Tuesday 19 July 2016

Chapter Seventeen: Police

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: POLICE

It must be such a confusing time to be an American right now: cos if all army veterans are automatically heroes, what does one do when they go all terrorist on the police's ass and murder a bunch of them?

(Note from the editor - it's only terrorism if they're a Muslim, or from a Muslim background; when they're Christian or Atheist it's just "one o' dem things".)

In any case, I'm here to say, fear not, you portly, moustachioed police of America! You're actually way less likely to be shot than in the olden days.

Here are some stats:

- Between 1971 and 1980 an average of 115 police killed per year
- Between 2006 and 2015, 50 per year
- Furthermore, an increase in number of officers from 437,000 to 725,000 means police were 3.5 times more likely to be shot and killed in 1980 than they are now

So there you go: the streets are safe. Be happy! :-)

Also:

- Police shoot and kill about 85 citizens per month (doesn't include people they taser to death, choke hold, and run down in their cars)
- About 50% of those killed are white
- 26% were black (compare with: 13% of population; nearly 50% of convicted murderers)

Stats summarised from this article here:


Cheers!:-)

Sunday 17 July 2016

Chapter Twelve: Politics

What's that thing wise people say about unsuitable topics of conversation among family and friends? That's it: don't talk religion, don't talk sex, and don't talk politics either.

Smart, them wise people - but me no wise person; we all know that. So...

1. I was watching the local north of England news last night and people on it were talking about out-of-touch London politicians who forget about the rest of the country, don't know what's going on up here, just take care of their own - you know, all the usual lines the good, humble Northern Working Man trots out.

But then I suddenly had this lightbulb moment: these people here are doing exactly the same thing! They're talking about places they haven't a clue about. And, if they did, they'd never say the things they say.

London politicians looking after London? If that were true then: why is it so bloody awful down there?

2. Ever since the referendum, the ironic beards of Britain's youth have apparently been tear-soaked and bedraggled. They didn't want it, older Remainers bleat - transferring and projecting - but they're the ones who are going to have to live with it.

Others retort, well if they didn't want it - and let's remember, a lot of them did - then why didn't they get off their Xbox arses and make it down the polling station?

Others, like The Grauniad, say they did, looking at different sets of statistics published a couple of days ago. But if you happened to read that article, look closer: the sample sizes were tiny.

In any case, for me it's all immaterial: the real question is: why should we care so much what the young think about political matters anyway? And especially why should we rate their supposed concerns of greater value than the elderly?

According to independent think-tank The Chimera Group, 90% of 16-24 year-olds don't know their arses from their elbows anyway.

3.Wah wah wah. Brexit means money has gone bad. Money has gone bad 'cos people said money would go bad - but what if they'd said money would go good? And what about my money - isn't that what really matters?

Wah wah house prices and trade deals and - look at the footsie, isn't it awful? (Whatever that is.)

Wah wah wah!

But listen: money would've gone bad anyway. And house prices would've gone down. And then they'd've gone up again. And either one would have been good/bad for somebody.

The recession in 2008? Fifteen percent interest rates in the 80s? What did either of them have to do with whether Brussels let us eat bent bananas or not?

Recession, she come and go, for whatever reason, and if this is the reason this time then, whatevers, it won't last forever.

Plus, it's very doubtful it'll do anything to diminish the unabated growth of the size of TV screens in our nation's households.

4. It's all very un-British, you know, all this handwringing and griping and whining, "it's not fair." After all, aren't we the nation that simply laughed as Jerry dropped his bombs, sang songs about saucy milkmen, and made up comedy routines involving tall men whose feet could go quite high when they walked?

Stiff upper lip, self-deprecating humour, and get on with it: that's the spirit.

5. Also, all those people saying, "look! an online petition! four million want another go at it and we've made a terrible mistake and we deserve a second chance - especially now we've seen money go bad."

Four million? That's a mere 25% of those who voted Remain in the first place. Which - stats being stats - we can extrapolate to conclude that a full 12 million of Remainers have changed their minds and decided they quite like the Brexiting after all.

6. Will Scotland have another independence referendum? I hope so. Couldn't believe they didn't take up the offer two years ago - all those hundreds of years of fighting and moaning and watching Braveheart on endless repeat, and they don't grab the chance when it's handed to 'em on a plate?

Poor ol' Robbie the Bruce musta been spinning in his grave.

7. Now, here's the thing: I don't really know anything about how politics or the economy works, and, if you're a normal human person with a head and three arms, you don't either.

In fact, I doubt very much whether even the abnormal ones like the ones in charge know that much about how politics and the economy works - if they did, should we not assume they'd do a better job at it? That they'd see things like booms and busts coming? That it wouldn't be so crazy complex and difficult?

But, anyway, like football, it's kind of fun to talk about.

8. A lot of people like the expression, "Politicians: they're all as bad as each other." They say that and we all know what it means and I guess if you agree with it you feel it's a "truth universally acknowledged."

But if it is true, doesn't it also mean that they're all as good as each other? And if that's the case, shouldn't we be cutting them some slack?

Tough job, eh? Not sure I'd want to do it, even with all the money and fame and going on telly and that.

9. Poor old Jeremy Corbyn: there's a man who symbolises the futility of living in a democracy, where any ill-informed jackass's opinion is worth as much as the one held by whatever Confucius or Lao-Tsu you may have living down your road.

All he ever said was, "I think maybe it's not a good idea to spend trillions of pounds on large pieces of machinery that are designed to bring death, destruction, widespread suffering, environmental devastation, and possible annihilation on a global scale, and which we're never going to use anyway" and they chased him outta town like some cobbled-together monster who needed jabbing with pitchforks and burned screaming at the stake.

That's what you get for being ahead of your time, Jezzer.

10. Winston Churchill, as I've said many a time, had it right: "democracy is rubbish," he said, "because the majority of people aren't all that smart and tend to make lowest common denominator decisions - but at least it's better than brutal dictatorship."

In a political democracy you get what - well, not necessarily what the majority want, but, you know, what a larger chunk of people than another chunk of people want.

But isn't it good that in other realms of life we're not subjected to such conditions? Otherwise there'd be no Stewart Lee, no Limmy, no Kurt Vonnegut, and no Gong either, and we'd all be living in a world where the only reading matter would be The Sun newspaper and Dan Brown books, all movies would be variations on the theme 'Transformers', and Adele, Ed Sheeran, and Michael Bublé would dominate the airwaves to such an extent those of different persuasions would either be running for the nearest cliff or doing a double Van Gogh in the search for blesséd relief.

Point being: if only we had a meritocracy of honest and wise leaders who quietly got on with it while the rest of us concentrated on the important stuff like eating pizza and hitting Level 42 on Candy Crush Saga 9: The Dostoevsky Years.

11. In any case, thank God UK politics barely makes a blind bit of difference to anything, 'cept maybe putting up the price of a paella every now and then. Or causing devastating events like the miners' strike, the war in Iraq, and the tragedy of a few thousand London hipsters throwing their toys out the pram.

12. Poor old Londoners - my heart genuinely bleeds for 'em 'cos, you know, it must be awful being forced to live somewhere so expensive and grim, with no means of escape, all them guards standing around the M25 herding 'em in like cattle, orders to shoot to kill.

How they clamber at that wall! How they risk life and limb to get across it! How they beseech, please let us go to Sunderland! We know there are empty, affordable houses there, we're sure we could start fresh lives, bring vitality, make the perilous journey, wagon-train style, and build anew.


But no: they must stay, scrape together for their rents, and suffer the horror and ignominy till Trident is finally and gloriously unleashed and the whole apocalyptic mess is once more returned to the cabbages and the cows.

Tuesday 12 July 2016

People

What do you do with people, huh? Sometimes they’re just plain hard to deal with. Maybe even people that you actually like. Like, perhaps in these days of political upheaval and lots to chat about, your friends and family reveal that they’re kind of bigoted and racist and you don’t know what to say. You like them plenty in other ways. So it’s maybe best to keep schtum. Adhere to the old adage of keeping religion, politics, and sex away from the dinner table.

Communicating properly with others requires a kind of unspoken contract: we’ll be somewhat open; we’ll be honest; we won’t play daft games to try and score points; we won’t get hysterical and irrational, overly aggressive or violent.

If the contract’s not adhered to, we have a choice: get involved in something maybe unpleasant, or walk away, avoid those people, or at least avoid those topics.

Obviously, because I’m saying all this, that implies that I see myself as a rational person. And by that, I guess I mean that I listen, I try to be open to what the other person is saying, put myself in their shoes as much as I can, not be nasty even when I think they’re totally barking (understanding that doesn’t do anyone any good), and seek that which is mutually beneficial, the point of harmony and understanding, a place where agreements rather than antagonisms can be found.

Also obviously, I may be wrong in all that: if I see others as irrational, unwieldy, and generally lacking in communication skills, it only stands to reason that others may feel the same in me. I mean, they won’t feel themselves to be irrational, just as I don’t. But we can’t both be right.

Still, if I assume I am right in this – how else is one to exist in the world? – then the real question is, how does one proceed? I’ve dealt with plenty of people who seemed incapable of rational conversation – particularly when in the middle of refereeing a football match – and the conclusion I’ve come to is it’s simply best not to engage, tempting though it is, and straightforward though it appears. It’s a lesson learned repeatedly, and often painfully, and a lesson I will no doubt have many chances to learn again, and will also no doubt fail many times too.

But that’s not what I’m thinking about now. What about those who do appear capable of rational conversation? Those who say the right things. Those who appear to be listening, and hearing, and singing from the same hymn sheet. And those who it later transpires, quite clearly aren’t.

Let’s say I know a man. Let’s say he’s really nice in lots of ways, and we seem to get on well – and yet, over and over, when the conversation’s finished, I discover the way he might have related it to others is full of blatant fabrications. Let’s say he also lies about other aspects of my life. Let’s say he tells others close to me things that aren’t true, that are hurtful, and that come so out of leftfield as to be baffling, puzzling, almost amusing in their preposterousness, and generally ludicrously easily disproved to boot.

Why would someone be like that? Why would someone be like that over and over again? What could they possibly find so threatening that they felt such a need to lie?

Now let’s take it a step further: let’s say this person works with vulnerable people. And let’s say that being honest is not only integral to their work, but forms the basis of it.

Can the most dishonest and manipulative person I know be trusted in this position? Can a self-confessed “pathological liar” help others to be more honest with themselves and others? Does the end justify the means? And where, exactly, do I fit in with all this?

It’s a tricky one: when the whole Jimmy Savile thing came out, there were no shortage of people claiming, “oh, everyone knew that about him” – but where were they in the preceding decades, when they could have saved others from grievous and irreparable harm? Why didn’t they step forward while he was still alive? Why do so many of us let all different kinds of abuse slide?

It’s scary, I guess, and messy too: whistle blowers rarely come away unscathed. You roll with the socio and psychopaths of this world, you get covered in dirt. Icky stuff, difficult to remove. I can understand the temptation to try to let it go, to forget, to move on.

Still, that’s not quite where it’s at for me: for truly exposing one man’s dishonesty would also embroil and hurt people I care about, as well as possibly jeopardise their finances, and that’s what holds me back when push comes to shove, for better or for worse. It’s not their fault they’re inextricably linked with such a person. I don’t see why they should suffer.

It’s a rock and a hard place, and I guess I choose the rock.

Well, that’s okay: I quite likes rocks – and in some ways, prefer them to people too. ;-)

It’s also a curiosity: in 99.9% of my interactions I find little stress, little unpleasantness, little unease – so to have this one person in my life not only so seemingly incapable of telling the truth, but also apparently hellbent on spreading disinformation when honesty would quite happily suffice is baffling in the extreme. I just don’t come across it very often, and I certainly don’t understand it.

But then, maybe it’s a good thing that I don’t – though perhaps I should try:

Q. Why would someone be compulsively dishonest, even when it would be easier not to be?

A. I guess because they have some fairly complex deep-seated mental and emotional issues that are way beyond my level of understanding to comprehend or unravel or deal with.

Q. And why would somebody so seemingly charismatic, likeable, and good in so many other ways exhibit so many episodes of manipulation and falsehood?

A. Probably something an expert in pathological behaviour could elaborate on: history has given us enough examples of severely twisted individuals who were well-liked, entertaining, and capable of completely heinous activity to show us that popularity isn’t everything.

Q. And what am I to do about all this?

A. Probably nothing. I mean, the wrongdoings aren’t particularly harmful – they’re certainly not on a Jimmy Savile-type level – and, like I say, because people I like and love would be adversely affected, I don’t feel I can anyway. I guess it’s just a case of avoiding them. Managing my own emotions around this as best I can. And waiting till they die.

I dunno. I don’t understand why this causes me so much stress. Maybe I’ve just been lucky in my life thus far and therefore never learned to deal with the nasty shock of being gossiped and lied about. Maybe it’s the discomfort of not knowing exactly how to proceed. Or maybe it’s my inherent Britishness and sense of ‘justice’ and ‘fairness’ rising its confused hackles and bristling at the inconvenience of an internal battle between politeness, doing what’s right, not wishing to make a scene, and the frustration of an enemy who refuses to play by the rules, even when the rules make perfect sense for everybody.

It’s all very strange. But I feel better for typing it out, and resolved.

The Euros

Oh dear. On a refereeing forum I sometimes check in on I made the awful mistake of deciding to share my thoughts about the Euros: awful not because of any associated pain, but because, once I'd started, I didn't seem able to stop. And by that I mean: 2,642 words' worth of not being able to stop.

So what am I going to do? Bin it out of sheer embarrassment? Or post it here?

I think you know the answer to that. ;-)

In a nutshell, for the 100% who have no interest in reading the whole rotten thing: England weren't so bad; pundits are daft 'cos they judge teams on results rather than performances; results are often a consequence of rather arbitrary and random factors; and other things besides.

Cheers! :-)

*******************************************

RORY'S CLOSING THOUGHTS ON EURO 2016 (AGED 40½)

What's really struck me at these Euros is how obvious it has come across that a team's performance has been rated based on the result. A team loses and there's all kinds of negative analysis, while the one that wins is heaped with praise. It seems absolutely clear and I'm amazed that very few are able to realise this.

England vs Iceland is not a good example, but if we look at something like England vs Russia or Slovakia, or Belgium vs Italy...

Italy were winning 1-0. Belgium should have scored an equaliser. Game should have finished 1-1. Italy scored a second on a breakaway when Belgium were committed up front.

The pundits praise Italy and slate Belgium. But I know for a fact, had Belgium got the draw, it would have all been about how they kept plugging away, didn't give up, etc, etc.

England drew against Russia. People like Phil McNulty criticised Roy substituting Rooney, as though that made a difference. But would he have even mentioned it had Russia not squeezed a last minute equaliser totally against the run of play? Or were England already two goals up, as their display merited?

I've seen this time and again. I've wondered what would happen if people were shown a game with the goals removed¹, without knowing the result. Imagine editing all that out. You get to see the chances but you don't know whether the keeper saved it, whether the shot crept across the line, whether the penalty went in. Then judge the performance. I think it would be a totally different picture.

But time and again performances have been judged on results, which are often not a fair representation of how well a team has played, and then we take it further by trying to find the underlying reason for the result, such as games played over the year, the way youth is developed, and even whether players are paid too much, too pampered, or have fancy toilets.

Wales were credited because they got decent results, even though we dominated them. Gareth Bale was credited because he hit two free kicks that went in purely because of goalkeeper error - not because of the quality of the strike, but because of how the strike 'resulted'. Time and again across this tournament I've seen it, and marvelled at the inability of the pundits and experts to separate performance from results.

Wales are a good case in point, too, when it comes to talking about England. How many of their players came through the exact same system the English players came through? How many of them play in England, have never played overseas? How many of them live similar lifestyles? Less similar, admittedly, given the number of Championship players they took, but their best player was Aaron Ramsey, of Arsenal.

Wales come home heroes, because they got good results. They were excellent against Belgium, and I understand they were great against Russia too². But they were poor against England, Northern Ireland, and arguably lucky to win against Slovakia - and without Ramsey they really struggled against a Portugal side who, though they won the whole thing - results, again - few would argue were even one of the top 5 sides in it, based on performance.

Fine lines. Gignac comes on and scuffs one against the post and suddenly all today's post-match analysis is totally different. Suddenly Portugal are transformed from a team who create nothing, who sit back and wait for a mistake, to a team who battle to the end, who never stop believing, who work hard as a unit greater than the sum of its parts.

Meanwhile, Ronaldo is lauded, even though he missed 80% of the final, and despite being a superstar player having a very average tournament, a couple of flashes of brilliance aside.

And what about England? Well, I thought we played really well in all three of our group games, and in another universe, on the other side of the fine line, could have won them all³.

I actually thought Wilshere was good when he came on against Russia. I don't see any reason to judge him on the lack of games he played over the course of the season, as everyone else seems to have done - Germany certainly weren't lambasted for using Schweinsteiger - and I much preferred his energy and desire to go forward than Rooney's ponderous, sideways ten yard passes, which nevertheless had the pundit's endlessly declaring him man-of-the-match, a midfield mastermind.

Rooney was good in 2004. Rooney has done some unbelievably quality things over the years, and had some great seasons - but whenever I see him, to me he's a player who gives the ball away far too often, has a very low pass completion percentage, gets out of position in his desire to get on the ball, has a really poor first touch, and rarely if ever does something I would describe as 'world class'.

Yes, I'm biased against Wayne Rooney - possibly chiefly because of how overhyped I feel he is - and also in direct proportion to how biased people like Phil McNulty are for him. When he was lauded as having been by far the best player on the park against Russia I felt we must have been watching a totally different game. Lallana was excellent. Kyle Walker probably our best player. But Wayne Rooney and his “midfield masterclass”?

By the time of the Iceland game I decided I was going to watch Rooney closely and make a note of what he actually did, instead of just saying, look, “he’s given the ball away again”, “look at that touch”. I got my notepad out. Unfortunately for my experiment, he was excellent the first twenty minutes – and scored the penalty – and so I gave up.

I wish I’d carried on. At about the half hour mark he made his first really bad misplaced pass. Then I think there were five in a row. Really, for the rest of the game he was awful. Woy should’ve pulled him off at half-time, if not sooner. How could we expect to win a game with a ball-hungry number ten who can’t make a pass or control it?

One of England’s biggest problems, for me – and long has it been the case – is picking players based on reputation. Players are picked because of who they play for (how many only enter the England set up once they sign for a big club?) and because of what they once were (Rooney, Owen). They’re even picked because of what people once thought they were going to be (Sterling).

It also seems like players are overlooked because they don’t play for the right teams, or don’t have the right reputation, such as Shawcross, Noble, Drinkwater, even Defoe (yes, there’s a random shout).

But here’s a novel thought: how about picking players on the things that really matter, such as form, and whether they’re the right man for the formation?

I think if Woy should face any criticism over selection decisions, it wasn’t so much the team that faced Slovakia, as so many of the pundits got up in arms about – again, I say, purely because of the result¹¹ – but for the selection against Iceland. The team he put out against Slovakia was a perfectly good selection, and well capable of earning a win. Plus, of the six changes he made, two were clamoured for (Sturridge and Vardy), two were like for like (Clyne was excellent, and though Bertrand had a bit of a stinker, it wasn’t to any great detriment), and the other two were understandable, and, had we taken even one of our many, many chances, would have been said to have come off.

Against Iceland, however, I couldn’t believe that Sterling was recalled, and can only imagine it was done as an attempt to boost his confidence – very dangerous thinking – while I was also disappointed to see Kane brought back. For me, Kane was not only off it during this tournament, but also in the month or so leading up to it. He looked tired, and I thought Rashford would have been a much better choice up front.

Again, pick the players in form, not the ones who were in form two months ago. Pundits like to say things like, “form is temporary, class is permanent” – but that sounds like bunkum to me. That’s the kind of thinking that took Michael Owen to the World Cup in 2006, simply hoping that something of his previous self would somehow miraculously emerge, with zero evidence to back that up.

A friend of mine, meanwhile, said we should have Fraser Forster in goal. I do think Forster’s probably now the better keeper, and arguably had a better season, but figured we’d be all right with Hart. He couldn’t possibly make two clangers in a week, right?

Still, I don’t think we can totally blame the selection for us losing the game, nor the players’ lifestyles, nor even how well Iceland played. For me, it was the age-old England problem: mentality.

You saw it in their faces the moment they went 2-1 down. The dread at contemplating what seemed to be unfolding. The weight of anxiety and expectation. They looked stressed out. They looked tense and panicked. Desperate. And desperation and tension and panic don’t often help footballers make smart decisions, nor play to their optimum level, nor, even, have the limbs working as they should.

Balls were misplaced, uncontrolled, passes going astray. Rooney went from an excellent opening half-hour to completely falling to pieces.

They had 70 minutes to get a goal back and they panicked. Compare that to when Wales conceded against Belgium: it didn’t phase them, they just carried on as before, and it worked. But something happened to England – to not just all the players but to the guys in the dugout too – as it so often does when the weight of expectation is too much.

Rabbits in the headlights. Paralysed by fear. Incapable of doing what we know they can do, and do on a weekly basis in the Premier League.

And if you think the Premier League is the problem, count the number of players from the other teams at the Euros who play in it. Or count the number of players from the 4 teams who made it to the semis, where, of the 92 players from those 4 squads, a full 38 currently play in the Premier League or other UK leagues (eg, Scottish or Championship) and a further 11 are former Premier League players¹².

It’s not lack of winter breaks, or lack of overseas experience, or not being good enough. It’s not rotating and resting a couple of players here and there, and not therefore sticking to the same 11, as Shearer likes to say. Yes, England were amazing against Holland in Euro ’96 – but then how does he explain the display that followed it against Spain, which we were extremely lucky to escape from, thanks to a couple of dodgy officials’ decisions and our one and only penalty shootout win?

He trumpets Euro ’96, but, again, it’s purely because of results, because of one great performance (and a further great goal), and because of how far we went. England were poor against Switzerland and fortunate against Spain. How well-loved would that team have been had Spain gone through instead, as they deserved?

Likewise, when Lineker harks back to Italia ’90, let’s not forget that we only beat Cameroon thanks to their insanity in the box, squeezed through against Belgium in the last minute of extra-time, and won just one of our three group games, thanks to a header from a set-piece that gave us a 1-0 win against Egypt.

In both of those tournaments there were some abject performances, some lucky wins, and maybe a total of three great displays. The only difference between then and now was that, by hook or by crook, they got results and this team didn’t. But to say those two teams performed any better than the current one would be stretching it, as far as I’m concerned.

I guess what I’m saying is it wasn’t that bad. To be honest, I think we could play Portugal next week – and give them a fit Ronaldo – and beat them convincingly. Denmark have won this tournament. Greece did it against a better Portugal team than this one. Winning, results, lifting the trophy – when it comes to knockouts and short-length competitions – isn’t necessarily an indicator of who was actually the better team, or how well a team has performed. Goals decide all that, and goals – or lack of them – are often the outcome of arbitrary, fortuitous, and unlikely happenstance. So why we are so quick to judge the performance of a team based on goals and the outcome of goals – the match result – is beyond me.

Goals and match results are what happens when the sum of a multitude of factors are taken into consideration, and two of the biggest factors are randomness and luck. Selection and performance are about the only things we can control. The rest of it is in the hands of fate.

Or, sometimes, in the hands of the referee, as the far superior German team might claim after their defeat against France in the semis.

Still, that doesn’t solve the problem of what exactly happened to those England heads when we went behind against an Iceland team who then had even more reason to “park the bus” than they had in their previous three games, and that’s what we need to address, because it’s an ongoing and endemic problem that I can only remember being overcome – when rather than panic and desperation, there was mental-strength and determination – by Beckham’s legendary display against Greece in 2001.

Maybe it’s not a bad thing that Roy’s gone. Maybe had we made the quarters or the semis – as a team we dominated went on to do, don’t forget – things that needed to be looked at wouldn’t be, and the cracks would have been painted over. Seeing Hodgson on the bench during those last fateful 70 minutes didn’t exactly fill me with confidence – he was no Conte, no Venables, no Ferguson – and if ever a team required a manager who could inspire them at half-time it was this one. But it seems like he wasn’t that guy. That the vision of tomorrow’s newspapers and Shearer’s scowling mug had already got the better of him. Paralysed into fear rather than motivated into action. Hopefully we can get somebody who can finally instil a winning mental attitude into the England football team, much as Ivan Lendl seems to have done for Andy Murray. Someone who can pick the right team for the right formation, superstars be damned. Someone who can look beyond a player’s reputation, beyond what he was in the past, and beyond an unfounded hope of what he might be in the future. And, above all, beyond any talk of pressure and tactics and selection and media, someone who can toss his bread in the air a half dozen times, and have it land butter-side up just often enough to make the difference between going down in infamy, and going down in history.


¹ I know that teams play differently depending on the score, which we could probably discern, but I think the point still stands.
² I didn’t see that one.
³ As well as very easily having drawn against Wales, and/or lost against Slovakia. Like I say, fine lines.
¹¹ I just watched the highlights again and it’s barely believable that we didn’t run away with that game the number of good chances we created.
¹² There may be a few more former Premier League players that I’m not aware of.

PS Here's mathematical proof that England were actually the best team there, given that we whupped Wales and Wales whupped Belgium; Belgium whupped Hungary, and Portugal could only scrape a draw against them; Portugal beat France and France beat Germany and Iceland - another team Portugal could only draw with - while Belgium whupped Ireland, who beat Italy, who beat Spain.

Basically, whichever way you look at it we absolutely dominated the team that dominated the team that put three goals past the team that won it.

Elementary algebra will show you that, had we faced Portugal in the final, it would have finished something 12-4 to England. And when you rank the teams using proper statistics, we see England were 1st, Wales 2nd, and the Republic of Ireland joint 4th!


Thursday 7 July 2016

Tip of the Day

If someone asks you if you're having a mid-life crisis and you feel you have to say "no" because saying "yes" will result in your being teased, laughed at and dismissed, kind of like you've just admitted to having 'man-flu' - DON'T.

Say "yes". Then go on and on about the futility of life. Then tell them you're thinking of putting an end to it all.

We'll see who's laughing by the end of it. :-D

Tuesday 5 July 2016

A history lesson

So I'm telling a friend about a creationist guy I met who genuinely believed that Noah had dinosaurs on his ark and the reason he could safely carry T. Rex, et cetera was because he only took baby ones. Can you imagine! The madness!

But then she goes, but wait: I thought all the dinosaurs were killed in the Big Bang?
Oh my. You couldn't make it up.

Monday 4 July 2016

Gary Speed

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: SUICIDE

Gary Speed sat on the graveyard wall. Gary Speed was 42 years old and the manager of the Wales national football team. Gary Speed was thinking about killing himself.

In front of him was a gravestone; it read: Anthony Jenkins, 1887-1952; also Elizabeth Mary Jenkins, beloved wife of the above, 1901-1984, Reunited Forever. Then there followed the names of their children: Richard, Margaretta, Ernest, Ann; died 1944, 1919, 1973, and 1996 respectively.

Gary Speed shook his head. All this dying, all this being born. Two people presumably finding love, making babies, having happy times - 'cept one of the babies dies in infancy - and then the husband dies at a reasonable old age and Elizabeth lives her last 32 years alone.

The graveyard is full of these couples. Finding their soulmates. Remaining true. Doing everything they're supposed to do to earn their happy ever after. And from a still young 50 or 51 years old she - this Elizabeth, this Liza, this Liz - endures a whole three decades without her beloved.

Unheld, untouched, unfucked, unloved.

Mourning, and looking back.

Gary Speed thought about his own wife. She wasn't as pretty as she once had been, and if he was honest with himself, he knew he didn't fancy her anymore. This woman who had driven him crazy when they were first together...and now she drove him crazy in an altogether different way.

Probably they would get a divorce soon and some other man would tuck his children into bed at night, berate them over breakfast, help them with their homework.

Why had he ever brought them into this woe-filled world? What were their chances of escaping unscathed? Of not ending up where he was now?

A man who had done everything he ever wanted, achieved so much - and still could find no way to escape misery.

What hope would they have when glorious, carefree childhood came to an end, and teenage years and drugs and the encroaching ravages of a harsh and difficult world got its claws into them?

He hoped that they would grow up good, not fuck women over, not do horrible things or have horrible things happen to them. He hoped that they would find love, not think too much, and maybe find the contentment that had always eluded him. Live simple lives. Find some meaning. Be happy, like the happy people on TV.

******

He hoped that, but what he wished was that they had never been born. That he had known then what he knew now: that life was futile, and there was no escaping the horror of having to watch your own body shrivel and die before your eyes. Watching what was once strong and athletic and beautiful begin to crumble to dust. And for what?

******

safe from the storm, as he had promised - and then still left her alone.

The whole graveyard was full of them. Stories of shiny-faced, scabby-kneed youths playing in dirt, playing with dolls; and then grown handsome and full of cum; and then grown old, and withered, and glum.

Gary Speed lifted up his shirt and grabbed a handful of flesh. His belly seemed to be softening, expanding by the day.

What was happening to him? Wherefore now the sculpted, toned abs and thighs and arms of five years ago?

I should work out, thought Gary Speed, and get it back.

But then, how long would it last? How long would he have to keep it up? How long could he forestall the inevitable march of flab and sag and wrinkles and pain?

One day he would be an old man, unrecognisable in the mirror. Bald, maybe; certainly grey. An old man like his old granddad, bent and broken, incapable, doomed.

I am crumbling into dust, thought Gary Speed. 42 years of youth and fitness, a beautiful face and a beautiful body, and now it’s all being robbed away from me, the injustice of time and its one-way motion. The inevitable, painful, achingly-slow destruction of a human being.

Gary Speed didn’t like thinking like this, but these last few years he didn’t seem able not to.