Devastation and speculation

So, this weekend brought another sad suicide. There have been a few of late, both publically and those entirely unknown outside of those affected.

And so people turn to Facebook and Twitter to voice their heartfelt emotions. Only it doesn't seem very heartfelt. How much thought, care and effort does it take to bash out a quick RIP in 140 characters.

One of the things that tends to annoy me almost as much as the impersonal nature; is the way that people do it as though they are breaking news. I know I have already had a moan about people thinking they are the news and the most reliable source of information.

A lot of people use Facebook and Twitter rather flippantly with a basic disregard for any responsibility or even any basis of fact. It becomes too easy to retweet, adding fuel to the flame of what may just be a nonsense. It has happened a number of times in the past where stories have escalated beyond control with falsities taking the place of facts. I think somewhere before I have ranted about the Facebook campaign to change your profile picture to a cartoon character on behalf of the NSPCC which in fact the NSPCC had nothing whatsoever to do with and which then spiralled further into speculation and just plain random stabs in the dark that the campaign was one created by a paedohphile which spread round like wildfire apparently just from one random comment that "It sounds like something a paedophile would do".

But those that initially jumped on the bandwagon were very quick to jump on to another without any proof that either wagon had wheels on which to run. And it is this irresponsibility that annoys me.

With the suicide over the weekend the internet has already gone wild with speculation. The media - for once - seems to be exercising either a degree of caution or respect; though this is probably more due to the scrutiny of the operation being under the spotlight of the Leveson Inquiry at the moment than out of any real moral cause.

Within hours of the initial reports one of my acquaintences on Facebook had posted about how this should draw attention to depression despite there being no suggestion whatsoever that depression was a factor in the case.

There could have been any number of reasons. The individual was well known and therefore could have been concerned about a story that was going to break either directly or close to home; maybe there had recently been a terminal diagnosis; possibly there was some logic to say "go out at the top of your game". And even if it was depression or some other pressing concern, there could be hundreds of reasons either independently or collectively contributing to the decision, whether reasonable or remarkable. And yet people have taken it upon themselves to start assigning an assumption simply to add to the salacious gossip.

It is speculation, but mostly it is curiousity. People are surprised by the suddeness. Let's face it, in the vast majority of speculators this is not a natural part of the grieving process. Regardless of how well respected the individual was, so many of the commentators had no or very little personal connection that they are not grieving. They are simply shocked and saddened. Now, this is not to say that people can't be saddened by the death of someone they didn't know; but to eulogise and express your devastation on your Facebook is taking the level to an extreme. And it comes across as unintentionally disingenuous. A measure of reason (and I know I had a go about this previous post) adds not just the necessary respect but the resposibility acknowledgement too. People who never met the individual are coming out with endless tributes, hyperbole and platitudes.

What it does do is muddy the waters around it. If someone starts with a too-involved tribute, too-personal or too-detailed it attaches more weight to their tribute. Maybe they knew something that other people didn't, had insider information; maybe their thoughts are therefore that more credible. And that is what powers the rumourmill. What may have been a rather flippant and ill-thought but genuinely intended remark spirals out of proportion and somehow crazily gets converted from opinion and speculation into fact. And all this before the coroner's inquest has even been opened.

I understand one aspect of what it is like to be suicidal, I have had my own, very personal, very individual circumstances; but there is no way that I would transpose those onto anybody else's cirucmstances and assume that they are/have been going through exactly the same feelings as I am. To do so would be disrepectful in the extreme.

So please, present the obituary, tell us the historical facts and remember the individual; but do so with an absolute responsibility and do not add confusion with opinion or speculation. Afterall this is one of the few occasions when the individual has not chance to reply, obtain a correction or rectify and misstatement.

Giving up on giving up

I have the day off work today to be incredibly cultural. I am intending on visiting four art galleries. I am hoping to get to the new Anish Kapoor exhibition at Nottingham Castle; then over to the Lowry at the Lakeside, and finally for the daytime pop up to One Thoresby Street to see what is going on in the photographer's gallery there.

Then in the evening I am off to see one of my favourite new local bands Swimming at Nottingham Contemporary. That should be amazing.

But, most importantly, I shall be drinking.

This was always the end date I had in mind from the start of NOvember. As well as the band playing, it is the last Friday of the month. So this was the target day.

And I am pleased to say I have been successful! Despite the idea that the guidelines where not stringent rules I have still stuck by them and not drunk a drop of alcohol since 31 October 2011. And it isn't for lack of booze: I currently have 204 cans of lager; 12 bottles of white wine; 9 bottles of beer and 3 litres of Baileys at home, along with a couple of festering bottles of home-made pear cider. That's around 600 units of alcohol kicking around just waiting for me.

Nor is it through lack of pursuasion. I have be pestered by friends to go out drinking. And when I have explained my reasoning behind it, rather than accept my decision they have stepped-up their berrating to try the harder to encourage me to break my bar. Thanks guys!

Nor is it through lack of opportunity - I have continued to go out. Not much at weekends in all fairness, though there has been a bit of a drop off in the run up to Christmas there anyway (something which identified NOvember as a sensible candidate in the original post). But during the week I have been out on a couple of occasions on almost every week to the pub or a restaurant and still resisted the urge to have a tipple.

And nor was it through ease. I did find it difficult. Most of all I found it plain boring. There were a number of occasions where I had to talk myself round. For example this Saturday I was walking home from my brother's and it would have been lovely to have gotten in and had a beer rather than the cherryade which I ended up with. I kept saying to myself "they are only guidelines"; "you've done well already" and even "no-one else need know". But I convinced myself otherwise on two grounds - firstly I was so close to completing my challenge I would have been so disappointed in myself to have failed; and secondly if I was to have started drinking I should have done so with the takeaway at 6pm rather than on getting home at 9:30pm.I was even successful on the difficult days (not just the Fridays) when the train ran late and I had nothing to do but kick around the station. Previously I would have popped to the local shop and bought a couple of beers, but I persevered. And even last night. Again, I kept telling myself "You've already done so well, it's just one day shorter" but I still didn't drink.

So, presumably I feel fantastic? The break has done me the world of good? I have so much energy I am bouncing of the walls and my healthy glowing skin means that I don't even leave a mark?

No. When I saw my mother at the weekend she said I looked healthy. But then she would say that. She's been encouraging me to at least cut down on drink for months. It didn't stop her offering me drinks at the start though.

I had hoped to feel a difference I have to say. It sounds perverse, I know - that I should want to feel better and therefore confirm that my previous alcohol intake had been excessive. But I didn't see it as that. I wanted to find an answer. You see I sleep appallingly at the best of times, so I had hoped that cutting out alcohol for a sustained period of time would allow me to establish a 'normal' sleep routine, and actually sleep through the night. But no. And I didn't feel any more energetic either. In fact I caught a bug, despite my immune not being hampered by booze.

Nor has it done anything for my skin. I don't suffer hugely from bad skin, and (ignoring the booze) usually have a healthy diet so don't suffer with spots or outbreaks too badly. But they haven't stopped whilst I've been off the booze - the skin has been the same, in fact my usual winter deterioration has started. The skin on my knuckels decides to shed itself around now, unfortunately before the underlying skin has established itself making it look as though I have gone nine rounds with a brick wall. Not good for a professional. And the ruddiness I get to my cheeks occasionally has persisted. It's not a permanent red-face, but it seems to suggest I am over-heating. And not as a result of the booze, apparently.

My gut doesn't suddenly feel full of good health either, but then again I don't think there was anything wrong with that aside from normal digestive actions. And they have continued producing wind a-gusto so that hasn't settled either.

And my memory is no better. I had thought that my brain deterioration may have been linked to the booze consumed. It still may in all fairness, and cutting the booze out may reduce the amount of damage occurring, but may not necessarily repair any past damage. So I will continue to forget vitally important words and even the most simple of spellings. I have since put at least two different items in 'safe places' and forgotten where those safe places are; and I am constantly checking the door to see if I have locked it.. I actually think my memory is better when I am drinking

But am I glad I did it? Yes. Definitely. Firstly it did give me a much needed break. But mostly it showed my that I could do it.

Histrionic hyperbole

Some people really do themselves a disservice.

Obviously the media has an obsession with hyperbole, rhetoric, histrionics, exaggerations and outrageous comment, but what some don't realise is that it can actually work to devalue their comments.

For example the government recently published consultation on an 80 miles-per-hour speed limit on the motorway. Brake - the safety charity - were up in arms.

Read their statement. It uses ridiculous talk. Count the exaggerated emphases:
"Selfish"
"Bereaved"
"Horrendous pile-up"
"Carnage"

I particularly like the last one if only because of the pun.

But it gets better - in another quote the charity says that the proposal is "desperately inhumane". I have to say this is entirely disregarding the context of the story:

1. it is a proposal out for consultation. It is not a definite.
2. it is an increase from 70mph to 80mph. That is all. Just 10 miles an hour. Which is - according to the DfT's own figures - already broken by almost half of the motorway users already. And on sections of the road with the highest specifications of safety equipment in place.

Splattering the charity's press release with such ridiculous claims only serves to discredit the charity and undermine any reasonable, moderate objection. They are clearly taking things out of context, they're off their nut. They can't be trusted. Such an overreaction is not just unwarranted but practically perverse and therefore that opinion can instantly be dismissed as crack-pot. They are unstable radicals who will shake the dictionary to extract the most contetious words they can find for the sake of a soundbite which ends up sounding like the snappings of a rabid dog.

And it isn't just safety charities either. The proposal for HS2, the high-speed rail link between London-Birmingham-Manchester and between London-Birmingham-the East Midlands-Scotland went out to consultation and the Commons Transport Committee broadly backed the proposal, saying there was a good cause for the construction, but with a few minor caveats.

HIGH-SPEED RAIL LINK 'IN TATTERS' SAYS OPPOSITION.

Have they read the same story?

Apparently the "report has raised around the fatal flaws in HS2's business case". This isn't just putting words in the mouth of the committee that they never said, this isn't just propaganda and rhetoric, this is an actual falsity.

No, by all means have an opinion. In fact, DO have an opinion, hold your position, make it known. But coming out with such ridiculous statements and comments as that denegrates what may well have been a properly reasoned, moderate and sensible argument or opinion held by a majority (or at lease a substantial minority) into incoherent ramblings, deranged outbursts and unacceptable nonsense that is just plain embarrassing.

I know there is an obligation from the media to obtain both sides of the story, to challenge and seek contrasting opinions; but I can't quite work out whether the journalist has struggled to find anyone with a reasoned response; selected or edited the comment for maximum effect; or alternatively has their own private agenda where they seek to discredit one side of the argument as logically unthinkable lunacy.

Or at least that's my opinion on the matter.

Take one tablet three times daily

On my Facebook feed today I havehad the third comment in about a week which goes something along the lines of:

I'm thinking of getting an iPad/tablet computer. I don't need one and cannot really justify the expense but I WANT ONE.

And I can't quite get it.

Way way back, around three years ago now, I started commuting considerably substantially by train. Before I had travelled mostly by car, but occasionally by train - a couple of times a month or so. Then my car got broken into and written off by the insurers as 'beyond economic repair' so I went to travelling by train more frequently, but still for journeys of only around twenty minutes or so. But then three years ago my job changed and I ended up on the train for an hour each way. So two hours a day in total.

Of itself that isn't a bind. Were I not on the train I would be spending the same two hours a day in the car; getting the train forces me to do some form of exercise at either end; and I can do stuff on the train that I wouldn't be able to do in the car like read or sleep. People tend to get a little miffed if you sleep in the car if you're the driver I found.

But this meant that I now had two hours a day of time to fill. Reading was all well and good for a while... and I always had my little MP3 player to give me some tunes; but even then the restriction to about 400 songs (at the time that was good) meant that the same songs came round pretty quickly.

So, I looked at alternative entertainment and was immediately drawn to portable computing. The alternatives were either a portable DVD player, which would mean I would have to buy DVDs; or a portable MP4 player. Why spend all that money on an MP4 player which does the same as the MP3 player, just with video, when for pretty much the same price I could have a mobile computing device which gave me MP3 and MP4 capability, as well as word processing; picture viewing and adjustment; and at home would give me the freedom of another device to browse the internet on whilst watching tv. It was a no-brainer.

So I did some browsing around. At that stage the iPad hadn't been released, but there were tablet computers just coming out on the market. They intrigued me. They actually fascinated me. They were new and they were novelty. Every man and his dog on the train seemed to have a laptop; but these didn't even have a 'top'. I wouldn't be following the sheep, I would be standing out!

But then I looked at it and considered it properly. Yes there were a few minor technicalities - the tablets were slightly lower spec: less memory, slower processors and considerably less storage. Whilst I could get a chunky laptop with up to 500GB of harddrive space (again, this was good at the time), these tablets could only manage around 32GB of solid state memory.

But it would be shiny...

Aside from the 'technicalities' there were more fundamental flaws. One of the reasons for buying a portable computing device over the MP4 player was that I could do things other than just music and video on the train. Tablet devices didn't seem to allow me to do that. They had the additional functionality of connecting to the web...but only when I was at home with wireless broadband. They probably had a wordprocessing application, but it was very limited in what it could do, and with only the screen and no keyboard it wouldn't be suitable for anything other than just quick bits - certainly not enough to do anything substantial on. So essentially it was just a bigger media player.

And that brought me on to a couple of other points. Tablets are reasonably sized. They certainly don't fit in your pocket. So I would need a bag to carry it around in at any event. So if I needed that, why didn't I just go for a device with the functionality of a keyboard? In fact, this would provide me with an even greater benefit than just the keyboard - they ability to angle the screen for the optimum viewing angle. My phone can provide media in my pocket if I need something that small. So why would I want something as big as a tablet which I can't put in my pocket and can't make calls on [phone] but also don't have full functionality of a keyboard and wordprocessor [laptop]? And that's before remembering that you have to peer through finger smudges from the touchscreen to watch whatever you are trying to watch.

So, I bought a netbook - basically a laptop without a disc drive to make it much smaller and lighter. I hardly ever use a disc drive anyway so it is no loss, and using one on the move is just asking for trouble.

And I have never looked back. An tablet has less functionality and certainly less portability than my phone; and almost no functionality compared to my netbook. I do have to wonder why people get them.

And I have asked. I asked a few of my friends what they do with their tablet that they don't do with their home computer or phone. They struggle. They use it purely to justify having bought it, but cannot give any specific circumstances where it is the only device they could have used. It purely comes down to it being a bit smaller, a bit lighter or a bit quicker to start up. It basically comes down to "it's just there. It's on. I can grab it." The laptop takes a little longer to start up; the laptop is a little heavier. My netbook is the best of all worlds.

I wonder what will happen in a few years when the fad has passed?

It's not so black and white after all...

So, I've been intending to do a post about racism for a long, long time, only now it's flared up in the news and whatnot.

Obviously there has been the Blatter incident where he somehow seems to think that inherent racism is perfectly acceptable so long as you apologise afterwards. Quite how he has been an authority figure within football for so long has baffled me since his abject (and in many ways incoherent) rejection of technology in football, but he has now gone from plain farce to purely offensive and willfully ignorant. If there are people making racism comments and monkey sounds, then of course there is still racism in football.

Then there is a much more local story of the pillock who has objected to the Union flag being flown in his village on the basis that the national flag is a racist emblem. He says that he has received racist hate-mail since then entirely vindicating his view. No. What he has done is shown just how truly ignorant he is, and if he has received any hate-mail then it is probably directed at him because he is ignorant and himself racist against the nation he should be calling home; rather than being racist hate-mail of itself. But then he probably can't tell the difference because he certainly cannot tell the difference between national pride and offensive racism. I seriously question whether the chap has actually received any hate-mail as he seems to be a chap who just want to make a noise for the purposes of making a noise and having people look at him than because he actually has any considered, reasoned argument to put forward.

But let me just make absolutely plain: hate-mail cannot be justified in any circumastances. Any threat immediately invalidates any argument the writer was trying to get across; and any attempt to intimidate anyone with threats is not just stupid, it is plain inhuman.

Now, let me stake out my corner...

I am a nationalist. I am fiercely proud of this country and everything about it. I am white from a middle-class(ish) family in the heart of the country. Nationalism has been given a bad name though. True nationalism - my nationalim - is purely about a love for a country. It has nothing to do with hate.

AndI am a true nationalist - a patriot - not a racist. I don't have a racist bone in my body. I honestly and truly believe that everyone starts off as equal, and the racists are the people who manage to dimish any opinion I have of them by showing their ignorance, stupidity and short-sightedness.

How is it even possible to justify racism? I just simply do not understand it. I cannot see any logical step that takes someone from thinking "that is a black person" to "they are therefore ethically or socially lower than me". It isn't presumptious; it isn't stereotyping; it is illogical and it is wrong.

"They come over here, taking our jobs" don't they? Maybe if the imbecile making the comment actually got off their arse and started applying for jobs rather than stuffing their greasified job-seekers allowance in their gobs whilst watching trash tv, they would actually realise that there are jobs out there. Many jobs. Just because it isn't a job testing computer games or reviewing tv programmes and getting paid £100,000 for it, doesn't mean there aren't any jobs or that they have all been taken by immigrants.

"They keep themselves to themselves, in a ghetto"; "They have no respect for their community / for this country". [to the people making those comments:] And I suppose you are demonstating considerably more respect for the community by segretating and not integrating sections of it which - in your own supremist mind - you have determined are not worthy of being called part of the community? I think what you will actually find is that they have just as strong a sense of community as anyone else. But you wouldn't know because you haven't asked them, or if you did you didn't listen to or tolerate the response. Instead you went off destroying the community, being a divisive, inflammatory figure, causing trouble for the sake of it with for no real reason. If you were to take a moment and find out you would realise that they actually probably made a substantially greater effort to integrate and be accepted than you. They probably know more people around the neighbourhood. They are actually desperate to fit in and be accepted. It is no easy thing coming over to this country to start a new life, but they were so desperate to be a part of Britain, to be here, that they have taken that step. And yes, the Indian community (for example) may often seem to associate amongst themselves or whatever, but they do not do so on an exclusionary basis. It's just the easiest way. Small steps into the freezing and scary cold water rather than a huge leap in cause waves, lots of mess and potentially lethal hyperthermia.

Let us not forget, it is the fantasticness of this country that makes them want to be here. Britain has always been a friendly, accommodating place. People have always wanted to live here with us. People talk of the Norman Invasion, but it really wasn't an invasion. William the Conqueror bent over backwards to learn English over his native French and to adopt British culture and traditions: cultures and traditions which have endure to this day and which are under no threat. He certainly did not impose 'the French way' and would have faced a rebellion had he tried. But from way before then and all the way since then the British nature has been to embrace people who want to be here, or even to encourage people to come over here - we have often spread our net wide and far to encourage people to come over when we have needed them. The racists who rant off probably love nothing more than going for a good curry at the weekend and nowhere else in the world will the Anglicised chicken tikka masala sit happily alongside a traditional roast dinner as the nation's favourite. The British nature is that we welcome people, and we learn from them. And change is to encourage diversity and innovation rather than to stiffle nationality. Afterall, we have long been at the forefront of development (and I mean far before even the industrial revolution) by learning from other cultures and societies. If you are insular and ignorant you simply do not develop or identify new products or markets - to concentrate just on the self deprives the individual of innovation and identity.

"They send all the money they earn abroad." What audatious prick is going to determine what any private individual is entitled to do with money they have worked hard to earn? It would be like telling me that of my disposable income I had to give a certain percentage to someone. What the ranter usually ignores as well is that yes, they may very well send the money abroad, but that is ignoring entirely the wider economic benefits. Before that money can go anywhere it has to be earned (and don't believe anyone who tells you all immigrants are on benefits because the proportion of immigrants on benefits is substantially lower than the number of nationals on benefit) and they pay PAYE and National Insurance on that. And don't forget they need to eat: they buy food from UK business who pay tax on their profits. They buy utilities from domestic suppliers and pay VAT on it. They pay council tax on the house they live in, road tax on the car they drive, fuel duty on the petrol they buy and again pay VAT on all but essential purchase. The economic benefit of migrant workers to the UK economy is amazingly substantial. And that's ignoring any effect of goods exported out to those families or the benefit that sending sterling money does for the liquity, stability and creditworthiness of our currency in the macroeconomic scheme of things rather than tinyminded micro scale. And so if, after all that, they want to send some money 'back home' why shouldn't they? Or am I to be stopped buying things for my (UK based) mother and father?

Unless, of course, the arguement from the racist minority is actually that our national identity is so weak, so pathetic, so insecure that it really is at risk of dilution or eradication. In which case, following true evolutionary processes - and indeed the process which racist thugs hold so dear to their heart - of survival of the fittest, should we not just let it lie down and die a death? No. But nothing has survived by standing still.
One of the hallmarks of our country, the keystones of our nationality of which we should rightly be proud is our diversity, our tolerance, our understanding, our friendliness, our adaptiveness, our adoptiveness and our inclusion. Ok, maybe seven. But they are our defining characteristics, they make us British and they are bluddy amazing. And so are we. And so are they for wanting to be one of us, in their own very individual way.

iDate v5.0 (maybe)

So it's the regular, weekly date. That's how it happens. You just slip into a routine. Already it is boring. No, it isn't. But it could easily turn that way. So, we went for food last night. This was different though - this was proper food in a restaurant. I'm still not sure whether that counts as a 'Meal' or not though. I have to say I was disappointed with myself. I was grumpy before I even turned up. I have been tired recently. I had hoped that the whole 'not drinking' malarky would allow me to establish a better sleep routine but it hasn't - there is no change. And then my nesting has reached pretty extreme levels which has meant that even by the time I do get to bed I don't settle. I have been engaged in lots of little, niggly jobs like hammering down floorboards that have been loose for months, replacing the pane of glass in the greenhouse that broke last year, clearing the junk off the patio that has been waiting for months and replacing the zip on the coat that I bought this time last year at a shop down in London that broke instantly and that I haven't been able to get back to the shop to exchange. All this has meant not only do I not settle, but also that I am knackering myself out even before I get to bed. So yesterday should, ought to have been welcome relief - a night off. A night when I didn't even need to cook. Now, aside from being tired, I started out in a bad mood. I was in a bad mood because we were supposed to meet at 7:30 pm. My train was to get in at 6:30 pm. That hour is literally only just enough time for me to get home, turn around and head back out again. That or I was just to kick my heels around town for an hour. I hadn't been given any explanation as to why we couldn't meet at 6:30 which I think added to the frustration. Then my first train ran late, meaning I would get to Nottingham until 7:10pm. Now, coincidentally this meant that I wouldn't have to sit around kicking my heels for an hour but would in fact be pretty much on time. But in fact it just made me more annoyed. Add to this that I actually hadn't heard anything from when I sent a text when leaving work asking where to meet; until 7:15 as I was leaving the station demanding that I go to his flat. Sod off. Meet me in the town square. and return texts promptly. Well, that's what I should have said but I didn't. I went round the flat. And off we went for dinner. Proper restaurant. Jamie Oliver's Italian. Nice enough but I know of places just as nice but less pricey. But we had a nice chat. Again, my niggled state started to show when he seemed to make absolutely no effort to ask for the bill. I couldn't catch anyone's eye as my back was to the room (dislike, though I think he engineered this so I couldn't get distracted or eye-up the waiter that I quite fancied) and he really had no impetus, but then again he was sat on a considerably more comfortable seat than I was. And then we went to a pub for a couple of drinks. A good pub. Good because it was on my way home. The tendency in the past has been to go to a pub of his choice which will usually send us towards his flat, away from my home; or just straight to his flat. But in the pub he positionned himself so he couldn't really see me properly. Or me him. There was a lovely corner that we could have sat in and both had comfortable seats, but no - in order to look at him I had to screw round uncomfortably on the bench. And all this with a diet coke (I had lemonade over dinner but then I was eating so I could have something sugary without worrying about my teeth). And then we just went each to our own homes. Which was no bad thing. By the time we'd eaten and gotten to the pub it was almost 10pm so it would either have been skip the pub, rush back to his so he could give me a blowie and then me dash home late; or go to the pub for a drink and relax by which time it would be too late to go back to his and I would get home at a sensible time. So yes, I was in a grump. And for that reason it may not have been a fair date. But then I'm not too sure how it is going... He seems to be an absolute dichotomy. Or maybe not a dichotomy but certainly contradictory. He still persists in referring to "grabbing food" and both when we met and separated he called me "mate" which isn't relationshippy at all. But then he is also far too into me. He keeps telling me how fit I am and how amazing I am with all the stuff that I do at home and work and it's too much. I like to think of myself as a nice, ordinary, humble sort of a chap; and I don't take flattery keenly. I know this is a different sort of dating to the usual wake-up-naked-on-the-first-night sort, and I know I am not good at dating at all anyway and need to get used to it; but still, make your mind up: am I 'mate' or am I amazing?

A stadium by any other name

So, about a week ago Mike Ashley in his infinite wisdom decided he was going to rename St James' Park as the Sports Direct Arena. I had a bit of a rant about it on my Facebook, and a fellow supporter responded with something basically along the lines of 'they need the money from the naming rights and it doesn't change the club'.

Now, I fully understand and in fact absolutely agree with the new UEFA financial fair play rules which are coming into effect which effectively stop an owner swamping a club with debt (or private money by way of loan) to buy up the most expensive players for short-term game-asset-stripping and glory, only to bail out when the going is good and then bankrupt the club to recover the loan.

The naming of the stadium, however, does not address this. Sports Direct is within Ashley's own stable of companies so has not paid anything. The club itself admits the reasoning behind it is to show willingness to rename it in the lead up to seeking a new shirt (now shirt-and stadium) sponsor. But the club has been naive and do not realise with a historical ground like Newcastle, the sponsorship rights are very much a poisonned chalice and that rather than benefit the sponsor will merely incur the wrath of fans. Fine if it is a new stadium without any association, but not one who's name has been there for a hundred or so years.

It also ignores the fact that sponsors will be very very wary of renaming the stadium within a few months of its name having changed. It doesn't give any value to the name if it is flippantly changed as easily as that. He has done more damage than potential benefit.

But what it did get me thinking was what exactly makes a club?

Clearly it isn't the players. They transfer in and out on a whim, always seeking the next step. There are some who stay with a club for years, but usually only once they have 'made it big' and they stay on to work out their twilight years. Generally you will do well to find a player who has stayed at a club for a decade.

Nor is it the manager. Sir Alex Ferguson has recently celebrated 25 years at the helm of Manchester United but that is by far and away an anomoly and his closest contemporary has only around half that. Indeed the average lifespan of a Premiership manager in a job is 4.09 seasons.

It isn't the strip either. This changes every other year and whilst usually a similar scheme is followed there have been some radical departures.

And it isn't even the home ground as new stadia are built and clubs such as Arsenal move into nice shiny new grounds like the Emerates Stadium.

And it isn't even the limited companies that run the clubs. Many of these go into administration or liquidation and the assets are bought by a new limited company to operate the club.

A somewhat extreme example of all of this is (or was) Wimbledon FC. They moved stadia in 2003 just sixty or so miles up the road. Now they are called the MK Dons, Dons reflecting the old WimbleDon name, and MK to reflect the true location in (and presumably curry new local support from) Milton Keynes. And adopted a new strip. It also went into administration in 2003 and was bought out by a new limited company. So, is it still the same club?

But regardless of the name of the ground, I'll still be black and white through and through.

Well, until they change the strip, obviously.

Charity begins at work

It's getting to that season again.

Charity season.

I know Charity operates throughout the year, but in the dull run-up to Christmas it gets worse.

So, recently we have had a cake sale for a hospice; samosa sale for Kurdish (I believe, I forget) orphans; book sale for a local nursery; sweet sale for something-or-other and there is another cake sale coming up. Hopefully for an obesity charity.

Then there is the cuddly toy sale which has been happening for a wee while. Someone upstairs is selling 'shopping trolley tokens', there is a year-round bookstall and it won't be long before the lass in health and safety starts selling the charity Christmas cards.

There are already three posters up for different Christmas markets or gift fairs. Someone is recycling mobile phones next to the vending machine and there is a charity 'walk a mile' happening this weekend. Walk a mile?! I walk no less than 8 miles every day.

This is even before you take into account the dozen or so chaps doing 'Movember' where they grow mustaches in aid of mens health; the day we had last month where everyone had to wear something pink for women's health; and the various 5k; 10k; half-marathons, marathons or abseils that people are doing.

Oh, and then there's Children in Need coming up too. We have another cake sale for that, seven different tombolas or raffles around the place, guess the sweets in the jar, guess the weight of the cake and general collection buckets here there and everywhere. And you can't get away from it. The tombolas actually tour round the office from desk to office. If you appear busy or on the phone, they come back when you're not. I would love to be able to spend a working day wandering around not doing any work.

It is relentless. It is draining. And not just financially - I lose track of which charity is which, what particular cause I am donating to. It is fatiguing and - worse still for the charities - anaesthetising. I have no idea which charity it is, what they do, how my money benefits them. The constant pestering has lead to a distinct drop-off in interest and in giving.

Or I would have if I were to engage.

I don't. And it's not because I am a grump (though, at work, that may be a perfectly levelled moniker). I have already selected the charities to which I wish to give, and I do so on a regular basis. I am happy with my choices. On occasions I may choose to donate to another; but I am not doing so purely on the basis that one of the other 250 or so people in the building in which I work has decided they are supporting a particular charity and so should everyone else here. If each of them were to organise a 'day' for their particular charity, that would be one every single working day. I am going to give to the charities that mean something to me in a way that causes them as little distruption or administrative costs as possible.

And I don't stop there. Don't forget that I volunteer for a charity, doing at least one stint a week. So I'm giving as well as just giving. I really am not anti-charity.

I can't even walk down the main shopping street in town without one of a dozen or so chuggers, representing at least three or four different charities, approaching me. But it has gotten worse now. Now they are targetting me in my own home. Just a couple of weeks ago there was one who - despite having been informed that I had just sat down to my hot (though rapidly cooling) dinner; and despite having been informed that I didn't do doorstep giving - persisting in trying her luck. I had to shut the door in her face because she wouldn't shut up. I felt bad, and I was in my own house.

He's in fashion...or was...or may be

I had a pleasant, if uneventful weekend.

Very uneventful really. I didn't go out either Friday or Saturday evening. Partly due to not drinking; partly because there were hardly any other people heading out. But it was a good weekend because it was unseasonably mild so I could get work done outside.

The unseasonably mild weather continued today, and it provides a wee bit of a problem.

Coats.

It may not seem a huge problem but as ever with me it is, of sorts.

I have many coats. I have far too many coats really. I have four work coats. I have my thin black coat for summer showers; I have my thicker autumn coat for wind and rain; I have my heavy black coat for very cold wind and snow; and I have my smart black overcoat for winter interviews.

Then I have my utility coats - my fluorescent jacket for cycling; and my red waterproof walking jacket.

Then I have my fashion coats - a thin, warm-shower jacket; a blue nylon autumn jacket; my leather jacket; my Superdry coat (which is quite warm but does not keep you super dry) and a thicker green waterproof-yet-still-fashionable winter jacket.

A ridiculous number of coats.

But at the moment I don't know which one to wear. I have to open the door to decide if I should be putting on my thin coat or my thicker autumnal coat. And by the time I get to the station I am hot and sweaty and not really wanting any coat on. It's pretty much the same as the umbrella dilemma really.

My latest coat is the 'heavy black coat' which has been bought for work, but is almost too nice and fashionable for work. But I could do with it for work as my other coats are either too thin, or the interview overcoat which is far too smart for work. But it will probably only get used for work in extremis; and otherwise for fashion.

Last year the fashion was for Barbour-style quilted jackets. I didn't like them. I thought they were rather naff I have to say. This year it's a different matter and I actually really quite like them. I think this year's style may actually be slightly more fitted, styled. But then again I think I may be telling myself that to justify my fashion decision last year.

But it got me thinking...just what is fashion? Really?

I know there are the slightly crazy autocrats at the high-end fashion houses, designing things never to be seen off the catwalk. Outlandish fascinators, ridiculous heals and almost certainly a bit of nip showing. I've never seen anyone wearing anything like those.

Then there are the hidden oligarchs; the people at the high-street stores who almost cartel-like decide amongt themselves that pink shall be the new black. Now; these are the people who really seem to determine 'fashion', and here's how...

They restrict the supply.  They determine that their shops shall only sell, say, pink for that season. As you can only buy pink, if you either need to get new clothes because your old ones have perished or shrunk; or you just simply have to buy new clothes every season because you have been brainwashed by the fashion massive; pink will be all that you will be able to buy. We all love to buy new.

And then peer-pressure kicks in. All your friends who have bought new are wearing pink, meaning your teal top from last season stands out. And even when walking down the street every face from the passers-by to the shop window mannequins are decked out in pink. And you aren't. You are the little island of teal bobbing around in the sea of pink, just waiting for a seagull to crap on you. We all hate to stand out.

And so fashion is something which we reluctantly, forceably become involved in - whether it's because we love to buy new; because we hate to stand out; or because it's all that there is. And it seems unfair.

When I look through my wardrobe at my vast quantity of clothes, hoping against hope that my lime-green, short-sleeved, zip-up shirt will come back into fashion, I find I both resist and comply with the current fashions. Yes I wear my Bench jeans and my Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt, both bought this season; but I also mix it up with some of my Topman-style t-shirts (you know the ones, with the contrasting edging to the v-neck (with three buttons) and sleeves) bought a couple of years ago; or some shirts possibly even older than those.

So, have I been more resistive or more compliant? I don't know. But I haven't bought a Barbour-style quilted jacket.

Yet.

The anti-anti-poppy possie

Today is Armistice Day, 11 November, and I am proudly wearing my poppy.

I strongly believe in today. I think it is a matter of the utmost respect to honour the people who fought for our freedoms, whether they fell or not. Even if they came back they undertook missions at which I would blanche and witnessed horrors I cannot imagine. It changed those people whilst it changed our history and our future. And let no-one forget that.

Recently, however, there has been some incredibly negative pro-poppy propaganda going around. You must have seen it on any social network. It usually goes something along the lines of "if the poppy offends you, feel free to leave the country". And I don't get it.

Firstly, this reaction is in response to a tiny, miniscule, insignificant element of radicals who have deliberately targetted the poppy to inflame the situation. And by people rising to it they have been satisfied, those radical elements have achieved exactly what they set out to do - a bit of cheap publicity for their cause. They actually want to be hated. I would much rather just ignore them and not feed their flames.

Secondly, they are probably British nationals anyway. That is unfortunate, that people have been turned (whether under there own influence or otherwise) to such extreme views on their own soil. But simply to assume that they are foreign nationals with little knowledge or understanding of the British or British history is ignorant and naive. I know of many immigrants who have been so desperate to feel a part of this country, to adopt this country as their own, to fit in with their community, that their knowledge of British history is better than many of the indiginous peoples. But that British people could harbour such opinions against the poppy brings me on to...

Thirdly, part of the fight which the poppy represents is the freedom of expression. Rather than simply attacking back,we should be looking at what it is that turns these people radical, why they choose that route, and what we can do to address or prevent it. Is it that they have not properly understood or had explained to them history, the reasoning behind the wars? Or do they see it as political when putting a personal view to it and giving an insight to some of the individuals behind the image may have more pursuasion. The moment we turn to insult and inflame, any reason within the argument is lost and the anti-anti-poppy suddenly becomes dismissable as extremist; which brings me on to...

Fourthly, the some of the reaction has been so offensive and inflamatory of itself so as to be as bad as the original acts. Yes, the anti-poppy acts and demostrations are deeply offensive; but so is the National Front and the BNP who are leading the anti-anti-poppy 'offensive'. And yet somehow their message has slipped into public mainstream and people who are usually moderate and reasonable are starting to come across as xenophopic, racist and radical.

And the final reason is that the post usually isn't about the poppy - it is of itself purely inflamatory. There is no reference whatsoever to the meaning behind the poppy or otherwise. In fact the word poppy could be substituted for puppy or anything else and the post would have practically the same effect and message. There are other racist posts which talk about those who have died in battle etc. but again from a very  protectionist, racist point of view. And that just simply isn't how the British operate.

There has been a recent 'phenomenon' of the white poppy - or the peace poppy. The intention behind it is to make a call that there be no more war. Very idealistic. But there could very easily be an argument put forward that this is denegrating and bastardising the symbol of the red poppy; belittling the honour of those who fought in the wars as not just irrelevant but plain 'wrong'. They never say this; but if you were wanting to argue strongly against the white poppy movement I can see how that argument could be inferred.

So yes, I will wear my poppy with absolute pride that those people fought long and hard to protect my freedom. I observed the two minute silence with the utmost honour, respect and reverence. But I will not start stoning people who deliberately set out to provoke inflamatory retorts.

Do not be diverted from the cause. Instead, simply we should remember them.

Facebook follies for further analysis

So, following on from my previous assessment of Facebook I have had a further rumination.

I think really, with a lot of the 'new features' that have been rolled out; Facebook really has made two errors. Firstly it does not understand its users; and secondly it does not understand its competition. And in business each of these is a huge flaw in itself.

It seems to think that Twitter is a competitor with the new 'ticker' and subscribe options. Really it isn't.

Twitter has three main types of Tweeters; and then it has readers - people who don't themselves tweet (much) but who just go on for the gossip. The three types are:

Slebs usually very minor celebrities who use it purely for cheap PR. They either spout their own agenda; or they say things purely to attract attention; or they repetitively plug their own show (or whatever) until people are so bored they no longer pay attention.

Anons may have reason for being anonymous or may not. Some use it to put across their own, potentially controvertial point of view with little direct, personal retribution. Because of work or social groupings they want to get their view out there, but not necessarily be attached to the view. Or they may be hoaxers, fakers, impersonators or jokers for either humourous or malicious intent.

Chatterers who use it as a public form of Messenger. It's almost like having a dialogue (or in many cases a monologue) across a pub with almost the world in the middle (whether or not any of them are listening or paying attention is another matter). Most of the posts are either messages to people, or relatively innocuous and innane - perhaps even vapid - background noise about life. Absolutely nothing controversial. Literally 'just putting it out there'.

And Facebook isn't that. Facebook allows you to give a more involved, slightly less frequent, insight into your life to people who may actually give a damn. Facebook allows you to literally build up a profile rather than just excerpts of nonsence. Facebook allows you to share your relevant photo albums and chat and things. Twitter doesn't; and nor does Flickr or any of the other photo sharing sites because those are about getting the image out there, they are not about social iteraction.

So yes, Facebook doesn't understand Twitter. But it also doesn't understand its users either. Facebook has three main types of users:

Integrated - they live their life on Facebook. Or some of it at least. They are on almost daily, keep their status updated and upload photos and videos. They will share links of things they have seen or read and probably get involved with applications and games as well. Some are more involved than others - some cannot seem to leave it alone and berate you with status updates and comment on every photo uploaded; some have a more sensible approach.

Passive - these are curious creatures. They will usually go on daily and have a look around, just keeping up to date with people. They don't let people know what they are doing, they just read. But they do so on a very regular basis - some are on as much as integrated users, just very quietly so. They are certainly more involved than...

Occasional - they kinda got convinced to join, probably because they wanted to look at someone's holiday photos, or because they were getting event invites. They are very reluctant users; popping on only when they absolutely have to.

What Facebook doesn't understand is that of the 1 billion or so people who have a profile on; the majority of them fall into either the passive or occasional category. And it is these people who get frustrated with the rafts of changes that are thrown into the mix. Since the last major change I have noticed how many of my passive friends have been even more passive; simply not using the site. And quite a few of those who had limited integration have dropped down to passive at best, but probably down to occasional users. It is just too much. The site itself now looks a mess: you have Favourites; Apps; Games; Groups; Lists; Tickers and Chat, and people don't want it. They just want the status feed. And even that has been messed up into Hot Topics, Recent Stories and Older News.

Have you seen the Google home page? It is simple. It is clean. It is dominated purely by the search box. Twitter also is very simple - it has a box for you to tweet, and then it has your tweet feed. If you want to appeal to the public at large you have to keep it simple, stupid. And Facebook is really risking becoming a niche site for those committed integrationists.

Facebook seems to be trying to do everything from one site - be Web 3.0 all on its own. And it can't. It is simply diversifying too far from what was its core asset. And when you do that you confuse your users and for confused users it is so much easier to stop being users than it is to stop being confused.

I see the internet developing into a series of monopolies or oligopolies of companies who know what they are doing, such as:
Search - Google, Bing
Video - Youtube
Pictures - Flickr
Entertainment distribution - Amazon (whether physical delivery or streamed)
Auctions - Ebay
Encylopaedia - Wikipedia
and such like. There will be other, smaller websites offering niche services, or favoured by the anti-capitalists; but ultimately once a site reaches critical mass it simply becomes the biggest, most viable site to use for the particular transaction. The key will be establishing the site in that primary position; or in capitalising where a competitor makes undesirable or unpopular changes to the dissatisfaction of their users.

And, were there a realistic competitor, the Facebook blunders would be the idea opportunity.


And this is where Facebook is confused

Into the unknown

So, last night was Date4.

We still haven't had The Conversation.

I have no idea what that means. Are we automatically Going With, merely by agreeing to go on Date4? Are we in some sort of relationship-limbo until we make up our minds?

Bear in mind also that last night involved 'food'. Definitely not a 'meal' but 'food'. Pizza at that (and not even a whole one each). He most definitely did not 'offer to cook' for me - I think he used the phrase 'we could grab a pizza'.

And this was at nearly 10pm. Apparently I am still not quite special enough to put off going to the gym, so we only met at 9:30pm. Bear in mind that I was supposed to be leaving at 11pm to get home that would be an entire 90 minutes together. Awesome. Potentially the shortest date yet!

But I did still get a blowie out of it, although fortunately he didn't need to spit in the plant this time. The plant which is, incidentally, still looking healthy. For now.

So, where am I with it? If we were to have the conversation now, what would my response be?

I don't know.

I'm not overwhelmed, I have to say. I don't spend every waking hour thinking of him and waiting to be with him again. But then when I do see him I forget how attractive he is, and how well we get on together.

I think potentially the problem is that we are doing proper, traditional dating (well, aside from the blow-jobs) rather than GayDating.

The film Weekend which I reviewed briefly here portrays GayDating brilliantly - you practically have all three of your first dates within the space of the weekend; being practically inseperable.You fall head-over-heels in love so quickly that you can't stop yourself carrying on rolling down the hill. You don't have time to have a life between the various dates, so you have to talk deep and meaningful; what each party wants, is looking for, hates, has experienced. Rather than just "good week at work?" And you don't have time to forget, get distracted or even frustrated. Your mind wanders onto other things, other people even. So maybe the intensity of GayDating may actually be a good thing - you instantly develop the bond, you have to because you are with each other for 40 hours continuously, rather than potentially as little as 90 minutes.

Or maybe it's just me. You see I don't understand gay.

Actually, that's perhaps not true. I think I just don't understand love.

I understand the biochemical process. I understand that love releases hormones - seratonin, adrenaline, pheremones and dopamine and stuff. And I understand how these give us the butterflies-in-the-stomach, rush-of-blood-to-the-head feeling. And I know the psycho-social craving that we get for this, the desire to be around someone that induces those chemicals. I also understand that, after a while, we release our independence and become co-dependent, and that really love is what happens when the chemicals stop: usually around 2-3 years into a relationship.

I also get the social reasonings behind forming relationships. That we are stronger as a group, with the work divided amongst the individuals with regard to their particular strengths.

But I am missing a link. I am not missing the hard-wired social requirement to form a relationship; just the need to form that relationship. Why this particular individual. Why do we not jump in and bed down with just anyone?

Again, I understand some of the psychology and the evolutionary reasoning. In order to ensure maximum variety of the species, the greatest chance of survival from any single threat, that we seek diversity. I understand this may make the tall guy fancy the short girl, or the girl to fancy the girl or why I fancy the hobbit. I just don't understand the overarching hard-wiring.

What is it that makes me attracted to a particular individual? I know that the chemicals have been released, but why with that person and not another; why am I wired to find hobbits attractive, whereas someone else goes for someone I may find repulsive. Yes, there is diversity; but what entity decides on diversity? Who doles out the cards?

I know there is some psychology behind it. Good old Freud with his Oedipus complex and fancying our mothers because we spent our formative years with her and came to depend upon her for food, warmth and comfort, and other such notions; but it doesn't all satisfy quite why.

And from my own point of view I have to work out whether this current person is someone to commit a little more to, despite not being hobbity.

And I have to work out what Date5 without The Conversation means too.

I'd like to speak to you about cheeses.

A slightly naughty steal from The Rut though if you get a chance have a look around his site because it is hilarious, even if the humour can be a bit rude or offensive to some.

But let us have a look at the world through the medium of cheese. Insert your own cultural/economic considerations or references throughout.



Greece: feta. A weak, somewhat disappointing cheese. Needs very careful handling as it can be quite slippery due in part to the substantial amounts of oil smothered on it. Despite looking like building blocks, this cheese crumbles easily when any stress is applied. Only good for one thing - salads; and when the salad days are over, the cheese just looks like an over-priced luxury.

France: brie and Camembert. Barely distinguishable between them, these cheese are both soft with little substance and a lot of 'give' to them. They have one of the most agressive smells to them, but ultimately no bite and just a bitter aftertaste. Standardised production means there is little variety amongst them. Very fatty, these cheeses can leave an uncomfortable feeling if consumed to frequently.  These cheeses needs surrounding with protection, usually in the form of a wooden box or crate.

UK: Cheddar. The staple of cheeses, the bedrock, the standard to meet. Such a versatile cheese there has never been - it is firm enough to be sliced and enjoyed alone, can be grated to enhance the flavour, or melted to add texture and substance to any mix. Ranging from very mild to mature, with no bitter aftertaste, it meets everyone's palate. Sometimes coloured to add to the diversity of the (milk) culture, this is a very adaptive cheese. Can be infused with many different flavours from sweet to spicy without jarring the aroma.

Stilton. The wise, old man of cheese. Strong, mature, blue-veined and carrying a weight of culture and history; this cheese has perhaps the most robust and yet sophisticated of flavours. This is despite (or inspite) of its production in working class counties with beautiful rolling countryside. Again, not against introducing other (bacterial) cultures to the flavour. The good, solid crust ensures that this cheese will not sweat or crumble easily and fits amazingly with the climate whilst the introduction of more continental flavours with apricot or cranberry compliments - rather than detracts - from the taste. Smooth.

US: burger cheese and squeezy cheese. Actually really quite a misnomer. These products contain very little actual cheese - they are artificial, new, tasteless and bland despite their brash appearance. Their rubbery texture and appearance will wilt very easily when even the slightest of heat is applied, and them get everywhere causing problems and leaving a slimey residue. Pretty much despised everywhere outside their own country they don't travel well.

Swiss: Emmental. Nutty, yet otherwise very little flavour - seems unable to make up its mind whether it wants to appeal to as many people as possible or have a strong distinct character, so has ended up as a perifery cheese. Also, by way of substance, this cheese has far too many holes for all sorts of naughtiness to hide in.

Dutch: Edam. Very versatile - almost too much so. Likes to stand out, hence the bright red wax, but ultimately nothing much to write home about as it is barely distinguishable from other surrounding cheeses. Over time it has developed its own protectived shell which these days is seen more as a novelty than anything else. One of the few cheeses with no edge to it.

Italy: Parmesan. Whilst this cheese shows a strong, robust exterior, its tendancy to flake is well known. Many alternatives are actually more satisfying and less costly. Definitely not to everyone's taste this should be used sparingly and is rarely used as anything other than a finishing touch.

Australia: do the Aussies actually have cheese? Or anything of substance for that matter?

All of this with tongue firmly in cheek. Or cheese.

NOvember addendum

Just a minor couple of additions really.

I suppose one of the reasons why I have guidelines rather than "rules" is that this way I can't "fail". But that doesn't mean it wouldn't be a personal let-down. I would still be disappointed in myself.

Secondly, I failed to say why it was that I was doing it. There is no medical reasoning behind, I'm not dying or at risk of it if I don't have a break; and it is not - as someone help fully suggested - "so you can get your kids back off the social". I do not have kids. Well, not that I know of. No, it's just to give the liver and kidneys a bit of a break before Christmas and to reset the balance. You see, there has been a constant drip of increasingly insidious intervention of booze.

Once upon a time I used to only drink on Friday and Saturday nights. Then I started football and started drinking on a Sunday.

At around the same time a group of friends started going out on a Monday too.

Whilst I did stop going out on a Monday with that group, I ended up drinking at home on a Thursday - it started because I started seeing someone on one of the trains and we would go for drinks on a Thursday night. Then, when we stopped, the train went through a period of a few months where it would regularly be late on a Thursday. So I would pop to the local shop and buy a sandwich and a beer. And then it just got ingrained - it was Thursday, it was nearly the weekend, why not.

And then a few of us started doing a pub quiz on a Wednesday night. And before I knew it I was drinking every night except Mondays and Tuesdays. And that was only because I had stopped going out on Mondays.

So I just needed a readjustment; and hopefully when NOvember is over I will go back to just Friday, Saturday the occasional Sunday, and special occasions during the week.

NOvember

So, the first, potentially most difficult weekend is over.

You see, I'm giving up booze for November. Hence it being NOvember. Shouty capitals and everything.

Only I'm not quite...

I have had an intention to have a month off for quite a while. Quite a few of my friends give up during January. This is an easy month to give up for:

• because so many people are doing it, there is often some peer support or at least understanding.
• it is the beginning of the year - it is almost like a one-month resolution, so you also get some solidarity from other people undertaking other diets, resolutions or such like.
• it is January - there are no celebrations or holidays or anything in January. There are also fewer birthdays in January.
• it is just after Christmas so people are trying to save and pay off credit cards. As such, fripperous mid-month booze-ups are practically unheard of.
• It is mid-winter. Whilst during the summer a mid-week lounge in a pub beer-garden with a jug of Pimms may sound delightful; trussing up in full winter garb and snow boots to trek down to the pub to then have to unwrap in the overheated environment, only to have to wrap up again when leaving, is not very exciting a prospect, so people essentially hibernate.

So I can understand why people do give up in January. But I don't. I don't for a couple of reasons:

Firstly, because I have a couple of friends who have birthday in January. I have a birthday in December and know how difficult it is to organise anything in December with people already being busy; or trying to save money; so I have considerable sympathy for people who have birthdays in January where there will be a considerable depletion because of the combination of money and weather. So I make the effort to support them; and

Secondly, I don't want to be part of the herd; 'just another one of those giving up drink for a bit'. I would rather postpone it until February (February also being the shortest month to give up booze for!) than just be seen as 'one of those self-righteous, pompous' types. I want to do it for me, not just because everyone else is. I know it would be easier perhaps; but maybe that is detracting from the challenge.

For some reason I was unable to do February; and then in March things started to get busy with nights out. April was Easter and the traditional cottaging weekend; May contained many bank holidays and then in June my busy summer started off with weekends down to London and Brighton and other exciting things. And so it just never quite seemed to happen.

I started looking at things in September. September for me was still quite busy - I had the wedding, a catch-up and a couple of other things organised so it wouldn't be possible. And in October I was to trek down to London again. But November was vacant - I had nothing planned for any of the weekends. Well, nothing except for one - the first, the weekend just gone. It was my nephew's second birthday.

Now, I had expected that - if there was to be any birthday party - this was to be an easy party to be sober at. How wrong I was. Not only was I the only adult there without a child; I was also the only adult without an alcoholic drink. Apparently this was good though - I could get left as the children's entertainer whilst the other adults gathered in the conservatory and drank to their hearts' content (and livers' discontent). Combine this with it being the first - and therefore somewhat more difficult - weekend and I deserve a very hearty pat on the back for getting through it.

They do say the first step is the most difficult, although it hasn't proven too badly so far (party aside). I don't often drink during the week anyway unless I am out on a special occasion. Wednesday - the very first day of NOvember - was one such special occasion. But it was only a trip to the cinema and although it was one of those very classy, arthouse cinemas with a bar where you can take drinks in, I abstained. Even when we went to the pub for a quick drink afterwards mine was a lemonade.

And then I wasn't really in the mood for going out Friday night anyway. All it took was getting into a different routine so that rather than opening a can or bottle on the train I treated the journey as for any other journey and just watched tv. Then when I got home with my fish and chips I just had to enjoy them and a lemonade and settle down to watch some films sober. It was a little strange to keep reaching for the lemonade rather than a beer I have to say; but not distinctly less enjoyable.

I didn't bounce out of bed full of the joys of spring on Saturday. Partly because it isn't spring and partly because I don't want to break my bed by bouncing. But I did get as much done as I wanted before the party.

Saturday night and Sunday morning was pretty much the same too. I was quite pleased to go to the party, otherwise cabin fever might have set in if I had been at home all day I was a bit surprised at how much I thought about having a beer over the weekend though. Daft things like when I was walking back from my brother and seeing a can in the gutter and things like that.

I don't make things easier for myself either. My usual problem is that there is temptation - I always seem to have some sort of booze in the house. And I haven't alleviated that either, if anything I have exaggerated it - there has been an offer on at the supermarket and so I have been stocking up. Thus whilst I was sat watching a rubbish movie on Saturday night (on the recommendation of a work colleague)  I could easily have gone through to the spare room and cracked open one of the  four boxes of lager in there. But perhaps that makes the pat on my back all the better - I didn't just meet the challenge, this was proper adversity that I had overcome. I hadn't just had a trek; this was an assault course.

Anyhow; NOvember, despite the nomination I have given it, is not a strict observance of temperance or prohibition. It is a series of guidelines. Whilst I would like to get to the end of November without a drink, I am not going to castigate myself too greatly if I don't. I have implemented a series of guidlines. Guidelines note, not rules. They are:

• I should aim not to drink at home;
• I would like not to drink during the week;
• I should avoid going out at the weekend unless necessary.

The words 'should' 'would like not to' and 'avoid' are very useful caveats. But, having gotten through the weekend, I do have a certain steel to my resolve now. Essentially, aside from a little lily-willedness; the guidelines only allow for drinking in one set of circumstances: that I go out at a weekend because it is necessary. And those circumstances are not currently presenting themselves during so far.

Next weekend may be tricky though. The combination of cabin fever if I don't set foot outside my property boundary on Saturday; and a family meal on Sunday where the parents may try plying me with wine; is almost as great an obstacal course as a two-year-old's party

Goodness only knows what December will think!

The law is an ass

Or at least the writer is.

I started watching a BBC thriller called Hidden last night. It is already rubbing me up the wrong way.

It is about a solicitor. A solicitor who refers to others within the profession as 'lawyers'. I don't know of any solicitors who refer to other solicitors as lawyers. But then I don't know of any solicitors who go running around undertaking their own private investigative work on behalf of their clients. He must not be paid by legal aid.

At one point the main character refers to "something that happened a long time ago...before the Statute of Limitations took effect". So that will be a criminal event...something which isn't even covered by ... the Limitation Act. Now that's just sloppy. But then Hidden is one of those fictions set in a distopia closely resembling the real world, but probably just distinct enough that people may be able to disregard such discrepancies.

But I see it all the time on television: barristers (note, not 'lawyers' or even 'briefs') flouncing around court rooms, waving papers and shouting at witnesses so they cry. This is bollocks. If any barrister stepped foot from behind his bench he would get slammed down by the judge faster than a WWE wrestler. If he were to shout at a witness it would almost certainly make the cross-examination unsafe. Cross-examination is a very slow, careful process about tripping people up, exposing flaws, mistakes and gaps, not a slanging match.

I do realise that even in 'real-world' dramas there is a degree of literary and dramatic licence. I can't help but think there are vast swathes of aspiring solicitors on their training contracts disappointed at the many hours spent sitting round in court waiting rooms clicking their heels together, discussing with the opposition barrister niceties before getting down to the technicalities of what each want. Don't forget that the solicitors and barristers will not only have met each other many times before but the barristers themselves are probably from the same chambers, or at least drink in the same bars. It is rare (though not unheard of) for courtrooms to errupt in disquiet. It is rare for there ever to be more than a dozen people in there, and most of them will be court staff.

And this is the perhaps 5% of legal work which is done in court. Most of it is done in meetings. I know it won't make gripping television to watch someone spending hours on end pawing over the minutae of a contract; or inspecting the land registry entries of a property to attempt to advise on a boundary dispute. I myself would yearn for the opportunity to go dashing from one side of town out to an old apparently abandonned farm building to find the one witness my client desperately needs; but the chances are I would be far to busy to do so. None of my legal work now involves being anywhere close to a court room. 25% is probably spent in meetings with clients or telephone calls to the representatives on the other side of a deal; with the remaining 75% drafting, checking or amending documents; checking title, preparing disclosures, requesting further information and such like.

I love the fascinatingly ornate courtrooms which are used as well. Hugely tall, gaping rooms, dark oak panelled with all sorts of finery and decoration. Nothing at all like the reasonably compact rooms with beech MDF benches and security glass that most modern court buildings are housed in. However if you do want to see an impressive criminal court still in daily use, Lincoln Crown Court is still situated in the castle. It isn't very glamorous in the middle of winter with its rather decrepit heating system though.

I wonder whether the writers actually have any legal knowledge whatsoever. It very often seems to me as though they don't - they have an idea for a thriller, a fast-paced, gripping story with lots of twists and turns in it; and for some reason the story just fits with a solicitor. It has to involve the law somewhere, but it can't involve the police unless there is going to be a corrupt police officer or some other underhand dealings. I could almost write one myself.

I'm sure doctors have exactly the same complaints about the medical dramas, and doctors dashing around hospitals simultaneously performing brain surgery and caesarian sections (for which no doctor is dual-trained) but at least medical dramas usually have a medical adivsor on set to make sure the procedure if not the drama is accurate. I am firmly of the opinion legal dramas should do the same.

Perhaps I have found my niche in life...

Monday night and Tuesday morning

If you know of my love of film, and my affinity for my home city of Nottingham you will realise how apt the title is.

So, the last few days saw me variously 'dancing' on a stage in just my underpants; creeping out of a flat whilst the owner slept; having my semen spat onto an aspidistra; and seeing a film premiere on a night which was definitely not a date.

Shall we address each in order?

Let's.

I went out Friday night with my friends as it was the end of the month. Unbeknownst to me our usual bar was hosting the local heat of the Mr Gay UK competition. Some of my friends suggested I should enter which I obviously rejected and pooh-poohed as a ridiculous notion. Only then chatting to the manager at the bar it turned out they were a bit desperate for entrants, and a further bit of cajoulling ended up with me entering as one of six contestants.

Now, it's at moments like these when you really should not be spontaneous. A bit of research, for example. The Mr Gay UK competition describes itself as a 'beauty' contest. So I was a little hasty putting myself forward for it hoping that my sparkling wit and dazzling personality would be enough to carry me. A bit of enquiry also - what exactly would the contest involve? I knew I was to stand on stage, but would I be able to get away with telling some jokes or a bit of witty reparte? No. They wanted blood. Or meat, more particularly. And certainly very little clothing. They also wanted moves, something which I am not very profficient at 'bustin'. And a little bit of preparation too. It has long been one of my mantras that spontenaity works an awful lot better with a little bit of planning. So whilst my very bright pink hipsters may well (accidentally) have been in keeping with the spirit of the competition, compared to the other five in black hipsters I stood out like a sore thumb. Or bum.

Anyway, I didn't win, but as one of my ex's once told me: you don't have to come first every time.

Saturday night was the night when most people were celebrating halloween, with halloween being a Monday this year. I'm never a fan of dressing up (although I have over the years acquired quite a collection of clothes, should the need arise) so when one of my friends suggested an anti-halloween, drinks night (not, I repeat not a party) I was up for it. As it was a bit last minute, all but the most hardy had already succumbed to the lure of tights, horns and inappropriate wigs, so it was sparsely attended. Not that that was a bad thing. Well, until the host passed out on his bed. The first anyone knew about it was when we hadn't seen him for around a quarter of an hour and I was getting desperate for the loo (thinking he was in there) so tried the door. Bless.

Anyway, on with the blow...

Who has plants in the kitchen, other than herbs? Well, I found out on date number three.

We all know from The Rules that this wasn't just third date. This was Third Date. The date when you really should be making a decision as to whether you are 'Going With'. Not yet necessarily in a relationship, or calling each other boyfriend or such like, just whether you are actually sort of seeing each other. i'm not even sure there is necessarily any need for any degree of exclusivity at Third Date. You just get to know where you are.

It was a food date as well. Not a meal, but a food date. "Pub grub" to use the exact phrase. Definitely not a "Meal" then. Albeit that it was very good grub. But we did the meal and some drinks and lots of chatting, then went back to his for "Coffee". Well, he had tea, I had a beer. And then we started kissing. In the kitchen. And then he moved down and started on me. Now, quite why he needed to spit the spunk in the aspidistra is quite another matter, afterall the sink wasn't actually that far away (although with his pants round his ankles that still could have been a health and safety risk. Can you imagine having to explain to an ambulance crew why someone is conked out on the floor of their own flat with their pants and trousers round their ankles and your spunk in the aspidistra? Quite. So it was probably for the best.

Now, it may just be me, but when he went to kiss me after that I was a bit squeemish. That was the same mouth that, until the plant took over, held my sperm. Mine. Eurgh. But we went and sat in the lounge and had a cuddle and (after a swig of tea and beer) a snog. And then, like cinderella, I dashed home before midnight. Weirdly, as we said goodbye over the threshold, he said "See you next week mate." Mate. Quite deliberate, like pub grub. So still no idea.

And then last night I went to the cinema. The Broadway Cinema was holding the UK premiere of the film Weekend. It's a gay romance. It's the kind of gay romance that I want to have - to fall not necessarily head-over-heals in love over a weekend, but certainly to get so close to someone over such a brief period that it is almost like having all three dates in one.

One of the slightly more distracting aspects of the film was that it was filmed in and around Nottingham. Previously it has only been London and - more recently - New York-based films that I've been able to play 'Been There'. This is the game you play (well, I play) when you recognise where they have been filming because...well, you've been there. With this film it involved such continuity problems as "the orange bus route doesn't go that way", "there isn't even a tramline in Lenton", "a couple of minutes ago they were out at goose fair, now they're in the city centre" and such like.

One of the minor annoyances was the need to include a drug scene. It didn't really add anything to the film or the characters. It wasn't necessary, aside from possibly a very minor technical device to get the characters talking in the way they did. The writer-director did a Q&A afterwards and I did raise it as to whether it was necessary. He basically shrugged it off as "people do drugs - they weren't big drug dealers or users, they just happened to go out, have a good night and one of them had a bag of coke". But as yet I await to see a film where there is a main gay character who goes out and doesn't end up doing drugs. I have been out on many different gay scenes up and down the country, go back with or taking back scores of guys, and yet only once has someone ever suggested taking drugs; and even then it was just a suggestion and was never followed up. 

Anyway, it was a nice film. Like I say, it struck a chord with me. I am an old romantic at the best of times, and the idea that on one night you could meet someone that changes your world forever is one that I hold true. It has been described using many superlatives, including "the best gay film ever" which, realistically, are hyperbola. It's good, but it is nothing so fantastically unbelieveably amazing. But then I suppose the area of gay romance films is hardly one bulging at the seams.

And at least they didn't get called 'mate'.