"GEORGE BAILEY, I'll love you 'til the day I die..."
The words spoken by a young American schoolgirl called Mary Hatch to her 12-year-old unrequited love - who is totally unaware of what she has told him as she has whispered it in his deaf left ear - starts the tear ducts welling up and I know I will be crying buckets by the time the movie ends.
The fact that this beautifully-touching moment arrives barely 10 minutes into the film tells you all you need to know - It's A Wonderful Life is arguably the most tear-inducing and life-affirming movie you will ever see. Ever.
For those yet to experience this picture - and I do know many of my good pals have not - I urge every single one of you to try and see it, ideally between now and Twelfth Night.
It's a brilliant movie that works on so many levels with scenes of humour, romance, tragedy and darkness, the last 20 minutes or so utterly terrifying before the most magical of endings you could ever wish for in a film.
In a nutshell, the 1946 movie, directed by legendary filmmaker Frank Capra, focuses on the life of a late 30-something married father-of-four, George Bailey.
George (memorably portrayed by Hollywood great James Stewart) has been a pillar of the small town where he has lived - Bedford Falls - throughout his life. In that time, he has made countless personal sacrifices to help the poorest townsfolk in Bedford Falls live better lives through a Buildings & Loan company created by his late father.
George's sacrifices include his number one aim to travel the world. Instead, he has remained stuck in Bedford Falls, going on to marry Mary, now grown up (played effortlessly by Donna Reed) and having four children.
One snowy, Christmas Eve, through a set of accidental circumstances, the Buildings & Loan firm finds itself $8000 in arrears and a warrant is issued for George's arrest.
With trouble at every turn, George storms out of the family home and after a brawl in a local bar, contemplates taking his own life knowing an insurance policy he has would cover all the financial worries should he die.
It's at this stage in the film where fate takes a hand in the form of George's guardian angel, a certain Clarence Oddbody (Henry Travers). Clarence, an angel yet to earn his wings, devises a way to explain to George why it was so wrong to think about ending it all - by showing him how different his little world of Bedford Falls would have been if he had never been born.
And it's those scenes that are quite heart-breaking to witness - we learn so many things how George's mere presence affected so many other people's lives from saving his younger brother Harry's life when he was a young child to marrying Mary to having his four beautiful children.
By the final five minutes of the movie I am a complete emotional wreck. The tears are streaming down my face, and at the end I think about everything in my life - the good and the not-so-good - and always think to myself, yes, things aren't always rosy in my garden, but, you know, I really wouldn't have it any other way and I am so thankful for the life I am living right now.
So try and catch the film if you can - maybe it'll be your first introduction. If it is, I guarantee it will be on your 'must watch at Christmas list' for evermore. It certainly is with me.
Wednesday 25 December 2013
Friday 22 November 2013
Coincidence or Conspiracy?
FOR those still content to believe the conclusion that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone in the assassination of President John F. Kennedy 50 years ago this very day, perhaps you'd like to consider this list of people:
Jack Zangretti, Eddy Benavides, Mary Meyer, Hank Killam, Bill Hunter, Gary Underhill, Jim Koethe, Teresa Norton, Karen Carlin, Marilyn Walle, William Pitzer, David Ferrie, Eladio Del Valle, E. R. Walthers, Rev. Clyde Johnson, William Pawley, George DeMohrenschildt, Carlos Prio Soccaras, Lou Staples, Joseph C. Ayres.
All of the individuals identified above had connections to the vast story of President Kennedy's murder, some with bigger roles than others.
Of those 20 people named, all met their deaths violently: Seventeen of them received fatal gunshot injuries, two died from blows to the neck while one had his throat cut.
This list, incidentally, doesn't include people such as Lee Bowers Jr, William Whaley, Rose Cheramie, James Worrell or Mona B. Saenz, all of whom died in unusual road accidents.
And not forgetting famed American journalist and TV personality Dorothy Kilgallen who was the only reporter to interview Jack Ruby - the man who shot Oswald - when he was in his jail cell in the spring of 1964 and began her own meticulous research into the President's death. Kilgallen, a regular panellist on the celebrated CBS TV game show What's My Line? for 15 years from 1950, was found dead in her New York apartment in November, 1965, not long after she had told friends: "If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to break this case. This story isn't going to die as long as there's a real reporter alive - and there are a lot of them." Kilgallen's death was said to have been caused by a cocktail of pills and alcohol although the exact circumstances were "undetermined".
But hey-ho, never mind. It was Oswald alone, don't forget, and there is nothing else sinister linked with this case whatsoever. Nothing. That's what we've all been told to believe, haven't we?
Jack Zangretti, Eddy Benavides, Mary Meyer, Hank Killam, Bill Hunter, Gary Underhill, Jim Koethe, Teresa Norton, Karen Carlin, Marilyn Walle, William Pitzer, David Ferrie, Eladio Del Valle, E. R. Walthers, Rev. Clyde Johnson, William Pawley, George DeMohrenschildt, Carlos Prio Soccaras, Lou Staples, Joseph C. Ayres.
All of the individuals identified above had connections to the vast story of President Kennedy's murder, some with bigger roles than others.
Of those 20 people named, all met their deaths violently: Seventeen of them received fatal gunshot injuries, two died from blows to the neck while one had his throat cut.
This list, incidentally, doesn't include people such as Lee Bowers Jr, William Whaley, Rose Cheramie, James Worrell or Mona B. Saenz, all of whom died in unusual road accidents.
And not forgetting famed American journalist and TV personality Dorothy Kilgallen who was the only reporter to interview Jack Ruby - the man who shot Oswald - when he was in his jail cell in the spring of 1964 and began her own meticulous research into the President's death. Kilgallen, a regular panellist on the celebrated CBS TV game show What's My Line? for 15 years from 1950, was found dead in her New York apartment in November, 1965, not long after she had told friends: "If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to break this case. This story isn't going to die as long as there's a real reporter alive - and there are a lot of them." Kilgallen's death was said to have been caused by a cocktail of pills and alcohol although the exact circumstances were "undetermined".
But hey-ho, never mind. It was Oswald alone, don't forget, and there is nothing else sinister linked with this case whatsoever. Nothing. That's what we've all been told to believe, haven't we?
Tuesday 19 November 2013
The Real Nightmare On Elm Street
I THINK I must have been in my very early teens or perhaps in my last year in junior school when I happened one day to be thumbing through an encyclopedia detailing famous historical events.
My eyes were drawn to a monochrome photograph, slightly blurred, of a car with a number of people around it. The caption underneath the picture explained what was going on - American President John Fitzgerald Kennedy is assassinated in Dallas, Texas, on November 22, 1963, by Lee Harvey Oswald.
Little did I realise that more than three decades after I first saw this image I would count researching the conspiracy behind the brutal public execution of America's 35th Commander-in-Chief as among my greatest and most important passions.
Let me be frank from the outset. For those of you willing to go along with the official account of what happened that dreadful autumn afternoon, you need to wake up and smell the coffee.
Maybe it's for the easy life; maybe it's because you don't like difficult questions; or maybe it's because where the truth goes on this one it's to a far darker place than you could ever imagine - or really want to go to.
But for those still happy to go along with the official story that a lone, disillusioned man with Marxist sympathies fired three shots from a $13 bolt-action rifle with a defective telescopic sight from a sixth floor window at a moving target from 88 yards through thick foliage causing fatal injuries to one occupant of the limousine and serious wounds to another (with the same almost pristine bullet) while somehow reversing the law of physics by getting the mortally-wounded man to move backwards following a projectile that hit him from behind travelling thousands of feet per second, I've some bad news I want to relate to you - Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy don't exist. But if you buy into the findings of the 1964 Warren Commission, you may as well believe in Father Christmas and the elfish flying creature who leaves a shiny coin under your pillow whenever you lose one of your gnashers.
It was the writer William Manchester who really kick-started my intense interest in the assassination of President John Kennedy. The year was 1988 and I can still remember getting his famous book out of the library at St Katherine's College in Liverpool where I was in the second of my three years reading History and American Studies for a BA Honours Degree.
Manchester's 1967 tome, The Death Of A President, opened my eyes to an incredibly-hypnotic story, and from that moment on - at that point exactly 25 years since Kennedy's murder - my interest was sparked to find out through as much research as I could just what really happened in those fateful few seconds one November lunchtime on an ordinary downtown street in the third-biggest city in the second-largest State in the Union.
I am not what some might call an 'Assassination Buff' - the sort of person who has devoted more hours of their lives than they care to mention on the subject. Far from it. But I do have more than a passing interest and have read many articles and books and witnessed a good number of programmes, films and documentaries - and, as any good journalist should do, I have listened to both sides of the case.
And, really, there are only two arguments: (1) Lee Harvey Oswald did the whole thing alone and it's case closed or (2) Lee Harvey Oswald did not and it's case still open.
Those are your two choices - it really is as simple as that.
There are countless side issues I could write about on this truly incredible story - and I have no doubt I will on a forthcoming blog. But for now, I'll leave you with these two facts to ponder over as the world prepares to mark half a century since President Kennedy's murder:
If Lee Harvey Oswald was the sole assassin as the Warren Commission ruled beyond reasonable doubt - and we should be content in the knowledge that this is indeed true - why on earth in November 2013 - 50 years later - are some 1,171 documents still withheld by the Central Intelligence Agency and marked "national security classified" in relation to the President's death?
And, why is it that the files of the House Select Committee on Assassinations which met in the late 1970s will not be opened for another 16 years?
Somewhat strange, wouldn't you say, given it's "officially" an open and shut case?
My eyes were drawn to a monochrome photograph, slightly blurred, of a car with a number of people around it. The caption underneath the picture explained what was going on - American President John Fitzgerald Kennedy is assassinated in Dallas, Texas, on November 22, 1963, by Lee Harvey Oswald.
Little did I realise that more than three decades after I first saw this image I would count researching the conspiracy behind the brutal public execution of America's 35th Commander-in-Chief as among my greatest and most important passions.
Let me be frank from the outset. For those of you willing to go along with the official account of what happened that dreadful autumn afternoon, you need to wake up and smell the coffee.
Maybe it's for the easy life; maybe it's because you don't like difficult questions; or maybe it's because where the truth goes on this one it's to a far darker place than you could ever imagine - or really want to go to.
But for those still happy to go along with the official story that a lone, disillusioned man with Marxist sympathies fired three shots from a $13 bolt-action rifle with a defective telescopic sight from a sixth floor window at a moving target from 88 yards through thick foliage causing fatal injuries to one occupant of the limousine and serious wounds to another (with the same almost pristine bullet) while somehow reversing the law of physics by getting the mortally-wounded man to move backwards following a projectile that hit him from behind travelling thousands of feet per second, I've some bad news I want to relate to you - Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy don't exist. But if you buy into the findings of the 1964 Warren Commission, you may as well believe in Father Christmas and the elfish flying creature who leaves a shiny coin under your pillow whenever you lose one of your gnashers.
It was the writer William Manchester who really kick-started my intense interest in the assassination of President John Kennedy. The year was 1988 and I can still remember getting his famous book out of the library at St Katherine's College in Liverpool where I was in the second of my three years reading History and American Studies for a BA Honours Degree.
Manchester's 1967 tome, The Death Of A President, opened my eyes to an incredibly-hypnotic story, and from that moment on - at that point exactly 25 years since Kennedy's murder - my interest was sparked to find out through as much research as I could just what really happened in those fateful few seconds one November lunchtime on an ordinary downtown street in the third-biggest city in the second-largest State in the Union.
I am not what some might call an 'Assassination Buff' - the sort of person who has devoted more hours of their lives than they care to mention on the subject. Far from it. But I do have more than a passing interest and have read many articles and books and witnessed a good number of programmes, films and documentaries - and, as any good journalist should do, I have listened to both sides of the case.
And, really, there are only two arguments: (1) Lee Harvey Oswald did the whole thing alone and it's case closed or (2) Lee Harvey Oswald did not and it's case still open.
Those are your two choices - it really is as simple as that.
There are countless side issues I could write about on this truly incredible story - and I have no doubt I will on a forthcoming blog. But for now, I'll leave you with these two facts to ponder over as the world prepares to mark half a century since President Kennedy's murder:
If Lee Harvey Oswald was the sole assassin as the Warren Commission ruled beyond reasonable doubt - and we should be content in the knowledge that this is indeed true - why on earth in November 2013 - 50 years later - are some 1,171 documents still withheld by the Central Intelligence Agency and marked "national security classified" in relation to the President's death?
And, why is it that the files of the House Select Committee on Assassinations which met in the late 1970s will not be opened for another 16 years?
Somewhat strange, wouldn't you say, given it's "officially" an open and shut case?
Thursday 29 August 2013
Damascus if we do, Damascus if we don't
SYRIA.
That ancient Middle Eastern nation is now well and truly back in the news headlines.
It's on the front pages of every British national newspaper, bar one.
But then, Celebrity Big Brother is rather important too, isn't it, Mr Desmond?
The current state of play is very concerning indeed. As we stand, weapons inspectors from the United Nations are carrying out detailed investigations into the alleged use of chemical devices to kill and maim hundreds of innocent men, women and children in a suburb of the nation's capital city, Damascus.
The inspectors are set to complete their work by Friday and report back to the Secretary-General of the UN, Ban Ki-moon over the weekend.
It is believed that the regime of dictator President Bashar al-Assad is responsible for the actions that caused all these deaths by use of weapons outlawed since a treaty was signed by the vast majority of the world's nations as long ago as the 1920s.
Syria, incidentally, is one of the handful of countries not to have signed the treaty alongside such other luminaries as Angola, Egypt, North Korea and South Sudan.
It is believed that since civil war broke out in Syria in 2011, at least 100,000 people have already perished.
But it's only now that the world has decided to sit up and take notice - and it's all due to the usage of chemical weapons.
From my limited knowledge of the situation and taking on board my education which led to a degree in history, I find it completely inconceivable that military action taken by outside forces could lead to anything other than regime change in Syria.
For goodness sake, this isn't a particularly tricky level in Call Of Duty where you can always press the reset button if things go awry.
You are dealing with the lives of millions of people, not just in Syria but in the wider Middle East and arguably the whole world.
I just cannot agree with the idea that firing a few dozen Tomahawk cruise missiles at identified military targets will immediately solve the crisis in Syria.
If anything, I believe Assad's regime will fight back in any way he sees fit. And with his allies Russia and Iran close by, that's an extremely fearful thought indeed.
But then, we have the flip side of this coin. Does the world sit by and do nothing and allow this dictator to continue gassing his own people?
It seems to me, that the only long term solution for Syria is almost certainly going to be regime change. For once a leader has sanctioned the use of chemical weapons against his own people, how on earth can he be welcomed to the table of diplomacy at the United Nations? After all, surely Assad is a war criminal and by definition would need to stand before an international court of law.
I just hope there is complete support at the United Nations for whatever action is taken. But with China and Russia hinting they may well vote against a military response led by the United States, the United Kingdom and France, I fear that may well not be forthcoming.
The next few days are going to be very important indeed for the lives of millions of people in the Middle East.
It certainly puts other things into perspective... although Big Ron's latest faux pas is pretty important too, eh, Mr Desmond?
That ancient Middle Eastern nation is now well and truly back in the news headlines.
It's on the front pages of every British national newspaper, bar one.
But then, Celebrity Big Brother is rather important too, isn't it, Mr Desmond?
The current state of play is very concerning indeed. As we stand, weapons inspectors from the United Nations are carrying out detailed investigations into the alleged use of chemical devices to kill and maim hundreds of innocent men, women and children in a suburb of the nation's capital city, Damascus.
The inspectors are set to complete their work by Friday and report back to the Secretary-General of the UN, Ban Ki-moon over the weekend.
It is believed that the regime of dictator President Bashar al-Assad is responsible for the actions that caused all these deaths by use of weapons outlawed since a treaty was signed by the vast majority of the world's nations as long ago as the 1920s.
Syria, incidentally, is one of the handful of countries not to have signed the treaty alongside such other luminaries as Angola, Egypt, North Korea and South Sudan.
It is believed that since civil war broke out in Syria in 2011, at least 100,000 people have already perished.
But it's only now that the world has decided to sit up and take notice - and it's all due to the usage of chemical weapons.
From my limited knowledge of the situation and taking on board my education which led to a degree in history, I find it completely inconceivable that military action taken by outside forces could lead to anything other than regime change in Syria.
For goodness sake, this isn't a particularly tricky level in Call Of Duty where you can always press the reset button if things go awry.
You are dealing with the lives of millions of people, not just in Syria but in the wider Middle East and arguably the whole world.
I just cannot agree with the idea that firing a few dozen Tomahawk cruise missiles at identified military targets will immediately solve the crisis in Syria.
If anything, I believe Assad's regime will fight back in any way he sees fit. And with his allies Russia and Iran close by, that's an extremely fearful thought indeed.
But then, we have the flip side of this coin. Does the world sit by and do nothing and allow this dictator to continue gassing his own people?
It seems to me, that the only long term solution for Syria is almost certainly going to be regime change. For once a leader has sanctioned the use of chemical weapons against his own people, how on earth can he be welcomed to the table of diplomacy at the United Nations? After all, surely Assad is a war criminal and by definition would need to stand before an international court of law.
I just hope there is complete support at the United Nations for whatever action is taken. But with China and Russia hinting they may well vote against a military response led by the United States, the United Kingdom and France, I fear that may well not be forthcoming.
The next few days are going to be very important indeed for the lives of millions of people in the Middle East.
It certainly puts other things into perspective... although Big Ron's latest faux pas is pretty important too, eh, Mr Desmond?
Monday 12 August 2013
Guilty Pleasures #2
MANY issues are discussed and dissected on the sports desk at work.
Some, nay, virtually all are not fit for repeating on this blog, largely as I definitely could not afford the legal fees the associated lawsuits would inevitably bring...
But one thing that did get a brief mention today was a movie that those distributing the Academy Awards in the spring of 1965 decided should be given the coveted title of Best Picture.
Alongside this film in the nominations for that category almost half a century ago now was the melodrama set on a liner on its way from Mexico to Nazi Germany in 1933, Ship Of Fools starring amongst others Vivien Leigh and Lee Marvin; the movie version of a play about a comedian, A Thousand Clowns, which earned Martin Balsam the Best Supporting Actor Oscar; Darling, a relationships drama in which Julie Christie received the celebrated golden statuette for Best Actress; and the epic Doctor Zhivago which brought together Omar Sharif and the incredibly-talented Christie in David Lean's critically-acclaimed version of Boris Pasternak's famous romantic tale set in Russia before, during and after the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution.
All, according to those voting in the Academy, were equally worthy of winning the Best Picture Oscar for that year.
Except they didn't.
The movie that won the honour that evening in 1965 remains for me one of the most uplifting pictures I have ever seen.
It's been shown countless times on television and I daresay the majority of you reading this blog will have seen it.
I also know a fair number of you will swiftly dismiss it as simply three hours of sentimental rubbish laced with huge dollops of saccharine from first reel to last.
But for me, the unforgettable mix of nuns and Nazis plus some of the most memorable songs ever written by two of the last century's finest musical collaborators - Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II - makes The Sound Of Music one of my all-time favourite movies.
The cinematography is just outstanding, starting with a magical opening sequence in which the focus is on the truly breathtaking majesty of the Austrian Alps.
I'm sure most of you are all-too aware of the movie so we won't head down the plot-explaining route.
What I do recall as a child was sitting through a film that lasted a lot longer than the usual one-and-a-half to two hours - and not becoming restless.
I was completely taken in by the story - which is loosely based on an incredible true tale - and thoroughly enjoyed what was being played out in front of me.
The performances in the movie are terrific, led, of course, by the Oscar-nominated Julie Andrews as Maria.
Andrews was right up there as one of the leading theatre and cinematic draws of the mid-1960s. Twelve months before she had won the Academy Award as Best Actress playing the title role in Disney's much-loved musical Mary Poppins. And as in that "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" movie, she's on top form throughout.
For all he despised The Sound Of Music - and he did from a number of accounts - Christopher Plummer plays the role of the former German naval officer Captain Georg von Trapp marvellously. The scene towards the end of the picture where he tries to sing Edelweiss before being helped by Maria is one of many highlights. Yes, Plummer's singing voice was dubbed for the film, but it's nevertheless a standout moment for me.
The final ten minutes of the picture where the dark side of the story is re-enacted as the family are being hunted by the Nazis remains absolutely riveting while the conclusion is so uplifting it can go a long way in helping to counter any miserable feelings you may be experiencing in your life.
Oh, and why was The Sound Of Music being discussed on the sports desk? Well, a colleague of mine admitted he had never seen it.
That was some confession.
But definitely not as open as this one...
Some, nay, virtually all are not fit for repeating on this blog, largely as I definitely could not afford the legal fees the associated lawsuits would inevitably bring...
But one thing that did get a brief mention today was a movie that those distributing the Academy Awards in the spring of 1965 decided should be given the coveted title of Best Picture.
Alongside this film in the nominations for that category almost half a century ago now was the melodrama set on a liner on its way from Mexico to Nazi Germany in 1933, Ship Of Fools starring amongst others Vivien Leigh and Lee Marvin; the movie version of a play about a comedian, A Thousand Clowns, which earned Martin Balsam the Best Supporting Actor Oscar; Darling, a relationships drama in which Julie Christie received the celebrated golden statuette for Best Actress; and the epic Doctor Zhivago which brought together Omar Sharif and the incredibly-talented Christie in David Lean's critically-acclaimed version of Boris Pasternak's famous romantic tale set in Russia before, during and after the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution.
All, according to those voting in the Academy, were equally worthy of winning the Best Picture Oscar for that year.
Except they didn't.
The movie that won the honour that evening in 1965 remains for me one of the most uplifting pictures I have ever seen.
It's been shown countless times on television and I daresay the majority of you reading this blog will have seen it.
I also know a fair number of you will swiftly dismiss it as simply three hours of sentimental rubbish laced with huge dollops of saccharine from first reel to last.
But for me, the unforgettable mix of nuns and Nazis plus some of the most memorable songs ever written by two of the last century's finest musical collaborators - Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II - makes The Sound Of Music one of my all-time favourite movies.
The cinematography is just outstanding, starting with a magical opening sequence in which the focus is on the truly breathtaking majesty of the Austrian Alps.
I'm sure most of you are all-too aware of the movie so we won't head down the plot-explaining route.
What I do recall as a child was sitting through a film that lasted a lot longer than the usual one-and-a-half to two hours - and not becoming restless.
I was completely taken in by the story - which is loosely based on an incredible true tale - and thoroughly enjoyed what was being played out in front of me.
The performances in the movie are terrific, led, of course, by the Oscar-nominated Julie Andrews as Maria.
Andrews was right up there as one of the leading theatre and cinematic draws of the mid-1960s. Twelve months before she had won the Academy Award as Best Actress playing the title role in Disney's much-loved musical Mary Poppins. And as in that "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" movie, she's on top form throughout.
For all he despised The Sound Of Music - and he did from a number of accounts - Christopher Plummer plays the role of the former German naval officer Captain Georg von Trapp marvellously. The scene towards the end of the picture where he tries to sing Edelweiss before being helped by Maria is one of many highlights. Yes, Plummer's singing voice was dubbed for the film, but it's nevertheless a standout moment for me.
The final ten minutes of the picture where the dark side of the story is re-enacted as the family are being hunted by the Nazis remains absolutely riveting while the conclusion is so uplifting it can go a long way in helping to counter any miserable feelings you may be experiencing in your life.
Oh, and why was The Sound Of Music being discussed on the sports desk? Well, a colleague of mine admitted he had never seen it.
That was some confession.
But definitely not as open as this one...
Wednesday 7 August 2013
Our Luis cannon
LUIS SUAREZ has courted controversy wherever he has gone.
The first time I became aware of him was in the 2010 World Cup quarter-final clash between his country, Uruguay, and Ghana.
Funnily enough, I had pulled out Ghana in the office sweep and the African team were doing me proud after first negotiating their tricky group stage before earning a place in the last eight of the tournament with a 2-1 win over the United States.
Then came that quarter-final match against the South Americans.
Biased? Of course I was. Like most "neutrals", I was rooting like mad for Ghana to reach the semi-finals - and not just because a couple of quid was riding on their progress!
Sadly for them - and for me - it wasn't to be. As most football followers who read this blog will recall, Uruguay made it through after a penalty shoot-out.
But not before Suarez had been in the spotlight - and not for the first time in his career - for all the wrong reasons.
He handballed a goal-bound effort that led to a spot-kick that could have won the game for Ghana and was shown an automatic red card.
Fortunately for Suarez and his Uruguay teammates, the penalty was missed. Suarez was picked up by the TV cameras celebrating the miss with a fist-pump as he walked down the tunnel towards the dressing rooms.
That endeared himself forever to the Uruguay nation while doubtless alienating millions of football followers around the world.
Uruguay went on to beat Ghana - ironically via penalties - and the African dream of having a nation in the last four in the World Cup finals was dashed, for another four years at least.
Months later, my club, Liverpool, went out and bought Suarez for somewhere in the region of £23m - and he immediately became a Kop icon.
His debut off the bench against Stoke City resulted in a pivotal goal in front of The Kop and he was off and running.
So much has happened between that moment and where we find ourselves now with the forward it would take too long to recount here.
There have been plenty of ups - the FA Cup leveller at Wembley against Everton in 2012 quickly springs to mind as I was there with Matthew to witness it - but as far as I am concerned, the downs outnumber them by a hefty margin.
And now, today, August 7, 2013, we find ourselves in this dreadful mire with the player.
Already banned for 10 matches for biting an opponent - again - Suarez is, via his agent, seemingly attempting to engineer an exit from the Reds.
He apparently had a "foot injury" which ruled him out tonight's tour match in Norway. A foot injury? C'mon, were all Liverpool fans born yesterday? What a load of utter bollocks.
The fact is, he wants to go. Liverpool publicly claim they don't want to sell him but privately can't wait for a club to come in with a big enough offer for them to say: "Ta very much. Adios Luis. And don't forget to shut the door on your way out."
While this saga has been going on for what seems like forever, I've been wondering all the time what the club's most important man in their entire history would have said.
I reckon it would have been something along the lines of this: "Arsenal, son? Ye say Arsenal? If you want to play for another team in red I'll drive the bloody car for you to London. I don't want you at this magnificent club. And these fans wouldn't want you either."
Yes, leave Anfield for God's sake, Suarez. Frankly, I really couldn't care less where you end up.
All I know is you're dragging our great club through the mud yet again.
And as a Liverpool supporter of more than four decades, I know club legends when I see them - and believe me, you ain't fit to lace their boots.
The first time I became aware of him was in the 2010 World Cup quarter-final clash between his country, Uruguay, and Ghana.
Funnily enough, I had pulled out Ghana in the office sweep and the African team were doing me proud after first negotiating their tricky group stage before earning a place in the last eight of the tournament with a 2-1 win over the United States.
Then came that quarter-final match against the South Americans.
Biased? Of course I was. Like most "neutrals", I was rooting like mad for Ghana to reach the semi-finals - and not just because a couple of quid was riding on their progress!
Sadly for them - and for me - it wasn't to be. As most football followers who read this blog will recall, Uruguay made it through after a penalty shoot-out.
But not before Suarez had been in the spotlight - and not for the first time in his career - for all the wrong reasons.
He handballed a goal-bound effort that led to a spot-kick that could have won the game for Ghana and was shown an automatic red card.
Fortunately for Suarez and his Uruguay teammates, the penalty was missed. Suarez was picked up by the TV cameras celebrating the miss with a fist-pump as he walked down the tunnel towards the dressing rooms.
That endeared himself forever to the Uruguay nation while doubtless alienating millions of football followers around the world.
Uruguay went on to beat Ghana - ironically via penalties - and the African dream of having a nation in the last four in the World Cup finals was dashed, for another four years at least.
Months later, my club, Liverpool, went out and bought Suarez for somewhere in the region of £23m - and he immediately became a Kop icon.
His debut off the bench against Stoke City resulted in a pivotal goal in front of The Kop and he was off and running.
So much has happened between that moment and where we find ourselves now with the forward it would take too long to recount here.
There have been plenty of ups - the FA Cup leveller at Wembley against Everton in 2012 quickly springs to mind as I was there with Matthew to witness it - but as far as I am concerned, the downs outnumber them by a hefty margin.
And now, today, August 7, 2013, we find ourselves in this dreadful mire with the player.
Already banned for 10 matches for biting an opponent - again - Suarez is, via his agent, seemingly attempting to engineer an exit from the Reds.
He apparently had a "foot injury" which ruled him out tonight's tour match in Norway. A foot injury? C'mon, were all Liverpool fans born yesterday? What a load of utter bollocks.
The fact is, he wants to go. Liverpool publicly claim they don't want to sell him but privately can't wait for a club to come in with a big enough offer for them to say: "Ta very much. Adios Luis. And don't forget to shut the door on your way out."
While this saga has been going on for what seems like forever, I've been wondering all the time what the club's most important man in their entire history would have said.
I reckon it would have been something along the lines of this: "Arsenal, son? Ye say Arsenal? If you want to play for another team in red I'll drive the bloody car for you to London. I don't want you at this magnificent club. And these fans wouldn't want you either."
Yes, leave Anfield for God's sake, Suarez. Frankly, I really couldn't care less where you end up.
All I know is you're dragging our great club through the mud yet again.
And as a Liverpool supporter of more than four decades, I know club legends when I see them - and believe me, you ain't fit to lace their boots.
Wednesday 3 July 2013
Trying to make sense of it all
LET me tell you about a dreadful sod of an infection that I guess most of you reading this will have never heard of before.
Its name is cytomegalovirus - abbreviated to CMV - and, as far as I am aware, it remains without a cure.
Back in the mid-autumn of 2004, I became a Dad for a second time. Our second son, Joseph Anthony Snowdon, was born on October 13, a brother for Matthew, three years his senior.
Joseph weighed in at a very healthy 8lbs 3.5oz and I can vividly remember cutting his umbilical cord as I had with Matthew back in May, 2001.
All appeared well at first, and as our new-born son snuggled close to Louise in the recovery unit at the hospital, I thought everything was just perfect in our little world.
How wrong I was.
Within hours of Joseph's birth, we began to notice a rather disconcerting rash that was appearing on his little body.
And within a short amount of time we learnt, to our great upset, that he had been born with congenital cytomegalovirus.
What the hell was this condition and what did it mean for Joseph were our two primary questions. The answers we received were not the ones any parent wants to hear.
It's a virus that can be contracted by an expectant mother via a simple thing such as a cold and passed on to her unborn child without her knowing what has happened.
And the seed it sows produces a harvest of devastation for the child including problems with movement, below average head growth and sight impairment.
Joseph, to some degree or other, has these symptoms. He attended portage sessions for some time and throughout 2005 and 2006 we took him every Friday morning to Crosby High School for hour-long hydrotherapy sessions. His head size was measured many times at hospital and clinics and was found to be smaller than normal. And he was diagnosed as being long-sighted so accordingly he was prescribed to wear glasses.
Quite a lot, I think you'll agree, for someone still in their first years of life.
And then we come to the knockout blow.
What CMV also has the nasty ability to do is cause brain defects. In about 5% of cases it causes what is known as 'cerebral calcification'. This is when calcium, which usually helps in the development of healthy teeth and bones, for whatever reason, finds its way into the brain - and stays there.
Its presence was detected in Joseph's brain when he went for scans at an early age and it confirmed our worst fears about him - he had only partial hearing as the CMV virus had attacked his two cochlears. And on top of that, he was going to be delayed developmentally.
It was a crushing blow for all of us, not least Joseph who was completely oblivious to our upset. He was born into a world with little or no sound so he knew nothing else. And the way he moved was just his way.
Over the years since his birth we have attended countless medical appointments, hospital visits, information classes and clinics.
In the summer of 2008 when Joseph was approaching his fourth birthday we made the biggest decision of all. He underwent a near three-hour-long operation in Manchester to fit a cochlear implant on his weakest ear, his left one. The hearing aid he wore there was not giving him much in the way of sound support and the advice we were given, and took, was that a hi-tech cochlear implant would give him the best chance of improving his speech and language skills in his crucial early years' development.
It was a decision neither of us took lightly, but we agreed it was the right one to take for Joseph given all his other problems.
Thankfully, the operation was a complete success and a few weeks later, the device was switched on.
Considering the implant was hooked up to a backpack to be worn underneath his clothing on a set of reins, remarkably Joseph took to wearing it pretty well from the start. In tandem with his hearing aid on his right ear, Joseph began to become accustomed to the new sounds it produced for him.
And thanks to a wonderful team of speech and language therapists who worked tirelessly with him, Joseph increased his vocabulary week after week.
Academically he was allowed to follow Matthew into his mainstream school and to date is approaching the last few weeks of life in Year 3.
It hasn't all been plain sailing, though. Joseph's poor social skills and delayed development in a range of areas have had a profound impact on his life and those around him. He finds it incredibly difficult, nay impossible, to express what he is feeling to us and his peers. And, sadly, this often manifests itself in violent behaviour that, at the root cause, he is not truly responsible for. It's that bastard of a virus I mentioned right at the outset.
Things are tough right now, very tough.
Thank goodness that we - and Joseph - are receiving support from a whole range of sources from the medical world to his schooling and family therapists. Their work with him and us has been extraordinary although their tasks are still a very, very long way from being completed.
Joseph could be classed by some people as a problem child.
He isn't.
He is a child who has problems.
I wish to God he had never been born with them, but not for one minute have I ever wished he had never been born.
Like his elder brother, I love them to pieces and I'm just so sorry for him he has had to contend with this condition throughout his near nine years on this earth.
I'm still trying to make sense of it all - but to be truthful, I can't.
All I know is we'll love and care for him as long as we can - and that's the only thing that really matters to us.
Its name is cytomegalovirus - abbreviated to CMV - and, as far as I am aware, it remains without a cure.
Back in the mid-autumn of 2004, I became a Dad for a second time. Our second son, Joseph Anthony Snowdon, was born on October 13, a brother for Matthew, three years his senior.
Joseph weighed in at a very healthy 8lbs 3.5oz and I can vividly remember cutting his umbilical cord as I had with Matthew back in May, 2001.
All appeared well at first, and as our new-born son snuggled close to Louise in the recovery unit at the hospital, I thought everything was just perfect in our little world.
How wrong I was.
Within hours of Joseph's birth, we began to notice a rather disconcerting rash that was appearing on his little body.
And within a short amount of time we learnt, to our great upset, that he had been born with congenital cytomegalovirus.
What the hell was this condition and what did it mean for Joseph were our two primary questions. The answers we received were not the ones any parent wants to hear.
It's a virus that can be contracted by an expectant mother via a simple thing such as a cold and passed on to her unborn child without her knowing what has happened.
And the seed it sows produces a harvest of devastation for the child including problems with movement, below average head growth and sight impairment.
Joseph, to some degree or other, has these symptoms. He attended portage sessions for some time and throughout 2005 and 2006 we took him every Friday morning to Crosby High School for hour-long hydrotherapy sessions. His head size was measured many times at hospital and clinics and was found to be smaller than normal. And he was diagnosed as being long-sighted so accordingly he was prescribed to wear glasses.
Quite a lot, I think you'll agree, for someone still in their first years of life.
And then we come to the knockout blow.
What CMV also has the nasty ability to do is cause brain defects. In about 5% of cases it causes what is known as 'cerebral calcification'. This is when calcium, which usually helps in the development of healthy teeth and bones, for whatever reason, finds its way into the brain - and stays there.
Its presence was detected in Joseph's brain when he went for scans at an early age and it confirmed our worst fears about him - he had only partial hearing as the CMV virus had attacked his two cochlears. And on top of that, he was going to be delayed developmentally.
It was a crushing blow for all of us, not least Joseph who was completely oblivious to our upset. He was born into a world with little or no sound so he knew nothing else. And the way he moved was just his way.
Over the years since his birth we have attended countless medical appointments, hospital visits, information classes and clinics.
In the summer of 2008 when Joseph was approaching his fourth birthday we made the biggest decision of all. He underwent a near three-hour-long operation in Manchester to fit a cochlear implant on his weakest ear, his left one. The hearing aid he wore there was not giving him much in the way of sound support and the advice we were given, and took, was that a hi-tech cochlear implant would give him the best chance of improving his speech and language skills in his crucial early years' development.
It was a decision neither of us took lightly, but we agreed it was the right one to take for Joseph given all his other problems.
Thankfully, the operation was a complete success and a few weeks later, the device was switched on.
Considering the implant was hooked up to a backpack to be worn underneath his clothing on a set of reins, remarkably Joseph took to wearing it pretty well from the start. In tandem with his hearing aid on his right ear, Joseph began to become accustomed to the new sounds it produced for him.
And thanks to a wonderful team of speech and language therapists who worked tirelessly with him, Joseph increased his vocabulary week after week.
Academically he was allowed to follow Matthew into his mainstream school and to date is approaching the last few weeks of life in Year 3.
It hasn't all been plain sailing, though. Joseph's poor social skills and delayed development in a range of areas have had a profound impact on his life and those around him. He finds it incredibly difficult, nay impossible, to express what he is feeling to us and his peers. And, sadly, this often manifests itself in violent behaviour that, at the root cause, he is not truly responsible for. It's that bastard of a virus I mentioned right at the outset.
Things are tough right now, very tough.
Thank goodness that we - and Joseph - are receiving support from a whole range of sources from the medical world to his schooling and family therapists. Their work with him and us has been extraordinary although their tasks are still a very, very long way from being completed.
Joseph could be classed by some people as a problem child.
He isn't.
He is a child who has problems.
I wish to God he had never been born with them, but not for one minute have I ever wished he had never been born.
Like his elder brother, I love them to pieces and I'm just so sorry for him he has had to contend with this condition throughout his near nine years on this earth.
I'm still trying to make sense of it all - but to be truthful, I can't.
All I know is we'll love and care for him as long as we can - and that's the only thing that really matters to us.
Thursday 30 May 2013
This particular 'union' doesn't get my vote!
RIGHT, just so as you're in no doubt - I cannot stand rugby union.
You'll notice it's the 'union' code of the sport that's the key thing here.
The league version is pretty much faultless, one of the best sports to watch on TV, and - even though I never got a chance to at school - I reckon it must be an absolutely fantastic game to play.
League is so straightforward - six goes to attempt to score a try; if not you turn over possession. Not unlike another of my favourite sports, American Football, where you get four goes to attempt to move the ball 10 yards further into your opponents' territory and eventually kick a field goal or score a touchdown. Failure to move the ball without scoring means possession is turned over.
Now we come to rugby union... does anyone have a clue WTF is going on apart from the fact they're all trying to beat the living daylights out of each other before the referee awards a penalty which mystifies both sets of players, the fans in the stadium and those watching on TV - as well as the expert pundits?
Well, never mind, it's all part of the game which these days is to ensure your side earns enough penalties to overcome the opposition by booting the ball between the sticks without any defender having the chance to block the kick (unlike a field goal in American Football).
I am certain that after practice, anyone with a decent kicking leg and an eye for distance could boot a ball between two uprights without anyone bearing down on them in an attempt to stop them.
Sadly, and to its terrible detriment, the union code of the game has become almost totally reliant on the kicking game and penalties.
Great tries are so rare from open play, they still show Gareth Edwards's truly brilliant effort for the Barbarians against the All Blacks as the perfect example of how to score a try - and that was 40 years ago.
Which, I think, was the last time anyone scored a try in rugby union...
And now we come to the Lions Tour... Anyone who has Sky Sports or listens to TALKSport will know that there can't be any major football events happening this summer as this bloody visit to Australia has been plugged for the best part of six months.
I've ranted on this before on Facebook and now Twitter, and I'm ranting again here in my blog - THE AUSSIES DO NOT GIVE A DAMN ABOUT RUGBY UNION!!!
It's not even the fourth most popular sport in a country that has a population barely more than the sum total of the UK's five biggest cities. Aussie Rules, Rugby LEAGUE, Soccer and Cricket always lead the way Down Under.
So if the best players from England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland - as the Lions purport to be - cannot defeat Australia whose real rugby allegiance is with the League version, then it's a pretty poor show indeed.
A lot, nay all of this hullabaloo over the Lions' trip is class-orientated. It's a public school sport, don't forget - 'rugger' - where if you were to suggest playing the league version you'd be laughed out of the dorm.
It's always been the same with union. I can distinctly remember as a child listening to Sports Report on the good ol' BBC Radio 2 on a Saturday in the late 1970s and early 1980s awaiting to hear the report of Liverpool's latest victims on their way to another championship only being told that the football reports would come later as there had been an important match at Murrayfield, the Arms Park or Twickers.
It was the fact rugby union came first in the pecking order - even above the nation's number one sport. And it's still the case today. Rugby union reports dominate the airwaves around 6 Nations time even though a huge majority of the UK could not give a damn about it. But, we're force-fed the news of an exciting 6-3 game in which no tries were scored but three penalties landed in a contest for the purists - in other words, a load of rubbish that anyone watching with minor interest would have switched over to watch the test card.
Yes, bring back the test card!!!
So, just to round off my rant. No, I really couldn't care less if the Lions win, lose or draw in Australia. I won't be able to avoid it, working as I do on the sportsdesk.
I'm just looking forward to when the first little indiscretion happens when some player or other is caught on CCTV in a shop doorway snogging someone other than his wife or a half-cut star is punished for attempting to leap from a ferry to the dockside only to miss his target or someone, now, stay with me here, actually scores a try. The first two are dead certs, the other, well, what do you think?
You'll notice it's the 'union' code of the sport that's the key thing here.
The league version is pretty much faultless, one of the best sports to watch on TV, and - even though I never got a chance to at school - I reckon it must be an absolutely fantastic game to play.
League is so straightforward - six goes to attempt to score a try; if not you turn over possession. Not unlike another of my favourite sports, American Football, where you get four goes to attempt to move the ball 10 yards further into your opponents' territory and eventually kick a field goal or score a touchdown. Failure to move the ball without scoring means possession is turned over.
Now we come to rugby union... does anyone have a clue WTF is going on apart from the fact they're all trying to beat the living daylights out of each other before the referee awards a penalty which mystifies both sets of players, the fans in the stadium and those watching on TV - as well as the expert pundits?
Well, never mind, it's all part of the game which these days is to ensure your side earns enough penalties to overcome the opposition by booting the ball between the sticks without any defender having the chance to block the kick (unlike a field goal in American Football).
I am certain that after practice, anyone with a decent kicking leg and an eye for distance could boot a ball between two uprights without anyone bearing down on them in an attempt to stop them.
Sadly, and to its terrible detriment, the union code of the game has become almost totally reliant on the kicking game and penalties.
Great tries are so rare from open play, they still show Gareth Edwards's truly brilliant effort for the Barbarians against the All Blacks as the perfect example of how to score a try - and that was 40 years ago.
Which, I think, was the last time anyone scored a try in rugby union...
And now we come to the Lions Tour... Anyone who has Sky Sports or listens to TALKSport will know that there can't be any major football events happening this summer as this bloody visit to Australia has been plugged for the best part of six months.
I've ranted on this before on Facebook and now Twitter, and I'm ranting again here in my blog - THE AUSSIES DO NOT GIVE A DAMN ABOUT RUGBY UNION!!!
It's not even the fourth most popular sport in a country that has a population barely more than the sum total of the UK's five biggest cities. Aussie Rules, Rugby LEAGUE, Soccer and Cricket always lead the way Down Under.
So if the best players from England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland - as the Lions purport to be - cannot defeat Australia whose real rugby allegiance is with the League version, then it's a pretty poor show indeed.
A lot, nay all of this hullabaloo over the Lions' trip is class-orientated. It's a public school sport, don't forget - 'rugger' - where if you were to suggest playing the league version you'd be laughed out of the dorm.
It's always been the same with union. I can distinctly remember as a child listening to Sports Report on the good ol' BBC Radio 2 on a Saturday in the late 1970s and early 1980s awaiting to hear the report of Liverpool's latest victims on their way to another championship only being told that the football reports would come later as there had been an important match at Murrayfield, the Arms Park or Twickers.
It was the fact rugby union came first in the pecking order - even above the nation's number one sport. And it's still the case today. Rugby union reports dominate the airwaves around 6 Nations time even though a huge majority of the UK could not give a damn about it. But, we're force-fed the news of an exciting 6-3 game in which no tries were scored but three penalties landed in a contest for the purists - in other words, a load of rubbish that anyone watching with minor interest would have switched over to watch the test card.
Yes, bring back the test card!!!
So, just to round off my rant. No, I really couldn't care less if the Lions win, lose or draw in Australia. I won't be able to avoid it, working as I do on the sportsdesk.
I'm just looking forward to when the first little indiscretion happens when some player or other is caught on CCTV in a shop doorway snogging someone other than his wife or a half-cut star is punished for attempting to leap from a ferry to the dockside only to miss his target or someone, now, stay with me here, actually scores a try. The first two are dead certs, the other, well, what do you think?
Monday 8 April 2013
Speaking ill of the dead
I KNOW, I know, it's one of those taboo subjects.
When someone shuffles off this mortal coil, the general consensus is not to talk or write about that person without sympathetic feelings, whether you liked them or not.
Throughout my life, to the best of my knowledge, I have adhered to that moral guideline.
Today, I'm making an exception.
She may have been approaching 90 years on this planet and has not delivered a speech from a position of power since the late autumn of 1990.
But Margaret Hilda Roberts - or as we all knew her in those appalling times for this country, Maggie Thatcher - is no more.
And I, for one, am celebrating her passing today.
It's not for some sick, perverted reason that I am happy she is no longer with us.
I am simply thinking of the way she masterminded the destruction of this country in the 1980s wrecking families' lives across the length and breadth of the United Kingdom - indeed, creating a disunited kingdom.
From the shipyards on our coasts to the car plants in our big cities to our steelworks and mining communities, her policies condemned millions and millions of people, transforming their lives for the worst.
I was still in my final year at St Gregory's Junior School in Lydiate when she first entered Downing Street in May, 1979.
By the time she had departed in November, 1990, I had completed my years in high school, my degree and was a couple of months into my post-graduate journalism course in Preston.
So, in many ways, my knowledge of politics - left, right, and those irksome fence-sitters, developed over the years she was in office.
There was something about her I could never take to - her hideous, manipulated voice for a start - that forever sounded as if she was talking down to you - which, of course, she was.
And when I later saw that often-repeated footage of her delivering some of those words of St Francis of Assisi on the steps of Number 10 on that first day she became Prime Minister, it made my blood curdle. How she ever had the gall to use some of his wonderful prayer was beyond me.
Mind you, she didn't care who she pissed off - getting her own way was everything to her and the more enemies she made - and she made more than a ton - the more determined she seemed to become.
Even within her own Cabinet she made enemies - anyone remember Michael Heseltine and the infamous Westland affair for a start?
As with all Tories, it's foreign policy - and in particular the question of Europe - that did for her politically in the end.
Geoffrey Howe's famous speech in the Commons during that unforgettable November undid the ropes that were holding the bells back and within days the death knell was clanging and she was gone, driven with tears in her eyes out of Downing Street.
It was a joyful time for all left-leaning people like me and I can still recall to this day the celebratory party in Preston's Old Black Bull pub where the Boddington's flowed freely as we celebrated her political departure.
Today, it's been her final departure from this life and I'm certainly not going to apologise for raising a glass of red wine this evening to mark that.
For destroying the lives of countless millions of people in this country - and, as Crass sang, for the being the mother of a thousand dead in the Falklands - I'd be very happy to be joining those people lining up to tramp the dirt down on her grave (in the words of Elvis Costello's great song).
The problem is, I think I'd be ready to be drawing my old age pension by the time I'd got to the front of the queue... Mind you, I think it would be worth it.
When someone shuffles off this mortal coil, the general consensus is not to talk or write about that person without sympathetic feelings, whether you liked them or not.
Throughout my life, to the best of my knowledge, I have adhered to that moral guideline.
Today, I'm making an exception.
She may have been approaching 90 years on this planet and has not delivered a speech from a position of power since the late autumn of 1990.
But Margaret Hilda Roberts - or as we all knew her in those appalling times for this country, Maggie Thatcher - is no more.
And I, for one, am celebrating her passing today.
It's not for some sick, perverted reason that I am happy she is no longer with us.
I am simply thinking of the way she masterminded the destruction of this country in the 1980s wrecking families' lives across the length and breadth of the United Kingdom - indeed, creating a disunited kingdom.
From the shipyards on our coasts to the car plants in our big cities to our steelworks and mining communities, her policies condemned millions and millions of people, transforming their lives for the worst.
I was still in my final year at St Gregory's Junior School in Lydiate when she first entered Downing Street in May, 1979.
By the time she had departed in November, 1990, I had completed my years in high school, my degree and was a couple of months into my post-graduate journalism course in Preston.
So, in many ways, my knowledge of politics - left, right, and those irksome fence-sitters, developed over the years she was in office.
There was something about her I could never take to - her hideous, manipulated voice for a start - that forever sounded as if she was talking down to you - which, of course, she was.
And when I later saw that often-repeated footage of her delivering some of those words of St Francis of Assisi on the steps of Number 10 on that first day she became Prime Minister, it made my blood curdle. How she ever had the gall to use some of his wonderful prayer was beyond me.
Mind you, she didn't care who she pissed off - getting her own way was everything to her and the more enemies she made - and she made more than a ton - the more determined she seemed to become.
Even within her own Cabinet she made enemies - anyone remember Michael Heseltine and the infamous Westland affair for a start?
As with all Tories, it's foreign policy - and in particular the question of Europe - that did for her politically in the end.
Geoffrey Howe's famous speech in the Commons during that unforgettable November undid the ropes that were holding the bells back and within days the death knell was clanging and she was gone, driven with tears in her eyes out of Downing Street.
It was a joyful time for all left-leaning people like me and I can still recall to this day the celebratory party in Preston's Old Black Bull pub where the Boddington's flowed freely as we celebrated her political departure.
Today, it's been her final departure from this life and I'm certainly not going to apologise for raising a glass of red wine this evening to mark that.
For destroying the lives of countless millions of people in this country - and, as Crass sang, for the being the mother of a thousand dead in the Falklands - I'd be very happy to be joining those people lining up to tramp the dirt down on her grave (in the words of Elvis Costello's great song).
The problem is, I think I'd be ready to be drawing my old age pension by the time I'd got to the front of the queue... Mind you, I think it would be worth it.
Sunday 31 March 2013
Play Ball!!!
SO, after Miguel Cabrera was struck out by Sergio Romo ending the 2012 Fall Classic in favour of the San Francisco Giants over the Detroit Tigers last October, the 2013 Major League Baseball season is set to begin tonight over in the Lone Star State of Texas.
Most of you who know yours truly will be acutely aware that of all the sports I follow, baseball is king of the hill for me.
And for that, I have my Dad to be eternally grateful to.
It was when he was growing up in Liverpool in the late 1940s and early 1950s that he became hooked on America's National Pastime. US servicemen stationed in this part of the world after the Second World War often played the game against local sides. Baseball had been popular in the city during the 1930s and I think I'm right in saying Everton FC legend Dixie Dean once played in a game.
Well, my Dad enjoyed watching the contests locally and began tuning into the Armed Forces Radio network which regularly broadcast games from the United States of an evening from April to October. In those days, before the real advent of floodlight evening encounters, games were in the afternoon on the East Coast so would start around 5pm/6pm and be done and dusted by 10pm UK time at the latest.
Baseball, like cricket, is almost tailor-made for radio and during the 1950s he first began to follow the fortunes of the Brooklyn Dodgers before becoming a fan of the Boston Red Sox.
As a very small child I always knew my Dad loved baseball. Where most children had a cricket set (of course, I did) I was also aware of a strange, tanned over-large glove. There was only one that was way too big for my left hand, and for some reason I couldn't quite understand, it seemed to be without a pair. There was also a very heavy wooden stick that I had difficulty picking up and a hard, white, leather ball with a wonderfully-intricate stitched red seam.
In addition, my Dad's Father was a superbly-talented artist in his own right and had created a framed poem of something to to with baseball called Casey At The Bat.
These were strong and dominant images of my childhood so when I became a little older I began to appreciate why my Dad was an enthusiast for baseball.
It was the mid-1980s when I really began to follow the sport Stateside and became a supporter of the San Diego Padres - a completely unfashionable ballclub then, as they are now. Ask any average sports fan on this side of the Pond to identify some Major League Baseball franchises and they'll doubtless name the usual suspects - Yankees, Red Sox, Cubs, Dodgers, Giants, Cardinals. And then they might start to struggle. There's a very good chance they'd never have heard of my team.
Well, the Padres had a very good outfit in the mid-1980s reaching the 1984 World Series which they lost in five games to the powerful Detroit Tigers. Fourteen years later, they were back in their second-ever Fall Classic but this time lost in four straight games to the Yankees.
And that's it when it comes to the history of the San Diego Padres in World Series appearances. So what you can certainly deduce from my support for the team is I am in no way a 'glory-hunter'.
In many ways, though, baseball is much more than World Series triumphs. The game itself is simply wonderful as it pitches - literally - a confrontation between a man on a mound of earth exactly 60ft 6in from home plate where another man is brandishing a rounded bat with the hope of hitting whatever delivery the pitcher hurls his way. If he makes contact successfully 300 times in every 1000, he'll be regarded as a great batter. And that gives you an idea of how incredibly difficult that particular task is.
When all is said and done, like my Dad I simply love the game of baseball. I cannot think of another sport where the balance of fortune between success and failure is located on a knife-edge as thin as this. One pitch could mean a strikeout or a home run - it's that fine a situation.
I don't expect for one minute I'll convert all of you into baseball followers simply by reading this blog. But maybe, just maybe, you might understand my real enthusiasm for this fabulous sport.
I'm thrilled that my eldest son, Matthew, is continuing the family tradition and has nailed his colours north of the 49th Parallel and is fervently following the fortunes of the Toronto Blue Jays.
So with my Dad's Red Sox, Matthew's Blue Jays and my Padres, we'll all set again for what is sure to be another magical season of Major League Baseball.
Play Ball!!!
Most of you who know yours truly will be acutely aware that of all the sports I follow, baseball is king of the hill for me.
And for that, I have my Dad to be eternally grateful to.
It was when he was growing up in Liverpool in the late 1940s and early 1950s that he became hooked on America's National Pastime. US servicemen stationed in this part of the world after the Second World War often played the game against local sides. Baseball had been popular in the city during the 1930s and I think I'm right in saying Everton FC legend Dixie Dean once played in a game.
Well, my Dad enjoyed watching the contests locally and began tuning into the Armed Forces Radio network which regularly broadcast games from the United States of an evening from April to October. In those days, before the real advent of floodlight evening encounters, games were in the afternoon on the East Coast so would start around 5pm/6pm and be done and dusted by 10pm UK time at the latest.
Baseball, like cricket, is almost tailor-made for radio and during the 1950s he first began to follow the fortunes of the Brooklyn Dodgers before becoming a fan of the Boston Red Sox.
As a very small child I always knew my Dad loved baseball. Where most children had a cricket set (of course, I did) I was also aware of a strange, tanned over-large glove. There was only one that was way too big for my left hand, and for some reason I couldn't quite understand, it seemed to be without a pair. There was also a very heavy wooden stick that I had difficulty picking up and a hard, white, leather ball with a wonderfully-intricate stitched red seam.
In addition, my Dad's Father was a superbly-talented artist in his own right and had created a framed poem of something to to with baseball called Casey At The Bat.
These were strong and dominant images of my childhood so when I became a little older I began to appreciate why my Dad was an enthusiast for baseball.
It was the mid-1980s when I really began to follow the sport Stateside and became a supporter of the San Diego Padres - a completely unfashionable ballclub then, as they are now. Ask any average sports fan on this side of the Pond to identify some Major League Baseball franchises and they'll doubtless name the usual suspects - Yankees, Red Sox, Cubs, Dodgers, Giants, Cardinals. And then they might start to struggle. There's a very good chance they'd never have heard of my team.
Well, the Padres had a very good outfit in the mid-1980s reaching the 1984 World Series which they lost in five games to the powerful Detroit Tigers. Fourteen years later, they were back in their second-ever Fall Classic but this time lost in four straight games to the Yankees.
And that's it when it comes to the history of the San Diego Padres in World Series appearances. So what you can certainly deduce from my support for the team is I am in no way a 'glory-hunter'.
In many ways, though, baseball is much more than World Series triumphs. The game itself is simply wonderful as it pitches - literally - a confrontation between a man on a mound of earth exactly 60ft 6in from home plate where another man is brandishing a rounded bat with the hope of hitting whatever delivery the pitcher hurls his way. If he makes contact successfully 300 times in every 1000, he'll be regarded as a great batter. And that gives you an idea of how incredibly difficult that particular task is.
When all is said and done, like my Dad I simply love the game of baseball. I cannot think of another sport where the balance of fortune between success and failure is located on a knife-edge as thin as this. One pitch could mean a strikeout or a home run - it's that fine a situation.
I don't expect for one minute I'll convert all of you into baseball followers simply by reading this blog. But maybe, just maybe, you might understand my real enthusiasm for this fabulous sport.
I'm thrilled that my eldest son, Matthew, is continuing the family tradition and has nailed his colours north of the 49th Parallel and is fervently following the fortunes of the Toronto Blue Jays.
So with my Dad's Red Sox, Matthew's Blue Jays and my Padres, we'll all set again for what is sure to be another magical season of Major League Baseball.
Play Ball!!!
Thursday 14 March 2013
You gotta have faith...
THE appointment yesterday of Jorge Mario Bergoglio as the new Bishop of Rome, and, er the new head of 1.2 billion Roman Catholics around the planet as Pope Francis I, seems like a timely moment for me to open up about my faith.
I was baptised into a split Christian family. My Dad was a non-Church-going Protestant while my Mum was Roman Catholic. It was to her side of Christianity that I was brought up.
So, of course, when I became of an age it was Mass every Sunday morning, the Holy Days of Obligation (which in those days meant a day off school) and attending the big events in the Catholic Church's calendar.
I also went to Confession - several times between the ages of about 10 and 13 - until I called it quits entering my early teens.
I regularly attended Mass as a teenager but lessened as I approached my 20s. By the time I had reached my 30s I was attending about a dozen times per year, obviously on Easter Sunday and Christmas Day.
And now I'm into my mid-40s, that pretty much is still the picture with me and Mass. There have been a number of special Church services I have attended outside Sunday Mass, notably when Matthew made his First Holy Communion and was Confirmed. Both were joyous occasions.
What you must not deduce from my slackening off from attending Mass over all those years is any hint that my faith is waning. Far from it.
One of the things that both irks and intrigues me about people who profess to be atheists is their complete knowledge that there DEFINITELY is no God. Presumably, all have undeniable proof that this is the case, an open and shut case that requires no further investigation. I'd love to know HOW they know that.
It would hardly have been a 'Road To Damascus' moment for them, but I'd still like to know from them their undeniable evidence that shows they are 100% right and EVERYONE else who has faith in a God of whatever religion they follow is 100% wrong.
The fact is, atheists DON'T know for certain; and likewise, believers like myself DON'T know for certain either.
But this is where faith comes into play. Some 2000 or so years ago, a man who I believe was someone extraordinarily special, once said: "Happy are those who have not seen, and yet believe."
In the madness that my life often is juggling all the daily worries and woes, having that safety net of faith is something I could never do without.
There's a marvellous simple story called Footprints that I'm sure many of you know. I carry that round with me every day as its words are of a tremendous comfort. Its conclusion bears repeating:
"Lord, you said that once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why when I needed you most you would leave me."
The Lord replied: "My precious, precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you."
The election of the new Pontiff, in conclusion, won't change me at all when it comes to my faith. That will remain intact and won't be affected by whoever is in charge at the Vatican. Because even he, like me, will have to answer to someone higher one day... I hope and pray...
I was baptised into a split Christian family. My Dad was a non-Church-going Protestant while my Mum was Roman Catholic. It was to her side of Christianity that I was brought up.
So, of course, when I became of an age it was Mass every Sunday morning, the Holy Days of Obligation (which in those days meant a day off school) and attending the big events in the Catholic Church's calendar.
I also went to Confession - several times between the ages of about 10 and 13 - until I called it quits entering my early teens.
I regularly attended Mass as a teenager but lessened as I approached my 20s. By the time I had reached my 30s I was attending about a dozen times per year, obviously on Easter Sunday and Christmas Day.
And now I'm into my mid-40s, that pretty much is still the picture with me and Mass. There have been a number of special Church services I have attended outside Sunday Mass, notably when Matthew made his First Holy Communion and was Confirmed. Both were joyous occasions.
What you must not deduce from my slackening off from attending Mass over all those years is any hint that my faith is waning. Far from it.
One of the things that both irks and intrigues me about people who profess to be atheists is their complete knowledge that there DEFINITELY is no God. Presumably, all have undeniable proof that this is the case, an open and shut case that requires no further investigation. I'd love to know HOW they know that.
It would hardly have been a 'Road To Damascus' moment for them, but I'd still like to know from them their undeniable evidence that shows they are 100% right and EVERYONE else who has faith in a God of whatever religion they follow is 100% wrong.
The fact is, atheists DON'T know for certain; and likewise, believers like myself DON'T know for certain either.
But this is where faith comes into play. Some 2000 or so years ago, a man who I believe was someone extraordinarily special, once said: "Happy are those who have not seen, and yet believe."
In the madness that my life often is juggling all the daily worries and woes, having that safety net of faith is something I could never do without.
There's a marvellous simple story called Footprints that I'm sure many of you know. I carry that round with me every day as its words are of a tremendous comfort. Its conclusion bears repeating:
"Lord, you said that once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why when I needed you most you would leave me."
The Lord replied: "My precious, precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you."
The election of the new Pontiff, in conclusion, won't change me at all when it comes to my faith. That will remain intact and won't be affected by whoever is in charge at the Vatican. Because even he, like me, will have to answer to someone higher one day... I hope and pray...
Tuesday 5 March 2013
Time to recall that quiet man from the North East...
REMEMBER Bob Paisley? Obviously to football followers of a certain vintage - and particularly fans of Liverpool Football Club - it's a daft question.
He was the man who had the unenviable task of stepping into the role that had been held all the way from the winter of 1959 through to the high summer of 1974 by club legend Bill Shankly.
That celebrated son of Glenbuck helped pull the club up from its lowest ebb as a Second Division side to see it become a domestic and European powerhouse.
Shankly won many things as Liverpool boss - not least leading the team to its first FA Cup triumph in 1965 and breaking its European trophy duck when the UEFA Cup was won in 1973. In my view, he is the single most important man in the entire history of Liverpool Football Club.
It was some act for Paisley to follow - and boy, did he do it in style, all with a quiet professionalism that, given today's histrionics from some managers in particular, should be viewed as a breath of fresh air.
I cannot ever recall Paisley being brought before the football authorities with cases to answer for things he might have said during a game.
On the field, the teams Paisley managed were simply sensational and his record still stands the test of time.
Perhaps Sky Sports might like to take note of the fact he remains the only British football manager to lead a team to three European Cups.
Those trophies were achieved in an incredible spell of nine season at the Anfield helm. Six of those saw the Reds win the First Division title. Of the other three seasons, they finished runners-up by two points in his first campaign to Brian Clough's Derby County and by seven points in 1977-78 to Nottingham Forest, again Old Big 'Ead having the upper hand. His 'worst' league campaign came in 1980-81 when the Reds finished fifth, nine points behind Aston Villa. Remember, all these seasons were in the days when a win was just two points.
Having written all that, those 'barren' league years did reap a European Cup - Paisley's second - in 1977-78 and both a European Cup and the club's first-ever League Cup in season 1980-81.
His six league titles won in those nine remarkable seasons saw the Reds win the crown ahead of QPR, Manchester City, Nottingham Forest, Manchester United, Ipswich Town and Watford.
The last one - 1982-83 - saw the Reds run away with the top flight and they ended up winning it by a massive 11 points. They also added another League Cup for good measure.
All of which leads me to come to the not unreasonable conclusion that given the short amount of time he was in the post and amount of silverware won in that time, Paisley has to be regarded as the most successful manager in Liverpool's history and, indeed, British football history.
Yes, Ferguson's record is tremendous - but then he has been there more than a quarter-of-a-century and you would naturally expect silverware to follow. Otherwise, he would not have remained in the post given the magnitude of the club.
But as things stand, he still trails the man from Hetton-le-Hole in European Cups - and I for one hope that will forever be the case.
I'll leave the final word with the great man himself talking about managing the club:
"I said that when I took over that I would settle for a drop of Bell's once a month, a big bottle at the end of the season and a ride round the city in an open top bus!"
Rest In Peace, Sir Bob. Your record is still secure.
He was the man who had the unenviable task of stepping into the role that had been held all the way from the winter of 1959 through to the high summer of 1974 by club legend Bill Shankly.
That celebrated son of Glenbuck helped pull the club up from its lowest ebb as a Second Division side to see it become a domestic and European powerhouse.
Shankly won many things as Liverpool boss - not least leading the team to its first FA Cup triumph in 1965 and breaking its European trophy duck when the UEFA Cup was won in 1973. In my view, he is the single most important man in the entire history of Liverpool Football Club.
It was some act for Paisley to follow - and boy, did he do it in style, all with a quiet professionalism that, given today's histrionics from some managers in particular, should be viewed as a breath of fresh air.
I cannot ever recall Paisley being brought before the football authorities with cases to answer for things he might have said during a game.
On the field, the teams Paisley managed were simply sensational and his record still stands the test of time.
Perhaps Sky Sports might like to take note of the fact he remains the only British football manager to lead a team to three European Cups.
Those trophies were achieved in an incredible spell of nine season at the Anfield helm. Six of those saw the Reds win the First Division title. Of the other three seasons, they finished runners-up by two points in his first campaign to Brian Clough's Derby County and by seven points in 1977-78 to Nottingham Forest, again Old Big 'Ead having the upper hand. His 'worst' league campaign came in 1980-81 when the Reds finished fifth, nine points behind Aston Villa. Remember, all these seasons were in the days when a win was just two points.
Having written all that, those 'barren' league years did reap a European Cup - Paisley's second - in 1977-78 and both a European Cup and the club's first-ever League Cup in season 1980-81.
His six league titles won in those nine remarkable seasons saw the Reds win the crown ahead of QPR, Manchester City, Nottingham Forest, Manchester United, Ipswich Town and Watford.
The last one - 1982-83 - saw the Reds run away with the top flight and they ended up winning it by a massive 11 points. They also added another League Cup for good measure.
All of which leads me to come to the not unreasonable conclusion that given the short amount of time he was in the post and amount of silverware won in that time, Paisley has to be regarded as the most successful manager in Liverpool's history and, indeed, British football history.
Yes, Ferguson's record is tremendous - but then he has been there more than a quarter-of-a-century and you would naturally expect silverware to follow. Otherwise, he would not have remained in the post given the magnitude of the club.
But as things stand, he still trails the man from Hetton-le-Hole in European Cups - and I for one hope that will forever be the case.
I'll leave the final word with the great man himself talking about managing the club:
"I said that when I took over that I would settle for a drop of Bell's once a month, a big bottle at the end of the season and a ride round the city in an open top bus!"
Rest In Peace, Sir Bob. Your record is still secure.
Monday 11 February 2013
Just one of those games...
FOOTBALL will forever and a day throw up games such as the one witnessed at Anfield this evening.
Such is the nature of this sport that the best team over the 90 minutes are not guaranteed to be rewarded with a victory.
When Steven Gerrard saw his well-placed spot-kick pushed away by the imperious Ben Foster in front of The Kop with 13 minutes to go, the writing was on the wall.
And it hardly came as a shock to me when first Gareth McAuley headed in from a corner a few minutes later before Romelu Lukaku tagged on a second for the Baggies as we chased to try and pinch a point from a match where we should have had all three.
It certainly wasn't for the want of trying; this was no gutless effort that the debacle against Aston Villa most certainly was in the run-up to the festive season.
Some 14 efforts on target from a total count of 23, plus 13 corners shows this was a side intent on attacking throughout the contest.
But in West Bromwich Albion goalkeeper Foster, we came up against a player who was having one of those "tell the grandchildren" matches.
His stops from Gerrard - twice (including the penalty) - and one from Jordan Henderson's cute flick from a brilliant move created down the right flank were simply incredible.
Just like John Ruddy and Michael Vorm last season at Anfield, Foster produced a string of stops that rightfully earned him the man-of-the-match accolade.
And that tells you everything about tonight's contest. When the opposition goalkeeper is handed that honour, you absolutely know it's been one of those games.
I thought Brendan Rodgers got it spot-on in his post-match comments. He was right - the players did try their best and he certainly couldn't fault them for effort.
I avoided the moan-ins because listening to to the knee-jerk jerks is really a waste of your life.
So two super displays against Arsenal and Manchester City that gleaned just two points have been followed by this disappointing home reverse.
It certainly makes qualifying for the Champions (sic) League a more difficult task and it would require us to go on a remarkable winning streak while hoping other sides above us drop points.
Of course that's possible - anything in football is possible - but for now all we can focus on is the Europa League.
And in my book, I think that should be the primary attention of our efforts right now.
A fourth place finish or lifting our ninth major European trophy in May in Amsterdam?
C'mon, do I really need to answer that one?
Such is the nature of this sport that the best team over the 90 minutes are not guaranteed to be rewarded with a victory.
When Steven Gerrard saw his well-placed spot-kick pushed away by the imperious Ben Foster in front of The Kop with 13 minutes to go, the writing was on the wall.
And it hardly came as a shock to me when first Gareth McAuley headed in from a corner a few minutes later before Romelu Lukaku tagged on a second for the Baggies as we chased to try and pinch a point from a match where we should have had all three.
It certainly wasn't for the want of trying; this was no gutless effort that the debacle against Aston Villa most certainly was in the run-up to the festive season.
Some 14 efforts on target from a total count of 23, plus 13 corners shows this was a side intent on attacking throughout the contest.
But in West Bromwich Albion goalkeeper Foster, we came up against a player who was having one of those "tell the grandchildren" matches.
His stops from Gerrard - twice (including the penalty) - and one from Jordan Henderson's cute flick from a brilliant move created down the right flank were simply incredible.
Just like John Ruddy and Michael Vorm last season at Anfield, Foster produced a string of stops that rightfully earned him the man-of-the-match accolade.
And that tells you everything about tonight's contest. When the opposition goalkeeper is handed that honour, you absolutely know it's been one of those games.
I thought Brendan Rodgers got it spot-on in his post-match comments. He was right - the players did try their best and he certainly couldn't fault them for effort.
I avoided the moan-ins because listening to to the knee-jerk jerks is really a waste of your life.
So two super displays against Arsenal and Manchester City that gleaned just two points have been followed by this disappointing home reverse.
It certainly makes qualifying for the Champions (sic) League a more difficult task and it would require us to go on a remarkable winning streak while hoping other sides above us drop points.
Of course that's possible - anything in football is possible - but for now all we can focus on is the Europa League.
And in my book, I think that should be the primary attention of our efforts right now.
A fourth place finish or lifting our ninth major European trophy in May in Amsterdam?
C'mon, do I really need to answer that one?
Thursday 7 February 2013
Carra has called it a career
THE word 'legend' is banded about so frequently these days, particularly on Sky Sports and TALKSport, that it seems to have lost its true meaning.
Journeymen footballers who have clocked up barely a couple of hundred matches playing for a whole raft of clubs since 1992 (which, as we all know, was when football officially started in this country) are given the 'L' word next to their name when even the word 'great' - a rank below in my book - could hardly be justified.
But there is no doubt in my mind that the word 'legend' can quite comfortably fit in the same sentence when describing Liverpool Football Club player Jamie Carragher.
The long-serving Reds star announced on Thursday lunchtime that this season will be his 17th and final one as a professional footballer. All 17 of them spent at Anfield.
All Reds fans knew this decision was coming one day - and Thursday, February 7, 2013 just happened to be that day.
In many ways, it sums Carra up as the sort of man we all know he is. To avoid any speculation about his future with the club, talk that could well have disrupted the team at the business end of the season both in Europe and fighting for as higher-placed finish as possible in the Premier League, Carra has stopped the debate before it has even begun. A brilliant move by a brilliant player. As timely a block as any one of the countless ones he has performed defending the Liverpool goal since he made his debut way back in January, 1997 - it tells you how long ago that was as John Major was still in Number 10, Everton had only gone two seasons without winning a trophy, I had been married less than 12 months and no-one had ever heard of Simon Cowell (apart from Sinitta, probably).
Fast forward a little over 193 months and more than 700 appearances later and you have in Jamie Carragher one of the greatest-ever careers for Liverpool Football Club.
From a Bootle lad who grew up an Evertonian before becoming a committed Liverpudlian, Jamie has come a long, long way. His achievements wearing that red shirt are well-documented with his defensive heroics in Istanbul on that unforgettable late spring evening in 2005 cementing his title 'legend'.
His work off the field too has been nothing short of magnificent with his 23 Foundation, a charitable body helping causes in Merseyside, a wonderful legacy.
And it is with '23' in mind that I believe that Liverpool Football Club should do Bootle's great son the real honour of being the first player in the club's illustrious history to have their shirt number officially retired.
Back in the summer of 2009, in a series of offbeat sporting features I wrote for the Football Echo - 'Left Field' - I argued the case that it was time for football clubs to start to follow the American sporting tradition and retire shirt numbers for those players who truly merited the honour.
The Stateside sport I follow in particular, Major League Baseball, has numerous examples of this, with the team I have supported for almost 30 years, the San Diego Padres, having five former players' jersey numbers retired. There's a prize if anyone can name that famous quintet... no, there isn't, but at least it caught your attention!
Now is the time for Carragher's 23 to be retired. Who else - apart from Robbie Fowler's very early days - can you picture wearing that number?
What a great thing that would be and a very worthy recipient of such an honour.
They say no player is bigger than the club - that's true, of course. But some players truly deserve being honoured more than others. And what better way than to say thanks for a wonderful career - you will never be forgotten here. And we're going to show it by retiring your shirt number.
I just wonder whether even now Messrs Henry and Werner are thinking about this idea, bearing in mind all the numbers that have been retired at Fenway Park over the years.
So the sun is about to set on Jamie's glittering career. Sadly for him it will finish without a Premier League winner's medal - but it certainly wasn't for the want of trying on his part.
And he can console himself with the fact that just like Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman always had Paris, he'll always have Istanbul.
Journeymen footballers who have clocked up barely a couple of hundred matches playing for a whole raft of clubs since 1992 (which, as we all know, was when football officially started in this country) are given the 'L' word next to their name when even the word 'great' - a rank below in my book - could hardly be justified.
But there is no doubt in my mind that the word 'legend' can quite comfortably fit in the same sentence when describing Liverpool Football Club player Jamie Carragher.
The long-serving Reds star announced on Thursday lunchtime that this season will be his 17th and final one as a professional footballer. All 17 of them spent at Anfield.
All Reds fans knew this decision was coming one day - and Thursday, February 7, 2013 just happened to be that day.
In many ways, it sums Carra up as the sort of man we all know he is. To avoid any speculation about his future with the club, talk that could well have disrupted the team at the business end of the season both in Europe and fighting for as higher-placed finish as possible in the Premier League, Carra has stopped the debate before it has even begun. A brilliant move by a brilliant player. As timely a block as any one of the countless ones he has performed defending the Liverpool goal since he made his debut way back in January, 1997 - it tells you how long ago that was as John Major was still in Number 10, Everton had only gone two seasons without winning a trophy, I had been married less than 12 months and no-one had ever heard of Simon Cowell (apart from Sinitta, probably).
Fast forward a little over 193 months and more than 700 appearances later and you have in Jamie Carragher one of the greatest-ever careers for Liverpool Football Club.
From a Bootle lad who grew up an Evertonian before becoming a committed Liverpudlian, Jamie has come a long, long way. His achievements wearing that red shirt are well-documented with his defensive heroics in Istanbul on that unforgettable late spring evening in 2005 cementing his title 'legend'.
His work off the field too has been nothing short of magnificent with his 23 Foundation, a charitable body helping causes in Merseyside, a wonderful legacy.
And it is with '23' in mind that I believe that Liverpool Football Club should do Bootle's great son the real honour of being the first player in the club's illustrious history to have their shirt number officially retired.
Back in the summer of 2009, in a series of offbeat sporting features I wrote for the Football Echo - 'Left Field' - I argued the case that it was time for football clubs to start to follow the American sporting tradition and retire shirt numbers for those players who truly merited the honour.
The Stateside sport I follow in particular, Major League Baseball, has numerous examples of this, with the team I have supported for almost 30 years, the San Diego Padres, having five former players' jersey numbers retired. There's a prize if anyone can name that famous quintet... no, there isn't, but at least it caught your attention!
Now is the time for Carragher's 23 to be retired. Who else - apart from Robbie Fowler's very early days - can you picture wearing that number?
What a great thing that would be and a very worthy recipient of such an honour.
They say no player is bigger than the club - that's true, of course. But some players truly deserve being honoured more than others. And what better way than to say thanks for a wonderful career - you will never be forgotten here. And we're going to show it by retiring your shirt number.
I just wonder whether even now Messrs Henry and Werner are thinking about this idea, bearing in mind all the numbers that have been retired at Fenway Park over the years.
So the sun is about to set on Jamie's glittering career. Sadly for him it will finish without a Premier League winner's medal - but it certainly wasn't for the want of trying on his part.
And he can console himself with the fact that just like Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman always had Paris, he'll always have Istanbul.
Friday 1 February 2013
Two contrasting stories about money
REMEMBER that campaign from back in 2005, I think? Make Poverty History.
There was a big gig at Hyde Park and all the usual suspects were there playing to highlight a cause to do just that.
That laudible but ultimately impossible dream was brought to mind sharply this week when I read a story that just disgusted me.
I guess many of you would have seen the story of a 28-year-old woman who went on an evening out with her pals at a London nightclub - and racked up a bar bill of, and I'm looking at a copy of the till receipt prinited in Thursday's paper, £30,676.25.
Absolutely obscene.
Heiress Tamara Ecclestone was the partygoer in question as her night out consisted of 28 bottles of Cristal champagne (£450 per bottle), two magnums of Cristal, one Jeroboam of Cristal and seven bottles of Cristal Rose.
Yep, do you get the impression she's got a thing for Cristal?
And flaunting her ridiculous wealth made possible as she's the daughter of billionaire F1 boss Bernie Ecclestone.
In Ms Ecclestone's defence, she did give a generous tip - £4001.25 - but the whole story made me so angry.
You wonder with that sort of behaviour what world individuals like Ms Ecclestone inhabit because it certainly isn't the one that I know.
So yeah, Make Poverty History? You're having a laugh, right?
That story really angered me but within hours there was something to cheer the heart.
I'm no fan of the Beckhams - especially "Posh" whose miserable face gets on my nerves every time I see that bloody pout.
But I was delighted to read that David is donating all of his £3.4m salary for joining PSG on Transfer Deadline Day to a kids' charity in the French capital.
Of course, he doesn't need the money as he and his missus are millionaires many times over.
But the principal of his action was spot-on and it would be nice to think this would kick-start other people in a similar position to follow suit.
What a week's wages, for instance, of a leading player for Everton or Liverpool could do to the grassroots footy in Liverpool. I've seen with my own eyes some of the facilities the children have to use in Merseyside and to think £50,000 was on its way to helping schemes would be so welcome.
I'd like to think poverty would be made a thing of the past one glorious day, but although David Beckham's action was so good I fear tales like that of Ms Ecclestone's obscene excesses will never go away, sadly.
There was a big gig at Hyde Park and all the usual suspects were there playing to highlight a cause to do just that.
That laudible but ultimately impossible dream was brought to mind sharply this week when I read a story that just disgusted me.
I guess many of you would have seen the story of a 28-year-old woman who went on an evening out with her pals at a London nightclub - and racked up a bar bill of, and I'm looking at a copy of the till receipt prinited in Thursday's paper, £30,676.25.
Absolutely obscene.
Heiress Tamara Ecclestone was the partygoer in question as her night out consisted of 28 bottles of Cristal champagne (£450 per bottle), two magnums of Cristal, one Jeroboam of Cristal and seven bottles of Cristal Rose.
Yep, do you get the impression she's got a thing for Cristal?
And flaunting her ridiculous wealth made possible as she's the daughter of billionaire F1 boss Bernie Ecclestone.
In Ms Ecclestone's defence, she did give a generous tip - £4001.25 - but the whole story made me so angry.
You wonder with that sort of behaviour what world individuals like Ms Ecclestone inhabit because it certainly isn't the one that I know.
So yeah, Make Poverty History? You're having a laugh, right?
That story really angered me but within hours there was something to cheer the heart.
I'm no fan of the Beckhams - especially "Posh" whose miserable face gets on my nerves every time I see that bloody pout.
But I was delighted to read that David is donating all of his £3.4m salary for joining PSG on Transfer Deadline Day to a kids' charity in the French capital.
Of course, he doesn't need the money as he and his missus are millionaires many times over.
But the principal of his action was spot-on and it would be nice to think this would kick-start other people in a similar position to follow suit.
What a week's wages, for instance, of a leading player for Everton or Liverpool could do to the grassroots footy in Liverpool. I've seen with my own eyes some of the facilities the children have to use in Merseyside and to think £50,000 was on its way to helping schemes would be so welcome.
I'd like to think poverty would be made a thing of the past one glorious day, but although David Beckham's action was so good I fear tales like that of Ms Ecclestone's obscene excesses will never go away, sadly.
Sunday 20 January 2013
Guilty Pleasures # 1
Titanic. There I've said it, or rather written it.
Back in 1997 it was the film everybody had to see at the cinema. And I was one of the millions around the world who went to see it - at the Showcase on the East Lancs Road.
And I was completely blown away by it.
Moreover, those in the know who were dishing out the Academy Awards gave the movie 11 Oscars - including the creme de la creme of Best Picture.
Yesterday, for the first time in a good few years I watched the film all the way through having caught the odd few minutes of it when it's been on TV.
It was the first time Matthew had seen it, and, like his Dad, he loved it.
What's not to like about it? Yes, the centrepiece tale surrounding the romance between first class passenger Rose (Kate Winslet) and third class passenger Jack (Leonado DiCaprio) is fictional, but the way it is woven into the rest of the tragic story of the great ship and its hundreds of occupants is pretty much seamless.
It's an epic film on every level from the incredible way the vessel was brought to life to the poignant images of its grave at the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean.
There's a section in the movie that starts the tears rolling down my face every time I see it. As the famed small band play on the deck with unimaginable chaos all around them, there's a scene that lasts barely 10 or 15 seconds. An Irish mother in third class steerage is talking ever so softly to her two small children lying next to each other in their cramped little cabin bed. She knows they are all about to perish and in their final moments she soothes them into their final sleep with the story of Tir na nOg - an Irish folk story. It's so wonderfully filmed, right from the heart, and it gets me every single time I see it.
The scene where the one returning lifeboat tries to rescue passengers left in the freezing water is also incredibly moving while the film's spiritual climax which follows Rose's death on board the search vessel is simply perfect.
The story of the RMS Titanic, above all, is one of human tragedy on an incredible scale - more than 1,500 poor souls never made it to America on that fateful journey. And, of course, the majority were those travelling in third class. Yes, class played a significant role over those last hours whether you were to live or die.
Titanic is definitely one of my all-time favourite movies - not least because I'm emotionally caught up in what happens on the screen and actually care about what's happening to the characters. Those are always the best types of films. And those who know me know this list of pictures also includes such gems as It's A Wonderful Life, Tess, Saving Private Ryan, A Bridge Too Far, JFK and, of course, Field Of Dreams.
I guess some of you won't see what all the fuss is about with Titanic. But for me, it's a fabulous film.
Oh, and La Winslet is just stunning too...
Back in 1997 it was the film everybody had to see at the cinema. And I was one of the millions around the world who went to see it - at the Showcase on the East Lancs Road.
And I was completely blown away by it.
Moreover, those in the know who were dishing out the Academy Awards gave the movie 11 Oscars - including the creme de la creme of Best Picture.
Yesterday, for the first time in a good few years I watched the film all the way through having caught the odd few minutes of it when it's been on TV.
It was the first time Matthew had seen it, and, like his Dad, he loved it.
What's not to like about it? Yes, the centrepiece tale surrounding the romance between first class passenger Rose (Kate Winslet) and third class passenger Jack (Leonado DiCaprio) is fictional, but the way it is woven into the rest of the tragic story of the great ship and its hundreds of occupants is pretty much seamless.
It's an epic film on every level from the incredible way the vessel was brought to life to the poignant images of its grave at the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean.
There's a section in the movie that starts the tears rolling down my face every time I see it. As the famed small band play on the deck with unimaginable chaos all around them, there's a scene that lasts barely 10 or 15 seconds. An Irish mother in third class steerage is talking ever so softly to her two small children lying next to each other in their cramped little cabin bed. She knows they are all about to perish and in their final moments she soothes them into their final sleep with the story of Tir na nOg - an Irish folk story. It's so wonderfully filmed, right from the heart, and it gets me every single time I see it.
The scene where the one returning lifeboat tries to rescue passengers left in the freezing water is also incredibly moving while the film's spiritual climax which follows Rose's death on board the search vessel is simply perfect.
The story of the RMS Titanic, above all, is one of human tragedy on an incredible scale - more than 1,500 poor souls never made it to America on that fateful journey. And, of course, the majority were those travelling in third class. Yes, class played a significant role over those last hours whether you were to live or die.
Titanic is definitely one of my all-time favourite movies - not least because I'm emotionally caught up in what happens on the screen and actually care about what's happening to the characters. Those are always the best types of films. And those who know me know this list of pictures also includes such gems as It's A Wonderful Life, Tess, Saving Private Ryan, A Bridge Too Far, JFK and, of course, Field Of Dreams.
I guess some of you won't see what all the fuss is about with Titanic. But for me, it's a fabulous film.
Oh, and La Winslet is just stunning too...
Monday 14 January 2013
Say it ain't so, Nipper
SO, farewell, then, HMV?
My God, it really will be the end of something truly iconic in our high street if HMV joins Comet, Jessops, Woolworths et al as a long-established firm that is no longer with us.
This news tonight has upset me on so many levels, not least as one of my good friends works for the firm. I hope for his sake alone something can be done and the company will be saved.
Yes, we all know the way people listen to music and watch movies has changed dramatically in recent years.
And if you want my opinion - and yes, label me an old fart if you so please (and I know many of you will) - these changes are not for the better.
This bloody downloading of stuff onto an array of electronic devices has reached unbelievable levels.
But at what cost?
I'm pretty sure that if you asked an average teenager to show you their record collection, they'd look quizzically at you and ask you what a record was.
If you said a CD they might mutter about having a couple of those things in the plastic cases but they don't go in for them anymore.
Instead, their entire music collection is stored on a hard drive of some device or other.
Oh, so you haven't actually got the sleeve notes - or indeed the sleeve - to hold, and read, then?
Again, you'd be asked to explain what a sleeve was.
I am absolutely heartbroken to see this particular "progress" when it comes to music. Is this what it all means to the purchasers of music these days that something can be downloaded and stored without actually physically owning the said piece or pieces of music? If it is - and I guess it must be - then, to quote Private Fraser from Dad's Army: "We're all doomed!"
I've just read a shocking statistic that says 73.4% or music and film is downloaded today.
What is it with people? Don't they actually like to hold CDs and DVDs in their hands any more, never mind vinyl which I still love - and always will.
It also appears that HMV has been one of the victims of tax legislation while the vast juggernaut that is Amazon has managed to avoid paying tax so is making a fortune at the expense of companies such as HMV.
I'm not going to lie - I use Amazon. But I spent more money at HMV in 2012 than I did at Amazon, including a big chunk at Christmas where the queues in the Liverpool One outlet had to be seen to be believed. I have never in my life seen queues as big as the ones I stood in in that store in the weekend before Christmas. Surely to God that branch made a decent buck?
I just hope something will be done to save HMV because we will all miss it so much if it disappears from our high street.
Progress? Yeah, right...
My God, it really will be the end of something truly iconic in our high street if HMV joins Comet, Jessops, Woolworths et al as a long-established firm that is no longer with us.
This news tonight has upset me on so many levels, not least as one of my good friends works for the firm. I hope for his sake alone something can be done and the company will be saved.
Yes, we all know the way people listen to music and watch movies has changed dramatically in recent years.
And if you want my opinion - and yes, label me an old fart if you so please (and I know many of you will) - these changes are not for the better.
This bloody downloading of stuff onto an array of electronic devices has reached unbelievable levels.
But at what cost?
I'm pretty sure that if you asked an average teenager to show you their record collection, they'd look quizzically at you and ask you what a record was.
If you said a CD they might mutter about having a couple of those things in the plastic cases but they don't go in for them anymore.
Instead, their entire music collection is stored on a hard drive of some device or other.
Oh, so you haven't actually got the sleeve notes - or indeed the sleeve - to hold, and read, then?
Again, you'd be asked to explain what a sleeve was.
I am absolutely heartbroken to see this particular "progress" when it comes to music. Is this what it all means to the purchasers of music these days that something can be downloaded and stored without actually physically owning the said piece or pieces of music? If it is - and I guess it must be - then, to quote Private Fraser from Dad's Army: "We're all doomed!"
I've just read a shocking statistic that says 73.4% or music and film is downloaded today.
What is it with people? Don't they actually like to hold CDs and DVDs in their hands any more, never mind vinyl which I still love - and always will.
It also appears that HMV has been one of the victims of tax legislation while the vast juggernaut that is Amazon has managed to avoid paying tax so is making a fortune at the expense of companies such as HMV.
I'm not going to lie - I use Amazon. But I spent more money at HMV in 2012 than I did at Amazon, including a big chunk at Christmas where the queues in the Liverpool One outlet had to be seen to be believed. I have never in my life seen queues as big as the ones I stood in in that store in the weekend before Christmas. Surely to God that branch made a decent buck?
I just hope something will be done to save HMV because we will all miss it so much if it disappears from our high street.
Progress? Yeah, right...
Saturday 12 January 2013
What entertains us will always be subjective
I KNOW, I know, stating the bleeding obvious.
There is no right or wrong answer to the question of entertainment - in this instance I am referring to the vast world of comedy.
Today I saw three different types of entertainment that could be stuffed into the pigeonhole marked 'Comedy'.
There was a pantomime, the latest 'winner' from ITV and the most recent material from a writer and performer who is one of the best acts from my generation.
To the pantomime first. And it was a most enjoyable visit to the Theatre Royal in St Helens with the Liverpool Deaf Children's Society to see Cinderella.
Oh yes, we all know the story etc etc but in this most miserable of the calendar's 12 months - by a country mile - I would recommend pantomime to help get rid of the January blues, at least for a few hours or so.
I've been having a rough couple of days, capped by a 24-hour flu-like bug that drained me of all energy between Thursday night and Friday night. I felt bloody awful and a coach trip to St Helens didn't fill me with much enthusiasm.
But by God, how glad I was I made the trip. The show was top notch with the bloke who used to play Andy McDonald in Coronation Street marvellous as Buttons and the illusionist Richard De Vere making a wonderfully dastardly Dandini.
And it was his character who said what I reckon is the funniest lines I've ever heard in a panto, to do with his choice of headgear. The payoff line was "Wear the fox hat" so you can work it out for yourselves what that was supposed to mean. The way it was delivered only added to the hilarity of the moment.
All in all, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and with the LDCS getting a special mention it made the trip one to remember.
The second piece of entertainment with comedic input is ITV's latest attempt to drag "celebrities" into the limelight with something we can all have a laugh at. We've seen them dining out on the private parts of unfortunate Aussie roadkill as well as sliding on their backsides on frozen water as Tony Gubba delivers his expertise on the finesse of the triple-salko.
Now, they're attempting to copy Tom Daley by leaping off ridiculously high boards into 20 feet of water being judged by comedienne Jo Brand in a show called Splash!. No, honestly, you truly, truly could not possibly make this up.
Ironically, or coincidentally, one of the stars of Cinderella, Tina Malone, is on next week's show and De Vere took the piss out of her during the panto for going on it!
Of course, viewers can, ahem, interact and spend yet more money ringing in saying whose dive was the best.
Or in the case of tonight's show, whose swimming cossie was the skimpiest - Sky Sports presenter Charlotte Jackson won that hands down in a number that could only have been designed by Edward Scissorhands.
Is this how far TV entertainment has sunk - to the depths of a swimming pool? I fully expect Chris Eubank to be limbering up for his trail of youth hostels in the UK or maybe another show as Eric Bristow, fresh from his appearance in the jungle, trains celebrities to sling arrows in some darts challenge or other with Jim Bowen drafted in to ask some questions in a sort of 2013 version of Bullseye. Given time, it could happen.
The third piece of entertainment was the DVD bought for me by Louise at Christmas of Mid Morning Matters.
This is Steve Coogan's latest stint as arguably his greatest creation - although I really loved Paul Calf back in the day - dreadful DJ and failed TV host Alan Partridge. Set in the studio of a digital radio station in, where else but Norfolk, Coogan is in fine form once again with comedy set-pieces so well written with killer, individual lines that set him apart. The name 'City Break', for example, was used in one and it was so well observed, once more contributing to the comedic value of the piece.
Coogan is one of only a relatively few number of comedy performers of today's generation I could watch again and again. Larry David is another and I'll be blogging about him too in the future. I also like Sarah Millican, both as a performer and for other reasons too...
In fact, it tells you something that by far and away the funniest thing I saw on TV in the whole of 2012 was actor William Shatner's guest appearance as the host on an unforgettable edition of Have I Got News For You. His line about hookers in a small Devon town must be viewed on You Tube if you've yet to see it.
To wind up, as I've been wittering on for a bit, I know. It really is true that what entertains us will always be subjective but at least we can all agree on one thing: Jim Davidson, despite what it might say on Wikipedia, is not a comedian.
There is no right or wrong answer to the question of entertainment - in this instance I am referring to the vast world of comedy.
Today I saw three different types of entertainment that could be stuffed into the pigeonhole marked 'Comedy'.
There was a pantomime, the latest 'winner' from ITV and the most recent material from a writer and performer who is one of the best acts from my generation.
To the pantomime first. And it was a most enjoyable visit to the Theatre Royal in St Helens with the Liverpool Deaf Children's Society to see Cinderella.
Oh yes, we all know the story etc etc but in this most miserable of the calendar's 12 months - by a country mile - I would recommend pantomime to help get rid of the January blues, at least for a few hours or so.
I've been having a rough couple of days, capped by a 24-hour flu-like bug that drained me of all energy between Thursday night and Friday night. I felt bloody awful and a coach trip to St Helens didn't fill me with much enthusiasm.
But by God, how glad I was I made the trip. The show was top notch with the bloke who used to play Andy McDonald in Coronation Street marvellous as Buttons and the illusionist Richard De Vere making a wonderfully dastardly Dandini.
And it was his character who said what I reckon is the funniest lines I've ever heard in a panto, to do with his choice of headgear. The payoff line was "Wear the fox hat" so you can work it out for yourselves what that was supposed to mean. The way it was delivered only added to the hilarity of the moment.
All in all, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and with the LDCS getting a special mention it made the trip one to remember.
The second piece of entertainment with comedic input is ITV's latest attempt to drag "celebrities" into the limelight with something we can all have a laugh at. We've seen them dining out on the private parts of unfortunate Aussie roadkill as well as sliding on their backsides on frozen water as Tony Gubba delivers his expertise on the finesse of the triple-salko.
Now, they're attempting to copy Tom Daley by leaping off ridiculously high boards into 20 feet of water being judged by comedienne Jo Brand in a show called Splash!. No, honestly, you truly, truly could not possibly make this up.
Ironically, or coincidentally, one of the stars of Cinderella, Tina Malone, is on next week's show and De Vere took the piss out of her during the panto for going on it!
Of course, viewers can, ahem, interact and spend yet more money ringing in saying whose dive was the best.
Or in the case of tonight's show, whose swimming cossie was the skimpiest - Sky Sports presenter Charlotte Jackson won that hands down in a number that could only have been designed by Edward Scissorhands.
Is this how far TV entertainment has sunk - to the depths of a swimming pool? I fully expect Chris Eubank to be limbering up for his trail of youth hostels in the UK or maybe another show as Eric Bristow, fresh from his appearance in the jungle, trains celebrities to sling arrows in some darts challenge or other with Jim Bowen drafted in to ask some questions in a sort of 2013 version of Bullseye. Given time, it could happen.
The third piece of entertainment was the DVD bought for me by Louise at Christmas of Mid Morning Matters.
This is Steve Coogan's latest stint as arguably his greatest creation - although I really loved Paul Calf back in the day - dreadful DJ and failed TV host Alan Partridge. Set in the studio of a digital radio station in, where else but Norfolk, Coogan is in fine form once again with comedy set-pieces so well written with killer, individual lines that set him apart. The name 'City Break', for example, was used in one and it was so well observed, once more contributing to the comedic value of the piece.
Coogan is one of only a relatively few number of comedy performers of today's generation I could watch again and again. Larry David is another and I'll be blogging about him too in the future. I also like Sarah Millican, both as a performer and for other reasons too...
In fact, it tells you something that by far and away the funniest thing I saw on TV in the whole of 2012 was actor William Shatner's guest appearance as the host on an unforgettable edition of Have I Got News For You. His line about hookers in a small Devon town must be viewed on You Tube if you've yet to see it.
To wind up, as I've been wittering on for a bit, I know. It really is true that what entertains us will always be subjective but at least we can all agree on one thing: Jim Davidson, despite what it might say on Wikipedia, is not a comedian.
Wednesday 9 January 2013
How to make us all feel so insignificant
THERE'S great TV to be seen each evening this week on BBC2 as Stargazing Live has returned to our screens.
I wish it had been a subject at school all those years ago with the teacher leading the class clearly enthused about the stuff he was teaching. (I'll return to this matter on another Blog).
Anyway, Professor Brian Cox - yes, it's the brainy D:Ream bloke again - is once again educating and enlightening us on things I don't claim to understand in the slightest but sound, for want of a better word, astronomical.
Maths at school was a complete waste of time for me. Bloody hated the subject and found it so tedious, especially calculus (for me, he was Tintin's eccentric professor pal), logarithms (do they still do them?) and algebra (x +y - x = whatever). Could never get into it at all.
So you'd naturally expect, when maths and massive numbers are mentioned with carefree abandon by the experts talking about the universe, that I'd switch off.
Far from it.
I'm just in complete awe of what they're talking about. Even if I don't really understand it. Which I don't.
There was a sequence in tonight's programme, for instance, where a mathematical formula had been found to calculate, roughly, the age of the universe. Apparently it's around 15 billion years or so. How that figure was reached, God (literally) only knows.
What I do know is it was all incredibly entertaining and made me want to find out more about what's above us.
There was also a really interesting piece about the red supergiant star Betelgeuse. This thing is big. And when I say big, I really do mean seriously vast. Apparently, it's diameter is about 1,000 times bigger than our own Sun. In fact, if it were placed in the position of the Sun, its surface would stretch out past Mars!
And the thing about Betelgeuse is it could explode anytime soon! It's burnt away all of its hydrogen leaving helium and could blow big style, creating a supernova. We would see the light from this explosion on Earth for a fortnight!
All this only added to the 'wow factor' the programme generated. There's an event at Martin Mere on the 19th of this month between 7pm and 9pm where you can go stargazing with experts on hand to tell you what you're looking at so I'm aiming to go to that - it promises to be great, so long as the sky is clear.
The main feeling I got from watching the programme is how completely insignificant Earth is in relation to the rest of the Universe. We're just a tiny pinprick of a microdot on the whole, ever-moving picture of the Universe.
It certainly makes you think as well as making you want to gaze upwards to the heavens and ask that question we all ask and want to know the definitive answer to: Just why are we all here?
I wish it had been a subject at school all those years ago with the teacher leading the class clearly enthused about the stuff he was teaching. (I'll return to this matter on another Blog).
Anyway, Professor Brian Cox - yes, it's the brainy D:Ream bloke again - is once again educating and enlightening us on things I don't claim to understand in the slightest but sound, for want of a better word, astronomical.
Maths at school was a complete waste of time for me. Bloody hated the subject and found it so tedious, especially calculus (for me, he was Tintin's eccentric professor pal), logarithms (do they still do them?) and algebra (x +y - x = whatever). Could never get into it at all.
So you'd naturally expect, when maths and massive numbers are mentioned with carefree abandon by the experts talking about the universe, that I'd switch off.
Far from it.
I'm just in complete awe of what they're talking about. Even if I don't really understand it. Which I don't.
There was a sequence in tonight's programme, for instance, where a mathematical formula had been found to calculate, roughly, the age of the universe. Apparently it's around 15 billion years or so. How that figure was reached, God (literally) only knows.
What I do know is it was all incredibly entertaining and made me want to find out more about what's above us.
There was also a really interesting piece about the red supergiant star Betelgeuse. This thing is big. And when I say big, I really do mean seriously vast. Apparently, it's diameter is about 1,000 times bigger than our own Sun. In fact, if it were placed in the position of the Sun, its surface would stretch out past Mars!
And the thing about Betelgeuse is it could explode anytime soon! It's burnt away all of its hydrogen leaving helium and could blow big style, creating a supernova. We would see the light from this explosion on Earth for a fortnight!
All this only added to the 'wow factor' the programme generated. There's an event at Martin Mere on the 19th of this month between 7pm and 9pm where you can go stargazing with experts on hand to tell you what you're looking at so I'm aiming to go to that - it promises to be great, so long as the sky is clear.
The main feeling I got from watching the programme is how completely insignificant Earth is in relation to the rest of the Universe. We're just a tiny pinprick of a microdot on the whole, ever-moving picture of the Universe.
It certainly makes you think as well as making you want to gaze upwards to the heavens and ask that question we all ask and want to know the definitive answer to: Just why are we all here?
Monday 7 January 2013
Why I've yet to see a movie better than this one
THE best movie experiences stay with you a long time after the credits have started to roll, your seat has flipped back and you've brushed away those stray bits of popcorn that fell into your lap in the darkness of the cinema over the preceding two or three hours.
A long time...
It will soon be approaching a quarter of a century since I first saw a film that in this writer's opinion has not been bettered either before or since.
It's a quirky, offbeat story of a farmer from Iowa called Ray Kinsella who begins to hear a voice while he's working in his cornfield. The voice tells him: "If you build it, he will come".
Ray realises he has to do away with his corn that's providing a living for his wife and young daughter and construct a baseball diamond complete with floodlights.
But that's not the end of the story. That's just the beginning.
The movie I am referring to is, of course, Field Of Dreams.
To some - who have not seen it - it's often pigeon-holed as just another baseball picture starring Kevin Costner.
Well, yes - it does star Kevin Costner as the farmer, but no, it certainly isn't just another baseball picture.
True, America's National Pastime is featured in the movie, but it's more, much more than that. It's a richly entertaining and life-affirming tale which tugs, nay pulls hard at the heartstrings and has a magical, mystical, spiritual theme coursing throughout that people who love It's A Wonderful Life each and every Christmas would appreciate straightaway.
There are some outstanding performances too in the picture, notably James Earl Jones as a reclusive writer called Terrence Mann who Ray realises he has to meet in Boston and, poignantly, the great Burt Lancaster in his final big screen role. Lancaster portrays the character Archibald 'Moonlight' Graham who was a real player in the major leagues who only appeared in one half of an inning his entire career before becoming a doctor.
There are lots of twists and turns along the way with the final 10 minutes or so providing truly emotional moments before Ray, and us, finally realise why he has been on this quite incredible journey.
I first saw Field Of Dreams with my Dad at the now-gone London Road Odeon in the autumn of 1989. As soon as it came out on VHS I bought it and have since purchased the special edition on DVD.
It is, quite simply, my Desert Island Film that could watch forever and a day.
I cannot praise this picture highly enough and if you've never yet seen it, try and spare a couple of hours in 2013 to rectify that. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.
A long time...
It will soon be approaching a quarter of a century since I first saw a film that in this writer's opinion has not been bettered either before or since.
It's a quirky, offbeat story of a farmer from Iowa called Ray Kinsella who begins to hear a voice while he's working in his cornfield. The voice tells him: "If you build it, he will come".
Ray realises he has to do away with his corn that's providing a living for his wife and young daughter and construct a baseball diamond complete with floodlights.
But that's not the end of the story. That's just the beginning.
The movie I am referring to is, of course, Field Of Dreams.
To some - who have not seen it - it's often pigeon-holed as just another baseball picture starring Kevin Costner.
Well, yes - it does star Kevin Costner as the farmer, but no, it certainly isn't just another baseball picture.
True, America's National Pastime is featured in the movie, but it's more, much more than that. It's a richly entertaining and life-affirming tale which tugs, nay pulls hard at the heartstrings and has a magical, mystical, spiritual theme coursing throughout that people who love It's A Wonderful Life each and every Christmas would appreciate straightaway.
There are some outstanding performances too in the picture, notably James Earl Jones as a reclusive writer called Terrence Mann who Ray realises he has to meet in Boston and, poignantly, the great Burt Lancaster in his final big screen role. Lancaster portrays the character Archibald 'Moonlight' Graham who was a real player in the major leagues who only appeared in one half of an inning his entire career before becoming a doctor.
There are lots of twists and turns along the way with the final 10 minutes or so providing truly emotional moments before Ray, and us, finally realise why he has been on this quite incredible journey.
I first saw Field Of Dreams with my Dad at the now-gone London Road Odeon in the autumn of 1989. As soon as it came out on VHS I bought it and have since purchased the special edition on DVD.
It is, quite simply, my Desert Island Film that could watch forever and a day.
I cannot praise this picture highly enough and if you've never yet seen it, try and spare a couple of hours in 2013 to rectify that. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.
Sunday 6 January 2013
Ups and downs on Twelfth Night
I HATE Twelfth Night. Always have and always will. No, not Bill Shakespeare's drama which I don't know at all; no the 12th and final Day of Christmas.
The reason being I just love the month of December, despite all the chaos, and especially the time from about the 18th onwards. That's when I really begin to get excited about the Christmas season with exactly a week to go before the Big Day. Indeed, I love Christmas Eve more than my own birthday!
Yes, my work colleagues know fine well how much I love the whole of the calendar's final month as the festive ties and socks get an airing - lucky they don't have to see my festive boxies too (but that's for another occasion, perhaps!). Oh, and of course, they all have to put up with my mobile phone's ringtone which from December 1 until January 6 is 'Fairytale Of New York'.
But all that's done with now until it begins once more from Sunday, December 1, 2013.
So all the deccies have come down today. Fortunately I was in work in Liverpool today so I missed the tree and all the other festive bits 'n' bobs coming down in our house. You sure notice the difference when you're walking home and those warm and welcoming lights have all disappeared from neighbours' windows. January is a truly soulless month with not a lot going for it and the disappearance of those comforting glows only adds to its misery.
This particular Twelfth Night was full of ups and downs, much of them sporting connected.
For me, though, it actually began with a non-sporting bit of news with a great picture of a very good friend of mine who has found someone special in their life. A great image to warm the cockles of the heart on a chilly January morning.
And it certainly was chilly at Buckley Hill where Matthew's Netherton Boys football team drew their game 2-2 with Town Green Pumas. Matthew played well but was forced out of the match in the second-half with a recurrence of a nasty strain to his left calf. He's a really gutsy kid, my eldest, never afraid to tackle and give his all for the good of the team. I just hope this injury doesn't keep him sidelined for as long as the last time it happened back in November.
And from there it was onto work for a nine-hour stint helping to put the sports pages together for Monday's Liverpool Echo. Of course, Liverpool's FA Cup clash was on in the office and like right-thinking sports fans - not just football fans - I was very disappointed with the manner of Luis Suarez's goal. I guess he'll be hammered by the national Press (again) but in many ways it's up to the lawmakers to make changes. For instance, in big televised games such as this, give each manager one chance in each half to question a key decision by the officials. This was a perfect example as the instant TV replay would have chalked off the goal for handball against the Reds' Uruguayan striker. And the game has stopped at that point anyway as a goal has been awarded. But I guess the lawmakers will find an excuse not to introduce something as simple as that. It took until 1966 to allow substitutes FFS and the game had been going since 1872 when the first FA Cup final took place!
There was also the awful sports story that some of you might not have seen - British tennis player Ross Hutchins is battling cancer at the age of just 27. Just a dreadful situation. I hope and pray he wins his fight. It was nice of Andy Murray to dedicate his triumph at the Brisbane International tournament to his pal.
And sport concluded my long day as I got home in time to see my favourite NFL team, the Washington Redskins, take on the Seattle Seahawks in the NFC Wild Card clash at FedEx Field in DC. Sadly for me and the countless number of 'Skins followers - many in the UK - their hopes of adding to the Super Bowls won in 1982, 1988 and 1992 will have to wait for another 12 months as they fell to a 24-14 defeat. Robert Griffin III is the Redskins' rookie quarterback whose debut season has been nothing short of sensational. But he was playing hurt for much of the game and it told in the end. But he, like the 'Skins, will be back.
As I will too with another meandering line or two that I hope you'll enjoy reading.
The reason being I just love the month of December, despite all the chaos, and especially the time from about the 18th onwards. That's when I really begin to get excited about the Christmas season with exactly a week to go before the Big Day. Indeed, I love Christmas Eve more than my own birthday!
Yes, my work colleagues know fine well how much I love the whole of the calendar's final month as the festive ties and socks get an airing - lucky they don't have to see my festive boxies too (but that's for another occasion, perhaps!). Oh, and of course, they all have to put up with my mobile phone's ringtone which from December 1 until January 6 is 'Fairytale Of New York'.
But all that's done with now until it begins once more from Sunday, December 1, 2013.
So all the deccies have come down today. Fortunately I was in work in Liverpool today so I missed the tree and all the other festive bits 'n' bobs coming down in our house. You sure notice the difference when you're walking home and those warm and welcoming lights have all disappeared from neighbours' windows. January is a truly soulless month with not a lot going for it and the disappearance of those comforting glows only adds to its misery.
This particular Twelfth Night was full of ups and downs, much of them sporting connected.
For me, though, it actually began with a non-sporting bit of news with a great picture of a very good friend of mine who has found someone special in their life. A great image to warm the cockles of the heart on a chilly January morning.
And it certainly was chilly at Buckley Hill where Matthew's Netherton Boys football team drew their game 2-2 with Town Green Pumas. Matthew played well but was forced out of the match in the second-half with a recurrence of a nasty strain to his left calf. He's a really gutsy kid, my eldest, never afraid to tackle and give his all for the good of the team. I just hope this injury doesn't keep him sidelined for as long as the last time it happened back in November.
And from there it was onto work for a nine-hour stint helping to put the sports pages together for Monday's Liverpool Echo. Of course, Liverpool's FA Cup clash was on in the office and like right-thinking sports fans - not just football fans - I was very disappointed with the manner of Luis Suarez's goal. I guess he'll be hammered by the national Press (again) but in many ways it's up to the lawmakers to make changes. For instance, in big televised games such as this, give each manager one chance in each half to question a key decision by the officials. This was a perfect example as the instant TV replay would have chalked off the goal for handball against the Reds' Uruguayan striker. And the game has stopped at that point anyway as a goal has been awarded. But I guess the lawmakers will find an excuse not to introduce something as simple as that. It took until 1966 to allow substitutes FFS and the game had been going since 1872 when the first FA Cup final took place!
There was also the awful sports story that some of you might not have seen - British tennis player Ross Hutchins is battling cancer at the age of just 27. Just a dreadful situation. I hope and pray he wins his fight. It was nice of Andy Murray to dedicate his triumph at the Brisbane International tournament to his pal.
And sport concluded my long day as I got home in time to see my favourite NFL team, the Washington Redskins, take on the Seattle Seahawks in the NFC Wild Card clash at FedEx Field in DC. Sadly for me and the countless number of 'Skins followers - many in the UK - their hopes of adding to the Super Bowls won in 1982, 1988 and 1992 will have to wait for another 12 months as they fell to a 24-14 defeat. Robert Griffin III is the Redskins' rookie quarterback whose debut season has been nothing short of sensational. But he was playing hurt for much of the game and it told in the end. But he, like the 'Skins, will be back.
As I will too with another meandering line or two that I hope you'll enjoy reading.
Saturday 5 January 2013
On the 11th Day of Christmas it was time to start a Blog
The 11th Day of Christmas and I've decided - after much thought and seeing a good pal start one himself - to begin a Blog.
Goodness knows where this will lead and whether my ramblings about a whole raft of subjects close to my heart will gain any readers only time will tell.
But I'll give it a whirl and we'll see how it goes.
I hope you'll all enjoy at least some of what I'll be writing on here over the course of who knows how long.
Goodness knows where this will lead and whether my ramblings about a whole raft of subjects close to my heart will gain any readers only time will tell.
But I'll give it a whirl and we'll see how it goes.
I hope you'll all enjoy at least some of what I'll be writing on here over the course of who knows how long.
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