Waiting for the right kind of pilot to come

It was mid-morning on a Thursday in early September, 2011. Wearing tracksuit bottoms, a grubby top, a bright reflective jacket and safety boots, I stood in a warehouse in west London holding a wheelbarrow containing a sealed box full of lighting equipment. Just as I opened the lift door to take the package up to the next floor, 'To the moon and back' by Savage Garden came on the radio.

It was as if my 20s had never happened. In fact, I had to slap myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. This was a song I hadn't heard since, er, my last stint at manual labour back in the late 90s. To be fair, I actually think it's a half-decent tune, but at the time of its original release, when it was played at least four times a day on Northants Radio, Darren Hayes's sugary vocals and his manner of singing 'affectiooooooon' made me start to lose the will to live.

Those who know me well will guess that doing warehouse work isn't exactly what was on my agenda. But money was tight and I noticed an employment agency near where I live. As I stepped in, I was met by half a dozen people originating from Eastern Europe and Africa who'd previously only done cash-in-hand - and that was just the staff (only kidding, of course). One of the real staff took one look at my CV and tried not to laugh.

"Er, you do realise we specialise in industrial work, right?"
"Yeah, but I need temping work and have done warehouse and factory work before during summers in between uni years," I replied.
He gave me a form to fill in, which I returned promptly, and within 48 hours I was assigned the warehouse job in Harlesden.

Previous experience had taught me that industrial work is usually a good bet for a quick fix (no pun intended). During those summers in the late 90s in Northampton clerical agencies were generally useless and basically told anyone without a car to fuck off. Then I joined Parkhouse Industrial, an agency specialising in warehouse and factory work, and suddenly I had work coming out of my ears (sometimes literally). They were brilliant and always laid on free taxis from their offices if we were able to get there; if we weren't, which was usually the case for early morning shifts, a member of staff would come to pick everyone up individually in a minibus.

Admittedly some companies relied heavily on agency workers, so the staff at Parkhouse were obliged to do everything in their power to provide the numbers, but even so, their service was first class. They totally loved me, as well, as I was willing to work anytime, anywhere, and was called a 'lifesaver' on numerous occasions when other workers had let them down and they needed to provide staff at short notice. On the downside, the jobs themselves were spectacularly awful, and back then Health and Safety was a Canon and Ball tribute act.

Several of us also had to face the double burden of being students, and permanent workers hated students. Maybe it was 'Common People' syndrome. So what were the worst of the worst?

Number three: Sonora Foods

Sonora Foods was a firm specialising in making bread and cake products. I had a two-week stint in its factory in Daventry, around ten miles north of Northampton, the first of which was spent in a remote part bagging slices of dough as they slid along a conveyor belt. It was tolerable to begin with, and I got to know a girl from the agency who was a student like me, so we were able to chat during the mind-numbing work. But then one of the bosses decided to speed up the machine (productivity, bla bla, etc), and it became impossible to gather enough dough in time before the stray pieces met their makers on the factory floor.

"Faster, faster, mate!" yelled the female supervisor opposite me in a tone resembling an imminent orgasm. My friend stood alongside me desperately trying not to wet herself laughing, and that gave me the giggles as well. Luckily, the machine couldn't cope with an increased speed and broke down.

Week two was the killer. I turned up to find out my partner in crime was staying where she was, while the powers-that-be put me in the main part of the factory. I spent my entire time carrying a mop and a brush, cleaning floors and various machinery, miserable as fuck.

Number two: Mailforce

Back in the 80s and early 90s, the long-running TV consumer show Watchdog was hosted by Lynn Faulds Wood, who became famous for using the phrase "a potential deathtrap" to describe pretty much every item or issue covered in the programme. However, those who parodied her had clearly never worked in the warehouse of Mailforce, based on the Brackmills estate on the outskirts of Northampton. Poor Lynn would have spontaneously combusted.

In theory it was a simple operation; around 30 people on each shift would stand alongside a series of conveyor belts and position magazines so they could be bound together effectively along the line and then wrapped in plastic. Unfortunately the machines were prehistoric and in places held together by sellotape. Inevitably it meant they would consistently break down and bits of paper would get stuck in machinery. Naturally I stayed well away. I was already a legend for breaking the Hegner Jigsaw at middle school, putting it out of action for the rest of the school year, and I wasn't going to intervene. Shifts, either 6am to 2pm or 2pm to 10pm, passed excruciatingly slowly, the warehouse was full of dust, and we were continually barked at by a supervisor who looked disturbingly like Yasser Arafat.

Number one: British Pepper & Spice

We didn't have the benefit of radio in either of the above jobs, so on paper British Pepper & Spice, which did, should have been bearable. Trouble was, local radio had some kind of mental breakdown in the late 90s, and suddenly each station's playlist, regardless of location, barely dipped its toes in the shallow end of variety. I should have seen the warning signs when me and my three housemates from uni in Nottingham hired a car and had a day out in the countryside near the end of term. By the time we'd drifted away from Nottingham we'd heard three songs on the radio. When the signal returned as we hit another local station, we heard the same three again within 30 minutes.

"Kristian, I should warn you that British Pepper & Spice is a difficult environment to work in as there's a very strong smell of herbs and spicy products," a member of staff at Parkhouse told me.
I wasn't particularly fazed. For a start, I quite liked the aroma of spicy foods; and secondly, I was fine at Sonora, where the dough gave off a fairly spicy smell.

British Pepper & Spice, however, was in a league of its own, and on entering the factory I realised I should have taken her advice more seriously. Despite wearing gloves, a jacket, a hairnet and a face mask, nothing prepared me for the stench of the various herbs being concocted. My job was mainly just boxing up stuff and delivering it to other parts of the factory, plus the odd bit of sweeping up, but it wasn't long before I was drenched in powder from head to toe with my eyes occasionally streaming in onion-chopping fashion.

And, of course, there was Northants Radio. In addition to Darren Hayes begging me to be his babeah, we were delivered a constant stream of The Corrs, The Lighthouse Family, Boyzone, Jamiroquai and the horrific 'Life' by Des'ree. And that was basically it. Admittedly there were occasional toe-tapping moments - 'Freed From Desire' by Gala and 'Free' by Ultra Nate, for instance - but they were rare highlights.

Even getting home was horrible. Although British Pepper & Spice was also based on the Brackmills estate, there was a bus stop right outside the factory so I didn't need a lift back. On paper the journey was fine, but the bus was a single-decker and therefore always packed. I knew I reaked, particularly of garlic, and hated putting other people through it, even though I wasn't the only person from the factory. But I still had to change buses at the station for the final leg of the journey home.

"Right, get in the bath!" were the comforting words of my mum as I turned the front door key. I didn't blame her, to be honest, as I couldn't wait to do just that anyway. Nevertheless, it still took three changes of bath water and half a bottle of shampoo to get myself clean(ish). Somehow I managed to stick it out for the rest of the week.

Back to the present and this job only lasted a couple of days. Compared with the horrors of Northampton it was bearable and I was shocked to find out there were others in the same predicament as me. I was completely knackered after each day, which made me realise how insulting it is when football managers and commentators talk about players putting in 'a good shift'. My short-term colleagues work bloody hard for pittance.

It was a strange feeling when the agency told me I was no longer needed the following week. On one hand, of course, I was relieved; this was the first job in well over a decade I'd genuinely dreaded getting up for. But when you're mentally prepared for a torturous few hours and your other half wakes up with you at the crack of dawn to comfort you and share breakfast, there's a small sense of disappointment knowing it won't last just a bit longer.

Besides, who wants to make proper use of their degree sitting in a cozy office anyway? Wouldn't you rather sweat buckets carting heavy boxes from floor to floor and take a crash course in Arabic for nine hours a day on minimum wage?

Copy-editing is for wimps. One more time, everyone: "So would you beeeeeeeeeeee my baby, yeaaaaaaaaaaah!"



Animated pic by John Dalziel

A bangin' night out

A few weeks ago I was on a nightbus travelling home from a dinner party and started feeling a bit nauseous. It was nothing to worry about; I'd just made the mistake of playing the Countdown-esque app Whirly Word on my other half's iPhone, forgetting that I'm not very compatible with anything reading-related during a bumpy bus ride. As soon as I got off the bus and got some air I was fine again, but that grogginess did remind me somewhat of being drunk, something I'd thankfully not experienced for many years.

I'm not anti-alcohol and still go to bars regularly with friends. It's the culture of drinking that has always turned me off, so much so that when I quit three years ago due to starting medication, there was a part of me that felt almost relieved - and I've never gone back. Generally the booze just didn't do anything for me, other than make me feel dehydrated and sorry for myself if I over-did it.

To begin with drinking was quite fun, partly because me and my mates started a year or so underage during the lower-sixth, and I guess it added a bit of a buzz when we entered pubs and wondered if we'd be served. Actually the answer was almost always yes, even if the landlord knew we were under 18. One of them definitely did as we started doing a weekly pub quiz, and a regular team cheekily called itself something like: "There are six teams tonight and only one is underage". Laughter all round – even from those behind the bar.

We were well-behaved but ultimately still novices, and that meant quite a few entertaining moments, the best of which was one of the lads yelling "Oi, watch it!" as he crashed into a lamppost.

By the start of uni, though, the novelty had worn off. I just wanted to socialise and chill out but instead it became drinking against the clock, the whole "Right, next round!" thing. I guess there was a certain logic, given that beer does taste vile after its head disappears, but getting wasted every night didn't appeal to me.

Luckily, on most student nights I managed to get away from all that, mainly because I was in a minority of men who weren't afraid to enter the dancefloor and boogie to Take That and Kylie without five pints inside them. By that stage I'd virtually abandoned beer anyway and switched to alcopops. Being in bottles meant they were more portable, and their fruity taste meant I didn't get dehydrated as quickly as I did with bitter or lager – even if I'd been on the dancefloor for a while.

Ultimately I was drinking less than people thought, to the point where my flatmates and people on my course thought I was some sort of invincible legend. I’d get home from clubs at 3am but stroll into 9am lectures with time to spare, showered, breakfast in belly and more or less unscathed.

On the flipside, I was ridiculed for drinking alcopops, commonly thought of as a woman's drink and at the time also a cause for concern amongst parents, who thought the manufacturers were aiming to entice youngsters into alcohol. It didn't help that alcopop brands largely had kiddie names like Hooch, Two Dogs and Spoof.

The now defunct Hooch was generally my preferred choice, and one Christmas the brand brought out a festive spin-off called Ho Ho Ho.

"What can I get you?", a female friend of mine asked as she prepared to head to the bar at a Christmas party.
"I'll have a Ho Ho Ho, please," I replied.
"Kris, I know I'm a girl but I'm not going over there and ordering a drink called fucking Ho Ho Ho." Well, she is northern, to be fair.

I hated getting uncontrollably pissed – being out of my comfort zone, I guess. The whole room-spinning-around thing actually scared me. You hear about people choking on their own vomit after a night out, so waking up the next morning still in tact was always a relief. I could never understand people who rose on a Saturday morning after getting smashed the night before and gasp "never again!", only to do it all again that same night.

On the other hand, I was in favour of the 24-hour drinking legislation introduced in 2005 – and I'm equally disappointed that the law looks like being scrapped. When I go abroad and notice how much more relaxed drinking culture is, it frustrates me. Whereas our Mediterranean cousins enjoy a relaxing evening and good food, knowing their bars are open until the early hours and sometimes beyond, we hit the bars early on an empty stomach, knowing most shut at 11pm. Then there's a kebab on the way home instead.

Less pressure to drink against the clock, and the chance to have dinner first, means there’s a better chance of alcohol being tolerated, and a more relaxed atmosphere. The likes of the Daily Mail claim triumphantly that the legislation has failed here. Not really. It’s just establishments largely chose to pretty much ignore it; pubs and clubs on the whole haven't radically shifted their closing times – it's still generally 11pm and 2am respectively – so drinking patterns haven't shifted either. The Mail make it sound as though drunken brawls, vomit and A&E wards bursting in the early hours were new phenomena.

If bars as a general rule relaxed their opening hours - until, say, 3am - drinking patterns and behaviour would gradually change and pub-goers would have better flexibility. I'm not saying our binge-drinking culture would disappear overnight, but I'd be surprised if it still existed to such a high level five years down the line.

Let's face it, we're sluts when it comes to absorbing culture or mannerisms from abroad. People started speaking with Australian upward intonation during the Neighbours revolution and still use Aussie phrases ("No worries" is mine); curry is now more popular than fish and chips; our kids love High School Musical; we now kiss on both cheeks, etc. I don't see why our drinking habits couldn't change with time. Ultimately the public didn't reject the legislation; it was never really given a chance.

I've been on three pub crawls and hated each one. I have no excuses for the first; it was with Nottingham Trent University's football team and with people I generally didn't like at all. The team was incredibly cliquey and I only broke into the second XI in the second year because a guy in our student digs during the first year managed the team.

Even worse, I thought I had a chance of making the first team if I could worm my way into the clique, so when one of the guys organised a pub crawl I put my name down alongside around 30 others. On the night barely 10 turned up. Now I was under pressure to binge without making a fool of myself.

To my surprise, I managed to hold my own and handled the booze better than several of the others. One of the guys went down an alleyway, threw up and shouted "Wahey!" before re-entering the city's Market Square. For me, vomiting means the end of the night. I survived until the club but wilted due to stupidly ordering a Coke instead of a bottle of water, which may have saved me from the inevitable.

The other eventful one, in Corfu, was a bit different. After being reunited following our respective uni exploits, me and four of the other guys from school went on – loosely speaking – a lad's holiday. I say loosely speaking because we went to Kassiopi, one of the quietest islands, which had only a handful of bars and one club, and we basically just chilled out.

However, we signed up to an island-hopping pub crawl one night. Despite still being coherent by the end, I somehow managed to get separated from the others. To this day I can't work out what happened; all I remember is being in dire need of a slash, so I went to a nearby Gents. I was in there for barely a minute. When I left I saw our bus back to Kassiopi disappear into the distance, and disorientation kicked in.

"You've got two options, mate," said a nearby rep. "You could get a taxi, but what I personally recommend is to stay here, pull a bird and go back to her place. Then you can get a bus back tomorrow."

This was a female rep. No wonder we're hated so much abroad. Naturally I went for the second option. Well, you laugh but... no, you're right, and the taxi was fucking expensive.

My personal “never again” experience happened several years later at a house party in Walthamstow, east London. I actually know the exact date (well, via Google) – Saturday 10th December, 2005 – because of a serious incident in the early hours of Sunday morning (not involving me!).

The party, though lively, was pretty civilised. However, the wine totally knocked me for six. Of all alcoholic drinks, wine is probably the most deceptively evil if you are not in control of it. My large glass was constantly topped up by the hosts, and I lost track of how much I was drinking.

I left the party at about half-past-midnight as I needed to catch a nightbus from the bus station back to Euston, and then get the last train from there to Watford, where I lived at the time. I felt a bit rough but no more. However, minutes after I boarded the bus for the 45-minute journey, the wine hit me.

Shit, I'm not going to make this, I thought as my guts started bubbling. In an ideal world I'd have got off at the next stop, taken some air, walked around and maybe found an offie to buy some water. But I didn't have that luxury. Sure enough, I threw up on the bus on two separate occasions. That's when I realised how much I'd had, because usually once is enough to clear everything out. But no, I still felt like shit. Bizarrely, I'm not sure anyone actually noticed as I was sat in a single seat tucked away from the rest of the lower deck; it's possible I was in the driver's blind spot as well.

The bus was late getting into Euston due to a diversion, and it became a race against time to catch the train. I had to run to the platform; not a good idea. I made it but my stomach churned again and I puked up twice more during the journey, which lasted another agonising 45 minutes. I may have got away with it on the bus but not the train.

The 2am train is always packed with piss-heads and I was ashamed to be one of them. Although some of them shouted at me, it wasn't in an aggressive manner, and some were genuinely sympathetic. They'd seen it all before. They'd probably all been there before.

I was massively relieved when I got out of the station. One lady wanted to take me to A&E as she thought I'd been puking blood, but I reassured her it was red wine. I've no recollection of my journey home after that but I'm guessing it wasn't by taxi if their cleaning fines are anything to go by.

Two hours after I finally got home and crashed out, there was a massive bang; so loud I actually registered it - usually nothing wakes me up that early into a post-booze sleep. Whatever was powering my brain at that moment did the equivalent of shrugging its shoulders, though, and I was out like a light again immediately.

I still had one obstacle left; I was due to play football for my Sunday League team that morning. My body did its duty and reacted to the alarm at around 8.30, and only then did I find out what had happened; there had been a massive explosion at a gas depot in Hemel Hempstead, and it was the first item on the news. Hemel is a fair distance from Watford but there were stories of glass shattering in nearby streets.

Although I no longer felt drunk or sick, I knew that, for the first time ever, playing football was physically beyond me. The ground we were due to play at was on the other side of town, and even if I'd had been fit enough to drive, I was probably still over the limit.

Amazingly I got a reprieve. The manager phoned me up to say the game was postponed. By a quirk of fate, our fixture was against the Metropolitan Police. Their players had been placed on emergency duty. Usually when a game is called off I'm irritated for the rest of the day, but on this occasion it felt like the best news ever. My head hit the pillow seconds afterwards and by the time I resurfaced it was three in the afternoon.

Red wine was never on the menu after that, though I still enjoyed a glass of white every now and again with a meal. Even now it feels weird drinking apple juice at a restaurant instead. Nevertheless, I still don't miss alcohol at all.

"I've often wondered what it tastes like," a Somalian guy once said to me in a nearby cafe.
"You're not missing much," I replied.
"It certainly smells like piss," he laughed.

I couldn't really argue with that. Orange and lemonade, please.

Photos by Dan Lynch, munitang, Matt Lucht and diamond geezer

A decade in the capital

I've now been in London for 10 years. Actually that's not strictly true as I spent over half of them commuting to work from Watford but I was there often enough to get a reasonable feel of the place. Before then my knowledge of London was virtually zero. I could only remember two occasions I'd been there, and even those memories were vague - a trip to Hamleys in Oxford Street when I was young, and a school visit to the Science Museum as a teenager. So suddenly starting work there in December 2000 was a tad daunting and I chose to initially live in Watford as one of my best mates was there. It was also partly because London seemed to me like some sort of bubble; the M1 stopped and I had visions of a bouncer pondering over whether to let this skinny, floppy-haired gimp in.

Of course, after a few weeks it all became fairly routine. The Tube journey, initially exciting as it was totally new to me, became functional, and places like Leicester Square, Piccadilly Circus and The Strand didn't carry the level of mystique they had on the Monopoly board. What I did soon realise was how lonely the capital was for a single guy. The pace of life is so fast that nobody talks to you, and even though I had some friends from uni dotted around, getting to see them was tough as each of them had their own work stresses, meaning weekday meet-ups were very rare. It didn't help that email and the internet were still in their relatively early stages back then, and Broadband access was the exception rather than the rule. In fact, even my first, brick-like mobile was no more than a year old.

It all expanded rapidly, though, and in terms of escaping a degree of loneliness, I made a breakthrough in the form of internet dating. The whole Lonely Hearts phenomenon used to be taboo - maybe it still is in other areas of the UK - but in London it was the perfect opportunity to meet new people, and I suddenly found many others in almost identical situations to that of myself. For anyone in similar shoes to myself a decade ago, I'd definitely recommend it, even if it's purely for making new friends. Most of the dates I went on were simply that and were usually quite fun, particularly one with a Canadian girl who was a great laugh and obsessed with my English accent ("Hey, say 'water'", etc). There was also an Argentine who was bemused by the fact she was showing me around Fulham and not vice-versa.

The biggest eye-opener for me was how radically my perception of time and distance changed after moving here. Journeys in London are unique and people who have lived here all their lives don't know how good they've got it when it comes to public transport. You can get pretty much anywhere you want around the capital without a car, and the frequency of buses and Tubes is generally so high that people - myself included - tut when they see on the dot matrix that their next bus or Tube is more than five minutes away.

There are also nightbuses, the bonus of which means you can stay out late and not have to clockwatch like you would if you lived outside of London and needed to catch the last train or bus. The journey home may be a bit lengthy, and there’s always a chance the bus will be populated by piss-heads of the worst variety, but there’s certainly less chance of being stranded. You don't get such luxury in many places and it was shocking to hear on the news recently that there are potential transport cuts on the way in some rural areas of the country.

The time and distance thing really is a strange phenomenon. Every Thursday I play five-a-side with a group of mates in Tower Hamlets, south-east London. Travelling from my place in north-west London means a round trip of over two hours from doorstep to doorstep for a session that often lasts less than an hour depending on what time everyone arrives. If you'd told me I'd be doing this before I moved to London I'd have said you were bonkers but somehow it all seems strangely routine here.

The Tube journey is a psychological time-cruncher anyway, with it being punctuated by the relative close proximity of the stations on each line. Add in an iPod on Shuffle and it seemingly passes by even quicker as stations come and go, which probably explains why a commute of an hour is pretty comfortable for most workers if the journey isn’t too complicated.

In early 2007 my other half and I moved to Cricklewood and still live there today. Funnily enough, it’s barely a mile from the M1 exit so going by my analogy of the bouncer earlier it would probably be the equivalent of London’s cloakroom. Not knowing the area at all meant it was always a gamble moving there, particularly as we chose to rent a studio flat on Cricklewood Broadway, the area’s defining main road packed with multi-ethnic shops, market stalls, supermarkets, cafes, restaurants, banks, pubs and hotels.

Despite such richness, it was a bit daunting to begin with – living in the heart of such a busy area made me worried about crime and violence. There’s even a road called Shoot-Up Hill further up. But the gamble paid off and I’ve yet to witness any real trouble, which is a pleasant surprise considering how many different nationalities make up the population – always scope for tension. Off the top of my head I’ve met people from Egypt, Morocco, Algeria, Somalia, Hungary, Romania, Estonia, Turkey, Poland and Croatia here. But ultimately people keep themselves to themselves, making multiculturalism either a glowing success or a spectacular failure depending on which angle you take.

London, despite its vibrant atmosphere and attractions, is of course an urban nightmare and undoubtedly a culture shock for people used to a slower pace of life in smaller towns. Apart from the likes of Hyde Park and Regent’s Park, greenery and fresh air are pretty much non-existant, to the point where you see joggers running alongside main roads packed with fume-ridden buses and taxis. Surely that’s doing them more harm than good.

Playing fields are few and far between and as a result sports complexes have to be built in some of the most bizarre areas. A London Bridge venue was built underneath a tunnel, and the one I go to now in Tower Hamlets was built on top of a car park. Taking a lift up to the pitches as drivers insert coins for tickets is a surreal experience. Luckily, secure netting around every pitch means the ball is never in danger of falling off the complex and knocking someone out below.

That’s not to say I find the whole place ugly, mind you. Covent Garden on a summer’s day is a brilliant place for chilling out with friends, and during the night the South Bank overlooking the River Thames and Hungerford Bridge is a photographer’s dream, as well as a romantic haven for couples young and old.

Ultimately, though, London is ridiculously expensive. We pay over £900 a month renting a one-bedroom flat. In my parental home of Northampton you could get a four-bedroom house for that, and Northampton isn’t even that far up, er, north. Basically, for me the city is all about the present and making the best use of its strengths before its drawbacks kick in. As new commitments arrive, the end of the love affair draws nearer. Do I see my future here? Very unlikely. Am I glad to have experienced London life? Absolutely.

Additional photos by Karen Bryan, Olivia Harris and David Howard

Is sexism the new racism in football?

Photo: Phil Guest
I used to quite like Andy Gray. His enthusiasm for tactical analysis was infectious and his book Flat Back Four, observing defensive shapes and largely rubbishing sweeper systems at a time when they were quite popular (very few top clubs deploy them now), was a good read. However, he's turned into an arrogant tosser in recent times, and on two occasions this season has been overheard making ridiculously opionated comments 'off air'. A few months ago he called Arsenal's Theo Walcott "useless", and, more controversially, last weekend mocked the appointment of Sian Massey, a female assistant referee, for the Premier League clash between Wolves and Liverpool. Gray was about to cover the game in his usual role of co-commentator.

To be fair to Gray (in the loosest possible sense), it was Sky Sports' studio anchorman Richard Keys who provoked the issue and was probably the bigger culprit.

"Somebody had better go down and explain offside to her," Keys quipped in the pre-match build-up.
"Women don't understand the offside rule," Gray replied.
"Of course they don't. I guarantee you there will be a big one [crucial offside decision] today," said Keys.

Neither knew their microphones were switched on.

Well, Keys was right. And guess what, Massey got it spot on. It was a massively crucial call because it led to Liverpool taking the lead.

Raul Meireles was sent clear and Fernando Torres scored from his cross but despite Wolves players protesting that Meireles was offside, TV replays revealed that he was level with Wolves' last defender, Ronald Zubar, and was therefore onside when the ball was played.

Women are often mocked for not knowing the offside rule but that's hardly surprising when - forgive the generalisation - a large percentage have little interest in the game as a whole. Actually, my other half and I have a running joke that if she can't sleep she'll ask me to explain the offside rule to her. Trust me, within seconds she's gone. But the point is, not knowing the offside rule isn't a gender issue, it's simply knowledge or interest-based. How many men who don't like football can genuinely claim they know how the rule works?

Apologies for what may be a dubious comparison but what happened to Massey actually reminded me of an incident about 10 years ago when I played for Bugbrooke St Michaels, a local Saturday league team based on the outskirts of Northampton. We were about to take on a team from Rushden when our manager noticed something.

"Lads, their team has three Asians. Everybody knows Asians can't play football so get stuck into them, they won't like it," he hissed.

We went on to win the game 3-2 but one of those Asians scored both of their goals. This may have happened a decade ago but even then the Kick Racism Out of Football campaign was in full swing and largely a success.

Comparing race and gender discrimination is a somewhat sensitive issue, particularly as I'm neither a woman nor an ethnic minority, but there are certainly alarming similarities in terms of the representation issue. Without wanting to go all A Level Sociology on you, those who are under-represented in the workplace face the double burden of climbing up the ladder in the first place and then having to work extra hard when they get there to justify their promotion in a world where suspiciousness over quota issues and tokenism dominate.


It took a long time for black footballers in British football to be accepted and respected. Even when black players started to hurdle racism and came into prominence during the mid to late 80s there were still doubts as to whether they had 'the bottle' to cope when winter kicked in and teams had to battle on muddy and icy pitches. Obviously such accusations have been comprehensively quashed since. Black players are now strongly represented in the game and have become heroes and role models to fans all over the world. However, it's taken more than a generation to make it happen and now female officials face a similarly uphill task.

What makes Gray and Keys's comments even sadder is: a) it wasn't even Massey's first Premier League game (her debut was a month ago when Sunderland played Blackpool); and b) she isn't the first female official by a long shot. As far back as 1991 (ironically the same year Sky started covering live football), Wendy Toms was appointed as a fourth official for a third division match between Bournemouth and Reading, and after a stint refereeing in the Football League Conference she became a Premier League referee's assistant in 1996.

Not that she escaped prejudice, of course. In 1999, Gordon Strachan, then managing Coventry, was livid with her performance after his team were beaten 4-3 by Leeds following a controversial offside call in Leeds' favour.

"We are getting PC decisions about promoting ladies. It does not matter if they are ladies, men or Alsatian dogs. If they are not good enough to run the line they should not get the job. Saturday's was the worst assistant refereeing decision I have seen this season by far and I've said that in my report. The fourth Leeds goal was offside by at least four yards and there were numerous other bad decisions in the game. My message is don't be politically correct and promote people just for the sake of it," he fumed.

Four years ago, another female official in Amy Rayner suffered even worse abuse. Commenting on her performance as a referee's assistant after his Luton team were beaten 3-2 by QPR, manager Mike Newell said: "She shouldn't be here. I know that sounds sexist but I am sexist. This is not park football, so what are women doing here?".

Unfortunately, unless a significant number of female referees break through into the big leagues soon, officials like Massey are going to suffer comments like these, and no doubt even worse ones from fans, for many years to come due to being so under-represented in the men's game.

However, ending on a more upbeat and somewhat chaotic note, since I started this blog 24 hours ago Gray has been sacked by Sky. It's a brave decision considering he and Keys have fronted Sky's football coverage right from the start 20 years ago. But perhaps this whole incident epitomises the generation gap. Back then email, internet and mobile phones didn't exist and Status Quo were still being played on Radio 1. Life has moved on significantly since but attitudes don't necessarily follow suit.

At the time of writing nothing has been decided on Keys's future. He should really go as well for his part in the furore. He has apologised to Massey but does that really mean anything? Like a schoolchild given detention for copying a classmate's spelling test, isn't he just sorry because he got caught?

Besides, how someone with as little charisma as Keys has lasted this long fronting live football coverage is anyone's guess. As far as I'm concerned that's as good a reason as any to confine him to the scrapheap.

I wonder what Gray's wife makes of all this. Maybe she's slaving away over dinner in the kitchen while he sits in the dining room masturbating over whether to position the pepper pot behind the salt and Ketchup or deploy it wider to sit in front of the bottle of wine.

Never mind, Andy, I'm sure you'll get a call from ITV soon...

Removing the splinters

"Ha ha, I can't imagine you thinking of anything, Kris!" The words of a friend a few months ago during a night out on London's South Bank. I'm sure we've all had the Room 101 conversation at some point. Annoyingly he was right at the time. I think I came up with something banal like "ignorance" - and that was it.

Although being a generally relaxed, easy-going and glass-half-full person is no bad thing, and I know a lot of people love me for it, there are times when I know I should get off the fence more. The previous blog was a semi-decent attempt although even that 'rant' was closeted to a certain extent. So this is my Room 101 - five things I'd bin or ban with immediate effect. As Dermot O'Leary would say, these are in no particular order (X Factor is a guilty pleasure so Cowell escapes).

1) Celebrity Britain

Yes, I realise it's a soft target but to be honest I don't have a problem with celebrities per se; it's the nation's obsession that really pisses me off. Actually, I nearly put ITV in this list on its own as it's by far the worst offender but there are enough other issues to keep it out. Nevertheless, let's start with ITV, the epitome of barrel-scraping. The whole Peter Andre and Jordan thing is just too depressing to go into at length. Who watches this shit? Who gives a shit what they get up to or "what they did next"? It's simply moronic TV, made by morons about morons and consumed by morons who have no lives of their own and survive on Heat magazine gossip.

Then there's Celebrity this, Celebrity that. I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here, Celebrity Come Dine With Me, Celebrity Big Brother, Celebrity Juice. Actually, All-Star Family Fortunes is one that particularly bugs me as it appears to have replaced the original series. What was wrong with the traditional family format? The celebs are never exactly A-listers for a start.

Elsewhere, we have those cheap countdown shows - "50 Greatest TV Moments", "50 Funniest TV Sketches", "100 Most Hysterical Daily Mail Rants", etc. I do have a soft spot for them, actually, and it's always nice to get an insight from those involved in whatever the feature is, but all too often they interview random celebrities with no connection to the subject whatsover. Who cares what they think? Wouldn't it be nice to have a few 'ordinary' members of the public in the talking head sections with more meaningful opinions, rather than Ross Kemp discussing the merits of Wuthering Heights? (A fictional example) My other big gripe is with the BBC series Live At The Apollo. A decent show but marred by the opening minutes in which the host announces which celebs are in the building, to cheers from the audience. I couldn't give a shit - these are just ordinary people, no more important than anyone else, and shouldn't be presented as VIPs. Ultimately my point, I guess.

2) Snoods


What the...?! Is that a scarf he's wearing? I mentioned in a previous blog how effeminate football ultimately is, or at least has become, but this is ridiculous. Yes, this is the current snood epidemic sweeping through the Premiership and beyond. If you aren't aware already - lucky you - a snood is a cross between a scarf and a neck-warmer, and more and more "world class" players are wrapping up warm on the pitch, bless them. I should add that this phenomenon started before the recent cold snap so there's still no sympathy from me.

When I first started playing competitively 20-odd years ago at youth level, we played in some dire conditions between the months of November and February - howling gales, torrential rain, mudbaths, sometimes all at the same time. Not that I'm suggesting for a moment that we just got on with it without any complaints. Of course we all moaned - well, we were kids for a start - and especially did so on occasional matchdays where there were no changing rooms and we had to change in our parents' cars. And it was even worse when it was really cold as well and fingers became too numb to do up bootlaces. But once the game started we soon warmed up and it was our parents who ultimately suffered on the touchline.

Surely the pain threshold of youngsters is much lower than these pros, yet I don't remember taking to the field in gloves, tights and scarves. I may have worn a thermal vest under my shirt but that's about it. Dressing well in the pre-match warm-up is one thing, as muscles need protecting, but do grown men really need winterwear during a game? Maybe I'm being ignorant but wouldn't the crowd and the floodlights generate at least some warmth to balance out the temperatures? Shouldn't the fact that most players run the equivalent of eight miles during a game make wearing gloves and scarves redundant? I have to admit that I had reservations about this choice because I discovered Alex Ferguson had a similar rant, and the thought of agreeing with him made me shudder. However, on this occasion he's got it right and actually banned his players from wearing the snood. Good on him. Nurse!

3) Friends

The TV show, obviously. Sorry but it's rubbish. Perplexingly, I've yet to meet anyone who thinks along the same lines, including a big chunk of my friends, all of whom are intelligent and possess a sense of humour well beyond the intellectual level of this shit, which makes me wonder if the show employs a hypnotist to decimate its viewers' IQ for half an hour. If so, I must have been one of the lucky few to escape. "You have to get to know the characters," they say. I tried. None of them are remotely believeable, all of them are immensely irritating. "You just don't like American humour." Not true; I love Frasier, Scrubs, South Park and The Simpsons, to name just a few.

Basically, the show is lame, the jokes are lame and the audience is embarrassing, whooping at the merest hint of a euphoric moment in the script, or whenever a guest celebrity marches in for a pay day. You may have noticed that I've been writing in the present tense even though the show finished a few years ago. Well, that's because it's still always on, to the point where you're almost guaranteed to find it somewhere if you flick through the channels. Sure enough, I've just done this and there's a double helping on E4 as I write. And anyway, there's bound to be some reunion episode at some point. But what about Jennifer Aniston, I hear you beg. Fair point but not fair enough. She still can't save me from The One With The Holiday Armadillo. Or the Rembrandts.

4) Boardroom Wanking

"I say, is that Rupert? Charlie Fotherington-Smythe here from Dick Head Office. How about we touch base on the bullshit turnover this afternoon over a triple moccha frappuccino with marshmallow topping? Then we and the guys can get together to brainstorm some B2B strategies for Buzzword Central."

"Bravo, Charlie, sure thing! Ah, we also need to bookmark a blue-sky conference with Chad from the NYC Headquarters to streamline the overseas market. I know he tends to be all smoke and mirrors but I'm sure we can still diversify within the contingency plan."

"Right you are. Good work, Rupert, catch you later. Ciao!"

If you ever hear me using language as offensively pompous and ultimately meaningless as this, there's a special sell-out helpline. In the meantime, a good kick in the nads will do.

5) New Year's Eve

Christmas is great. Time to forget about work, relax with family and friends, swap pressies, wear stupid hats, watch wall-to-wall football and eat and drink to oblivion. The one downside is knowing you're only a week away from the damp squib that is New Year's Eve.

It's scandalously over-hyped and allows various establishments to charge a fortune for what's probably going to be an evening of overcrowding, hour-long queues at the bar and people pretending they know the words to Auld Lang Syne. It's particularly awkward if you are single as it means there's more pressure to go out, and if you also happen to live in a small to mid-sized town, there's more pressure to decide what to do early because the popular pubs and clubs tend to sell tickets in advance.

Living in London is much easier because it's a huge place and means you can pretty much go out wherever you like and decide what to do as you're going along. Public transport is also free, which is a bonus.

But despite being lucky enough to belong to the second category, and be in a relationship, I still don't enjoy New Year's Eve at all. There's a whiff of fakeness about it and it can also be a pretty depressing time if you're reflecting on a bad year - maybe a break-up or the loss of a loved one. Ironically, the only occasion I had a truly brilliant New Year's Eve was the on the most hyped night of all - 31st December, 1999. There was no meticulous planning. It was just me and my best friends from school, a curry, some booze and a mini house party in Preston and it felt special. That was a genuine one-off, though.

For me, the real celebration, and the biggest relief, is waking up on January 1st with Auld Lang Syne, Big Ben and fireworks in the past, and the mobile phone networks back in tact.