The recent humiliation of the cream of English football players has made me think.As I'm not a football fan,I've never understood the sheer idol worship of someone who plays football,and more to the point the sheer belief that it's our god given right to win against any team the rest of the world chooses to oppose us.
A tv diet of Jeremy Kyle and ads for Lawyers Direct has turned the nation of Agincourt and giving Adolf a bloody nose into trembling-lipped whingers with no perspective. For too long, we've deluded ourselves that we're the bees knees at everything.Before you all start listing everything that we were famous for,yes, we did give the world penicillin and passenger railways and the world wide web and the iPod. But within ten minutes, every country had a better railway system. And if we'd had to market, distribute and promote the iPod it would be the size of a wardrobe and only play Oasis.
It started with the upper classes obviously. Being sent out from Eton,Westminster or Harrow to farflung places to give them the benefits we enjoyed here; dull sex, over-boiled vegetables and leg-spin (20 minutes in the nets with a coconut and they were better than us at that too). When the Empire fell, we believed we'd been cheated out of it and secretly the colonials all pined for PG Tips and the Queen on stamps.
And it's an attitude that's trickled down to us commoners, sometimes disguised with a false modesty that hides rampaging blustering egos. That's why in England it is always the fattest football blokes who get their shirts off first on the terraces. They genuinely believe that after one glimpse of their pimply shaven heads and lobster-red lard bodies, those lissom signorinas from Milan are going to stop ogling Beckham and fancy a wobbling waist, a kebab and a Kestrel Super supper.
We still think we're the aristocrats of the world when really we are its hoodies. We believe at some level that simply being English gives us a place at the world's top table, when really maybe we should be out in the car having a bag of crisps and a bottle of Lemonade with Turkmenistan and Iceland.
We're at our best when we being are gifted amateurs. Take Dunkirk. Our finest hour is blokes in cockle boats from Margate bringing back our Army left high and dry as target practice for, erm, the Germans. Thank God, they weren't as good with their shooting back then.
Yes, we are the nation of Shakespeare, Bobby Moore, The Beatles, Monty Python. But we are also the nation of Jeffrey Archer, Glen Johnson, The Dave Clark Five and Terry And June. That's sort of loveable too. But calm down, eh, there's a good lad. And put your shirt on.
Monday, 28 June 2010
Saturday, 12 June 2010
And the award for the worst host goes to...
Something very unusual happened at an awards ceremony this week. There was a moment of genuine drama. At the Glamour Women of the Year evening, Sir Patrick Stewart turned on the host James Corden accusing him of discourtesy, and the two actors then verbally slugged it out.
Sir Patrick, who was presenting an award, told the Gavin and Stacey star not to stand at the back with his hands in his pocket looking as if he would rather be somewhere else when recipients got up to collect their gongs. He added: "From where I was sitting, I could see your belly."
While that may indeed not be a pretty sight, the joke, if it was one, failed to get a laugh from 31-year-old Corden, who told 69-year-old Sir Patrick to get on with presenting the award, and started to look at his watch. He then sniped at Sir Patrick: "You could see my belly. I can see you dying right now."
With the women of the year, and women generally, now completely forgotten, the two men went on. Sir Patrick retaliated: "Do you want one more? If you fancy one of the Jonas Brothers, cover your belly." Corden had earlier joked about fancying the singer and actor Nick Jonas, who had presented an award. Corden then said: "OK, can we get a taxi really quickly please. There's an old man going home."
Well, if there were more awards ceremonies like that one, I would go more often. Banished for once was the often faux bonhomie between actors. Out of the window went the carefully cultivated impression that actors old and young respect each other, are one company of players, and mix socially with age no barrier. Instead, it was evident that the generation gap exists just as much between stars of stage and screen as it does in every other walk of life.
"Get your hands out of your pockets" was the instruction barked at many of us in our schooldays by teachers who despaired of the younger generation. Who'd have thought to hear the veteran of Star Trek, the Royal Shakespeare Company and scores of great performances say as much to one of today's cult heroes of television?
Unfortunately for Sir Patrick, most of those in the hall were much nearer to Corden's age than to his, and from singer Duffy to actress Zoe Saldana they publicly lent their support to Corden.
But I think Corden slightly blew it. Sir Patrick had shown himself a fish out of water with his hands in the pockets remark, a man who had failed to realise that a studied cavalier casualness is a part of Corden's appeal. But Corden's request to summon a taxi as "there's an old man going home" was just plain rude. If he had said that he couldn't help showing his belly as there was so much of it, that might have been funnier. He simply insulted a fellow professional with a brusqueness that his alter ego Smithy on Gavin and Stacey would have rejected for being devoid of wit.
Nevertheless, I'm grateful to Corden and Sir Patrick for showing some genuine ill feeling. At least no one can call all actors "luvvies" any more.
Sir Patrick, who was presenting an award, told the Gavin and Stacey star not to stand at the back with his hands in his pocket looking as if he would rather be somewhere else when recipients got up to collect their gongs. He added: "From where I was sitting, I could see your belly."
While that may indeed not be a pretty sight, the joke, if it was one, failed to get a laugh from 31-year-old Corden, who told 69-year-old Sir Patrick to get on with presenting the award, and started to look at his watch. He then sniped at Sir Patrick: "You could see my belly. I can see you dying right now."
With the women of the year, and women generally, now completely forgotten, the two men went on. Sir Patrick retaliated: "Do you want one more? If you fancy one of the Jonas Brothers, cover your belly." Corden had earlier joked about fancying the singer and actor Nick Jonas, who had presented an award. Corden then said: "OK, can we get a taxi really quickly please. There's an old man going home."
Well, if there were more awards ceremonies like that one, I would go more often. Banished for once was the often faux bonhomie between actors. Out of the window went the carefully cultivated impression that actors old and young respect each other, are one company of players, and mix socially with age no barrier. Instead, it was evident that the generation gap exists just as much between stars of stage and screen as it does in every other walk of life.
"Get your hands out of your pockets" was the instruction barked at many of us in our schooldays by teachers who despaired of the younger generation. Who'd have thought to hear the veteran of Star Trek, the Royal Shakespeare Company and scores of great performances say as much to one of today's cult heroes of television?
Unfortunately for Sir Patrick, most of those in the hall were much nearer to Corden's age than to his, and from singer Duffy to actress Zoe Saldana they publicly lent their support to Corden.
But I think Corden slightly blew it. Sir Patrick had shown himself a fish out of water with his hands in the pockets remark, a man who had failed to realise that a studied cavalier casualness is a part of Corden's appeal. But Corden's request to summon a taxi as "there's an old man going home" was just plain rude. If he had said that he couldn't help showing his belly as there was so much of it, that might have been funnier. He simply insulted a fellow professional with a brusqueness that his alter ego Smithy on Gavin and Stacey would have rejected for being devoid of wit.
Nevertheless, I'm grateful to Corden and Sir Patrick for showing some genuine ill feeling. At least no one can call all actors "luvvies" any more.
It's that time again......
One of the joys of a World Cup, is watching every single business on the planet trying to get in on it, no matter how distant they are from football. So ex-England striker John Barnes is promoting adverts for Mars Bars, the "official sponsor of snacks" to the tournament. Because no team can hope to win a World Cup unless it regularly stuffs its face with full-of-goodness vitamin-packed Mars bars.
Maybe Fabio Capello will inform us soon that "this is reason why I no select Theo Walcott, for he not eat enough Mars. In training he eat Twix and Rolos but to be fully fitness he must eat solid nugget of caramel sugar."
You might as well have an advert with a lad in a bandana saying: "Hey, if yer want three lions on yer gear come to me, Little Dave from Moss Side, official sponsor of World Cup crack."
He might be more appropriate than the "official sponsor of fuel to the World Cup", which happens to be BP. Because when you think about the demands of international football – meticulous preparation, instant decisive action, somewhere to train that isn't clogged up with oil-saturated herons – then BP pops instantly to mind.
Almost every item you can imagine has a brand that's the "official sponsor". There will probably be an advert that goes: "If you're disabled, you'll still want to jump up and down for England, so why not invest in a Stannah stairlift, official stairlifts to the World Cup, then you can celebrate England's goals by whirring slowly up and down the side of your banisters."
McDonalds are official sponsors, as are Coke, and if you're official, then no other brand of that product is allowed in the ground. The police have probably been instructed that when they're clearing away unsightly vagabonds outside the stadium they're only to use "Buzz'n'drop", the official World Cup taser.
One consequence of the rule is that the hawkers who scratch a living across South Africa by selling bits of old tat have been told they can't come near the grounds. The local beer, Castle, won't be sold because Budweiser is the official beer. All this zealous insistence on there being only one product might make the North Korean team think their leader has taken over the world as promised. Because it's a peculiar condition of the free market that the last thing it can tolerate is a free market. Maybe Fifa's argument would be: "The hawkers are perfectly entitled to offer £5m so they could sell the official World Cup pile of beads off a fold-up table, but they didn't submit their application."
There was a similar lack of choice for the 20,000 people moved from their settlement to make way for the new stadium in Cape Town, on whose behalf the United Nations have issued a complaint. Maybe the decision was made on a special edition of Location, Location, Location, with Fifa president Sepp Blatter cooing: "Oooh, it's got so much potential, we can clear out all these unnecessary peasants and it will be ideal for a match in Group F."
But in a way sport offers a unique challenge to big business, as by its nature it's not completely predictable. It must be frustrating for those who are used to fixing competitions, that they can't guarantee the results they demand. Some of the sponsors must bang their fist on the table during negotiations, yelling: "We're offering a £3m deal and all we want in return is a 2-2 draw with Italy going through on penalties. Now stop stalling and sign the deal." It's also why the World Cup seems more engaging than the Premier League or Champions League, as it can't be bought in the same way, though I'm sure it's been tried, and the Glazers have asked Fifa if they can buy Uruguay or Cameroon, and then pack their team with players no one else can afford.
And it's why, beyond the obsessive fascination all right-thinking citizens have for a World Cup, there's something else reassuring about the tournament this time. It can only take place in South Africa at all because in one of the biggest shock results of all time, the people with no resources of the world took on a seemingly impregnable opponent, and won.
Maybe Fabio Capello will inform us soon that "this is reason why I no select Theo Walcott, for he not eat enough Mars. In training he eat Twix and Rolos but to be fully fitness he must eat solid nugget of caramel sugar."
You might as well have an advert with a lad in a bandana saying: "Hey, if yer want three lions on yer gear come to me, Little Dave from Moss Side, official sponsor of World Cup crack."
He might be more appropriate than the "official sponsor of fuel to the World Cup", which happens to be BP. Because when you think about the demands of international football – meticulous preparation, instant decisive action, somewhere to train that isn't clogged up with oil-saturated herons – then BP pops instantly to mind.
Almost every item you can imagine has a brand that's the "official sponsor". There will probably be an advert that goes: "If you're disabled, you'll still want to jump up and down for England, so why not invest in a Stannah stairlift, official stairlifts to the World Cup, then you can celebrate England's goals by whirring slowly up and down the side of your banisters."
McDonalds are official sponsors, as are Coke, and if you're official, then no other brand of that product is allowed in the ground. The police have probably been instructed that when they're clearing away unsightly vagabonds outside the stadium they're only to use "Buzz'n'drop", the official World Cup taser.
One consequence of the rule is that the hawkers who scratch a living across South Africa by selling bits of old tat have been told they can't come near the grounds. The local beer, Castle, won't be sold because Budweiser is the official beer. All this zealous insistence on there being only one product might make the North Korean team think their leader has taken over the world as promised. Because it's a peculiar condition of the free market that the last thing it can tolerate is a free market. Maybe Fifa's argument would be: "The hawkers are perfectly entitled to offer £5m so they could sell the official World Cup pile of beads off a fold-up table, but they didn't submit their application."
There was a similar lack of choice for the 20,000 people moved from their settlement to make way for the new stadium in Cape Town, on whose behalf the United Nations have issued a complaint. Maybe the decision was made on a special edition of Location, Location, Location, with Fifa president Sepp Blatter cooing: "Oooh, it's got so much potential, we can clear out all these unnecessary peasants and it will be ideal for a match in Group F."
But in a way sport offers a unique challenge to big business, as by its nature it's not completely predictable. It must be frustrating for those who are used to fixing competitions, that they can't guarantee the results they demand. Some of the sponsors must bang their fist on the table during negotiations, yelling: "We're offering a £3m deal and all we want in return is a 2-2 draw with Italy going through on penalties. Now stop stalling and sign the deal." It's also why the World Cup seems more engaging than the Premier League or Champions League, as it can't be bought in the same way, though I'm sure it's been tried, and the Glazers have asked Fifa if they can buy Uruguay or Cameroon, and then pack their team with players no one else can afford.
And it's why, beyond the obsessive fascination all right-thinking citizens have for a World Cup, there's something else reassuring about the tournament this time. It can only take place in South Africa at all because in one of the biggest shock results of all time, the people with no resources of the world took on a seemingly impregnable opponent, and won.
Wednesday, 2 June 2010
Apple? Not one of my 5 a day...
So the new iPad is now on sale in the UK.This of course means that the many members of the cult of Apple will abandon whatever plans they had for the day to queue up lemminglike,to part with more than £300 to become early adopters of the latest over-hyped product.
Even though I have an ipod,what really hacks me off about Apple is the cult like way that they market and advertise their products.
PC's of course are for the minions,the poor and unimaginative lower social strata who really just don't have the clever,free thinking creative ways that the Apple types who wear cargo trousers to work do.
At the launch of iPad,Apple's leader and no doubt visionary,Steve Jobs,told the audience that the iPad would provide them with a good email experience and a nice keyboard experience."holding it in your hand is an incredible experience" he added."How directly you engage with it..The only word is magical"
I'm sorry but am I missing something here? What the hell is a good email experience?How can sending paragraphs of text or the tapping of fingers on buttons really be described in such elevated terms?
Seeing the birth of your child or falling in love are magical experiences.Pressing send on your latest overpriced,over hyped piece of I.T equipment that was hand made for you by some child in a sweatshop somewhere in the Philippines certainly is not.
I heard a snippet of a Radio 5 live show the other day to hear an iPad owner say that his purchase had changed his life.All I can say is that it couldn't have been much of one in the first place...
But the saddest case so far must be that of Stephen Fry.He's already posted several blogs regarding his love for all things Apple like and the iPad is no different.He actually said (and I'm not making this up):
When I switch it on a little sigh escapes me.Ten minutes later I'm rolling on the floor,snarling and biting,trying to wrestle it from the hands of an Apple press representative.
"I had been prepared for a smooth feel,for a bright screen and the immersive experience everyone had promised.I was not prepared however,for how instant the relationship I formed with the device would be.The only way you will take it from me is to prise it from my cold dead fingers."
But to make things worse,there is even a video on YouTube of him unwrapping his own iPad.The luvvie like way he sees the packaging for the first time and the way his quivering hands open the the boxes to reveal the individual components really is quite sick.
But that's the thing with Apple.It turns adults into children,turning normally intelligent people into the most boring geeks of all time.
If you don't believe me,go into an Apple store.Line of cultish followers with more money than sense,standing in front of screens with faces full of worry that because they don't possess the latest gizmo,they are living in the technological Dark Ages.
The iPad isn't the only product out there but it certainly feels like it......
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