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Years ago, backpacking in Cambodia I read a battered old copy of the Killing Fields (the book version of the film).
When I finished it I passed it on to a friend, eventually it went all around all our little group.
Later we all admitted to shedding tears while reading it. It is the single most moving novel I have ever read.
From then on in - every beer sunk under Cambodian skies was accompanied with a toast to the book’s hero Dith Pran.
Years later when my parents visited me in Vietnam on their way to Cambodia I made sure that they too had a copy.
I have just read of Dith Pran’s death aged 65 in New York. Considering his life story, the fact that he reached such an age is incredible in itself.
It’s not often I feel genuinely saddened at the death of someone I never met. But Dith and his strength and loyalty to his friend Sydney Schanberg really touched me. He inspired me and I am sure many thousands of others too.
Cheers Dith.
“Geordies, Geordies - what do you call them? Nowhere except for Africa have I been received like that” Muhammad Ali
And check out this fabulous new film too of Ali on Tyneside. Fabulous stuff.
Anybody know where I can find some decent sized stills of his trip? They’d make a great t-shirt.
Another cringingly classic love note in print from Louise Taylor in today’s Guardian. But does big tough Roy Keane even know she exists?
It’s the love affairs that’s gripped football.
She writes:
Not the type to rely on notes or props, Sunderland’s manager invariably ad libs his team talks. By all accounts they are frequently transfixing and sometimes quirky but the Irishman’s speech during Saturday’s interval was his most powerful yet. “The gaffer was as passionate as I’ve ever seen him,” said Kieran Richardson, a one-time Manchester United team-mate of Keane’s. “He gave us a history lesson at half-time. He’s a great manager.”
Seeing as Louise’s love notes are the most frequently Googled pages on here I thought it was time I put them in one place where I can regularly update them. They are now sighted here and linked above.
From Tottenham website The Proud Cockerel (published before today’s game) referring to perceived changes since the last time Newcastle beat Spurs:
…in the space of four months everything has turned full circle and the balance of power between one truly big club and one wannabe who is really nothing more than a clown academy for supporters and players alike has been restored. Spurs go into this game brimming with confidence and playing with a touch of the old swagger, topped up with a glistening trophy safe on the mantelpiece with a head coach who is proving to be even better than the brochure suggested.
Newcastle are the Premier League’s laughing stock once again. Bereft of any belief despite a scrappy win against an awful Fulham side, seemingly unable to create anything in the new era under a manager who promised so much free-flowing entertaining football but has instead been unmasked as a soundbyte-tossing has-been with as about as much clue of modern football as the black and white sheep that follow their ridiculous club.
The final score Spurs 1 - Newcastle 4. Just beautiful.
Is anyone really surprised? Does anyone who has ever used British Airways actually have anything good to say about them?
Last year when I flew back from Nicaragua, British Airways lost my bag. I was left with a phone number to call to try and trace it.
I called it. It was so busy that I couldn’t even go into a queue. My God, how many bags had they lost?
They recorded message simply told me to ring back another time. I tried and tried and tried and I never got through to one human being on that phone line. I didn’t even get to join the queue – not even the luxury of being exasperated by hold music.
I started ringing all numbers. I no longer cared that I was ringing the wrong hotline. I just wanted to speak to a person. Nothing, nothing and nothing.
Some weeks later I came home and wandered what that was in the backyard. It was my bags. I hadn’t been in so they just chucked them round the back.
No letter of apology or anything. No follow up phone call or email. Can you imagine any other organisation behaving like this?
Traveling by air is not fun. It’s almost as if the airlines know they are the bad guys. Like they’ve decided to cut back on every customer comfort and maximise their profits before the green lobby catches up with them.
If their customers hate them in the meantime then what do they care? If it’s all going to come crashing down then they might as well be architects of their own downfall. Better that, they must reason, than letting the Greenies do it.
I liked this from author Anthony Horowitz who was caught up in the debacle with his family:
The one thing I didn’t see at Heathrow was the expected demonstration by environmental groups such as Greenpeace or Plane Stupid. But perhaps they weren’t needed. There were, after all, thousands of people protesting for them, albeit in a rather lacklustre and disorganised way. They were called passengers.
And at the end of the day, it is their voice that may put an end to the vexed question of airport expansion. The bigger it gets the worse it gets, and I’d guess that modern air travel carries with it the seeds of its own destruction. There will have to come a time when everyone decides that anything is better than seat 27K behind the lavatory… even staying at home.
The environmentalists only have to wait, because in the end they’ve simply got to win.
Only Louise Taylor of the Guardian could pen this article about Roy Keane and let him get away with calling everyone else (except him) a hypocrite.
Because remember we’ve already proved that Louise loves Roy.
Interesting thought that depite some very dark times for Newcastle United recently, Louise has kept pretty quiet by her standards regarding the goings on at St James’ Park. Maybe the Guardian have finally listened to all those Newcastle fans who complain on its forums about her admitted bias.
Finally, it’s worth mentioning that in the piecel linked above she writes:
As Keane’s overseer at Nottingham Forest, Clough would not tolerate dissent and his players were famously respectful towards referees. If, as a United player, Keane sometimes forgot those strictures, he has now ordered everyone at Sunderland to adhere to them. “I have made it very clear to the players and the staff at our club - whether they be with the Academy, reserves or my first team - that you have to show the officials respect,” he insisted
Even so, the former United and Ireland captain stresses that there are more heinous footballing crimes than ‘disrespecting’ the men in black. “There has been so much rubbish spoken in the last week or two,” he said. “I have spoken to many old players and they used to go out and try to break people’s legs.”
Of course you’d never get that kind of behaviour from Saint Roy. See below and see the horrible taunting afterwards. But Louise doesn’t question Roy, she only prints what he says.
…when did people stop walking on down esculators?
People used to stand going up and walk going down? Right?
What happened?
Nick Lowe’s At My Age has me walking on air as I listen to it on my headphones during my lunch break stroll. The track YouTubed above makes me want to cha cha cha down Northumberland Street - the thought of which, makes me grin all the more.
I can’t recall any CD since the Bacharach/Costello effort Painted from Memory that has had this specific effect on me. At the time it was released I was commuting to Team Valley everyday - and I found out that you can waltz. On you own. On a motorway. In a Fiat Punto.
Enjoy. They’re both absolutely sublime.
I’ve been accused in the comments of being a bit of a grouch on here.
Fair point. You have to be moved to write anything at all. While in Vietnam and Nicaragua it was all so new and so different and I had a story to tell. There was an obvious narrative.
Here my life seems more private. Talking about my day to day life would be likely to offend someone – it’d also make for dull reading. My life now is probably pretty similar to yours.
But point taken. Look out for much more cheery stuff soon - and stick with this post for news of fluffy bunnies. Really.
But first this (sorry):
There is no way of being nice when you’re talking about estate agents.
To put this in context, we recently made the decision to move to a more summer friendly flat. We want some outside area - be it a balcony, small garden or even a nice yard.
We’ve been searching less than a week and…Oh God. Estate agents make their money too easy.
They don’t return your emails at all. Their websites don’t work. Their pictures of properties include only outside shots – these are terraced homes. They all look the same from the outside dummies. Show me the insides.
Despite all this we found a new flat on Saturday.
Patio doors led to a decked out yard - perfect for evening drinks when it gets warmer.
It was around the corner from a pool – great for my fitness kick.
It was on the Metro line - which would make me just two minutes from work.
We rang Sunday. We knew the office would be closed but we wanted to leave a message to say yes yes yes, we loved it…we’ll take it.
I followed that up with an email. We’d pay the cash they asked, we’d pay the horrific admin fees, the rent in advance, the deposit. It was worth it to secure this lovely spot.
I rang at 9am on the dot on when they opened on Monday.
We want it – I told them.
Great, they said.
We got your phone message and your email. It’s yours. Just drop off the cash. What time would suit you?
I suggested at 12.30 – in my lunch hour.
That’s just fine they said.
Two hours later – they called me. Our lovely flat was gone.
But, but, but…you said it was ours. I was coming in to pay the cash.
Apparently someone came into their office and dropped their cash off first.
They didn’t tell me we were in a race situation. They told me it was mine. We even set a time. Surely this other person would be told that it was already promised to me. I could have been there in five minutes flat if only they had told me the clock was ticking.
I wrote a pissed off email. They wrote back a seemingly polite letter that essentially said: “tough shit”.
They said they had other properties they could show me.
I told them to shove it.
And now we’re back to the beginning again. We still haven’t found our summer flat.
But, now I’ve got that whinge out of my system, I promise there will be more positivity around here. Soon. Very soon.
First though I just have to write – in the hope that this will eventually show up when potential customers/victims Google them:
IF YOU’RE LOOKING TO LET OR FIND A PROPERTY IN THE JESMOND AREA OF NEWCASTLE THEN DON’T USE BOWSON LETTINGS - THEY WILL ONLY WASTE YOUR TIME.
There. I feel more positive already.
About those bunnies. Did you know that there are rabbits on the grassy areas right in the middle of Newcastle city centre?
Expect Eastertastic fluffy bunny shots soon.
UPDATE: ILuvNUFC has offered to link this post on his photoblog to push it higher up the Google search list. If anyone else would like to do the same then that would be fantastic. Make sure the link text is Bowson Lettings .Think of it as vicarious payback for Estate Agents as a whole.
Oops. Not sure how I missed this in the post below but, in the Guardian article that inspired it, MasterChef winner James Nathan comments (on Delia’s cheating):
My one real comment on all this, is that not everyone lives in London, not everyone can drop into their local deli to buy fresh ingredients on their way home from work.
I’ve stayed with friends in the provinces, they both work, they both have two-hour commutes, they have two kids, they have to shop at big supermarkets and they have to buy for a month or so at a time.
You utter utter twat. Yes, head five miles out of London and all you can buy is black pudding and that’s what we stuff our fat kids with. What an absolute utter nob.
“I’ve stayed with friends in the provinces..”
Gosh, really. Have you? What it soooo awful? What were they like? Did they make you eat awful food from those nasty big supermarkets? Wow, you are sooo brave.
James Nathan - Mastertwat
More tales from the Guardian of London folk peering down their noses at the fecking “provinces”. Utter arseholes.
First off – cards on the table. I’m no foodie.
Okay let’s break that down. I like food – my generous frame alone is evidence of that.
But food is for eating – not talking about. As for TV chefs, while I can stomach old blokes like Stein and Floyd, I can’t watch mockney tosser Jamie Oliver without getting angry.
But anyway… growing up, Delia was out on her own.
At Sunday lunch if the Yorkshire puds were complimented then the cook would say: “Ahh yes..they’re Delia’s recipe”.
In the ensuing conversation my Gran would list all the Delia creations she had made that week. She adores her.
Years later I saw her, obviously in her role as Norwich City chairman, at a Newcastle United reserve game looking very cosy and flirty with Bobby Robson. I can imagine she was angling for a new centre forward while Bobby was probably dreaming of a steak and kidney pie.
Anyway, Delia, it turns out, has a new TV show. As Mockney Toss Boy fights obesity with healthy school dinners, Delia is reverting to processed food. Really. This despite writing in an earlier book:
“…my personal belief that we may be in danger of losing something very precious, and that is a reverence for natural ingredients and the joy and pleasure they can bring to real life … The sensual pleasure of eating belongs to everyday life as well, and it’s not always to be found in the vast amounts of mass-produced, easy-cook fast foods that we’re subtly persuaded to eat …”
Hmm.
Apparently it hasn’t gone down well. Alex Renton at The Guardian burnt all Delia’s books and accused her of going over to the dark side.
Later, in the same paper, a panel of the great and the good got a top chef to follow her recipes and gave their verdicts on the taste:
“This is like having a pig piss in your throat. It tastes of freezer and plastic. I don’t understand. If you can’t cook and you can’t afford to go out, eat a cheese sandwich.”
***
“This is supremely awful. Terrible beyond belief. It’s a crime against aubergines. They’re such beautiful vegetables, and to see them treated like this. It’s appalling.”
***
“Why would you eat tinned mince? It’s like a lamb shat in a tin.”
Indeed. Why>
Food columnist Giles Coren has his own theories:
I think she’s jealous of Jamie and Nigella and Hugh. It’s like old footballers who bemoan the fact there was never any money in the game when they were playing: Delia was a food star when food stars weren’t big. It’s like some old boxer coming out of retirement, Rocky Seven up for one last slugging match.
But what she doesn’t realise is that the rules have changed, that nowadays people are motivated by different things: the environment, quality ingredients, nutrition. She’s come back for her slice of the pie - that’s her motivation.
For me the best quote came from a Guardian Blog commenter:
She showed me and millions of us how to cook simply, healthily, with good fresh ingredients, and now she wants to show us how not to. What’s up? Need another football club?
Seriously, why does “Britain’s Best-Selling Cook” needs to squeeze more money out of her franchise? And she is milking it: have a look at www.deliaonline.com and you’ll see what she’ll get from this blatant advert on the BBC: there’s the book and already over 100 products in Waitrose and Sainsbury’s branded with the “A Delia Cheat! ingredient” label on them. that includes “Mr Crumb fresh breadcrumbs”, for god’s sake, and no less than six of the McCain processed potato products she plugged on TV last night.
And why - given that the BBC must have paid gazillions for the show - are the “recipes” not up on its food site, as is normal? Nor can you see the show on iPlayer. Not that you’d want to.
In it for the money. Sure. Of course. That’s why I go to work.
Can’t blame her for that.
But the loss of dignity? Following the mockney into that whole branded product horribleness? Why does everyone sell out so easy now?
Even fecking Keith Richards is doing adverts for Louis Vuitton.
And why does the BBC allow her to do this? This blatant profiteering is as sickening as it is blindingly obvious.
Meanwhile, my gran, now in her nineties, still cooks up the occasional “Delia”. No doubt we’ll catch up over a family Sunday lunch soon.
God, I hope she didn’t see the show.
When I lived in Hanoi, Prince Andrew came to visit.
By accident, or design, he happened to be in town when it was the Queen’s Birthday. To mark the occasion Brits were invited to the Embassy to shake his hand and presumably ask him to pass on their best wishes to his Mam.
The general consensus was “ick”.
The British contingent wasn’t so small but was still almost invisible. For the Americans there was actually an American Club. The Aussie’s had a regular Friday night barbie at “Matilda’s”. The French were always doing something particularly cultural.
When I worked at KOTO it was commonplace for visiting Australians to give out little furry koalas with Aussie flags to the kids. When the “Socceroos” came to town I cringed at long-time expat Australians cheering on their team against a Vietnamese side with half their size, strength and investment.
Honestly – I’d have loved to see smug tossers Lampard, Gerrard and all well and truly thumped in Hanoi. What fun.
Elsewhere, while there was something called the American Spouses Club – the concept of Brits doing the same was too weird. Brits really didn’t seek out Brits in the same way.
We didn’t like to celebrate our royalty much either(though even the Aussies had a day off back home for Liz’s birthday). The thought of our national anthem being played anywhere was horrific.
Okay so the British Council would stick its head up above the parapet from time to time. But for the most part it was on a more business level – flogging British Universities to rich Asian kids.
Personally the most nationalistic I can ever recall being, was when I heard The Beatles on a cafe stereo.
The point is for the most part we don’t really do nationalism – it’s for an embarrassing minority. From the point of view of most Brits, nationalism is for a dwindling daft, sad and occasionally sinister group - skinheads, Tory grannies, retired majors, Sun hacks and the terminally naff.
Okay, so in the UK you could point to a few flag-waving run ups to football championships - but visible as it might be it’s still a minority. Let’s face it, while nationalism is upped in these instances no one is really hoping that Rooney “knocks one in for the Queen.”
Ironically enough, when mixing with other nations I was proud of our lack of pride. Our lack of jingoism was something I really could believe in.
In the end it turned out that the British unique selling points were: No flag waving. No nationalism. No rose-tinted nostalgia for the UK and the ability to be objective about our country.
Now it’s suggested that we should pledge allegiance, salute the Queen, boost nationalism etc.
In doing so they’re taking away the only bit of being British I was ever proud of.
Inspired by this post on the Word Magazine blog, which was in-turn inspired by Nick Hornby’s 31 Songs.
These songs just about represent the 36 years I have been on the planet. They all bring to (my) mind either a period in my life, a certain event or anecdote, or are connected with a specific person.
I’ve discounted music that I no longer like and those that I can no longer face as a result of overplay. I’m happy with what’s left.
My Life in 31 Songs
1. New Slang – Shins
2. Anchorage – Michelle Shocked
3. Just a Little Lovin – Dusty Springfield
4. Killing in the Name Of – Rage Against the Machine
5. Train in G Major – Lindisfarne
6. Just Like Heaven – The Cure
7. Hell Yeah – Neil Diamond
8. I Will – The Beatles
9. Hope that I Don’t Fall in Love With You – Tom Waits
10. Man in the Iron Mask – Billy Bragg
11. Cruel – Prefab Sprout
12. Paint a Vulgar Picture – The Smiths
13. These Foolish Things – Bryan Ferry
14. Birth, School, Work, Death – The Godfathers
15. Harvest Moon – Neil Young
16. Grow Old with Me – John Lennon
17. Indoor Fireworks – Elvis Costello
18. Baubles, Bangles and Beads – Frank Sinatra
19. Solitary Man – Johnny Cash
20. Special Brew – Bad Manners
21. Tunnel of Love – Fun Boy Three (Above)
22. Save it For Later – The English Beat (Below)
23. I’m a Man you Don’t Meet Everyday – The Pogues
24. Willow’s Song – Wickerman OST
25. Joy of Living - Ewan MacColl
26. How Does it Feel – Slade
27. Mr Jones – Counting Crows
28. Bluebird – Wings
29. Self Evident – Ani Di Franco
30. Debris – The Faces
31. All Across the Sands – Stone Roses
Did anyone ever expect to see Enoch Powell on top of a BBC website as the face of a series of TV programs, seemingly politically rehabilitated and looking all visionary?
It’s feels like a really dangerous move – I mean dangerous in a violent sense. This is not a man we should be championing. I don’t want his views recalled and then used and quoted by others as an excuse for hatred. I don’t want the BBC to enable this re-invention.
It seems to me that the difference between the racism now and that of ten years ago is that our media not only practices it but also openly condones it. Statements such as British Jobs for British People, which a decade ago would only have graced BNP literature are now political and media staples.
If someone had told me that the BBC was going to do a series called White (aimed specifically as white people) I wouldn’t have believed them, even taking into account the BBC’s dramatic lurch to the right on migration issues.
As Chicken Yoghurt says:
If you ask me, a venture that advertises itself using tasteful, epic photos of Enoch Powell and promotes wife-beating drunk George Best as a ‘working class hero’ is automatically suspect. Even the name ‘White’ is gratuitously provocative, gratuitously divisive.
Enemies of Reason adds:
Let me say what I think first. Why call the bloody programme ‘white’ if not to be inflammatory? If you’re going to give a damn about working-class people, why not all working-class people? Is this going to be a genuine investigation exploring why some white folk feel on the shitty end of the stick, or just BBC HYS on film? Yes, the working-class have been screwed over, particularly betrayed by New Labour - yet, as I’ve said before, there are people who’ll vote Labour no matter what, as displayed by the fact they have, despite being totally ignored and despised.
More good stuff on this topic from Bob Piper and Lenin’s Tomb.
The BBC is (famously) hideously white but also hideously southern, middle class and increasingly right wing. Its programming follows this patterns exactly.
That’s leaves whole races, regions and classes unrepresented. There are better ways to improve this than spend the licence fee than on this deliberately provocative crap.
Side Note: In a recent trailer I could have sworn I heard Billy Bragg doing a voice over which suggest he is involved. Please, say it ain’t so Billy.
One of the things I have long admired about BB is that he consistently gets it right politically. His involvement would suggest that this does have some redeeming features. So maybe its just its provocative presentation and marketing that is rubbing us all up the wrong way.
I’ll be away this weekend and, in all honesty, can’t face watching it – but if anyone does I’d welcome their views and will be following the blogs on this subject.
Strange. The first time I downloaded and listened to the Word magazine podcast, I caught myself scrambling for the off button pretty sharpish.
Seeing as Mark Ellen and David Hepworth are involved (and if you remember the Old Grey Whistle Test) you might not be surprised that there’s more than a few passing references to prog rock. At times it’s more than a little embarrassing Dad-ish.
But persevere and it grows on you. The anecdotes from lives spent in rock journalism make it worth listening to on their own. A tale of Smashy and Nicey era Radio One DJs embarrassing themselves at a Manic Street Preachers gig is just priceless.
Until I wiki-ed him I had forgotten that Dave Ellen was actually in Ugly Rumours with Jagger wannabe Tony Blair.
He says of TB:
He was fantastically confident but without any arrogance or swagger. He had ambition, enormous charm. He even wanted to rehearse. He said to me: ‘What’s the point of doing it if we can’t be good?’
Our second gig was at St John’s and Tony, who was a massive admirer of Mick Jagger, was waiting in the wings. He was wearing a hoop-necked, trumpet-sleeved T-shirt, loons and high heels, with lots of bare flesh on show. He came screaming on with the classic ‘Let’s rock!’ and went into the first Stones number as if he was Jagger himself, all pointing fingers and pout.
More on Ellen, Blair and Ugly Rumours here.
Word blog here.
Sometime, way, way, way ago – I blogged that I had quit smoking.
If the tone is somewhat smug then it shouldn’t be. The truth is it didn’t last.
On my last night in Vietnam I smoked again. Then again in Nicaragua and back in Newcastle too.
Certainly I rarely smoked again at levels close to my earlier days in Hanoi when I was sucking down well over a pack a day. In fact, half the time in Central America I didn’t smoke at all. At one point I rationalised that just one cigar a week wouldn’t be too damaging.
No real hardship there – I found I could easily make the foot-long local specials last a week.
Also as someone who’d always been on the somewhat hefty side, being overseas was at first a blessing. In Vietnam I found that an upset stomach might not be pleasant but was an effective method of weight control. Couple that with a rice-based diet and the pounds just fell away.
But then, about the same time as my belly adapted, my taste buds we’re compelling me to seek out richer food. While my initial weight loss was stalling, I didn’t worry too much about weight gain. Surely the next bout of sickness would take care of it.
Vietnam ended and Nicaragua began. Boiled rice gave way to fried rice and beans and lots and lots of cheese. I must say I didn’t really notice it but I guess the weight started to really pile on. When you’re wearing sloppy shorts and t-shirts every day you’ve some way to go before they start to feel tight.
Before too long I was back in the UK and all those comfort foods I had missed. British food might be considered comparatively bland - but have you any idea the sheer quality of the ingredients compared to those in developing countries? It all tasted so good.
I was back to Embassy Number One cigarettes too after three years on local tabs and Marlboro lights.
Then there was something of a dawning. A bit run down I went to the doc’s. Occasionally dizzy and frequently breathless, paranoia made me wonder if I had brought back some horrible tropical lurgy.
After a stack of tests the answer was much more simple - I was just very unhealthy.
Certainly a step on the surgery’s scales made my eyes pop out. In all the time I was away – nearly three years in all - I hadn’t weighed myself. Ouch.
Christmas and New Year was the cut off. I haven’t smoked since January 1st. I know I’ve said this before but I feel like I have smoking licked. While I still have occasional cravings, they’re slowly giving way to a real revulsion at tobacco.
Weight loss has been slow – my dodgy scales suggest half a stone lost but their lack of accuracy might actually mean I’ve lost half that. But my diet has changed and I am feeling better for it. More fruit and veg – no more cooked brekkies or bacon sarnies from the staff canteen.
My holiday was tricky and I was far from well behaved calorie-wise but could have been worse. I arrived back Sunday and sat down with the diet books with the aim of getting serious.
In the meantime, while I have been regularly walking home the two and a half miles from work, sport remains too scary for now. I’d like to start playing five-a-side again sometime soon though.
For the record this isn’t the start of some sort of horrible diet blog. Don’t expect any weight-loss updates – well not unless I am really successful and want to be smug about it. You won’t be seeing any pics of me demonstrating the new found roominess in my old trousers.
But, in between my rants, I also want this blog to continue to be something of a personal narrative and this feels like something I should bookmark.
And as far as life goes, mine seems to be at a crossroads healthwise. If I fail this time then it feels like I’ll shortly be too far gone to ever get it right.
Hopefully, the acceptance of this fact should be enough to ensure I succeed.
