Friday 30 March 2012

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!

Monday 19 March 2012

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.

Sunday 4 March 2012

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."

Thursday 1 March 2012

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.