Life inside an inbox

@ the back of my mind.  Image by Mickey Aldridge

I recently noticed I had over 12,000 emails in my Inbox. Time for a cull, I thought. It should be easy, shouldn’t it? Just drag the sidebar to the bottom and get going. Hang on, what the... 2003?! Suddenly the focus shifted, and within the space of an hour I had created a new folder full of messages that pretty much resembled a photo album in email form; a snapshot of more or less the last ten years of my life.

What should have been a functional few minutes became an emotional few hours. I found myself gulping at what I was reading. The last rolls of a dice at a company that was to fold imminently; invitations to nights out, some of which I could make, some of which I couldn’t, some of which happened, some of which didn’t, some of which proved fantastic nights, others totally forgettable; flirty exchanges with women I met on dating websites, some I dated, some I didn’t; online Christmas and birthday cards, some of which still worked, some which didn’t. That’s just scraping the surface.

Obviously I deleted a chunk of irrelevant ones – weekly mailing lists to sign up for five-a-side footie, for instance, or jokey messages that had been forwarded a thousand times from the other side of the globe – but ultimately I failed miserably. My plan was to plough through and delete 1,000 messages a day, but essentially I just moved them; the equivalent of tidying up a home to cater for visitors but choosing to shove everything into a spare corner rather than inside a giant bin bag.

I decided to email two people from the 2003 era – one of two Germans I partied with after a random night out in central London, and a girl from a dating site I never actually got round to meeting but bizarrely remained in touch with for a while as a sort of online pen pal. I kept the emails brief, largely because I was worried their addresses were no longer active, and made sure I sent them as a reply to one of their previous messages so they had some means of sparking memories.

Then it dawned on me I’d only reached halfway. What about my Sent folder? Obviously I’d covered some of that ground already, but what about those messages that had got away? Those that hadn’t been replied to, or those that had been buried by replies not containing the original message. Another several hours of occasional happiness, occasional sadness, occasional laughter and occasional what-the-hell-was-I-thinking followed. Stream of consciousness is one thing but some emails are just not meant to be sent.

Bring Back Alan Carr, Justin! Er, actually, no.

Cynics would just say fuck it, forget it. It’s the past, there’s nothing you can do. To an extent they’re right; it’s natural that we change over time, and I was certainly a different person back in 2003. And obviously it depends on the context. I remember cringing when I watched an episode of a Channel 4 series called Bring Back..., in which west country loudmouth Justin Lee Collins ran around like a lunatic trying to reunite people from various TV series. In the episode I saw he went on the hunt to find the members of Grange Hill who sang the anti-drugs song, Just Say No, in a bid to get them to perform the single again over 20 years on (that’s three-and-a-half minutes I’ll never get back). They clearly didn’t want to do it, and didn’t seem thrilled to even see one another again. They’ve moved on, for god’s sake.

The past is important to me, mind you, though you’ll probably have guessed that already if you’ve been an avid reader of these blogs. In addition to a half-decent memory, I’m lucky enough to still be in touch with a group of school friends I’ve known since the age of 13. Our lives have evolved, of course, but when we do see one another – around twice a year – it’s like we’ve never been apart; the same characteristics, wit and banter. Inevitably we catch up first – how’s the wife, how’s the FTSE index, do you want fries with that, etc – but it’s not long before random nostalgia kicks in.

“Oh, that reminds me of the sixth-form Winter Ball. Who was it who turned up pissed, was sick on the dancefloor and had to be carried home? Was it Andy Bell?”

“Er, no, that’s the singer from Erasure. You mean Andy Buswell?”

“That’s right. Hang on, was that the night you pulled his sister, Ju...”

“Don’t go there.”

“That’s what she said.”

There have been occasions I’ve bumped into others I used to know from school, and they’ve often mentioned how jealous they are that we’ve got such a unique bond. I used to think I was in the minority by embracing the past, but the success of Friends Reunited (well, initially) and Facebook clearly proves otherwise, especially when you hear stories of both sites wrecking marriages. I have a sort of a love-hate – or should that be like-it's complicated – relationship with Facebook. While I’m not obsessed like some are (i.e. the pricks who spend their whole days scoring a million points playing digital Kerplunk, or inviting you to groups that spread far-right hatred), it is a genuinely nice way to stalk catch up with old school/uni/work mates, and it occasionally opens up surprising new avenues.

14/20 is nothing to brag about. Image by Neatorama

To take a brief detour, you might be familiar with a half-decent US sitcom called My Name Is Earl, in which the main character makes a list of every misdemeanour from his past and sets out trying to repair each one. On Facebook I’ve found myself on both sides of the fence in that regard. I was shocked when a girl from my tutor group at upper school added me as a friend a few years back and sent me a message to apologise for being horrible to me during one school year. On the flipside I was also fortunate to come across a girl from my French and Italian class at the same school whom I’d once ignored during a Saturday afternoon in town due to being in a mood about something. She was actually really nice and I don’t think I ever got round to apologising. Sure enough, befriending her gave me the chance to do so.

Trouble is, there is always unfinished business and you can’t repair or relive everything. And finding some people is almost impossible if they are called Steve Jones or Emma Smith, or have married and taken their husband’s name. Hell, some people aren’t even on Facebook (the saddos).

One of my best mates recently joked that when a cab driver asks him where he wants to go, he replies “1995 please”. I laughed out loud, but there was a part of me crying inside. One of the downsides of catching up with others can be developing an unwanted obsession over your own status (no pun intended) in life. A virtual taxi ride to the past is sometimes more appealing than it should be. But hey, pipes up Facebook, you can do that via our groovy Timeline feature where we tell "your story". Thanks for that. I've always fancied having my life ghostwritten by a social media site. At least they haven't used the word 'journey'. Yet. I shouldn't complain too much, of course, as Facebook is the main source of advertising space for this blog.

Several weeks on and the two people I emailed have yet to reply. Not that I mind. In fact, after a week of intrigue I more or less totally forgot about it, to the point where it was only when I started proper work on this blog that it came back to me. Like many things in life, it seemed a good idea at the time. Just 8,875 emails to go. 

Euro 2012: A tribute to Spain's Phantom 9

Spain made double history at Euro 2012. Not only were Victor Del Bosque’s side the first to win three international tournaments in a row, they were also the first to win a competition with a surreal formation that largely omitted a striker. So to honour Spain’s ‘Phantom 9’, here are nine memories to take away from Poland and Ukraine.
The hosts show RESPECT

Before the tournament all the talk was geared towards crowd trouble, racism, monkey chants, the families of ethnic players being warned to stay away for their own safety, etc. Thankfully, just like the 2002 World Cup in Japan and Korea, where police had allegedly learned English commands to stave off any hooliganism, the scaremongering in Poland and Ukraine largely – but for a few isolated incidents – proved fruitless.

On the pitch it was a shame that both host nations fell at the first hurdle. As with Austria and Switzerland four years previously, it wasn’t a massive surprise given Poland and Ukraine’s moderate talent, but both will see it as an opportunity missed.

For long periods the Poles battered an ageing and largely poor Greece side that played for around an hour with only ten men in the opening game, to no avail; dug out another single point against Russia; then simply ran out of gas against the Czech Republic after wasting a string of first-half chances. Similarly, Ukraine failed to take advantage of the euphoria which followed the superb 2-1 win over Sweden. With games stretching to midnight local time, partying in the respective countries was well under way. Pity the champagne ran out early.

Fandemonium

The premature departure of Poland and Ukraine, whose fans lit up their respective stadia, was a blow to the atmosphere, though plenty stayed on. In general it was a colourful affair; fancy dress, painted faces, the obligatory cameras panning to the pretty ladyeeeeeeeeeeeeez in the crowd (and Angela Merkel).

Perhaps the most consistently weird sight was of fans biting their fingernails and quivering as they prayed for their team to score or hold on to their lead. But wait a minute, sudden joyous face! We’re on telly worldwide – wahey! Who gives a shit about the footie now?

TV ratings

Obviously the BBC won as usual, largely due to the public not having to suffer adverts ad nauseum, nor idiotic commentary from ITV’s Clive Tyldesley and Peter Drury and their ‘oh-so-clever’ pre-scripted tripe. “Pirlo? Peerless, more like”, “Klose moves ever-closer to Gerd Muller’s international scoring record" and the clincher from Drury, who was clearly salivating when Georgios Samaras bundled home a Greek equaliser against Germany: “AND GREECE HAVE WIPED THE DEBT!”

Not that the BBC were much cop in the commentary stakes either, mind you. The main trio of Guy Mowbray, Jonathan Pearce and Steve Wilson were fine, but their right-hand men were cringeworthy. Mark Lawrenson did his best to emulate the ITV twats with his dry, unfunny puns every other minute, while Mark Bright, despite his child-like enthusiasm, remained endlessly irritating. Nevertheless, at least the Beeb refrained from the endless “And the last team to beat Spain? Yep, that’s right, England.” Thanks for that, Clive.

Over to Gabby for the latest from the England camp

As much as I want England to win an international tournament in my lifetime, at least inevitable defeat at some stage means we can then concentrate fully on subsequent games rather than be subjected to the obligatory non-stories and squeaky-clean press conferences.

As for Ingerland on the pitch? Well, it was a decent effort. Most fans were happy for the team just to get out of the group stage given the average bunch Roy Hodgson had at his disposal, and taking an Italy side that reached the final, tearing Germany apart on the way, to penalties was no disgrace. Although we still had to suffer the obligatory ‘tactically and technically we’re way behind the best’ whinging. No shit, Sherlock. Then again, the last team to beat Spain? Yep, that’s right, England. Thanks for that, Clive.

Dumbo number five

In recent years I’ve started to feel a little, just a little, sorry for Cristiano Ronaldo at international level. He’s been accused of playing for himself rather than his country, but to be honest he’s largely lacked enough quality around him to make a definitive mark with Portugal, so it’s a tad harsh, in my opinion. At the last World Cup, for instance, he suffered from horribly negative team tactics and below-par teammates, both of which meant he was starved of the ball for long periods.

This Portugal side were much better, though, and Ronaldo was largely a hit – until the penalty shoot-out with Spain, that is. I know, I’m our team’s best penalty taker so I’ll go last. That way I’ll be able to grab the glory, my teammates will pile on me, and I’ll be the hero. But hang on, what if my teammates don’t score and I don’t get the chance? Too late. Oh shit.

Music to our ears

The damn Spanish. Not only do they not need strikers to win matches, they don’t even need words in their national anthem. In all seriousness, the Marcha Real really is a powerful and euphoric anthem, and the fact we didn’t need to hear their players sing it was a definite bonus. Contrast that with the players from other nations, whose singing was generally laughably bad, most notably Ronaldo.

Now don’t get me wrong, these players were at the tournament to play football, but considering how many of them clearly spent hours meticulously slicking their hair back in male model styleee, you'd be forgiven for thinking otherwise. Italy goalkeeper Gianluigi Buffon attaching hair clips as kick-off approached? Really? At least Petr Cech still wears his helmet for protection (snigger).

16 Nation Army

Along with Spain, the White Stripes were the tournament’s biggest winners. After every goal, the duo's rock anthem Seven Nation Army blasted from the speakers. Well, not their version (though that has hovered around the top end of the iTunes chart since) but a Euro equivalent, which every fan of the team that had just scored sang along to.

Great song, of course, but why the need for goal music? Yes, I know it’s becoming more and more popular around domestic leagues, but come on, this is an international tournament. Fans know how to celebrate a goal without having to be guided by bangin' choons. It will be upbeat organ music at corners next. And the obligatory countdown before kick-off? This isn’t America, you know. Er, rant over.

The Were-Spain-boring debate

Yes. Yes, they were. Accusations that we’re just bored of them winning doesn’t wash with me, I’m afraid. Manchester United have won countless Premier League trophies but although I’m not a fan, I’ve never felt bored watching them; they’ve always tried to play quick-tempo, expansive football. During the 1999 Treble-winning era, in particular, they were great value for couch-potato viewing as the likes of David Beckham and Paul Scholes emerged.

Spain were a similarly attack-minded side in 2008 and 2010, playing not too dissimilarly to modern-day Barcelona, but for 90 per cent of this tournament they played in third gear. Commentators masturbating over their ability to keep the ball didn’t help. I make that the 112th consecutive pass, Andy. They are so technically adept, aren’t they, Clive? Here’s Busquets, Xavi, Busquets again, across to Arbeloa, back to Busquets, he flicks it neatly to find Pique, Pique plays it back to Casillas, who effortlessly strokes the ball out to Jordi Alba. I mean, look Andy, Casillas plays like a modern-day sweeper, doesn’t he? Certainly does, Clive. Yawn.

Self-indulgence is all very well if you’re 3-0 up with 10 minutes left, but at 0-0 it’s plain arrogant. Had Croatia taken a couple of their late chances in the group encounter, Spain could have been on the next plane home. And then there was the Portugal semi, of course. Hi Cristiano!

Campeones

But despite the above, what do great champions do? They shove mockery back into their critics’ mouths and put on a scintillating display in the final, that’s what. Italy tried to live with Spain but simply couldn’t. The first goal was like watching the Russian ice hockey team at their most ruthless. And who needs strikers when you’ve got an adventurous left-back who can steam through a brick wall-like defence and finish like Messi? Barca fans will enjoy Alba.

Ultimately, strikerless Spain had the last laugh in more ways than one. Thanks to a late cameo, featuring a goal and an assist, Fernando Torres ended up waltzing off with the Golden Boot. That’s right, a striker. Takes the piss really, doesn’t it?

So, three major titles in four years, and with a side young enough to carry on winning several more. Who can stop them? Well, the last team to... Shut it, Clive.

Fish and chips

"Scuse me, boss, iz you fish and chips?"
"Er, sorry?
"Iz you fish and chips? It's what we call people who were born in the UK, innit."
"OK, er, yeah."

It was a Saturday evening and I was minding my own business sipping fruit juice in a local cafe whilst watching Barcelona hammer someone in La Liga. Suddenly I found myself randomly embroiled in a group discussion about identity, led by a young Somali.

The guy was around 21 but despite his ultra-urban London twang was actually born in Germany and had lived there until the age of 11. I was now surrounded by a group of four others - two British-born Pakistanis, a British-born Moroccan and her partner, whose roots were in Yemen. I know, it sounds like the start of a bad joke.

"Shit, so we only need a Chinese person and we've got the whole Unaarted Nations, innit?" he laughed. If I've ever had a more surreal conversation in my life I can't recall it.

"So, boss, where in the UK iz you from?"

...and it was all going so well. I get asked that a lot, and especially did during a recent spell working in Howden, East Yorkshire. The truth is I struggle for a definitive answer. In most cases I'm lazy and just say London; my life has been based there for more than a decade now and the Howden experience made me realise I do largely feel at home. Then again, a guy in Sheffield said "You dorrrn't sound like you're from Looondon," a while back and I guess it's true. I can't speak Ali G, nor am I capable of calling random people 'geezers' and 'muppets' without laughing.

My other default response is Northampton as I lived there for five years during my teens, obviously a hugely influential chunk of my life with GCSEs and A-Levels on the menu, and I still have family and friends there. I never picked up the accent, though, which is quite an achievement as it's surprisingly strong and rural for a decent-sized town in the middle of the country. In fact, it's downright weird; imagine someone pissed up doing a very bad impression of a West Country accent and you're not far off. Or to put it another way, if Petula Clark had been born in Northampton, her big hit would have been called 'Deyn Teyn'. Overhearing someone giving directions to go 'reynd the reyndabeyt' was quite amusing. I remember my first day at middle school and a classmate straight away realised I wasn't from reyned these parts (sorry, that's the last one). "You sound well posh," she said.

I've had that one quite a bit and it used to annoy me; even at that age I knew a 'well spoken' (that was what it was called back then - ugh!) accent didn't mean I was posh. And anyway, I wasn't. My background is a fairly modest one and [A-Level Sociology mode on] if I was using the Weberian scale, I'd be hovering somewhere just above lower middle class [A-Level Sociology mode off]. In Kingsthorpe, our area of Northampton, I lived in what I'd loosely describe as the middle tier; a three-bedroom terraced house close to what was and still is known as 'The Front', where all the supermarkets were. The more affluent people at school lived on estates closer to the outskirts, while the poorer groups lived in council houses dotted around.

Not that I'm whinging as I wasn't the only one; there was another guy in our year who was from Northampton but didn't speak with any kind of local accent either, so he got the same treatment.

Uni was a welcome distraction because a sample of the nation effectively came together and no-one really cared about backgrounds anymore. Instead we just spent Fresher's Week taking the piss out of each other and arguing about pronunciation and what things were called.

"What are you eating?"
"A crumpet."
"No, it's a pikelet."
"It's a crumpet, end of."
"It's called a bloody pikelet!"

Etc, etc. Back then the internet was still being powered by a hamster and sites like Wikipedia were well in the distance. The whole ‘posh’ tag thing did resurface afterwards - I failed to absorb any Nottingham twang either - but thankfully my sense of humour bypass worked and at times I've almost adopted it as a persona, particularly when I played Sunday League football in Watford.

In one game I was playing in my usual position of left-midfield but was switched to the right in the second half as the kid who had played there in the first half threw up at half-time and our management duo, a Glaswegian called Crawford and a west Londoner called Martin, who were on the touchline nearest him, wanted to keep an eye on him. I'm guessing we didn't have any subs that day. So I ran across to the opposite side again where our right-back Keith Hopping (known as 'Hoppy') now stood. I'd never played alongside him before.

"I'm playing in front of you this half, which guy am I picking up?" I asked.
"I didn't understand a word of that. What the fuck are you on about? Speak fucking English," he laughed.

Hoppy was the dressing room joker and wind-up merchant every team needs and I became his new banter target after that and almost a cult figure at the club (in a good way; I actually won ‘Sportsman of the Year’ one season, which only usually ever went to one of the veterans).

"I say, Kris, what a marvellous performance," Hoppy yelled in the changing room after one victory, much to everyone's amusement.
"Wonderful, old chap," I grinned. “You were shit, though.” More laughter.

I’d learned how to give it back by then, even if I was still a Sunday League swearing novice, something that Crawford and Martin particularly loved about me.

"For fuck’s sake!" I shouted on one occasion as I attempted to chip the ball into the path of one of our strikers, only to slice it for a throw-in. Rather than bollocking me they both laughed.

"Oi, watch ye language, Krassy," Crawford sniggered.

I should point out that I actually really like accents, and uncannily since I started writing this blog BBC Breakfast had a feature on ‘standard’ English and how some Essex primary schools were starting to introduce elocution lessons. The Essex accent isn’t the most attractive, admittedly, but really? Every accent has its own idiosyncracies – Yorkshire’s reluctance to use the word ‘the’ and Geordies’ endless struggle to find a simile (joke courtesy of Milton Jones; annoyingly I can't find a YouTube clip), for example – so who’s to decide what a definitive take on English is?

Mind you, women love a 'standard' English accent, don’t they? Particularly those from abroad ('Mmm, you sound soooooo English', etc) who have that cringeworthy romanticised view of Middle England that the likes of Four Weddings... attempt to portray. So yeah, I've played on it. Pronouncing the 't' in 'water' when singing 'Bridge Over Troubled Water' at karaoke nights has had its successes. And obviously there have been some generic Hugh Grant impressions - you know, random bumbling, the flicking of a centre parting and saying 'crikey' a lot. I've done fairly well out of it.

Not that I'd actually consider myself to be particularly English. Half of my family isn't for a start. I support England in sport but I'm not really fussed otherwise. What else is there, anyway? Tea and scones, grumbling about the weather and queueing? No wonder St George's Day is a non-event.

Technically you could argue I'm actually a northerner as I was born in Grimsby and lived there for the first 10 years of my life - so my spell in Howden was the closest I've been to returning to my 'roots'. It did bring back some nice memories, like being able to say good morning to people you don't know, or thanking the bus driver, neither of which happens in London, but other than that the whole culture of East Yorkshire seemed completely alien to me and I was happy to return down south.

Thing is, though, do I actually give a shit where I’m from? Of course not. It’s much more interesting that way. Actually, this topic always reminds me of early 90s music, which stopped being fun for a while due to chinstrokers in the industry deciding that pop music was dead and that everything had to be categorised in the wankiest way possible from then on. Suddenly we had acid house, acid jazz, grunge, europop, trip hop, Britpop, epileptic folk, etc. Rejecting bandwagons has always been one of my strengths.

Ultimately I don’t want my life to be pigeon-holed; it’s great dipping in and out of various crowds and cultures and just being an observer. That said, the ‘fish and chips’ tag is brilliant and I’m happy to settle for that. Mind you, with Indian food now the most popular UK delicacy, maybe the Somali community in Cricklewood need an update. In which case, I iz now chicken jalfrezi with pilau rice. Innit.

Photos by The Food Pornographer and Soccerprint Blog