Whose text is it anyway?

French philosopher Jacques Derrida. Photo: S-USIH

The 2015/16 academic year represented 20 years since I left home for uni. In the first year I barely did any work. I marked the anniversary by publishing nothing here. It wasn’t intentional, of course. Indeed, there were several ideas and I started two blogs but scrapped them both, the second at the last minute; I actually got to the stage where I was sourcing images. I won’t mention content in either because bits might appear in a future blog. Funnily enough I scrapped the first one because I thought it was too vulgar and childish, whereas the second one became overly serious and too close to home. 

I’ve mentioned before that to an extent uni was a waste of time; for a start I did the classic degree that meant nothing and was designed for people who didn’t have a direct career path in mind: Media Studies. There were tons of us in the same boat – over 200 – and with random people taking random modules with only 20 people per post-lecture seminar, getting to know people from my course properly was extremely difficult. In fact, there were one or two I bonded with but barely saw again until the graduation ball. 

This vagueness made nights out somewhat awkward at times if it meant I recognised someone but they didn’t recognise me or vice-versa, and to be honest the music was ridiculously repetitive at student nights. There were only so many occasions I could stomach ‘Alright’ by Supergrass before I wanted to hang myself. I wanted upbeat synthpop but the only places I could get that were gay bars (probably) and my luck with women was barely improving as it was.

That’s all for another day, though. Because actually when I look back at events from 2015/16 maybe my degree wasn’t quite as irrelevant as I thought. Even more shockingly, it took me back to what I thought was the most pointless module I ever studied: 'deconstruction', one of the many theories coined by French philosopher Jacques Derrida. The briefest and least complicated definition of deconstruction is that it is the reader, not the author, who writes the text. Because the text will always outlive the author, interpretation is the winner. There are other branches of this theory but let's stick with this one. Until recently I thought this was complete pretentious bollocks but actually over time I’ve realised that maybe the theory does hold some water. 

Take music. On the most basic level, ‘You’re gorgeous’ by Babybird has been generally adopted as a love song even though, according to songwriter Stephen Jones, the song is actually about the exploitation of female models. But that intention has been gobbled up by romantic comedy soundtracks, wedding DJs and drunken blokes trying to serenade the chicks at karaoke nights. Sure, Jones has made a few quid but there must be occasions when he thinks, come on guys, listen to the lyrics in finer detail. The same can be said for Bruce Springsteen's 'Born in the USA'; laughably used by some American politicians in presidential campaigns as a patriotic anthem despite the song being a Vietnam War rant.

Then again, it would be wrong for me to take the moral high ground. I consider Jona Lewie’s ‘Stop the cavalry’ to be the finest Christmas record ever made - except he doesn't consider the song to be a Christmas record. It contains classic seasonal production with sleigh bells with the focus being on Christmas but he insists he wrote the song as a war protest. Now obviously I should respect that because I didn't know that at the time but to me it will always be the best Christmas record ever made. End of. Then there are cases where songwriters can officially be mugged from the start, perhaps the most famous being ‘Ironic’ by Alanis Morrisette.

So what happened that alerted me to this topic, then? Illness. I'd been diagnosed with a brain tumour in 2008 following a sudden seizure but learning it was stable meant treatment focused solely on medication to control seizures, which were minor but happening on average five times a month. Despite the addition of various tablets, my seizures continued until one combination cracked the code for 18 months and I thought everything had been sorted. I was OK now, wasn't I? My neurologist had his feet on the desk, my biannual MRI scans showed no changes, and brain experiments revealed I was in the top 5% ability-wise of people suffering the disease.

But the seizures returned and increased. I noted when and where they were happening. My diaries changed and I began to blame myself. I wasn't drinking enough water, I was too tired, my sleeping patterns weren't good enough. My neurologist was slightly cynical but one MRI later and he looked a little flustered; a rush of blood had entered the area of the tumour and he and his colleagues wanted to make sure the tumour hadn't been misdiagnosed. Er, great.

One biopsy later and the feet were temporarily back on desks, to the point where I had to work hard to actually request another MRI. My seizures had increased to the point of occasionally two a day with slightly weird and even amusing slow motion characteristics: the sound of Alan Shearer ranting about his beloved Newcastle’s terrible defending mixed like an 80s hip hop DJ with a stereo effect.  

I didn't know what was going on but I knew things weren’t right. Even with a draining commute the hunger for buying a new home wasn’t as strong as it should have been; I needed more and more sleep; and considering my stamina levels should have been the highest, they were lagging behind my other half and any helper when it came to moving anything. Sure enough, the MRI revealed a significant growth in my tumour and the need for action. Suddenly I was receiving letters from the MacMillan Cancer Centre. At least the University College Hospital of Neurology and Neurosurgery had sounded cool. After being so open with everyone about any developments on the illness, suddenly I found myself hiding from the world.

And that was when I thought, who was that twat I studied at uni. I couldn't believe I was googling 'deconstruction'. To me my strange brain was in control but if I’d written down my thoughts in a stream of consciousness format in a two-minute burst and four people analysed what/how I was feeling, they probably would have come up with four different theories. The blanket of dead cells had been removed and the newly active ones had apparently also started threatening my speech patterns, according to my neurologist, who was stunned when I told him I was still working full time. A compliment, of course, but its backhandedness left a touch of humiliation hanging over.

The truth is I hadn’t a clue what I was supposed to do or how to feel about the news, hence why I hibernated for several months. I entered MacMillan – a hugely impressive new building – for the first time and was hit with the double-whammy of reality and guilt. I felt guilty because I was by far the ‘healthiest’ looking patient there and struggled to make eye contact with any of the sick ones but knew one day that could and maybe would be me. It was a horrible mixture of temporary relief and resigned heartbreak.

When you do speak to people on the outside, they either have anecdotes or reveal similar issues in their own lives. It depends on the tone of the response, of course, but there have been occasions when – if it’s the latter – I’ve felt competition for my own health. Perhaps justification for me lying low in the first place.

"Nice haircut, young man!" Photo: Duchy

Interpretation is ultimately healthy, of course, as it keeps your brain in gear; even if in my case paranoia has dominated recently. I went to Waitrose in Coulsdon a few weeks back to buy a ready meal for lunch having had a fairly radical haircut – from beyond ear length to number four back and sides and a hefty chop on top – and was minding my own business at the till when the woman serving me gave me a cheeky but somewhat startled smile and said, “I almost didn’t recognise you with that haircut. You look really smart!”.

“Aw, bless you!” I replied and walked out with a smug ‘still got it’ grin. However, by the time I reached the office I thought, ‘that’s actually a bit snobby and patronising, isn’t it’. For a start I’d barely even shopped there. Maybe she previously thought I was an Aldi imposter. So I’ve not been back since.

Perhaps I was wrong; maybe it was genuine kindness and you can't take that for granted. It's always a massive boost when somebody emails or sends a message based on something that reminded them of me, however innocuous, or involves me as part of an anecdote. Perhaps the most heartwarming moment in recent times was a Facebook message in late 2015 that flattered me to such a degree that I never questioned why. I had a couple of theories but I didn't want an answer. The Derrida effect.      

As well as work being an unwittingly safe haven due to it being a big company and therefore populated by others who have suffered similar traumas, my job as a sub editor has a Derrida-esque slant in that to a vague extent I can become a partial author if it’s truly terrible, especially if facts are obviously wrong and I don’t have to seek approval to correct them. I can’t claim the author’s expertise of course but I can take a paragraph and say to myself, that phrase is shit, that quote is in the wrong place, and you’ve already said x, y or z three paras above. Sub editors are sometimes mocked for being frustrated authors after all.               

Having had a flick through my previous blogs, Life inside an inbox is possibly the closest I’ll get to being Derrida. The shock of re-reading not the blog itself but the emails that inspired it revealed a different person. My own text will outlive me and the millions (snigger) who read it after I've gone will have a free hit as far as deconstructing it is concerned as even I don't know what I was thinking.

Obviously it would be wrong to question the theory's future as a whole, as deconstruction has many other strands, but text is already being diluted by the world of the emoji, which allows people to put feelings or opinions across in text in a direct manner with smileys, handclaps and hearts that is far less likely to be misinterpreted than with plain text, where irony and raised eyebrows can easily be missed in what looks like a seemingly innocent paragraph. Maybe people these days, even if only subconsciously, are scared of being misinterpreted. Perhaps technology will dumb down text completely.

But while Shakespeare remains on the A-list at schools and universities, along with leftfield works by the likes of Harold Pinter and Joseph Conrad; and a student walks out of a lecture muttering, 'what the fuck was that about?', like I did two decades ago, basic deconstruction should still have a part to play. Now where's the seminar?

Southern bastards

Every morning, the Jubilee Line, runs like

clockwork to London Bridge for 8.29.

A triple escalator climb later to the concourse

and it’s full as crowds form for information,

fuming of course at the chaos and non-communication

from the shit for brains world of Southern Trains.

Even the dot matrix is bemused, confused

as expected times roll forward and back.

Then gimmicks attack as some stations, destinations,

journeys that survive cancellation function

but are branded ‘fast’, leaving aghast those who

wait for New Cross Gate or Norwood Junction.

A glance at the platforms, some trains are there.

Pity about the staff, an ironic laugh, commuters swear.

Conductors are absent, ‘sick’ or late inbound.

Relays cause delays if only one team turns up or around.

So check online, stay in bed, work from home instead.

No train ticket to Gatwick, get a cab, pay per head.

Back into London from Reigate, Three Bridges, or Tonbridge is

the same, or worse, as services fall like dominos.

“It’ll get better!” is the ominous wail. But it’s a curse.

When weather isn’t to blame, statistics loom, logistics arguably fail.

Groans, gloom, inaudible advice. But one thing is nice;

beyond angry hustle and bustle I’ve realised this:  

I can shout, “You Southern bastards!”, with no prejudice.

World Cup 2014: Football shines in its spiritual home

Well, we were due a good one. The African adventure of 2010 was a total non-event but the much-hyped return to the spiritual home of football didn’t disappoint. Why? Because the players and coaches were fully aware of that Brazilian tag, whether a journalistic cliche or not, and they weren’t going to disappoint – a win-win for all us viewers. Positive, attacking football which saw the tally of goals overtake that of the entire South Africa World Cup by the beginning of the knockout stages. Hell, even teams playing five at the back stuck three up front. Every player knew this was his one chance to experience a tournament in Brazil and he wasn’t going to go hiding. Even entertaining the passionate locals was a prerequisite. They weren’t afraid to boo if anyone dared to pass backwards when a slick crossfield ball was on.

All of which meant that when it all ended at around 23.00 BST after 64 games, it was difficult not to get a bit teary-eyed, especially when treated to the BBC’s staggering closing montage. I didn’t watch all 64 games, of course. The early morning kick-offs were beyond me, and with the last round of games in each group kicking off simultaneously that took another eight games out of the equation.

Foolishly I tipped Brazil before the tournament, partly due to lazily assuming that the media’s general consensus – that the hosts were these days better known for their defensive solidity (snigger) than their attacking flair – was accurate; although in fairness it was also based on the final of the Confederations Cup last year, in which Brazil, with a pressing game of the highest quality, absolutely battered a Spain team previously unbeaten in 35 competitive games. The Spaniards have yet to fully recover, judging by their weary exit this time around.  

Home advantage in the World Cup would give Brazil an extra couple of gears, I thought. Well, technically I wasn’t actually that far off the mark. It was clear in the first game against Croatia that despite winning they weren’t actually very good, and it was great news as it meant we had a very open tournament on our hands. 

Indeed, going into the knockout stages after Spain crashed out, it was very, very difficult to predict a winner. By that stage I’d already written off Brazil and tipped France instead. Another failure on my part, although a fairly narrow one this time, beaten by a German set piece and Didier Deschamps’ reluctance to throw the proverbial kitchen sink at his opponents until ultimately too late.  

Well done to Germany, of course. Worthy winners, although without wanting to sound harsh they still have some way to go to be the side that many predict will dominate world football in the coming years. Would they have won it without Manuel Neuer, for example? Possibly the world’s best ever goalkeeper. Imperious, domineering, great reflexes and arguably the team’s best defender as well, which proved vital as apart from Phillipp Lahm, Germany’s defence was hugely vulnerable when faced with a pacey attack. And since I started writing this blog Lahm has retired from international football.  

Ghana gave the German defence the runaround in the group stages, Algeria could have exposed them in the round of 16, and Argentina had enough chances to do so in the final. Neuer deserved to win player of the tournament but goalkeepers are never considered and the award was always going to go to one of the elite. As Lionel Messi progressed further in the tournament than Cristiano Ronaldo, Neymar, Luis Suarez, and Wayne Rooney (only kidding), he was the pick despite being far from his best.

The Germans aren’t too shabby going forward, of course, and while they don’t yet look the invincible side Spain were recently they are far more entertaining to watch. And obviously we have to pay tribute to their performance in the semi-final in what was the most astonishing match in World Cup history. At 5-0 after 30 minutes I started laughing and willing the Germans to hit double figures; they probably should have done.

No offence to Brazil but they were very, very lucky to have progressed that far in the first place, and without Neymar they were clueless. His pace, flair and fear-factor allowed Brazil an out-ball to turn the opposition round and as a result squeeze higher up the pitch. His injury meant that could no longer happen and that Germany could press higher and expose Brazil for the shambles they were defensively. Marcelo is a typical Brazilian full-back; terrific going forward but a nervous wreck in his own half, while David Luiz, as ever, resembled a kid being forced to play at the back as a punishment for bad behaviour during PE. A hugely talented player with the ball at his feet, as his long-range passing and THAT free-kick against Colombia will testify, but still a laughably bad defender. £40 million, Paris St Germain? Good luck with that. Try him in midfield.

As such I wasn’t as surprised as some by the result. It reminded me of Manchester City’s 6-1 thrashing of Man Utd at Old Trafford a couple of seasons back. United had been terrible for weeks without being punished but City took care of that within the space of one game.

The tournament had many other pluses. Tactical variation was intriguing, with several teams opting for a back three, a somewhat surprising revival for a system that had been largely written off as the popularity of an athletic orthodox full-back, rather than a wing-back, providing a team’s width became more or less the norm. True, both finalists operated with a back four, but the Netherlands played with three and were only penalties away from the final. It will be fascinating to see whether Louis Van Gaal considers playing the same way at Man Utd.

In hindsight maybe Luis Felipe Scolari should have gone with a back three, allowing Marcelo and Maicon to play as wing-backs and as a result giving them more licence to bomb forward knowing there would be at least some protection behind them. Scolari succeeded with this tactic in 2002 when he scrapped a back four because Roberto Carlos and Cafu were too vulnerable and frankly too rubbish defensively to be played as conventional full-backs. 

Even the commentary was good (OK, let’s pretend Phil Neville’s effort never happened). Danny Murphy and Martin Keown were good additions to the BBC co-commentary team and it was nice to see another Match of the Day regular in Steve Wilson join Guy Mowbray and Jonathan Pearce as lead commentators. On ITV Sam Matterface’s relaxed and professional approach to commentating was a massive upgrade on the hugely irritating pre-scripted oh-so-clever drivel of Peter Drury, and Clarke Carlisle’s no-nonsense, Geoff Boycott-esque style as co-commentator complemented it well. We still had to put up with Clive Tyldesley’s smugness as ITV’s lead but rather him than Drury.  

Difficult to pick out any real negatives. Sure, as an Englishman it was disappointing to see England go out so early but expectations were rightly low and a competition never dies with England. Mind you, I did take up an offer to watch the Costa Rica game on a big screen at work when I should have been watching Suarez planning his dinner but I’m sure you can forgive me. I was the only one left as the second half began.

Colombia’s exit was perhaps the only other disappointment. Probably the most gifted team technically in the tournament, they shouldn’t have gone out to Brazil in the quarter-finals but paid the price for sloppy defending at a set piece, being the victims of David Luiz’s wonder goal, and not capitalising when the panic set in after Neymar’s injury in the second half. Then again, even though Colombia v Germany would have been a much better encounter, it wouldn’t have been the bigger event. We wouldn’t have witnessed the rousing Brazilian anthem being belted out by even the ball boys, the look of sheer terror on the faces of Brazilian defenders when it all went banana-shaped, the tears, the open mouths, the “Olé” chants from the locals during German possession in the second half. So we didn’t ultimately lose out. Poor Brazil. You were brilliant hosts, though. Obrigado.  

  

Me and a pizza

Seeing in 2014 with a Sloppy Giuseppe. 

I spent new year’s eve alone. Did I mind? Not really. True, I’d have preferred to be with my other half – she was still away on holiday; I'd had to return early – but in the circumstances I was just fine. Why? Because new year’s eve is and always has been just another day to me – the only difference being I want it over with as soon as possible. I’ve never enjoyed the relentless hype, the countdowns, the overly packed bars, the overall fakeness of it really. Even Jools Holland’s annual Hootenanny celebration is filmed at least a couple of months in advance.

Back when I was single – and I spent many new year’s eves as a single man – I thought it was probably just a case of me being bitter at seeing so many couples so joyously happy as the clock struck midnight, but that’s proved not to be the case and I’m actually pleasantly surprised by that. I assumed I would steer down Fickledom Avenue once I entered a relationship. But no, just watching the BBC and endless images of people flocking to the Thames is enough to stress me out.

It’s easy to overthink things, of course, but from where I stand you very rarely win on new year’s eve. If you’ve had a great year then brilliant, but there’s a whiff of sadness that it’s about to be archived. Obviously when the calendar ticks over it doesn’t mean everything good is about to go pear-shaped but it’s difficult not to indulge in at least a bit of emotional reflection. On the other side of the coin a bad year can provide the opportunity to say a triumphant good riddance, but that means having to suffer in the first place. 

That’s not to say there haven’t been enjoyable occasions. In fact, perplexingly the best one was actually the biggest – the millennium, an event I had absolutely dreaded months beforehand. Thankfully plans were heroically left unmade. With little time to spare me and my best friends from school in Northampton decided we didn’t want to pay astronomical prices for some sweaty party in the town centre, and that we’d have a private house party instead. Preston may not be the most glamorous of places (not that Northampton is either) but one of the guys was working there at the time and we all trekked up north for a gathering at his place. Just five of us, a shed load of drinks and the best homemade curry ever.

Was I glad to see the back of 2013? Pretty much. It wasn’t all bad – there were two short but very sweet holidays abroad and I saw my beloved Southend United play (albeit lose) at Wembley – but it was dominated by health issues. Before June, bi-annual appointments to analyse my strange brain following a scan had traditionally been relaxed affairs, to the point where my neurologist would all but put his feet on the desk and chat to my other half instead. But following a more in-depth scan, I was told in the most it's-probably-ok-but... of terms that it was possible there had been a potential misdiagnosis and I would have to go under the knife for a biopsy three months later.

Fears of a serious problem were thankfully eased in the end but while I was stuck in a hospital bed for three days having blood pressure, temperature and oxygen levels taken every hour, I couldn’t help but think back to times when I felt fit, on top of my game and basically at my peak. For those 72 hours I was anything but that person.

Happy halloween, ladies and gentlemen.

Do I begrudge other people enjoying new year’s eve? Of course not. I like Christmas, for example, but know many people who don’t, and with good reason. Mind you, I essentially skipped Christmas this year by spending it in a country that doesn’t celebrate it and found it enjoyably surreal, particularly being able to indulge in spectacular sunshine and spend Christmas morning swimming 40 lengths in a hotel pool before being caked in mud in a spa.

In an ideal world I would have stayed and experienced seeing in a new year in a different country as well. Maybe next year. This time it was just me and a pizza.

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...