I raised my eyes to the
sky, which was grey and forbidding. And yet, as I lowered them again, I
could still see for many miles. For my vantage point was the courtyard of a
temple that sat atop a mountain. In the distance I could hear the ominous clanging
of a bell; a sound that vibrated through the mountain and thus vibrated through
me. The sound, to my senses, felt as far away as the furthest ocean, but deeper
than the roots of the lofty peaks that surrounded me.
In front of me there stood a tall priest who wore
elaborate, ceremonial robes. His bald head reflected the morbid skies, and in
his hand he held a mighty staff. “Ask your question,” he commanded me. “Ask of
me the thing that you have travelled so far to discover.”
I inhaled slowly, and asked the question. “Who
Watches the Watchers?”
In reply, the priest swung his staff around and
pointed towards another temple that also sat atop a mountain far away. “They
do!” he declared, “It is they who indeed Watch the Watchers!”
“And who Watches them?” I demanded to know.
“They do!” the priest answered me. As he spoke there
was another clap of thunder, and he moved his staff to point at another Temple
that was adjacent to the first. “They are
Watchers who watch the
Watchers Watching the Watchers!
“But perhaps you wish to see more?” he asked me,
“Then look at them!” he commanded, and a chime boomed out, making my teeth
chatter. He pointed at another temple far away which rested upon another
mountain top. “At that place live the
Watchers who observe the Watchers who watch the Watchers Watching the Watchers!
“But there is still more!” the priest proclaimed, and
pointed to yet another temple on yet another distant mountain top, as the wind
howled like a banshee with a megaphone. “For living in this place we will find
the Watchers who scrutinize the Watchers observing the Watchers who watch the
Watchers Watching the Watchers!
“And there is us,” the Priest concluded, “we who live
here, for we are the Watchers who have our eyes upon the Watchers scrutinizing
the Watchers who observe the Watchers Watching the Watchers that watch the
Watchers!”
And now, finally, I had come to the moment when I
would ask my main question. And so I drew myself up as best I could and offered
a challenge to the tall Holy Man who barred my path. “And who watches you?” I
said, my voice bordering on accusation.
There was a silence then. The weather and the gong
grew still. It was a silence that I felt in my very soul; it was a silence that
muted angels and demons, held the planets in their place and halted the
movements of the Galaxies.
And
then the priest pointed his staff at a new location.
“They do!” he revealed. And at his proclamation the
Universe came to life again, the gong gonged and the lightening thundered. He
pointed out another temple now, much nearer, the existence and sight of which I
had hitherto somehow not been aware. “For it is they,” he continued, “who
Witness the Watchers that have their eyes upon the Watchers scrutinizing the
Watchers who observe the Watchers Watching the Watchers that watch the
Watchers!”
The angels sang now, and the demons laughed. Worlds
span upon their axis, and the forces of nature compelled the atoms of reality
to obey. And the priest took a step towards me, his expression crafty. “Now I
expect you wish to know…” he gestured towards the temple that was last revealed
to me, “who watches them?”
The gong gonged, the thunder rolled, and a fork of
lightening split the heavens as though God wished to illuminate this moment and
witness it for Himself.
I scratched my chin and considered for a minute.
“Nah, I think I’ll leave it there,” I decided.
They stood there in silence for an endless age Their pact their compulsion, their promise a cage To stand in attendance, a vigil sublime Steadfast and unswerving ‘till the end of time Armour was their raiment, their weapon a sword On their lips was offered a silent prayer to the lord Their charge was a secret to protect at all cost And failure would mean all they held dear would be
lost And so they stood like two statues of stone No promise of rest, no place for a home Loyal and steadfast and quiet as the grave No trifle would distract these Sentinels brave Then one day it happened, the merrymakers came Boisterous and happy, their joy without shame The silence was shattered, but they little cared When saw them the Sentinels, they stopped dead and
stared They saw two dark figures which stood straight and tall Next to whom a giant would seem small Most would have been cowed by these gladiators of old But not the head merrymaker he shouted, bold “What’s this here friends? Here’s some new sport What about that quiet one, he looks a sort! What about the other one, all silent and glum Let’s stay here a while, and have us some fun!” And so it began, distraction was the game Would the Sentinels flinch or would they stay the same? The merrymakers searched for some kind of token That
would render the Sentinels’ vigilance broken Look! One yells out challenges and invokes his
gods! Look! One’s mouthing insults – he’s shouting the
odds! Look! One of them’s laughing to see such a farce! Look! One’s dropped his trousers – he’s waving his
arse! The party it threatened to last for all week Insults
and gestures and things thrown in cheek Yet
through all the chaos, the deafening noise These
mighty Sentinels not once lost their poise Silent as the void, immovable as granite No
force that had ever been born on this planet Could
test the resolve of these warriors true And
soon the merrymakers ran out of mischief to do But the leader of this party, whose name was Stan Had
altogether a much darker plan Quietly and deftly, away from the action He
drew his dread weapon, the Sword of Distraction This weapon was forged in the fires of Hell Upon
it was bestowed the most evil spell ‘Twas
there it was cursed as a Sentinel’s bane That
would bring them down screaming and dying in pain Stealing in quietly he brandished the sword Uttering
oaths to his Satanic Lord Stan
slashed at the guardians, drawing their blood Aiming
to finally finish them for good
And as the Sentinels staggered and collapsed
Before
any significant time had elapsed
They
heard a sound that would haunt them in the hereafter
The
sound of demonic triumphant laughter
Trapped here when still the world was young
Guarded
by both of the Sentinels as one
A
demon whom Hell called the foulest of all
Was
free to bring about humanity’s fall
Stan, who thought he could bargain with the beast
Stared
in surprise, the first life to be ceased
The
monster swallowed this foolish man whole
Then
greedily feasted on his mortal soul
And then the merrymakers’ laughter, like their dreams
Was
forgotten in the wake of their agonised screams
Fighting,
fleeing, pleading, all no good
And
the ground disappeared, awash with their blood
Soon all the land was an orgy of death
As
millions lay gutted and drawing their last breath
From
the entrails of children it constructed a nest
Its
helm was from bone with a skull as its crest
The beast fed on human life to sate its foul hunger
The
more people died, the more it grew stronger
‘Till
the last human’s flesh was shredded and unfurled
And
the demon prepared to devour the world
Yet even as the monster opened its huge jaws
Even
as Earth’s future seemed a hopeless cause
The
Planet found hope in its hour of strife
For
the Sentinels still clung to a slim spark of life
The Sentinels had not perished as Stan had supposed
While
they lived, the enemy of life they opposed
And
uttering their silent prayer to the Lord
They
reached for their scabbards and each drew a sword
The demon had grown to a monstrous size
Feeding
not only on life, but on lies
Two
weapons could stop it, forged in the world’s youth
The
Sentinel’s weapons, the great Swords of Truth
The demon ceased feeding, for something did rankle
A
pain and a coldness spreading from its ankle
‘Twas
there that the Truth Swords did pierce its skin
And
the demon stopped growing, so the shrinking could begin
And then something truly amazing occurred
Voices
that in history had never been heard
Rang
out to invoke on the demon a curse
The
demon’s voice had been fearful, but the Sentinels’ were worse
“Back, demon! Back to your cold, empty cage!
An
end to your mission of evil and rage!
Back
to the prison from whence you were sprung!
To
stay ‘till the end of the Universe is come!”
With a great howl of anger, then a scream of despair
The
demon diminished in a cold rush of air
To
be sucked back into its terrible cage
To
stay till the cosmos would die of old age
And so for the Earth, the ordeal was over
Its
animals had life; its forests were in clover
But
no human now lived, to stand, rise or fall
The folly of one man had ended them all
On a world now bereft of man, woman and nation
Stand two Silent Sentinels, guarding all of creation
Advice to passing beings, by all means look at them
But if you value existence don’t go and distract them!
The apartment was just as I remembered it. An expansive living room that looked out upon a lush green landscape. A desirable living space, and yet empty and neglected, as if its owner was a bachelor who was wrapped up in other things, aside from domestic bliss. But the cat was there, and she looked at me impatiently; affectionate and yet exasperated - maybe because of something I had or hadn't done? Perhaps she had a point. I still missed her.
There was a knock at the door. "Wait there," I told the cat and went to answer.
At the door there stood a tall man in a dark suit. He wore sunglasses and an expression of severity on his craggy features. "May I come in?" he asked me.
"I don't know," I replied nervously, "are you one of the Men in Black?"
"No. But you would, I'm sorry to say, consider me to be something worse," he said, "I am in fact from the Ministry of Creativity."
"The Ministry of what?!"
"Creativity," The Man repeated patiently, "May I come in?" he asked me again. Though still in a state of confusion I stepped back and opened the door wider; The Man in the black suit swept in carrying a brief case.
We took a seat at a large round, glass table in the middle of my living room. It was the kind of table I would have liked to have in my living room but never did. As I sat down, I saw that an object was lying on the table in front of me: it was a wristband that was made from brown, smooth, strung together beads. I remembered it had been given to me as a parting gift at a rock festival, but I had lost it long ago. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, and something occurred to me: "I'm dreaming."
"Yes you are", confirmed The Man from the ministry as he took the opposite seat to my own, "this is where we make our client calls. In dreams."
"And what is the purpose of this call?" I asked him.
In response The Man put the brief case that he had been carrying on the table in front of me. The two catches that served as the release mechanism sprang open, and from the case he passed me a document. "Here you are," he told me, "this is the next story that you are going to write."
"Oh right," I said as he handed me the article, "and why is it being delivered to me like this? I can't remember having any calls from the Ministry of Creativity before."
The agent regarded me expressionlessly through his dark glasses. "That's because this story will be the last story that you will ever write. There will be no more. Your creative licence has expired."
I gazed back at him blankly. "My creative licence? Has expired?!" I said in confusion.
The Man took this opportunity to explain. "Every living being is born with a certain consignment of creativity. You may use this creativity in different ways: writing stories, formulating theories, painting pictures, designing machines and so forth. But when its gone its gone I'm afraid. Also, in these times of austerity, we've had to make cuts to existing consignments. Therefore the remaining creativity in your consignment has been reallocated to a more high achieving recipient."
I looked at the file in front of me, feeling an ache within as I listened to these words, as if something was being torn from my soul. "No more stories?" I asked.
"I'm afraid not."
"What about poems?"
"No, none of those either. Or lyrics. Or music. Or jokes."
I scratched my head, trying to take in the enormity of what he was saying. "no more drawings?"
He had to think about this one for a moment. "Doodles should be OK," he decided, "but you'll have to stick to the tried and tested ones. Like the cubes and the aeroplanes you like to draw."
"What about random little tunes popping up inside my head?" I asked
"Sorry."
"And what about problem solving?"
"You'll have to get advice," answered The Man from the ministry, "That shouldn't trouble you too much - you have to get advice on plenty of stuff from day to day as it is. Now you'll just have to do it a bit more."
I sat there for a bit longer, still stunned and still struggling to comprehend. An empty life was stretching out in front of me. "Are you alright?" The Man from the ministry asked in a perfunctory tone.
"I... " it seemed difficult to articulate myself in this harsh unreality, in this dream that was not a dream. "But what about all the stories I will never write?" I managed to ask, "What if someone saw them and was inspired? Even one person? How... how do you know?..."
"The answer is we don't," the government representative admitted, "I mean, what if we make cuts to healthcare and someone dies because of it? We might have cut healthcare to fund the building of weapons, and then many people would die. That is the responsibility of government. And life is cruel."
I nodded mechanically, feeling crushed and resigned, and considered the document that had been presented to me. "Is it a good story?" I asked.
At this the The Man's expression softened somewhat. "I believe you will be pleased with the idea when writing it," he told me, "but in the future such things will be not be easy to judge, as you will find the story difficult to revisit; after all, it is your last one."
I nodded and looked down at the document again. "Here's where the story ends..." I mused.
"Hmm," said The Man, "that's a reference to a song isn't it? Very appropriate. That's what you should call it. You like doing that kind of thing."
I shrugged, but as I looked the words "Here's Where the Story Ends" formed on the cover of the document.
"Well, that's settled then," said The Man from the Ministry, "And now I must leave." He stood up.
I looked up at him, one last question lingering in my mind. "Is there a Ministry of Silly Walks?"
The only reply I got was an echoing beat, as of approaching thunder. The drumbeat became louder and louder, until it filled my mind, and I found myself becoming conscious. I opened my eyes and saw that I was surrounded by darkness. Beyond the windows of my room a car was driving down the street, its sound system booming out a rhythm so loud that any music that may have accompanied it was obscured. The beat became yet louder before eventually beginning to retreat, its thunderous emanations further distorted by the Doppler effect. I rose from my bed, crossing the room to the window.
I had been dreaming, but whatever I had experienced in my unconscious mind was now fading like the last rays of an Autumn sunset. But the picture of my cat by the window reminded me that she'd been there. I was glad of this, however I got the impression my nocturnal experience had not been a happy one.
Happiness, I reflected: in an existence of pain, grief and monotony, what was it but a string of moments scattered haphazardly across a lifetime?
Just imagine, I speculated further, if there was a drug that could collect together those moments and give you one intense high...
I opened the latest Ealing 38 Degrees meeting with the following words:
I’ve always been a strong
believer in environmental issues – protecting the earth and finding cleaner ways
of generating energy. In the past few
years I have become more and more aware of the struggle of the Palestinian
people for freedom and justice. And I
have become aware of how important local democracy is, and how local politics
affects people’s lives. All of these
issues have been brought sharply into focus by the new law that this government
wish to impose upon us. This is a rule
designed to prevent local authorities from making ethical choices when they
decide where to invest their money. This
means barring them from boycotting Israeli firms that operate in the West Bank
of Palestine, or weapons manufacturers, or corporations that they believe
operate in an unethical manner. With me
to discuss these matters further are Ben Jamal from the National Executive of
the Palestine Solidarity Campaign, Joel Benjamin of Community Reinvest and MoveYour Money, and Alex Goldhill of the Unite Community in Ealing.
Alex spoke first, and gave us a summary of some of the historical precedents that contributed to the juncture at which we have arrived. The battles between the Thatcher government and local authorities in the 1980s; the boycott movement that had risen to oppose Apartheid South Africa; and George Osborne's insincere efforts to persuade us that there would be a "Devolution Revolution". He also touched on the fact that spending cuts have savagely cut local government budgets - although Conservative run authorities have received more help from their government that councils run by other parties.
Destroying Revenues for Local Councils
Joel Benjamin was up next, and immediately gave us an eye opening statistic that less money is spent locally in the United Kingdom than in any other country in the West. The vast majority of funds spent locally are from central government. But things have become considerably worse over the last few years.
Cuts to council budgets from central government, and restrictions over the way that councils can seek loans to plug the resulting gaps in their balance sheets have lead to the rise of the "LOBO (Lender Option Borrower Option) Loan". It is this kind of loan that has put private banks in charge of local authority debt, rather than the more stable local government loans that councils have been deterred from taking out. These loans can appear to be much more reasonable at first, but after the initial fixed term ('teaser rate') has expired, the lender has the option to increase its Interest Rates, which puts the council in question at the mercy of private financial interests. This means, in practice, that local authorities such as Hackney are currently spending 80% of their council tax revenues on servicing their debt to banks such as RBS, HSBC and Barclays. There are some local authorities in Scotland whose debt repayments now stand at 100% of their council tax revenues.
And yet...
... despite this growing debt trap, and despite the centralization, and despite the broken devolution promises, local authorities remain rich reserves of spending and bastions of local democracy that are more accessible than their central government counterpart. And they can use their autonomy to pursue courses of action that may not chime with official government policy. And indeed why should they blindly follow policies they may not agree with? A council ward may be part of a Conservative constituency but may elect a Labour or a Liberal Democrat councilor - or a Green, or UKIP or maybe an independent. And so locally, within the limits of its influence, politics may work differently. That's localism; that's democracy. These are the principles that George Osborne and the Conservatives paid lip service to when they came to power.
What is BDS?
One of the ways that local democracy can practice its independence is through the peaceful tactic of Boycott, Divestment and Sanction. BDS for short. If an organization, or a corporation are providing services or manufacturing goods for a government that are repressive towards their own, or part of their own, or another country's population, then you do not avail yourself of their services or goods; and you withdraw any funds you may have invested in that organization. This "destroys a firm's cultural license to operate", and hopefully will change the behaviour of that organization or corporation, who may in turn find themselves forced to withdraw their services or investments from the country with the repressive government. And this in turn, hopefully, will change the behaviour of the repressive government. It's like a virtuous cycle.
Or sometimes it's just about the wish to be more virtuous. After all, can one sleep easily knowing that one's pension fund could be used to manufacture weapons that may target civilians? Would it not feel good to know that one's pension is not tied into the fumes of an oil refinery belching carbon into the atmosphere and warming it up? Or a fracking operation, poisoning the water and causing earthquakes?
And local governments in Britain have begun to use this BDS option. Leicester council have boycotted goods manufactured from the West Bank. Reading council have announced that they are divesting from fossil fuels. Apart from the ethical issues, this is common sense: everyone knows how the price of oil is currently crashing (though £14 billion in British public service pension money is sill tied into fossil fuels); and the government's own guidelines warn of the risks in investing in settlements that break international law.
But councils were never going to be allowed to take these kind of actions with impunity. Not in a country that has become, as a friend of mine has dubbed, The Prostitute State. A country where ministers mouth platitudes about protecting the environment while sitting on the boards of fracking companies. A country where inquiries into tax evasion are themselves headed by tax evaders. These monied interests looked upon the actions of recalcitrant local authorities, and they did not like what they saw.
A New Law to Target BDS
Ben Jamal, from the Palestinian Solidarity Campaign now addressed the meeting. He told us of new measures were announced in a press release on 7th October 2015 on the eve of the Conservative Party conference that month. By sheer coincidence Jeremy Corbyn, a known sympathiser to the cause of Palestinian liberation, had been elected leader of the Labour Party a few weeks before. Drafted by Greg Clark, Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government. It spoke of the "divisive" nature of BDS that posed a "risk" to local communities, and that "measures" were going to be introduced to "oppose" BDS. Matthew Hancock, Minister for the Cabinet Office, formerly introduced the measure during a trip to Israel. They were implemented without a vote in the House of Commons. One person who would have been very satisfied with this outcome is Gilad Erdan, who is Benjamin Netanyahu's no. 2 in the Israeli government, and has been tasked with coordinating the "Anti" BDS movement around the world.
The way these new measures work is by "second guessing". Say a council decides it no longer wants to invest in Hewlett Packard, which is known to be deeply involved in supplying the Israel Military in its blockade of Gaza and in the illegal occupation of the of the West Bank. This could also apply to a council that decides to divest from companies that export weapons to, say, Saudi Arabia. George Osborne could extrapolate that the true reason for divestment from this company is because of that company's actions in Israel, or that weapons manufacturer's intent to trade with the Saudis - and force the council to continue its investments.
What is being done to fight this new law?
Firstly, a debate was finally called in the House of Commons concerning the fait accompli that had been presented to them in the shape of this new law. The transcript for the debate can be read below:
I am glad to say that two MP's from my local area, Stephen Pound and particularly Andy Slaughter, stood strongly in opposition to the legislation. Ben also told us of how Newcastle Council are planning a legal challenge to the government to resist these changes.
See below for some ways you yourself can not only join the fight against this law, but also ways you can find out how much your council owes in LOBO loans, or how much money your council has invested in fossil fuels.
Will justice prevail, or will the government's pernicious actions continue to damage human rights and the environment? I cannot say, but the important thing is that we don't take this lying down.
"Every generation has to fight the same
battles for peace, justice and democracy. And there is no final victory
nor final defeat."
Villa have spent the last few years of circling the vortex of relegation, and it now appears that they have decided to engage full throttle and speed towards that black hole.
So what did go so terribly wrong? What happened to the "Bright Future" we were promised?
Despite pundits and experts who might sometimes make it appear otherwise there are some very simple football rules that you should follow in order to avoid making a complete cluster fuck of everything you do. The list featured in this blog is in NO WAY meant to be a comprehensive list of mistakes made by Randy Lerner and his assistants. For they are Legion.
Rule 1 Don't sell your best players and bring in inferior replacements.
No matter how much or how little you know about football, I would have thought that rule would be self evident. But we can get back to this one later.
Of course there are other rules that are perhaps more nuanced. Break any one of them and you might be in a bit of trouble. Break them all and you'll probably find yourself speeding towards demotion more quickly than you can say 19 games without a win.
To me, the real decline began in June 2011. Villa had briefly been in trouble the previous season, but had rallied and secured a top 10 position in the premier league with a strong finish. And then manager Gerard Houllier succumbed to his notorious dicky ticker and the search for his replacement was on.
But Who would this replacement be? David Moyes? Steve Mclaren? The more ambitious among the Villa fans named "The Special One", Jose Mourinho!
But Randy Lerner had someone different in mind, thanks to some great advice from rival Manchester United manager Alex Ferguson!
Rule 2 When you're choosing a new manager, hiring the manager who has just overseen the relegation of the neighbouring team is not the most obvious choice Rule 2a Especially when you have to pay that neighbouring team a high compensation fee for hiring this manager.
A short hop across the city
And so the Alex Mcleish crossed the short distance from arch rivals Birmingham City to join Aston Villa. And until the end of our days, Aston Villa fans will look at the breaking of rule 2 (and 2a), scratch our heads, look at one another in bewilderment, and ask "why"?
At the time, some of us scrabbled around like desperate debt ridden prospectors scratching for gold in a barren country, looking for some hidden reason that we MUST have missed in this inexplicable decision. Randy has a cunning plan, we thought frantically. He knows something that we don't. Yes, that's it!!!
But he didn't.
He really didn't.
He really really didn't.
The not quite so dark side of this utter shit storm was that in those heady days of 2012, the Aston Villa support had not yet been cowed into submission by relentlessly awful football and inevitable defeat following inevitable defeat. And so as another disaster unfolded on the pitch before us one spring evening, the Villa Park stadium echoed to the chants of "we want our Villa back", and demands for Alex Mcleish to be sacked. When you've lost the crowd like that there is only ever one outcome.
I have heard from many sources that Alex Mcleish is a decent guy and the kind of chap you could go for a beer with, so it is unfortunate things ended the way they did for him. But to my mind he was put into an impossible position with an ending that was virtually inevitable.
So was Lerner a learner now? Or did he now merely have the opportunity to make further mistakes?
Rule 3 You pay peanuts you get...
The next man appointed to the job of Aston Villa supremo was Paul Lambert, another dour Scotsman, but a far more popular appointment.
A popular appointment
Paul's predecessors, Martin O'Neill and to some extent the aforementioned Alex Mcleish, had been critisized for signing players on long contracts with big wages and little sell on value. So someone in the Lerner regime had the bright idea of doing the opposite - buying young, untried players from lower leagues in England and abroad for cheap fees, then converting them into stars and selling them on at massive profits. The "Moneyball" philosophy. Many of the current playing staff, now surplus to requirements, were unceremoniously banished to train with the reserves and the youth players, where they christened themselves "The Bomb Squad". And they continued to pick up their high wages.
The more cautious among the support raised alarm bells.
Shouldn't these young untried players have some experienced heads to lean upon?
If we're going to try and sell on the high earners, shouldn't they get the chance of some game time to "put themselves in the shop window" so to speak?
If you buy from the lower divisions, isn't there a chance that that's where you will end up?
These cries were unheeded.
Paul Lambert's reign as manager was not a complete disaster. Christian Benteke, his most expensive signing, is a great player. Fabian Delph, who had previously struggled with injuries and confidence, blossomed into the midfield general we all hoped he could be.
But it was mostly a disaster. The football style that Lambert bought in started off boldly, and was almost naive in its attacking intent. Gradually it became more guarded, and less organised. Eventually it was clueless and hopeless. Lambert's assistant coaches were sacked for bullying. The cheap "young and hungry players" began to succumb to failure (if you ever arrive to watch a football match and find out Aleksandar Tonev is playing, wear protective clothing. The safest place in the ground when he takes a shot is the goal).
And as Villa edged ever closer to the trapdoor, even Randy Lerner began to feel "like the Shunammite" (I'm not kidding, he said that). Yes, the time had come for Randy to sell up and move on.
Rule 4 When you are trying to get £200 million for an asset you're desperate to get rid of, try not to LOOK too desperate
To me, the announcement on the official website that Aston Villa were now up for sale was needless, and, well, a bit rubbish really. Usually when a professional football club is sold, the first you hear of it is when the new owners are negotiating the sale. Sometimes you don't hear of anything until the sale is complete. Certainly a lame announcement, accompanied by some kind of weird dear John letter is not the kind of thing that will get investors knocking down your door.
And so it has proved.
Season 2014/2015 dawned like a caress on the head with a brick, and by now Paul Lambert was a dejected, isolated figure on the touchline, watching helplessly as his team charged towards relegation like a runaway train full of lemmings speeding towards the edge of a cliff and attempting to reach 85MPH for a time travel experiment. For everyone's sake he was put out of his misery.
From an impressive list of one possible replacement, cheeky cockney barrow boy and ex Spurs chief Tim Sherwood was chosen. Sherwood was not known for his appreciation of the finer points of football strategy, hence his less than complimentary nickname, "Tactics Tim". But what he lacked in tactical acumen it was hoped that he would make up for with brash confidence and self belief that he could pass on to his his players. Confidence and self belief, which it must be said Mr Sherwood has in abundance.
Confident!
This was either going to be an inspired choice or a catastrophe. And, for a while it appeared to be the former! A rejuvenated Aston Villa clawed their way out of the dropzone with some dynamic performances, and they even got to the FA Cup Final, on the way knocking out bitter rivals West Bromwich Albion, giving me a trip to Wembley for the semi-finals where I enjoyed watching Villa triumph over Liverpool with goals from the aforementioned Fabian Delph and Christian Benteke.
Look Mom, I'm at Wembley!
Then, at a certain point (half time against West Ham on 9th May would be my rough estimate), the decision changed into a catastrophe, and Tim Sherwood managed to produce just one victory over the next five and a half months, including 6 straight defeats in his last 6 matches, and an embarrassingly one sided defeat in the FA Cup Final (ah well, at least I can remember the semis). It was time for Tim to hit the road.
It wasn't all Tim's fault it had to be said. Last Summer Villa broke the golden rule (rule number 1, told you we'd get back to it!) for the last time, and it was goodbye Mr Benteke (all the best and thanks for the goals which kept us up for 3 seasons) and Mr Delph (thanks for telling us you'd be at Villa for years to come before changing your mind 5 days later).
Now Villa's latest manager is Remi Garde. What do we know about Monseuir Garde? Used to manage French side Lyon, played for Arsenal in the 1990s, and talks a good game. Villa desperately needed someone to wake them up...
... But for all his effectiveness so far (ten games, no victories at the time of writing) we might as well be managed by Renee from Allo Allo (and at least Renee from Allo Allo could distract us from what was going on the pitch by showing us pictures of the Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies).
You stupid football team!
So here we are, 11 points from safety, 7 points from second bottom (Sunderland, who were the latest team to put Villa to the sword at the time of writing). Next season the lower divisions beckon, and for the Premier League obsessed media and the success driven glory hunters, we'll be another
fallen giant, following in the footsteps of Leeds United and Nottingham Forest, and disappearing from view.
Of course We've been down before, and we came back. If Mr Lerner managed to sell up and find us a very rich sugar daddy as a buyer that would help.
Keep the Faith.
Many of the gifs and pictures used in this blog were taken from a very amusing discussion thread in the forum Heroes and Villains.
This is a reply to a blog by this gentleman. I thought it was a splendid idea (if only for his excellent use of the word "thrice", which I also decided to repeat) so I set about thinking of some experiences that I thought were reasonably unique to myself. If you've had the same or similar to any one of these, I'll be checking dates and you can expect to hear from my solicitors in due course.
Only joking.
Or am I?
1. Been Run Over by a Bus - Thrice
The first couple of bus related traumas were of a lighter natures (my feet can't speak so their view on it is not taken into account). For the first I one was crossing a bus station and a bus went over my foot. Intensely painful for a moment then it went away.
A couple of years later I was heading out of town to a training course in a hurry. I stepped into the road to avoid a pavement full of people and my foot got it again.
The third incident was a little more serious. I was running down the road in the middle of town - ironically intending to catch a bus - I ran into the middle of the road, this time to avoid a fork lift truck that was being directed into my path - and I was hit full on from behind by a bus that was coming up behind me. Fortunately the bus was slowing to a halt, or I guess I might not be here typing this. Nevertheless I was still knocked into the air, and sailed forward several feet before crashing painfully to the floor.
I'll never forget the guy who was directing the fork lift truck, clutching his heart with a grimace as he looked down to see if I’d bought it. He needn't have worried too much though as I managed to get up, assure every one I was fine, including a frantic bus driver and a nearby policeman before shuffling off, still determined to get to work. Then the adrenaline wore off, the full extent of how much pain I was in became known to me, and I decided to have a long lie down.
2. Due to Misadventure, Ended up Buck Naked – Twice
So I go to the zoo with a group of my fellow kids (this was when I was about 7). I was fascinated by all of the animals we saw at the zoo but some of the other kids were bored and impatient. They'd only come for one thing: they wanted to see the monkeys. I wanted to see the monkeys too, of course, but what about the crocodiles, the lions and tigers and the lizards and the insects and the bears? Nope. None of these attractions cut any ice with these kids. They were here for the monkeys.
So we got to the monkeys (well, more of a baboon actually. My memory’s fuzzy but definitely more ape than monkey). See the monkey is agitated. The monkey is clearly not in the mood to be gawped at by a bunch of kids today. But what can the monkey do, it's in a cage and we're not.
Why are the kids running? Perhaps I should run too. Is the monkey throwing something at the kids? I wonder what it is.
Something hits the back of my neck.
I run.
Something hits me again. It is cold, wet and mushy, and it doesn’t smell good.
Can you guess what the monkey was throwing? It was something he'd produced himself.
Rhymes with species.
We returned to my local park where the group was based. The kids returned home giggling. I waited for my parents to pick me up, wrapped in a towel, and nothing else.
Took me a few weeks to live that episode down.
A few months actually.
Okay a few years.
Fast forward many years after this unfortunate incident - to the point where I like to think I’m passed that accidentally getting naked shit. In fact I’m doing alright - I've got myself a job and my own place, and tomorrow I’m going to a rock festival. So today I’m having a shower (a last chance to feel completely clean for a few days) in the flat that I recently moved into.
But what’s that? What's that sound? Is it someone on my doorstep? Is it a letter being delivered? I’ll go and investigate.
No need for a towel, I’m only going to my doorstep and I’ll soon step back inside.
So here I am on my doorstep.
The door, that I'm not really used to yet, swings shut behind me, with a click. And I remember it’s one of those doors that only opens from the inside.
So there I am. Outside, without a key, or clothes or a towel.
In fact I haven’t got anything at all, except my skin. And a feeling of utter stupidity, bewilderment and panic.
So what better time to introduce yourself to your new neighbour?
Who happens to be a lady?
The one consolation is it's very difficult to appear in any way threatening when you're standing on someone's doorstep trying to cover up your various bits, and my new neighbour, after a few moments of disorientation, took pity on me and allowed me to call a local locksmith so he could come over and break into my flat for me.
I would like to say this was the start of a beautiful friendship between me and my new neighbour, but a few months later she banged on my door in a rage over some loud music that was being played somewhere in our block of flats. She blamed me straight away for the noise, despite the fact it should have been patently obvious to her that no loud noises of such kind were coming from my apartment. In retaliation I was forced to allow my cat to attack her front door matt. Ah well.
That's enough getting naked capers for now. But we will return to the theme of locking myself out of my apartment!
3. Had an Unfortunate Experience With an Earwig – Twice*
Earwigs eh? What do you do with them? I like insects but earwigs do try my patience. If it's not their legendary ability to climb inside your ear and eat your brain while you're sleeping, it's the fact that they fly and they're ugly little armoured f*ckers. Oh yeah, and they seem to have a fetish. With me.
So I was sitting on the bus going to school. I feel a tap on the shoulder. A girl says to me "there's an earwig in your hair."
"Oh yeah, pull the other one," I snort and turn away. But the boy sitting next to the girl stood up with the fascinated expression of an entomologist who was looking at a creepy crawly through a microscope, and said "she's right! I can see it! You'd better hold still..."
I did hold very still while the boy rummaged through my locks, as a crowd of fascinated bystanders gathered (I had hair in those days. Memories...). Then out of the corner of my eye I saw an earwig spill onto my shoulder, and I screamed like a girl.
When it fell to the floor I petulantly demanded the creature's execution. The school kids who surrounded me happily complied, and the eerie wig was squished. I feel a bit guilty about that thinking back but at the time I was convinced that justice had been served. Perhaps the earwig world at that moment decided that an act of vengeance was called for, because for me with earwigs, worse was to come.
Fast forward to the following Summer (or the Summer after that, not sure now) and I was in my back garden, drinking a cool fizzy drink on a hot day. I was drinking from one of those novelty straws which I really liked at the time. I loved the way you could watch the liquid make its way through the complex patterns of loops as it made its way towards your thirsty mouth. But that day I was finishing off my drink, so had ceased to pay attention to what may be passing through that novelty straw.
As I looked out into my sun drenched back garden, and awaited the slipping sounds that accompany a straw that is hoovering the last remnants of liquid from the bottom of my glass, I felt something relatively large entering my mouth, that felt strange against my tongue. My first instinct was that it was something like sugar or maybe a piece of fruit that had got mixed up with the drink, and to simply swallow it.
But then I noticed other sensations. Was that some kind of hard shell that was sitting on my tongue?
Did the object in question… just move?
With a horrible sick feeling rise up in the pit of my stomach, I spat with all my might. And it landed on the table, in front of me, glistening with my own saliva.
A large earwig. A large, living earwig.
Screaming like a girl (again) I hit out at the insect using the glass I'd just been drinking from. But I only managed a glancing blow and was soon forced to duck as the earwig opened its wings and made its escape, having completed its revenge for the death of its curious fellow beetle type thing.
It could have been worse I suppose. I could have swallowed.
4. Ran a Marathon Carrying a Bandage
My joy at the prospect of taking part in my first London Marathon was tempered by the fact that I had what we in England call "a dodgy knee". I first noticed something was up when I felt something go in it as I was jumping over a fence one day (as you do), and as my marathon training intensified, and the big day got closer, so the pain in my knee area only increased.
But I was determined not to drop out of the marathon (as I had done the year before with a dodgy ankle). So what were my options? A knee support to protect my sensitive area!
And so, two days before the marathon, as I wandered round the London marathon exhibition, I chanced upon a purveyor of knee support equipment - and I purchased his most potent looking supporter of knees. If only I'd read up more on taking part in marathons. Particularly the bit where they say don't try any new or unfamiliar equipment on the day.
And yet as I lined up for the start my spirits were high. "Let's do this" I declared, as the long run got under way and I set off, admiring my knee that was strapped up like Tutankhamun as I did so.
The crowds were cheering. The sun was in the sky. The swarm of runners that surrounded me were inspired.
And I was in agony.
For it looked like my knee support didn't want to give my knee much support. Quite the opposite in fact.
I ran; I slowed to a jog; I slowed further to a walk; then I limped. But it was no good: the pain did not recede. Finally I admitted defeat and removed my knee support, and began to carry it with me as I limped along. And the weather, as if in response, changed dramatically. It started to rain. And I continued to shuffle along in misery as Spiderman, that guy that always takes part in marathons dressed up as a large rhinoceros and various other runners dressed as novelty characters from film, screen and book overtook me.
I had reached my lowest point, and the best thing to do seemed to be to drop out and hope my knee would hold up better another day.
And yet I didn't give up. I kept on going. At mile 7 or 8 I realised I needed the toilet. But one look at the queues that stretched from various lavatories dotted throughout the course persuaded me that attempting to spend a penny was a pointless endeavour.
But even then I didn't give up. In fact, I gained speed, carrying my knee support as I caught up to Spiderman and overtook him back. Then I caught the guy that was dressed up as a rhino. I even overtook the Maasai Warriors as they jogged along carrying their spears and shields. At mile 23 I was greeted by the sound of the classic Elton John hit, "I'm still standing". Man, it felt so good to hear that song! And it was so perfect for that moment!
And finally, with the river Thames and the Houses of Parliament to my left, and a cheering throng to my right, I crossed the finish line! My knee was throbbing, my nipples were covered in blood, but I was one happy guy!
5. Knocked on a Stranger's Door in a Rough Area to Ask for a Cigarette
As we learned from Bill's Blog (No. 5), acting on an impulse can be a great way to get what you want or get the best out of a particular moment. I know because I have been that impulsive person.
It comes from my somewhat unhealthy desire to have a cigarette when I'm extremely drunk. One night I was in Birmingham city centre on a night out, and I got extremely drunk. When it came time to stagger home, I decided buses, taxis and trains were for wimps, and that it was a great idea to talk the 6 or 7 miles back to my parents’ house (where I was staying for the weekend) through some of the roughest areas of the city.
Looking back that wasn't too healthy a thing to do either.
Anyway I was doing the one unhealthy thing when the desire to do the other unhealthy thing struck.
But what could I do? There were no shops nearby (that I could see), I didn't have directions to find any shops and there wasn't a soul in sight. So I decided to go up to the nearest house and knock on the door.
"Have you got a cigarette I could borrow mate?" I asked the very tall, heavily built and startled Jamaican guy who answered the door.
"Uh... yeah", he replied, too surprised to do anything else. He passed me the ciggy and as I was using his lighter he asked "did you just knock on this door just as ask for a cigarette?"
I told him I had, and after a pause he saw the funny side. Good job too really.
6. Nearly Burned Down Your House and Successfully Blamed the Incident on Your Sister
When I was a lad, I went through a short pyromaniac phase (as you do) and one day I'm feeding bits of newspaper into the gas fire in our living room in order to watch them burn. I graduate on to bigger bits of paper; then bigger. At length I'm feeding double spreads through the safety grill and then watching in satisfaction as the papers ignite and are engulfed in flames before being reduced to a few black, charred remains.
Then there's an accident.
I let one double spread ignite a little too close to the rest of the newspaper, which also catches fire. I panic and throw sheets of paper round the room – that are all on fire. The next thing I know I’m surrounded by newspaper double spreads that are all burning noisily and angrily.
And I realise I’m about to burn my house down.
All the while my little sister watches on, passively.
Fortunately I have the presence of mind to grab a large cushion and run round the room, battering down the flames as I go. Within short order the crisis has passed. My mother, however, disturbed by the noise, enters into the room and is amazed to find me exhausted, cushion in hand, surrounded by large piles of ashes which cover the room. "What on Earth..."
Again I think on my feet. "Vanessa!" I exclaim towards my startled little sister, "What are you doing?!"
And so my sister gets the blame. Fortunately she’s so young there is no real punishment meted out, so no harm done to anyone (ahem)!
However if any relatives are reading with any memory of this incident - I confess.
7. Had John F Kennedy Airport Chasing Round on Your Behalf for No Good Reason
So I'm waiting to fly black to Blighty from New York after failing to run the New York City Marathon due to contracting Swine flu. I have a few drinks to drown my sorrows and voila! Discover my debit card has disappeared from my pocket. Now I must have left it at that bar I had drinks at... the one on the other side of the airport.
Cue panicked drunken complaining at the help desk, coupled with demands to be taken to the place where I dropped my debit card (I was at the departure lounge by now).
The lady at the departure desk was very nice and called out a minibus to take me over to where I'd dropped my card.
I waited. Impatiently. All the while the lady at the desk quietly gets on with her work (work that probably has nothing to do with MY predicament). How could she be so selfish??
"Where's that bus! There isn't much time!" I drawled.
"It's coming sir," she assured me (though I was not reassured at all). But not long after (though far too long for me in my drunken panic) the minibus arrives.
Soon we were cruising over the tarmac of the airport, and I was enjoying the view of the aircraft that it afforded (though I was still panicking at the same time). "You were at the Irish bar you say?" asked the driver.
"Yes! Yes! You must hurry!" I continued to urge, as I reached into a corner of my trouser pocket that I hadn't felt for a while…
... and discovered my debit card.
It would have been interesting to hear the driver's report afterwards.
"Suddenly the English guy seemed to calm down quite a lot. Maybe he lost his beer buzz, I don't know."
When we got to the Irish bar I told them it was just where I thought I'd left it.
Fancy that. Heh.
8. Star Gazed With a Fox
It was a warm, mid-July evening, and as a very dark night fell, I strolled over to the park just over the road from where I lived at the time. A beautiful silence was all around me as I lay on my back in the soft grass and gazed at the sky, as, in the blackness above, pinpoints of light twinkled down at me across distances beyond imagining. I was there to watch a meteor shower that was due to occur that evening, and I had come to see if I could spot any of the cosmic rocks as they burned briefly in the atmosphere; a last moment of glory as their long journey through the stellar night finally came to a fiery end.
How to spot a meteor: you concentrate on part of the sky - preferably as clear as possible. Then you let your mind wander as you focus on this patch of the firmament. Eventually you should start to notice them. They burn brightly, just for a second. Like a stellar firework display, created by the Universe itself. If you're watching the right meteor shower you may even see one every few seconds - and then you would count yourself lucky, as they can be a magnificent sight.
Anyway, I lay there very still for a very long time, as it was a warm night, and gazing at the sky can have a very calming effect. I thought about comets, and meteors, and the Universe, and life and everything. As you do. I enjoyed the stillness of the moment.
Eventually I looked up.
There was a fox sitting next to me.
I looked at the fox, startled, because there was a fox.
The fox looked back at me, startled, because I was looking at it startled.
I could kind of sense that it didn't get many humans lying in the middle of its park, so I guess it was curious.
For a moment I was completely at a loss on how to proceed. I knew instinctively that the next thing I did would probably cause the fox to run away, and the moment would be lost. I chose to speak, trying to adopt a reassuring tone. "I'm just watching the shooting stars..."
No good. It bolted.
I mean you no harm! Never mind.
9. Spent the Night Sleeping On a Park Bench Outside Your Flat Dressed for Jogging Because You locked Yourself Out
As told earlier (No. 2), I'm not bad at locking myself out of my flat. It's an unenviable skill but someone has to have it. And so one summer evening I did it again. This time, I did have clothes - but not many. What I mean by that is I'd managed to lock myself out when I'd gone for a run, so all I had on was a t shirt and shorts.
The time around the end of my run (7.30) and the time when it started getting really late (22.30) I spent walking/jogging between my flat the my landlord's house. I must have made the trip about 8 times (on top of the six mile run I'd done early in the evening, so I wasn't short of exercise that day). My landlord had already assisted me with this problem, once or twice, but this time he wasn't in, and, as the evening got later, and the temperature dropped, I realised I was on my own.
The only thing I could do was find a bench over in the park where I met the fox (Mr Fox was nowhere in sight - mind you I probably didn't smell too good) and try and get some sleep as best I could.
Pub closing time came and went, and lots of confused students pointed and laughed at me as I lay shivering.
And lo! A security guard took interest (for they were digging up pipes in the park for some reason or other, and I guess they needed to keep the students away). "What are you doing?" he asked me.
"I am sleeping on this park bench, for I have locked myself out," I replied.
"Oh."
"Why are you dressed in t-shirt and shorts?" he asked me.
"I was jogging when I did it," I replied.
"Oh."
Eventually he lent me a fleece, which was handy because it had got very cold by this time. In fact it got so cold I had to abandon my park bench start walking laps of the park, through the night and into the grey dawn, because I couldn't keep still. The bright side of this it did mean I was on the doorstep of the Letting agents when they opened up first thing the next morning. How I must have looked to them by the time I couldn't say, but I got the key, let myself in and washed myself up just in time for work! Hurrah!
Okay maybe I was in a bit late that day.
10. Been chased Through a Railway Station By a Mad Lady Who Wants You to be Bombed
So I was due at a meeting that I had to get to by train, and as the whistle blew, and the train set off, I realised I was going in the wrong direction. Don't you just hate it when that happens?
The first place I could get off my train and then catch one going in the other direction was the picturesque town of Cheltenham Spa, with it's leafy suburbs, its green hills, and its madwoman who stood by the entrance to the station, proselytising about the coming apocalypse.
And didn't she look like a mad lady, with her wild hair, worn grey overcoat, wild voice and wild eyes, as she stood on the corner, loudly heralding the end of the world, and telling everyone within hearing distance that their destiny was to perish in the resulting bloody carnage.
At this point I should remind everyone of the golden rule: the best way to deal with a crazy person is not to attract the crazy person's attention. So what did I do?
"Thanks for telling me!" I said in a bright but offhand manner as I passed her. This, of course was all the mad lady needed. Like a hapless fish, I had been caught on her ranting hook of crazed rhetoric, and what left my mouth as "Thanks for telling me." reached her ears as "I have a deep desire to be endlessly harangued and I challenge you to do so."
"You," screeched mad lady as she latched on to me, "you're going to die!"
"You're a ray of sunshine," I said with awkward false cheer as I speeded up my walking exponentially. But the lady was not going to be put off by my wit or my accelerated gait. "You're going to die!" she yelled as she walked next to me, "You're going to be bombed!"
At this point I weighed up my options and decided to make a run for it. The passers-by were then treated to the spectacle of me sprinting across Cheltenham Spa Station forecourt with a crazy lady in hot pursuit, shouting imprecations of doom as she ran after me.
I guess looking back it might have been wiser to just stand there and let her have her say, and after a bit she would probably have run out of curses and left me alone. But maybe at the back of my mind I was thinking "I wouldn't even be in this position if I'd caught a train going in the right sodding direction."
Anyway, I saw a small newsagents coming up and thought maybe the crazy lady might hesitate to follow me in there. So I ducked in the little shop and my hopes were realised. Crazy lady halted, uncertain of what to do next, and appeared to settle on the decision to wait until I emerged from the shop.
What followed after that was a tense stand-off, as Crazy lady waited, and I stood inside the shop perusing the celebrity tittle tattle, looking up occasionally to check whether she was still there. After a while she got bored and wandered away. Victory was mine!
I even caught the last five minutes of the meeting I was meant to be going to. result!
