My employers have granted me my own blog on the Express & Star website.
This means that whatever time I had for blogging, and I never really made that much over the last year, will now be taken up by doing it for a wider audience.
And let's face it, there's only three of you I'm aware of that check this site now because my messages have been so sporadic.
There may be times when something will be more appropriate for here than for the mass audience of the newspaper website but for now, thanks for stopping by but please do take a look at my official site.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Finally arrived
You know when you've made it as a reporter because you appear on Hold The Front Page.
Now I'm just waiting for the story to see print in the Express & Star, probably this weekend.
Now I'm just waiting for the story to see print in the Express & Star, probably this weekend.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Rites of passage
I believe I may have had one of those life-defining moments.
You know the sort, it’s where you’re convinced you’ve seen something like this on an American sit-com or in a chick-flick romcom with Hugh Grant that you only sat through because your girlfriend promised to let you watch the football down the pub.
It concerns the man who stands a strong chance of one day becoming my father in law.
His daughter went away for a week recently with work and I found myself living on my own for the first time since we moved in together almost a year ago.
After a few days of lounging around in my pants, leaving the loo seat up and generally doing anything “blokey” I could think of I admitted to Kate over the phone that I was “a bit lonely” without her.
It was just the usual sort of thing girlfriends want to hear but it had the same effect as sneezing while inspecting the first domino in a carefully constructed line.
Dutiful to the end my partner called her family and made mention of my alleged boredom to her dad.
Next thing I know I am being offered a go at the driving range.
Golf to me has always held a certain stigma. I see it as a pastime for middle aged men trying to escape from their families or a place for executives to hire and fire while keeping up the pretence of friendship with subordinates who will deliberately miss a shot in order to curry favour.
My girlfriend’s sister’s fiancé also did the wonderfully traditional act of asking permission to wed while on the golf course.
The course is more than just a way of spoiling a good walk, it's an initiation site.
As we approached the wooden hut of the Ledene Golf Centre in Codsall I half expected Kate’s dad to turn round, pull out his nine iron and lunge at me in a duel to test my fighting skills and my worth as a fitting consort for his first born.
It would of course have involved me weaving out of the way in my corduroy jacket, stammering that “well really there, er, must have been some sort of charmingly befuddled misunderstanding” while Geri Halliwell sings "It's Raining Men".
Instead Kate's dad produced a second bag of clubs, the ones he had used to learn the gentlemen’s game.
“You can hang on to them, get a bit of practice”, he said casually before smacking a ball beyond the 100 yard mark.
In one awkward second he had welcomed me further into his family.
Were this the 1400s he would have handed me a suit of armour bearing the family crest and no doubt offered me a herd of sheep.
And while such a thing would have been more worthy of a blockbuster film if my sword fighting is anything like my swing I’d never have stood a chance against Richard III at Bosworth Field.
You know the sort, it’s where you’re convinced you’ve seen something like this on an American sit-com or in a chick-flick romcom with Hugh Grant that you only sat through because your girlfriend promised to let you watch the football down the pub.
It concerns the man who stands a strong chance of one day becoming my father in law.
His daughter went away for a week recently with work and I found myself living on my own for the first time since we moved in together almost a year ago.
After a few days of lounging around in my pants, leaving the loo seat up and generally doing anything “blokey” I could think of I admitted to Kate over the phone that I was “a bit lonely” without her.
It was just the usual sort of thing girlfriends want to hear but it had the same effect as sneezing while inspecting the first domino in a carefully constructed line.
Dutiful to the end my partner called her family and made mention of my alleged boredom to her dad.
Next thing I know I am being offered a go at the driving range.
Golf to me has always held a certain stigma. I see it as a pastime for middle aged men trying to escape from their families or a place for executives to hire and fire while keeping up the pretence of friendship with subordinates who will deliberately miss a shot in order to curry favour.
My girlfriend’s sister’s fiancé also did the wonderfully traditional act of asking permission to wed while on the golf course.
The course is more than just a way of spoiling a good walk, it's an initiation site.
As we approached the wooden hut of the Ledene Golf Centre in Codsall I half expected Kate’s dad to turn round, pull out his nine iron and lunge at me in a duel to test my fighting skills and my worth as a fitting consort for his first born.
It would of course have involved me weaving out of the way in my corduroy jacket, stammering that “well really there, er, must have been some sort of charmingly befuddled misunderstanding” while Geri Halliwell sings "It's Raining Men".
Instead Kate's dad produced a second bag of clubs, the ones he had used to learn the gentlemen’s game.
“You can hang on to them, get a bit of practice”, he said casually before smacking a ball beyond the 100 yard mark.
In one awkward second he had welcomed me further into his family.
Were this the 1400s he would have handed me a suit of armour bearing the family crest and no doubt offered me a herd of sheep.
And while such a thing would have been more worthy of a blockbuster film if my sword fighting is anything like my swing I’d never have stood a chance against Richard III at Bosworth Field.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Don't bash the bish
I feel a bit sorry for the Archbishop of Canterbury over this whole Sharia law business.
His predecessor Lord Carey has written in two Sunday papers today criticising Dr Williams' views while every leader column has given everyone's tuppence worth.
Perhaps someone of the faith can tell me though, is it very Christian of Lord Carey to kick a man when he's down in this way?
Considering as Lord Carey blocked Dr Williams' appointment as Bishop of Southwark over his "too liberal" views on homosexuality it seems like it's just a good opportunity for the former head of the church to stick the boot in to the man who replaced him.
While I disagree with the views the Archbishop put forward and doubt that Sharia law is inevitable I must say I agree with one of the few members of the clergy to stick their head over the parapet and support Dr Williams.
The Right Reverend Sheilagh Kesting, head of the Church of Scotland, has written in support and said: "I consider it fortunate that we have a Christian leader in this country who is prepared to initiate deep and thoughtful consideration of sensitive issues and I am alarmed at the way in which your intentions can be wilfully misconstrued."
It could reasonably be expected that the head of a religion would condemn all believers of other faiths to hell or whatever etertnal torment awaits unbelievers.
That Dr Williams is willing to even acknowledge the place of another faith in Britain is hardly worthy of calling for his resignation.
His predecessor Lord Carey has written in two Sunday papers today criticising Dr Williams' views while every leader column has given everyone's tuppence worth.
Perhaps someone of the faith can tell me though, is it very Christian of Lord Carey to kick a man when he's down in this way?
Considering as Lord Carey blocked Dr Williams' appointment as Bishop of Southwark over his "too liberal" views on homosexuality it seems like it's just a good opportunity for the former head of the church to stick the boot in to the man who replaced him.
While I disagree with the views the Archbishop put forward and doubt that Sharia law is inevitable I must say I agree with one of the few members of the clergy to stick their head over the parapet and support Dr Williams.
The Right Reverend Sheilagh Kesting, head of the Church of Scotland, has written in support and said: "I consider it fortunate that we have a Christian leader in this country who is prepared to initiate deep and thoughtful consideration of sensitive issues and I am alarmed at the way in which your intentions can be wilfully misconstrued."
It could reasonably be expected that the head of a religion would condemn all believers of other faiths to hell or whatever etertnal torment awaits unbelievers.
That Dr Williams is willing to even acknowledge the place of another faith in Britain is hardly worthy of calling for his resignation.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Sicko
I finally saw Michael Moore's Sicko last night after a three week wait for Play.com to replace the DVD which went missing in the post.
Despite some wonderful words from Tony Benn, owner of the best voice in British politics, I found Moore's gushing praise of the NHS a little difficult to swallow.
I have no doubt we are better off with a socialised health service but Moore does a great job of glossing over the filthy hospitals, the extortionate car parking prices, the outrageous decision to allow private company Patientline to fleece the sick for terrestrial telly and the total balls up about staffing levels and doctors contracts, not to mention the problem finding an NHS dentist.
The point which made me boil with rage was not seeing George W Bush praising a woman as "fantastic" and "so American" for working three jobs to pay for her healthcare, it was where Moore failed to contain his schadenfreude at how he had anonymously sent a $12,000 cheque to the man in charge of the biggest anti Michael Moore website so his sick wife could get an operation, because he didn't want the American health system to take away the guy's right to free speech.
If he truly believed that he would never have revealed he was behind the cheque. He used a sick woman to make a cheap, personal point.
The underlying message of the film is not hampered by Moore's behaviour, it survives in spite of him. I am grateful for the NHS but I will thank the late Clement Atlee's government for it, not Gordon Brown's or Tony Blair's.
Despite some wonderful words from Tony Benn, owner of the best voice in British politics, I found Moore's gushing praise of the NHS a little difficult to swallow.
I have no doubt we are better off with a socialised health service but Moore does a great job of glossing over the filthy hospitals, the extortionate car parking prices, the outrageous decision to allow private company Patientline to fleece the sick for terrestrial telly and the total balls up about staffing levels and doctors contracts, not to mention the problem finding an NHS dentist.
The point which made me boil with rage was not seeing George W Bush praising a woman as "fantastic" and "so American" for working three jobs to pay for her healthcare, it was where Moore failed to contain his schadenfreude at how he had anonymously sent a $12,000 cheque to the man in charge of the biggest anti Michael Moore website so his sick wife could get an operation, because he didn't want the American health system to take away the guy's right to free speech.
If he truly believed that he would never have revealed he was behind the cheque. He used a sick woman to make a cheap, personal point.
The underlying message of the film is not hampered by Moore's behaviour, it survives in spite of him. I am grateful for the NHS but I will thank the late Clement Atlee's government for it, not Gordon Brown's or Tony Blair's.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
The Last Hangover
At the end of February it will have been exactly ten years since I first went to a nightclub.
Blast Off at Wolverhampton's Civic Hall remained myfavourite night out for pretty much the entire decade that followed.
The first few times I went, two years underage and clueless, I spent quite a long time on my own as the female friend I had gone with joined her Girls High classmates on the pull and I tidied myself onto the shelf.
Sat in the dark room on the sticky faux velvet seats I had to keep reminding myself that this was, in fact, what having a life was supposed to be about.
Drinking the now defunct Metz and shooting glances at the pretty young things intertwining their tongues while they groped each other in full view of the other revellers I couldn't help but feel this really wasn't for me.
Happily that feeling passed after a few goes, the cherry well and truly popped, and I settled into looking forward to doing exactly the same thing every weekend. The same events, drinks and Sunday symptoms just clothed in different shirts and jeans.
A pattern would develop - We would catch the same bus, start in the same old Goose in the City, move on to a few other sticky and violent chain pubs with yet another new credit card sized promotional card giving a 25 per cent discount on a glass of poison, head for Blast Off, exchange pleasantaries with the bouncers and marvel at how cursory the bodily searches were, hand our coats to the dwarf woman who sounded like Davros, I would text a request to the DJ and demand he play a Pulp classic. Then I would perform my Jarvis Cocker impersonation and wonder why no girl would be impressed by the gangly flailing arms and the vacant expression.
I met my one and only at Blast Off's Friday sister, Cheeky Monkey, and the overwhelming hunger and yearning was replaced by a relief and sense of eventual accomplishment.
Now Blast Off has been relegated to a back room of the Civic, its popularity waning with the advent of more and more mid-week indie nights for the students and people who don't have to get up in the morning.
Other nights out have become a predictable formula of not so much arguing about an eventual destination, but rather each of us having our own exhaustion and lack of enthusiasm for different places. The one with the smallest apathy eventually wins out and we look around at all the fat children throwing back test tubes of anti-freeze-like liquids and checking our watches wondering if leaving now means we've just wasted six quid on getting in.
Looking around Walkabout and watching the violent young men with too much gel and too much beer leer after the either painfully thin or beer belly sporting girls I spend most of the time wondering if I saw them at Wolverhampton Magistrates Court last week.
Perhaps for me, with a co-habitting partner, a mortgage and a personal loan on a car, the time has come to find an alternative source of Saturday entertainment.
Or maybe I should just chuck a couple of paracetamol down my neck and wash my jeans before we go and do it all over again.
Blast Off at Wolverhampton's Civic Hall remained myfavourite night out for pretty much the entire decade that followed.
The first few times I went, two years underage and clueless, I spent quite a long time on my own as the female friend I had gone with joined her Girls High classmates on the pull and I tidied myself onto the shelf.
Sat in the dark room on the sticky faux velvet seats I had to keep reminding myself that this was, in fact, what having a life was supposed to be about.
Drinking the now defunct Metz and shooting glances at the pretty young things intertwining their tongues while they groped each other in full view of the other revellers I couldn't help but feel this really wasn't for me.
Happily that feeling passed after a few goes, the cherry well and truly popped, and I settled into looking forward to doing exactly the same thing every weekend. The same events, drinks and Sunday symptoms just clothed in different shirts and jeans.
A pattern would develop - We would catch the same bus, start in the same old Goose in the City, move on to a few other sticky and violent chain pubs with yet another new credit card sized promotional card giving a 25 per cent discount on a glass of poison, head for Blast Off, exchange pleasantaries with the bouncers and marvel at how cursory the bodily searches were, hand our coats to the dwarf woman who sounded like Davros, I would text a request to the DJ and demand he play a Pulp classic. Then I would perform my Jarvis Cocker impersonation and wonder why no girl would be impressed by the gangly flailing arms and the vacant expression.
I met my one and only at Blast Off's Friday sister, Cheeky Monkey, and the overwhelming hunger and yearning was replaced by a relief and sense of eventual accomplishment.
Now Blast Off has been relegated to a back room of the Civic, its popularity waning with the advent of more and more mid-week indie nights for the students and people who don't have to get up in the morning.
Other nights out have become a predictable formula of not so much arguing about an eventual destination, but rather each of us having our own exhaustion and lack of enthusiasm for different places. The one with the smallest apathy eventually wins out and we look around at all the fat children throwing back test tubes of anti-freeze-like liquids and checking our watches wondering if leaving now means we've just wasted six quid on getting in.
Looking around Walkabout and watching the violent young men with too much gel and too much beer leer after the either painfully thin or beer belly sporting girls I spend most of the time wondering if I saw them at Wolverhampton Magistrates Court last week.
Perhaps for me, with a co-habitting partner, a mortgage and a personal loan on a car, the time has come to find an alternative source of Saturday entertainment.
Or maybe I should just chuck a couple of paracetamol down my neck and wash my jeans before we go and do it all over again.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Heath Ledger
What an absolute tragedy this is: http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5jpzdve6RF9k9My1ItZGj3eRprEEwD8UB6JT81
I have been desperate to see Ledger's portrayal of the Joker in the upcoming Batman Begins sequel The Dark Knight.
Just from the trailers there was something about the disfigured, twisted and irredeemably evil way that he was going to play the greatest comic book villain that gave me more chills than a night on Brokeback Mountain.
While it seems callous to say this so soon after hearing of his death, I hope that his final film will not be wasted. It looked like being his best work to date.
I have been desperate to see Ledger's portrayal of the Joker in the upcoming Batman Begins sequel The Dark Knight.
Just from the trailers there was something about the disfigured, twisted and irredeemably evil way that he was going to play the greatest comic book villain that gave me more chills than a night on Brokeback Mountain.
While it seems callous to say this so soon after hearing of his death, I hope that his final film will not be wasted. It looked like being his best work to date.
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