With the great summer holiday yawning out in front of me like the Grand Canyon, I'm terrified. For once in my life, there's not much at all I need to do, so I need to work on something extracurricular, something beneficial to me as a person, as opposed to me as a physics robot.
So what do I do? I have no idea. I'm going to try and renovate my dolls' house whilst training to become a Football Association referee, paint some pictures for my new flat whilst writing a novel and start a scrapbook whilst dabbling in getting a basic overview on all the world's religions.
I'm an obsessive learner and hobbyist. I can't help but try and accumulate skills, strings to my bow. Despite numerous internet searches, it seems that nobody has sought to pathologise this fear of idleness just yet, or to research why or in what individuals it tends to occur. Which is probably a good thing, seeing as I'd probably try and develop a working knowledge of that as well.
I can't stand being uneducated or incapable. I'd like to think that you could engage me in conversation on pretty much any topic, and I would come out of it not looking like a fool. Then again, though I try and justify my behaviour, there's no real thinking behind it most of the time. I just think "wouldn't it be good to try and write a novel about this?" and off I go.
I never find that the wheels on a project have come grinding to a halt- very little can stop me when I have something in mind. No, the only thing that will ever put a project to bed is the birth of a new, and therefore infinitely more exciting project.
There is no way on this earth that I am alone in this. Numerous fictional characters exhibit the same trait. Wallace, from Wallace and Gromit, starts every film having just established himself as the local pest control officer or window washer or cheese-seeking astronaut, and is accompanied by various impressive, yet clearly half-baked contraptions.
Wallace is a jack of all trades. A cruel man would also call him a master of none.
Mastery is tricky to define. To call yourself a master is a tall order, and can be done through the acquisition of formal qualifications or to earn your living in that fashion. For us eager amateurs, though, it's a rocky road. To be an amateur used to be an admirable thing. It means "lover". We love what we do. Over the years though, it acquired a sting. A sting which meant amateurs aren't good enough.
I am a jack of all trades, and I am the master of my art. I am engrossing, and powerful in my ways. I am a trier, and never accept failure. In fact, I would go so far to say that any person who dismisses the work of an amateur dismisses their own abilities far more.
When you sneer and call someone amateurish, you spit in the face of their attempts to better themself. Nobody starts out a master. And nobody will end up a master without dabbling a little.
Incidentally, as a final, and appropriately off-topic, word: to all those who commended the Ukranian officials for stripping the England brass band of their instruments, shame on you. They may not be good. They may only know one song. However, they're different, and special to us. If you want to sound like every other awful team in Europe, go on. But we don't have the lungs or the spirit of the Dutch or the Irish. We do pomp and ceremony and delusions of grandeur and for that, we need brass.
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Sunday, 17 June 2012
Monday, 11 June 2012
The dangers of nostalgia
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.
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.
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Blanks
I haven't posted for quite a while now. I'll try and update you, but there will be a few blanks.
I quit college, and am now at the University of Liverpool reading Physics. It's Freshers' Week, so I am currently dying from a sore throat. It's really been fantastic though.
Let me fill you in on some other stuff first though. First of all, I spent the 18th (Saturday) driving fast cars, which was fantastic. I was driven around at high speed in a Porsche 911 turbo RS before getting behind the wheel of an Aston Martin DB9. Yeah, I did drive around in third, but that thing is amazing. The gizmos are neat, the decor just makes you feel like a child, because its so futuristic that it doesn't look sci-fi. It looks real and just as if it is the best that car design will ever achieve.
I drove in the rain, but I still drove fairly fast, lapping five times in ten minutes, as opposed to the average four. I scored 92/100 on whatever rating system they use.
The next day, I was down in London for Chelsea-Blackpool with a formerly football-ignorant friend. My navigation aside, the afternoon was absolutely amazing. Chelsea won 4-0, with all the goals coming in the first half. On television, this would have made for a dull second half, but seated (infrequently) in the Matthew Harding stand, we were treated to, and participated in, some of the greatest terrace anthems you will ever hear.
And of course, the classic, "Where's my eight-nil you c**ts?"
I think my friend even sang along to one or two of the chants. If you fancy a go, or fancy a listen, check these out: Carefree; Chelsea, Chelsea; In Your Northern Slums; Didier Drogba; Celery; Hello, Hello; F**k 'Em All; Blue Flag; Chelsea, Champions (sung as a call and response by adjacent stands); Chelsea; Come On Chelsea; Dennis Wise; Follow Malouda...
There were more, but we won't go there. There were also a couple of anti-West Ham songs. I don't think we much cared who the opposition were by the end.
The next day, I went to university. Everyone had already moved in, so I'd missed all of the introductions, but my room is opposite the kitchen and sees a lot of traffic. I've met more amazing people in the last five days than I can name. And if they end up reading this blog, hey. :)
I quit college, and am now at the University of Liverpool reading Physics. It's Freshers' Week, so I am currently dying from a sore throat. It's really been fantastic though.
Let me fill you in on some other stuff first though. First of all, I spent the 18th (Saturday) driving fast cars, which was fantastic. I was driven around at high speed in a Porsche 911 turbo RS before getting behind the wheel of an Aston Martin DB9. Yeah, I did drive around in third, but that thing is amazing. The gizmos are neat, the decor just makes you feel like a child, because its so futuristic that it doesn't look sci-fi. It looks real and just as if it is the best that car design will ever achieve.
I drove in the rain, but I still drove fairly fast, lapping five times in ten minutes, as opposed to the average four. I scored 92/100 on whatever rating system they use.
The next day, I was down in London for Chelsea-Blackpool with a formerly football-ignorant friend. My navigation aside, the afternoon was absolutely amazing. Chelsea won 4-0, with all the goals coming in the first half. On television, this would have made for a dull second half, but seated (infrequently) in the Matthew Harding stand, we were treated to, and participated in, some of the greatest terrace anthems you will ever hear.
And of course, the classic, "Where's my eight-nil you c**ts?"
I think my friend even sang along to one or two of the chants. If you fancy a go, or fancy a listen, check these out: Carefree; Chelsea, Chelsea; In Your Northern Slums; Didier Drogba; Celery; Hello, Hello; F**k 'Em All; Blue Flag; Chelsea, Champions (sung as a call and response by adjacent stands); Chelsea; Come On Chelsea; Dennis Wise; Follow Malouda...
There were more, but we won't go there. There were also a couple of anti-West Ham songs. I don't think we much cared who the opposition were by the end.
The next day, I went to university. Everyone had already moved in, so I'd missed all of the introductions, but my room is opposite the kitchen and sees a lot of traffic. I've met more amazing people in the last five days than I can name. And if they end up reading this blog, hey. :)
Monday, 23 August 2010
And now, a rant
NO!
I'm not even anywhere near done on the ranting front, let me warn you.
Right now, I am sitting all sleepy-eyed in my pyjamas when I should actually have been asleep, having done what I needed to do an hour and a half ago. But I'm not. In fact, I just had more hassle than I needed.
This was my plan: today, I would wake up at 0650 in order to buy tickets to Chelsea-Blackpool the second they came out, thus ensuring two seats in Matthew Harding Upper, the best stand by far. It was a brilliant plan, but unfortunately not one that came into fruition as my mobile ran out of battery and my alarm failed to go off.
It would have been a brilliant alarm as well. Linkin Park's 'Given Up' (which is a song that will give a half-awake person a coronary if they don't turn it off in time) with the text "GET UP. NOW."
As it was, I had a dream about holding a housewarming party with somebody who I'd never met, but I was going to be living with. We had races to open the door to the guests, and it was a bit petty, but then he bought me a scotch egg from the inexplicably noisy canteen next door and I woke up happy.
I wasn't happy about two seconds later when I realised I'd woken up naturally rather than being dragged back into the land of the living. As quick as I could, I typed my ticket request.
At that moment, I felt I was probably entitled to shout "bugger", because the tickets had gone. So had the tickets in Shed Upper and Matthew Harding Lower (East). My dream of watching a decent match in a decent stand was fading.
By the way, if you don't understand football, like a lot of people, you'll have to understand that every match is a pretty big deal. Matches are like plays, there's drama and excitement, and the best soundtrack you could have hoped for. It releases a beautiful chemical enjoyment, and I never got that from basketball or ice hockey, nor cricket.
I did however, find tickets in Matthew Harding Lower (West). This was accompanied by a countdown clock to tell me how long it was before these tickets were given to someone else. 5 minutes and counting. Well, of course, I nearly died, because though it's a reasonable length of time, there's nothing like a ticking red clock to make you nervous. Thankfully I had my debit card in hand, typed in my details and hit Enter.
No. I'd forgotten to tick the box for Terms & Conditions (which, incidentally, I didn't read, no, because I only had 4 minutes 48, 47, 46...) so I had to go back and do that.
No. I hadn't put in an expiry date the second time around. So I did that, made sure none of the other boxes had randomly emptied themselves (which, curiously, they hadn't).
No. Card not accepted. Well, that was it. I tried again, but the same result.
I knocked on my parents' bedroom door and asked for a credit card. My mother told me somewhere the card wasn't, so I ran around the house looking for where it was.
Anyway, I got the card, and started typing in the number. To my surprise, the number on my dad's card was exactly the same as the card number I had already typed into the box. How could this be?
I'll tell you how. In my half-awake stupor, I had seen that, when I started typing my card number into the box, it Autocompleted for me. I thought: how kind. Rather than check that the number was mine, which it wasn't, I simply carried on.
It's even an avoidable mistake! I know my debit card number BY HEART. The thing is though, who thought it was a good idea to Autocomplete debit card details? That's just asking for trouble.
I typed in my actual card details and completed the transaction. I don't want to look at the state of my bank account just yet. I'm going to be keeping my accounts, though, because I have a pretty tight budget for the next year. Well, it looks alright, but I'm sure it'll be tight. I'm looking forward to it, though, trying to be responsible.
Speaking of responsible, I have a driving lesson today. I don't want to go.
I just have the one review for you today, and it's a book: Arthur Conan Doyle's 'A Study In Scarlet'. Well, I thought it was brilliant, and unexpectedly funny in places. Well, I think it was funny. It made me laugh anyway. Sherlock Holmes is undoubtedly one of the most interesting characters ever written, and Watson is so frequently poorly represented in films and television serials. Adaptations often have him appearing as a kind of butler, which he really wasn't.
The deductive process is remarkable. The second part of the book takes you through what Holmes had worked out in the first. A lot of people criticise the book for the fact that Holmes is absent for about half the book, but it doesn't matter in my eyes. You just get a chance to figure out what Holmes already has from much better evidence.
And it's amazing, because it's still believable, it's still achievable. It has dated a little, though, and Holmes is altogether too bright for me. I don't expect people warmed to dark characters like they do now. Four stars.
I'm not even anywhere near done on the ranting front, let me warn you.
Right now, I am sitting all sleepy-eyed in my pyjamas when I should actually have been asleep, having done what I needed to do an hour and a half ago. But I'm not. In fact, I just had more hassle than I needed.
This was my plan: today, I would wake up at 0650 in order to buy tickets to Chelsea-Blackpool the second they came out, thus ensuring two seats in Matthew Harding Upper, the best stand by far. It was a brilliant plan, but unfortunately not one that came into fruition as my mobile ran out of battery and my alarm failed to go off.
It would have been a brilliant alarm as well. Linkin Park's 'Given Up' (which is a song that will give a half-awake person a coronary if they don't turn it off in time) with the text "GET UP. NOW."
As it was, I had a dream about holding a housewarming party with somebody who I'd never met, but I was going to be living with. We had races to open the door to the guests, and it was a bit petty, but then he bought me a scotch egg from the inexplicably noisy canteen next door and I woke up happy.
I wasn't happy about two seconds later when I realised I'd woken up naturally rather than being dragged back into the land of the living. As quick as I could, I typed my ticket request.
At that moment, I felt I was probably entitled to shout "bugger", because the tickets had gone. So had the tickets in Shed Upper and Matthew Harding Lower (East). My dream of watching a decent match in a decent stand was fading.
By the way, if you don't understand football, like a lot of people, you'll have to understand that every match is a pretty big deal. Matches are like plays, there's drama and excitement, and the best soundtrack you could have hoped for. It releases a beautiful chemical enjoyment, and I never got that from basketball or ice hockey, nor cricket.
I did however, find tickets in Matthew Harding Lower (West). This was accompanied by a countdown clock to tell me how long it was before these tickets were given to someone else. 5 minutes and counting. Well, of course, I nearly died, because though it's a reasonable length of time, there's nothing like a ticking red clock to make you nervous. Thankfully I had my debit card in hand, typed in my details and hit Enter.
No. I'd forgotten to tick the box for Terms & Conditions (which, incidentally, I didn't read, no, because I only had 4 minutes 48, 47, 46...) so I had to go back and do that.
No. I hadn't put in an expiry date the second time around. So I did that, made sure none of the other boxes had randomly emptied themselves (which, curiously, they hadn't).
No. Card not accepted. Well, that was it. I tried again, but the same result.
I knocked on my parents' bedroom door and asked for a credit card. My mother told me somewhere the card wasn't, so I ran around the house looking for where it was.
Anyway, I got the card, and started typing in the number. To my surprise, the number on my dad's card was exactly the same as the card number I had already typed into the box. How could this be?
I'll tell you how. In my half-awake stupor, I had seen that, when I started typing my card number into the box, it Autocompleted for me. I thought: how kind. Rather than check that the number was mine, which it wasn't, I simply carried on.
It's even an avoidable mistake! I know my debit card number BY HEART. The thing is though, who thought it was a good idea to Autocomplete debit card details? That's just asking for trouble.
I typed in my actual card details and completed the transaction. I don't want to look at the state of my bank account just yet. I'm going to be keeping my accounts, though, because I have a pretty tight budget for the next year. Well, it looks alright, but I'm sure it'll be tight. I'm looking forward to it, though, trying to be responsible.
Speaking of responsible, I have a driving lesson today. I don't want to go.
I just have the one review for you today, and it's a book: Arthur Conan Doyle's 'A Study In Scarlet'. Well, I thought it was brilliant, and unexpectedly funny in places. Well, I think it was funny. It made me laugh anyway. Sherlock Holmes is undoubtedly one of the most interesting characters ever written, and Watson is so frequently poorly represented in films and television serials. Adaptations often have him appearing as a kind of butler, which he really wasn't.
The deductive process is remarkable. The second part of the book takes you through what Holmes had worked out in the first. A lot of people criticise the book for the fact that Holmes is absent for about half the book, but it doesn't matter in my eyes. You just get a chance to figure out what Holmes already has from much better evidence.
And it's amazing, because it's still believable, it's still achievable. It has dated a little, though, and Holmes is altogether too bright for me. I don't expect people warmed to dark characters like they do now. Four stars.
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