ATP World Tour Finals - Tuesday 23rd November

If it was hard for me to coherently pull together a football match report following repeated exposure to ice hockey of late, how the hell am I going to cope with a tennis report? At least football is a team game, and it’s played outdoors, which is almost as cold as an ice rink. And people are rowdy. For my live tennis experience and subsequent ramblings, I would have to reign in my inner hooligan and re-discover how to applaud politely and NOT encourage opponents to beat each other senseless. This could be interesting.

My first experience of the former Millennium Dome, the now O2 Arena played host all last week to the ATP World Tour Finals, the end of year tennis Championships which sees the top 8 men in the singles rankings and the top 8 mens’ doubles pairings gathering to do battle for the final points of the year. Each session featured one singles and one doubles match, and I would be attending both sessions of Tuesday’s action. We had elected to go for the cheap seats for the early session, and I now see why the seats in the upper tier of the O2 have been described as the ‘nosebleed seats’ – I can honestly say that never before have I experienced such a vertiginous seating experience; I was already feeling nauseous as we ascended the numerous escalators to the high point of the Dome, and this was before climbing the equivalent of 3 or 4 flights of stairs to finally reach our seats in the gods. Nevertheless, it gave an almost bird’s eye view of the action. The place is seriously impressive, and the build-up to the matches lent a real air of excitement.

View of the O2 Arena from the 'nosebleed' seats. Nice.

First up were 4th ranked doubles pairing Lukas Dlouhy and Leander Paes against the wildcard entrants and Wimbledon champions, singles specialist Jurgen Melzer and his partner, the German Phillip Petzschner. It started out slowly but picked up tempo, some blistering power from the Austro-German combo battling against the doubles specialists from the Czech Republic and India. Power and precision eventually won out though, the double-fault and error-strewn performance of Dlouhy/Paes being exposed and punished, despite some flashes of brilliance, particularly from Leander Paes.

The feature match of the afternoon saw the mighty Roger Federer take on our very own Andy Murray (that’s the first and last time I’ll ever claim ownership of Murray! *Shudder*). I was surprised that the support for the two was pretty equal, unlike at Wimbledon where Murray-mania totally takes over and people lose their heads in an annual show of unwarranted patriotism. I would venture to suggest it’s because the British media don’t give a crap about the year-end championships and as a result, no-one has really had a chance to get their panties in a bunch over it. Either that or they’ve all realised what a dour old pain in the arse Murray is. It’s the first and last time I’ll ever shout ‘come on Roger’ that’s for sure. And Roger did indeed come on. It has to be said, that whether or not you are a fan of the man, seeing that whipping forehand in person is really something. It's a force to be reckoned with. And he proceeded to paste Murray all over the court with it. The Scot didn’t really turn up, I’m not sure where he was, perhaps he lost his mojo when he had about 8 inches of excess curls lopped from his strangely shaped noggin, but whatever was going on, he never really got going and Federer cruised to a straight sets victory, 6-4 6-2. Good work from the Swiss who seemed similarly surprised when asked in his post-match interview about Murray’s lack of game. Perhaps he was put off by the sight of footballing legend Maradona, who was in attendance, alarmed by the prospect of him plucking the ball from mid-air in an ‘innocent’ mid-rally incident to give Federer another break of serve. Or perhaps he just had another attack of indifference, an affliction which seems to strike Murray on occasion. Who can say.

Murray v Federer. Spot the ball! Oh, it's in Diego's hand.

We descended back into the lower troposphere for the evening session which was nice, and a cider or three helped me to recover from the altitude sickness. Had a wander around the perimeter of the arena and caught a certain Rafael Nadal on the practice courts, understandably attracting a large crowd despite looking as though he had been happier in his life. Not sure what was bothering him, but Uncle Toni was on hand to advise. My first time seeing my favourite player in the flesh, it was a thrill just to see him hitting, and I thought he looked fantastic; skinnier than I had expected – he’s not carrying an ounce of excess weight OR muscle – honed to perfection – he’s a lean, mean ball-hitting machine! Wide-eyed and fawning, me? Never.

Rafael Nadal: Wearing colours that most human beings can't look at directly since 2002.

The first match of the evening session featured the number one ranked doubles team of the year, the USA’s Bryan Brothers, against the Polish pairing of Fyrstenberg and Matkowski. It was expected to be routine for the Americans; they have been the mens’ doubles equivalent of Chelsea this year, winning everything in sight and schooling their competitors on a weekly basis. Quite why they are so good can really only be attributed to one thing (well apart from their superior skill, fitness, training and those minor details!). It’s all about the twin factor. You know, that thing where twins can feel each other’s pain, and know instinctively when the other one’s in danger. And of course, which way they’re going to serve. Nope, apparently not that last one. One of the twins (please don’t ask me which one, I can barely tell when I’m looking at a picture of them close-up, let alone the backs of their heads from a distance) actually managed to serve the ball directly into the back of his brother’s head. I kid you not. It was hilarious and touching in equal part, as the culprit twin ran over to the victim twin to check he was okay, and they had a little embrace. Aw. Also, I almost forgot to mention, that they actually went to the toilet together. Now THAT is brotherly love. Possibly gone a little too far.

The whole serving-into-the-head incident must have really thrown them off their game though as lanky pole and chubby pole (sorry, but it's easier to type than their actual names) took the second set to take the match to a tie-break, which they dominated and did the unthinkable – they beat the Bryan Brothers. Good work Pole-type dudes. Better luck next time Bryan 1 & 2. Trying not to knock each other out would be a good start.

Hey Mike/Bob! (delete as appropriate). Watch your head - Mike/Bob (delete as appropriate) is serving!

The evening session concluded with the Swedish world number 5 Robin Soderling taking on clay-court specialist David Ferrer from Spain. It was an exciting and tense match, Ferrer the pint-sized powerhouse not making things easy for Soderling, despite the blistering pace of his serve and his hard-hitting forehand. Ferrer had the majority of the crowd, who were fairly subdued despite the excellent quality of the tennis on offer, and the presence of one John Cleese, the back of who’s head I could see just a few metres in front of me (I really had to bite my tongue not to shout 'Basiiiil!' in one of the quiet moments - thankfully I managed to restrain myself). He’s an unerring work-horse (Ferrer that is, although I'm sure John Cleese is quite conscientious too!), and what he lacks in stature he more than makes up for in sheer effort levels. He regularly leaves the ground when applying his racket to his driving forehand and in addition to this he also appears to be a thoroughly pleasant chap, humble and under-stated. Soderling had to fight hard to clinch the first set on the tie-break, before eventually overcoming Ferrer’s challenge in the second set, the Swede’s intensity and power overwhelming the Spaniard as he went on to claim a straight sets victory.

Verdict on the day as a whole: excellent. Very well-organised, impressive venue, some great competition, and a good selection of food and drink (shame about the prices though!). Next year I will be back, and I’ll be buying tickets for two days’ play to make sure I get to see everyone. And yes, that does mean Rafa. Right, back to hockey! This tennis malarkey is turning me into a southern softie again. Bye bye, old blog!

On the birth of a baby blog...

The time has come to unmerge the component parts of my blog! I thought the moment might come eventually when I would need to divorce my incoherent music ramblings from my equally incoherent sporting drivel but if you had told me a year ago it would be because of ice hockey I would have laughed in your face. IN YOUR FACE, I tell you! But that’s what has happened. My day-seizing was successful; My Pet Steed Tangent dun a baby. It’s called ‘Confessions of a Hockey Novice’ and will be launched via the Newcastle Vipers website as of this week, well, that’s the plan, anyway! Here is the link – please check it out, I would appreciate all the support I can get as I am dipping my toe into the churning waters of a sport which I know little about, but love with a passion already – I hope it will amuse both hockey and non-hockey fans alike and bring in lots of new Vipers fans who can like me revel in the glory of ice hockey without necessarily knowing what the blithering hell is going on.

http://confessionsofahockeynovice.blogspot.com/

So that’s it! Being as ice hockey is the vessel into which all my creative juices are flowing currently, it may be a little quiet around here for a bit. I might come along sporadically, like today, to splurge some general juicy overflow in the direction of this here blog. Or maybe to rant about football again, or even to review a gig, when I eventually go to another one. Fear not dear readers! Words shall spill forth from my fingertips onto this here screen once more. Well, more than once, obviously. But for now I’m off to immerse myself in the weird and wonderful world of hockey – wish me luck!

Ice Hockey and Me: A Love Story

So after a couple of weeks of irksome prior arrangements it was finally time for another hockey Saturday. About time too. The Vipers took on the top side in the league, Belfast Giants, in the much promoted Halloween Havoc clash at Whitley Bay Ice Rink. The impressive number of travelling fans, complete with rather large drum, were so noisy we moved from our regular spot near the back of the bleachers to one row from the front, which turned out to be an excellent decision. It felt completely different. Despite certain areas of the ice being somewhat obstructed in terms of the view, being right next to the action was quite something. It made it all a lot easier to follow. It was also a fly by the seat of your pants-type experience in that every so often, players came crashing into the sidings literally three feet in front of my nose. I can’t say that a pair of hockey players swiftly applied to the face would be a wholly unpleasant experience, but it might be a bit unexpected and possibly a tad sore in the morning. So I’m quite glad the plastic shields held up their end of the bargain and contained both teams nice and safely, with my face unharmed on the other side.

Pic half-inched from the Vipers website, photo by Paul Lynch photography

I am also proud to say that after three matches, I am finally starting to recognise individual players, not just by their physical appearances but by their skating styles and even their movements on the puck. Some players are more how shall I say, functional in their skating; it's all about getting somewhere, quickly. Which is fine, and necessary. But others actually have real flair, and probably wouldn't look out of place if asked to perform a triple salko in a figure-skating contest. Okay, you might ask, what have you done with the girl who was getting a bit excitable over large brutish neanderthal types beating the crap out of each other. I don't know where she's gone, perhaps my penchant for aesthetics has overtaken my primitive desire for some good old-fashioned violence. Whatever the case, the light-footed and speedy Vipers won me over in last night's match.

I know for example, that my favourite player, Dale Mahovsky, skates face first (possibly why he lost a few teeth in last week's match), but with the effortless style of someone who has been on skates for at least as long as he has had legs. Possibly longer. Mahovsky's impressive skating, dogged determination and good clean game all cemented him firmly in my heart as my number 1 Viper on Saturday. I'm sure he'll be thrilled. He was vying for the position before defenceman Blair Stayzer left the club this week to return to his native Canada, but even without Stayzer's untimely abdication, Mahovsky still would have taken the throne with his performance this week. Toothless though he may be, he is valiant in his endeavours at all times. And actually helped get a Belfast goal written off due to some excellent work reasoning with the referee. A bit of a fan you say? Yes I do believe I am. I even wandered across to the shirt auction in the hope of inheriting his glorious Canadian sweat-laced special-edition jersey but alas, I was too late. Next time Dale, your shirt will be mine.

For fear of sounding a bit stalky, I'm going to move on.

Dale Mahovsky, prior to the dental incident. Photo again by Paul Lynch.

At this point can I just say, I love ice hockey. I love it, I love it, I love it. I could just roll around and bathe in it. I am so invested in my team already it actually hurts me when they lose, just like in football. Which is nearly always. And yet, we don't seem to deserve to. We played great on Saturday, despite having next to no defensive players available, and being up against the strongest team in the league. We were really good. Hard-working, some great skills, one of the most incredible saves I've ever seen in any sport by Charlie Effinger (who I'm also becoming quite fond of), a brilliant short-handed goal from Toms Hartmanis, a very jolly atmosphere and overall, a fully uplifting experience. I absolutely can't get enough. And I have a feeling that it’s just a matter of time before the results improve. Hopefully, a very short amount of it.

In the meantime, I’d like to share with others new to the sport a few more of my observations, gleaned from my initial experiences, for your amusement and hopefully to pique your interest! For those familiar with the sport, please feel free to point and laugh. I drafted this a couple of weeks ago so I do feel I’ve come on a bit since then!

Being a relatively under-represented sport in the UK it’s not surprising that teams have to work hard to secure a large amount of sponsorship to support their existence, but the extent to which it’s infiltrated the game makes me giggle. When I was at my first match and heard over the tannoy ‘icing, sponsored by Winn's Solicitor’s’ I was rightly confused. There was no cake in sight for a start. If there was, why hadn’t I been offered any? I have since discovered that icing is actually an illegal move, a bit like offside. But more puck-related than player-related. The pesky little thing sometimes gets ahead of itself, apparently.

Sponsoring an element of play is incomprehensible to me, and has always made me laugh, ever since we were at Hull’s KC stadium watching Watford a couple of seasons ago and the announcer kept insisting that penalties/half-time/possibly even throw-ins were sponsored by such-and-such. But I do understand the need for it in challenging times, especially for a sport that is so little known in this country. They could at least provide cake, though.

Something else I did find it quite difficult to keep up with in my first couple of hockey outings was the constant changing of personnel (I speak in the past tense as I am now, thankfully, beginning to catch on). There are unlimited changes allowed throughout the game, and according to the rulebook (of which I am now an aficionado) as long as they are not directly influencing play, players can even change during the run of play. Which seems like a wholly unnecessary complication when you consider by comparison the arguments that break out in football over exactly what constitutes 'directly influencing play' when disputing offside decisions. And football is played at less than a quarter of the speed of hockey. Really. It's been scientifically proven. By my eyes. But in hockey it can result in anything up to about 16 players on the ice at any one time, especially if both teams are switching line-ups simultaneously. It's baffling. I have a hard enough time matching what my eyes are seeing to what my brain thinks is going on without all that added confusion.

Which brings me to the player of the month award for September, which I feel it worth mentioning, despite it now being November. Latvian forward Toms Hartmanis took the honours, just ahead of Patrik Forsbacka, who probably came second due to the epic fight he had on the ice against Braehead, on the day that hockey stole my heart. But quite how anyone works out who their player of the month is I don't know, as following individuals is nigh on impossible; it’s like trying to find your pet bee at the Chelsea Flower Show. I've ended up choosing favourites based on their names, and the ones I've managed to track around the ice for more than a minute at a time. My reasoning is faultless.

Which reminds me, I have finally selected an NHL team. In the end I went for the ones with the nicest jerseys. Which turned out to be Calgary Flames. Minutes of careful research went into that decision, so don’t knock it. I also quite like Vancouver Canucks. For some reason I fancied supporting a Canadian team over an American one. It's colder there, therefore they have more of a right to win stuff on ice. QED.

Joke's over now, okay?

You get what you wish for, so they say. And ‘they’ as we all well know, are eminently wise. This weekend was a case in point. I said I couldn't cope with my teams doing well. And what a sorry state of affairs I was presented with as a scathing riposte.

Watford, Watford, Watford. Likened to Real Madrid by Mark Bright on Radio 5 Live midweek apparently, this was clearly not the same team who had impressed in their win over Ipswich. Or if it was, they had had some kind of skill lobotomy; so devoid of ideas were my beloved team that I honestly think we could have played until Christmas and not scored. And for the top-scoring side in the division, that is worrying. And a bit odd. It was like the spark had been suctioned right out of them. I think someone must have told them I was there and they were feeling the pressure to perform. Bless them. The only team member on top of his game was Harry the Hornet, our mascot, who appears to have lost about 12 stone since I last saw him. He now dresses all in black and is the svelte equivalent of a mascot superhero. He has some pretty tidy moves too. And a massive drum.

Having recently been to see some live hockey matches and having not seen any live football in months, I found it quite difficult to get my head back in the game. For example, I was quite disconcerted that the staff at Vicarage Road hadn’t taken to playing bursts of fitting R'n'B numbers whenever there was a break in play. I was also disappointed to find that throw-ins weren’t sponsored by Phones4U. I found myself glazing over a bit whenever there was a section of play that lasted longer than thirty seconds. Although that may just have been because the game was flatter than a pancake. Laid flat, on a flat thing. In Norfolk. Or perhaps my attention span has been butchered into submission by hockey and I’ll never be the same again. I was highly amused though, by my Dad, who in a fit of misplaced political correctness, called the referee a follically-challenged twat. The man has class!

Things went from bad to worse on Saturday night when, forced to miss the Vipers game against the Cardiff Devils due to my foray darn sarf, I sat tensely in my parent’s home following the match on the Elite Ice Hockey League’s Live Scores page (which is about the most nerve-wracking method of following a sporting contest I have ever encountered, I might add). We lost again, which I was gutted about. Even worse, whilst reading the match report half an hour or so later, I let out an audible gasp upon discovering that promising Canadian forward Dale Mahovsky had to be treated after a goal was deflected in off his jaw and he lost three teeth! I concluded that ice hockey was just a big mean boys game and the Cardiff team must be a bunch of Neanderthals. How could they. Poor boy. He was one of the pretty ones, as well.

So that was that. Another loss for the Vipers followed on Sunday and I was left feeling particularly sorry for myself as another Monday rolled around, and this one a cold, damp and thoroughly autumnal one. I’ve changed my mind. Can I have winning back please? I promise I won’t complain about it ever again. I was only kidding, y'know. The internet clearly can't take a joke these days. Hmph.

A Ray of Hope

So in a week where football news has been dominated by our Lord Potato-head, we have finally had some resolution, thank his Rooney-ness. Yes, after a public dirty laundry-airing that Kerry Katona would have been proud of, Rooney and Fergie had a press conference-off earlier in the week, then cancelled some press conferences, before finally coming out with the Final Press Conference: Resolution Rooney. Yes, he’s staying put. All that hype, all that mud-slinging, all those attempts by Wayne to actually sound like a master of the English language (he wasn‘t fooling anyone), all for nothing. We end the week the same as we began it. Rooney is a Man United player. Wow. What a lot of knicker-twisting for absolutely no action. Give me strength.

But the footballing gods provided Manna from heaven this week in the form of Ian Holloway, with his general south-west heart-on-his-sleeve ranty-ness and his use of the phrase ‘you’re having me over, me old cocker’; diamond geezer! And more importantly, the reinforcement of my lovely little football club as one of the nicest, most family and community-oriented clubs in the country. Like a shot in the arm of those wearied by Rooney and his pathetic stropping, came a story to warm the hearts of all those who still hold out hope that football has some goodness left in its still-warm corpse, even if it is only the little toe.

Watford super-fan Don Fraser, a devoted fan who for many years has attended all matches despite his physical disabilities and has previously won Radio 5 Live’s ‘supporter of the year’ award, injured himself in an accident and was admitted to hospital (Watford General, situated in Vicarage Road itself, of course) for a hip operation earlier this week. As a result of this he was forced to miss our midweek encounter with Roy Keane’s Ipswich. This is no obstacle to Watford, however. The day after the match, the two goalscorers from the match Marvin ‘Scoredell’ Sordell and Stephen McGinn, visited Mr Fraser in hospital and delivered a DVD of our 2-1 win for him to savour. How nice is that. How much further away from the tarting about of that overpaid, over-rated cheating scumbag of a supposed footballing superstar can you get. And that’s my club, people. Proud? Am I ever.

To top it all off, I make my first appearance of the season at Vicarage Road (the football ground, not the hospital, barring a late-night red wine-induced disaster) tomorrow, and I hope that the winning streak will continue. Because if anyone deserves it, Malky Mackay and the hard-working, genuine set of lads he commands do. How I love my little club, still flying high at 3rd place in the Championship. That’s just 5 places below Liverpool, don’t you know.

Not to be outdone, the most annoying administrator ever to walk the earth, Andrew Andronikou, has today had yet another chance to fan his over-sized ego following the news that Portsmouth may yet again be up Poop Creek without a steering device. Doesn’t he know administrators are meant to be seen and not heard. Or preferably, not seen at all. I mean really, is he necessary? Never has one man had so much publicity over so little (obviously I am not belittling Pompey's dire circumstances, but rather, despairing over the day that an administrator became a spokeperson of such gravity. And I am one. Albeit, a less important one). He’s no better than the traffic warden who has just slapped a ticket on the prime minister’s car. Except, we might actually like him.

Best of luck to Pompey in bringing themselves back from the brink once again. and best of luck to my little team for in their match against another little team, Scunthorpe, tomorrow. As for Rooney, I hope his 'ankle' heals in good time for him to continue to do absolutely nothing for United for the foreseeable future.

Insert Tabloid-esque Rooney-related Headline Here

Discussing football is starting to actually hurt me, physically. I can’t resist it, however, and will always allow myself to be drawn into a conversation on the subject, despite the almost bolted on certainty that it will end with me either sighing heavily enough to induce a pulmonary embolism or damaging property belonging to myself or (preferably) someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I still love my little Watford and that will never, ever change. As the saying goes, cut me open and I bleed red and gold. In fact, I’m literally about to go and visit the National Blood Service to prove this very fact as they take out a pint of the stuff to be replaced by a cup of orange squash and a Tuc biscuit. Beat that bitches!

But anyway, I digress (riding off on the name of my blog again, apparently!). When it comes to England, and most Premiership clubs and footballers, I literally can’t take much more. I hate them. All of them (well, most of them - I do still have a soft spot for Sunderland, although I will admit I'm a bit biased). I had a discussion on Monday about Wayne Rooney’s potential future at Manchester City that actually made me want to physically expel the contents of my stomach out of the car window. I was travelling quite quickly around a large, crowded roundabout at the time and the thought occurs that it could actually have been quite interesting to study the trajectory of said stomach contents but again, I digress.

Apparently it was suggested that good old, salt of the earth club Cit-eh might pay His Holy potato-headed-ness half a million pounds a week to secure his seemingly magical footballing services. That’s £500,000, people. Per week. That’s seven days. If you’re interested, that breaks down to £2,976.19 per hour. Watch that second hand tick round for a few minutes. If you’re Rooney, you’ve now got enough to buy a tailored suit, or a top of the range watch. Jog up and down a patch of grass and kick a bit of plastic with air inside it for less than a day and you’ve got enough for a brand new BMW. Or 50-odd high class hookers. Just sayin’.

Illustration by S D Madgwick

Now, I’ve clearly missed something. It must have recently emerged that Rooney’s feet are in fact made entirely of Swarovski crystal, encrusted with one carat diamonds. His touch must quite clearly be as light as a downy feather plucked from the plump breast of a Christmas goose. One strike of the ball from Sir Wayne of Roonshire will make the fine women of England-land fall elegantly to their knees, panting and fanning themselves delicately whilst weeping tears of liquid silver.

Could it be that this one man, with skills silkier than blankets made from the pelts of a thousand Andrex puppies, this man with an understanding of football so far removed from us mere mortals that he actually exists in another realm entirely, has reached such a level of exaltedness that his breath-taking, palpitation-inducing, panty-moistening talent thus excuses the actions of his corporeal being? This is a human form, a physical host which unlike the infallible godlike athlete that inhabits it, slopes about the football pitch with cheeks bright red and sweat beading on its prehistoric brow, whilst off the pitch indulging in the delights of the local nightlife and procreating with the elderly and ladies of the night. It certainly offers no good reason for making it a millionaire on a fortnightly basis. Therefore, one can only conclude, that Wayne Rooney is basically God.

The burden of proof has landed squarely in the gold-tassled lap of Sheik Mansour, and he may or may not choose to reveal to the world its new Messiah; this man whose talents are so far elevated above the perceptions of us lowly plebeians that we cannot even SEE them. They exist purely in our imagination, or the collective unconscious, like the ability to learn language or the incomprehensible desire to try to put our big toes in our own mouths or receive mild electric shocks for no apparent reason. The holy man chooses not to manifest these skills in such demeaning and rudimentary contests as ‘The World Cup’ and ‘The Premier League’, instead selecting to reserve them for his other deity buddies, playing keepy-uppies in the heavens with Buddha, Jesus and The Prophet Mohammed. Hence why no-one can actually figure out if he’s actually any good anymore. But it has become apparent to me that blind faith alone is the only recourse in these dark and desperate times, as it has been so many times in the history of our species. We shall gaze upon God-Wayne with unerring devotion, until such time as he deigns to employ his crystalline feet in the pursuit of winning a football match once more.

Yes, well. That’s what I think about that in a rather over-sized nutshell. It has since been confirmed that Rooney will leave United, and I hope for his sake and ours that he chooses a club in Spain, Italy or perhaps even Uzbekistan. Lord knows he needs a break from the British media and Christ f%*king knows we all need a long and peaceful break from him. Let the potato famine begin.

Blind ambition

Having been blogularly somewhat more prolific over the last few weeks the thought occurs that I should use my current thrusting creative urge to actually forge ahead a bit in what is supposed to have been something resembling a career for me. My 17-year-old self seemed steadfastly convinced, for at least 50% of the year anyway, that my future lay in journalism. Whether it was to be music or sport seemed to be the only thing in question. (The other 50% of the year around that time my ambitions were roughly divided between heart surgeon, speech therapist and translator. Quite what this says about me I'm not sure, other than that I'm clearly not a very decisive person as, 12 years later, I am still stuck in administration. My 17-year-old self would not be amused. But I’m older than her so she can keep her mouth shut!).

I'm never quite sure whether or not to feel gut-wrenchingly disappointed that, almost 30 years into my time on this planet, I haven't really started doing what I actually want to do with my life (not that the first 18 or so really count as full time education does tend to get in the way a bit). I have in recent years swung pendulously from one startlingly urgent desire to the next, from one moment deciding that running my own rock pub is absolutely the only course of action available to me and actually researching vacant properties in the area, to genuinely believing in the next instance that I could be the world's best screenwriter and getting a good 90 pages into my first script before deciding it was rubbish and abandoning it. Will I ever grow out of this irritating habit of blindly barnstorming my way from one unrealistic ambition to the next? I really hope so, because if I don't I'm going to end up leading a pretty forgettable existence from the point of view of society as a whole.

It's not like I have a burning desire to discover a cure for the common cold, or to found the next Facebook, or resuscitate hamsters. I'm fully aware that to do something truly great takes a finely tuned combination of any of the following ingredients: natural genius or talent, dumb luck, meticulous training, bravery, or favourable breeding and the connections that come with that. To be famous, or brilliant, is quite another thing to just succeeding at something. And although I'd like to think of myself as perhaps not the most shabby Senior Administrator in all of higher education-dom, I'm painfully aware that I really don't think it's what I was put on this earth to do.

And so it is that I come back, once again, to writing. The spontaneous and genuinely unplanned spouting of my brain matter onto a computer screen that somehow gets me through these almost manic periods of nervous but misdirected creativity. It's something that I can do. I may not be the most gifted writer in the world. But it feels good to empty some of my thoughts into the comforting receptacle of crap that is the internet in the hope that one day, through no fault of my own, someone of consequence might happen upon my ramblings and think to offer me copious sums of money to write about whatever I feel like, whenever the moment takes me. Because that's how it works, right?

But the problem with my writing is the same problem I have with my attitude to careers in general. Wildly fluctuating obsession is not conducive to getting ahead in life, or so it would appear. If I could pick a subject and stick to it, perhaps I might be a bit more driven to pursuing a final goal. But sometimes I write about music. And sometimes about sport. Sometimes even about film. And then sometimes, when I'm plummeting headlong toward an existential crisis, I write about myself. And the crap that goes on in my head. Not wise, really. Does the BBC have a position for 'Journalist without Portfolio', do you think? Obviously they'd have to lend me to Metalhammer, or Film Magazine, or possibly even Woman's Weekly once in a while, but that's okay, isn't it?

So here I am, being honest with my blog. Because goddamnit, if you can't be honest with a bundle of HTML coding that exists on a microchip or some other such nonsense, who can you be honest with? I don't even know if this is going to make it that far. Let’s face it, I'm not being honest at all; it's Monday night, and I'm typing into the draft message box of my Yahoo account whilst drinking red wine. I don't know why. I just felt the urge. So make me do something productive, will you? The furthest I've come in the last year or so to doing something about furthering my career was emailing a guy at a well-known music publication with a link to my blog and an offer of freelance work in my area. He actually responded, which was kind. He said they didn't have any work at the minute, but he suggested I didn't use the first person in my writing. But it's a blog... Okay, I take his point. Sort of.

Anyway, as a sort of catharsis, and a contract with myself and the internet, I will now lay bare for you all of the things that I have wanted to do with my life, over the years. Here is the list, in roughly chronological order (for some reason I can't remember what I wanted to be further back than about the age of 10):

When I grow up, I want to be:

Magazine editor, international swimmer, David Attenborough, novelist, RAF pilot, heart surgeon, primary school teacher, translator, speech therapist, English lecturer, international rower, rock radio DJ, journalist, bass player, A&R person, party planner, bookshop owner, choreographer, pub owner, screenwriter, festival organiser.

Notice the lack of 'postgraduate senior administrator' on that list. Hmm, funny that.

POSTSCRIPT: Seemingly goading me into action following my above rant (which I actually wrote last week), Fate dealt me a proverbial and timely kick up the derriere on Friday, as news of the impending doom of massive budget cuts to higher education struck and left us all fearing for our jobs.

Of course, I feel for the future students and their families, who have to bear the brunt of what is essentially going to be a tuition fee free-for-all (and not the good kind), but looking inward, the timing couldn’t really have been more ironic from a personal point of view and therefore, my new mission ('Balls; acquire a set') has been launched. It’s now or never people. I must launch myself from the precipice of doubt into the abyss of uncertainty and hope that there’s a trampoline at the bottom. Or at the very least, some light padding. Or a sandwich. Wish me luck!