The nationality transfer window

Adnan Januzaj: he's waffly versatile, says the English FA.

As Adnan Januzaj banged home his second and decisive goal for Manchester United against Sunderland, my first thought was blimey, Belgium are going to have one hell of a side soon. Vincent Kompany, Eden Hazard, Marouane Fellaini, Christian Benteke, Romelu Lukaku and now this lad. The country has just qualified for its first major tournament since the 2002 World Cup and may just surprise a few people in Brazil.

I then browsed the BBC football website and nearly burst out laughing when I read the English FA were looking into the possibility of Januzaj playing for England in 2018 when he would technically qualify on residency grounds. Er, he'll play for Belgium, surely, I thought. Well, the Belgian FA has so far tried and failed. Despite being picked for several squads, Januzaj has so far rejected the call-ups. Admittedly he has further options – Albania, Serbia and Turkey through various family ties – but he was born in Belgium and lived there until the age of 16; wouldn't he consider the country his home?

My general criteria for a player representing a country in international sport has traditionally been either birth in that country or, if not, having at least one parent born there. Of course I've since realised that nowadays that's too rigid. People around the world are constantly moving, whether it's fleeing from war-torn nations or due to the ever-increasing globalisation of business. Passports may exist but does nationality – in the world of sport, at least – definitively exist anymore?

A sizeable chunk of England's cricket team were born in South Africa; for several years Japan had Brazilian-born footballer Alessandro Santos (or Alex), who moved to the country at 16, at the heart of their defence; and even Patrick Vieira was born in Senegal and didn't move to France until eight. When you consider how many national teams are managed by foreigners these days, there's an increasing sense of international football becoming a job rather than an honour.

Jack Wilshere’s ill-timed “England for the English” comment was on the face of it so naïve and outdated it was almost as though Terry ‘Bulldog spirit’ Butcher had hacked into his brain. But then again, does he inadvertently have a point? The English FA is essentially poaching Januzaj for its own gain with no intention of actually making him feel welcome. How would it respond if Januzaj verbally pledged his allegiance to England tomorrow but failed to fulfil his potential, was a one-season wonder at Old Trafford and found himself slugging it out at a mid-table Premier League club as 2018 approached? Thanks but no thanks, no doubt.

Dear Adnan, eat it or beat it. Lots of love, Jack xxx

Before Joe Hart came along, the England team lacked a true number one goalkeeper. Arsenal’s Spanish keeper Manuel Almunia, having lived in England for five years, was shortly to become eligible and the FA showed interest, as did Almunia. Not long afterwards, Almunia was released by Arsenal and now plays Championship football for Watford. It’s all gone quiet, although in fairness he is now 36.

You could argue, of course, that the dilution of traditional notions of nationality within sport began many years ago. For example, Jack Charlton managed the Republic of Ireland and many of his successful teams were built around English-born players who, yes, had Irish connections – usually grandparents – but without wanting to sound harsh would probably have chosen England over Ireland if they could. But they were given the opportunity to play international football and they took it. Who could blame them?      

I have talked about my identity in previous blogs so I won’t go too far down that route but let’s say the romantic story of Tahiti reaching the Confederations Cup had happened a decade ago. Say I had moved there after uni to teach English for a year but ended up staying. Say I played football to a standard no better than non-league in England but well enough to play in Tahiti’s top division. Say the locals adopted me as one of their own and the country’s FA offered me the chance to play for their national team five years afterwards. Would I have said yes? Almost certainly. 

True, I’d have felt out of place skin and eye colour-wise, and I’d have probably closed my eyes during the national anthem – especially if by some miracle England had qualified for the Confederations Cup as well – but after kick-off I would be truly one of them for 90 minutes. Obviously I’d have had to score a freak goal San Marino 1993 style just so Clive Tyldesley could masturbate over his match notes and say: “You may not have heard of the goalscorer but guess where he was born – that’s right, England.” After the game, though, as proud as I would have been to wear the shirt of the country I lived in, ultimately I would still always be an Englishman in exile who got a chance to soak up international football.

Tahiti: the nation Brazilian football fans adopted in 2013.

Ultimately it’s about perception; how you view yourself and the extent to which you care about how others see you. London is a fascinating place for that. Take two Moroccans I've met, for example. One was born there and I was surprised that despite being a football fan he was not aware of the Africa Cup of Nations. “What’s this shit?” he asked, pointing to the TV in the café showing one of the games. “It’s the Africa Cup of Nations,” I replied. “Surely you’re following it? Morocco are there.” “I couldn’t give a shit about Morocco,” he said. “What has Morocco done for me? All the opportunities I’ve been given have been over here.” Fair enough.

The other person was born in the UK but his heart was very much in Morocco, where much of his extended family still lived. He continually donned the country’s flag in one way or another, whether on a t-shirt or as a Facebook profile pic. He may have held a British passport but how significant did that feel to him? Being a devout Muslim in a country where Islam has become increasingly demonised in the wake of the September 11^th bombings, could you blame him for defiantly embracing his roots?

I’ve also met people born in other countries who consider the UK their home and would gladly disown their place of birth altogether if they had the ability to transfer any remaining family members or friends to England; but equally others who would go the other way. Now, I’ve got to admit that if I asked someone with a foreign accent where they were from and they replied “Britain” I’d raise an eyebrow, but in an ever-changing country and world if people consider themselves British, regardless of their origins, that should be good enough.

Getting to grips with nationality. Women are also available.

There is speculation Januzaj may opt for Albania – his parents’ place of birth – as his chosen footballing nation. On paper it would be a surprising choice considering how well Belgium are progressing, and you could argue a snub to the country that raised him and kickstarted his footballing career. But none of us know him. If his heart lies outside of Belgium and in the land of his family, who are we to judge?     

      

End it like Beckham

Becks gets the bumps PSG-style after his final appearance.

I've read some crap in my time, but Chris Waddle's recent comment that David Beckham, following his retirement, wouldn't make it into the top 1,000 players in Premier League history, would, er, probably make it into the top 1,000 most stupid observations of all time. You'd expect it from a cretin like Terry Butcher, who saw his battle in a blood-stained shirt against Sweden all those years ago − as admirable as that was − as being the sole definition of English bulldog spirit, and how dare a weakling like Beckham take the captain's armband, but not from the usually eloquent Waddle.

It was particularly bizarre considering both he and Beckham were of a very similar but rare breed - wide men with technical ability well above that of the dogged English norm (hi Mr Butcher!), scorers of breathtaking goals, wowers of crowds on the continent, spectacular penalty missers etc. English fans have a tendency to ostracise naturally gifted players and focus on weaknesses rather than strengths − Matt Le Tissier was a lazy, luxury player, Glenn Hoddle too lightweight, etc. Beckham's weak link was his lack of pace but it hardly mattered considering his exceptional ability to cross a ball.

Chris Waddle's finest moment. Maybe.

Waddle is a pundit who has long bemoaned − and rightly so − the national team's inability to keep possession, yet here in front of him was a player who has always been able to do precisely that. Beckham was in the England team that outplayed Italy in Rome back in 1997 − seen by many as one of England's best ever away performances (even though the scoreline was 0-0) − and the fact he was able to defend responsibly in a right wing-back role but also creep intelligently into spaces in the attacking third to link up cohesively with the established Paul Gascoigne and Paul Ince in midfield demonstrated his effectiveness as both an individual and team player. You can only assume Beckham must have snapped the one remaining copy of Waddle's Diamond Lights single in half − and his relationship with Hoddle was somewhat frosty as well, come to think of it − to earn such an insult.

The point is, forget the brand, his celebrity wife, global superstardom, Beckham was not simply off-the-scale hyperbole, he was a bloody good footballer. In fact, other than Cristiano Ronaldo and Andrei Kanchelskis − his successor and predecessor respectively, funnily enough − it's difficult to think of a better player in his preferred right-midfield position since the beginning of the Premier League. And even then, Beckham played enough games in the centre to hypothetically accommodate either of the other two. When Manchester United were briefly dethroaned by Arsenal in the top-flight pecking order, the Gunners' right hand side consisted of the likes of Freddie Ljungberg and Ray Parlour. Jose Mourinho's Chelsea, the only other team to challenge and better United in the mid-2000s, used their full-backs to provide the width going forward. You get the picture.

This may shock some who know me well but David Beckham is genuinely a hero of mine. In a football world dominated by self-centred, stroppy ego-maniacs, Beckham, for such a massively high-profile figure, largely conducted himself with admirable dignity and even modesty throughout his career. Rather than milking his sensational goal from the halfway line against Wimbledon for Man U, in subsequent interviews he chose to say what a nice bloke then Wimbledon goalkeeper Neil Sullivan was when the pair met in the bar after the game.

Neil Sullivan kickstarted Beckham's international career.

To be honest I've always had a defend-the-indefensible mentality football-wise − I found the battering of Emile Heskey very harsh, for example − but Beckham's strength of character on the field has been nothing short of miraculous. The continual abuse he received around the country following his sending off against Argentina in the 1998 World Cup was shocking and embarrassing − and I say that as someone who has barely ever supported Man U other than in the Champions League (and even then I pick and choose games). Supporting a team in the lower leagues has always been something of a safe haven from that point of view; at least there crowd abuse tends to be on the wittier side.

Post-1998, Beckham could easily have gone off the rails, quit football altogether or at the very least given his England career a double-fingered salute. The fact he dusted himself down, largely fended off the insults and strove to win his abusers round instead says it all. You have to give Alex Ferguson a lot of credit for that, of course; say what you like about him but Fergie has always looked after his players impeccably.                     

England-wise, has there ever been a gutsier individual performance than Beckham's against Greece in 2001? Admittedly the Greeks were a rapidly improving team that became European Champions three years later, but England looked weary-legged from kick-off, and Beckham clearly knew it. He continually popped up left, right and centre to drag his team through a torrid match, and that free-kick was more than just the icing on the cake; it was the moment he hurled eggs at the faces of all those who had previously hurled darts at him on a board devised by The Sun. People alongside me in the pub were bawling their eyes out while I bounced around like a demented golden labrador staring a bowl of Pedigree Chum in the face on the kitchen table (other brands are available). And, of course, it all came full circle a year later when Beckham smashed home a match-winning penalty against Argentina in the World Cup to land tears on the opposition players who had nearly destroyed him four years earlier.

Suddenly the doubters realised just how proud Beckham was to be an Englishman and how much he loved the game. During a period when England players were starting to pull out of midweek friendlies with 'knocks', only to start the next domestic game three days later, or retire in their 20s, Beckham wanted to play in every game. Even when he relinquished the captaincy after the 2006 World Cup, he chose not to retire and didn't throw his toys out of the pram when Steve McLaren dropped him from the squad altogether. Beckham bounced back again, of course, when the Euro 2008 qualification campaign went disastrously wrong, but it was too late by then.

Injury ruled Beckham out of the 2010 World Cup but there he was once more, sat in the England dugout in an unofficial managerial role to spur the team on. He was mocked by many for doing so but I don't think I was the only one who wished he'd been fit enough to take on a German team who barely had to break sweat to knock England out.   

Not that Beckham was a complete saint, of course. He remains the only England player to have been sent off twice and only captain to have been red-carded at all. His admittance he deliberately received a yellow card against Wales in a World Cup qualifier to earn him a one-match ban for a game he knew he would miss through injury, was as naive as his challenge on Diego Simeone in 1998, and he was lucky to escape punishment.           

Fair enough, the level of media coverage allocated to Beckham over the years has been absurd at times, but accusations of style over substance are just plain wrong. You don't play (and score) in three World Cups, captain your country, win 115 international caps under five different managers (seven if you include Howard Wilkinson and Peter Taylor); or win trophies for four different clubs in four different leagues, without being a bit good. He may not have been a genius in the mould of Pele, Maradona, Best, Baggio, or even a fully fit Gascoigne, but from England's so-called 'golden generation', there has not been a better manipulator of a football, whether it be a killer set-piece, a fizzing outswinging cross, a mesmerising crossfield pass or a 35-yard belter, than David Beckham.

Any youngster wanting to learn how to reach and stay at the highest level while overcoming major battles with managers, players, media and fans along the way; and be the perfect ambassador for his or her country on a number of levels, could do worse than look up to this man.


            

Pragmatic for the people

Our Freeview box died recently. It wasn’t a massive surprise as it had become increasingly temperamental, freezing randomly and not recording programmes it was supposed to – and sometimes even the ones it did record contained bugs that wiped out a chunk of our memory. Then, like the blue screen of death on a PC, the word FAIL appeared as we tried to restart the box one Saturday morning after it had crashed again.

So, a click on the interweb beckoned. Finding a replacement in theory was easy but there was the added complication of needing a new TV as well. The one we had – a simple 14-inch portable – was still in great working order, but its age meant it was no longer compatible with modern set-ups. Right, prices. Lowest to highest, oops wrong way round. Hang on, what the… £2,159? People are prepared to splash out as much as £2,159 for a new telly? Really?

Yeah, but like it has, like, you know, interactive features and shit; you can feel Dermot O’Leary hugging you while he man-handles the contestants on the X-Factor, Luis Suarez actually dives into your living room when Premier League defenders breathe on him while John Terry celebrates making your dinner, Jon Snow introduces you personally before he reads the news headlines, and you can tell Alan Sugar he’s fired and everyfink.

Ah, so that was what I was missing out on? Fair enough. Except, no. The four-line paragraph advertising the product simply masturbated over how great the TV looked, how big it was, and how great it sounded. Admittedly that’s probably not too dissimilar to my profile description during my internet dating days but still. Its features were pretty generic – Now and Next programme guide, Autoscan channels, Digital Text, Subtitles, Audio Description, etc. Er, yes? Otherwise it was all sockets, sockets, sockets. “Includes 0 pairs of 3D glasses”  just about summed it up. You mugs.

Well, that was my initial reaction. Thing is, was it right? Was I taking the moral high ground? Was I just jealous? I mean, I’d love to have two grand as spare change. Was I simply getting old and overly pragmatic for the sake of it? After around 30 seconds I reassured myself that I had merely entered my pet hate world of style over substance, and the TV situation epitomised it. Sure, it would be great for hosting parties, film nights, big footie games, but unless your obligatory several hundred friends on Facebook were genuinely people you partied with every weekend then my portable telly wins out as far as I’m concerned. It had been mine for about seven years, surviving four house/flat moves and outliving two other Freeview boxes and a DVD player. It was already second-hand when I first bought it at a repair shop in Watford, for around £50. And if the analogue signal still existed we’d probably still be able to use it elsewhere.

My philosophy has always been similar with cars. Yes, I’m sure some laydeeeeeeez would rather be picked up by a flash geezer in a BMW Turbo Orgasm than a gimp in a 1994 Renault Clio, but as far as I’m concerned cars exist to get people from A to B and for absolutely no other reason. The Clio was about eight years old when I first got it, and though I could have upgraded to a newer car after putting a few thousand miles on its clock, I didn’t because it was incredibly reliable and barely touched the £100 mark in repair costs between then and its sad death in late 2007 courtesy of some local chavs who clearly should’ve gone to Specsavers. Obviously company cars need to be upgraded regularly, but it baffles me how so many people want a new car every year for the sake of it. People wouldn’t do that with mobile phones, would they? Oh wait.

How to actually talk to someone. Modmyi

Now don’t worry, I’m not going to slate the iPhone. Like many people I have one – albeit one I inherited rather than bought – and I do really like it. Having email and internet access on the go is great, and some of the Apps are genuinely very useful, especially the travel or location-based ones. Then again, a friend of mine who recently bought one took me to one side and said “Sorry for being thick but how do you make a call on this? I actually want to speak to someone.” I didn’t laugh. The iPhone has its strengths but its design isn’t one of them. The phone icon should be central and ideally the first thing you see when visiting the main screen, and not relegated to the bottom left hand corner. It is primarily a phone after all. Even when you tap the icon it doesn’t necessarily default to the keypad.

Thing is, I’m fine with most modern-day innovations as long as they  make life easier. Online banking, for example – great. Online airport check-in – great. Self-service supermarket checkouts – great. For every one of those, however, you have adverts claiming that women can have happy periods, or that wiping your arse with certain brands of toilet paper cleanses the soul.  

Going to the toilet should be the most functional thing in the world, though you’d never know it visiting a modern-day public loo. Not that I’m suggesting public toilets should revert to being traditional, er, shitholes, but if you need to go you need to go (even if it means paying – at the time of writing – 30p in several London train stations), and when I need to go I just want to get in and get out as soon as possible without being humiliated bamboozled by oh-so-clever machinery in between.

Freshening up has never felt so needlessly complex. Euromodul  

Right, the business is done, feel much better. So where do I wash my hands? There’s no soap. Actually, come to think of it, there’s no sink either. Under here, boss. Er, sorry? Under here, innit. Er, you’re a mirror aren’t you? Nah, one of them all-in-one machines. Put your hands under here, boss. No, left a bit. OK, nothing’s happening. Nah, put them back, you have to give it five seconds to activate. Ah, right. Hang on, you’re having a laugh, that’s not enough soap for a fingernail. That’s ‘cos you moved out too soon. Put them back in. What, again? Ah right, that’s better. So where do I wash my hands? Over here. Where? To your right, boss. OK. Come on, surely I deserve more than a dribble? You’re not far enough in. Story of my life, mate. Ah, good. So what about the dryer? Over here. Where? To your right. Nothing’s happening. Hold your hands in for five seconds. Er, still nothing. Ah, sorry boss, I forgot, it stopped working yesterday. See you again?

Basically, anything that requires visual instructions to undertake the process of basic and generic hygiene clearly fails to fulfil its purpose, and sensor-activated machinery in general tends to be useless from my experience. The worst shower I’ve ever had was after a game of five-a-side at a sports complex which used sensored shower heads. They wouldn’t turn on unless you were right underneath, and switched off as soon as you moved a muscle, say, for the privilege of using shampoo and/or shower gel. And because they turned on and off at will, the temperature of the water shifted violently from oven to freezer and back in the space of seconds. Never again. So apologies to anyone who sat next to me on the Jubilee Line every Thursday for several months afterwards.

But hang on a minute, I don’t hear you cry, surely the whole public toilet thing is worth it if it means your bladder feels comfortable again afterwards? Yes and no. Have you ever needed to go on a train journey these days, particularly with Virgin? I once did, so I made my way through a few carriages to find the toilet, which on first glance looked like a closed kiosk. I spotted the ‘Open’ button so tentatively pressed it and the doors slid open gradually in semi-circular fashion like an 80s game show where the star prize is revealed via the legs of Bruce Forsyth’s latest bit on the side. I was already nervous. Luckily I saw the ‘Close’ button on the inside fairly quickly and the same excruciating wait ensued as the door shut. Now call me thick but I assumed that if you pressed the ‘Close’ button whilst inside the sensor would automatically activate a lock on the outside. Apart from George Michael, who would not want that to happen? But no.

To speak to a customer service advisor, press #  4c Design

True, while I started peeing I did notice a ‘Lock’ button, but it was flashing and, again, wasn’t it just activating privacy from the outside? Apparently not. Suddenly the 80s game show door started its excruciating slide open again and I panicked as quietly as I could. Thankfully I’d just about finished so had the split-second I needed to button up my flies before the door revealed a guy in his 20s; we both shrugged it off. Well I technically couldn’t as I still had to wash my hands. This time I did manage to lock the door so I could relax a bit. So, where’s the sink then. Under here, boss.  

Now, I’m well aware that these toilets, which are nice and spacious, are designed with the disabled in mind, so no problem there. It’s just a shame space and sense aren’t compatible in this case. Obviously at the time I questioned whether it was just me, but on one recent journey two people within the space of minutes failed to fully grasp it either; both needed two attempts just to get the door open and shut. 

So there you go, needless tension and confusion surrounding everyday basic functions. Obviously if you're unlucky enough to need a 'next time' then the process becomes less confusing more straightforward, but you still have to rely on a machine to choose how much soap, water and heat you're allowed. Next time I want to do it the bog-standard way. We all need to move with the times, but life, for the most part, remains simple. It's people who make it complicated. Now where's that telly... 

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

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