Stormont in a tea cup?

The other night I managed to watch Ken Loach's The Wind That Shakes The Barley, which concerns early 20th Century Republicans and highlights the brutality of the Black & Tans. This is a period of history not taught in schools (well, not in my day. Though admittedly I may have been sketching colonies on Jupiter [I know now of course that Saturn is the only planet which can sustain human life] in my notebook, if not playing flea racing with Mike Pike, I'm sure I don't remember anything about Irish history, yet I can clearly recall the Bessemer burner and the Corn Law Repeal Act of 1777) but which I believe definitely should be. It has informed, and continues to inform, so much of the political landscape in the UK.
The following day, I watched some of Simon Schama's History of Britain, which was concerned with the Great Potato Famine, and the re-enacted scenes of the landlords wreaking havoc on the small communities in the West of Ireland in the aftermath of the famine echoed strongly for me as I watched the Black & Tans exacting their reprisals on the people.

Brown and Cowen (sorry, but - jeez, what a toad!) suddenly at Stormont. Stones at Altamont. Peter Robinson and Mrs Robinson, milf wife, though nobody's talking about that now, which indicates how seriously everyone is taking it. Ian Paisley, Bob Paisley (of an era, strangely, though of course the wrong Paisley is dead) Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness keeping those dissidents in check for the time-being. Well, it must be pretty boring going back to watching daytime TV and popping to the shops when you've been used to organising mass bombings and ambushes of the British Army, so the balaclava boys are no doubt itching to get out there again.

Did they use a fish-eye lens?

Mark Simpson reminds me of Patrick Kielty and his glasses are just the wrong side of fashion-conscious to be very annoying. He tells us - and we have to believe every word he says because he is wearing a nice black coat - that there is no prospect of a return to full-scale violence. The sticking points, according to the lovely Mark, are around policing and justice and those bloody awful parades those weirdos in the bowler hats seem to love so much. Personally speaking, I have always leaned towards the Republican cause, mostly because I never liked parades. Apart from the Rio and Notting Hill carnivals.

Delicious

A straight City post today. Aren't you the lucky ones?



I know when to eat my words, have no fear about that. I am not afraid to say: 'I was wrong' and change my opinion on a subject. That subject is - of course - Carlos Tevez. I have previously blogged that I felt he was not a great signing, believing some of the busted flush stuff I had read, and the limited evidence I had seen for myself in matches. Now, 17 goals to the good and a fabulous spat with Neville Neville's lad, I am prepared to admit that I was mistaken. The return leg midweek is set to be a corker (I hope I'm not putting the mockers on anything) if the last one is anything to go by.

So, the wonderful little Argie aside, as well as the always satisfying victory over the Rags, what's the state of play at Eastlands now, according to the Great Sage - i.e., me?

To start with, I believe Mancini had an easy ride up to the Everton match, which I always thought would be a toughie. I had, however, expected a bit more from us than we showed in that game, and it was something of a capitulation, straight out of the City old school - despite Everton being (as always) hard bastards and right up for it. United are a bit of a curate's egg (in its original sense, if you please) at present, with Rooney almost looking like he's the only good part of the team, so beating them made for a relatively easy and somewhat odd task, even if there were a few dicey moments towards the end. We've pretty much strolled past our other opponents since the Italian took over, and no disrespect to Scunthorpe fans, but the FA Cup doesn't look to have dealt us such a bad hand either. Well, we shall see, eh?

General thoughts on the team? Given continues to be fantastic, but we still look frail at the back, though I don't think either Lescott or Bridge being out of action has necessarily contributed to that. Richards' fine goal against Blackburn aside, I have serious doubts about him, and Zabaleta is all fire and no finesse, seemingly in danger of picking up a booking almost every time he goes into the tackle. Toure is fine, if a bit long in the tooth (though not as long as Sylvinho, that's for sure)

Midfield is decent, though I was hoping for a bit more from Daddy Dick this season. Barry has been solid if unimaginative and De Jong is excellent as a Gattuso style breaker-upper. Up front, well, no worries as long as Tevez can continue his run of form, if Bellamy can come back into his, and if SWP (I realise he isn't a forward in the true sense of the word, but he is very much an attack-minded player) stops being so infuriating and puts together a couple of decent performances for us. I had my doubts about Adebayor before the incident in Angola, so it's anyone's guess what sort of player he will be when he does return to the first team.

Not that I'm really interested in it, but FWIW in the 'us making or not making the top 4 this season' argument, I am firmly in the 'not' camp. We are still prone to too many stupid defensive errors, and are readily rolled over by determined teams who won't allow us to play our quick break game.

All in all it must be said, not too unhappy so far. Except that I cannot fathom the Vieira thing. Not one bit.

Walthamstow

Due to a very minor ironic twist, I ended up in Walthamstow on Friday, but I did not get there by bike. Rather I was on the bus. On the way to a little job - little being the operative word, and I think it unlikely to cause the taxman too many concerns - with a good friend and one-time business associate. The interminable ride on the 230 did not exactly inspire me to follow up with a cycle, although I have never been to the market before, and it might be worth seeing that.

We were feeding some CAT6 cables to the head end of the sound system within a church; one of those massively popular places that seem to be able to deny the realities of credit crunch Britain as if protected by some divine power... No, wait...

Anyway, it was good to be doing something which did not result in a net outpouring of funds for a change. Although introduced as 'one of our top technicians' I betrayed my woeful lack of knowledge about all things jumpered and patched, and although we wasted about 13 metres of good cable, the job was done to the client's satisfaction, meaning that we were at last rewarded with the IP address displayed on the command line. I assure you that I was not conducting some kind of anti-religious dirty protest, but I managed to spread copious amounts of dog shit from the bottom of my shoe around most of the establishment. I sincerely hope that this will not mean that no further business will be done.

And there's the thing. Further business. Much needed at present, so if you want something done, why not consider Solar Organic? We are in the business of solutions, and always provide value by design, so give us a go. I will check my shoe thoroughly before entering your home or place of work, I promise. Even though it might mean that I'm reverting to my blue collar roots, and eschewing the protection of Messrs Brown and Cameron by quitting the middle class (I never really fitted in anyway. Monthly payments are far too infrequent for me) you could make me feel like a viable human being again, so it would be well worth your while.

Torpor

Fuck this arctic weather pattern, rendering a coffee outside impossible. Fuck this snow, causing the old and infirm (and occasionally the young and fit - you know who you are) to fall down and strain, sprain or break things; leaving trails of salt all up the stairs; turning to filthy brown slush; balling itself up so that kids can throw it at buses; turning the news into endless pieces to camera by some idiot standing on a bridge over the M1 saying how cold it is in the Yorkshire Dales. Fuck it.

But worst of all are the postponements. The stupid bloody weather has stolen one of the few beacons of joy in the bleak, post-solstice world we find ourselves in by forcing the risk-averse 'managers' (I choose my words carefully) who seem so prevalent in life these days to cancel football matches. There is no justice. As some twat said on the BBC yesterday or one other day in the recent past - 'This is the 21st Century, and people want to know why we can't function normally just because a bit of snow falls'. Comparisons have been made with Novosibirsk, where everything runs smoothly in temperatures of minus 200 and octogenarians skip about in 6 feet of snow carrying 40lb backpacks full of coal. Which they will eat, rather than burn. Personally, I blame Fearne Cotton.

Anyway, as the City site says - somewhat dramatically - tonight's game GOES AHEAD! So, in the absence of any Gooner shite to show, I think I will take a punt that the local might manage to tune into ESPN and hie me down there to watch it.

Then tomorrow, with my injured ankle slowly improving, I will strive to emerge from the shell. If Carol on the weather this morning is to be believed, the temperature should be slowly climbing as we head through the week, so it will be time to put some air in the tyres, tighten the brakes a bit, don the gloves and hat and hit the road. I've had an idea to cycle to the end of each of the tube lines (with the exception of the Heathrow end of the Piccadilly, due to horrendous roads, though I may change my mind on that one, depending how the project goes) starting with the northern end of the Victoria Line. That shouldn't be too arduous from here, and will be a good introduction to the project. I will follow that with the northern end of the Piccadilly and work my way round from there, taking the odd picture and writing a few bits on here. Well, that's the plan anyway.

American City

Thanks to the NASL Photo Gallery (http://home.att.net/~nasl/gallery.htm) for the image

Please welcome my first guest writer - Mike Francis. Mike is an American, but don't hold that against him. We struck up a friendship via Twitter and City (follow Mike here for witty and insightful tweets) and he has put together this piece on being a City fan in the US of A. The only editing I've done is formatting to fit the Blogger layout. Thanks, Mike. Take it away!

AMERICAN CITY- by Mike Francis

Why does an American born on Long Island NY who now lives in Florida cheer for Man City? When this question was first asked of me I honestly didn't know how to answer but after thinking about.....it's in my DNA.

Growing up on Long Island, NY in the 80's you maybe surprised to learn that Soccer, as us Americans call it, was the most popular sport played by the kids. Many of the families who lived in my town were first generation immigrants. Pickup games were seen throughout the town. Italians, Irish, South Americans/Mexicans were all well represented. My best friend was Carlos from Chile. His dad Carlos Sr was the first one to "teach" me how to play. All this meant to a 6yr old was to do something other then toe the ball down the field and run after it. The city league started at age 7 and I still remember it like it was yesterday, 11 kids on each side where the only time we were lined up in a 4-4-2 was at kickoff. As soon as that ball was kicked, it was like a scene from Braveheart, 20 kids running at each other and after the ball yelling at the top of our lungs.

The city league was great but it only went up to the age of 12 so the only other opportunity I had to play organized soccer was in High School. I was still in my "I love to play just to play" mentality. I found out the hard way that playing for fun and playing to win are too different things. I could have dealt with the change in attitude if I had the ability but after playing with the other guys, I knew my playing days were just about over. I was too slow and just not good enough to be playing with these other kids. They placed me on the freshman team and I think it was because they had the room on the bench. I did some mop up time at the end of some blow out games but that was it. My dream of playing professionally in England was over.

Wait, what was that last sentence? Play for England, where did that come from? My grandfather was born in England, specifically Manchester. He moved to New York with his wife and 4 children prior to WW2. I never met the man; by the time I was born he already passed away. Given my love of the game when the World Cup came around, I had to cheer for somebody, I chose England. It wasn't like the US was an option!! The World Cup was the only time soccer was ever on television. I had to watch even if I was surrounded by Italians, Mexicans, Brazilians and South American country supporters. England was my team and I wanted to play there when I grew up.

After my freshman year, I stopped playing. The World Cup was over so there were no games on TV. I lost touch with the game and soon left for college and then the real world. World Cup 2006 was my re-introduction to the game. I was now living in Florida where college football is king. During that summer I would catch some cup games on TV but also go downtown to the Irish Pub. I would go alone as none of my other friends watched the game. It wouldn't matter, as the pub would be packed with supporters. Even though I showed up alone, once there, I wasn't alone. Everyone there was your friend. I have never been to a game in person but the one thing I always enjoyed watching was the atmosphere in the stands. It wasn't just a game, it was a celebration of your team. My love for the game I had as a kid was back.

Options are wonderful to have so when I had the chance to subscribe to satellite television, I jumped on it. I can subscribe to a ridiculous amount of channels if I could only afford it. One of the options is the soccer package, which you may see me tweet about. I love being able to see every EPL game along with all of the UEFA games but why do I need to subscribe to 2 different soccer packages at twice the price in order to see the games I want?? I’m not going in to it here but I did subscribe to one. I finally have the chance to see real professional soccer. Now that I’m able to see the games, I had to pick a team. Knowing that my Grandfather was from Manchester I checked with my dad to see if he knew which team Pop cheered for. I was praying it was City because I hate the color red, I have no red clothes, hate red cars, just don’t like the color. Once my dad said he was a Man City guy, I was relieved and ecstatic. I have my team now and my team is CITY.

What is it?

I briefly touched on this subject at the end of my last post. Reluctant as I always am to write about a subject which is being covered by everybody, with newspapers even reporting sodding tweets these days, and what the fuck could I add that hasn't already been said, right? - I will be writing (mostly) about Twitter, but the principles could just as easily apply to other strands of 'social media'. If you like.

I have around 130 followers (OK, maybe slightly fewer than that) currently on Twitter, though a proportion of that number are marketing type accounts, a large-ish percentage are now slebs (my main worry about Twitter is that slebs are taking over - their natural wit and honed writing skills forcing the plebs to the sidelines, and as a result, the celebrities - along with a few uber-geeks - get to set the agenda. But what are you gonna do?) a few are similar saddoes to myself, aiming to try and enhance their online personae by upping their following quota, and a very small minority are actual, real people. People I have seen in the meat, or - more rarely - have 'met' online. The latter I will discount for the time-being, because they are, almost by default, more new media friendly, but the former are - in the words of the fabulous Beasties - my primary bone of contention.



For reasons many and various, most of the people I know do not tweet. Not really. There are a couple who do (in fact, to be completely accurate, only two of my real life acquaintances keep up a regular stream of Twitterhood, and one of those is a newbie. One other chooses to dip in whenever the fancy takes him, but I have long since given up on trying to figure that guy out. You know who you are) I can detect nervousness in some friends, along the lines of: 'Who are these people, and why are they following me?' or 'Everyone will think I'm a dick'. I can also see a 'what's the fucking point?' attitude in one or two, which is fair enough I suppose. Though I have managed to talk one guy into signing up on the basis that it's a cheap way to keep in contact when separated by geography, he studiously refuses to update his status and only uses the site for direct messaging.

But, perhaps more interestingly, I have also heard a general objection to the whole idea of social media (though Facebook seems to have escaped this particular censure) on the grounds that 'everyone is talking, but nobody is listening'. The complaint, such as it is, is that the rise of Web 2.0 (not sure if this is still a term we can use...?) is either symptom or cause of the general decline in society. Indeed, there have been some strands along these lines, with many bemoaning the rise of troll culture, and the opportunities online communities afford people to vent anonymously. This is an extension of a general impatience with human communication - or the lack of it - and Twitter perhaps neatly sums up the phenomenon. Although I can see the point to a degree, I cannot whole-heartedly agree. Despite the dearth of meatspace contacts among my followers, I have enjoyed some good communication, and generally feel that I have learnt, and continue to learn, something from the 140 character musings of those whose tweets I follow.

I am still mystified, and a little disappointed, that more of those I know have not taken to it with the same enthusiasm as me. Bastards.

Soft Tissue Damage

Happy New Year. It all started so well.

I was enjoying a bit of Stooges back and to on Twitter with a City fan somewhere in the US (we even acted out in tweets the old 'pick two' routine) and was feeling well set up for a jolly New Year's Eve with a sip at my one remaining Cambrian Gold. The eclipse of the blue moon was looking good next to the flats. I took a picture with the phone, which of course didn't come out so well, so I legged it upstairs to get my camera, telling the kids to look out through the window to watch this rare phenomenon, and then rushed back down again, switching the camera on as I went. To my dismay I noticed that the battery was almost completely exhausted, and as I neared the bottom step, I was wondering whether I would be able to squeeze a shot out before the thing died on its arse.
I was not to be so lucky, and just as I heard the terminal triple beep, the world suddenly flipped up and I saw my foot fold under me in a rapid and alarming fashion. In my haste and excitement, I had missed the second-last step and fell heavily on the foot, also bashing my arm trying to prevent damage to the camera. Although the immediate panic that I might have snapped my foot or shin completely off was not to be realised, I was still in pain, and the kids were yelling - asking if I was OK - from the upstairs window. For a moment I hesitated, thinking that I might try to fire up the camera again and get the shot of the moon I wanted, but quickly realised the futility of such an action (because a) the camera battery has to be charged in a separate unit, and it takes a good couple of hours, b) I wasn't really in the mood any more and c) the camera doesn't take night shots very well) and gingerly climbed the stairs again, testing my ankle as I went. My first impressions were that it was going to be bad in the morning - as these things often are - but that it wasn't really really serious, i.e., involving fractured bones.

As per the plan, much alcohol was consumed in any case, but it did dampen the evening to a certain extent, inclining me to be even more angry with Jools' Hootenanny with the bloody brass section and the terribly unfunny audience clips (Martin Brundle, David Coulthard and crew were particularly irritating) and the indestructible Tom fucking Jones. But I watched The Hill till about 3am and that made me feel better, as I realised that the penal institution depicted in the film was exactly the kind of place most mainstream politicians and almost all of the Press in this country, seem to want to introduce.

By the time I had woken up, the pain had, as I expected, increased considerably and any movement of my foot forwards or sideways was excruciating. Aware of the possible down side, I felt I really had to go and get the thing checked out at hospital. Hence, my New Year's Day (or around 4 hours of it in any case) was spent in the A&E of the Whittington Hospital, which was nowhere near as exciting and sexy as Holby. There was a grouchy Irish staff nurse (I know that there isn't one of those in Casualty any more) or sister, or midwife - whatever they're called these days - who publicly carpeted am old man in a wheelchair before telling him to 'drop the attitude' and pointing out that the hospital and its staff would do nothing to help him. She reminded me of one of those really shit coppers who end up causing more trouble than they stop.

Turns out there was nothing broken. Only soft tissue damage.