Wednesday, December 23, 2009

FAC33 - Shaky was cool

My first son Ryan is 9 years old.

He was born in Inverness and currently lives in the outskirts of Glasgow. Football daft, if you were to ask him which team he supports the answer you will receive will be similar to a few million or so other 9 year olds - Manchester United. He will of course grow out of this - aged 9 I thought Shakin Stevens, Bucks Fizz and the Nolan sisters were the epitome of cool. He will eventually end up supporting a proper team, a team he should support, but for now I am happy to go along with this childish madness.

That is why as a pre-Christmas treat we found ourselves driving South from Glasgow to do something the majority of United fans have never done - go and see a game at Old Trafford.
In my experience, tickets for games can be acquired in a number of ways, online, at the game, from a mate or paying through the nose from a tout outside the game.
Not Manchester United, no. To get tickets officially, one has to dress up in a camel suit and jump through hoops the size of needle eyes and pay double for the privilege. Persuading President Ahmadinejad to wear a Yarmulke would be simpler.

Anyhow this did give me the perfect opportunity to do some last minute Christmas shopping and after taking some advice we found ourselves in what can only be described as shopping hell, or heaven, depending on your gender: The Trafford Center. It is probably the largest collection of shops in the universe, certainly the largest I have ever visited. They are housed in a air-conditioned Vegas style shopping mall complete with fake sky, about 10 Starbuck coffee houses and a food court, the great hall, approximately the size of Bolivia.

So on to the match.
A taxi took us to within spitting distance of Old Trafford and even I, as a total neutral, was impressed by the ground. Large, famous buildings all have the ability to suck in its surroundings, when you are in the vicinity, it’s pretty much all you see. I remember drinking a beer outside the Pantheon in Rome and for the life of me I cannot remember anything but the Pantheon. I know there is a lot of life and architecture in the surrounds but it is so big, and so imposing, everything else becomes lost - an architectural black hole. The best football grounds, although having not quite the same gravitas as the Pantheon, have a similar effect and Old Trafford is no exception.

There is much to see and do outside - walk up Sir Matt Busby way and buy knock-off scarves or hats from the touts, eat fish and chips from The Lou Macari fish bar, shake our heads at the drunks (I was with a 9yr old) or if you are feeling very adventurous visit the "Megastore" and be prepared to batter the plastic.

All this entertainment and before a ball has been kicked!

Inside it continues, including the ability to buy beer - something I did not realise was possible given this has been outlawed in Scotland all my drinking years. We eventually found our seats and with the players warming up within touching distance even I was finding the experience quite exciting. Ryan was pointing out every player and as they left then reappeared to the Rocky theme tune he turned to me to tell me this was the best Christmas present he had ever had. The camel suit and needles suddenly petered away.

Kick off.
Someone on the pitch is "fuching shit" according to the mental sitting next to me, I nod in agreement hoping the conversation will cease, immediately. It does not and I keep nodding, only catching every second word from an unintelligible stream and praying he will not see through my thinly veiled United/Mancunian facade. I could have told him I couldn’t give a shit but felt that might ruin the one sided conversation somewhat.

At some point during the game Ryan stops shouting at the pitch to throw into the limited conversation “they should take off Park and put on Berbatov".
"Good call son" the mental agrees. I belatedly agree also, sort of, perhaps.

Within a minute Park leaves the pitch to be replaced by Berbatov.

This was a zenith for Ryan, he had correctly understood the tactical need to replace an underperforming midfielder with an out and out striker within minutes of Sir Alex Ferguson deciding it. I was impressed and so was our incomprehensible neighbour.

It had no impact on the result but that didn’t really matter, Ryan had been to Old Trafford, he had seen Rooney, Giggs and co in the flesh and had called the substitution correctly.

We, and 76,000 others, slowly left the ground. Cold, our throats sore from shouting we herded our way to the Holy Trinity statue, where we had agreed to meet up with our friends after the game.

I had anticipated a day of significant expense and little entertainment and was pleasantly proved wrong. The game was a sideshow to the excitement of a 9 year old experiencing the team he has supported from a distance for some time.

One day he will understand that he has only one team and that team will be St Mirren given they play only 10 minutes from his house. Until that time I am only too happy to take him to his chosen team, I only hope soon he decides that Man Utd are not for him and the Honolulu Bulls become his team of choice.

Now that would be a needle eye worth jumping through.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Polar Bears

Quotes from Copenhagen this morning:

"We've come a long way but we have much further to go"

"We have made a start"

"The draft text asks Africa to sign a suicide pact - an incineration pact!"

"Copenhagen has been an abject failure"

Is this an exercise in spinning positive a failure, or a bunch of drama queens over-egging the bad news?

Two years ago the world agreed that Copenhagen would be the summit to agree the "new carbon order". On this basis it is a failure no matter how Gordon or Barack spin it.

There has been some agreements though - gazillions of extra funding for developing nations but this just simply the smoker saving up for a new lung rather than quitting smoking.

Will we be seeing Africans burning, or Maldivian people developing artificial gills in the near future? Judging from the current weather conditions I don't think so but regardless of your stand on the climate issue this has to be a perfect example of looking after No1.

I shudder to think what will happen when there is a meteor threat, Alien invasion or something else catastrophic requiring global agreement.

Spin, no matter how good will seem a little hollow as we are being vapourised, eaten or lazer-beamed out of existence.

Putting the leaders of 193 nations into a room and asking them to thrash out an agreement on anything is an exercise in futility. Even if you believe the future of the world is at risk. Asking anyone to consider 3 generations ahead is a stretch, ask a politician to consider anything beyond their next election is a waste of time.

So why did anyone think that this would work?

Thousands of children drowning in Bangladesh is not enough of a call to action, New Orleans was, frankly, the wrong city. It will only take a disaster of these proportions hitting a city like London, New York or Tokyo to force an agreement by which time it will probably be too late.

The BBC news dropped the discussions in Copenhagen to third spot behind the BA strike and the unusually cold weather.

Am I the only one to see the irony here?

Friday, December 11, 2009

Tea and Tequila

4.30am: First order of the day is to drag my weary arse out of bed. No mean feat when you consider my eyes have only been shut for about 4 hours. Quickly and quietly I perform the normal bathroom activities - minimum fuss, minimum noise. The smell and sounds of a family sleeping pervade every nook and cranny of the house and is the most attractive thing in the world. Like an addict faced with a freshly filled needle, every pore of my body tells me to fuck the flight and take another 3hour hit of uncut bed and sleep.

5.31am: First scheduled train to airport - cold and busy. I really don't want to deal with the world just now. Hungry and sleep deprived I doze off, face pressed against the metallic tasting glass.

6.15am: The Airport itself is negotiated quickly and easily – every shortcut used and noticing no one performing checks at the business/first class line I quietly slip in behind the well heeled passengers skillfully avoiding the stupid people. Strangely at this time of the day the world is filled with stupid annoying people, with one exception.

6.35am: We board the plane in the darkness, the plane is still cold. Annoyingly cheery Christmas music is piped throughout the cabin. Chocolate is offered and promptly refused – this early in the day chocolate is up there with a shot of tequila on my must have wish list.

6.45am: We are told there is a delay of 30mins. The fault? Someone else. It always is, we always manage to board, perform whatever safety stuff the guys up front do and are never late, always ready to go, and importantly on time. The fault this time is mother nature at London Heathrow. More chocolates offered and refused. I ask for a blanket and if I can curl up on the floor.

The pilot has a reassuringly British, clipped, dam-buster accent – at least that's one worry put to rest.

Eventually we leave Zurich – Guy Gibson upfront goes to great lengths to find every lumpy piece of sky there is. At times we are swooping down and clipping hedges, other times soaring high bumping along the ragged thin air at the edge of space. I curse him and gratefully accept the tea and croissant offered. At last, something resembling civilised, even if the tea is served with cream.

8.30am: We arrive in the vicinity of LHR – Guy announces another arrival delay – “we will need to sit in a holding pattern for”……everyone waits expectantly like X-Factor contestants, loud heartbeat music is piped through the cabin……”35 - 45mins”. Aaargh! We are not in the next round and have to sit here, somewhere above Biggin Hill watching the infinitely unfunny “just for laughs” playing on loop.

Eventually a single bing! announces our decent into the mist which blankets Southern England. And for once the 10 minutes to landing claim is accurate.

9.15am: We exit into a threadbare Terminal 1. London is grey, Heathrow is grey, my hair is grey. Just one more flight to go and the days travelling is done.

pm: Tonight I am going to have a curry, a man curry, a curry which is so manly it could grow a beard and challenge me to an arm wrestle. It will be washed down with a man’s beer and then I plan to descend into a dreamless, coma like sleep.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Who likes Joe Pesci?

He is a bit boring.
Not someone you would call your friend but someone you know exists. He is selfish, rich and just a little bit annoying. He will avoid involvement at all costs but when he does step up it’s generally out of self interest. He will relinquish a little if his hand is forced, otherwise he will keep everything locked down, tight, solid. He is someone we like and dislike in equal measure, he is Joe Pesci from Lethal Weapon.
He is Switzerland.

Ordinarily most people have no opinion on the country. Opinions normally range from dunno to don't care. It is quiet, unobtrusive and frequently confused with Sweden. It rarely sticks its head above the trench, internationally speaking that is. This is why it feels rather odd to have such international condemnation directed at this quiet Alpine country. News normally happens elsewhere, anywhere, anywhere except here.

The decision from 57.5% of the Swiss voting public to ban the building of new minarets is an example of pure democracy in action, ask the country a question and you might be surprised about the answer.

What would happen if we were, for example, to ask the British public if the death penalty should be reinstated for crimes such as pedophilia? I think you could guess the response.

Now lets be clear if this was an architectural argument I could understand, Minarets do tend to stand out and would look rather odd next to an Alpine chalet. This vote however was not based on aesthetics, more it was based on fear and conservatism in the extreme.
What the result boils down to essentially is, is a rejection of Islam and of religious freedom. It tells you - if you are not Christian, you are not welcome here. The infamous posters essentially said as much, their black and red colouring harking back to a dark period some 70 years ago, coupled with the Darth Vader imagery was anything but ambiguous.

What will be the result of this vote? Will this result in less Muslims on the ski-slopes? Will there be less risk of extremism? Less risk of a large, internationally powerful neighbour asking awkward questions?

Why-o-why did they decide this was worth the publicity? Surely the easy answer was to simply refuse all new planning permission or put a restriction of, say, 5 meters on all new religious buildings. There are enough Christian churches here to accommodate everyone already so no risk of offending the majority.

No, instead they have managed to ostracise 5% of the population and seriously piss off some very, very, dangerous people.

The Swiss government know as much, the justice minister was quick to point out that this result was “not a rejection of the Muslim community, religion or culture”.

If not, then what is it?

Democracy is a good thing that's for sure, pure democracy has its limits and I fear the Swiss may have overstepped the limit this week.