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.