What Do Women Have Against Loud Music?

"Mind if I turn it down a tad, honey?"

What’s wrong with this picture? Last night I was ironing and listening to music when my 15-year-old daughter came into the room and said, “Dad, can you please turn it down? I’m trying to study.” For Christ's sake, girl, dump those books and get down to the golf course with a bottle of vodka in a brown paper bag, some cigarettes, and a boy to snog. Kids today, eh?

Or it could just have been her gender-dictated disposition to turn down music. Stick with me here. I’m not prone to making generalisations about the opposite sex, because the feminist peers my dad claims metaphorically castrated me during my formative years taught me otherwise. And believe me, I’m 100 per cent behind any female’s right to empowerment, a career, and even a driver’s licence. But experience has taught me that any time a woman walks into a room where music is playing, the first thing she’ll do is walk over to the amplifier and turn it down.

A chauvinist would say that it’s because a female can not bear any competition to the sound of her own voice. If I’m listening to music, then I might not be giving the female my full attention. I am appreciating the beauty of something besides the female.

Fortunately, I’m not a chauvinist, so I realise this is complete nonsense. Unfortunately, I

Mascot Madness: When Life Mimics Art

Topsy? You in there?

This story in the Manchester Evening News, about Oldham Athletic's mascot Chaddy the Owl getting thumped by one of his own fans, reminded me of my own short story The Man In The Mascot. Except that Chaddy's inner soul is a little more forgiving than the vodka-swilling narrator inside Topsy the Toucan.

"I don't even want him banned as we need as many fans as we can get," says Chaddy. Bless his owlish little heart. (I've no idea why Oldham should have an Owl as a mascot, by the way. Couldn't anyone imagine what a Latic would look like?)

Contrast this with Topsy, who was faced with unrelenting hostility from the crowd at lowly East Park Academy. These fans were happy to scapegoat him for the team's lack of success, on the grounds that Topsy was supposed to bring them luck. And as the failed drama student within knew, "these fans weren't all stupid, they knew when the club was trying it on, and they refused to be coaxed into a forced jollity, to be told by some prancing puppet when they were supposed to get excited. Was the mascot's tomfoolery not a tacit admission by the club that the players themselves were incapable of pushing the crowd into the realm of emotion?"

I can only think that the as yet untraced Oldham fan felt much the same way about Chaddy. Makes a nice change from calling for the manager's head.

Go on, go on, ask me. Ask me how I got on.

The ball was placed therein, 5 times

There are days when you have some news, but no one to tell it to. It may not be very important news, but you want to get it off your chest. I have this particular urge to share after I’ve played football, and my team has won, and I’ve scored.

The other night I played in an eight-a-side game in an outdoor league. It was one of those dark, sodden, autumnal nights when you really question your own sanity for making a 40-mile round trip just to play football for an hour. You feel like it’s going to be one of those games when you get shellacked, and then think it’s time to give up football for good. And then, the goals come. Your team wins 6-2, and you score five. You leave the field aglow, and climb into your car in an unstoppable mood. Now all you need is someone who wants to know how you got on. If you get stopped for speeding, you won't mind - you'll just tell the cop all about the game until he lets you off.

“We won 6-2 and I scored five goals.” That’s the sentence in your head that you want to

Blondie and Bandy

Straight-legged Deborah

We went to watch the still magnificent Blondie last night at the spanking new Fillmore concert venue just up the road in Silver Spring. Now that I’ve heard Deborah Harry sing Heart Of Glass live, I can die happy. But that’s not the only reason I can head for dead with a smile on my wrinkling face. For the first time in my life, someone truly appreciated the strange shape of my body.

As the Fillmore only opened last Thursday, the staff are all being extra courteous. They even have ushers outside the bogs holding the doors open for you (though no one said, “Have a nice pee.”). When I came out of the loo, I was browsing the concert posters on the walls, when one of the ushers pointed at my knees with a seriously amazed look on her face. I looked down, expecting at the very least to see a three-headed serpent emerging from my knee cap.

“You’ve… you’ve got such… bowed legs!” she exclaimed.

I laughed and said I’d had them quite a while, and that I was the last of the great British cowboys.

“But... but, they’re great,” she said. “I love them!”

“You love them?”

Bad Books On The Beach: No.3 - 'Everything Is Illuminated' by Jonathan Safran Foer

J. Safran Foer (right) in happier times.

Back in the 1970s, I was a keen reader of the weekly football comic Roy of the Rovers. Roy Race, the free-scoring striker with Melchester Rovers, was also the editor. Well, why not, it was named after him. It’s nothing Oprah hasn’t capitalised on. Except he wasn’t really the editor, because he didn’t exist. But he signed his editorial column every week, and expressed his opinions about his favourite players. The best striker in England, he maintained, was Portsmouth’s David Kemp. It’s possible that a few readers vehemently disagreed with Roy on this, but Roy was so determined to endorse the forward that he went to see him personally. And that’s how the picture to our left appeared as a magazine centre-spread, much to the delight of myself and my friends. And after that, we stopped buying it, both literally and figuratively.

We were prepared to believe that Roy could fire in a 40-yarder to win the game in the last minute, week after week. We accepted that goalkeeper Gordon Stewart, despite the panther-like antics that made him The Safest Hands In Soccer, only played for second division Tynefield City. We didn’t mind that Subbuteo-playing genius Mike Dailey of Mike's Mini-Men had absolutely nothing in his life besides table football (in fact I probably related to him more than I’d like to admit). We cared not that Johnny ‘The Hard Man’ Dexter’s Danefield United team were playing in the English top flight, just like Melchester Rovers, but the two teams existed in parallel worlds (one in colour, the other in black and white), and that the fixture list never brought them together. But we couldn’t take it seriously when Roy posed as a cardboard cut-out next to David Kemp. Like Danefield and Melchester, the two were never supposed to meet. Not credible. Not at all.

Jonathan Safran Foer’s widely acclaimed novel Everything Is Illuminated raised a similar credibility problem for me. The main character is a Ukrainian translator, Alex, who narrates

Bad Books on the Beach: No. 2 – ‘Juliet, Naked’ by Nick Hornby

Naked, and empty too

I’ve always liked Nick Hornby as a bloke ever since reading an interview where he said that after he became famous he started getting calls from other famous people inviting him round to dinner just because he was now famous. His response to this was pretty much, What the fuck? I don’t even know you. Though presumably he wanted to avoid going to dinner parties too, which is understandable. Anyway, ‘Fever Pitch’ is obviously a classic (even though I have a major quibble with it, but that’s another blog entry altogether), and ‘High Fidelity’ and ‘How To Be Good’ were both solid novels. ‘About A Boy’ was ridiculous, and ‘A Long Way Down’ (about four suicidal characters meeting at the top of a very tall building) I quickly renamed in my head as ‘Jump, You Whiny Fuckers, Jump!’ The problem with these books is the same one that runs through ‘Juliet, Naked’ like a sopping, sand-soaked paperback after you accidentally dropped it in the surf. It’s the characters, stupid.

In ‘About A Boy’ we were asked to believe that lead character Will, living off the royalties from a song his old man composed, has spent his entire adult life doing absolutely nothing. This is not just existentially improbable, but also makes Will a dull fucker, at best. But Hornby excels at portraying such sullen, repressed individuals – reserved, emotionally inert, and obsessed with some sub-culturally related, non-mainstream object of desire (or in Will’s case, finding a woman desperate enough to have him). In ‘Juliet, Naked’ we have Duncan spending his three-week holiday in the US following the trail of reclusive singer Tucker Crowe, who inexplicably stopped recording in 1986. His girlfriend Annie tags along, even though she has misgivings about her boyfriend’s hobby. Oh, and they’ve been together for 15 years, she knows that he has no sense of humour, and she’s never actually been in love with him. If that’s really plausible, then that makes her even more feckless than dorky Duncan. Why are we interested in these people again?

When they get back home to Gooleness, a grim Yorkshire seaside resort where they’ve also been bored for the past 15 years, Duncan gets a ‘new’ CD in the mail from Tucker’s

Bad Books On The Beach: No. 1 – ‘Saturday’ by Ian McEwan

Come Saturday, poetry will save civilization

I recently had the luxury of a week doing nothing on Bethany Beach but catching up on some rapidly yellowing paperbacks. Holidays mean taking books by authors I’ve read easily in the past, rather than anything remotely challenging like Volume 2 of ‘Das Kapital’. This year I packed Ian McEwan, Nick Hornby and Jonathan Safran Foer, and I got through them all quickly enough. The only problem was that they were all, in some crucial respect, spoilt by flaws in plot, style or character. My theory is that once an author’s established, editors get lazy about telling them what needs improving. Or maybe the writer’s too big to take advice. Maybe no one cares because once a reputation is forged, any old shit will sell. And so you get a train wreck like ‘Saturday’ (2005).

Narrator Henry Perowne is described in the blurb of this “triumphant new novel” as “a neurosurgeon, urbane, privileged, deeply in love with his wife and grown-up children”. Despite his (read, the author’s) engaging introspective reflections over the course of a Saturday where he’s skirting an anti-war demo in London to play squash, visit his Alzheimer’s-afflicted mother in an old people’s home, go shopping for fish, and watch his wonderfully talented teenage son play blues guitar, he’s unbelievably dim. He gets in a side-street skirmish with an archetypal hoodlum, Baxter (to be played by a young version of Bob Hoskins), and his two sidekicks after a minor car accident, who threaten to maim him if he doesn’t cough up 700 quid for the damage. Then he escapes by identifying on the spot Baxter’s incurable condition, Huntington’s Disease, causing the sidekicks to desert the thug at this sign of weakness. Having wheedled his way out of this, and despite thinking the thug’s still possibly following him, and despite having being assaulted, Henry toddles off to play squash. Obviously no literary hero does anything as mundane as going to the cops and saying, “Some fucking psycho just threatened to kill me and could be following me - he drives a red BMW and this is his number plate.”

This somewhat backfires much later in the day (though it finally shoves the brittle plot along) when Baxter and one of his re-recruited sidekicks mug Henry’s (brilliantly successful at something or other) wife at the front door as she comes home from work, and then hold the whole family hostage at knife-point, including his successful poet father-in-law and about-to-be-incredibly-successful poet daughter, just arrived from Paris, who they order to strip and seem likely to rape until they realise she’s pregnant. How will Henry’s fantastic family ever get out of this? Will his son sing the blues? Will his daughter recite poetry? Ha ha, don’t be stupid…. but wait a minute, that’s exactly what happens. The thug is intrigued by the daughter’s debut poetry volume, about to be published, and orders her to read from it. At a signal from her poet grandfather she instead recites Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold, and Baxter, thinking she wrote it, opines in wonder that, “It’s beautiful”, and all his resolve to rape, stab, kill etc, dissolves. He orders Henry upstairs to his computer to get information about Huntington’s Disease, the sidekick conveniently leaves (again disgusted that Baxter has weakened), there’s a struggle on the stairs, Baxter falls and knocks himself out. Later, once the ambulance has taken the villain to hospital, Henry successfully operates on him, then comes home and boffs the wife at 5 in the morning. End.

So, even leaving aside the clumsy absurdity of the poetry turnaround (why did his editor not scream: “No! No, Ian! You have to change this bit! It’s shite! It’s really, really, really shite!”), let’s turn to his wife. Here is my experience of wives. They keep us on our toes. They let you know when you’ve done something really stupid. I’d like to think that if this happened to me, Mrs. Pop would say, “This bloke threatened to kill you this morning, you thought he was following you around all day, and you did nothing, and then he came in OUR house and held a knife to my throat, broke my father’s nose, ordered our daughter to strip naked… I mean, Henry dear, WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU PLAYING AT, YOU FUCKING IDIOT?” But no, his lovely, beautiful wife utters nothing even close to a reproach, but kisses him “longer and deeper” as he announces he’s on his way to operate on Baxter, asking him if he’s sure it will be alright. Never mind that if he accidentally screws up, there might be a question or two about why he was operating on a man who just hours previously looked like killing his entire family. Never mind that he’s been drinking. So his wife, unlike yours or mine surely would, doesn’t say, “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND? YOU COULD LOSE YOUR MEDICAL LICENCE. YOU’RE NOT EVEN FIT TO DRIVE, LET ALONE OPERATE, YOU FUCKWIT. DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT LEAVING THIS HOUSE.”

Jesus, if the privileged classes are this stupid, why did we not overthrow them? Just dig a large pit and tell them to walk to the edge, and then tell them to keep walking some more.

Henry is ambivalent about the Iraq war that the protesters are marching against on this Saturday. He’s treated someone who was severely tortured by Saddam, so thinks there’s a case for sending in the troops to overthrow him. Is this whole messy Baxter plot a parallel by which he comes to see that violence is the wrong way to change people, and that poetry will work much better? If we’d sent the real-life equivalent of Henry’s daughter – some posh, fruity lass with a talent for verse - to Baghdad to read poetry to Saddam, would that have softened his heart? That’s the only point I can glean from this fatuous tosh. If that’s not the point (and I really hope it’s not), then we’re left with: “Oh, this agonised world, with all its violence and torture, what a terrible place, but in the end what can one do but one’s best, within one’s personal limits?”

It’s all very well juxtaposing privilege with struggle, but the privileged family is meticulously portrayed (though that doesn’t make them any more likeable, or even more nuanced, Henry aside), while the struggler is a volatile, comic book thug who’s implausibly sidetracked from psychotic mayhem by a single poem. How did McEwan get away with this? And why did the reviewers, whose two pages of “international acclaim” are the first thing you read when you open the book, not see through this preposterous drivel? The Chicago Tribune claimed the book is “emblematic of an entire era.” Christopher Hitchens said the book “lucidly shows us that civilization and culture and the life of the mind, fragile as they seemingly are, nonetheless have a resilience that can outlast barbarism”.

And I thought it was just emblematic of chronically bad editing and sloppy characterisation, lucidly showing us that the privileged family will get over this trauma and keep writing poetry and being extraordinarily successful, but sadly for the likes of Baxter, there’s no cure for Huntington’s Disease. But don’t worry, there’s hope, even a violent thug can appreciate good poetry.

At one point Henry disdainfully reflects on magical realist novelists and asks: “What were these authors of reputation doing - grown men and women of the twentieth century - granting supernatural powers to their characters?” Yeah, magical realism, that stuff’s just not credible, eh? The magical power of poetry, though, that’s something else.

Bad Books on the Beach No. 2 - 'Juliet, Naked' by Nick Hornby

Bad Books on the Beach No. 3 - 'Everything is Illuminated' by Jonathan Safrar Foe 

Perfect White Teeth For Jesus

Jesus Christ, what a smile

You can sense when someone’s got Jesus by the way they smile at you. When I walked into the dentist’s waiting room yesterday I could tell that the girl sitting on my left had got Jesus, because she opened her lips and flashed her teeth at me in a way that could only mean one thing. I want to save you. And at the very least I want to talk about Jesus.

I checked in and sat down. I couldn’t help but glance at her again, and she sensed my interest. She smiled at me a second time, bigger and even more Jesus-y than before. She wore a name badge that announced she belonged to an organisation called JesusCristo. She had a bible open on her lap, in which she was highlighting passages in yellow, and a pad for taking notes, but her epic smile and the way she caught my eye made it clear she would eschew her studies in an instant to talk about only one thing with a waning soul like mine. Jesus. Baby Jesus. Miracle-touting Jesus. Big grown up Jesus nailed to a cross. Jesus: the comeback.

Golf, A Tidy Game For Crushing Bores

In an ideal world...

When I die and go to hell, I will find myself sitting at a table in a club house surrounded by golfers. For eternity I will have to overhear their detailed conversations about the 18 holes they have just played. “Did you see that shot I made up the slope with my six iron approaching the green at the 14th?” Every time I plead with Satan to be stretched out on a rack and have molten lead poured down my throat for a few million years, he’ll just cackle and turn away. The devil knows that the golf punishment is sicker than any twisted nightmare that Dante could have envisioned.

The US Open starts today just up the road from us, and that means more traffic and many more bona fide wankers in the bars of Bethesda. This has prompted me to analyse what it is about golf that I so detest, and the answer I came up with is simple: golf is the tidy sport for tidy people. That final putt on the pristine, flat green is like the player combing that final preppy hair into place before the Country Club Annual Golf Awards Dinner. On the green itself, each perfectly manicured blade of grass boasts as much individuality as the golfers themselves. And there’s not a scantling of noise allowed, because a golfer is deeply concentrating. Not defusing a bomb, or re-connecting the arteries of a transplanted heart. No, you have to be really, really quiet because they are trying to nudge a small ball into a

Being Very Important (For A Night)

Ever had one of these? No? Not very important then, are you, eh? EH!

After my previous adventures in failed freeloading, I was on the guest list at the 9:30 Club again last week when Death Cab For Cutie came to DC. Again it was sold out, so again I knew this was my only way into the concert. Again, the girl behind the glass screen couldn’t find my name on the guest list, and started flapping through several sheets of paper. This time I leaned over far enough to read the list, and just as she flipped over one page, I yelped, “There it was, the one you just turned over, right at the bottom!” Yep, right at the bottom of the guest list, but at least I was on it. She smiled apologetically (when she was probably thinking, Okay okay, calm down, you grey-capped tosser) then handed me my ticket and my day-glo orange VIP wrist-band.

Very bastarding Important Person. I moved straight from the VIP ticket window to the door of the club, but a 9:30 employee standing out on the pavement stepped forward and diplomatically asked me, “Can I help you, sir? The line’s this way.” He pointed to a long queue of people that stretched all the way down the road and around the corner, consisting exclusively of a common rabble of paying punters. Did he really expect me to stand and mix with these mundane souls on a breezy summer’s evening? What if they saw my VIP wrist-band, got all jealous and resentful, then beat me up and stole it?