40 memorable songs part two, 1991-1997: By the fountain down the road

Welcome to part two of a three-part blog listing 40 memorable songs to mark my 40th birthday in November 2016. This part covers my teenage years and the world of university.

So, into the 90s and a real topsy-turvy decade, both for myself and for music. I made some great friends but there were occasions where I didn’t fit in; school was a nightmare at times and even with football as a means of escapism – one season I banged in 27 goals for Bective Wanderers – I still felt a bit of an outsider, especially when I was picked for the Northampton league’s representative squad. I was treated with suspicion by cliquey players and borderline bullied. University was a much-needed intervention, even if some of it was a waste of time.

As for music, there was a hell of a lot of great stuff around but gradually the record industry started to take it too seriously: firstly by announcing that pop music was dead and we now had to categorise everything – rock, hip hop, Europop, Britpop, trip hop, progressive house, paraplegic trance, etc, as well as girl power – and secondly, later in the decade, manipulating the charts by selling new releases at low prices and raising them the following week. As such, every artist’s release date was a calculated process and almost every number one was a new entry, many staying at the top for only one week. Basically the industry sucked the fun out of the charts and totally devalued the chart-topper.

14 KLF – 3am Eternal (1991) 

With this following Manchild and Street Tuff at numbers 12 and 13, I’ve just noticed there’s a rap theme developing, which is odd as I don’t think I’ve ever actively explored hip hop and have had no desire to. Not that this is an out-and-out rap record anyway; it was the lush melodies and synth bleeps that ultimately drew me in. The ‘Ancients of Mu Mu’ were geniuses. They created songs with bonkers lyrics worthy of a novelty act but crafted with the sort of killer hooks associated with the best artists around.

This record coincided with the start of the Gulf War when naughty Saddam invaded Kuwait. Because it jeopardised the oil industry in the West, the UK and US decided to join in (er, allegedly). If you think political correctness is a relatively new phenomenon, you’re wrong. Back during that period, music was censored and 3am eternal’s intro – a round of gunfire – had to be removed from the radio edit.

15 Massive (Attack) – Unfinished sympathy (1991)

Poor Massive Attack. The Bristolians also fell victim to music censorship and were forced to remove ‘Attack’ from their name during the war period. This is an amazing record with its lush strings and addictive drum patterns. Another favourite lyric of mine too: “The curiousness of your potential kiss has got my mind and body aching.”

In a term of Drama at school we constructed a play in which two gangs tried to negotiate a deal after a series of violent attacks. “It’s a snapshot of the Gulf War, isn’t it?” I casually mentioned. “I think you realised that a while ago, Kristian,” was the response. I was flattered.

16 Billy Bragg – Sexuality (1991)

“Just because you’re gay, I won’t turn you away.” Er, good. In all seriousness, I’ve always wondered what homosexuals thought of this song at the time; even back then I was sniggering at the simplicity and almost patronising naivety of it all. And for every great line, such as “safe sex doesn’t mean no sex it just means use your imagination”, you get, “I look like Robert de Niro, I drive a Mitsubishi Zero”. Was he watching Whose Line Is It Anyway at the time? Musically, though, it’s an amazing record with Kirsty MacColl on backing vocals, ex-Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr strumming, and Phill Jupitus directing a laugh-a-minute video.

17 Electronic – Idiot country (1991)

The opening track on my favourite ever album. I could pretend to be smug and mention the link to Sexuality because Johnny Marr is the one of the duo in Electronic; the other being Bernard Sumner from New Order. But I’ll admit it: I stumbled across the link at the last minute as I didn’t realise Marr was involved on Sexuality. I should have done as I remember at the time thinking that the jangly guitar on Idiot country sounded identical to the one providing the intro on the former. With Sumner yelling the rock-driven verses then singing the chorus over waves of synth strings, it’s the perfect template of the album. Two guys in a studio layering synths and guitars, playing around with basslines and melodies, dragging them out but never for too long because they continually changed direction. 

My best mate and I played the album to death and had a juvenile tradition of looping the line “And if I drove a faster car, I’d drive it bloody well” on track four, The patience of a saint, sung rather oddly by occasional collaborator, Neil Tennant of Pet Shop Boys. I still listen to the album now and then during painful commutes via Southern Rail. I don’t think I’ve ever heard an album with a more triumphant intro and outro than this one.

As you’ll have noticed, 1991 was quite a fruitful year musically for me although it will also be remembered for a 16-week stint at number one for Bryan Adams. I mention it because it was quite surreal; it covered the summer holiday period at school. When you leave one school year behind you expect to return to the next with an all-new chart to discuss. Instead we returned bemused by the fact that Adams was still at the top and Right Said Fred were still at number 2 for an eighth week with I’m too sexy.

18 Haddaway – What is love? (1993)

Europop began to dominate the charts but curiously we in the UK were always the last to hear it – unless you had MTV. Back then MTV was solely a European feed for UK viewers and it was fantastic; VJs with phat Euro accents playing the latest hits, several of which would not be getting a UK release for a few months. All that she wants by Ace of Base was one big example, and this was another. A Finnish visitor said, “I’m sick of this bloody song”. It had only just charted here. Top tune and the album wasn't bad either.

19 Lightning Seeds – Lucky you (1994)

Very underrated act who probably suffered from being too poppy in a world that was about to become invaded by wanky chinstrokers. True, there was Three lions, and the fantastic The life of Riley has made a comeback on Match of the Day’s Goal of the Month, but Ian Broudie’s music as a whole has deserved more attention. The album Jollification was packed with potential hit singles, so much so that a stomper with Alison Moyet, My best day, and bouncy singalong Feeling lazy, which would have gone top 5 for Madness had it been released in the 80s, weren’t released. Shockingly, Lucky you only made number 43 initially but was re-released a year later after the album gained some momentum. It then charted at a more respectable 15.

20 Dubstar – Stars (1995)

I remember dozing in bed as all good teenagers do when they should be revising for A-Levels. Then on the radio came a breakbeat intro into a sea of mournful synth strings. I was now wide awake because I instantly knew I was listening to something special. A bit like Unfinished sympathy but without the grooves. Then came Sarah Blackwood’s vocals; the sort – a bit like Tracy Thorn from Everything But The Girl – that divide people. Are they dull and monotonous, or darkly romantic and moving? You can probably guess which side I’m on.

Amazingly the follow-up single, Not so manic now, was also outstanding and both would be in my top 10 singles of the 1990s if I was pinned down and forced to come up with something definitive. Which I probably wouldn’t. Stars, like Lucky you above, had two bites of the cherry, scraping the top 40 in 1994 first time around and then, after Not so manic now was strategically released in the first week of 1995 to make number 17, charted at 15 following the album Disgraceful’s release.

The great thing about writing blogs like this is it provides the perfect excuse to reunite with records such as these. I listened to Disgraceful on a commute home recently and it still sounds fantastic.

21 Saint Etienne – He’s on the phone (1995)

Some lazy journalists compared Dubstar with Saint Etienne simply because they had a female singer (and called Sarah too, in this case Cracknell) and a largely electronic sound and male songwriters. But they were hugely different. Saint Etienne were mostly considered a bubblegum pop act and if this single was bubblegum it would be the Everlasting Gobstopper. It’s one of the finest singles I’ve ever bought because not only does it contain this track, the three b-sides are magnificent chilled-out ballads. So when I went out clubbing in the first year of uni I used to listen to He’s on the phone beforehand and then the other three as I wound down afterwards. Unless I’d pulled of course. Which wasn’t often. The single is perhaps a snapshot of their little-known diversity and Smash the system, a double CD collection of singles, album tracks and b-sides is up there with the best compilations I’ve heard. Hugely underrated.

22 Pulp – Disco 2000 (1995)

So yes I was now at uni, Nottingham Trent, and immersed in the world of Britpop. As a genre it was OK, nothing more, and although there were a lot of great songs out there – The trucks don't work – by The Verve, for example, I found it disturbing to see how many people were banging on about the genre and how it was ‘real music’, etc. The continual masturbation over Oasis was even worse. What’s the story… was a good album but there was a period when it was almost as though music history had been deleted and the only two records left were Wonderwall and Don’t look back in anger.

Pulp, however, were a band from that era that did interest me. Different Class was an amazing album full of quirky songs that had a Britpop sound but with extra personality. Jarvis Cocker fascinated me; there were times when I thought he was simply a satirical character but others when he was a genius, taking a step back and thinking, this is all a load of bollocks, isn’t it? Famously, of course, he invaded the stage at the Brit Awards when Michael Jackson pretended to be Jesus during a performance of Earth song and more or less farted in his face.

Disco 2000 hit the spot because it worked on so many levels. It was a rousing pop anthem but one full of sadness, yet the narrative's wit kept the song upbeat enough for the chorus and its hope for reunion to feel special. Not many artists are capable of achieving that balance in such a moving manner. And of course, the older you get, the more poignant the lyrics become.

23 Crescendo – Are you out there? (1995)

From the sublime to the spooky. Just before we broke for Christmas I heard this, a weird dance record – thumping beats, strings and a choir – played in the early hours on Radio 1. I really liked it so I bought it but I had no idea what was in store. The single version was good, the extended mix amazing and there was a third version lasting 20 minutes that was mind-blowing; I realised the single version had basically chopped about three-quarters of a masterpiece. There was an intro so tentative it sounded like the volume was at the wrong level, a vocal, a gradual build-up from a choir to the main melody, and after 10 minutes it exploded into a battle between the dancefloor and the orchestra pit.

I think this is the only record Crescendo ever released. Just a shame it wasn’t released at Easter; then I could make a joke about putting all their eggs into one basket. Snigger.

24 Faithless – Insomnia (1996)

The other week I was making my way to work when some geezer drove past me at breakneck speed with this blaring out of his car stereo. Forget cutting-edge house, he was listening to this, one of the most iconic dance records ever made. Over 20 years on and Insomnia still sounds as fresh as ever. Even wanky ‘real music’ Britpop fans would hit the dancefloor when this came on at the Black Orchid in Nottingham all those years ago.

25 Bon Jovi – Living on a prayer

The Black Orchid (as it was named back in 1995-96) was one of many bars that had student nights during the first year. When it filled up to near maximum levels, the DJ would play a string of pop classics with massive singalong choruses. It was nearly the same order every week – Tainted love, Karma chameleon, Take on me, I wanna be (500 miles), etc – but it was good fun. And it would carry on; there’d be Summer of 69, Sweet child of mine, and then this.

My best mate from school was at the same uni but on a different campus and he introduced me to one of his flatmates, a sweet Lancashire lass whose first words were: “D’ya like Bon Jorvi?” I’d found my best mate from uni. I wasn’t going to include this originally but on New Year’s Eve I was abroad watching a live band and they started playing Living on a prayer. My plan was to dance like a twat to the song and send her the video to say an early happy new year as we were two hours ahead but it didn’t work. Probably a good thing.

26 Divine Comedy – Something for the weekend (1996)

 

A bit like Jarvis Cocker, frontman Neil Hannon had – and still has – the quirky personality and raised eyebrow that made Divine Comedy stand out from the regular Britpop trend. The band are best known for the cheeky National Express but their output has been consistently great over the years. Many will recognise Hannon’s voice from Father Ted’s unused Eurovision version of My lovely horse, and he also wrote the theme tunes for that show and the IT Crowd.

Something for the weekend was a very clever record; not a love song, more a humorous twist on the art of seduction using a tale of a mysterious woodshed central to a cunning scam. 

Part three, 2000-2016: 'Don't let the walls cave in on you' 

Part one, 1976-1990: '4am in the morning'

40 memorable songs: 1976-1990, 4am in the morning

I recently turned 40 and as someone obsessed with the good old hit parade growing up, it seemed rude not to take a nostalgic trip along the road to nowhere to Rotterdam, eat a vegemite sandwich, then dance naked in the rain. Ah, I see where you’re going with this, you’re thinking; you’re marking this landmark birthday with your 40 favourite songs ever and you’ve sneaked in a few clues about the list. 

Well, you’re wrong. Actually, you’re not far off. Compiling a top 40 of all time would be stupid as I’d be 50 by the time I’d come to any reasonable conclusion. So basically I’ve chosen 40 ‘memorable’ songs from my life so far, a list that to be honest is still far from definitive; indeed, I don't care for some of the songs but if they provoke significant memories I think they are worth including. 

This blog is split into three chunks: childhood, teenage years and manhood for a sense of authenticity. I only imposed one rule: no artist would feature more than once – unless they were a featured artist on another song. So basically I broke it. Just one other thing: no-one is mentioned within a negative context so don’t worry and mostly it’s all about me, me, me.

1 Kate Bush – Babooshka (1980)



My parents were huge Kate Bush fans and apparently so was I. As a toddler I would run into the run yelling ‘Kate Boooooo!’. Allegedly.

2 Ian Dury and the Blockheads – Hit me with your rhythm stick (1978)

Apparently I used the shout the title in the school playground when I was at infant school and scare some of my classmates.

3 Depeche Mode – I just can’t get enough (1981)

I used to play the infectious synthesiser riff on the sofa, so I've been told. I think I used to do it in 80s clubs as well, so not a lot has changed really. If I’m listening to a synth-orientated song on my way back from work on my iPhone you might see me play a riff on the escalator. Living in Cricklewood, northwest London, was a nightmare because the Co-op there used to play extremely good music and that left the fruit and veg extremely vulnerable when choosing food for lunch or dinner. It also left me humming along to the song and on one occasion me and this lady found ourselves softly singing the last few seconds of Weather with you by Crowded House as we passed one another in one of the aisles. We laughed and just carried on.

4 Human League – Open your heart (1981) 

In terms of authentic 80s synthpop, Human League were my early favourites so good job my parents owned their debut album, Dare. I could have been boring and chosen Don’t you want me but it’s become tediously strangled over the years. It was a three-way battle between Keep feeling fascination, Mirror man, and Open your heart. I went for the latter because, like I just can’t get enough, it has a cool synth riff. What a twat, etc.

5 Dire Straits – Private investigations (1982)

Dire Straits? Dire bloody Straits?! Yes. This is a genuine memory. It’s a really haunting record with Mark Knopfler almost whispering his way through it. Then there is a quiet bit with just a softish bass in heartbeat mode for a good 30 seconds, perhaps, longer, before a sudden electric guitar burst belts its way to the front. Me and my sister would run and hide behind the sofa.

6 A Flock of Seagulls – Wishing (If I had a photograph of you) (1982)

Sometimes it’s difficult to explain why you like a song so much but I’ve always been addicted to the main synth hook, so much so that when I had a Nokia mobile a decade ago that allowed you to compose a very basic ringtone (not quite as sophisticated as it sounds) I chose to use it. Nowadays when I get my hair cut short and spiky my fringe still flops forwards a little like singer Mike Score. Only unintentionally.

7 Mike Oldfield featuring Maggie Reilly – Moonlight shadow (1983)

Tubular Bells was played a lot in the house and I remember my dad saying Mike Oldfield was incredibly clever because he could play all the instruments. “All at the same time?” I asked. Oh come on, I was on only six or something. This track wasn’t on the album but I remember that for quite a while I was disturbed by the moonlight shadow. Why had it kidnapped the poor singer?

8 New Order – Blue Monday (1983)

This isn’t actually a million miles away from the scenario above in the sense that initially I found it a very scary record from beginning to end, from the robotic drum machine intro to the outro, which grows and grows. The difference is, even back then I was intrigued by it. I didn’t run away, I listened. Bernard Sumner at his rawest, the synth loop, the menacing bass, the male chorus sound. It doesn’t matter how many times the track gets diluted by horrible remixes, the original seven-minute version remains an amazing record.

9 Pet Shop Boys - West End girls (1985-86)

  

Neil Tennant has continually cited Blue Monday as the song Pet Shop Boys wished they had written. Likewise, Bernard Sumner has admitted the same about West End girls. So it’s hardly surprising that: a) the pair of them later collaborated; and b) my reaction to hearing this song for the first time was very similar to that of Blue Monday. The chord change sounded weird but brilliant, as did the menacing synth strings themselves. Most intriguingly, though, although I knew what rap music was, I’d never heard it spoken rhythmically before so I was fascinated. And I still am, to be honest, because over 30 years later West End girls remains PSB’s most off-the-wall single. Even people who openly don’t like the duo often still have a soft spot for this song. It’s incredible.             

10 Suzanne Vega – Luka (1987)

I’ve always absolutely loved Suzanne Vega’s voice and my parents owned Solitude Standing, the album that featured this song, so I was exposed to it early on. It’s a very disturbing song, of course, but disturbing songs are sometimes the most moving, especially when they have a vocal and a melody as beautiful as this one.

11 Gloria Estefan – Don’t wanna lose you (1989) 

   

I played Gloria Estefan's album Cuts both ways, which I bought on the back of this song, to death. I truly loved it, which seems weird looking back as it didn’t really tie in with my taste in music at the time, but I listened again recently and I still totally love the song. In terms of memories it coincided with my first crush at school in Peterborough; a girl called Lisa Ellis. Dark hair, brown eyes, very good at hockey. “Why do you fancy her? She looks foreign,” said a footballing teammate. Mmmmm. I bet she’s broken a lot of hearts. Thankfully I was too young and there wasn’t enough time for her to break mine.

12 Neneh Cherry – Manchild (1989)

Er, anyway. By the time this came out Lisa was gone, Peterborough was gone and I was now in Northampton. No real special memory attached, I just found it an amazing song that brought the best out of Cherry's talents as both a singer and rapper. The chord changes were weird but worked and the outro to this day remains one of my favourites. I’ve always also loved the line, “You’d sell your soul for a tacky song like the ones you hear on the radio” for some reason.

13 Rebel MC and Double Trouble – Street tuff (1989)  

 

One of the catchiest ever pop/rap crossover hits and it was impossible not to love it regardless of age. Also a record you had to learn the lyrics to so you could join in with everyone else. "Hear the music and you wonder,‘Is he a Yankee?' No, I’m a Londoner." Brilliant stuff. Rap music was so innocent back then; all about being the king of the dancefloor rather dodging bullets.



Part two, 1991-1997: 'By the fountain down the road'

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.