No Psychopaths

The Ninth of December Two Thousand and Twelve. Sunday.

Has this ever happened to you?

I was in York today, looking in shops for stuff that I can give to people to appease the gods of Midwinter. Of course a side effect of that is that I see lots of nice things that I want for myself. The shops had almost shut before I remembered that one of the reasons I wanted to go all the way to York was to have a look at the Cath Kidston shop they have there. Yes, I know it might be considered a bit effeminate, but I'm all about the challenging of the gender stereotypes, me, as you know. It's just when I thought I'd enjoy a case for me iPhone -

I saw the price tag (£25!) and thought better of it. They are nice though, so if anybody does want to buy me one consider this an opportunity to do so.

It's nice to have a day out, isn't it? Yes, I was supposed to be shopping. But surely there was room for me to have a look at class A4 locomotive Dwight D Eisenhower while it was on holiday in England for a couple of years? (He (she?) lives at the National Railroad Museum in Green Bay, Wisconsin, but is over here temporarily for next year's celebration of the 75th anniversary of Mallard's steam speed record. The six remaining A4s will be brought together).

Was a bit tricky to see him (her?) while he (are ships with male names still female too? Not sure of the convention here, although I know that naval vessels and locomotives don't bother with 'the' in front of names, i.e., it's just Flying Scotsman, not The Flying Scotsman, just as you don't say The Ark Royal, you only say Ark Royal) was at the back of the workshop but still a thrill to see this engine some fifty or so years after the last time it was in York.

I did a bit of exploring too. I've always wondered about the the streets that border the railway line from Scarborough on the approach into York station, especially as I could see they were named Scarborough Terrace and Filey Terrace so I had a bit of a mooch around there, finally discovering the whereabouts of York City FC's ground. All very good.

But it was at the end of the day that a dilemma of sorts unfolded. After making my relevant purchases (and yes, I did buy myself a comic or two) I pondered the possibility of going to the cinema to see Seven Psychopaths. I had greatly enjoyed writer-director Martin McDonagh's In Bruges (to the point of making it my Tenth Film Recommendation (slight warning, it's a bit gruesome, that link)) and so was looking forward to his next 'joint'. But it would mean getting back to Scarborough a bit later in the evening than I really wanted too, so I thought I'd check the review on the Mayo and Kermode Film Podcast thingy from Radio 5 Live. I stuck it on my headphones, but it was a fairly long programme so I had some lemon cheesecake to put me on before I went to the loo at the City Screen cinema fully intending to see the film as I had not heard anything contrariwise to that notion up until that point.

With only two minute to go until the advertised start time of the film, as I sat there on the throne in contemplation, Mark Kermode finally got round to giving a somewhat lukewarm review. And in that moment I decided I'd go home instead and watch it at some later time and spend my evening writing about it instead.

In fact I watched two episodes of The Killing III and had some Frosty French Fancies so it all worked out well in the end anyway.

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Ticket to Nowhed

The Second of December Two Thousand and Twelve. Monday.

What sort of title is that? Surely you mean 'Nowhere'?

Sometimes there are forces at work that are beyond our comprehension. Things that undeniably occur but can in no way be explained.

Until now...

Tell me this: if it costs £18.60 peak and £17.10 off-peak for a single ticket from Scarborough to York -

- then why does it only cost £15.80 for a Scarborough to Howden ticket that takes you through York?

I've wondered that meself. And when I looked into it more closely, I found there was a very simple explanation.

Howden is a hotbed of UFO activity!

These peculiar fare anomalies have existed ever since a jet was shot down by a UFO over Howden in 1997 (no, really. The Truth is Out There.) I knew there would be a rational explanation for it all.

And now there are various warehouses dotted about the country that contain remnants of crashed UFOs. Here is a picture of the almost mythical Area 17, sometimes known as Space Sector 17.

So is it any coincidence that the word 'Howden' is almost an anagram of the word 'Nowhere'?

Reader, I'll let you decide...


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You Smell of Blue

The Twenty-Ninth of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Thursday.

People often ask me, 'Vin, how do you smell so lovely?'*

It's simple really. Let me take you on a short journey into the world of the gender politics of toiletries.

Being a man I always make sure I wash with blue soap.

If I ever decide to have a shower, I keep all my masculinity locked in with the fresh scent of blue shower gel.

And when my beard gets the better of me, I attack it with blue shaving foam.

But here's the trick.To ensure that I smell as fresh as a woman I cast aside convention and use pink deodorant!

(Hey everyone. Real Vin here. Obviously I'm making a pin-sharp satirical point here about the marketing of cheap cosmetics to pound shop hounds like me. But I'd hate for any of you to think I really use pink deodorant. No, I use sensible, unambiguous, gender-neutral red deodorant, me).

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*86% of nearly 122 men asked.

Out of Synch

The Twenty-Eighth of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Wednesday.

Time travel is complete and utter bunkum.

No, really it is. Don't even try it. I did and something like this happened:

There is no way you can get it to work in the real world and I should know. I've attempted many different experiments with little effect (there was that one occasion I jumped back five seconds, but that only happened once and let's face it, what good is five seconds to anyone?)

No, time travel is a narrative device and nothing more. You stick a pin in a moment, usually with words, but it can be pictures or film or any other recorded medium. And then you stick another pin in a bit later but you say that that pin is from before the first pin. And depending on how well you've thought about those pins it either all adds up, goes round in circles, doesn't quite add up but you get away with it because it's very satisfying or doesn't add up at all and you cry foul even though even the most thoroughly considered time travel narrative doesn't really make sense.

Do you know, this won't help but it's been ages since I've done a graph so let me chuck this one in for no particular reason:

The nearest thing there is to time travel is synchronicity - when meaningful things seem to happen at the same time. This collision of the timelines of two or more objects following their normal path through spacetime is an entirely linear phenomenon but the effect of one timeline changing another ("Aunt Margaret! What are you doing here at this entirely unexpected hour? You're supposed to be in Australia") is a form of 'changing history'. Probably.

I went to see Looper again tonight, and for all its time travel nonsense it is actually very good and as a result qualifies as my Ninth Film Recommendation. As an exercise in world building it's brilliant - the detail of the future world the story takes place in is outstanding. The performances and the direction are fantastic too, but all the time travel stuff in it is completely bobbins. Mind you, I was experiencing my own time travel problems because I was attempting to listen to the Theatrical Commentary Track from director Rian Johnson that I had downloaded to my iPod Shuffle. The idea was to listen to the commentary while in the cinema. To synch it up Johnson suggested starting the track as the TriStar logo appeared. But there was no TriStar logo! I don't know if there was one on the American release, but I was lagging a short way behind from the start. With a careful bit of fast forwarding and then pausing I eventually got it to keep pace with the film, but it went a bit out again when the reels were changed at one point. I got most of it, though and synched up in plenty of time for the climax. Which I won't reveal here now, but in an act of paradoxical time travelling I will reveal it in exactly one year's time. I hope that's enough of a spoiler warning.

In fact, here's a little bit of time travelling for anyone who is kind enough to read this particular blogdule. I will attempt to rewrite the next sentence every day for as long as I can remember.

Exactly forty-four years ago to the day, in order to memorialise the brave deeds of that mysterious group, a statue of the Termagants, cast in the peculiar metal retrieved from the wreckage of their spaceship, was erected in Nova Square.

I accidentally deleted the wrong bit of this. It originally said something about how to time travel you must make sure you have had plenty of riboflavin.

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A Nice Cup of Tea

The Twenty-Seventh of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Tuesday.
 
I have come back to tea. I’m trying to remember why exactly I left, but the memories (as always) are a little bit fuzzy.


I know some of the contributing factors. Tea and cereal are about the only things I use milk for, and breakfast is usually me chomping down a bagel as I rush out the door on my way to work, so I’m lucky to get through half a pint of milk before it goes off. Annndd, I like black coffee so it becomes easier just to go with that and not bother getting any milk


I do enjoy a bit of the old rooibos (and, as the synchronicities that afflict this blog continue to unfold I have just been brought a mug of redbush tea even as we speak. Spooky, huh?). That's pleasant enough to drink without milk too. In fact, now that I think about it I do remember one of the reasons I cut back on my tea consumption. After about your fifth cup - and believe me at work, sometimes it gets as far as that fifth cup - it does tend to churn your tum up quite a bit. But then again, the same can be said about coffee. And sometimes, redbush just doesn't have the 'kick' that's necessary to get you through the day.

So I'm back on the tea. Not that I was completely off it. Sometimes a mug would turn up with the occasional cooked breakfast and it would be impolite to turn one down when offered at a friend's house.  When I was in charge of my own beverages I wouldn't bother though. Until one day, the oppressive weight of cultural expectation became too much and I gave in to the lure of Rosie Lee.

I think my recent reintroduction to The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy was my gateway drug to the East India company's famous export (not opium - the other one. No, not indigo or saltpetre either. The other other one. Oh, for Glob's sake, the blogdule's about tea, it's tea, isn't it?). Douglas Adams liked his tea, didn't he? (I'm thinking here of the "one lump or two" joke in the unfinished Doctor Who story Shada, among others). Certainly the part of him that was a bit Arthur Dent did. In fact, up until not getting very far with a physics degree I thought Brownian motion was so called because the tea in which the Guide suggested you dangle the atomic vector plotters of a Bambleweeny 57 sub-meson brain to generate finite amounts of improbability was brown.

I find it staggering now to think that when I first drank tea as a child I actually took sugar. That that was eventually phased out is the one claim to maturity I can make about my self. I know some people enjoy very strong tea (in my family, if you are served with what was clearly the dregs of the kettle resulting in a less than full mug of v strong tea you are obliged to admonish the charperson as follows: "what's that? Half a cup of mud!") but I prefer it 'as it comes' - that is to say, of medium strength. And, as the American Pop Cultural Attaché well knows, I am a mugman rather than a teacup person.

I am lucky enough to live just around the corner from Scarborough's charming Francis tea rooms. There they serve loose tea - pots, strainer and all - which is all very good on occasion but I firmly believe that teabag technology has advanced to such a point nowadays that the small amount of extra quality this affords is barely measurable. I do have one of those metal tea ball infuser things that I used with some caramel red bush I once bought (it's a bit too sweet, though. I'm weighing up whether to get some plain rooibos and mix it to make a less sickly blend) but for the most part it's bags in this house.

And some nice biscuits, preferably garibaldis.

Of course, the definitive work on tea is the essay A Nice Cup of Tea by George Orwell. I think if you follow the instructions contained therein you can't go wrong.

Right, kettle's on.

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Seven Square

The Twenty-Third of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Friday.

Today is the Forty-Ninth anniversary of Doctor Who, which is basically my favourite thing in the history of everything, ever. It's an unwritten rule of this blog that I don't go on about it here, because (as anyone who has got me on the subject knows) I can go on for hours about it. So apart from the odd mention I try to cover other, more varied subjects like egg and chips and vacuum cleaners (actually, have I done vacs? Have to do some research for that one then).

Next year is the big Fiftieth bash, which I am looking forward to immensely (so no ruining that please, Mayan Apocalypse people), and the whole fabulous history of the show will duly be celebrated then. So I want to briefly focus on part of it that isn't always celebrated: the Seventh Doctor Era (and who other than Doctor Who fans throw around terms like 'era'!)

Sylvester McCoy is brilliant. Is he the best actor to play the Doctor? Well, I'm not attempting some perverse revisionist anlysis of the series. But he is a fantastic performer, if I can make that distinction. There's always something going on when he's on screen. I think part of the reason he seems to wander over his delivery is he's constantly going in several directions at once. Like the other 'Classic Series' Doctors, he's continued to adventure through Big Finish's audio adventures, which you would think would not be his ideal medium. But recently I got to hear him say one of my favourite speeches twenty years after he didn't say it the first time.

Back in the 90s there was no Who on TV, but there were New Adventures for the Doctor in novel form. Some of the best of these were written by Paul Cornell, who later went on to write for the new series, penning Father's Day, and an adaptation of another of his novels, Human Nature (which if I were you I'd just pop off and read right now - here's a link to it. As brilliant as the TV version is, this is even better. Yes, really). In his second novel, Love and War he introduces the character of Bernice Summerfield, who is still going strong in adventures of her own to this very day. But he also writes a version of the Seventh Doctor that explored the emotional potential of the character in a way that did a lot of the groundwork for when the TV series returned. It's this book that Steven Moffat quotes from in The Girl in the Fireplace when the Doctor claims to be 'what monsters have nightmares about'. But here he qualifies that, sadly: 'But everyone's a monster sometimes...'

As part of the twentieth anniversary celebrations of the character of Bernice, Big Finish made an audio version of Love and War with that particular speech intact. I loved reading that all that time ago, and a couple of weeks ago hearing Sylvester say those lines, effortlessly shifting from impish bravado to sorrow, was a real treat. Some of my favourite Doctor Who.

So today I'm specifically celebrating the Seventh Doctor. Here's a little bit of fiction to do just that. Fans will remember the Doctor's confrontation with Fenric - the embodiment of 'evil since the dawn of time'. A very strange chess puzzle helped bring about Fenric's downfall.

Well, here he gets another chance to get the better of his Time Lord enemy...

Seven Square

It was one of those dimensions – branes, I think they're calling them nowadays – where the laws of physics were simpler than we're used to. Weirder than we're used to too, although if you were an abstract distillation of ultimate evil you probably wouldn't particularly notice the difference from our world. It could have been Washington Square Park in New York City, but it was empty.

Time certainly had no meaning.

'You're late,' said Fenric, on this occasion occupying the form of an unfortunate warp speleologist whose corpse had finished up here after an accident while exploring a wormhole. He looked like a disgruntled ifrit.

The Time Lord known as the Doctor doffed his hat apologetically, though it went unseen.

'I didn't think you'd mind waiting. Considering what I'm offering you.'

The Doctor's feet crunched on the gravel of the path that led up to a stone table where Fenric sat. The two old enemies refused to catch the other's gaze, even when the Doctor took the seat opposite Fenric and propped his umbrella – topped by a handle the shape of a battered red question mark – against the table.

Between them lay a chessboard, its pieces in place before the first move had been made. The Doctor gestured toward the board.

'This is what you wanted, isn't it?' he said.

Fenric's bright red face snarled.

'This is what I'm due! A proper match – not some nonsensical puzzle that flouts the rules of the game.'

The Doctor tutted.

'You agreed to the conditions of my challenge. You can't cry foul just because things didn't turn out so well for you.'

'You forget – I solved your perfidious test. Yet even then your arrogance prevented you from conceding the victory that was mine.' The words sizzled upon Fenric's bloodless lips.

'Yes, well, you're not alone in holding that opinion.' The Doctor glanced upward as if he was aware there was another – unseen – audience for his words. 'Apparently even unspeakable evil is entitled to the right of appeal.' Again, he gestured to the board. 'Here is your game.'

Fenric finally looked at the Doctor directly. A less confident man might have withered under the contempt of that gaze, but the Doctor continued to smile amicably.

'You still insist on wearing that ridiculous form,' said Fenric.

'You're a fine one to talk,' replied the Doctor.

'At least you have refined your apparel.'

The Doctor pointed to his burgundy waistcoat, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise. 'This?'

'I did not care for that hideous pullover of yours,' continued Fenric. 'It was not worthy of a being of your standing.'

The Doctor puffed out his cheeks.

'I just thought it was funny,' he replied. 'Nothing worth getting in a tizz about.' He immediately changed the subject. 'Shall we play? I'm keen to get this over and done with. The uneven way time flows in this place is making the back of my knees itch. I only called the game to this lower-lying brane as a courtesy to you. I thought it might be easier for you to access after your banishment.'

Fenric eyed his opponent suspiciously.

'With your record that seems uncharacteristically sporting of you.'

'Don't thank me yet,' said the Doctor. 'There are some spatial anomalies that come hand in hand with a bargain basement dimension like this. I do hope they don't put you off your game.'

Fenric began to reply. 'What do you mea-?'

At last he noticed it. His face twisted with rage.

'There are only forty-nine squares on this board!'

The Doctor smiled.

'Your move.'





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A Brief Encounter with Sir Jim

The Twenty-Second of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Thursday.

Scarborough has fallen out of love with Jimmy Savile - understandably so. The man who was laid to rest here at an angle so that he could see the sea was celebrated for his connections with this town. For example, it was he that arranged for the QM2 AND QE2 cruise liners to perform a sail past of the towns bays. Apparently, a tribute cruise performed by the new Queen Elizabeth was due to take place next year, including another sail past of Scarborough in August, but this has since been cancelled in light of the revelations about the man.

As well as an elaborate headstone on his grave, various tributes in the form of plaques and paths named after him were put in place only recently.

Before...

And even more recently they have been removed.

...After

There have been rumours about Savile for years but it's astonishing how quickly the official version of who he was has been superseded by a newer repulsive version. And all celebration of that 'official' version has been swiftly discarded as upsetting and inappropriate.

More and more about Savile is being uncovered, a lot of it simply incredible. This blog contains some bizarre details about his life and career. It's astonishing nothing (or any weight) was brought to bear against the man while he was alive. But then to most he merely seemed eccentric rather than dangerous.

That was true enough on the one occasion I crossed his path. One of the things Savile was well-known for in the 70s was his series of adverts promoting British Rail. On top of any financial rewards he received for this he also got a gold pass that allowed him unlimited travel on the railway. With Scarborough being one of his favourite haunts, it was only a matter of time before I came across him at the station.

It was fairly early on in my career there - I couldn't remember the exact year. All I can recall was that I was in the ticket office one Sunday morning. Sundays are always rife with engineering work somewhere on the network and on this day there were no trains coming in or out of Scarborough at all. Coaches were taking passengers between Scarborough, York and Leeds.

The familiar figure, dressed in his trademark tracksuit and sporting all his jewelery approached the ticket window. He exchanged some words with the supervisor, who had met him before. Then he asked me how to get to 'String of Beads' which he quickly explained was some sort of peculiar of rhyming slang for 'Leeds'

I explained to him about the Rail Replacement Bus Service. This didn't faze him at all and I commented that he was taking it very well (I had already had several other customers that morning who were thoroughly PO'd about the whole affair). He replied that taking a coach was not really a problem. Things could be much worse, he opined. We could all be living in Kosovo (I guess that reference helps to tie down the period this all took place in, a little...), he said. And with that he went and boarded the coach.

It was a strange little encounter, but I've remembered it all this time.

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Left Means Straight

The Twenty-First of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Wednesday.

I'm trying to think when the last time I wore an earring must have been. I think it was on one of the work's Christmas dos, but as to which one it was - how long ago it was - I can't say. I think I feel a bit too old and sensible to wear one now. Although Indiana Jones doesn't seem to think it's a problem

And yet, and yet...

It's nice to have the option. I've never been one for dressing up. I can see the appeal of cosplay, of fancy dress, indeed I admire people with the courage, craft and skill to role play in any way, whether it's a bit of fun at a party or a full-on convention appearance. But I've always had difficulties with clothing and fashion, even on a day-to-day basis. Nevertheless, as a teenager I went and had my ear pierced.

It's odd - there are lots of details I can't remember about that time but the chain of events that led to me having my ear pierced are still there. Maybe not the details. For example, I can't remember the reason we were all round at Karen Hurst's house. But I do remember talking to her dad. He had his ear pierced and for some reason it was seeing him that made me want to follow suit.

I remember the day I set off to get it done. My friend and neighbour, Nick, was outside just as I left the house. I told him where I was going and he didn't believe I was going to do it. In fact, so convinced was he he offered to pay half the price of it if I went ahead and did it. I was going to do it anyway, but to his credit he paid up when I returned with that first stud in my ear.

Nearly thirty years ago, dear me. I've had studs and sleepers, dangly ones and jewelled ones since then. I've never really fancied getting any other part of my anatomy pierced (although I do enjoy referring to the James Bond actor as Pierced Brosnan). Pretty much the only jewelery I've ever worn. Well, with one notable exception.

So, not being particularly fashion conscious I'm not sure why I started wearing an earring. Even more peculiarly, I'm not sure why I stopped. I don't think it's something I would like to do every day now. For some reason that seems like a different person. But it's just popped into my head as something I'd like to revisit at least for a little while.

I'll think I'll pop to the market and get a new sleeper tomorrow.

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Community Service

The Twentieth of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Tuesday.

Just a quick Telly Recommendation tonight, Ls and Gs. It was first brought to my attention when someone mentioned that there was this American comedy - the first series of which was shown on Viva over here, but that was as far as it went - that occasionally rolled out a spoof of Doctor Who.

All good fun, but what about the show itself?

Well, I splashed out for the DVD of the first series (season? series?) and I am four eps in and loving it. It's called Community and it is mos def my Nineteenth Telly Recommendation.

It's got Chevy Chase in it, but don't let that put you off. Honestly, google it, then buy it. It's v good.

Erm, that's it really. Just an advert for some cockamanie TV show. Boy, I need some sleep.

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Kindling

The Nineteenth of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Monday.

I don't write enough. Probably part of the reason for that is I don't read enough. And probably part of the reason for that is books are just too darn long.

Well, they're not really, are they? But for some reason, unless I am completely and utterly gripped by a book I seem to find it difficult to get to the end these days. I think it's yet more evidence of my dwindling powers of concentration as I approach my dotage (ah, there it is just across the square. I can see it now).

The more pragmatic among you may wish to point to the invention of something called the 'short story', but these have a troubling tendency to turn up in collections. I feel the same disappointment in having read four out of ten stories in a short story collection as I do in getting only barely halfway through a novel. Yes, those might be complete and self-contained tales, but like listening to half an album (remember those, o generation of downloaders?) it still feels like a job not completed.

(Actually, I don't know why I'm being all snotty to downloaders. The whole thrust of this blogdule (is that what individual blog entries are called? Is it? IS IT?) is about downloading stuff.)

So thank goodness something has come along that means you no longer have to read a whole book.

What am I talking about?

Kindle samples!

I don't have an actual Kindle - although if they actually sold the 8.9 inch screen Kindle Fire in this country (what is that all about? Why do they region lock US Kindles? Let's just assume here that DRM and region locking is a dumb idea and move on) I might consider getting one to read my comics on - but I do have the app on me iPhone. Even on that tiny screen, it's easy enough to read. And, as I have mentioned elsewhere, as space becomes a premium in my tiny non-dimensionally transcendental flat I am embracing the digit-all age with all digits (bit of a stretch that, but I couldn't resist). So I have downloaded the odd virtual novel or two but they do have the nasty habit of costing actual money.

Actually, in struggling to come up with a punny title for this blogdule (that doesn't really work, does it? And yet I can tell - even now - that I am going to continue to use it) it occurs to me that the idea of book burning does seem implicit in the name Kindle. Is that deliberate? It seems a fairly obvious connection. Interesting that there isn't a copy of Fahrenheit 451 in the Kindle store. 

In an amazing piece of metatextuality here, the reason these sentences don't make sense is I am listening to an edition of Just a Minute from 28 May rather than concentrating on what I'm writing. They mentioned Tristram Shandy, which, after enjoying Michael Winterbottom's film A Cock and Bull Story, inspired me to immediately download a free Kindle edition of The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, a book famous for its constant digressions.

When the radio recording had finished, the recorder reverted to the last channel it was on. In this case ITV3, and Doc Martin featuring Caroline Catz was on. Now I'll admit to having a bit of a crush on the lovely Caroline so I had a quick look on Wikipedia to see what she's up to at the moment, whereupon I discovered she is married to Michael Higgs, who I had been watching as the dad on Wizards vs Aliens earlier. Why is it when I start writing this blog thing I can constantly get distracted by the fundamental interconnectedness of things?

The more you write, the more you begin to recognise your own ticks (some might say 'clichés') as a writer. Digressional hyphens seem to be one. And have you noticed how more and more rhetorical questions seem to be creeping in?

Anyway, I invoke the works of Douglas Adams (on a bit of an Adams kick at the mo - finally bought the DVD of the TV Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy, which, let's be honest, has got to be my Eighteenth Telly Recommendation) because he is responsible for my latest addiction: Kindle samples.

Kindle samples are great. They're free and as they only make up the first few pages of a book you can polish them off in no time and not worry about how the rest of the book turns out. Where they are particularly effective is when they release a new edition of a book you already have but it features a brand new introduction. This is where Hitch Hiker comes into it, cos a few years back they brought out new editions of the books with intros by the likes of Russell T Davies and Neil Gaiman - yours for free. In fact, it's only just occurred to me that they've done the same with rereleases of a dozen of the Target Doctor Who novelisations, and I have just cracked on and downloaded the new intros to those while enjoying a slightly stale chocolate eclair.

Obviously, the idea is to entice you into buying the whole thing. And there are samples in my Kindle library that I might just do that with. But for now I am enjoying completing the incompletness of books by Tina Fey, Tim Key, Stewart Lee, Haruki Murakami, Caitlin Moran and Mark Kermode. Biographies and factual books are great because not knowing how the book ends doesn't really affect the bits you're reading. I'm getting very clued up on the early childhood of an awful lot of people. 

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Book Recommendation Time

The Sixteenth of October Two Thousand and Twelve. Tuesday.

This is what you get if you mix two potions and then roll 07 on d100: "Mild poison which causes nausea and loss of 1 point each of strength and dexterity for 5-20 rounds, no saving throw possible; one potion is cancelled, the other is at half strength and duration. (Use random determination for which is cancelled and which is at half efficacy.)"

I don't think I'd even heard the words 'miscibility' or 'efficacy' before this.

Oh, a little note reminds you to roll in secret and give no uncalled-for clues until necessary.

If you're travelling the astral plane there's a one in twenty chance you'll meet something. Roll 38 on d100 and the something will be
Tiamat, 5 headed dragon star of the D& D cartoon. I have never used any of these tables but they are awesome.

I don't believe this fabulous blog has done a book recommendation (cue some editing later if I actually have) so let me start now by mentioning three of my favourite reads. Well, I say reads. What these books have in common is that they're more sort of dip-in and dip-out volumes. Such as the one I've quoted from above my First Book Recommendation The 1st Edition Advanced Dungeons and Dragons Dungeon Masters' Guide.

Hmm, could have done with focussing the camera first. Never mind. Maybe it's a property of the bizarre forces contained within that have caused the distortion. Yeah, that's the most likely explanation.

As well as being full of every rule for every situation you could possible come across in your life as a brave adventurer it also contained actual drawings of naked ladies (well, demons and mermaids - close enough) that made it the ideal purchase for the 13 year old boy. I didn't even realise until now that they have released special commemorative editions of the 1st ed AD&D rulebooks this year. A quick scan around shows that the limited release of these new editions has ensured they've gone up in price already. Let's put a price tag on that proustian rush.

My Second Book Recommendation is West Yorkshire Train Times, perhaps the best combined volume of train timetables produced anywhere in the country.

Each timetable contained within is available individually but there's just something about this omnibus that satisfies, its substantial page count affording it the status of a latter-day Bradshaw's. Many of the timetables extend beyond the borders of West Yorkshire (oh yes, you'll find both Manchester and Scarborough in here!) meaning details of most of the North's train services can be at your fingertips with the turn of a page. This is the stuff.

On a side note, I quite like the fact that the railway signs of three consecutive PTEs all use an 'M' branding on their stations. You could take a journey from Huddersfield to Huyton and come across the following.




And if those two weren't anoraky enough for you you're going to love my Third Book Recommendation The London A to Z. 

My own love affair with the A to Z began naturally enough with my own native edition from Manchester. It was already several years out of date when I used it to explore streets that were no longer there and routes that could no longer be followed. The sight of Manchester Central  and Manchester Exchange stations dangled a long gone carrot of exploration (that's a recognised metaphor, isn't it?) in front of me. But it's the majesty of the London edition that makes me gasp in awe even now. Never mind all the hoo-hah about the inaccuracies of Apple Maps there's something that speaks to me in turning a page and discovering a whole new world to explore. I now have a 2012 edition, updated to include Overground stations and Olympic venues. There are other, useful but less elegant, atlases but you can't do better than an A to Z. Here's what Wikipedia has to say about Phyllis Pearsall, the extraordinary woman who created the first A to Z.

More soonliest.

Staycation Breakfast Blog* 05 - Home

The Ninth of August Two Thousand and Twelve. Thursday.

*Incorporating Supper News and The Elevenses Argus

Oh, I love the Wizard of Oz. The fillum. Haven't read the book. Heart's will never be practical until they're made unbreakable. Time has been powerless to its kindly philosophy out of fashion. And, of course, pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

But as a wee boy one thing I could never really get my head round was why at the end of it all Glinda just pops up and says 'You had the way to get home with you all along.' What!? Why didn't she just tell her that's how the Ruby Slippers worked in the first place? Why did they have to go through all that potentially lethal rigamarole?

Now, as a wiser and more mature individual (I wish...) I know the answer. Not just the smart alec one about narrative necessity and it would have been a very short film if she had. But she had to go on the journey to realise just exactly what was so important about home. If she hadn't gone exploring how could she discover that 'there's no place like home'.

I've had a lovely day today. Very laid back. That was supposed to be the formula for the rest of the week - late starts, no imperatives and the chance to unwind. But I couldn't help myself coming up with a checklist of things to do and places to see. And I think if I hadn't done some of that I wouldn't truly have relaxed. Some part of me would be wondering what it is that I am missing. Well now I know, and while I wouldn't have missed it for the world it's made me glad of what I had all along.

I sat at home and watched a bit of telly (New Girl is my Seventeenth Telly Recommendation) and enjoyed some Weetabix, a bagel, some coffee and some juice. It was ace.

Yesterday was book day. Well, they take a bit longer to get through than a film or comic. So I'm actually still in the middle of the one I started reading. It's the Doctor Who novel The Coming of the Terraphiles by none other than Michael Moorcock and very entertaining it is too. Lots of musings on the nature of the multiverse (I've not read much Moorcock - the Oswald Bastable books and 3/4 of the Jerry Cornelius ones but it's clearly the same man at the helm), a bit of a Wodehouse pastiche and a namecheck for Meng and Ecker, who I knew I'd heard of but I couldn't remember where. A quick Google reminded me that it was in St Ann's arcade in Manchester. Still a bit to go - I'm not the fastest reader in the world - but it's all good so far.

To conclude the Breakfast Blog I'll mention what I've been up to today. I keeping with a regular breakfast I did what I do most of all - watch telly. So whereas I could have watched the unaired pilot of Sherlock, an episode of The Mind of JG Reeder and The God Complex and The Wedding of River Song (with the commentary) any night on this occasion they were part of my official programme.

That's it for now. I go on proper holiday on Sunday. There might be a blog or two from that, but I think we're all close enough friends now to know what the likelihood of that really is.

Nevertheless...

More soonliest.

Staycation Breakfast Blog 04 - Arnie's, Whitby

The Eighth of August Two Thousand and Twelve. Wednesday.

Today, I hit what is known in the breakfast-seeking world as 'The Wall'. I mentioned earlier how there comes a point where you tire of having a whopping great breakfast and decide a bowl of cereal would be just as nice. The place I had in mind today was 20 miles away and as I ran for the bus there was almost a moment where I thought the effort was too much. I even briefly considered hopping on the train to York and having a Burger King brown breakfast at the station, so disappointed was I with its absence yesterday.

But 'The Wall' is there to be broken through. Whitby was my goal, and even though the double-decker was nearly full, forward I went and pressed on with my goal.

And this was it:

Veggie Eggy Bread Breakfast at Arnie's in the Market Place in Whitby. Sat in the shade, enjoying the sun with eggy bread, caramelised onion chutney and the tomato substituted for an extra hash brown! That tupperware thing contains the condiment sachets. And you know what, it was all very pleasant, but I want you to go back and have another look at the breakfast I had at the Rendezvous on Monday. It was much cheaper and had egg (yes, I know there's egg in the bread, and I do love that, but that whole 'dip your toast in the yolk' thing is an important part of this) and beans. Not eggabeans, but egg and beans. Consequently, I think that was the more satisfying meal, both for pocket and palate. Still, I had a nice time in and around Whitby, so it's all good.

Yesterday was Audio day, that is to say I was listening to sound-only stuff off of CD, download and the radio. With my headphones on it meant I could still get out and about while listening to various stuff. And various stuff it was.

I started off with the last of Richard Herring's Leicester Square Theatre Podcasts, where the cornish-faced buffoon spoke with Armando Ianucci OBE and Graham Linehan. This entertained me while I wandered about Primrose Valley Holiday Park. When that finished I listened to someone I haven't heard for years, Arnold Brown. And why not?

I then made my way down to the beach, took off my shoes and walked down to Filey, paddling as I went. From one Scot to another as Arnold went away to be replaced by the sound of Sylvester McCoy as the Doctor in The Word Lord, a self-contained episode from the Big Finish release Forty-Five which you can download for 99p.

I had a bit of a mooch around Filey and caught the train back home while listening to The Minister of Chance, a free download made through contributions of listeners with a few familiar Whoish names attached. It's actually pretty good, having some similarities with Doctor Who which is not too surprising as the Minister originally appeared some years back in a Who webcast called Death Comes to Time played by Stephen Fry.

Next was a bootleg of Daniel Kitson's stand-up show, 'It's the Fireworks Talking', performed in Cardiff in 2007. The little coincidences that have dotted around this week reared up again. Kitson talked about the joy of going for a paddle, just an hour or two after I had done just that. Less of a coincidence, more of a hypnotic command was the way I ended up lying down next to the south bay star map after he talked about millions of stars you can see in the perfect black of the Australian sky. He began by talking about melancholia, and when, as his perfectly structured piece built to an emotional climax some idiot in the audience ruined it, the piece inadvertently ended with it too. Kitson was savage with the heckler, insisting he leave or be ejected. How easy it is for morons to spoil beautiful things. How easy it is to be a moron.

I still think I shared a bill with Daniel Kitson on the one and only occasion I attempted stand up. If it was him. he gave some supportive comments and said something nice about my material. I'd rather leave it with the Schrodinger-like possibility that it was him rather than collapse to the certainty that it wasn't him by trying to find out.

When I got home it was the turn of stuff I had recorded off of the radio. I started with two episodes of Jeremy and Rebecca Front's comedy Incredible Women. I then went on to hear Jeremy interview Rebecca on Chain Reaction, followed by Rebecca Front interviewing Chris Addison.

Then there was three bits of Eoin Colfer's addition to the the Hitch-Hiker's Guide. And Another Thing..., read by Stephen Mangan with Peter Serafinowicz providing the voice of the Book.

The evening came to an end with a couple of doses of Matt Berry's therapy comedy, I, Regress. Phew!

I am certain tomorrow's entry is going to be a lot shorter...

More soonliest.

Staycation Breakfast Blog 03 - Starbucks Primrose Valley

The Seventh of August Two Thousand and Twelve. Tuesday.

Well, how many times can someone let you down before you fall out of love with them? No, this isn't a whiny, introspective blog (although, I guess, it is). It's just that I caught the bus out to the Blue Dolphin holiday camp looking forward to a traditional Brown Breakfast (egg and cheese butty, hash browns, mini pancakes an syrup washed down with some OJ (no bits)) and Burger King (there isn't one in Scarborough town centre) have let me down again. They did it at Piccadilly station, and they did it in Islington when I was having breakfast with the American Pop Cultural Attaché - opening late. On that last occasion we decamped to Starbucks instead, and that's what I did today, only on this occasion the nearest one was two holiday camps over in Primrose Valley.

To be honest, that was always the plan anyway. I'd been curious about the camps and wanted to check 'em out. They're both static caravan affairs with centralised shops/food/kid stuff bits. Primrose Valley did remind me a bit of The Prisoner cos everyone seemed to be travelling around on these four-person cycle things that evoked the Mini Mokes of The Village.

So, breakfast. There was this mushroom croissant concoction that didn't appeal so I went for a not particularly breakfasty mozzarella panini (olives and pesto - v nice) and a coffee frappucino with an extra shot and topped with cream. I suppose more brunchy than anything.

I was enjoying it very much when this young Geordie lass of about nine - she was waiting while her mum was in the loo - told me I had cream round my mouth. I gave her the traditional reply that I was saving it for later. This didn't faze her, but I was taken aback when she suddenly asked if I had two boys. Then I realised she had seen the photo on my phone...

Before her mum returned I was subjected to the third degree: was I on holiday alone? Where did live? Where did I work? Will I be seeing my boys? I'd been told not to talk to strange girls, but she was very sweet even though I was glad of a breather when her mum got back.

So yesterday was films. I started with my regulation Doctor Who RDA with a bit of Daleks' Invasion Earth - 2150AD. This was only one of two films that I had seen before on this day and I think I do still prefer it to its predecessor Dr Who and the Daleks even if that has better music. That flying saucer is still ace.

Apart from that I hadn't really decided what I was going to watch at home that day. I had my computer on, so I looked at the files that I had transferred from my old PVR but still hadn't gotten around to watching. That led me to In Bruges, which is a real slow burner but really blackly funny in places. I looked up the writer and director Martin McDonagh and saw that he was one of those guys who only does something every now and then but seems to put his all into it. Will keep an eye out for more stuff by him.

The middle of my afternoon triple bill was JCVD, the rather odd Belgian film with Jean Claude Van Damme playing a fictionalised version of himself (I know, that seems to be all the rage at the mo). It was very good, but I guess it shows that there are dangers in that level of self awareness as he's now gone and spoilt it all by doing those hopeless beer adverts.

I had my tea watching Attack the Block, which was better than I was expecting. To be honest, I'd shied away from the post-Shaun of the Dead, exec produced by Edgar Wright vibe that I'd thought it was trying to ride (can you ride a vibe? Why didn't I just use 'wave' and 'surf'? It's a cliché but at least it would have made sense) - even the announcer (this was a Channel 4 recording) made the tenuous link that this 'starred', quote, 'Simon Pegg's mate Nick Frost'. As it turned out, it was its own thing and all the better for it.

Then it was off to the cinema to see Moonrise Kingdom. I could watch the way Wes Anderson puts stuff together all day, but I felt the tone was a bit uncertain in this one. I don't know if that was because of the contrast between the earnest performances of the the child actors against the more knowing ones of the adults but it seemed a bit uneven. Still fantastic, though.

Back home I finally got around to watching A Clockwork Orange. Yes, I hadn't seen it until yesterday. Another one of those 'everybody goes on about it so I'm going to be contrary' scenarios. Anyway, this was a gorgeous-looking HD version taken off ITV1 - it looked brilliant. And, yes, I see what all the fuss was about now. Kubrick obviously knows what he's doing.

I finished off the day with a film I had seen before, but not for a while, Enter the Dragon for no other reason that Bruce Lee is just cool. Remember, there is no such thing as an opponent because 'I' does not exist and the highest technique is to have no technique. Or something. A brilliant end to my filmathon.

Strange little links too: hadn't planned it but two films ended up being set in Belgium; there was Godfrey Quigley in two of them and, er, well that's about it, really. So there you are.

More soonliest.

Staycation Breakfast Blog 02 - Rendezvous Café

The Sixth of August Two Thousand and Twelve. Monday.

Hello. Just popping in to show you a picture of my breakfast. Here it is:

This was at the Rendezvous Café here in Scarborough on the corner of Westborough and Northway.

You get exactly what you pay for at the Rendezvous. It's not the best food in the world, but it's unfussy. In my veggie fried breakfast I want sausages, hash browns and egg and that's exactly what I got here.

I had the good fortune to live with a bus driver for some years and back when she worked full time if she ordered jam and toast while she was in uniform she (and any hangers-on) would get a discount.

They also do a very good nut roast dinner (three scoops of mash!) and I'll probably have a go at that sometime in the hols, probably after the exertions of next week.

So yesterday was comics day and it went something like this:

Started off with the reprint of Incredible Hercules 138 and 139 from Mighty World of Marvel.

More Hercules in Chaos War 5 (the end of Greg Pak and Frank Van Lente's superb run of Hercules stories - funny, clever and with a very dry line in sound effects...

Along with Heroes for Hire 1 and Avengers Academy 5 all reprinted in the latest Mighty World of Marvel.

Paul Cornell's Saucer Country 1

More UK reprints: Batman and Robin 3 and 4, plus Batman 8 from issue 2 of Titan's new Batman anthology.

Parts 1 to 6 of Avengers: The Children's Crusade from the UK Collectors Edition Avengers Assemble - Allan Heinberg and Jim Cheung's follow up to their excellent Young Avengers run.

The conclusion of Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill's latest volume of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Century: 2009

Mark Millar reprints in CLINT nos. 2.1 and 2.2 featuring Super Crooks, The Secret Service and Hit-Girl.

Issues 2 to 5 of IDW's Doctor Who comic featuring the 11th Doctor, Amy and Rory.

And then I finished the day with a marathon of Ultimate Spider-Man, reading issues 113 to 128 digitally, 129 to 133 - and Annual 3 - in a premiere hardback, before going digital again for the two Ultimatum Requiem issues. Phew! This is still my favourite Brian Michael Bendis comic and these particular issues feature some outstanding art from Stuart Immonen, a favourite of mine. Loving Bendis' work on the character of Miles Morales, the new Ultimate Spider-Man - it's boss.

Right, films today. Let's see what's on.

More soonliest.

Staycation Breakfast Blog 01 - Francis Tea Rooms

The Fifth of August Two Thousand and Twelve. Sunday.

Hooray! Hooray! It's a holi-holiday!

Next Sunday I'll be taking my sons and heirs on a whirlwind tour of capital cities and theme parks, but in the meantime I'm enjoying a 'staycation' here in my beautiful home of Scarborough. A lovely quiet few days decompressing before it all goes crazy next week. Weather's looking good - warm but not too hot and a minimum of rain. So it's a perfect opportunity to digest my favourite things in the world: food and culture!

Why do people insist in blogging/tweeting/tumblring pictures of stuff they're eating? It's tedious and typical of the lack of imagination behind most people that when presented with the instant communication opportunities of social media that this is what they fall back on. In an attempt to get to the bottom of this I'm going to post pictures of my breakfast for the next five days!

It's usually toast or bagels for me - occasionally a Weetabix or two. In the past, when I've gone on holiday I've opted for the cooked breakfast as a treat, only to be too bloated by day three to persist with this 'luxury'. Nevertheless, even though I have perfect access to my own toaster this week I have resolved to have breakfast in a different location each day. Today it was the quaint Francis Tea Rooms on South Street just round the corner from my flat.

We've gone for the scrambled egg on toast here, with a lovely extra slice of toast. Always big chunky toast at Francis, fab if a bit expensive.

But that's not all. Not only will there be a different(ish) breakfast each day. I will also be spending each day dedicating myself to consuming tasty morsels from a different cultural medium each day. Today, I will be immersing myself exclusively in the world of comic books (plus ça change...). Tomorrow, it will be movies; Tuesday, it's audio and radio stuff; Wednesday will be books; and Thursday will be your friend and mine, telly stuff. It's my intention to let you know what I've been into in the following day's breakfast blog. I can tell you now that there will be a Doctor Who element to each day...

Yes, I know I always come up with these grand schemes and don't always complete (where's that novel you were writing, Vin? (it's still coming, I promise!)), but this is only five days so even I can't make a hash of it.

Can I?

More soonliest.

Alien Cat on a Train

The Twenty-Fifth of July Two Thousand and Twelve. Thursday.

Anyway, so I was getting the train back from Manchester to Scarborough. The usual thoughts going through my head - should I get chips on the way home or would a bowl of Super Noodles do me for tea. When this cat climbed up on my table.

'Is it all right if I sit here, boss?' he asked.

'Oh yeah, just make yourself at home, why don't you?' I replied and I moved the packet of Barbecue Hula Hoops I'd had open on the table. Didn't want cat hairs in there.

'What's with all the talking?' I asked.

'Don't get uncool,' replied the cat. 'This isn't the quiet carriage.'

'No, I mean being a cat and talking.'

He stared at me crazy, crazy style.

'I am not of this Earth, human! What think you of that!'

And then he gave a bizarre ear-piercing miaow that coupled with his odd grasp of grammar convinced me of his non-terrestrial origins. That was enough to trigger an age old memory.

'I've just remembered a competition I entered when I was at junior school,' I told him. He didn't seem to be interested in this and went about his own indifferent feline affairs. But I persisted.

'The Disney film The Cat from Outer Space was coming out and we had to draw what we thought such a creature would look like. I'm not much of an artist, but I put considerable thought into my rendering of a green cat in a spacesuit with annotations showing various scientific features of interest. I can still remember the teacher's bemused expression - it wasn't as accomplished as the work of others but it was fabulous frankly and I still recall the disappointment from the teacher's lack of appreciation, nay, her mild mockery even.'

That's when the cat on the table turned to me and said:

'Man, I love that film!'

 (I don't know if he was saying 'Man' in a kind of 'dude' type of way or whether he was just calling me a man like he'd called me a human earlier.)

Anyroad up, that seem to improve his mood. So I thought I'd chance my arm and move the conversation on.

'What do you think of The Gnome-Mobile?' I asked him.

'Don't make me hurt you,' he hissed.

More soonliest.

Terry's Holiday and the Poor People of Paris

The Twenty-Fourth of June Two Thousand and Twelve. Sunday.

Yes, I've heard the theme music to Pot Black. But until today I didn't know who Winifred Atwell was.

I was giving my flat its quarterly tidy/half-arsed clean with Paul O'Grady on Radio 2 on in the background. He played a tune from the 50s that I immediately recognised. It was the Man With a Stick singing about his holiday!

Funny story there: A friend of mine held a 'hat party' where everybody was encouraged to wear an humorous hat. I elected to stretch the definition somewhat and made my own version of the Man With a Stick's helmet, complete with drawings of interesting things I had seen that week (wish I could remember what those things were. Ah well.) Unfortunately, I got the impression that people thought I had come as a member of the Ku Klux Klan as I was getting disgusted looks from all and sundry. This despite the fact I had a big stick (as in 'Man With a Stick') which had, under the prerequisite bag, a roll-on deodorant with a skull sellotaped to it stuck on the end. I'm not really a party person.

Anyway, turns out the track Paul was playing was actually No1 for a couple of weeks in 1956. It was The Poor People of Paris by the aforementioned Winifred Atwell. It was brilliant. Here she is in full effect:

Bit odd the timing of that last caption.

Another of her hits was The Black and White Rag and that was the one that was used as the theme to Pot Black. Honestly, read her Wikipedia entry, she's brilliant. I can't believe I'd never heard of her. She discovered Matt Monro for goodness' sake!

As for The Poor People of Paris, a little while before Winifred's version it was also a chart topper in the US for Les Baxter and his orchestra (good ol' Les). Apparently, it's based on a French song called La goualante du pauvre Jean (The Ballad of Poor John) and it's a mistranslation of pauvre Jean as pauvre gens (poor people) that gave the song its English name.

What's that? You want to hear Les' version? Go on, then:

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A Pair of Size Elevens

The Sixteenth of May Two Thousand and Twelve. Wednesday.

I hate shoe shopping. I'm not blessed with any sort of fashion sense, so I have no idea what I'm supposed to be wearing. As long as it's comfortable and keeps my socks from getting dirty I'm happy.

With summer ostensibly just around the corner I thought I'd better buy myself something a bit lighter to wear on my feet instead of the steel-capped work shoes that form my regular footwear. I think I'm still a vegetarian, so if I'm buying shoes I try to avoid leather. I keep saying I'll go for a pair of vegan Doc Marten's one day, but have you seen how much they are? No, I utilise the time honoured mathematical formula of working out how many pairs of cheaper shoes I would get through in the time a decent, better-made pair would last. I think I've got the ratio just about in my favour.

Here's the canvas whatnots I bought today:

Not that I'm superstitious, but apparently it's bad luck to put new shoes on a table. With this in mind I rooted out my ironing board (don't think I've actually done any ironing this year, yet) and put them on that instead. I'm not sure what sort of luck that will bring - probably wrinkle free.

(As an aside, I think they're on the Wii again upstairs. There's a lot of noise and my windows are squeaking and everything and there are no sex sounds so I think it's all video game related)

So that's me shoes sorted out for the next six months or so. But, much like the proverbial bus of legend, you wait for one pair of shoes and another turns up at the same time!

I was sat on my perch at work, explaining the restrictions on a Super Off Peak Return ticket to a random bystander when I was offered a pair of shoes by my colleague. They were his father's, the late and sorely missed John Clough (station supervisor par excellence and founder of Clough Trains Northern). Brand new work shoes in my size, they were on offer if I wanted them. As I said, I hate shoe shopping so to be presented with a pair as a feet accompli (Ay thang yew!) was too good an opportunity to turn down. Here's what they look like:

Haven't put the ironing board away yet, so I thought I'd use it again. Flash shows up how lovely and shiny they are. Yes, they're leather. Yes, I'm a hypocrite. But for work nothing else is really suitable.

It's a bit odd wearing shoes that belonged to someone who has since passed on. I once took a trip around Europe in a pair of Nike flip-flops that were once worn by a deceased uncle of mine. But that's another story (just imagine the Eiffel Tower, the Peggy Guggenheim in Venice, the Atomium and the Temple Bar and you'll have a vague idea of what transpired).

I did have a pair of jet black Converse once. They were pretty cool.

More soonliest.

City 'Til I Die

The Fifteenth of May Two Thousand and Twelve. Tuesday.

What qualifies you as a football fan? Anybody can say they follow a team. What do you have to do to be allowed to bathe in the reflected glory of 'your' team's success? When are you a proper fan?

I haven't been to a City match in years. The last time was for my one and only visit to the Etihad/City of Manchester Stadium/Eastlands once for a rather dour goalless draw against Birmingham City. A bit of googling has filled in the details - it was on the 8 February 2004. I remember now, I took my dad for his birthday.

Ah, dad. With your tales of Bell, Summerbee and Lee. You painted me blue in a town of red devils (Salford RLFC being the original Red Devils, of course...) I can't blame you entirely - going against the popular tide appealed to my outsider mentality. But it was a bit rough at times. Losing the FA Cup. Losing the pigging Full Members Cup (remember that?) Relegation to the third tier of English football.

But it's ace being a City fan. It's funny and strange and stupid. Football might not be a huge thing in my life, but funny, strange and stupid are, so City are a perfect fit. This blog isn't about my experiences with the men in sky blue, though. It's about my claim to the glory of the fact that Manchester City are the 2011/12 league champions.

I had a chance to go to the FA cup semi-final last year (you know, the one against United, that we won on our way to winning our first trophy in 35 years) but turned it down as I had a long standing family commitment. There were more important things in my life than football.

So am I a fan? What right have I to wave my inflatable banana in triumph eight years after going to my last game? Is it enough to say I stood in the Kippax in front of Curly Watts 25 years ago?

Yes, and I'll tell you for why.

I never gave up.

I kept on listening and hoping until the final whistle. I couldn't believe the reports of people who were leaving the ground while there was still five minutes to play! I watched Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory on Sunday for the first time in years. There's a line in there where Charlie says he should have a golden ticket because he wants it more than anyone else in the world. Didn't these people want the championship? Why did they give up? I know nothing about football - tactics and all that - but I know that. I really, really wanted it, and that is why, after all these years, I can have it.

There's a lot I don't like about football - the money, the corruption, the homophobia, the thugs like Joey Barton - to the point where I considered giving up on it now that the pain of my childhood had been erased. But that would be throwing the baby out with the bath water - you can't just ignore the joy that comes when those negatives are overcome. So I'm afraid I'm City 'til I die.

Hmm, too much introspection. Let's have a fashion parade. Way back last year I detailed two of the City kits I had as a boy. Here are the kits currently in my possession:

Ah, this is an old favourite of mine - the replica of the 1969 FA cup winning shirt. Had this years. Was a lot thinner when I first got it. Little bit tight now (harrumph).

Hmm, not sure what season this one's from, but at least it still fits.

Kappa away kit from 1999. I think they must have worn this twice at most because (and I'm not an expert here) having blue in your home and away kit means it's not much use as a change strip. Most of the time they used that blue and fluorescent yellow striped thing that starred in the play-off final against Gillingham. You know, this one:

Yes, my friends. Never forget that Sergio Aguero is the modern day Paul Dickov!

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