In my last post, I harked on a bit about something I'm quite nostalgic about. This week, I'm going to tell you how much nostalgia has scuppered us as a society, and how, no matter how cosy it feels being nostalgic, like biting into a hobnob dampened by milky tea, it will be our downfall.
That's not to say biscuits will be our downfall, though they could very well be mine if I carry on like I am doing.
The world of sport is littered with old faces. Old faces that used to be young faces, a lot better at what they're doing than they currently are.
Michael Schumacher, seven times world champion, who finished 22nd yesterday. Out of 24. He finished 19th in Monaco, and dead last in Spain. He scored a point in Bahrain, bringing his total up to two. That is not how world championships are won.
Stephen Hendry, also with a septet of world championships, caused quite a stir by managing to win two games in a row at the Crucible this year, the second to a John Higgins who looked no more likely to win than I would have. The odds of him winning the tournament were slashed, despite his attempts to douse the flames of journalists' frenzy by stating, "I wouldn't exactly call two matches a run." He was right, of course, and everyone had to wonder what they'd got all worked up about when he crashed out in miserable form to Stephen Maguire. He then kindly retired to prevent any further chaos.
Of course, Schumi could tell him that that doesn't necessarily put an end to the matter, having retired himself six years ago.
I am a Chelsea fan, and whenever someone mentioned the fact that Didier Drogba was 34, I would think that Stanley Matthews didn't retire from competitive football until he was 70, and continued playing professionally until he was 50. 34 is nothing.
Of course, I'm mental. Yet there is no way that my mind can process the idea that, though Drogba was way past his best, he was anything other than an incredible player, and integral to the team. He scored in four different FA Cup finals, scored over 100 goals for Chelsea and was key in winning both the FA Cup and the Champions League this year. He is terrifying in attack or defense- and a good bloke to boot.
He ran the Olympic Torch past my dad's shop. I was so jealous I was nearly sick.
My mind cannot compute the fact that the man is 34. Cantona retired twice before that age.
That hit me like a ton of bricks as well. I loved Cantona, with his shirt collar flicked up. I nearly forgave him for being French. And what nonsense he talked! Amazing. Manchester United were boring without him, and have been boring ever since. I know, from a Chelsea fan. I just like different things in my football, clearly. It pains me to say it, but I used to support United, but with Cantona gone, what reason could I have? The Treble? Worthless.
The England team sheet for tonight has five names I know- one of which I despise. Even if the beat France, even if they win the Euros- will I care? When you support a team, you invest emotionally. When the old faces disappear, you don't get that investment back. And so you have less and less to give.
For the sake of the England team, forget nostalgia. It's definitely not '66 any more.
Showing posts with label england. Show all posts
Showing posts with label england. Show all posts
Monday, 11 June 2012
Sunday, 23 October 2011
Nation of Shopkeepers
I am both incredibly proud, and unforgivably ashamed, of being English.
When I say that I am English, I do not mean that I was born in England, or brought up in England, or that my ancestors were English (the majority weren't). It says "British" on my passport. England, having no national anthem, is not really a place any more. It's an idea.
It's not a brilliant idea, mind. It is a collage, a stew, manufactured by the offcuttings of every remark made about the inhabitants of this green and pleasant land. An Englishman cannot be insulted by anything a foreigner has to say; if anything appears to be disparaging, it is dismissed as a humorous misunderstanding, or more frequently, a fault of the foreigner in question.
For example, the Hungarian humourist George Mikes, wrote a book called How To Be An Alien. In the preface to the 24th edition, he complained that the book had been received too kindly- he had hardly annoyed anyone. There was one example of a bank manager reading the book from cover to cover in one sitting and hurling it into the fire for its impertinence, but little else.
Mikes had wanted to stir something in the English, for them to realise that they were being mocked. On the contrary, the Central Office of Information requested that the book be translated into Polish for the benefit of Poles moving to the country.
So that was it. Mikes wrote about the English not as they were, but how they wanted to be seen. And so it was with many other writers- once a nation, the English became a caricature of tea-drinking, island-dwelling, excessively polite cricket fans.
This, in turn, spelt bad news for me. I always read far too much. As a result, I became English.
In particular, I would have to blame the character of Arthur Dent. He scuppered a spaceship for a cup of tea, tried teaching cavemen to play Scrabble, nearly blew up the Universe trying to bowl a cricket ball and, when stranded on an alien planet, made sandwiches. I didn't like him for a long time. Then one day, without warning, I became him.
To prove my point, I will describe something that happened to me just the other day.
I was on a bus, and it was packed. I was standing next to a Frenchwoman and her teenage daughter. Before this story goes any further, I would like to make clear that I have nothing against the French- 1066 was a long time ago and that silliness with Napoleon could have happened to anybody.
In any case, the point of the story was this: I had my hand on a metal bar and the French girl was unashamedly leaning on my hand. With her head. Her hair was on my hand. Fifteen years of education failed to prepare me for that moment.
Arthur Dent, in So Long and Thanks For All the Fish tells a story about how, sat at a table with a stranger in a railway station, he finds himself in an awkward situation. The stranger begins to eat his biscuits. Strangled by English impotence, he can do nothing but eat the biscuits along with the stranger until they part company.
Arthur is relieved to find that his biscuits are hidden under a newspaper, and it is he who has been eating somebody else's all along.
No such relief was available to me. It is most definitely socially unacceptable to rest your head on a stranger in public in England. I do not know about France. It could be that, on a crowded Continental bus, personal space becomes a thing of the past.
Yet there I wasin England, staring into space, pretending someone wasn't leaning on my hand, desperately hoping that the girl's mother would correct her. For twenty minutes, I stood there, wishing I could say something, wishing I could cause a fuss, wishing I wasn't so English. But I wouldn't have it any other way.
When I say that I am English, I do not mean that I was born in England, or brought up in England, or that my ancestors were English (the majority weren't). It says "British" on my passport. England, having no national anthem, is not really a place any more. It's an idea.
It's not a brilliant idea, mind. It is a collage, a stew, manufactured by the offcuttings of every remark made about the inhabitants of this green and pleasant land. An Englishman cannot be insulted by anything a foreigner has to say; if anything appears to be disparaging, it is dismissed as a humorous misunderstanding, or more frequently, a fault of the foreigner in question.
For example, the Hungarian humourist George Mikes, wrote a book called How To Be An Alien. In the preface to the 24th edition, he complained that the book had been received too kindly- he had hardly annoyed anyone. There was one example of a bank manager reading the book from cover to cover in one sitting and hurling it into the fire for its impertinence, but little else.
Mikes had wanted to stir something in the English, for them to realise that they were being mocked. On the contrary, the Central Office of Information requested that the book be translated into Polish for the benefit of Poles moving to the country.
So that was it. Mikes wrote about the English not as they were, but how they wanted to be seen. And so it was with many other writers- once a nation, the English became a caricature of tea-drinking, island-dwelling, excessively polite cricket fans.
This, in turn, spelt bad news for me. I always read far too much. As a result, I became English.
In particular, I would have to blame the character of Arthur Dent. He scuppered a spaceship for a cup of tea, tried teaching cavemen to play Scrabble, nearly blew up the Universe trying to bowl a cricket ball and, when stranded on an alien planet, made sandwiches. I didn't like him for a long time. Then one day, without warning, I became him.
To prove my point, I will describe something that happened to me just the other day.
I was on a bus, and it was packed. I was standing next to a Frenchwoman and her teenage daughter. Before this story goes any further, I would like to make clear that I have nothing against the French- 1066 was a long time ago and that silliness with Napoleon could have happened to anybody.
In any case, the point of the story was this: I had my hand on a metal bar and the French girl was unashamedly leaning on my hand. With her head. Her hair was on my hand. Fifteen years of education failed to prepare me for that moment.
Arthur Dent, in So Long and Thanks For All the Fish tells a story about how, sat at a table with a stranger in a railway station, he finds himself in an awkward situation. The stranger begins to eat his biscuits. Strangled by English impotence, he can do nothing but eat the biscuits along with the stranger until they part company.
Arthur is relieved to find that his biscuits are hidden under a newspaper, and it is he who has been eating somebody else's all along.
No such relief was available to me. It is most definitely socially unacceptable to rest your head on a stranger in public in England. I do not know about France. It could be that, on a crowded Continental bus, personal space becomes a thing of the past.
Yet there I wasin England, staring into space, pretending someone wasn't leaning on my hand, desperately hoping that the girl's mother would correct her. For twenty minutes, I stood there, wishing I could say something, wishing I could cause a fuss, wishing I wasn't so English. But I wouldn't have it any other way.
Monday, 13 September 2010
Education For Leisure
If I could have written earlier, I would, because there's so much that I now have to tell you.
Firstly, I went to college. It isn't bad; that's probably the best that can be said about it. In my Physics lesson, topic of the day seems to be any kind of weaponry. In my first Mathematics class, I was asked to fill in a short form, with a question at the bottom that asked us if there was anything that we thought the teacher ought to know. I wrote:
"DO NOT WORK WELL WITH OTHERS
AS DO NOT SUFFER FOOLS."
His response, that those around me were not fools, was met with a raised eyebrow.
I do not mind them, and I will help and have helped them with their work. If only to stop them going "x minus four all squared... erm... x squared minus four x minus four... why does the back of the book say that's wrong?" Mostly, darlings, because it is.
No, it's all very fine and well and lovely (though incredibly noisy and busy and where can I eat a sandwich in peace?) but it's not for me. It stops me being bored, though I was reminded today of the Carol Ann Duffy poem 'Education for Leisure', which used to be on the GCSE syllabus.
According to this (http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2008/sep/04/gcses.english), that isn't the case any more, it being taken off due to some complaints about killing a goldfish by flushing it down the pan. Oh, and knife crime, but it's the goldfish that really sticks in the throat. Or the U-bend, ba-dum-pshh.
I liked 'Education for Leisure'. It prompted one of my best quotes. In response to the line, There is nothing left to kill, I assessed that the narrator was suffering from a lack of imagination, as, "There is so much more to kill." I was not implying that he should kill everything, just that he should perhaps have investigated the avenues open to him before reaching for the bread knife.
Perhaps he should have spent a little more time with the goldfish. Not having killed a goldfish myself, I know not what stress relief/boredom alleviation it brings, but I can imagine that flushing it away is barely a satisfying way to end its pathetic fishy life. It's over in a flash, blink and you miss the moment where the force of the water snaps its little flexible spine. What's more, there's no body to examine.
If I was going to kill an animal, like, in a planned way, I'd want to gain something from it scientifically. The narrative voice in the poem is evidently one of an idiot. It's someone who considers Shakespeare to be in another language. Well, there's our proof: idiot.
I've covered the Education bit with college; Leisure was mentioned in the musical Blood Brothers, which I watched in London on Friday night. I was blown away. The narrator was incredible, particularly. There was a standing ovation at the end; I wanted to give one in the middle but I thought it best to find out how the play ends.
The realism in the final scene was so strong, with police officers shouting through megaphones from the back of the theatre as if we were part of the events. I laughed so hard; it was technically brilliant.
The narrator looked so pleased with himself, too, at how everything unfolded. He was so subtle, and yet made such an impact. In case you hadn't guessed, five stars.
On Saturday, I went to watch the BBC Last Night of the Proms in Hyde Park. It's a bit of a tradition, though only the third time I've seen it live. Three times is probably enough for my short life.
Bjorn Again weren't my cup of tea (they're an ABBA tribute band), but I warmed myself by dancing along. We also had a nice bit of opera with Kiri Te Kanawa and Jose Carreras.
Moment of the first half was probably seeing the look of inexpressible fury on my brother's face at being denied the presence of John Barrowman, who was playing at The Last Night in Salford. Apparently, a video link to his performance just wasn't good enough. I am now looking to buy him tickets to his tour, despite my meagre wealth. I shall talk to my parents; my mother saw how utterly devastated he was. It was hilarious. I've never seen him so truly angry.
Brian May was really good, so good I forgot to film him. We had to wait for Neil Sedaka, who I didn't realise was pretty-much singlehandedly responsible for all of the cringeworthy songs of the 20th century. His performance started dragging the second he walked onstage.
My brother alleviated boredom by finding and stalking Jon Tickle, of Brainiac fame. And I do mean stalking, he followed him to the toilets. The boy has no shame.
The above video was filmed on my mobile, and rather hastily thrown together. It's Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance, a Last Night staple, and one of my favourites. It was certainly done much better than God Save The Queen this year, which was shambolic. The Czech conductor had taken it upon himself to begin the National ANTHEM (yes, anthem, not lullaby) as quiet as possible.
As a result, nobody in the park knew what was going on. Nor, apparently, did the vision mixer who was supposed to be giving us the lyrics to each tune so that we could sing along.
Another huge insult to this great festival of national spirit was the American flag waved by the soprano who sang 'Rule Brittania'. The only thing good about her (she had awful diction) was that she was wearing a brilliant Vivienne Westwood creation, though I've seen that one ages ago. Maybe something newer, you know?
Try as they might, they can't kill the Last Night though.
Oh, and I also watched Merlin. Thumbs down for Bradley James' bare torso (where has he been? Obviously not the gym) but thumbs up for epic potential. No idea how Merlin's going to make it through this series without thoroughly outing himself. He's too obvious. I do think this will be the last series though; it looks too good for them to want to follow it up with another series.
As a result, nobody in the park knew what was going on. Nor, apparently, did the vision mixer who was supposed to be giving us the lyrics to each tune so that we could sing along.
Another huge insult to this great festival of national spirit was the American flag waved by the soprano who sang 'Rule Brittania'. The only thing good about her (she had awful diction) was that she was wearing a brilliant Vivienne Westwood creation, though I've seen that one ages ago. Maybe something newer, you know?
Try as they might, they can't kill the Last Night though.
Oh, and I also watched Merlin. Thumbs down for Bradley James' bare torso (where has he been? Obviously not the gym) but thumbs up for epic potential. No idea how Merlin's going to make it through this series without thoroughly outing himself. He's too obvious. I do think this will be the last series though; it looks too good for them to want to follow it up with another series.
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