It’s here. The greatest tournament on Earth. The 2014 World Cup. Most Importantly, it’s the day of England’s first game. England, where football was created, where football was born. This happened sometime during the middle ages, and the sport continued to slowly grow, improve and change over time within the UK. Charles miller was responsible for the export of Football to its adopted home, Brazil, in 1894. It was the day Football left home and headed to University. To maximise its potential. To become a man. England has now become football’s parent’s house. It’s still called home but in reality football has flown the nest and flourished elsewhere a long time ago. Going back now would just be weird. (Which makes the Premier League football’s parent’s love life. A once a year event that takes longer than it should and is…
I remember my first flight. The allure. The excitement. The enthusiasm mixed with the uncontrollable fear of the unknown. I felt like an intrepid adventurer making his maiden journey to mysterious, uncharted lands. My first view of the plane from the terminal was breathtaking. Clean, crisp, powerful. It was like I was looking out at Apollo 11, primed and ready for the greatest exploratory mission ever undertaken. Once on board even the interior amazed me. Your own screen and media player to watch whatever you wanted. The hand delivered beverages. The view from the window. The glamorous air stewardesses; Only the best, most beautiful. This is the job they dreamed of. The job they competed for. The four jet engines hummed to life, driving the aircraft into an explosive takeoff. I felt special, privileged. I didn’t sleep a wink on that…
If you wear skinny jeans and those pastel shade jumpers with big triangular shapes ironed onto the front by children in China, then you will more than likely have already developed a sixth sense for any forthcoming reality TV talent contest. Your other five senses can relax however as the panel made up of bleached teeth and pumped-up tits demands little cerebral activity other than the corner of the brain that deals with ‘the judgemental.’
So strong is this segment of our most crucial organ that leading neurologists have recently published a report stating – quite conclusively – that ‘The Judge Corner’ or ‘Chamber’ as it is also referred is by far the most active section during consciousness!
So how does this relate to The X Factor or The Got Talent franchises? Anything so unspeakably dumb…
I walk in to the packed room with caution and am the only guy. Surprise. Immediately half the heads present spin in my direction, whilst the remaining heads continue sucking thumbs, fingers, breasts. I am greeted with a friendly ‘hello’ but the undertone whispers ‘enemy’. A proportion of the eyes say ‘snake, there’s a snake in the nest’. The same eyes didn’t expect me to be here. I should be out earning a living, panning for gold, drilling for oil, or at the very least drilling my secretary. What they do expect is for me to be out of my depth, unable to cope. They’re just waiting for me to drop the baby at any minute, like looking after him is a task too far. This is my first Postpartum Education for Parents (PEP) meeting, it’s a weekly gathering…
I have a Job Interview. I’m wearing a suit. Dressed ‘accordingly’. Why though? Why the suit? Why do we have to dress the same? Is it to show willing to conform? The absence of existentialism? It must be a test to identify the requisite character flaw; “He wore the suit, therefore he can be easily and swiftly indoctrinated”. And what the fuck is a tie? Just some massive, swinging phallic symbol dangling from my neck. No balls. Very appropriate. It symbolizes my mental castration and evolution into the modern day eunuch; I believe what they tell me, I’m no threat to the establishment, no threat to power. I assume it once served a purpose, the tie. Like the general election or the penny-farthing. But you don’t see people commuting on a penny-farthing out of a sense of tradition….
My brother first introduced me to Alan Clarke’s Made in Britain (1982) when I was sixteen. Seven years down the line I still struggle to understand my feelings towards the central character, Trevor. I like him but loathe him at the same time. He has horrible personality traits, an all out racist being one of them, however, it is not difficult to understand why he is like he is; Trevor is a victim of his circumstances and a product of his environment, that of mass unemployment, deprivation, and blame – the dark side of Thatcher’s Britain.
Trevor is a hopeless case, full of characteristics that remind me of many people I grew up with in England, mostly male. The confrontational, spit in your face, angry at teachers for no reason types who constantly…
You’ve got to be in shape these days. You’ve got to work out. Be fit. Eat well. Halve your sugar intake. Exercise five times a week. Lift weights. Go for a jog. It’s 2014 after all. Fifty years ago nobody knew what jogging was. Now everybody is a gym member. Everyone has ran a half marathon. Everyone is an expert. Everyone does Yoga.
Yoga. Sounds appealing. Sounds relaxing. It’s not. Well it’s not for men at least. It’s an exercise class hidden behind a spiritual, liberating, relaxing façade. Guys aren’t naturally as flexible, yet we muscle ourselves into these positions and stay quiet to give the illusion that we can do it with ease. Because we’re competitive. Because we’re men. We can do anything you know. We spend the whole class clock watching, whilst sneaking glances at women wearing yoga…
Did those jumpcuts inspire you? Did you know we’ve cracked what makes a good leader, and it’s the absence of a single word? Leading figures from all walks of life (you know, the ones that matter, music, acting, fashion, politics and of course that NASCAR guy!) are here to help, espousing the evil of this descriptive word.
The #banbossy campaign is the Orwellian brainchild of Sheryl Sandberg, the ‘rockstar’ COO of facebook whose ascension to magazine covers and her share of Zuckerbergian riches was nearly derailed many years ago by this insidious adjective.
When little Sheryl was just the ‘organizer‘, her domineering ways were checked by a teacher (you know, one responsible for molding children’s behaviors, almost assuredly a man too):
‘In junior high, Sandberg recounts, a teacher stopped her best friend and told her: “Nobody likes a bossy girl. You should find a new friend who will be a better…
It’s a long drive. The road is straight, ridiculously so. The romans would have been impressed. The sky is a single deep blue, no variation, no imperfection, no clouds, not a bird in sight. The land to either side is barren, the grass and shrubbery a browny-yellow, the rest dust. I thought it was called The Golden State for other reasons. My passenger is asleep. The radio broken. Cruise control on. All I do is sit and listen to the hum of the engine, the soft whistle of the car cutting through the wind. My eyelids grow heavy, I’m fighting sleep. I would have a better chance fighting a starving, bloodthirsty polar bear.
I don’t have coffee to force my body awake against its will like some sort of Frankenstein monster, I can’t drink it, the caffeine gives me an…
When I first met a girl named Leo,
Fun and smart, skin like cappuccino,
Slender and sublime with frizzy hair,
Long, strong legs and quite a pair
of eyes, full of beauty, brown in colour,
In that instant I knew I loved her.
From that day everything we did together,
Joined in marriage for our love was forever,
She was my soulmate, my love, my isotope,
Leo was no longer just my horoscope,
She was a Juliette to my Romeo,
And then I saw the feint red glow.
And as it first dawned upon my face,
Like a spotlight shone from outerspace,
Sunshine breaking through a bank of cloud,
The instant removal of a shroud,
That she was a robot, a human imitator,
I’d fell in love with a Terminator.
Her DNA was “made by Cyberdyne”,
Sky-net the computer had sent her back in…