party. I don't expect it will do us any harm to be underestimated though.

I also feel a bit guilty because I don't think all that much of the new Ray Banks, which the publisher sent me for free; I sort of feel obligated to say it's brilliant, but it isn't. There's nothing particularly wrong with it; if you buy it, or borrow it, you won't be disappointed, because it's a damn good, page turning read, with some fantastic moments, but it ain't really up there with his first two.

The hero, Cal, wasn't particularly likeable in the first place, but in this one he seems less likeable and isn't particularly believable either. The plot I found a bit tiresome. Radical students taking on slum landlords and the local facists. Sorry, but students aren't radical and credibility was lost, for me anyway. Maybe I just wasn't in the mood for it, but don't let me put you off, I did whizz through it and as good, undemanding reads go, it's good enough. Moreover, as much as I found the plot a bit irritating, it doesn't insult your intelligence, and in this genre, that is a major plus.

A good interview with the man.

David Haye fights Enzo Maccarinelli on Sunday morning and I won't be watching it because even if I were inclined to pay, I know I would be sound asleep before it starts. It could be a classic, they are both big, big punchers, at the top of their game. If soundbites counted, Haye would be a clear winner: 'I couldn't care less about fame - the whole celebrity thing is a joke,' he says. 'And I've had more than one lifetime's share of women so I'm definitely not motivated by pussy.'

I remember having a furious argument when I was student regarding the use of the C word. It was frowned upon, which gave me a problem because it was just about my favourite word at the time. Now that it has been alluded to in a humorous way in the Guardian Society pages, I think it is well on the way to being rehabilitated.


Dear old Brummagem: a foodies paradise.

Blues got beat by Manchester City in the 1956 cup final, which was the last time we had even a sniff of glory. Someone stuck a photo of the two keepers on a Blues message board and it is brilliant, it is redolent of a very bygone age in which sportsmanship, camaraderie and respect were prevalent. Anyone for a glass of warm beer?

Death Of A Clown

Blues V Arsenal was a bit more eventful and dramatic than I had anticipated. A great result for the Blue boys, which seems to have been somewhat forgotten, one way or another.

I have been a bad, bad, unenthusiastic wrunner. Thursday I couldn't wrun, for reasons already stated. I could have wrun on Friday but opted to go shopping instead, fully intending to make up for it on Saturday, but on Saturday I was hungover so chickened out, but I did go yesterday, but not today. Now I feel guilty.

Yesterday me and the nipper went out quite late in the afternoon, and the Mrs decided to come along as well, for a stroll down the river, which meant that the other two poor buggers got dragged out too. The daughter has given up on the idea of the wrun. It is boring.

We piled out of the car and the nipper hared off, as is his wont, while I lumbered along inelegantly behind him. It was bad, but not as bad as before, not in the same way, anyway, but my calves and shins were causing me pain again. This pain was nothing though, compared to the pain of finding my Mrs , in her jeans, kinky boots and heavy coat trotting along beside me, with a big grin on her face and not suffering at all. Not to mention the daughter appearing from nowhere and legging it effortlessly ahead. In her diamante bloody slippers.

To add insult to injury, the Mrs reckons she has not suffered at all, all day. I don't believe her.

So, now the whole family will be doing the run, not so much the Royal Tenembaums as National Lampoons Charity Wrunathon. I have convinced myself that I will be able to do it, despite continued pain in the lower legs, and despite not going out again today. I put a bit of effort in yesterday and at no time did I feel like throwing up, nor did I fear a heart attack or imminent death. Perhaps the rest did me good. I still had to apply the deep heat liberally to my neck and shoulders this morning though. I am sure that the ladies of Blaenau Gwent find it very sophisticated and alluring.

Take It Easy

There was good a programme on BBC 4 earlier, on the Scottish music scene since the days of Postcard.............it will be on the i player, I expect. It was a bit sad, seeing Edwyn Collins in all his youthful fey glory and then to see the following programme, which was about Collins, post stroke, which was as inspiring as it was sad, and also, no doubt, can be found on the i player.

Blues v Arsenal tomorrow. It will be shit and anyone who has paid 45 quid to watch it needs their bumps read.

No More Heroes

Day 6 and I couldn't have wrun if I had wanted to. Man, I feel awful, I haven't felt this bad and sorry for myself since I stopped smoking. A long soak and a laze on the settee watching the two shouty Masterchef men and Curb Your Enthusiasm and I am starting to unravel a bit.........proof that lazing about is better for you. I shall start again tomorrow though, probably.

It hasn't all been indolence. I now park miles from the office and walk up a bloody big hill and lots of steps to get to it, and this afternoon I decided to walk from where I park to a meeting at the other end of town. Christ, it's a hilly town, I should have taken crampons and oxygen with me, the hill was vertical, and they have put houses all up it and an old folks home on top of it. As it plateaued, in the car park, I was going to take a well earned breather, but some young lady was looking out of the window at me, so I had to plough on, up the bloody steps. When I went in she came to greet me and I literally couldn't speak, I was so breathless, then someone asked if I was the afternoons entertainment. Dignity ain't in it.

Halfway up this bloody hill, I came across a raggedy arsed sheep scavenging in an overturned dustbin; this was after seeing a herd of the buggers stroll across the car park as if they owned it. It's like being on another planet, working up there.

It hasn't all been wrunning, either, I have finished the books I mentioned last week; the Peter Carey disappointed in the end, becoming very boring, the other two were superb though.

I am struggling now to get into anything, but I feel obliged to read the new Ray Banks, seeing as the publisher sent me a free copy. Initially, I didn't think it was as good as his others, and actually gave up at one point, but returned to it the following day. It has grown on me now, and as with his others, it moves along a bit quicker than I do in the park. The plotting seems overly contrived to me, but I am only half way in, so shall reserve judgement. The quality of the writing is superb, though it is hard to warm to Cal, but that is one of the great merits of Banks, he does not shy away from allowing his hero to be flawed and at times, the prose makes your heart sing.

One Way Ticket To The Blues

Day 5 and I didn't do much, but I did do something. I must be getting serious as I invested a whole 6 quid in a pair of jogging trousers, the sort that make me look like one one of my own clients, who has to be dressed by someone else, someone with absolutely no class. I'm not prepared to humiliate myself on a public highway, so it's difficult to fit any time in before it gets dark, and I really didn't want to do anything today, everything hurts, everything aches, I am weary to my very bones, deep into my pith.

I had taken my new joggers and the rest of my high tech equipment to work with the intention of running around a local beauty spot, but I couldn't be arsed with that and resolved to have a night off, by the time I got to Croesyceiliog though, I had changed my mind and decided that any effort, however minimal is better than none and can only help in the long short run. So I found a quiet spot in the car park and got changed in the car, which I doubt very much was a dignified sight, and took to the field.

It was beautiful, very close to dark, and a gentle fog had descended, the light was ethereal and I was serenaded by what seemed like a million birds. I managed about twenty minutes of wrunning up, down, across and around various rugby and football pitches. Hardly any walking, but plenty of rests, although not for long. I still had the old pains and the old discomforts, although there was no upchucking, but I also had three new experiences. My upper arms were killing me and I swear I wasn't wrunning on my hands, so what the hell is that all about?

Then there were my calves, both of which endured a deep, yet tolerable ache. What wasn't tolerable, and just about finished me off, was a deeply unpleasant, very sharp pain all the way down the side of my lower right leg. This pain would not be wrun off, in fact the more I tried the worse it got. Stop running, it ebbed away, start running, back it came, with a vengeance. I think my body might be trying to tell me that it is too old, too fat and too underused for this wrunning malarkey. Anyway, tomorrow I rest.

Deep Heat: does the pleasure balance out the pain? I can't make my mind up.

Becoming More Like God

Day 4 and the good news is I managed to drag my sorry self down to the park while there was still some daylight left, no mean feat, given the constraints of working hours plus picking up and dropping off nippers to and from various activities. The youngest, whose idea this is, lets not forget, had a busy end to his day, being taken straight from school to drama to the park. Serves the little bugger right. The bad news is that dinner put in another unwelcome and unscheduled appearance. Plus, everything hurts, despite the day of rest. Double plus, Tiger Balm burns like fuck............it's much hotter than deep heat.

I had mentioned my less than heroic efforts over the weekend to someone at work, and he said, maybe you should try and get it into a meditative state while you are running. This doesn't seem likely at the moment, not when my mind is concentrating on the difficulty of lifting a leg, the searing, heartburn like sensation in my chest, the deep dub of the pulse in my chest and head and the certain knowledge that sooner or later I will be reintroducing myself to a previous meal.

It's an interesting point though. Twenty or so years ago I was a pretty keen cyclist and would cycle from Cardiff to Newport and back almost on a daily basis and would go for much longer rides at weekends. There would always come a point, which might last a minute and might last for many minutes when I would feel at one with the bike and the road. Everything would just feel right and I would bomb along at a decent clip, effortlessly.......... it would be nice to get to a stage where I could enjoy a similar state of transcendence from running. I believe it's called flow. I won't hold my breath.

Don't just take my word for it: For those of you new to meditation, Pratt gives the following explanation of how runners can benefit from the practice:

\"What surprises some people is that meditation is very much a body-oriented discipline. It is not about leaving your body and entering some celestial realm. It is about relating to the here and now which we experience through our five senses. So in meditation we learn to let go of our thoughts and come back to our body. Running and meditation are perhaps the most energizing and ultimately, joyful, activities in my life. Bringing them together is about as good as it gets.\"

Added Pratt: \"The practice of meditation has brought freshness into my running because when I have a meditative mind I am fully in the moment and fully in my body. I am more relaxed and more joyful. When I have this attitude every run is a new and exciting experience.\"

Todays effort was bit bitty, easily the least satisfactory of my wruns so far, and yes, it is still wrunning, I haven't yet progressed to a jog. I thought we would get about fifteen minutes worth in and reasoned that as short as that it is, it is better than nothing, but in the end we were out for nearly an hour, not that we were wrunning for nearly an hour. Much of it was taken up with practising free kicks, corners and penalties on the various football pitches; regardless of the fact that we didn't actually have a ball with us. Does simply being out in the fresh air count as exercise, or are you supposed to actually do something?

Actually, we did a fair bit and I was running a bit further before needing to stop and needing much less rest before I could start again; it wasn't enjoyable though, there was no sense of flow. The nipper was miserable to start with and didn't fancy it but soon got into the swing and became bloody unstoppable; it's good having him around. It hurt though, every step is accompanied by on overwhelming feeling of discomfort and shame. Every breath hurts; you can almost hear my chest squeal and while that is going on I am wondering if the intense sensation down my left hand side is heartburn or the beginnings of a heart attack. Not that I'm a drama queen or anything.

Also, as difficult as it was I treated it a bit more playfully. When the nipper got distracted and arsed about, I arsed about as well, and we just sort of wran randomly about, rather than follow a route. So we had about 40 minutes of fairly gentle exercise altogether, although it didn't seem particularly gentle at the time; I am very heavy footed bastard. I don't know if it did any good, but it certainly won't have done any harm, which might not be true of the finch, chimps and mushy bees I had for my tea.

Fat Man In The Bathtub

Day two of the rwunning regime yesterday, otherwise known as a fat gits pathetic attempt to run one measly mile without killing himself. It was better than the day before, but only to the extent that I didn't throw up, and I suppose I managed a few extra yards before having to stop. It wasn't quite as enjoyable and seamless an experience yesterday, not that the first attempt was enjoyable or seamless, but it's all relative, innit.

First we have a new addition to our little training group: the daughter has decided she wants a pair of socks too, so she will run the mile with us, and she has a delightful and endearing tendency to take things less than seriously. We will end up looking like the royal bloody Tenembaums. Then the youngest haired off at 100 miles an hour only to be complaining of stitch about two minutes later. He couldn't get rid of this stitch, but he's a game little chap and persevered, as best he could. Then there was the small but not insignificant matter of the nipper being attacked by a dog.

His owners at least had the grace to look penitent as they explained that the pooch was only being friendly, but it was very large dog, and my nipper is a very small person and was terrified. It's all relative, innit? The owners were not in the first flush of youth and were some way away and the dog simply ignored their shouts to desist. Call me a miserable old bugger, but I think that if your dog is uncontrollable, however friendly he might be, he should be on a lead. So the nipper was having a bad day and I was unlikely to have been mistaken for a little ray of sunshine myself.

We rwan some more, rested, then decided to just leg it up and down a football pitch, the only distraction being a fully grown adult buzzing us with an enormous model aeroplane, whilst steadfastly refusing to let his own nipper have a go. When I say leg it, I am overstating the case, obviously. After about half an hour, we called it a day and spent about an hour playing football instead, which is excercise, I suppose, and half hour of ponderous and aimless wrunning has got to be better than no wrunning at all, hasn't it?

Today is day 3, and I am tired and weary to my bones. Everything is an effort and everything hurts, even my shoulders and neck........how can that be? The nipper came in from school and immediately took himself off upstairs, to return minutes later in his pyjamas, which was a fairly eloquent statement, I thought. So, my routine on day 3 of this new regime will consist of rwunning a bath, and then lying in it, for a very long time.

Blue

So there I was yesterday, enjoying a day off and having bought the seven year old a Beano max, to keep him quiet, when he appeared in the kitchen, clutching his comic and as excited as excited can be, beaming all over his face. The thing was full of sport relief stuff and it had inspired him to really, really want to do it. The poor little chap doesn't ask for much, and he gets even less, so in a moment of weakness, I agreed that we should both enter. Which is how I came to be throwing up by the river in downtown Cwmbran at 5 o'clock this afternoon.

When I tell you that I haven't run anywhere for at least 20 years I am not shitting you. I haven't. I was a member of a gym for a couple of years but I never went anywhere near the treadmills. A bit of rowing, a bit of resistance and a hell a lot of dossing about in the various pools and sweat rooms..............and I only ever went about once every 6 months anyway. And it was years ago. So, while a mile not seem like very much to you, it seems like a very great deal indeed to me.

It was obvious that I needed to get a bit of training in. I don't own anything resembling jogging pants trousers so I had to wear my craghoppers, which at least meant I could carry my wallet, change, phone, etc, etc. Nor do I own anything resembling trainers, so I had to wear a pair of regular shoes. When I say regular, I don't mean highly polished brogues, they are soft walking type shoes, so that wasn't too bad. Incidentally, is there a shop that sell running gear for little fat short arses? The nipper was OK , he had his new sport relief socks on, and that was all the specialist equipment that he required.

So, late this afternoon off we buggered to to the riverside walk. I knew I was going to make a prize tit of myself, so I was hoping it would be quiet, hence the late afternoon start. It's a good place as it is a nice path along the river, but it gets better for us shy folk. Either side of the river are acres and acres of football and rugby fields and further afield there is another long path, along a sort of avenue of trees, by the railway track. If you have ever been through Cwmbran on the train you will know where I mean. It was a beautiful, if cold evening, and the path by the track was empty, so we headed over there.

Now, I haven't run for years, and I am small and fat............5"7 and around 15 stone, which is a fair load for my little legs to lump around and this could kill me. I read in a supplement a few weeks ago that when starting to run, you should do two minutes running, two minutes walking and so on, building it up bit by bit. Two fucking minutes! What planet was the guy on? As I jogged across the rugby pitch, past the clubhouse, the terrace of which was well populated with fit young men, I put in a supreme effort. I doubt if I manged 30 seconds, and I can tell you I felt quite ill.

I think the theory is that after a little run, the walk is a power walk. No chance. I dragged my miserable arse over to the path by the tracks, panted, gobbed, swore, and had another go. Maybe another 30 seconds, followed by at least two minutes of very heavy breathing and feeling sorry for myself. However, the good thing about the path I was on, as well as its solitude, is the number of markers you can use, trees, benches, bins.........so I would use them. Run to that bin, then walk to that bench, then run to the last tree. Then back up the same path.

It was that last tree that saw my dinner come up, after about 15 minutes of exercise, most unpleasant. Meanwhile, the nipper was skipping about like a spring chicken and gleefuly vaulting over every fallen tree, of which there were many. In the end, I don't think I was either running or walking, I was sort of "wrunning", neither one thing nor the other, and in the intervals I was not walking, I was sitting, and coughing, and gobbing, and thanking the lord that I have given up the fags.

I suppose we were arsing about, wrunning about for about 40 minutes and after the upchucking, it actually started to feel OK, although I still couldn't gather any speed, or wrun for more than about a minute at a time. I remembered that I used to love running when I was kid and that during my long summer holidays, spent with relatives in Devon, me and my cousin would run for hours every day, up and down lanes, across fields, on and on and it would feel great. He was a competitive runner, I wasn't, I would amble around the cross country course at school, with frequent stops for a fag, but I could always keep up with him, and enjoy it.

Everything hurts now, as I sit here, and the initial experience was profoundly unpleasant, but I've had a glimpse of the potential pleasures of having a run. It was great being out on such a cold day, but feeling aglow with the effort of the exercise, and the long wallow in the shower when I got home was righteous indeed. Still it feels like a long and hard road ahead, even it is only a mile. And the bloody nipper only wanted to do it for the socks! You can sponsor us if you like, there is a handy link to the left.

If you go to the BBC I player and listen to any Bob Harris show, at some point you will hear the Felice Brothers, and then you will be happy.

One way or another, I have acquired the new Gary Louris album, (hear it, the whole of it) and while it is not going to change your life, it is, without any shadow of any doubt, brilliant. If you like that sort of thing. I became aware of the Jayhawks and Wilco , I dunno, about ten years ago and instinctively, I disliked them.

I spent my early teens feeling distinctly odd because I didn't like any of the music my mates liked, and I thought there was nothing out there for me. Glam, prog, pop, metal all left me cold, and then came pub rock, and then came punk and then came Pete the taliban. Everything I owned went to Oxfam. Cat Stevens, Dylan, Don Mclean and lord knows who else........binned. Year zero. I hung on to my Cockney Rebel and Split Enz though.

So I was bit intolerant, and a bit po faced. Punk died in childbirth: by the time everyone was wearing spiky hair and pare clips through their noses the game was up......but I retained my pathetic insistence on authenticity.....not that I was deprived, there was loads of good stuff coming out, although now we looked for a punk "sensibility", whatever the hell that is. Neither Wilco not the Jayhawks fit this template, so I was more than happy to dismiss them as generic American guitar bands, without ever having heard them.

As I say, I became aware of them both at about the same time, dunno why, and I was surprised by both and bought a couple of albums and at the same time as being sniffy about them, I kept playing the buggers, until I had to admit that I loved the pair of them. The Jayhawks, were, quite simply, sublime; perfect literate pop and then Mark Olson left and they weren't as good. Then I saw Olson live a few times and just about fell in love with the bloke and came to regard him as a genius..........obviously, he was the driving force in the Jayhawks and the reason for their brilliance. Wrong.

This Louris album is something else. If you liked anything that the Jayhawks did you will love it, it is far better than anything the Jayhawks did and far better than anything Olson has done, and I love both............that's how good it is. Don't expect anything groundbreaking, expect a superb set of beautiful songs performed by a master craftsman. Gary Louris, Mark Olson, Jeff Tweedy, we have lived through a golden age, but hardly any bugger realises it.

While I'm on a pop theme, the Times had a major interview with Cerys Mathews today. Never liked her band, but when she buggered off to Tennessee, I liked that album and saw her live and it was pretty good, then she made a tit of herself in the jungle and lost all her credibility. The point is, the interviewer took a train with Cerys from Londinium to Port Talbot (why not Swansea?) and Cerys then drove them both to Solva; the journalist made a big point of mentioning the lunatic speed at which Cerys drives and said even then it took 90 minutes to complete the journey. Cobblers, I can get to Solva from here in 90 minutes while observing the speed limit, and Port Talbot is a long way down the road.

You Can Never Hold Back Spring

I have dozens of recipe books but rarely actually follow a recipe..........I use them to get ideas or for advice to cook a particular ingredient properly and also for just a bit of light reading. It seems to get on peoples nerves when they ask where the recipe for something I cooked is and I can't tell them or when they ask how much garlic or ginger or somesuch is required and I say, "I don't know, just about enough". This is not because I am a culinary genius, but because I am a lazy bugger and can't be bothered to do things properly, which marks me out from Mark Booth, who has also turned up his nose at recipe books but has learned to do things properly.

He has written a good, lengthy article in the Independent on how he learned to cook after throwing all his recipe books away. There is also the small matter of spending a year at a cookery school in Paris, an option that isn't open to most of us, but, generally, I like the cut of his jib. My advice, which you can have for free, is this: look in the fridge, see what you have and make it nice, with whatever you have to hand. If a recipe calls for a strange ingredient that you don't have, omit it, you probably won't notice the difference. There are a thousand and one things you can do with a potato.

If you read the article, which is good, don't follow the link to his website, which is crap and literally, has nothing on it, other than the opportunity to buy his book. If you buy his book, do it via Amazon and go there via this blog; that will net me about 0.001p towards the camping trip to France fund. There is a link, on the left!

Talking of cutting corners, my eldest likes to cook, a bit, it's not a passion......... but he likes it, so he was looking forward to cooking lessons at his new school. His Pizza consisted of a Pitta Bread, topped with a generic, bought sauce and some grated cheese, which then went under the grill. Several corners cut too far there, I think.

Easy spud recipe of the day
Easy Dauphinoise
Take about 5 biggish spuds. Peel and slice, really thin, stick in a saucepan which contains about a pint and a quarter of a mixture of milk and cream, with a sliced clove of garlic and salt. Cook for ten minutes, chuck it all in an oven proof dish and bake for about 40 minutes at about 180. Voila.

The Blues beloved chairman, David Gold is in the news again, having described Gary Cahill as selfish for joining Bolton, rather than us. Who is Gary Cahill? You might well ask. Apparently we offered him a better deal than Bolton, but he chose to go there, only Chairman Dave can explain how taking less money can be construed as selfish, because it is beyond me. Yes this Dave, is the same Dave who has been all over the media loudly supporting the notion of the 39th game. He supports it for purely selfless, altruistic reasons, obviously, because he is not a selfish man.

The new(ish) Camilleri is brilliant, but is a lot darker in tone than we are used to, concerning as it does illegal immigration and the hardship and cruelty that is endured; he also has some harsh things to say regarding the government of the day. The overall feel though is as you would expect, Caterella, the best literary idiot since Schweik, is prominent and the wit is lacerating.

I am also reading "Out Stealing Horses" by Per Petterson, another book which I can recommend without reservation. Not much happens, but it is one of those books that you sink into, become immersed in. The writing, or the translation, is beautiful and I suppose it is a bit of an existential meditation on life..........who we are, what we are, and how we come to be who we are. It has some fairly profound thoughts on the way in which we see ourselves and the way in which others see us, and how none of it really matters. It won't raise many belly laughs, mind.

Also, I am reading Wrong About Japan by Peter Carey. I picked it up to flick through, get a flavour, and found myself 80 pages in. Carey's 12 year old nipper develops an interest in manga, so th old man takes him off to Japan, (as you do), where he meets several masters of their various crafts (as you do)ponders upon Japanese culture and enjoys a classic, slightly fraught relationship with his son. It rang many bells with me.

Believe it or not, I am also dipping in and out of a big biography of Joe Strummer. The jury is very much out on this.........the author seems a bit too fond of telling us how much Joe loved him, for my liking.

So Round So Firm So Fully Packed

Iraq seems to have fallen off the news radar a bit, unless we are being told how the surge has worked and everyday life is returning to something like normality; then, buried somewhere deep inside our daily paper, way after all the pages and pages devoted to the minutiae of an election in a far away country, we will see that 40 Iraqis have died in a suicide attack in a market, or a roadside bomb has killed dozens of innocent civilians. The slaughter continues, but so long as it is Iraqis being mutilated, we don't much care.

There is a good article relating to this in the Independent. As is pointed out there, Blair not only walks away scot free, he continues to better himself. He should be thankful he didn't take drugs to win a race, then he would know what opprobrium is. It still baffles me how Blair and Bush can reconcile their Christian beliefs with their actions, I still wonder how they ever manage to sleep at night; surely they can't be so self righteous that they never have a troubling thought, a moment of doubt, the odd night lying awake, staring at the ceiling, contemplating what they have done. Do they ever wonder how history will judge them...........and despair?

Meanwhile, a top Taliban bloke who was rumoured to have turned and had gotten into bed with the good guys (that's us) has been nabbed by the Pakistan secret police, who don't seem to be very good at being the good guys. It's a murky old world.

Bloggers thrive on fragmented attention and dole it out too—one-liners, samples of songs, summary news, and summary judgments. Sometimes they don't even stop to punctuate.

 

Row Fisherman Row

Happiness is a new Camilleri

I don't watch England much but when I have done is has always been painfully similar to watching the Blues, with all the frustration and disappointment which that entails and the sinilairty continues. We have a new man who professes to like a passing game and so do England, and I think both men are going to find it very difficult to realise their lofty ambitions; although old Fabio will have the easier task.

Fabios mate Baldini has said that as a nation we are obsessed with hoofing the ball skywards after one or two passes and either he or Fabio has said that it is easier to play with the ball on the ground, the key is to practice, practice, practice. So they made the poor wee dabs train twice each day before the game the other night. I have read that some of the prem managers have objected to this criminal overworking of their little darlings.

Mr Eck should follow Fabios lead and have the Blues in twice each day. It is obvious that probably only two of our highly accomplished and highly paid professional footballers can actually pass a ball with any accuracy. His assistant has said that we will persist with a passing game because that is the best way to win games.........well not if we keep passing it to the opposition it isn't, so they should have 'em in, and make them practice until the bloody pips squeak; with the money they now earn surely they can't object to putting in a full days labour?

The money men have come up with the bright idea of inflicting the likes of the Blues and Blackburn on unsuspecting populations the whole world over. Our chairman has predictably come out in favour of it, the bottom line being, as ever, the only line.

Can we now have a prolonged period of silence concerning the Munich air crash? Is that possible? Unless someone wants to tell me how much money Manchester Utd have banked from the city's nations worlds mourning.

"How good was that", has joined my list of cack phrases, a phrase which has caused Billy Bragg Harry Pearson to write a piece which made me piss myself, at least once.

Man, do I empathise with this bloke! Blues message boards are full of people who use the word "of" when they mean "have" As in, "he would of scored if he hadn't been a useless great berk". I made that up, obviusly, because Blues have never employed a useless great berk and even if they had, we wouldn't mention it, because, well, he is Blues and it is compulsory to love him. Anyway, it has become so ubiquitous that I no longer know if this is a mass attempt at irony, or a mass attempt to lend the message boards some local authenticity, or, Blues fans, in large numbers, really do believe that they are using the word in its correct context. There, I wouldn't of dared mention it before reading that piece.

The life cycle of a blog post.

Why we kiss

There are some natural phenomena whose wonder only deepens upon scientific investigation. Take the orgasm............

Songerize will play you song if you know the name of it and who sung it, and it has it..........it seems to have plenty though, so long as you don't get too obscure.

Trouble Been Hard

You will have read about Shelby Lynnes album of Dusty covers, because you can't escape the bloody thing and everyone seems to love it. As do I. Love might be putting it a bit strong, but it's a damn fine piece of work. the best thing about it is, as you will know, because you will already have read about it, is the fact that it isn't a straight copy.............she stamps her own personality on it, and there are no horns. At times, it seems a bit too understated, a bit Eva Cassidy, but it is always redeemed by the glorious, soulful, unutterably saucy sensuality of Lynnes voice. She made a great album a few years back, which is possibly the sauciest record I have heard, and she can still do sauce.

The transfer window has closed. Boo. Blues signed 3 new players, Mcfadden, who has some talent, Zarate who looks to have some serious talent (the new Jose) and Murphy, a left back from a faraway country of whom we know little. So we are better off than we were 4 weeks ago, yet many Blues fans are in despair, because we didn't sign all sorts of mediocre centre halves. Mind you, after our performance in the week, maybe we should be in despair. At least we aren't Newcastle fans.


A mulitalented man.

 

Waterspider

Takeaway shows is great, whoever runs it gets various bands, generally good bands, to a sort of impromptu busk as they pass through Paris.

And if that isn't good enough, there is always daytrotter.

Ain't life strange, ain't life grand. While I was having a search around for the brilliant, peerless Felice Brothers, I thought about The Pernice Brothers who put out a brilliant album, oooh, years ago, and at the time, the main Pernice wrote a brilliant blog, so I looked. The blog is still there, but not much cop, really, but if you click on the audio link you can listen to streams of a few albums. I had forgotten how good those buggers are.

Watina

The world doesn't mourn for Andy Palacio, and nor should it, I don't suppose, but Belize does and it is bloody sad that he has gone.

Poor old Ken Livingstone seems to be getting hammered left right and centre. I would not normally be bothered, not having any interest in what goes on in Londinium and generally believing that the pampered bleeders deserve everything they get. The national media though, have decided that this little local difficulty is vexing the people of Britain from Pontypool to Paisley so we can’t really escape it. Ken is big enough and ugly enough to look after himself - but the way in which he is being demonized while the Boris gets away scot free troubles me. Has the media lost all sense of reason because Boris cultivates the image of an oafish buffoon, or is this a perfect case of hegemony at work? Whatever, it is a poor imitation of democracy.

Mind you, this little contretemps in the South East could benefit us all if Boris wins. I am no fan of New Labour, but by Christ the alternative is terrifying; as much as I despise the placemen, careerists and empty suits that seem to populate the labour party these days, the thought of a bunch of multi millionaire hooray henrys and chinless wonders running the country for the benefit of their cronies is too much to bear. So, let Boris win (it’s only London, after all) and let the whole nation be reminded of what useless bunch of small minded, self serving twats the Tories really are. Then, when new labour get back in, we can despair all over again and mourn for the innocence we lost on a hot May night in May 1997.

How did Cameron earn his millions anyway? What has he produced?

A French bank gets stung for 30 odd billion and still manages to turn a profit, who says capitalism doesn't work?

I should probably pay a bit of attention to this writing blog.

Play a word game, feed some people.


More babies

 

Radio Radio

My car aerial has snapped off, leaving just the bit that threads in, with nothing protruding so I am more less without a radio, and given that the cd player is also kaput, I am growing used to the sound of silence, or, more accurately, the sound of the endless stream of nonsense that flits in and out of my brain. I can get 5 live until I get to the other side of Pontypool, deep in the valley, then nothing. So from Pontypool, to Abertillery, I have been omming, as in chanting om, or aaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmm. I let the sound start deep in my belly and travel up and resonate through my chest and throat until the mmmmmmmm vibrates behind my eyes and cheekbones.

It's marvelous, and, safely cocooned in the vehicle I have no fear of looking a berk, at least, not until the spring, when I will forget I have the windows rolled down and will notice fellow road users at traffic lights regarding me with suspicion and alarm. I don't know if it's connecting me with the universe but it certainly isn't connecting me with the patron saint of traffic lights, as I hit every set on red, every day. Maybe it's working at a deeper, more subtle level. Maybe it does nothing at all, but it keeps me occupied.

I do have some coverage; I get a crackly 5 live between Cwmbran and Pontypool, but once I go deeper into the valley, all is lost. My ten minutes of 5 live every morning really irritate, me, but it’s like an itch and I have to tune in, not least in the hope of hearing that the Blues have signed somebody, anybody. 5 live has decided that we, the audience, want to listen to press conferences; the whole thing, not just the juicy bits. So, the parents of a murdered child are holding a press conference; lets go and hear the whole thing; a man has been convicted of an appalling crime, the head of the local CID is holding a press conference; lets hear the whole thing, a man who cannot speak English but who knows a thing or three about football is holding a press conference, lets go and hear the the whole thing, and on it goes.

They are invariably shambolic and chaotic. We can never hear the questions, just the answers, and, when it is all over, a reporter repeats to us what we have all just heard. There will then be a discussion before the presenter goes back to the previous discussion, which will probably involve some bloke moaning about how the NHS treated his swollen nuts, or somesuch. This morning as I switched on for my ten minute fix, they went over to a press conference to announce the nominations for the baftas. I don’t know if they listed each nominee for each category, because I switched off, and started my omming early.

I may be wrong, but does the BBC not have a small army of well trained, well paid staff to go to press conferences, sit through them sift out all the boring bits and then present us, the people of Great Britain, with the salient points?

The five live entertainment reporter has said that these could be the most important Baftas ever, because due to the writers strike in America, these awards will have more stars present than any other. No mention of quality, or profundity, or art. No, these will be good, in this breathlessly idiotic reporters opinion, because a load of stars might turn up. I should stop listening to 5 live, it is detrimental to my emotional well being.

Christ, there isn’t any romance left in football is there? Shortly after Luton drew with Liverpool in the cup they sold two of their better players for peanuts, so one of their only two chances of getting anything out the reply, Slim, left town, leaving only his mate, None. Luton duly got stuffed whereupon their manager, who hadn’t been paid for 4 months, got the boot. Five live sports news led on news of the “dead man walking, Benitez and his relief at the victory. I know which story was of more interest to the true aficionado.

Sex And Drugs And Double Chins

Who needs Wilson Palacios when you can have the rather special Andy Palacio:


I used to have a great deal of interest in the American elections, but no longer. I really can't get very excited about who will be the latest son or daughter of privilege to be granted the succession. Having said that, I am glad that it has become interesting, not least because the BBC has decided we are actually part of the union and has sent half its bloody staff there to provide us with non stop coverage, across all mediums and channels. The other half has decamped to Liverpool. What was that about having to tighten the belt following the licence fee settlement?

Never mind, at least we have the excitement of the transfer window and Blues have done us proud by signing.............................no one, yet. Pull yer bloody finger out Eck, give us something to talk about.

Big Sam says he isn't filled with bitterness and bile following his sacking from Newcastle: while I appreciate that 6 million quid compensation can be an effective pain killer, I don't believe him, I think that his whole essence is bitterness and bile, it makes him the man that he is.

I had a look at the Wychwood festival site the other day to see who they had booked so far. My heart didn't exactly skip with the joy when I saw that The Blockheads and Phil Jupitus had been booked. I don't buy into the myth of the Blockheads; they were an above average pub band, who got lucky and enjoyed their 15 minutes. If they were turning up to warm the crowd up early on Saturday afternoon (as Chris Difford did, brilliantly, a couple of years ago) I would be happy, but it looks as if they will be near the top of the bill. As for Jupitus, isn't he supposed to be a comedian? Aren't comedians supposed to be funny?

I did a search to see if maybe I was being a bit uncharitable, though not with any expectation of having my prejudices confirmed, not with Dury having been deified since his death. The best thing I came across was this piece by the peerless Wreckless Eric on his more than decent blog.

Her Eyes Dart Around

A treat:

Down In The Hole

There is a brilliant thread about The Wire on Metafilter, containing superb links a really good, really intelligent discussion and here and there, memorable quotes; it could keep you busy for hours. The heads of both organizations, official and criminal, wrestle with similar management and personnel issues, and resolve them with similarly cold self-interest. In both the department and the gang, the powerful exploit the weak, and within the ranks those who exhibit dedication, talent, and loyalty are usually punished for their efforts. is phrase that could equally apply to any social work department I have worked for as well as Baltimore drug gangs.

Also found on mefi, an interesting article on the banality (or otherwise) of evil, funny how I found myself thinking of my various managers again.

Talking of work, I was so fed up yesterday, I had to book the rest of the week off; I will come to regret that when the spring arrives.

Mr Eck has been talking the talk again regarding the type of player he wants for the Blues. Despite a slightly disappointing start in terms of results, I am genuinely excited about our prospects with this bloke in charge. The contrast between him and Bruce couldn't be more stark. OK we never really looked like doing much against Manchester Utd but for those of us used to Bruce, to see us patiently knocking the ball about to one another rather than just booting it straight back to the other buggers is to have our faith in the game restored (even if we aren't very good at it). My God, if we manage to score a few goals along the way as well, I might just come over all unnecessary.

I saw a review for No Country For Old Men the other day, don't know what it's like, but the novel is one of the best, as well as one of the bleakest that I read last year.