That was the world that was

It's a common misnomer that the Mayans predicted apocalypse. If anything, that ancient civilisation were more concerned with 2012 marking the end of a cycle. The death of one age and the dawn of another. A moment of physical or spiritual renewal. As in Arthur C Clarke's most famous novel, the alignment of the planets provides a focal point in the development of the human species...

In 2012 a transformation certainly seemed possible. As the Paralympics gained welcome gravitas in the sporting galaxy, the new human condition was symbolised by the quite remarkable performance of the athletes, overachieving when they had every right to underachieve, burdened more by a society's negative perception of disability than their physical or mental impingement's themselves.

The ceremonies book-ending the Olympic Games served to epitomise all that is great and all that is galling about modern day Britain respectively - Danny Boyle's opener encapsulating the eccentric melting pot of British culture, its closing counterpart a ramp down from the euphoria, a cynical treadmill of popular recording artists...and George Michael! As a yin and yang, they worked in harmony to show us both how far we've come and how far we still have to go....

As the public clamoured for tickets, I picked up two to a Mens Football tie at Wembley Stadium, the over-eager teams of Gabon and South Korea huffing and puffing their way to an enjoyable, if anything but super-human, nil-nil score line.

Thankfully, that dearth of footballing excellence was offset by a springtime trip to Barcelona, a pilgrimage to that temple of tiki-taka, the Camp Nou, in which an Argentinian perfected metronomic clinicism and I had the pleasure to witness one of the 90 plus goals he scored in the calendar year.

During a period in which English football was beset by racism and rank opportunism, Messi's humble, self-effacing odyssey shone a light for football fans to guide them through the void as if the very personification of that Olympic torch, itself illuminating the darkest back waters on its own epic journey through the country.

In film, two super heroes dominated the cinematic box office, firstly the Dark Knight and then a secret agent, but hot on their heels, and somewhat more pointedly, a determined girl from a disadvantaged background applied herself with compassion and ingenuity to conquer a 'Games' of a very different kind.

On the small screen, the BBC dramas Sherlock and The Hour won over my heart, whilst others went dotty for Downton, and Mad Men made a welcome return to our screens, if no longer to be found on BBC4, the channel which again surpassed itself in providing an outlet for some of the most thought provoking and high quality programming from home shores and overseas.  

My favourite album of the year came from the former Dexys Midnight Runners, Kevin Rowland and 'Big' Jim Patterson, reforming to release a long-player bent on self-transformation and personal restoration, not only with the assistance of some sublime soul music but a bonafide bout of comic wherewithal to boot. It was titled 'One Day I'm Going To Soar'.

The political landscape was pocked and marred by the ongoing reverberations caused by the Leveson Inquiry into Press ethics, shining a spotlight on the shady relationship between the press, police force and Prime Minister - David Cameron might be forgiven for mumbling Shakespeare's 'My Kingdom for a horse' in his dreams at night.

Meanwhile, and speaking of Kingdoms, 2012 saw the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II, pageantry and pedantry in equal measure throughout the land. Yet, as the divine right of the monarch was celebrated across the UK, in Switzerland the only nod to divinity was in the naming of the so-called God particle, revealed for the first time in the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. Despite some scaremongering, the end of the world was not nigh.

Perhaps the spectre of apocalypse loomed largest in the stunning revelations of child molestation at the BBC. Jimmy Savile's exposure the trigger for a raft of accusations and arrests which undermined our trust in one of the nation's greatest public institutions.

A relief then, to arrive at the corporation's annual Sports Personality awards, an escape from the maelstrom and a welcome time for reflection in a year when sport provided the prism through which to view humanity at its finest. What a delight to see the purple and red shirts of the 'games makers' who, without cynicism or inflated self importance, oiled the wheels of the Olympic charabanc so merrily.

Stealing the show, however, was Martine Wright, the lady who lost her legs in the terrorist atrocities the morning after London's successful bid was confirmed, triggering her journey towards competing in that same event seven years later. If anyone symbolised our achievements in 2012 it was the sitting volleyball player who taught us to embrace both tragedy and triumph in equal measure.

While some prattled about the death of one world, NASA's Rover begun extensive exploration of another, furnishing us with the most stunning images ever seen of the surface of another world and suggesting a possibility Mars may once have sustained life. Perhaps it will again as discussion of colonisation and human existence outside of the confines of our own 'blue marble' is pontificated once more.

Considering certain predictions, perhaps it's just as well - or perhaps, like our inspirational Paralympians, we should focus on conquering ourselves before we try and conquer the world, Earthly or otherwise. Perhaps that's the way to finally complete the transformation to a super human species and this time, when we do, we'll be sure to take everybody with us...

'M' is for mother

Skyfall not only successfully tip-toes the fine line between the hard-edged realism of Craig era Bond and the self referential familiarity of the character's 50 year history but offers a thematic depth to which past films in the series have dared not aspire.

Judy Dench's 'M' has brought a wonderful dynamic to latter Bond films, her matriarchal authority over the eternal womaniser a delight to behold, her snide remarks in Skyfall preventing any over-sentimentality during the less subtle nods to the Bond legacy.

In this, her seventh film, the role reaches Oedipal levels of complexity. Surrogate mother to both Bond and Javier Bardem's unnervingly sinister Silva, the latter bent on revenge for her past betrayal, she comes to personify Britain itself (herself) - the nation, the motherland - forcing Bond, and by proxy the audience, to question the meaning of loyalty to country.

Indeed there is an overt link drawn from 'M' to Queen and from Queen to country - a hacked laptop threat displaying her gurning face backed by the Union flag, the same flag latterly draped over each coffin in a line of fallen operatives, 'M' looking on them with an icy, Boudiccan stare. When Bond at one point suggests "there's life in the old girl yet" he could just as easily be referring to the country as the head of MI6.

I accept I may be artificially colouring the film with a recent personal motif i.e. Britain finding its post-imperialistic place in the world, yet as in the film the Secret Service struggles to defend itself to a 'Leveson style' Inquiry, so too, in reality, Britain's established pillars of media, government and justice attempt to redefine themselves in this era of ultimate accountability.

Are we any longer willing to accept that 'mother knows best', the secrets of these once impenetrable organisations now coveted vehemently in the public interest following revelation after scandalous revelation?

Silva's thoughts are clear and Ralph Fiennes' excellent Mallory, Parliamentary representative and symbolic of the Prime Minister's guilty conscience, appears to think not, ordering 'M' to exit quietly from the top job in penitence for her misdemeanours.

Yet far from taking a partisan view, the film navigates its way through a thorny issue with poise. 'M' counters in a stirring statement to the Inquiry, that new, unseen enemies, now, more than ever, require men operating in the shadows to counter their threat...

So what of our Shadow-player? - Agent 007, washed up and worn out; left for dead in the film's opening montage; soul searching in a shot glass. Betrayed? Perhaps. Loyal to Queen and country? Forever. Yet never before have we seen him contextualised like this. "Women want him and men want to be him", yet in Skyfall, his portrayal is as tragic servant, a pitiful son unable to break the maternal ties, the only ties he has.

Even his brief sexual liaison here is cold and calculated, promising femme fatale Sévérine an escape from the madman's clutches only to use her plainly as conduit to Silva. As she suffers her reprisal in front of him, Bond quips, perhaps in an attempt to shrug off his hurt at another lost innocent, or perhaps his reinforcement of that same cold hearted clinicism adhered to by his 'true love', 'M'.

Every passing Bond film feels like a new dawn, reacting to the criticisms of its immediate predecessors - Brosnan's Bond is somewhat derided now but courted 'best ever' acclaim from some quarters post Goldeneye - the milestone of the 50th anniversary only serves to burgeon this desire for ongoing renewal.

As Bond returns from the wilderness, attempting to prove himself fit for service deep in the bowels of the relocated MI6, a psychologist attempts to employ a word association test: "Hobbies?" the Doctor suggests. "Resurrection" replies Bond.

His 23rd return may just be his most miraculous to date.

Charity ends at home

How distant that summer seems now. How absurd our dreams of utopia. As autumn brings wind, rain and darkened skies so too that symbolic torch of light seems to flicker and fade from our collective memory. It was always to be that way, of course, but could anyone have predicted such a sense of betrayal...?

The unmasking of Jimmy Savile strikes to the heart of a nation that seemed so sure of itself but a few months ago. The crimes of the man, as hateful and numerous as they are, only reveal part of the horror. More significant is the question of how this was allowed to happen?

The fact it was, for decades, and under the blind eye of one of our greatest and most celebrated public institutions, only adds to the sense of shame. Even more unnerving is the number of people claiming to have known, or at least suspected, his transgressions. Yet, to a man and woman, they never thought, or felt able, to unveil them.

This is the most frightening revelation. One man nesting himself in a protective cocoon of contacts so stymied by fear of his power and influence that none would speak against him; not dictator, nor terrorist but light entertainer!

Pillory Savile, pillory the BBC, rightly, but don't ignore that worm of the soul which allowed each of those individuals to ignore such crimes. Something not inherent to institutions or organisations but to the heart of everyman.

***

It's been a difficult time to call myself a Chelsea fan. A team that continues to employ John Terry, who, on the balance of probability, racially abused a fellow player. Many at the club ignore the facts to protect their own, citing his utter commitment on the pitch as if that mitigates against all.

Irrelevant, insignificant and further evidence of unwillingness to accept responsibility. Against Shaktar Donetsk in a recent Champions League match, Terry sported a captain's armband brandishing the logo of a registered charity campaigning to rid the game of that very ill which he had helped cultivate.

***

Charity. "His many years of work for charity". "The thousands of pounds he raised for charity". Celebrities who throw themselves so wholeheartedly into such an arena have always bothered me. Frankly, I question their motives. To erase the guilt of their own success? To shift focus from their otherwise considerable flaws? In Savile's case, it seems to be both these and worse - a convenient way to access the vulnerable.

Every year I bridle at the eagerness of our celebrity aristocracy to lend their services to Comic Relief or Children in Need, asking myself if altruism is just a myth?

By all means contribute money - anonymously; set up a foundation - anonymously; visit a homeless shelter without a camera crew following your every move.

Perhaps many do, I hope so, but when Savile's uncloaking follows so closely the rank exposure of cyclist Lance Armstrong as the most prolific cheater in sporting history - a man supposedly representing the values of his own 'Livestrong' campaign - it becomes the ultimate manifestation of those fears, embodied in men who were once acclaimed respectively as the greatest celebrity fundraiser and greatest sportsman of our time!

***

Just last weekend, I was in my local off licence. As I queued at the counter, ahead of me, a threatening and aggressive character begun tacitly abusing the young Asian man serving him. "I don't like him" he exclaimed to everyone and no one in particular; "he's different" he mumbled almost incoherently under his breath. The implication was abundantly clear.

Yet not one of us in that queue acted. No one called him to account, no one defended this poor man from the abuse he was receiving. I felt my cheeks blush and my blood boil but I too chose to turn my head away, ignoring that which I knew had taken place.

Who's responsible for Savile, Terry, Armstrong and their ills...?

I am.

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing" - Often attributed to Edmund Burke

Jocky's Desert Island Discs: Disc 8 - Geno - Dexys Midnight Runners

After my penultimate Desert Island Disc placed so much import on the deeper potential of pop music to inspire political and intellectual ambition, this last entry in my octonary of musical delights offers a pure, uncomplicated joy borne of an infectious and down right rapturous tune.

Geno by Dexys Midnight Runners may well be seen as a somewhat throwaway ode to soul singer Geno Washington, front man of the 1960's blues group the Ram Jam Band, yet it's also one the most enjoyable three and half minutes of music ever to top the UK charts, a feat it deservedly accomplished in May 1980.

Bobbing up and down on a wave of brass, singer Kevin Rowland's staccato yelp is augmented by backing vocals that evoke the chants of the football terrace. The song crashes into the chorus with a surge of drums beneath a wonderful melody and punctuated by more bursts of brass; then, in a final hurrah - and as if to reiterate its vibrant musical charm - the song exults once more before returning to the chants of the baying throng.

I'd challenge anyone to listen to it and not feel lifted. Yet, scratch beneath the surface and - contrary to its rather one track reputation - you'll find a lyric unveiling a poignant vignette on chasing your idols.

Supplanting himself, the young upstart, onto that vacated pillar, Rowland initially appears to clamour for our adoration in the same way that he himself once adored... "And now just look at me as I'm looking down on you".

...But is it as simple as that? The transience of fame, the crassness of standing on stage in front of wide eyed fans and the unquestioning arrogance of youth are all alluded to, despite our protagonist's admitted intentions to acquiesce fully to the fame game. After all, he admits, it was what he was 'built to do'.

That same 'looking down on you' however, belies a disdain for such idolatry of which he himself is guilty - the shadow of a catholic upbringing perhaps? Maybe just a stark realisation of the absurdity of placing such import on a soul singer. Someone who, like most idols, will ultimately prove themselves all too human.

Jocky's Desert Island Discs: Disc 7 - A Design For Life - Manic Street Preachers

I could have picked any number of Manics songs for my penultimate Desert Island Disc. From their magnus opus The Holy Bible album to early single Motown Junk, so much of their back catalogue has had an inestimable effect on my outlook. Yet, one song more prevalently embodies a time and place that, were I stranded on a desert island for eternity, I'd most keenly wish to remember...

When A Design For Life was released in 1996, I didn't think much of it, didn't understand it. At the peak of my obsessive Oasis fandom and riding the crest of the Brit pop wave, I preferred to allow the visceral, rather than cerebral, dictate my musical taste.

Not until I left home for university in 2001 and unknowingly broke free of my insular childhood bubble did I realise the true capacity of music to be something other than the sum of its parts, conveying a message or higher meaning that transcended the instinctive reaction of my ear to merely the sound of the music.

Much of the credit goes to my then soon-to-be friend Gareth who, hearing Abbey Road ringing down the corridor from my hi-fi that first day in campus halls, chose to introduce himself. With a mutual admiration for The Beatles affirmed, the merits of another British rock band - Manic Street Preachers - were raised, followed by his lending of a book entitled 'Everything', the definitive biography of the band.

Curiosity piqued, I turned to its first page being mesmerised by what I found - Simon Price, the author, describing the first time he heard Motown Junk, its looped "Revolution" Public Enemy sample growing louder and louder before the sound of electric guitar jack being plugged into amp and the rush of vitriolic sounds and phrases affronting the listener.

Having then ploughed through early Manics singles, eventually, I was led back to A Design For Life but this time round the first line hit me like a thunder bolt - "Libraries gave us power".  Now it made complete sense and now I had a fledgling education in Library Science adding significant context.

As an idealist student, away from the cocoon of my family home for the first time, it was akin to the perfect storm. I began to read books I would never have countenanced beforehand. I suddenly found the campus library - above which my university department conveniently resided - a silent sanctuary and an inviting catalyst for all possibilities.

Golden lights

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not - Caliban, from Shakespeare's The Tempest

A ginger man, a mixed race woman and a Somalia refugee walk into a pub...and everybody buys them a drink

With the 30th Olympiad drawn to a close, home grown commentators everywhere, buoyed by 16 euphoric days of competition and their relief at the event's universal acclaim, are quick to suggest a moment of marked change has occurred in the very fabric of British society.

Perhaps it was defined by a single day of London 2012, on a glorious Saturday evening in the Olympic Stadium, when three British athletes, reflecting the multi-cultural make up of our society, claimed gold within the space of a few hours.

Rutherford, Ennis and Farah, although but a few of the numerous British medal winners to have graced us with their remarkable talent, represent a particular narrative evident at these games - one of diversity (religious, racial and cultural) as something to be encouraged and cultivated rather than questioned and vilified.

In fact the seeds of this ideal were planted (and watered plentifully) some 8 days prior, Danny Boyle's opening ceremony resplendent in encapsulating so much of common British life, that which is too often overlooked during our more traditional times of pageantry.

The more I reflect on Boyle's opening ceremony, the more I believe it a masterpiece, not only symbolising the true cosmopolitan nature of modern Britain with intelligence, style and wit, but emphatically claiming our country for everyone.

Nowhere was this more evident than in the celebration of the NHS and Tim Berniers-Lee - defining this desire for inclusivity and defying anyone to suggest our eccentric and enigmatic melting pot of a nation was anything but the better for it.

Throughout the Games, that other great British public institution, the BBC, once again proved itself to be a cherished jewel, garnering praise far and wide for its unmatched coverage and proving the perennial naysayers irrelevant. From Michael Johnson, Claire Balding and Denise Lewis to the double act of Foster and Cram, the integrity and passion (if not impartiality) of the analysis and commentary was perfectly weighted.

Anyone attempting to deny only appeared ridiculous: Conservative MP Aiden Burley initially with his rightly condemned comments on twitter, David Cameron's ill-judged 'Indian dancing' sound bite and then, inevitably, the Daily Mail and Daily Telegraph with their attempts to undermine that which they saw as the uprising of 'Plastic Brits, the sound of 80,000 cheering Mo Farah to double gold rendering such sentiments immediately obsolete.

Others have claimed a 'blustering jingoistic' undercurrent to the mass adulation of this most decorated British team but they too are missing a fundamental point. In Britain sporting success is no longer demanded to portray superiority (as still the case for the superpowers of USA or China). We are beyond that it seems. Instead, achievement is celebrated on its own merits, embraced all the more when unexpected.

Indeed writers are exclaiming how Britain has now learned to love itself as a nation, has become comfortable in its own skin, finally understanding and accepting its post-imperialistic place in the world.

There's no doubt that the sight of us Brits, usually so skeptical and cynical by nature (especially of anything purporting to 'inspire a generation'), celebrating the sporting excellence of all nations in a joyous spirit of togetherness has been nothing short of wondrous.

Yet, as the flames of the Olympic cauldron were extinguished, it was impossible not to fear that all which had gone before was but a mirage flickering in the heat haze. A halcyon oasis admist a harsh reality.

The Olympics alone could never metamorphose Britain so quickly and completely. The feel good factor will disappear as quickly as the red and purple shirts of the volunteers who have personified the human face of London 2012.

We are still in difficult economic times, the riots of last year are no less likely to reignite in this age of cuts and austerity and the cruelty of middle England will return burgeoned by its messengers in the right wing press and the Houses of Parliament...at least in the short term.

What the Olympics has shown us is a wonderful ideal. A picture of ourselves that those in fearful Middle England may well remember. Although seemingly too good to be true, it gives us something we might still strive for.

As we return to reality, we have to hope that the seeds of another way may just have taken root in one or two back waters, that the message of these Olympics might yet live on in the subconscious of the population, ready to be awoken some time in the not too distant future.

Censory deprivation

After chatting about 'Olympic Chips' with a work colleague yesterday, she has brought a brilliant Spectator article to my attention. It follows a similar piece by Ian Leslie on the ever informative Marbury blog which echoes my thoughts exactly.

It's crazy to see this hard line being taken by the organising committees over use of certain terms in print. It only serves to perpetuate the ridiculous demands of the corporates like McDonald's, Coca Cola etc. in turn

What really annoys me though is how completely unnecessary it all is. Whatever you might think of the Olympic Partners, or endorsements generally, the whole point of the partnering process is to raise the brand profile and reinforce public perceptions of status through association, hence raising sales in the mid to long-term and on a global scale.

The corporates shouldn't really care about what competing drink/chip products are available on a local level at the events themselves. It's a drop in the ocean in terms of overall sales and being so militant only serves to damage that very brand status they crave anyway.

The organising committees need to not be so petty themselves and put a stop to this ridiculous censorship but also be stronger and more aware of their own power in contract negotiations with potential partners, not allowing such ridiculous and unnecessary demands to be tolerated.

Here's The Spectator piece...
The battle with the Olympic censors

Here's the Marbury blog...

Olympic Chips

And if you haven't got time for all that nonsense, this sums things up pretty well...

Source: marbury.typepad.com/marbury/

Jocky's Desert Island Discs: Disc 6 - Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me - The Smiths

Ah, The Smiths...

I could have chosen any number of their songs for my Desert Island Discs but 'Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me' rises like a lily from the rear pocket of my psyche, its heartbreaking grace and aching melody a match for anything else in their extraordinary canon.

Everyone knows the sadness of loneliness, be it for just a few hours or, more desperately, a lifetime. Perhaps the experience of a love unrequited or an outright rejection from someone you hold dear. Here, the tragedy of vain hope being dashed by waking from a dream moves me markedly every time I hear it.

Perfectly complimented by Johnny Marr's sudden, dramatic, burst of sound lurching us back into the woken world, its melodrama signifies the painful longing that isn't just about lust, sex or passion, but something altogether more fundamental to our human nature - that need to be loved.

From the dreamlike soundscape of the opening 2 minutes to Morrissey's relatively brief lyrical interlude and the haunting strings that conclude the track, 'Last Night...' not only reminds me of how incredibly lucky I am, but also how fragile love is and how powerful a force for enabling us the security of an unconditional love can be.

So often its importance to our well-being is dismissed but as in the case of this song's subject, the desire, both physical and emotional, can overwhelm and will forever sustain. I'm not sure any artist, anywhere, has quite captured this simple, surprisingly overlooked truth with such a melancholic beauty.

"Like a Shopping trip to Primark" - A Best Man (Men) Speech

Just over a fortnight ago the wedding took place of my life long friend Chris to his fiancée Louise in Kirkbymoorside, North Yorkshire. It was a momentous day, for which I had the honour of being one of two best men. Amongst our duties, my counterpart, Ian and I wrote a best man speech, of which I was really rather proud.

For posterity's sake and so the jokes don't get forgotten in the mists of time, here is the full speech in all its questionable glory...

Jim - Firstly, we’d like to congratulate Chris and Louise on their marriage. We know they’ll be very happy together and you’ll all agree it has been a magnificent and very special day for everyone.

Ian - I’m sure, like us, you’ll also be looking forward to a wonderful evening and as best men we will be demanding your participation in the dancing so don’t say you haven’t been warned.

Jim - Now before we begin, I know Chris and Louise were hoping we wouldn’t make too many jokes about the great ‘divide’…

Ian – That’s right, so please know that for our part we won’t be tolerating any of this “us versus them” mentality and, at least for the duration of the Wedding Day, if you could refrain from making any lazy, stereotypical gags about Crystal Palace fans, it would be much appreciated.

Jim - It’s a pleasure to be here in Yorkshire. I don’t know much about the region I’ll be honest but I have always been a huge fan of Yorkshire Tea.

Ian - And I’m particularly partial to your puddings.

Jim - I do know that, as well as being home to some of our favourite foodstuffs, Yorkshire is also home to Louise’s family and many of her friends and I’m sure I speak on behalf of Chris, his family and all us southerners when I say thank you for the warm welcome you’ve shown us today.

Ian - And as a token of our gratitude you can rest assured that most of us will be leaving as soon as possible come the morning!

Jim - Although, Yorkshire can boast the birth place of some of England’s most famous sons. Michael Parkinson and Brian Clough spring to mind as typical of the down to earth, straight talking, man’s man of which Yorkshire is rightly very proud. What you all make of our Groom is anyone’s guess!

Ian - In fact a recent survey suggested that 66% of the population enjoy solving puzzles which means at least two thirds of you will be trying to work out what on earth Louise sees in him. Well Chris, whatever black magic you’ve had up your sleeve, it seems to be working so far.

Jim - And if the Black Magic does wear off you could always try a Terry’s Chocolate Orange.

Ian - Trying to write a speech highlighting the positive traits of Chris’ character is a lot like embarking on a shopping trip to Primark. You start off with a vague idea of what you want, you spend hours rummaging through the uninspiring mess of material on offer until, frustrated and weary, you end up with nothing but a cheap pile of pants!

Jim - So lacking in any other inspiration for this best man’s speech, we considered turning to the old tradition of exposing the darkest hours and most sinister tales from the groom’s past; to open the cupboard doors and reveal the skeletons lurking therein…

Ian - Unfortunately, our groom’s past is duller than the key note lecture at a paperclip manufacturer’s convention, so this section of our speech is sadly bereft of any such scandal. However, between you and me, there is one legendary horticultural escapade that we could be bribed into divulging on a strictly one-to-one basis. Something to bear it in mind should you see either of us waiting at the bar later this evening.

Jim - Chris is a man known by many names, not all of them defamatory. For those long-suffering members of Chris’ five-a-side football team, “Barely Athletic”, he is “The Chief”. Many years ago, The Chief assumed the responsibility of captaining our side, which was strange considering he’d never been offered the position.

Ian – Yes, who could forget his inspirational speeches and such nuggets of wisdom as “All we’ve got to do is score more goals than the opposition” delivered so earnestly as to suggested this was the greatest piece of motivational speaking ever heard. There are those who lead by example and the Chief has certainly shown us the way in which he thinks the beautiful game should be played.

Jim - In fact, he still remains the only member of the team to have ever been sent off. A feat he’s achieved twice! Of course he claims that both red cards were, in his words, “a bit soft”.

Ian - But to most of his school friends, Chris will always be known as Chudies, a nickname not only formed from his first initial and the first part of his surname but also Hindi slang for underpants!

Jim - It’s no wonder the nickname has stuck, although now Chris has managed to coax Louise into the marital bed, I suppose sticky underpants will be a thing of the past!

Ian - But how did our happy couple first meet? Well, I was actually present at that historic first meeting. It was at the Clapham Grand nightclub in London. Their eyes met across the dancefloor and you could see that it was meant to be…

Jim - They were the only two people within each other’s eye line!

Ian - As they approached each other, brushing the bobbing heads aside as if moving through long grass, there was definitely an explosive spark between them, which I can only presume was Chris’ free will disappearing in a puff of smoke.

Jim - Yet since those early fumblings on the dancefloor, your love has grown and grown until we find ourselves here on this happy day. It’s miraculous….especially considering our grooms terrible dancing skills. And if you want proof just wait until a little later in the evening and you’ll see what we mean!

Ian – But It is impossible to deny the positive effect Louise has had on Chris. Before you, this was a man who considered dressing up for the evening to be simply ironing his t-shirt.

Jim - Yet you’ve not only been an inspiration to Chris’ wardrobe but you’ve also encouraged him to lead a far healthier lifestyle, motivating him to take up running in particular. The two of you can often be seen jogging in the local park, although not together, as Chris is more often than not trailing behind you by some distance.

Ian - Louise, there is no doubt you make Chris extremely happy and we know that, despite all the personality flaws we’ve so diligently highlighted, he will do everything in his power to make you just as happy in return.

Jim - We think we’ve painted a pretty vivid picture of the man you’ll be spending the rest of your life with and the fact you’re still sitting here with a smile on your face and haven’t fled in panic to the nearest airport bodes very well for your future life together.

Ian - All that remains is for us to read out the following message from someone who, regrettably, couldn’t join us here today.

Jim - This message is from your beloved pet cat, Dexter!

Ian - “Dear Mummy and Daddy,

Jim - I hope you are enjoying your big day and wish you a wonderful time as Daddy whiskas you away on honeymoon.

Ian - Mummy, while you’re away, make sure Daddy treats you like the Queen of Sheba and don’t worry about me as I’ll be busy hiding several small presents for you to hunt on your return.

Jim - Iams delighted for you both and have a feline in my bones that yours will be a long and happy marriage.

Ian - All my love, kisses, purrs and meows, your loveable mog, Dexter”

Jim – So let that be the catalyst for a fantastic evening of laughter, music and most importantly, drink!

Ian – And in immediately dedicating ourselves to the latter, please join us in a/one last toast on behalf of the bridesmaids to the Bride and Groom.

Jim – To Chris and Louise!!

Jocky's Desert Island Discs: Disc 5 - Cigarettes & Alcohol - Oasis

Today it's almost standard practice for music journalists to look back on the Britpop era with a self-loathing embarrassment, the general agreement being that the wave of euphoria it catalysed duped us all into placing more importance than wholly sensible on a transient, contrived and, let's face it, somewhat silly era of British music.

It's understandable, of course, but in the scramble to restore some perspective in the wake of 'Cool Britannia', it's easy to forget what the UK music landscape looked like before Albarn, Cocker and the Gallaghers came on the scene.

In the 80's, Cyndi Lauper had been voted the 'Voice of the MTV Generation', an industry then dominated by pop moguls and their sugary starlets. By the early 90's in the UK the commercial sterility of that era was being blown away by those who were something altogether different - although in many instances no less contrived - producing indie music that felt raw, powerful, unadulterated and, most importantly, had mass appeal on both sides of the pond.

Oasis in particular, made you feel like anything was possible - even probable - the audacity of their wall of sound approach to rock 'n' roll mixing with an unbridled working class vitality to produce a transcending energy, personified by Liam Gallagher's primal vocal delivery and on stage menace.

The Mancunians were the first group I adored, waiting breathlessly for each new release and devouring every song as if it provided some kind of inherent life force (which in a way, it did).

Cigarettes & Alcohol, with its compressed tape hiss segueing into an epochal (if stolen) riff before exploding into the ultimate anthem to hedonism, still - even though I should know better by now - has the ability to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Of course this ode to the idle is, in many ways, the embodiment of what would go on to undermine the lazy exuberance of the era. However, for me, Cigarettes & Alcohol still feels life affirming and wonderfully cathartic. Undoubtedly it set back my political, intellectual and cultural development a few years but it also opened my eyes to the enigmatic possibilities of pop music.

Nothing has instilled the same swagger in my gait as listening to Oasis in their prime and that, whether just cause for embarrassment or not, has to be worth something.

The dying of the light

"People don't even know what to do with their Saturday afternoon's, what do I want with eternity?" - Tim Minchin, Desert Island Discs, BBC Radio 4

The above quote, which I heard just this week, alludes to a beautifully simple truth - one of the greatest joys of life is that it is finite.

It's a concept probably long bubbling under in my subconscious but that statement, plus the recent triumph of my favourite football team, have led to an acute focusing of the mind.

The theme of Chelsea's successful European Cup run has undoubtedly been one of resilience. The last 8 years have been the most glorious in the club's history but the most desired and prestigious trophy had remained elusive. The players who defined that period found themselves reaching the last chapter of their professional playing careers without the one particular honour they had expected to be by their names.

Only when the end was nigh, and in full realisation of their final opportunity to claim the prize, did this ageing and somewhat inferior team achieve its greatest ambition.

No player embodied this sentiment more than Didier Drogba. At 34, unable to sustain his past form on a weekly basis and no longer a first team regular, he made it his personal mission to take Chelsea to the next level. For each decisive cup tie in the latter stages of the season, he was able to reach new, unimaginable heights.

His goal in the Semi-Final of the FA Cup against Tottenham is one of the greatest individual goals I've ever seen from a Chelsea player - raw talent, of course, but also unmatched strength, determination and self-belief.

This was followed by the winning strike in the Final of the same competition, another crucial goal against Barcelona in the 1st leg of the Champions League Semi-Final and then, most memorably, in the Champions League Final, a thunderous equalising header with 2 mins remaining of normal time.

It was only fitting that his would be the decisive penalty in the shoot-out that followed. Confidently placed and with the shortest of run ups, in his words, he already 'knew' Chelsea had won prior to the kick. Bravado? Perhaps, but so decisive had he already been up to that point, that it rather suggests an unremitting self-belief had simply quashed the stupendous pressure of the situation.

"We knew from the start that the end was in sight" - Leave It When You Love, Tokyo Beatbox

Of course, but for circumstance and a little bad luck, Chelsea may have claimed the competition years before, yet it's difficult to believe that the coming end of an era didn't bring with it a clarity of purpose that unified and galvanised an otherwise disparate group of under performing individuals.

For the fan too the victory is somehow all the sweeter for knowing that this extended period of glory is most likely coming to an end. Chelsea won't be winning it again any time soon, nor are they likely to challenge for the league in the short term either, who knows if owner Abramovich, having plundered this bounty, won't seek out other unconquered arenas in which to dabble, taking his considerable financial backing with him?

Sport, as in life, is about grasping the moment. It is a trite cliché but when considered in the context of belief in the after life it suddenly seems like the one most logical and telling arrow to the heart of faith. Who in their right mind would desire an eternity?

In fact how liberating to be unequivocally certain of the end. A belief in forever only serves to invert an old adage - 'why do today, what you can put off 'til tomorrow?' Without the finality of death, would we ever achieve anything?

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light" - Dylan Thomas

Jocky's Desert Island Discs: Disc 4 - Three Lions - Baddiel, Skinner and The Lightning Seeds

Few of my Desert Island Discs have been picked on artistic merit alone - although it's a major factor in why I love many of them - but 'Three Lions', a song designed to be hollered by largered up England fans, couldn't be further disassociated from the term.

Yet, pillorying 'Three Lions' for the leery, beery threat of English hooliganism, is not only unfair but misunderstands the fundamental charm of many perfectly harmless and humorous football chants that arise, often spontaneously, from the terraces.

'Three Lions' doesn't just channel that same community spirit but it is undoubtedly the best song ever written about the wider, self-deprecating phenomenon of football fandom.

It captures perfectly the perennial disappointment of the football supporter; the tragic pathos of having to cling to a few precious moments from history; the everlasting hope that keeps supporters returning for more, even when the odds of success are weighted heavily against them.

I was 14 years old when football 'came home' for Euro 96, old enough to be aware of the long wait for success endured by my elders but, crucially, still young enough not to be worn down by the repeated experience of major tournament heartbreak (England didn't qualify for the World Cup in '94 and I was but 10 at the time of England's unedifying exit in the group stages of Euro 92).

Naive enough too, to be swept up happily in the national pride of hosting such an event, without a conscience pricked by the historic misappropriation of the St George's Cross nor the xenophobic imperialism looming in the subtext of the press coverage at the time.

The English Premier League too was still in its infancy. Although players were no more role models then than  now - the squad being heavily criticised for their debauchery on a pre-tournament tour to the far east - fans could still relate to most of the individuals on the pitch, who maintained an everyman status now eroded by the obscene wages and inherent air of entitlement today's stars exhibit (In a way, Gazza's dentist chair shenanigans only served to embellish that everyman sentiment. At least the team were getting drunk in the spirit of togetherness rather than sleeping with their team mates wives!)

'Three Lions' then, doesn't only represent the euphoria of that summer - Gazza's wonder goal against Scotland, the 5-1 victory over the Dutch masters or even, that rarest of experiences, a penalty shoot out victory - but also represents the last time I was unapologetically proud of England as a nation.

As with Des Lynam's perfectly judged avuncularity and Stuart Pearce's moment of emancipation, Baddiel, Skinner and the Lightning Seeds captured the zeitgeist, soundtracking a golden moment of youthful certainty and exuberance that I'll never experience again. Like me, the England football team - and the nation it represents - were never really the same again.

Jocky's Desert Island Discs: Disc 3 - You'll Never Walk Alone - Gerry and The Pacemakers

This is a strange choice for a Chelsea fan, so associated as the song is with supporters of Liverpool Football Club - in fact, I can think of at least one United fan who will probably never forgive me for this blog post.

Yet, 'You'll Never Walk Alone' does perfectly represent that wonderful glory found in defeat, the triumph of hope over despair and life over death.

Although hearing 'You'll Never Walk Alone' ring out from the stands always has a tendency to raise the hairs on the back of my neck - the obvious emotional resonance of the Heysel and Hillsborough disasters never far from mind - it's another more recent, admittedly less significant, instance of scouse solidarity that scorches itself into my psyche.

In 2005 the Reds unexpectedly came back from 3 goals down at half-time to claim victory in the European Cup Final against AC Milan. It was an incredible match and an unprecedented turnaround. The following year, the two sides met again in the final but this time the Italian side deservedly and comfortably won out.

At the final whistle the Milan players celebrated as did their fans but, at the other end of the stadium, Liverpool's travelling faithful remained, not retreating quietly into the night to bemoan their misfortune but, to a man, woman and child, stood tall, scarves aloft, bellowing out the song that has become their standard.

Admittedly these fans had a very recent success to fall back on and Liverpool still are this country's most successful side, yet it seemed to embody that quality which is so rare in football - dignity in defeat.

In the same year, my maternal grandmother sadly passed away. 'Nanny 1' I used to inexplicably call her - not out of any preference to my father's mother but simply as the most clear cut method of differentiation (what 'Nanny 2' made of it I'll never know, although I don't seem to remember it ever being a cause for grievance; she quite happily signed off birthday and Christmas cards with that moniker).

The funeral was a sad if not tragic occasion. She was 93 when she died and had been ill for some months. It was no great shock when the time eventually did come.

My cousin gave an incredibly poignant speech about passing through life as if painting a long corridor from one end to the other, at the far end of which you turnaround to look back on a wonderful collage of memories before passing out of the room contentedly.

When the service concluded, we began to slowly make our way out of the chapel to the sound of what I initially took for some traditional hymn or other. A few bars in I realised it was, in fact, a choral version of 'You'll Never Walk Alone'.

As exit music of the most final kind, with all the new found associations I'd imbued on it, there couldn't have been a more appropriate choice.

Praise be for football fans

As a football fan, the past few weeks since Fabrice Muamba's shocking collapse in the Tottenham v Bolton game have been a fascinating insight into human nature, our muddled relationship with religion and our communal reaction to unexpectedly tragic events.

Thankfully, tragedy has, at least at point of writing, been averted with Muamba showing positive signs of recovery following a full 78mins without heartbeat subsequent to his cardiac arrest on the White Hart Lane pitch.

Striking as his recovery to this point has been, perhaps even more remarkable is the nature of the public reaction to his collapse. In times of powerlessness it's notable how quickly a supposedly secular society reverts to a quasi-religious mindset.

In the stadium, as medical staff attended to Muamba, pictures of those in the stands showed a commonality, not only of worried faces but of hands clasped together, often in front of mouths, in an instinctive and, presumably in most cases, unconscious stance of prayer.

In the following hours we were all asked to 'pray' for Muamba, BBC's Match of the Day that evening displaying a succession of tweets from fellow players containing similar sentiments.


Come the next match day in the Premier League, players from all teams could be seen displaying t-shirts with slogans of support, many offering a simple 'Get well soon' but many more re-emphasising this call to prayer.

It did make me wonder, were I a professional footballer, would I, as an atheist, agree to wear such a t-shirt, torn between my personal beliefs and a reluctance to appear selfish or willingly contrary? After all, there's no doubting the intentions of a very positive movement of well-wishing.

Some religious spokespeople have adopted these acts as proof the flame of Christianity still burns brightly within our society but even they, I suspect, know this hope is far from an actual reality.

Were those same players and fans asked whether they believed in God, I expect many would still say 'no' and many others would, at least, be a little cagey on the subject.


What this pseudo prayer really proves is that most of us still suffer from a fundamental psychological fault when it comes to tragic events of this nature: when we know not what to do, say or how to explain the events unfolding before us, we still find it easier to put responsibility for the outcome in someone or something else's hands rather than accept a tragic but otherwise uncontrollable event of happenstance has just occurred.

I'm not arguing that people shouldn't pray. For Christians it is a fundamental cornerstone of their faith and for others it is at least a great comfort, and that's perfectly understandable, but it's been surprising how little self-awareness there has been, the tendency to revert to learnt behaviours very much a knee jerk reaction causing levels of communal sympathy to reach quite bizarre heights.

The death of Princess Diana is the common example of a euphoric grief spiralling out of control, people bathing in the comfort of an artificially heightened emotion. Indeed, this does seem to manifest itself more regularly now, in a world of social media, 24hour news and increased exposure to hyperbole.

As a coda to this rather critical treaty on human emotional weakness, I do want to add the caveat that you'd have to have a heart of stone not to have been moved by many of the gestures made following Muamba's collapse, Blackburn fans chanting his name from the stands in their game at the Reebok stadium being a particularly heart warming display.

Finally, whilst the global football community is so often criticised for its behaviour, we should also be grateful for the opportunity to praise this welcome solidarity, even if it should be no less than expected under the circumstances.

Did I just use the word 'praise' in that last sentence? God help me!

Jocky's Desert Island Discs: Disc 2 - Complete Control - The Clash

There are only a handful of bands who have ever really aspired to be all I believe a band can be - one of them is The Clash.

They were the perfect blend of punk music, politics and a razor sharp perspective on the social inequities of a country gripped by Thatcherism.

London Calling is understandably lauded by many, whilst White Man (In Hammersmith Palais) is arguably Joe Strummer's masterpiece, but it's early single Complete Control that has the most lasting effect on me.

Imagine a band writing a song purely in protest at their record company's decision to release a single against their wishes. Then imagine them releasing that new song as a single too! It could never happen today but it did in 1977.

I just love the audacity of it. The total and utter 'fuck you' to authority. It's the ultimate example of angry, passionate, young men kicking out at the world through their art. Of course, it's also just a faultlessly good rock 'n' roll song.

At university, I had the pleasure of kicking around in a band and, although we were never destined for fame, it was one of the most exciting and empowering times of my life...and we played a cover of Complete Control.

That all too brief period culminated in a gig at a small but suitably ambient Leicester venue, appropriately called The Shed.

Top of the bill on a Saturday night in front of a hugely enthusiastic crowd, it certainly felt like my moment in the sun. Complete Control, a stomping, guitar hero of a song, will always encapsulate that moment.

Rings around the world

Where do I stand on the London Olympics?

Well, I hate the logo obviously, that's a given; and the floating pontoon of Olympic rings careering down the Thames this week was utterly pointless; and I can't stand the way previously unknown female athletes competing in minor events nobody really cares about - who just so happen to be moderately attractive - are gracing the cover of every newspaper and magazine across the country with their scantily clad bottoms pointing directly at the camera.

How's that for starters?

The prospect of the cultural Olympiad and all the other ceremony surrounding this greatest of sporting events is daunting. Cringe worthy pretension and superfluity will no doubt force us to watch from between our fingers in excruciating agony.

Yet, it's all too easy to make fun of the Olympics, for the circus that surrounds it to leave you foaming at the mouth or sniggering with incredulity.

When I hear people making fun of London 2012, I'm mindful of when Coldplay's Chris Martin accepted a Brit Award by taking to the stage and slagging off George W Bush.

"What a stand you're making" I thought sarcastically as I watched the ceremony on television. "To criticise the most blindingly obvious and easy of targets. You're so devastatingly subversive".

Suspicion of ceremony and over enthusiasm is, of course, a national trait of the British (except where Royalty is involved and then it's expected) and it is admirable that we are usually able to cut through hyperbole with a reserved dignity. However, it does also mean we're much happier sneering knowingly from the outside rather than risking the embarrassment of committing to an ideal for better or for worse.

What if it's a huge failure? What if we're a global laughing stock? What if Boris Johnson slips and falls into the Olympic swimming pool while attempting a speech about how much better we do things than Johnny Foreigner? Much safer to sit back in your armchair and say, "I told you so".

Of course there are practical reasons for ill feeling towards the Olympics. Yes, a lot of tax payers money is going towards it but a 'mega event' looming on the horizon also forces some of that tax money to be used regenerating deprived areas of London, raising transport standards and creating new jobs and affordable housing that might never otherwise have materialised.

And yes, evidence (and I have actually read a handful of research papers on this) suggests there's nowhere near the economic boom effect that is often predicted for cities and countries hosting Olympics. Still, it's pretty clear that an event of this scale, run well, will have at least some positive effect on the economy, particularly for tourism, and can't help but raise the world's opinion of our country - much needed given our unpopular involvement in Iraq and, more recently, our position on the European Union.

I understand the arguments for and against but now that it's here and there's no going back, I ask myself, do I want to be like those men you see in nightclubs standing at the side of the dance floor, chuckling at the fools cavorting in front of them whilst secretly hating themselves for the self-consciousness that strikes them rigid?

From here on in, I'm pro the Olympics, I'm going to bask in their glory. Yes, I'd rather there was no opening ceremony with David Cameron gabbling on about peace, love and how great The Smiths are but to hell with it!

The Olympics will be great! I have a ticket to the football at Wembley and I'm delighted. When it eventually arrives through the front door I may even do a little dance to celebrate.

I suspect when the Games finally do arrive even the naysayers will be swept up in the occasion and, whether they admit it or not, will enjoy the experience far more than they expect.

At the closing ceremony, as the fireworks whizz and bang over dancers dressed in inflatable Yorkshire puddings, wearing bowler hats and dancing round the maypole, I'll be the one leaning back in my armchair, sipping smugly from a cup of tea and saying "I told you so."

Jocky's Desert Island Discs: Disc 1 - Johnny B Goode - Chuck Berry

The first music I remember, with the exception of nursery rhymes perhaps, is that which populated my father's modest but exquisite collection of vinyl LP's.

They were housed at floor level, somewhat coyly, in a large faux-wooden cabinet against which our dining room table and chairs stood.

I would sit beneath the table, aged around 8 years old, thumbing through the original Jerry Lee Lewis, Bob Dylan and Rolling Stones LP's, more often than not reaching for a particular single; that of Chuck Berry's much loved 'Johnny B. Goode'.

I vivdly recall placing it on my Dad's record player, a wonderful object, encased in wood and metal, encapsulating all the glorious physicality of vinyl.

The song also plays a prominent part in one of my all-time favourite films, Stephen Spielberg's sci-fi adventure 'Back to the Future', Michael J Fox memorably playing an over enthusiastic version on stage at a 1950's high school dance.

Whether it was my prior love for the film that made me seek out that record among the dusty sleeves, I can't be sure, but the memories of both the film version and Berry's itself are so intwined now as to make no difference.

Friends were infuriated by tuneless renditions in the playground and who knows how many times I pretended to be Marty McFly, tennis racket in hand, duck walking my way across the living room floor?

It was the first song with which I was completely obsessed. The perfect introduction to the excitement of rock 'n' roll.

The Cult of 'Innocentese'

I've just read this long but fascinating blog by Dorian Lynskey on the cult of 'Innocentese', i.e. that class of branding that appropriates infantile speech to make a mark with its target consumer - the marketing of certain smoothies being the primary case in point here.

It references some eye-opening opinions on why such branding works, including the following quote from a blog which describes this trend as 'Wackywriting'. Frighteningly, I think the following describes me all too well...

Wackywriting embodies the dilemma of the liberal middle classes: material privilege, and unease over that privilege, glossed over with affected bohemianism and faux-naïveté. Hopelessly compromised by power and possessions, we long to return to the garden, but can’t pass through the eye of the needle. We’re guilty, but we wish we were, yes, innocent.

Submitting to Technorati...

Technorati is a blog directory that people search for all that interests them in the blogosphere. I'm submitting Jocky's Corner to the directory and, as such, have to prove I'm the author by posting a blog including the following unique token....

RA84H5RAN7XP

Well, there it is. I shall sit back and await world domination.

Review of 2011

Best Music

- Valhalla Dancehall - British Sea Power
- Skying - The Horrors
- Let England Shake - PJ Harvey
- The English Riviera - Metronomy
- The King of Limbs - Radiohead

Best TV - Comedy

- Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle - BBC2
- Frank Skinner's Opinionated - BBC2
- Psychoville 2 - BBC2
- 10 O'Clock Live - C4
- An Idiot Abroad 2 - Sky1

Best TV - Drama

- The Hour - BBC1
- Great Expectations - BBC1
- Being Human - BBC3
- Boardwalk Empire - Sky Atlantic
- United - BBC2

Best TV - Documentary

- The Secret Life of Bob Monkhouse - BBC4
- Paul Merton's Birth Of Hollywood - BBC2
- Space Shuttle: The Final Mission - BBC2
- Sir Jimmy Saville at the BBC: How's About That Then? - BBC2
- Arena - George Harrison: Living In The Material World - BBC2

Best Film

- Senna - Asif Kapadia
- Submarine - Richard Ayoade
- Attack the Block - Joe Cornish
- Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 - David Yates
- Super 8 - JJ Abrams

Most Significant News Events

- The police shooting of Mark Duggan in Tottenham acts as the catalyst for riots and looting across the UK.

- Mohammed Bouazizi, a young Tunisian fruit seller, sets himself alight in protest at his treatment by Government authorities sparking a wave of revolution in the Middle East toppling Egypt's President Murbarak and Libya's Colonel Gaddaffi amongst others.

- The News of the World is accused of hacking the phone of murder victim Milly Dowler leading to further revelations of unethical practice at the paper and resulting in numerous high profile resignations and the ultimate closure of the paper by News International. The Leveson Inquiry into press practice, culture and ethics is ongoing.

- An earthquake and resultant tsunami in Japan cause the devastating loss of 18,000 lives.

- The Occupy Movement at St Paul's Cathedral in London symbolises a year in which protest at Government spending cuts, rising student tuition fees and banking practices was rife. The largest general strike since the 1920's took place in protest against public sector pension plans.

Most Memorable Sporting Events

- The England Cricket Team secure their first victory in an Ashes series held in Australia since 1987.

- The current Barcelona FC team secure their legacy as one of the all time greats with a master-class of passing football to defeat Manchester United at Wembley and claim their 3rd European Cup victory in six years.

- Jenson Button takes the unlikeliest of victories at a rain interrupted Canadian Grand Prix, passing Sebastian Vettel on the last lap and having made an incredible 34 passes and six total pit stops during the race.

- FIFA confirm the 2022 World Cup will be held in Qatar, corruption claims are made by senior officials and gay rights groups condemn the decision to hold the event in a country that still outlaws homosexuality.

- Commentator Richard Keys and analyst Andy Gray expose a deep seated sexism at Sky Sports when their off air comments about female work colleagues are revealed. Both lose their jobs at BSkyB.

Most Memorable Personal Events

- Relocating the Institute of Marine Engineering, Science and Technology's library collection to a safe new home at Lloyd's Register of Shipping.
- StixStag in Tallinn, Estonia.
- Summer holiday to Bideford, Devon with family and friends.
- The Horrors live at The Roundhouse.
- The Manics live at the O2 Arena.
- The first year George really appreciated the magic of Christmas.

Some blog housekeeping 2011

This is I, recording 2011's cultural intake for posterity...

Reading...
The Blizzard: Issue 3 - Jonathan Wilson, Editor
Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury
How I Escaped My Certain Fate : The Life and Deaths of a Stand-Up Comedian - Stewart Lee
The Ultimate Guide to Mad Men - Guardian Books
Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
Down and Out in Paris and London - George Orwell
The Blizzard: Issue Two - Jonathan Wilson, Editor
Life - Keith Richards
The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
33 Revolutions Per Minute: A History Of Protest Songs - Dorian Lynskey
The Blizzard: Issue One - Jonathan Wilson, Editor
Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance - Robert M Pirsig
The Benn Diaries - Tony Benn
Inverting The Pyramid: The History of Football Tactics - Jonathan Wilson
The Blizzard: Issue Zero - Jonathan Wilson, Editor
Booky Wook 2: This Time It's Personal - Russell Brand
A Room With A View - E M Forster
The Old Man And The Sea - Ernest Hemingway
Juliet, Naked - Nick Hornby
On Chesil Beach - Ian McEwan
Animal Farm - George Orwell
The Fry Chronicles: An Autobiography - Stephen Fry
Bevan (Life & Times) - Clare Beckett and Francis Beckett
Socialism: A Very Short Introduction - Michael Newman

Listening...
Lioness: Hidden Treasures - Amy Winehouse
A Different Kind of Fix - Bombay Bicycle Club
Smother - Wild Beasts
Hurry Up, We're Dreaming - M83
Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds
The Smile Sessions - The Beach Boys
77 - Talking Heads
Back to Black - Amy Winehouse
21 - Adele
Wake Up! - John Legend and The Roots
The English Riviera - Metronomy
Skying - The Horrors
I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue - BBC Radio 4
Suck It And See - Arctic Monkeys
The 50 Greatest Hits - Elvis Presley
Ultimate Greatest Hits - The Everly Brothers
Zeus E.P. - British Sea Power
Low - David Bowie
The Butcher/Supercollider - Radiohead
Violator - Depeche Mode
What Did You Expect From The Vaccines? - The Vaccines
Angles - The Strokes
The King Of Limbs - Radiohead
Let England Shake - PJ Harvey
Hotel Shampoo - Gruff Rhys
Computers and Blues - The Streets
Valhalla Dancehall - British Sea Power

Watching...
Great Expectations - BBC1
Silent Running (DVD)
George Harrison: Living In The Material World (Blu-Ray)
The Gruffalo's Child - BBC1
The Borrowers - BBC1
Sir Jimmy Saville at the BBC: How's About That Then? - BBC2
Nativity - BBC1
The Many Faces of Les Dawson - BBC2
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 (DVD)
Avatar (Blu-Ray)
Source Code (Blu-Ray)
Do It Yourself: The Story of Rough Trade - BBC4
Creation Records at the BBC - BBC4
Upside Down: The Creation Story - BBC4
The Help
True Grit (Blu-Ray)
Frank Skinner on George Formby - BBC4
Old Grey Whistle Test - BBC4
Attack the Block (Blu-Ray)
Submarine (Blu-Ray)
Never Let Me Go (DVD)
Fry's Planet Word - BBC1
Gil Scott Heron: The Revolution Will Not Be Televised - BBC4
The Jonathan Ross Show - ITV1
Outnumbered - BBC1
Muse at Reading 2011 - BBC3
The Strokes at Reading 2011 - BBC3
Pulp at Reading 2011 - BBC3
127 Hours (DVD)
Torchwood: Miracle Day - BBC1
The Hour - BBC2
Space Shuttle: The Final Mission - BBC2
The Fighter (Blu-Ray)
The King of Comedy - BBC2
New Tricks - BBC1
The Damned United (DVD)
Janelle Monáe at Glastonbury 2011 - BBC3
The Horrors at Glastonbury 2011 - BBC3
Beyoncé at Glastonbury 2011 - BBC3
Morrissey at Glastonbury 2011 - BBC3
Black Swan (DVD)
Senna
NEDs (Blu-Ray)
Of God's And Men (Blu-Ray)
Paul Merton's Birth Of Hollywood - BBC2
The King's Speech (Blu-Ray)
Monsters (Blu-Ray)
Police Squad! - Complete Series (DVD)
Dr Who - BBC1
Sir Bobby Charlton - Football Icon - BBC2
United - BBC2
The Pacific - Sky Atlantic
Time Team - C4
The Best Of Not the Nine O'Clock News Vol. 2 (DVD)
Psychoville 2 - BBC2
Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle - BBC2
Frank Skinner's Opinionated - BBC2
Eclipse - The Twilight Saga (Blu-Ray)
Made In Dagenham (DVD)
New Moon - The Twilight Saga (Blu-Ray)
The Sopranos - Complete Boxset (DVD)
The Social Network (Blu-Ray)
Twilight (DVD)
10 O'Clock Live - C4
Treme - Sky Atlantic
Curb Your Enthusiasm - Sky Atlantic
Six Feet Under - Sky Atlantic
Toy Story 3 (Blu-Ray)
Boardwalk Empire - Sky Atlantic
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1
A Serious Man (DVD)
Green Zone (DVD)
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid - C4
Inception (Blu-Ray)
Being Human - BBC3
The Secret Life of Bob Monkhouse - BBC4