Pick a project (or two)

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.

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.

Remember this?

The internet is awash with Pokemon memes at the moment, probably something to do with everyone simultaneously figuring out that you can emulate a Gameboy on your Android 'phone. If you're not following me, you probably need to trade in your Nokia 3310.

Do you remember your first Pokemon? I don't. It was a hideously long time ago, and only now have I realised just how long ago it was. When I unwrapped Pokemon Red on Christmas Day 2000, I was a week shy of my ninth birthday. Ash Ketchum was ten, and whereas he has remained unaffected by the march of time, I am now twenty years old, and have a lot more to worry about than Team Rocket's nefarious schemes.

When I was nine, my Squirtle and I skipped through the monochrome two-dimensional world of Kanto, capturing small animals wherever we went, and occasionally pausing to deal with curiously inept master criminals. Now that I'm twenty, I wish studying for my electromagnetism exam was anywhere near as easy as exploiting Lt. Surge's ridiculous type disadvantage/close proximity to a cave specialising in Digletts.

With Pokemon turning out not to be the fad our parents and teachers hoped and expected it to be, I guess we can still be grateful. With Black and White 2 coming to the EU this Autumn, our quest to catch them all seems like it will never end.

That's the problem, really. I don't have the time I used to. Despite numerous confiscations (which have had some rather sad consequences that I will get onto later), many happy days and nights were spent in the world of Pokemon. However, back then I was nine, and impatient, and really not very good at it.

I've never caught them all. I have a cartridge of Pokemon Pearl which is only a few Pokemon shy of the entire Sinnoh dex, but I've not touched it in months. Despite owning Red, Blue and Yellow, along with a Gameboy Colour and a GBA, I never managed to get anywhere near the original 150.

I know what happens. Professor Oak just says "Well done" and you go unrewarded for your ridiculously time-consuming endeavours. However, it's the idea of it, that childhood quest that went unfulfilled that has made me more determined than ever to finally catch 'em all.

Now I bring you to the sad news- the terrible consequences of confiscation. I have no idea where nearly all of my games are. Out of the eighteen main titles, I have at some point owned Red, Blue, Yellow, Gold, Silver, Ruby, Sapphire, LeafGreen, Pearl, SoulSilver and White.

Gold gave up the ghost many years ago- this I know. However, many more titles are unaccounted for. LeafGreen is still in my GBA XP. SoulSilver is in my DS Lite. I know for a fact that Blue is in my Gameboy Colour, but where that is I have no idea.

My mother is the main culprit here. Frustrated by the way that I found Kanto curiously more charming than Swindon, she scattered my game cartridges where I wouldn't find them. My brother is also a major nuisance. Being a little thief on the one hand, but terrible at covering his tracks on the other, he not only steals my games and consoles, but gets them confiscated for me.

My mother, feeling the need to confiscate items on a regular basis, has no idea where they are stowed.

So, in order to catch all the Pokemon, I must first go on an epic and mildly dangerous quest to find all my games. I expect failure- some things can't be found. I expect heartbreak- some of the older games may well be broken. I expect opposition- the evil Team Rocket, in the form of my brother, will do much to impede me. But I do expect joy- that, where I least expected it, the face of Pikachu or Blastoise or maybe even Lugia will be looking up at me, and when I slot it into a console, it flickers into life.

I am a child of the Pokemon generation, and I am proud. I grew up with the games, even if they didn't grow up with me. There are arguments that Pokemon fans are childish, or nerdy. I am neither of those things.

There was something that made me very happy when I was little. Just because it was made of plastic and circuitry doesn't mean it's any less valuable than a favourite book or a stuffed animal who brought you comfort. It was good, harmless fun which told you the importance of friendship- albeit when you were sat in a room on your own. That "something" was Pokemon.

This summer, I embark on a quest. I want to start at Pallet Town, and take my little Pokemon friends with me- perhaps all the way to Unova and even beyond. On those cartridges are stored my old Pokemon. They're not just ones and zeros. They're memories- and I'm sorry I forgot.

All there is

I've not posted for a while; sorry. Two weeks ago, I was puking everything my digestive system had to offer. Last week, I was on a flight to Spain. Yesterday, I was sitting in someone else's front room making some difficult admissions. Enough about me, though.

Except, this is my personal blog, so I am going to talk about me. It's a shame that I missed out on two excellent blogging opportunities, because I had some great ideas. Now, there's only one thing I want to talk about.

It's tonight.

Ninety minutes of blue and red swirling on a background of green that could mark the end of an era or the dawning of a new age. The Champions League final.

Anyone who has ever engaged me on the topic of football will know that it is something I can converse upon with some fervour. I think it's important as a sport, an art form and in shaping social history. The disbelievers will claim that it's all to do with money, and that the endless parade of competitions only serves to dull the joy of winning.

They are wrong, they are blind, they are many things besides.

This night, twenty five thousand English football fans will descend on Munich. Most will not have tickets. I know, because two years ago, I went to Madrid for the final there. There was no English team in the final, but in case there was, me and a friend booked ahead. I made sure I was a Chelsea member so that, if my team made it, I'd have a chance of getting tickets.

That year, the finalists were Bayern Munich and Inter Milan. From the chatter in the streets, you could have been forgiven for thinking you had ended up in Italy, not Spain. In fact, so confused was I that, although I speak Spanish far better, I began speaking Italian to a shopkeeper.

The two sets of fans were very different. The Germans sat outside cafes talking amongst themselves in groups of three or four. The Italians marched up and down the streets, singing loud and offensive songs, and trying to goad the Germans into some kind of response.

Waiting for my friend outside a cafe, which we had no chance of eating at as the tables were overrun with hungry Germans, I was passed by a march of Italian Ultras, who asked me who I would be supporting. Being sensible, and a coward, I said Inter.

I lied. I was supporting Bayern- something I will not be doing tonight.

By mid-afternoon, the streets around the Bernabeu were heaving. The bars lining the streets were rammed. We met people from the Netherlands and Cameroon, and drank beer on the grass verges. In the streets, touts offered tickets for two thousand euros each. People paid.

Football is stirring. I don't doubt, if I'd had access to two thousand, and Chelsea were in that final, I'd have been tempted. If it wasn't for exams, I'd probably have made the pilgrimage to Munich tonight with my fellow brothers of the faith.

It's mental, how football does these things. It's like a drug, or some hypnotic dance, which sweeps you up in its rhythms and carries you off. You know nothing except to keep moving, to keep following, to twist and turn with the music, to laugh and cry as the melody dictates.

Will tonight be played in a major or minor key? Who knows. It is liable to be an exciting match, with both teams having sacrificed their defences to make it this far- which just shows how much they want it. Bayern were denied two years ago, Chelsea four.

For Chelsea, there is a sense of entitlement. After a game in which they had dominated, to lose out in some soggy penalty shoot-out to a smug Portuguese gypsy... it wasn't fair. I don't know about Bayern, but on that night in Madrid, there was only one deserving team, and they were Italian.

I'm not going to speculate. I won't let my heart think it's possible. Chelsea are depleted far worse than the Germans, both by suspension and injury, and Bayern are playing on their home turf. Yet, already I feel it, that tingle at the base of my spine, slowly travelling up towards my brain and threatening to drive me mad: Hope.

The Pensioners might be starting to live up to their nickname, but I think this Chelsea team have one last trophy in them. Let it be tonight.

Democracy in action

Those wishing to vote in Liverpool’s mayoral elections next month have a tough choice on their hands, as twelve different candidates will be on offer, representing every position on the political spectrum.

I am ashamed to say that I may have left my signature on the electoral register a little too late, but even if I cannot vote, I hope I can help elucidate others, and enable them to make the right decision. Unbiased, factual reporting starts here.

Last Thursday (19^th April), the Liverpool Mayoral Debate was cancelled. It was cancelled because it was due to be held on university campus, and many students disapproved of the inclusion of one or more far-right candidates. They were due to stage a protest, and far-right groups in Liverpool were set to conflict with the protesters. The official line was that it was cancelled due to safety concerns.

However, I wanted to find out what the parties, and indeed the candidates had to say, and so I emailed them all in turn using the same stock email.

The BNP were the first to respond, with a jovial “I think this answers your question!” and a link to this article. The headline declared that the mayoral debate had been “banned” because people were “frightened” of the BNP.

It went on to claim that it was the Labour party who requested the debate to be cancelled, and also that scientific evidence does not support global warming. It went on to list all BNP candidate Mike Whitby’s planned responses to the questions at the debate, stating “This is what the people of Liverpool are effectively forbidden to hear and once again this is why the Establishment hates the British National Party.”

Unfortunately, nobody in the list of commenters seems to realise that the debate was not cancelled simply because the BNP was going to be in attendance. It may have instead been something about the large number of armed thugs/malnourished students planning to be in attendance.

I hoped for more honesty from other politicians, and then laughed at the stupidity of myself sometimes.

Independent candidate Liam Fogarty was next to respond, expressing regret at the short length of the campaign and the way everything was being rushed to fit in before the election.

Liberal party leader and candidate Steve Radford’s response can be included in full: “glad rescheduled”. I expect he has better things to do than take his constituents seriously.

Robin Tilbrook, chairman of the English Democrats, provided me with some useful information. Initially expressing the fear that Liverpool’s democracy would be poorer for the loss of a key debate, he also furnished me with the news that the debate was due to be split into three segments, an idea the party was not comfortable with.

It was due to be split by position on the political spectrum, i.e. right, established centre parties and left. This, however, would lump the unknown quantity of the English Democrats with the flavours of the political right that many people already distrust- not a pleasant idea for a party wishing to be taken seriously in its first attempt at acquiring an important seat of office. Especially not when the party itself claims to be neither on the political left, nor the right, and campaigns not on the basis of ethnicity but for the hope of a devolved English parliament such as that enjoyed by Scotland.

Conservative candidate Tony Caldeira simply forwarded me the details of the next debate, which is not what I asked for at all.

I later received another email from the North-west chairman of the English Democrats Stephen Morris, who implied that the BNP were to blame for the cancellation, stating “When Nick Griffin attended the Question Time programme […] he was shown up for what he is, he did so much damage to his party’s national standing and caused massive division internally that they have thankfully imploded. For any group to stop democratic debate is wrong”.

My next respondents from the office of Tony Mulhearn, Socialist/Trade Union candidate, doubted the English Democrats’ commitment to democracy. They agreed with the student union’s opposition to the NF, the BNP and the English Democrats, as well as the rather unusual structure at the debate, i.e. pre-prepared answers and no actual debating.

The supposed replacement debate missed out the Socialist/Trade Union candidate, leaving them without a platform. They are seeking a debate with Labour candidate Joe Anderson, who they believe is the embodiment of the pro-cuts argument they oppose.

Incidentally, Joe Anderson of Labour has not got back to me, and neither have the Liberal Democrats. This puts them nicely into the same category as the National Front, which I’m fairly sure is not what they were after.

So, there are your candidates, and their responses to the somewhat dubious “debate” planned at the university earlier this month. Makes me glad to live in a democracy, it really does.

Journalism: Exposed

Journalism has a bit of a gloss on it. Not least because the people we get our information from are journalists. Journalists write books, make television serials, documentaries, and most importantly, report current affairs.

Nobody ever wants to believe they're doing something other people can do. So journalists, with the power to tell large numbers of people something, and for them to believe it, can essentially say what they want. In particular, they can say what they want about journalism, because only journalists know what that actually entails, and even if anyone else did find out, they're not in a position to tell anybody.

So as things are, nobody knows anything about journalism because journalists are basically allowed to believe their own hype.

Not any more. I'm blowing the lid on journalism. No longer will it be swathed in mystique, starring noble lay detectives who will do anything for the truth. No longer will it star larger-than-life antiheroes, with an ego the size of the moon and a conscience that can only be seen under an electron microscope.

Nepotism aside, before starting work as a journalist, you must qualify. Before you can qualify, you must undergo a period of work experience. This is not as a means of ensuring you have the necessary skills. It's to thin the ranks.

Having just spent the best part of a week working at the Oldham Evening Chronicle in my former home town, I can speak with authority on the subject.

The first massively disappointing thing about journalism is that, if you've ever worked in an office, as most of us have or will for an enormous chunk of our lives, you've experienced the bulk of it. It is office work, in a grey, windowless environment, where lunch hour is the cue to run and find something vaguely exciting to stop you going mental. Such as a car park, or an escalator.

At the Chron, I had a desk, with a phone and a computer. The phone was not ringing incessantly as story after story came in. The only time it ever made a noise was to tell me I'd accidentally knocked it off the hook. The computer was not top-of-the range, with twin monitors, one with my current article loaded up, the other with a rolling barrage of breaking news. It was an Apple Mac, running OS 9.

For anyone unfamiliar with OS 9, you may want to go and find an abacus, and try typing up a 300-word article on that.

To access the internet, I had to go to another computer, which was shared by all the writers.

Yes, not exactly what we'd all been led to believe. Not once was I asked for a skinny latte/scotch by the editor. Though, I don't think anything about me suggests I have the temperament to stand for that kind of treatment on work experience.

When it came to chasing leads, there certainly were an awful lot of chases going on, and ninety-nine percent of those were of the wild-goose variety. I made phone calls, nobody was there. When people were there, they didn't know anything. When they did know something, they weren't allowed to say anything until they'd spoken to PR. When they'd spoken to PR, they told me I had to go through someone else, who was either on holiday, didn't know anything, or had spoken to another journalist but a few seconds earlier.

I also got a chance to go to court, which I can't say anything about or else a magistrate will come and get me.

Joking aside, it was an interesting experience, and though it did take all day to get to the case we were there to see, I saw things I'd never seen in my life before.

Journalism is largely fruitless. It's not characterised by writer's block because usually the gratefulness of finally getting the pieces of a story together will force it out of you. It's not characterised by sucking up to the boss, nor throwing away the rule book or any of that. Those are plot devices. It's real life, and it's boring.

Or it should be. It's just not, though. Maybe I'm just mental, but I enjoyed it. It's the feeling of finding a needle in a haystack. It's seeing the words "by SACHA TORREGROSA-JONES" on a real-life news article. Knowing someone's going to read it, be moved by it in some way.

One of the people I met working in Oldham had previously worked at a fashion magazine, and assured me that things were infinitely worse there. Journalists were only expected to write a single article per week, and did very little else. No wonder Ugly Betty was cancelled.

I was never bored. Not for a second. I was thrown in at the deep end and expected to keep myself afloat, and I like to think that I did. Journalism isn't for everyone, I see that now. I see no reason why it can't be for me, though.

Incidentally, I have been offered a placement at BBC Focus in September. As ever, I'll keep you informed.

Are they trying to make us angry?

I'm actually coming in pretty late this week. The event I want to look at has already been analysed and the analysis of the analysis has also been analysed.

The name "Samantha Brick" will, in around 51% of the population, spark feelings of anger. This was the woman, who, earlier this week, claimed it was difficult being as pretty as she is.

She is, as many Daily Mail Online readers spluttered angrily, and with less coherence, quite a plain-looking middle aged lady. True, she has avoided many of the pitfalls of being 41- she isn't going grey, she's got no bingo wings... but it doesn't change the fact that she's 41. And not Jennifer Connelly 41. Not even Uma Thurman 41. More of a woman-in-an-office 41. Got the money for a gym membership and moisturiser; got the discipline for a career and to keep her her hair tidy.

Not surprising, really, seeing as that's exactly what Samantha Brick is. As I will reveal next week, Ugly Betty has been lying to you, and journalism isn't all that shiny and wonderful- it's office work like everything else.

However, something compelled Samantha Brick to write that article. I'd hazard a guess that it wasn't arrogance, but a valid point. Having read the article in question, rather than the ensuing storm of criticising articles, I can see nothing but a well-reasoned argument.

She's nothing remarkable. Let's not forget, however, that nor are the majority of the rest of us. I can't remember the last time I went to the gym. My hair is a mess of washed-out green and it most certainly hasn't been brushed. I have my reasons, they're fairly good. However, in this condition I'm not going to earn myself a drink from a stranger. I don't deserve it; I've not made an effort.

I tried reading the many vitriolic comments sparked by Ms Brick's efforts, but didn't make it. Halfway down the first uninformed keyboard-bashing rant I became disinclined to listen to the general public. They've missed the point. It's not arrogance. It's experience.

Brick simply details all the times in her career when she's been put down by an older, fatter, uglier woman. Really, I believe it happens.

When I'm feeling at my ugliest, and you don't need to know the details, I will gladly bite the head off anyone thinner, wearing more makeup, wearing nice shoes, taller, with blonde hair... the list goes on. When I'm twenty years older, and know that no matter how hard I try, the "bimbos" are always going to outdo me- I'm going to be livid.

Brick claims that women hate prettier women. She's right. Cue the furious storm of media coverage that sprang up in the days following.

The photos published by the DMOnline were not, by any means, her best. The awkward, fake smile did nothing to bring out Ms Brick's charms, which, if you look elsewhere on the internet, do actually exist. So why did the website publish them?

I'll tell you why. How many people have read this article now? How many people have commented on it, written articles of their own, talked about it on social media? Enough.

The Daily Mail Online has published, at last count, no fewer than seven follow-up articles to Brick's. All in the space of four days. Aside from the 5700-odd comments that the original article received, there have been a further eleven-and-a-half thousand comments on Brick-related articles.

So, 17000 at least have taken enough interest in this run-of-the-mill opinion piece to scream into the void that the woman's not all that pretty and women don't hate women. That's nearly as many people as live in the Cook Islands. Or as live in La Rochelle, France.

Publications don't care if you hate them. All that matters is that you read them. They don't care whether the article you've just read has soothed your fevered brow or caused you to shake your fist in rage. In fact, the latter option will cause you to read longer as you scour the offending piece for exactly which words have offended you so you can put them in your furious reply in inverted commas.

The 17,000 who commented may be surprised to learn that Samantha Brick has not read their analysis. She has not taken down these people's criticisms, nor learnt valuable lessons from what they have to say. No. She has written one follow-up article, for which she will have been paid, been interviewed for another article, for which she will have been paid, and also appeared on This Morning. She's been paid for that, too.

Furthermore, her husband has also had his say- and been paid for it.

What will really stick in the teeth of all the uglies, lardies and oldies embittered by Ms Brick's failure to deteriorate into hideousness along with them is the fact that she is now famous. Her abilities as a journalist, particularly those involving sparking 17,000 commenters into action, are plain for all to see.

I will conclude in the only way I feel I can. Firstly, by raising a glass to Ms Brick and congratulating her on her achievements. Secondly, by telling you all how ugly you are, and advising you to make your friends read my blog so I can tell them how ugly they are too.