The early episodes are much better mate....from The MC5 (Kick out the Jams, Motherfucker
).......all the way through to Bad Brains.All good stuff
Off Topic The Review Thread
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The early episodes are much better mate....from The MC5 (Kick out the Jams, Motherfucker
).......all the way through to Bad Brains.All good stuff
The early episodes are much better mate....from The MC5 (Kick out the Jams, Motherfucker
All good stuff
In my opinion all ‘new’ musical genres are eventually absorbed into what came before. That’s why a lot of the surviving grunge stars are now more mainstream. Metallica haven’t been ‘thrash’ for aeons. Steve Jones has played on oodles of rock projects.
For me, punk was only the first wave of the 70s. I quite like Green Day, Prodigy and so forth, but ‘punk’? Nah!
After wanting to watch it for months, finally found time to sit and watch 'Free Solo' last night.
It's a fantastic documentary about Alex Honnolds attempt to climb El Capitan in Yosemite Park (3,200 foot high monolith famous amongst the climbing fraternity) with no climbing aids whatsoever.
The cinematography of his climbing is truly spectacular but the film also gives fascinating insight into his character, how and why he is willing to put climbing and the risk of death before family, friends and partners.
Not quite sure if he's heroic or insane!
It's probably not great viewing if you are afraid of heights, as there are some jaw-dropping moments, especially when it shows close ups of him exploring new hand/foot holds that are just millimetres
wide and a drop of thousands of feet below.
Thoroughly engrossing and enjoyable film, highly recommend it to anyone interested in people pushing themselves to extreme limits or climbing in general.
Trailer to possibly whet appetites
It's a fantastic documentary about Alex Honnolds attempt to climb El Capitan in Yosemite Park (3,200 foot high monolith famous amongst the climbing fraternity) with no climbing aids whatsoever.
The cinematography of his climbing is truly spectacular but the film also gives fascinating insight into his character, how and why he is willing to put climbing and the risk of death before family, friends and partners.
Not quite sure if he's heroic or insane!
It's probably not great viewing if you are afraid of heights, as there are some jaw-dropping moments, especially when it shows close ups of him exploring new hand/foot holds that are just millimetres
wide and a drop of thousands of feet below.
Thoroughly engrossing and enjoyable film, highly recommend it to anyone interested in people pushing themselves to extreme limits or climbing in general.
Trailer to possibly whet appetites
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Went to the new Tarantino movie last night, whilst 2 and a half hours later I was still awake it was a no more than a 3 out of 5 movie. At times it was like Quentin was making it up as he went along, so self indulgent, like the 10 minutes of Margot Robbie watching herself as Sharon Tate in a movie, as beautiful as she is it was too long. The inevitable blood bath scene was what you would expect but overall one for the Tarantino fans only
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Glasgow Summer Sessions - Day 1.
With a line-up including The Twilight Sad, Mogwai and The Cure what could possibly go wrong? Nothing.....except the ****ing Scottish weather! It's been pissing down for days, and Bellahouston Park, a lovely part of the city, adjacent to Charles Rennie Makintoshs' House for an Art Lover, was turned into something reminscent of The Somme. Oh well, at least I'm not back there today for the Foo Fighters......oh, I am, better dig out the wellies!
Anyway, onto the good stuff - so we rocked up about 5:30, having missed the first band, The Joy Formidible, who are very good although it's been about ten years since I last saw them. As we entered the arena, The Twilight Sad were just starting their set. Mrs doesn't like them, but I'm a big fan, so we headed to the bar for a couple of pints of watered down, over-priced ****e lager that pretended it was Carlsberg, then found a place that wasn't too swampy to stand. Now, Twilight Sad are a heavy shoegaze band, who generally don't sing 'happy' tunes, but have great rousing choruses. They are from Glasgow so had quite a crowd at the front. Near the end of his set James Graham, the singer, gave a speech about his close friend Scott Hutchinson, who was the lead singer of Frightened Rabbit and committed suicide last year, and then the band covered one of Rabbits tunes - the crowd went nuts, and at the end there were a lot of tears on the stage - very moving.
Next up, Glasgow post-rock band Mogwei. I've never seen them live, and have wanted to catch them for years, so this was a treat that definately didn't fail to live up to expectations. A wall of sound hit the crowd as their guitars wailed and screamed at the crowd. I'm so pleased they played two of my favourite tracks, the awesome Glasgow Mega Snake and Mogwei Fear Satan, a 15 minute track that builds and builds, dies right down and then blasts you into oblivion - it was obvious from the crowd reaction that this tune wasn't particularly well known, but went down a storm (literally, as the heavens opened with a ferocious short shower).
And then on to the main event - The Cure haven't played in Scotland for 27 years, so there was much anticipation, especially on the back of that Glastonbury set. Robert Smith came out on stage, hair like a birds nest, big black shirt and trousers, black eye make up and bright red lips, and a twinkle in his eye - you just knew this was going to be epic. He apologised for taking so long to come back, and then straight into the set. It was pretty much a mirror image of the Glastonbury set, with maybe one or tracks different, but it was absolutely superb. The sun went down after about 45 minutes of the set, and the stage lighting really stood out. Of course, no set goes perfect - half way through Fascination Street, a women near us took a funny turn and looked like she was about to collapse - up steps supernurse (i.e my missus), who takes charge of procedings, then helps tee medics carry the woman to the first aid tent whilst I'm lumbered with her handbag - attractive! We're still not sure what occured, but missus thought she was close to a cardiac event. Anyway, credit to the security people, who then escorted the missus to exactly the right spot where I was stood! Roll on the rest of the gig. As at Glastonbury, the encore was all the crowd pleasers, finishing with Boys Don't Cry - fabulous show, and I can't wait til they come back to Glasgow for an arena show. A trudge through the mud back to the car, and home before 11:30!
Headed back shortly for Slaves followed by Foos .....wellies at the ready!
With a line-up including The Twilight Sad, Mogwai and The Cure what could possibly go wrong? Nothing.....except the ****ing Scottish weather! It's been pissing down for days, and Bellahouston Park, a lovely part of the city, adjacent to Charles Rennie Makintoshs' House for an Art Lover, was turned into something reminscent of The Somme. Oh well, at least I'm not back there today for the Foo Fighters......oh, I am, better dig out the wellies!
Anyway, onto the good stuff - so we rocked up about 5:30, having missed the first band, The Joy Formidible, who are very good although it's been about ten years since I last saw them. As we entered the arena, The Twilight Sad were just starting their set. Mrs doesn't like them, but I'm a big fan, so we headed to the bar for a couple of pints of watered down, over-priced ****e lager that pretended it was Carlsberg, then found a place that wasn't too swampy to stand. Now, Twilight Sad are a heavy shoegaze band, who generally don't sing 'happy' tunes, but have great rousing choruses. They are from Glasgow so had quite a crowd at the front. Near the end of his set James Graham, the singer, gave a speech about his close friend Scott Hutchinson, who was the lead singer of Frightened Rabbit and committed suicide last year, and then the band covered one of Rabbits tunes - the crowd went nuts, and at the end there were a lot of tears on the stage - very moving.
Next up, Glasgow post-rock band Mogwei. I've never seen them live, and have wanted to catch them for years, so this was a treat that definately didn't fail to live up to expectations. A wall of sound hit the crowd as their guitars wailed and screamed at the crowd. I'm so pleased they played two of my favourite tracks, the awesome Glasgow Mega Snake and Mogwei Fear Satan, a 15 minute track that builds and builds, dies right down and then blasts you into oblivion - it was obvious from the crowd reaction that this tune wasn't particularly well known, but went down a storm (literally, as the heavens opened with a ferocious short shower).
And then on to the main event - The Cure haven't played in Scotland for 27 years, so there was much anticipation, especially on the back of that Glastonbury set. Robert Smith came out on stage, hair like a birds nest, big black shirt and trousers, black eye make up and bright red lips, and a twinkle in his eye - you just knew this was going to be epic. He apologised for taking so long to come back, and then straight into the set. It was pretty much a mirror image of the Glastonbury set, with maybe one or tracks different, but it was absolutely superb. The sun went down after about 45 minutes of the set, and the stage lighting really stood out. Of course, no set goes perfect - half way through Fascination Street, a women near us took a funny turn and looked like she was about to collapse - up steps supernurse (i.e my missus), who takes charge of procedings, then helps tee medics carry the woman to the first aid tent whilst I'm lumbered with her handbag - attractive! We're still not sure what occured, but missus thought she was close to a cardiac event. Anyway, credit to the security people, who then escorted the missus to exactly the right spot where I was stood! Roll on the rest of the gig. As at Glastonbury, the encore was all the crowd pleasers, finishing with Boys Don't Cry - fabulous show, and I can't wait til they come back to Glasgow for an arena show. A trudge through the mud back to the car, and home before 11:30!
Headed back shortly for Slaves followed by Foos .....wellies at the ready!
Glasgow Summer Sessions - Day 2
Yes, it was a total mudfest! The official twitter feed was telling everyone to leave their trainers at home and dig out their wellies - many a fool didn't heed their advice and there will be a pile of single trainers left stuck in the mud.
Anyway, wellies and waterproofs on, in we headed. Felt like a completely different crowd from the previous evening, lots of metalheads, big beardy guys with checked shirts and a lot of leather or denim jackets! Quite sure they would've liked Frank Turner, but we didn't quite make it in in time. Next band, Slaves, were just starting as we got in.
I've seen Slaves a couple of times, in small venues, and they've rocked the place, but this either seemed too big a venue for them or the wrong crowd. They are a two piece punk band from Brighton, with the oddest drum kit. High energy, Isaac the drummer bashes his drums, sings and runs around in just a pair of shorts, and desperately tried to get the crowd going. There was a small mosh pit going, in amongst the mud, but from where I was stood it didn't seem to be that frenetic. The songs sounded good, so not sure what was happening up the front.....
Off to the bar for some more watered down pish Carlsberg, and a wait for Dave Grohl and friends. At least half an hour in the bar queue, made all the better by the ankle deep sludge. Foos came on, and bashed out a two and a half hour set, full of hits from their extensive back catalogue. Highlights included a Taylor Hawkins ten minute drum solo on an elevated platform (must have been at least 5 metres above the stage), followed by him aping Freddie Mercury at Live Aid, and then singing Queens' Under Pressure, whilst Dave Grohl had a bash on the drums. Lots of banter with the crowd from Grohl, who really is a great showman, and finishing off, first with AC/DCs' Let There Be Rock and then massive crowd pleaser Everlong.
Another great evening. At a push, I personally prefered The Cure evening, but the two nights were at complete opposites of the musical spectrum so hard to compare. That's the last of the outdoor gig's of the summer for me, so time to wash down the wellies and get ready for the indoor gig season coming up......
Yes, it was a total mudfest! The official twitter feed was telling everyone to leave their trainers at home and dig out their wellies - many a fool didn't heed their advice and there will be a pile of single trainers left stuck in the mud.
Anyway, wellies and waterproofs on, in we headed. Felt like a completely different crowd from the previous evening, lots of metalheads, big beardy guys with checked shirts and a lot of leather or denim jackets! Quite sure they would've liked Frank Turner, but we didn't quite make it in in time. Next band, Slaves, were just starting as we got in.
I've seen Slaves a couple of times, in small venues, and they've rocked the place, but this either seemed too big a venue for them or the wrong crowd. They are a two piece punk band from Brighton, with the oddest drum kit. High energy, Isaac the drummer bashes his drums, sings and runs around in just a pair of shorts, and desperately tried to get the crowd going. There was a small mosh pit going, in amongst the mud, but from where I was stood it didn't seem to be that frenetic. The songs sounded good, so not sure what was happening up the front.....
Off to the bar for some more watered down pish Carlsberg, and a wait for Dave Grohl and friends. At least half an hour in the bar queue, made all the better by the ankle deep sludge. Foos came on, and bashed out a two and a half hour set, full of hits from their extensive back catalogue. Highlights included a Taylor Hawkins ten minute drum solo on an elevated platform (must have been at least 5 metres above the stage), followed by him aping Freddie Mercury at Live Aid, and then singing Queens' Under Pressure, whilst Dave Grohl had a bash on the drums. Lots of banter with the crowd from Grohl, who really is a great showman, and finishing off, first with AC/DCs' Let There Be Rock and then massive crowd pleaser Everlong.
Another great evening. At a push, I personally prefered The Cure evening, but the two nights were at complete opposites of the musical spectrum so hard to compare. That's the last of the outdoor gig's of the summer for me, so time to wash down the wellies and get ready for the indoor gig season coming up......
Just watching the final part of ‘Jade-The reality star who changed the World’.
Wow......VERY emotional, upsetting and will strengthen anyone’s beliefs about what absolute, vile, scumbag ****s the tabloid press are (along with that horrible slag Max Clifford.)
Wow......VERY emotional, upsetting and will strengthen anyone’s beliefs about what absolute, vile, scumbag ****s the tabloid press are (along with that horrible slag Max Clifford.)
I think this is a few years old - just checked, shown in 2005 - it's got John Peel commentating on it ....RIP..... this is available on iPlayer for another couple of weeks....
The Fall: The Wonderful and Frightening World of Mark E Smith: www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b0074r00 via @bbciplayer
You probably need to be a fan of The Fall to appreciate this, but I really enjoyed it. Mark E Smith was definately a unique character and must have been an absolute nitemare to work with. Going baxk to the early years and the creation of The Fall, working through his multiple band members (at time of filming it was 46 I think, but at last count I'm sure he was close to 60), his addiction to speed and alcohol, fighting on stage and candid interviews with ex band members and producers. Fascinating as a fan - RIP Mark E Smith, you are missed
The Fall: The Wonderful and Frightening World of Mark E Smith: www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b0074r00 via @bbciplayer
You probably need to be a fan of The Fall to appreciate this, but I really enjoyed it. Mark E Smith was definately a unique character and must have been an absolute nitemare to work with. Going baxk to the early years and the creation of The Fall, working through his multiple band members (at time of filming it was 46 I think, but at last count I'm sure he was close to 60), his addiction to speed and alcohol, fighting on stage and candid interviews with ex band members and producers. Fascinating as a fan - RIP Mark E Smith, you are missed
Yes. Really kills the sensitivity.
IT 2......don't waste your hard earned cash. Nearly three hours long, and no surprises if you've seen the original, made-for-TV mini series. It's well acted, good effects, but it is just dragged out for far too long, and the tension doesn't really rack up to getting you anywhere near the edge of your seat. By the time the final battle comes, your arse is numb and having finished your supersize drink nearly an hour earlier you're more worried about your bladder bursting all over the seat in front than hoping they defeat the baddie. Recommend waiting for the TV release.
This is rather good, I think. Some septic posting on Quora about watching the England v USA World Cup game in a Geordie pub.....
Back in 2010, I made a very grave mistake.
I watched the FIFA World Cup.
IN ENGLAND.
IN A PUB.
SURROUNDED BY ENGLISHMEN.
ALL OF WHOM WERE IN VARIOUS STATES OF INEBRIATION.
BEHIND ENEMY LINES, AS IT WERE.
I’ve house-sat for millionaires. I’ve walked the mean streets of Los Angeles at night. I’ve hiked in the jungles of Africa. And I’ve never, ever felt that I needed a gun on my hip as much as I did that day.
Let me back up here and explain.
I had friends living in Newcastle upon Tyne in North East England. I’d befriended them when we all taught at the same school in South Korea from 2008–2009. In 2010, with all of us back home in our respective countries, these friends of mine contacted me and said, “Hey, why don’t you come visit us in Newcastle? We can watch the World Cup!”
Sitting in a La-Z-Boy in the middle of the Mojave Desert, I didn’t think that watching the World Cup in an English pub would be all that dangerous. It sounded like a hell of a time, in fact. I’d never been to England and I was looking forward to the chance to see my old chums again and maybe sample the pub life in Great Britain. So, of course, I enthusiastically said yes, and booked myself a flight.
Then I got off the plane, and I began to realize what exactly I’d gotten myself into.
Every single goddamn building I saw looked like this:
I’m not much of a soccer fan—I played when I was a teenager, then became a referee during summer for pocket money—but I liked the sport. Little did I realize that it was possible for an entire culture to live, sleep, eat, and breathe a sport every four years, and love it to bits in between.
From that point on, my mindset changed. I was no longer an American tourist. While the World Cup was on, and while I was in England, I was a foreign combatant, stranded behind enemy lines. The thought was sobering. My steps became furtive and cautious. My pro-American banter, which I had carefully prepared on the flight over, suddenly deserted me. I became, in the span of an instant, the most polite and inoffensive American tourist the world has ever witnessed.
After a quick run to the supermarket for some gameday essentials (sandwich bread, bacon, some bottles of cider, and a 24-pack of Stella Artois), we repaired to my male friend’s mum’s house to pregame. And by “pregame” I mean “watch the South Korea/Greece match.” That is correct, ladies and gentlemen—the English pregame for a football match by watching a football match. To be fair, the English did have some skin in this game. The Korean footballer Park Ji-sung, worshipped as a god in his home country for playing midfield for Manchester United, was playing for the Korean team. Perhaps not surprisingly, the match was a shutout. Two-nil, Korea.
Then it was time. The cab rolled up to the curb. We were off to the pub to watch the first real game of the day.
England vs. the US.
Ho boy.
We met some friends of my friends outside the pub, and then went in and sat down. Those big pub doors gaped wide—a black mouth ready to swallow any traitor in our midst. I walked through those doors with the cautiousness and trepidation of Indiana Jones entering an ancient and highly booby-trapped temple. The inside of the pub was just as caked with English flags as was the rest of the town outside. I vowed to keep my unironic utterances of the word “soccer” to a minimum.
We sat at a table in front of the big projector screen. We bought a pitcher and drank and talked. The pub was everything I’d imagined. Squeaky-clean glasses. Dark wood bar. Brass taps. Iron-hard tables and chairs. Big windows that didn’t seem to admit any light at all.
Speculation flew back and forth across the table about England’s chances in this year’s competition. The general consensus was that this first game would be a piece of cake. England would steamroll the US and move on to the next round. I bantered a little, half-heartedly, but the cutting and incisive cheek which I’d cooked up on the plane ride over had crumbled to dust under the weight of the storied pomp of Europe. Then, this being England, the question of betting came up. Not being one to back down from a challenge, no matter what the odds—and the odds were 19 to 1 in this case—I put a pound on the US to win.
And then…it all began. The pub hushed reverently. The enormous pitch at Royal Bafokeng Stadium in Rustenburg, South Africa flared into view on the projector screen. I took a nervous swig of beer. This was it. This was what I’d come here to see. This is what every red-blooded Englishman had waited with bated breath to witness. This was the World Freakin’ Cup.
Three minutes into the game, England scored.
It was as though Jupiter himself had sundered the very heavens. Cries and wails and howls and roars erupted in the pub, falling upon the ear like a million onrushing gallons of piping-hot tea. I looked around to see if Napoleon’s Imperial Guard was retreating, but couldn’t make them out. The roars and cheers of the Britons in the pub continued, and my friends at the table joined right along in, laughing and pounding the table and slapping each other on the back.
So this is what it’s like to be a real fan of “the footie,” I thought.
Exactly thirty-six minutes later, I was up at the bar ordering another pitcher. I happened to glance up at the screen, and, without any warning at all, or as much as a by-your-leave…
…the USA scored.
My American-ness, which had been lying dormant ever since I’d emerged from the airport and seen all those St. George’s Crosses festooning every house and car and fence, abruptly reasserted itself. The Star-Spangled Banner started playing in my head. Red, white, and blue fireworks burst in my mind’s eye. The bikini-clad Statue of Liberty threw her arms around my neck, wrapped her legs around my waist, and stuck her tongue so far down my throat that I could taste soufflé. A grizzly bear wearing a cowboy hat, spurs, and a matching pair of ivory-handled Colt revolvers, with a can of Budweiser clenched in his furry paw and an anything-but-Cuban cigar in his teeth, crashed through the wall on a John Deere tractor, at which point both bear and tractor exploded into a mushroom cloud of bald eagles, apple pie, Big Macs, ranch dressing, tax rebates, and jury summons.
Every nerve ending and muscle fiber in my body was suddenly ready to jump and jive. I had the sudden overmastering urge to leap into the air and drench the entire pub with the contents of the pitcher of Foster’s in my hand. My mind—which never has been very interested in my survival, nor the health, welfare, or wholeness of my body—imperiously demanded that I shout some ludicrous pun, like “BOOYAH! YOU’VE BEEN SOCCER-PUNCHED, BABY!”
Fortunately for me, my reptilian brain (a hard-bitten survivalist) managed to wrest control of my body away from my so-called higher brain and prevent my mouth from following through on this mad impulse.
Then he clamped down on the rest of my body to prevent it from leaping into the air. As the muffled curses and moans of beefy Geordie shipbuilders filled the dim air of the pub, I stood there, body quivering, eyebrows seesawing back and forth, arms vibrating as they sought vainly to shoot skyward. With every ounce of self-control I possessed, I turned, politely handed the barman his £7.50, and sat back down at the table with my friends.
But it was on, now. On like Donkey Kong. I was hooked. I was in it to win it. Suddenly, I was a mutha-humpin’ fan of soccer—er, football. I was invested in this game. I leaned forward, planted my elbows on the table, and glued my eyes to the projector screen.
The rest of the match was fiercely contested. The ball changed hands—er, feet—dozens of times. My hungry eyes followed its every move, enraptured. Numerous attempts on the goal were made, glorious charges thwarted, desperate retreats sounded. It was a battle in every sense of the word. Disaster loomed for both teams, over and over and over again. The fate of my one-pound coin hung precariously in the balance. My heart beat so fast I thought it would leap out of my chest.
As an honored guest of England and a recipient of English hospitality, I felt embarrassed to be praying for a win. As a red-blooded American male, I felt embarrassed to be praying for a loss. I momentarily felt bewildered by the unfamiliar sensation of being embarrassed by everything, but then I remembered that I was in England. I was fitting right in.
I relaxed and resolved just to be embarrassed no matter what happened. I looked around to see if there was perhaps someone I could apologize to for nothing in particular.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was as embarrassed as I’ve ever been to be an American.
As it turned out, the mischievous gods of English football had one more surprise in store for me:
The game ended in a tie.
Back in 2010, I made a very grave mistake.
I watched the FIFA World Cup.
IN ENGLAND.
IN A PUB.
SURROUNDED BY ENGLISHMEN.
ALL OF WHOM WERE IN VARIOUS STATES OF INEBRIATION.
BEHIND ENEMY LINES, AS IT WERE.
I’ve house-sat for millionaires. I’ve walked the mean streets of Los Angeles at night. I’ve hiked in the jungles of Africa. And I’ve never, ever felt that I needed a gun on my hip as much as I did that day.
Let me back up here and explain.
I had friends living in Newcastle upon Tyne in North East England. I’d befriended them when we all taught at the same school in South Korea from 2008–2009. In 2010, with all of us back home in our respective countries, these friends of mine contacted me and said, “Hey, why don’t you come visit us in Newcastle? We can watch the World Cup!”
Sitting in a La-Z-Boy in the middle of the Mojave Desert, I didn’t think that watching the World Cup in an English pub would be all that dangerous. It sounded like a hell of a time, in fact. I’d never been to England and I was looking forward to the chance to see my old chums again and maybe sample the pub life in Great Britain. So, of course, I enthusiastically said yes, and booked myself a flight.
Then I got off the plane, and I began to realize what exactly I’d gotten myself into.
Every single goddamn building I saw looked like this:
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I’m not much of a soccer fan—I played when I was a teenager, then became a referee during summer for pocket money—but I liked the sport. Little did I realize that it was possible for an entire culture to live, sleep, eat, and breathe a sport every four years, and love it to bits in between.
From that point on, my mindset changed. I was no longer an American tourist. While the World Cup was on, and while I was in England, I was a foreign combatant, stranded behind enemy lines. The thought was sobering. My steps became furtive and cautious. My pro-American banter, which I had carefully prepared on the flight over, suddenly deserted me. I became, in the span of an instant, the most polite and inoffensive American tourist the world has ever witnessed.
After a quick run to the supermarket for some gameday essentials (sandwich bread, bacon, some bottles of cider, and a 24-pack of Stella Artois), we repaired to my male friend’s mum’s house to pregame. And by “pregame” I mean “watch the South Korea/Greece match.” That is correct, ladies and gentlemen—the English pregame for a football match by watching a football match. To be fair, the English did have some skin in this game. The Korean footballer Park Ji-sung, worshipped as a god in his home country for playing midfield for Manchester United, was playing for the Korean team. Perhaps not surprisingly, the match was a shutout. Two-nil, Korea.
Then it was time. The cab rolled up to the curb. We were off to the pub to watch the first real game of the day.
England vs. the US.
Ho boy.
We met some friends of my friends outside the pub, and then went in and sat down. Those big pub doors gaped wide—a black mouth ready to swallow any traitor in our midst. I walked through those doors with the cautiousness and trepidation of Indiana Jones entering an ancient and highly booby-trapped temple. The inside of the pub was just as caked with English flags as was the rest of the town outside. I vowed to keep my unironic utterances of the word “soccer” to a minimum.
We sat at a table in front of the big projector screen. We bought a pitcher and drank and talked. The pub was everything I’d imagined. Squeaky-clean glasses. Dark wood bar. Brass taps. Iron-hard tables and chairs. Big windows that didn’t seem to admit any light at all.
Speculation flew back and forth across the table about England’s chances in this year’s competition. The general consensus was that this first game would be a piece of cake. England would steamroll the US and move on to the next round. I bantered a little, half-heartedly, but the cutting and incisive cheek which I’d cooked up on the plane ride over had crumbled to dust under the weight of the storied pomp of Europe. Then, this being England, the question of betting came up. Not being one to back down from a challenge, no matter what the odds—and the odds were 19 to 1 in this case—I put a pound on the US to win.
And then…it all began. The pub hushed reverently. The enormous pitch at Royal Bafokeng Stadium in Rustenburg, South Africa flared into view on the projector screen. I took a nervous swig of beer. This was it. This was what I’d come here to see. This is what every red-blooded Englishman had waited with bated breath to witness. This was the World Freakin’ Cup.
Three minutes into the game, England scored.
It was as though Jupiter himself had sundered the very heavens. Cries and wails and howls and roars erupted in the pub, falling upon the ear like a million onrushing gallons of piping-hot tea. I looked around to see if Napoleon’s Imperial Guard was retreating, but couldn’t make them out. The roars and cheers of the Britons in the pub continued, and my friends at the table joined right along in, laughing and pounding the table and slapping each other on the back.
So this is what it’s like to be a real fan of “the footie,” I thought.
Exactly thirty-six minutes later, I was up at the bar ordering another pitcher. I happened to glance up at the screen, and, without any warning at all, or as much as a by-your-leave…
…the USA scored.
My American-ness, which had been lying dormant ever since I’d emerged from the airport and seen all those St. George’s Crosses festooning every house and car and fence, abruptly reasserted itself. The Star-Spangled Banner started playing in my head. Red, white, and blue fireworks burst in my mind’s eye. The bikini-clad Statue of Liberty threw her arms around my neck, wrapped her legs around my waist, and stuck her tongue so far down my throat that I could taste soufflé. A grizzly bear wearing a cowboy hat, spurs, and a matching pair of ivory-handled Colt revolvers, with a can of Budweiser clenched in his furry paw and an anything-but-Cuban cigar in his teeth, crashed through the wall on a John Deere tractor, at which point both bear and tractor exploded into a mushroom cloud of bald eagles, apple pie, Big Macs, ranch dressing, tax rebates, and jury summons.
Every nerve ending and muscle fiber in my body was suddenly ready to jump and jive. I had the sudden overmastering urge to leap into the air and drench the entire pub with the contents of the pitcher of Foster’s in my hand. My mind—which never has been very interested in my survival, nor the health, welfare, or wholeness of my body—imperiously demanded that I shout some ludicrous pun, like “BOOYAH! YOU’VE BEEN SOCCER-PUNCHED, BABY!”
Fortunately for me, my reptilian brain (a hard-bitten survivalist) managed to wrest control of my body away from my so-called higher brain and prevent my mouth from following through on this mad impulse.
Then he clamped down on the rest of my body to prevent it from leaping into the air. As the muffled curses and moans of beefy Geordie shipbuilders filled the dim air of the pub, I stood there, body quivering, eyebrows seesawing back and forth, arms vibrating as they sought vainly to shoot skyward. With every ounce of self-control I possessed, I turned, politely handed the barman his £7.50, and sat back down at the table with my friends.
But it was on, now. On like Donkey Kong. I was hooked. I was in it to win it. Suddenly, I was a mutha-humpin’ fan of soccer—er, football. I was invested in this game. I leaned forward, planted my elbows on the table, and glued my eyes to the projector screen.
The rest of the match was fiercely contested. The ball changed hands—er, feet—dozens of times. My hungry eyes followed its every move, enraptured. Numerous attempts on the goal were made, glorious charges thwarted, desperate retreats sounded. It was a battle in every sense of the word. Disaster loomed for both teams, over and over and over again. The fate of my one-pound coin hung precariously in the balance. My heart beat so fast I thought it would leap out of my chest.
As an honored guest of England and a recipient of English hospitality, I felt embarrassed to be praying for a win. As a red-blooded American male, I felt embarrassed to be praying for a loss. I momentarily felt bewildered by the unfamiliar sensation of being embarrassed by everything, but then I remembered that I was in England. I was fitting right in.
I relaxed and resolved just to be embarrassed no matter what happened. I looked around to see if there was perhaps someone I could apologize to for nothing in particular.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was as embarrassed as I’ve ever been to be an American.
As it turned out, the mischievous gods of English football had one more surprise in store for me:
The game ended in a tie.
I'd just bought my first HD TV, so invited all my pals round for Englands first game of that World Cup - unfortunately, I was the only Englishman in the room! Anyway, all chuffed with my new purchase, sat down to watch the game - two minutes in and England were on the attack and looking good, when the HD transmission from ITV (fairly sure it was them) disappeared, only to come back on showing Steven Gerrard wheeling away in delight having opened the scoring. Mixed emotions, both delirious that we were ahead and raging that ITV had ruined what should have been a glorious moment. How could things get worse? Roll up Rob Green......being in a room full of Scottish football fans, they were only too used to goalkeeping blunders, but the grief I have given them over the standard of Scottish keepers for years came and slapped me right in the face that day - karmas' a bitch so they say! As we all know, that World Cup ended up as a disaster, but I'll never live down thar opening match!
Not yet - will give it a bash, no work this week so looking to catch something to watch.....
Finally got round to watching the first part of the brilliant new series ‘The Troubles - A Secret History’ on BBC4 ( 2nd part of 7 is tonight)
A must see for anyone interested in political history and has many interviews with those concerned, both politicians and combatants, from both sides of the conflict. If you are able to take a completely impartial view, which can be difficult for many including myself, it’s a real eye opener.
A must see for anyone interested in political history and has many interviews with those concerned, both politicians and combatants, from both sides of the conflict. If you are able to take a completely impartial view, which can be difficult for many including myself, it’s a real eye opener.
Watched the two episodes on iPlayer - enjoyable and intriguing - will definately watch the other episodes. Not sure how they are going to explain away how the technical side of it works, with "Live" fake footage, but that's not my biggest problem with the show.....
Why don't these "gritty dramas" carry out some crucial research? Line of Duty was a big culprit of this (especially in the last season), but in The Capture why is the main character wearing his uniform? If he'd been sentenced to a civilian prison, especially for murder, he would've been dishonorably discharged, thus not allowed to wear it. He even states that he wants his job back! Then he's on the piss with his mates, still in his uniform - military personnel don't go out drinking in uniform unless it's a wedding or something similar, and they have to have permission from their Commanding Officer! It's taking poetic licence too far if it wants to convince us that these events are plausible....