He's gone. Finally, he's gone.

In the beginning, I pleaded down the imaginary phone line into his head: "Please, Berba, please don't go! Don't be lured by the communal glory of Champion's League football and double-your-money wage deals. Stay at The Lane, play your way into our hearts and become a legend!" This was a player for which I had a genuine affection, the desire (for probably the first time) to buy a replica shirt and emblazon his name across the top of my back.

Then, the attitude started. And although I wasn't around for a great chunk of last season, I was aware that, yes, he was still our player and, yes, he was still banging them in but all the while Fergie had a wee gleam in his eye, counting and re-counting big piles of crisp twenty-pound notes and eyeing up our prize asset. As soon as the season had closed (the dreary, wearying and ultimately anti-climactic 'Ronaldo-to-Madrid, will-he-wont-he' business notwithstanding), Dimitar Berbatov's long-heralded move to the Red side of Manchester was the main story for many fans, and had begun to look as much of a eventuality as ever. And, guess what, the player was already making disgruntled noises, and what was hinted at in that almost-overlooked "I'm happy...for now", uttered in a press conference what seems like an age ago, became a clear and distinct possibility. The revelation that he was a smoker, made by a fellow supporter and friend, seemed to confirm the start of his rapid decline in my affections.

The head dropped, the eyes narrowed and the sulk came into full-effect. Clearly he was a man somewhere he didn't want to be, and after a number of soundbites confirming what his body language clearly suggested, as far as I (and, I wouldn't mind betting, a majority of other Spurs fans) was concerned, if he didn't want to play for Tottenham Hotspur then he was no longer welcome and was, in effect, no longer fit to wear the shirt. "You want out", I said to anyone who would listen to my little make-believe conversation time and time again, "off you go. Up the M6. Go on, piss off" and so on, and so forth. I had resigned myself to the inevitable, and would be very glad to see him go (in return for a huge sum of money, of course).

And now, with cheque for 30+ million quid and a bright young striking prospect called Fraizer Campbell making their way down South mere minutes before the cut-off, Berbs is no longer a Spurs player. And do you know what? I find myself feeling a little sad.

Maybe it's the transfer deadline television coverage and the somewhat intangible nature of the news on this most idiosyncratic of days. Without anything to actually beam live into our living rooms news channels have to make do with 'best ofs', voice-over'ed montages, played on a loop, reminding us fans exactly why our players are so desired and lauded after. Sitting there, watching our lanky, elegant, Bulgarian ex-employee dance through and around defences (and make no mistake, when on-song he does just that: dance) and put the ball in the net with insouciant ease, I felt wrenched at having my club let such an individual talent like that go, albeit in accordance with the man himself's wishes and a lot of dough. Still though, such a player... Seeing him play in the red strip of Manchester United will be difficult indeed.

Even now, some months after I had accepted the inevitable, seeing the picture below actually makes me grit my teeth and want to to utter a four-letter obscenity out loud. Odd, given that seeing fan's favourite Robbie Keane for Liverpool was far harder but seeing him play for another team has actually been relatively pain-free so far. Perhaps this is because, after 3 Premier League games, he's so far failed to score a single goal and has been, to be perfectly frank, a bit poo.

But I remain very upbeat. Our creditable draw away Chelsea this weekend and our new signings all add to my increasing sense of optimism (which had threatened to fully nose-dive after the opening two fixtures). It is with the events of these last few days, not least the removal of a potentially divisive dressing-room influence in the shape of the unsettled Bulgarian, that I feel Spurs' season may have really begun.

Leeds Festival 2008

And so came to be that, in a muddy field somewhere outside Leeds, West Yorkshire, a 23-year old innocent (in the ways of the music festival) was, finally, deflowered. Perhaps the virginity metaphor is a little tenious, even unedifying, but it seems appropriate to me given the circumstances. Anyway, more of that in a future post perhaps. Maybe.

This year's Leeds Festival (running simultaneously with it's sister site in Reading, which boasts exactly the same advertised line-up, shifted around by day) is second only to Glastonbury in terms of scale, and has moved away from its hard rocking roots in recent years, a move no more evident than in this year's high-profile appearances by East London boy-done-good Dizzee Rascal, achingly hip The Ting Tings and Brazilian electro-rock five-piece CSS. As if to balance this out, and appease the die-hards in the 75,000-strong audience, the weekend also saw rare UK appearances from Metallica and (I got so excited by this prospect I nearly wet myself) Rage Against The Machine.

I arrived at the site with a few preconceptions still swirling around my head. Would the sheer scale of the operation mean getting around to see who I wanted, when I wanted, a thankless task? Would the effect of a captive and largely intoxicated audience mean the prices of food and beer had been inflated to wallet-tightening levels? Would the presence of so many lagered-up, hell-raising revelers mean I never got any sleep, and be forced to enjoy/endure the weekend's performances in a sort of sleep-deprived daze? My concerns, in hindsight, were toally unfounded and I returned a convert to the joys of a festival.

Friday didn't start too well, however, as I arrived at the mainstage during Feeder's set. Not my idea of an entertaining rock band, they did give a committed performance. Slipknot's cancellation at the last minute hardly left me disappointed, as it meant that my highlight of the first day, rock band/comedy duo Tenacious D, were next up.

Their set was the expected blend of trademark humour and deadly accurate rock song pastiche, which buoyed the crowd up nicely for the evening headliners, Metallica. While not really to my taste, these legends of rock leave few in doubt as to why they have inspired, endured and cultivated such an ardent following over the last quarter of a century. Their concise, tight and furious thrash mental sound was given substantial room to breathe on this biggest of stages, with complementary vertical flamethrowers at key moments and fireworks at the show's end.

Where Leeds really competes with Glastonbury (and stands head and shoulders above the over-commercialisation of the likes of V Festival) is the lack of any significant curfew, and the after-hours fun is a big part of the draw. Sure, the stages all adhere to an 11pm light-out but the night remains young, with one tent given over to showing short films, another becoming a cheesy student disco. Outside the main arena, each campsite has its own DJ stand of varying size, sending out thumping dance tunes into the night and another fairground equal in size to the one opposite the main stages hurls small numbers of booze-soaked folk around in circles well into the wee small hours. Our tent was situated on a pitch about as far away as the confines of the site would allow. As we settled down to a our first nights sleep (and my first under canvas for some years) we were in close enough proximity to feel part of the action, but far enough away to rest up undisturbed, readying ourselves for Saturday when things really kicked off.

Bow's finest Dizzee Rascal lit up a sunshine-bathed main stage at lunchtime on Day 2, bowling around with his arse hanging out the back of his baggy jeans, and the huge screen astride the stage blending clips of his videos with close-up live action. One thing his performance did highlight was how commerical his recent sound has become, which he acknowleged by 'biggin' up' Calvin Harris for helping him stay in the number 1 slot for a month, before launching into the Harris-produced 'Dance With Me' to close his set. His first album was, even to a deeply uncool suburban white boy like me, one of the most exciting things I'd ever heard, and I confess to being a little slow on the uptake of his subsequent material. Catchy little choon though it is, 'Dance With Me' does come off as deliberately chart-friendly, something which grates on my inner purist. All power to him for becoming a high-profile success, as this is surely responsible for his excellent performance at Leeds, but one can't help but hope he doesn't become that most disreputable of things in the urban music world - a sell-out.

Up next was Serj Tankian, who fell a little flat. All the imaginative power which informed his work with System Of A Down seems conspicuously absent, and all that remains is his distinctive voice (a result of his mixed Armenian-American heritage). Following Serj were Biffy Clyro, and while I'm totally unfamiliar with their material I, like much of the rest of the crowd, got quite a kick from their raw, unapologetic power and rock sensibilities.

The Enemy followed, and for all the annoying oik swagger of their lead singer (with neither the charisma or good looks to conduct himself in such an arrogant manner in front of so many people) the quality of their songs and their tightness as a band shone through, making for a great performance, albeit with some unwelcome chuntering in between numbers. The Fratellis came next: rarely have I felt such a loathing for such a seemingly inoffensive band, as I made a bee-line for the Radio 1/NME tent to catch MGMT's much-anticipated set. The first part of half seemed lumpy and directionless, but once their more recognisable tracks came to the fore and the band seemed to find their mojo the crowd seemed to agree, bouncing along to the 'Electric Feel' and Flaming Lips-a-like 'Time To Pretend'. Not what I had hoped for but, in comparison to hearing one of my least favourite bands belting out 'Chelsea Dagger' it was infinitely preferable.

Back to main stage for Queens Of The Stone Age, who were largely underwhelming the last time I saw them supporting Foo Fighters in Hyde Park a few summers back. This time they did not disappoint in the least, with frontman Josh Homme staggering on-stage and declaring that he had been drinking since 6am that morning "to be ready". While his demeanour in between songs supported his assertion that he was three sheets to the wind, his guitar playing and vocals showed no signs of intoxication, and the band played a riotously good set. The perfect set-up for what followed.

Rage Against The Machine have acheived that rarest of things, at least with this music-lover - they occupy a mythic status inside their own lifetimes, albeit one which has seen them disband and reform on at least one occasion. Their appearances in the UK have been limited in the last few years to say the least, and my familiarity with the seminal, unsurpassed brilliance of their first album (attained at the expence of my listening to the rest of their releases more than just a handful of times each) meant that by the time they finally, after some 30 minutes delay, I was unfeasibly excited.

A good friend (in whose estimation I had gone down a notch or two when I told him I had only seen the first 30 minutes of Metallica's set in favour of CSS) assured me that his brother had reported RATM as being 'amazing' the night before at Reading, and to look out for their entrance. When it came, minus the orange Guantanamo Bay-referencing jumpsuit and binbag-obscured heads of the the previous night, it still sent the crowd into a frenzy. "We are Rage Against The Machine from Los Angeles", as if any one of the tens of thousand of people in the audience needed to be told, before ripping into their incendiary opening riff of 'Bombtrack'. We went, quite literally, wild. I wished I had the moxy to remove my camera from my bag to record the event, especially seeing as the world's most politically-conscious (and active) band had asked that no official photography or video footage be made by the media at any of their UK performances, but something told me this would not be an event I would forget in a hurry.

The giant glowing red star burned out above the heads of this most exciting four-piece, just as unremitting and brutal a symbol of the band's take on the world as any of their lyrics. It was a headline set to remember, despite including a delay of several minutes as the band stopped playing and asked the crowd to take two steps back from the stage. "We'd hate to have to stop the show 'coz of some bullshit", vocalist Zach de la Rocha told the assembled masses, "we just came to get down". Given the political polemic and overt symbolism of their entrance during last night's Reading appearance, compared with the complete absence of any such content tonight, showed the band were prepared to put aside their uncompromising views for one final night of unadulterated partying at the end of their European Tour. Perhaps they've mellowed since their mind-blowing debut some 16 years ago, but on Saturday at Leeds they did what they do best - take people's breath away.

The last day of the festival promised to be the best. The first act we saw on the main stage was The Subways, a British three some with some of the most exciting modern rock sounds to come out of this country in years. "We're so excited to be here, playing Leeds for the fifth year in a row!" said lead singer Billy Lunn after their first track, and it's easy to see why - their cult following has spilled over into a full-blown festival-based adulation, and it might well be their second release All or Nothing which brings them the commercial success their critical acclaims rightly warrants. Before their set Colin Murray said they were some of the nicest people in rock and had a exceptional interaction with the crowd.

The latter was evident from the start, as Lunn and Cooper explored the full latitude of the stage as they gee'd up the whooping crowd, and at one point the former dropped down into the no-mans-land between the stage and audience, who he whipped up to even more of a frenzy as he stood, shirtless and dripping in sweat, at the front barrier. Perhaps the atmosphere disorientated even the security team, who tried to prevent him returning to the stage before realising he was 'with the band'.

Up next were Dirty Pretty Things, who leave me entirely cold (despite oft-repeated assurances that Carl Barat is a lovely fella, which I don't dispute, their music only makes me think of The Libertines stripped of the showmanship and the zing, if not of the song-writing element of the former band). But my attention to the main stage returned as We Are Scientists, one of my favourite bands, took to the stage. Their well-known on-stage banter, while rumoured to be scripted, is just as entertaining as their fantastic material. "Just a word for any of you who were thinking of throwing a bottle of piss at us", bassist Chris Cain interjected mid-set, "I can tell you that, on average 85% of the piss tends to land in the mouth of the throw-ee...I shit you not". A missile, perhaps an empty bottle of water, then flew its way vaguely toward the stage from somewhere in the middle of the crowd. Cain was quick on the draw: "That was a burrito, as near as I can tell. They tend to hit home around 50% of the time", before talking was put aside in favour of action as the band launched into another live favourite. One of the best value bands around, they kept the crowd nicely hyped-up as the evening approached.

I used to like Editors, but I now see them as a band that have grown so samey that their place in such a high-profile slot on the last day of the festival left me a little bemused. This gave us, however, the chance to head to the NME tent to catch The Ting Tings, who might have been the best thing about the entire festival. Their sound is so now, so up-to-date that in 6 months time they might be able to get arrested, but no-one in the packed tent could have cared less as their set, a series of quirky, endlessly catchy upbeat pieces of electro-rock, built towards the crescendo of 'That's Not My Name'. After returning from the festival, I saw television coverage of their performance the night before at Reading. There was all manner of shennanigans on-stage, with skipping ropes and the like. At Leeds, none of this was necessary - quite simply, they sounded better. Again, I apologies for the lack of photographic evidence. At the time, plucking my camera out and snapping away was the last thing on my mind. I was that excited.

Literally buzzing, we returned to the main stage to catch Jack White's current concern The Raconteurs. While not particularly familiar with their material, the band were entertaining enough, but the engagement of the crowd was fairly low, due mainly to the natural ebb and flow of things (and possibly the fact that they were following the aforementioned Editors) and they received only a lukewarm reception. Jack White, however, cast a captivating figure onstage, clearly enjoying an understated camaraderie with his group of troubadors, as they propelled us into the late afternoon.

If music, whether it be a song, an album or a band as a whole, can transport you back to a specific point in space and time, then my first year at university could very well be soundtracked by the next band to take the stage: Bloc Party. Their first LP, Silent Alarm, was received with critical and commercial success, and their subsequent releases have pushed their sound to places no-one could have imagined, with it's edgy, dance-inflected elements and broad lyrical scope. This being the second time I have seen them in concert, it is clear how much they have come on as a live act.

The first time was in the comparatively tiny Octagon centre in Sheffield, and in the intervening period I saw footage of them in an afternoon slot at Glastonbury. They looked tentative, failing to fill the vast space and dominate the occasion. A few years later, here at Leeds they were not found wanting, marching on stage as lead singer Kele Okereke asked of the crowd, not without rhetoric, "Who wants it?!" before launching into the first of their razor-sharp, post-punk numbers. The fading light gave scope to red flood-lit smoke to pour across the stage, a fittingly dramatic backdrop to Okereke's scorching vocals and Tong's robotic beats. The earlier material took me back to my days as a Sheffield Fresher, and their more recent offerings excited in prospect of what we might expect from their imminent third album.

And so, with the warm afternoon sun now a distant memory, the vast crowd became eager in anticipation of the festival's conclusion from The Killers (once called "the best British band to come out of America", in deference to the majority of their influences). A nervous-looking Brandon Flowers seemed to continually risk eschewing the crowd, but nevertheless delivered a rich, warm vocal performance to match his band's confident swagger. The set included all the favourites from the band's first two albums, as well as their B-sides and rarities collection Sawdust, with the stage adorned with several oversize pot plants, their speaker stacks drapped in fairy lights, and the word "Welcome" spelled out in foot-high neon lamps, on which the camera came to rest in between songs. Before the band had even departed the stage for the first time, the crowd were already singing for their encore of 'All These Things That I Have Done'. When it finally came, after Flowers had joked "It's coming, it's coming, but we've just got one more song to do", the effect was pure catharsis as, in unison, the assembled thousands yelped out the stirring refrain "I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier" at the very top of their lungs. It was as if each, for each and every audience member, it held its own, very personal meaning and investment of emotion.

Many have questioned the validity of a band such as The Killers closing a festival of this scale. Certainly, they may lack the brutal power of RATM or the electrifying speed-thrash of Metallica, but as a completely partisan fan I can say that when it comes to sheer, emotive power then Las Vegas' finest suffer not shortcomings, delivering as they did a triumphant, truly rousing performance. At the end the feeling was of euphoria, and exhaustion. Thank you Brandon, Dave, Mark and Ronnie, for ending such a memorable festival on a real high.

Leee-eeeds!

As this blog post goes live, I shall probably be just arriving somewhere outside the charming northern English city of Leeds, about to enjoy its annual festival. Those that know me know I don't really do camping. But I'm also enough of a music lover to not let 3 days of mud, burger van food and 'baby-wipe showers' ruin my enjoyment of what promises to be a pretty epic weekend.

Watch this space for photos and gushing about a reformed Rage Against The Machine soon.

...and another thing

One of my other passions aside from sport, namely film, has been consumed this month by the achievement that is Christopher Nolan's The Dark Knight, easily the best film of the year. As an ensemble piece, it moves beautifully, and while the plot isn't perfect and the action occasionally a little far-fetched, such is the quality of the overall package you find yousrelf sitting in the cinema thinking "I know this shouldn't be plausible, but damn it, I'm enjoying myself so much I want to believe!" Such is the brilliance of the picture.

Beyond any doubt the finest element in all of this Heath Ledger's vast, commanding performance as The Joker. Amidst all the incessant, wearying grinding of the rumour mill about the circumstances surrounding his death and much pontificating about whether his inspiring dedication to fleshing out such a challenging role lead to his psychological decline, his work in The Dark Knight stands as a brilliant, unforgettable tribute to a great talent taken from this world on the verge of greatness.

It's been a while...

I know, I know. I'm sorry. You're right, I've neglected you. Although I know you're not interested in excuses, I have been pretty busy. Yes, I understand, "all the more reason to post a few things to tell the world about it", that's true enough.

Okay, enough of that. In the nigh-on month since I last threw together a few haphazard thoughts on this very blog, I've mainly been revelling in the wonder that is Beijing 2008. Not the event itself, of course - I don't buy into the idea that a country's human rights abuses, denial of democracy and free speech and the wholesale social cleansing of its own people can be overcome by a really, really good sports tournament. I am, of course, talking about Team GB and their unparalleled success.

As I write this, what might be called a relatively mediocre day for Britain’s sportsmen and women has come to a close in the Chinese capital (1 gold, 2 silver, if memory serves, such is the height of the team's achievement in the velodrome and on the water over the last week or so). Some of the outstanding competitors our country has produced have bettered their already excellent records this time around, such as Chris Hoy’s fourth Olympic gold and Ben Ainslie’s 3rd. Even the athletics has provided some highlights, not least Christine Ohuruogu, who seems to have shaken off any dark clouds resulting in her missing 3 drugs tests prior to being banned for a year, and in the swimming pool Rebecca Adlington became Britain's most successful female swimmer ever.
What's more, this Olympics has seen two of the greatest individual sporting performances the world has ever seen. Michael Phelps's unprecedented achievement of winning 8 gold medals at a single meet (with records being broken left, right and centre in the process) is something truly exceptional. And the 91,000 spectators in the Bird's Nest Stadium were privileged enough to an awe-inspiring display from Jamaica's Usain Bolt, as he won gold and broke the world record in the final of both the 100 and 200 metres. Both men has legitimate claims as being the greatest Olympian of these games (to my mind Phelps has the edge) and both have cemented their place in the annals of sporting history. I would even go so far as to argue achievements of this kind, and the manner in which they were accomplished, transcend sport itself and stands within the grand narrative of our contemporary times.
Glad I got that off my chest. More soon folks.

A trip to the seaside

Not that we didn't see it coming a mile off, but perhaps it's the recent downgrading of the weather from 'stifling and hot' to 'grim and blustery' that has prompted me into finally posting this long overdue missive and revelling in the memory of the gloriously sunny weekend in which my girlfriend and I finally made good on our promise to take our first trip to Brighton. It was on a blisteringly hot Sunday that my better half, my parents and I drove down to the Sussex coast, basking in the sunshine and looking forward to the joys of the seaside on the perfect summer's day. The beach and surrounding area was heaving, but the huge crowds and and sweltering weather just added to my excitement at visiting for the first time. My abiding memories of the British seaside come courtesy of Essex Coast family favourite Southend, which is made to look decidedly second-rate (recent multi-million-pound rejuvination project notwithstanding) in comparison.

Here's the missus and I enjoying our day at the seaside.

Likewise, my folks.

For those who have yet to visit the bustling, vibrant magnet for all that's young and hip you'll not be surprised by the crowds and, while this is definitely a family-friendly resort, the presence of a large university and scores of young visitors means this really is a mecca for the twenty-something sunseeker. While certain coastal towns a few hundred miles west may have developed a reputation for underage drinking and illicit moonlit parties in recent years, you wont find many empty Bacardi Breezer bottles and empty packets of Benson's strewn over the beach here, oh no. Modern waterfront bars and live music are definitely the flavour.

It's worth noting that my family has a strong traditional streak: we spent a good hour and a half playing pitch and putt a little way up the coast, and had fish and chips on the beach. And Brighton seems to share this sensibility too. It has, bursting out from the coastline and imposing itself on the waterfront, a traditional, comfortingly-cheesy pier and some proper deckchairs (albeit rendered in some fetching modern colours).

My first driving lesson

As this post will no doubt indicate, I emerged from my first outing behind the wheel of a car unscathed. I think I did rather well, stalling only twice, and generally making the thing go in a straight line without hitting anything. Or anyone. I arrived home feeling heartened.

The lesson took place in a little nook of South Woodford, so positioned as to run parallel to a busy A-road, the net effort of which was to simulate the noise and commotion of driving quickly with lots of other people buzzing in your ears without any of the pesky traffic and other business. Whether this was intentional or not I don't know, but it certainly made me a bit nervous to begin with. Happily this was short-lived.

As if my 'novice' status wasn't obvious enough, the fact the place in which I was having my lesson was also the site for a dozen or more other lessons, (each under the livery of a different driving school, each performing their own little 3-point turns or, more rudimentarily, their cockpit drill and learning how to start up and move off properly) was a source of amusement and surprise. It was like a little learner's commune, L-plates our badges of honour and our fleeting glances of concentration and tentative gestures of acknowledgement a sort of improvised code of brotherhood. "I'm learning to drive", we seemed to say to one another, "and so are you". When behind the wheel it's both hard and unwise to try to form thoughts much more complicated than this, as you can imagine.

And so, some 6 years after wanting to start learning to drive, I have finally got my way and have put into motion to plan to clog up our capital's roads with yet another environment-bothering automobile. God Bless our modern freedoms.

The vocal stylings of Ms Liza Finn

On a horrible, rain-sodden evening in North London, singer/songwriter Liza Finn and her band headlined at Lark In The Park in London's Islington, bringing her soulful vocals and harmonious, jazz-inflected nu-pop sound to yet another appreciative audience (providing a much-needed ray of sunshine to counter the downpour outside). Her vocals are expertly supported by her own work at the piano, with the presence of atmospheric guitar-playing and trumpeteering at once lending her style an uncommon originality and a nod to some of the better British music of the last few decade or two.

Liza is no stranger to the London gigging circuit, having been performing for some time now, and around a year ago her band's current line-up came into being. Her regular performances at a number of venues around North London have given her the not-unwelcome problem of having to keep up with demand by adding to her body of original material (perhaps including the odd cover version for good measure, her boyfriend recently informed me).

Liza is an Exeter University music graduate - this is one alumna who proves how foolish their decision to shut that particular department back in 2004 truly was.

For more of Liza and her music, check her myspace.

Others road users beware

Yes that's right, I have received my provisional driving license. Scary stuff. And if you're scared about the prospect of me whzzing around suburban roads, barely in control of a tonne or so of internally-combusting machineness, then that's nothing compared to how I feel.

Thank God for dual controls.

Ladies and gentleman, play is suspended

Ah, the joys of a Wimbledon rain delay. Satisfying most people's inner cynics, the spectacle of a rain-free first week of the tournament had been too good to be true, and so far the second half of the fortnight has seen a fairly average number of stoppages.

Thankfully, Sir Cliff Richard has only been seen just the once, and there has (as yet) been no cause for him to huff his ever-more emaciated frame out of his seat and serenade Centre Court during a particularly lengthy piss-down. With regards to the television coverage, as professional as the BBC consistently is and as regularly as these delays have occurred down the years, they always appear a little under-prepared. In this case, perhaps the gloriously sunny first week prompted an element of complacency, and the onset of showers caught them without their metaphorical brolly.

Today saw a classic example of some half-formed nattering accompanying some fairly one-dimensional footage. Clips of players having a knock-about on the training ground are not that uncommon, but once the player has been spotted and the viewing public have managed to work out who they're looking at (stripped of their Wimbledon whites, and now in an unfamiliar combo of more obviously sponsor-clad get-up) the interest is lost. But what's this? Can it be British wild-card, Chris Eaton, less than a week following his exit in the second round, having a knock-up with - cue deeply un-dramatic camera pan - dun dun duuunnh! Roger Federer! Back in the studio Sue Barker is all wry smiles. Perhaps, she offers, now they're best buds he'll offer to practise with him in the future. The sub-text was hard to miss: with this, perhaps the Fed Express' greatness will rub off and one day, like his new mentor, Eaton will dominate the All England's Club's courts for half a decade, once he's filled out a bit and set up a charitable foundation. Then, the pupil will have become the master. Well, really.

"You can learn so much from just being around great players, seeing how they behave and conduct themselves around the finals of a grand slam" one commentator said on a voice-over (!) of the training court footage. What, all that one-foot-in-front-of-another stuff, yeah? Good for Eaton, of course, and I'm sure he thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but as a potential boost for his world ranking, I'd not get too excited.

Bring on the sunshine, thanks.

A victory for football

Spain, the tournament’s finest team from start to finish, were tonight crowned champions of Europe in Vienna, and rightly so. Their style has, at times, echoed the best of the Brazilian teams from the 50s to the 70s, since Pelé and co. lit up the playing field with their effortless passing and movement, and even the more recent brand of ‘total football’ as played by Johan Cruyff and his Dutch Masters of the 1970s, where the team played as a coherent unit, players filling in other positions when others broke free to attack or defend as the game ebbed and flowed.

While the Spanish victory may go down as a vindication of so many pundits’ conviction that they were tournament favourites, it stood in counterpoint to the German side’s incredible (yet, oddly believable) achievement of reaching the final. Their performance, and defeat, against a delightful Croatian side in the second game of the group stages left many thinking they would finally shrug off their recent ‘fluky’ reputation and fail to even progress beyond the group stages (having been uable to even win a game in the competition prior to this year's opening victory against Poland since football 'came home' in 1996, when they eventually ran out as winners against an unfancied Czech Republic side at Wembley).

At the end of the game, the BBC pundits reclined in their chairs and contented that tonight had been a “victory for football”, and that the Spanish side had reminded us how football should be played. So much is true, but more than this they reminded just why we love this beautiful game so very, very much.

So long, and thanks for all the stats

Tonight was very special for another reason. While a full farewell would be somewhat premature, as he will continue to commentate for the highlights of English club football for at least one more season, this is the last time we’ll hear John Motson, BBC narrator of our beloved game for nearly 40 years, oversee a live football match. And for Motty aficionados (a group in which I certainly include myself) it marks the beginning of the end for his unparalleled statistical knowledge being heard in our living rooms. You see, his finest moments tend to come when commentating on live games, in big tournaments like the World or FA Cups. His stats, like the man himself, rise to meet the occasion. As much as we love The Great Sheepskin-Coated One, hearing how many league goals Carlton Cole hasn’t scored in all the years of his career doesn’t really compare with the big stuff like how many times a German has missed a spot-kick in a shootout since the 1976 European Championship final against Czechoslovakia. Which is just the once, by the way.

In support of his decision not to commentate on the 2010 World Cup, Motson says he wishes to go out while it’s still not too late, while he’s still able to perform. Such professionalism is genuinely heartening, and it's reassuring to know BBC commentary (let’s not even discuss ITV’s coverage, which pales in comparison) should be in safe hands, not least with Jonathan Pearce who, it must be said, loves a bit of football.

Arise Sir Motson, if you please.

Suggs In The City

The weekend before last (I've been away, I have a backlog of things to post on, I'm sorry...) I saw the filming of a wee gem of a TV programme, Suggs In The City, by virtue of my good friend Will working as a researcher on the show. It's aired at 11.10pm every Thursday night on ITV1 London (Sky channel 993 for those of you outside the capital), and filming takes place inside The Colony Room, a famous members bar on Dean St. in Soho. If you haven't tuned in yet then get a move on, its run ends in a few week's time. On the show I saw: Dirty Pretty Things perform their new single 'Tired Of England', the band swigging gin martini between takes; Stephen K Amos banter very funnily with the host; and Jools Holland perform with Lisa Stansfield, the latter I suspect was quite pissed. In between the segments, when the cameras had stopped rolling, one lucky chap got to jam a few bars with Jools on the piano, which made his night.

From my experience in the audience I can confirm a few things about the show and television in general:

1. People are not the same height they appear on telly. They are either much shorter or much taller.
2. The space inside The Colony Room is not as small as it appears on telly. It's even smaller.
3. Studio lights do make the inside of studios much, much hotter than usual. In somewhere as constricted as the set of SITC (as no-one's calling it) makes this many, many times worse.
4. Filming telly is not neccesarily as stop-start as, say, film-making. In fact, the relaxed, conversational feel of the interviews is enhanced by this style of filming.
5. A television programme, shot in a bar, in which you can get free beers, is a very good idea.
6. A television programme, shot in a bar, in which you can get free beers but doesn't have a working toilet, is a bit of a challenge.

Watch Suggs In The City - Thursdays at 11.10pm on ITV1 London. You know it makes sense.

Germany 3 - 2 Turkey. Is there any justice?

In the absence of any style or flair in their play since some time around 2000, football pundits and journalists have resorted once again to the tired old lexicon of familiar, stereotypical and even vaguely racist terms to describe the German national football team. Tonight, it reached new extremes, as a truly horrendous German side SOMEHOW managed to overcome an impressive, injury-savaged Turkish team. Terms like "methodical", "ruthless" and their ilk should be replaced the unequivocal "downright bloody jammy". Yes Philipp Lahm's winning goal was a belter, but equally he was shocking when in defence, just like the rest of his team. And this shant come as shock to long-time readers of this blog who know I'm a Spurs fan but I will never, EVER tire of seeing big Jens Lehmann cock things up in between the posts.
Look at him. Poor Fatih Terim. He's almost as lovable as Slaven Bilic, another coach whose team should still be in the tournament - maybe.

Anyone who knows me knows I don't believe in luck, but tonight I began to have my doubts. The Turkish side weren't just "plucky" and "dogged" (and all those other, equally familiar and hackneyed phrases), they can actually play, were tactically astute and looked very, very up for it.

In spite of all of this, I can't criticise too much. It was a superbly entertaining game of football (despite the world's biggest thunderstorm descending on Vienna, interrupting television feeds, and thereby rendering my television no more than a decorative humming box during some crucial parts of the match). My only hope now is that whichever team emerges from the other semi-final (a more evenly matched affair, no doubt: despite Russia's relative underdog status, they've already proved they can play and do not have to follow Turkey's lead in dispelling the idea that they're just "determined" and they "never know when they're beaten") will royally stuff the Germans. Not because they're German, you understand. But because they simply aren't good enough to deserve their name on the trophy.

Back home

I've been back home for 3 weeks (the travelogue posts which have preceded this one were not made in real time - sorry to spoil the illusion) and with the end of travelling up and down the United States comes a return to all that is homely and familiar. Where a few weeks ago each day brought the prospect of some exciting new place or other, now the alarm clock ringing means little more than another day in which I must do that most soul-destroying of things: look for a job.

If anyone out there wishes to employ a plucky young blogger in some sort of vaguely interesting position (which doesn't directly involve dealing with members of the public - I had enough of that in Whistler) then please do get in touch.

One last hurrah in Whistler village...

How odd to return to Whistler, once submerged below several metres of snow, to see it all lush and green. Our motive behind returning for a night was to see the place in such a state, but nothing could have really prepared us for the shock of seeing our former home without all its wintery paraphernalia. Whistler is now all about bikes, it turns out... ...with the only skiing to be done really just token rubbish for the cheapskate very late season crowd, and the odd park rider who simply can't live through the summer without riding rails and hitting kickers.
But of course these gripes of mine ignore the single greatest thing about Whistler after the big thaw. Bears. They're all over the show, all big and furry and dangerous. There had been a few sighting by the time we left to head south, but I hadn't managed to spot one. I'm glad to say that, within about 3 minutes of getting on the gondola to do some sight-seeing up above the village, I saw bears. Not just one but several, of different sizes and increasing levels of cuteness. And I have proof.
I think the look on my face on this last picture tells you everything you need to know. Excited was not the word.
My girlfriend, ever supportive of my blogging and other stuff related to my wanting to become a professional journalist, had only a slight criticism on my travel updates below. She was somewhat surprised that she wasn’t present in that many of the pictures. “Did you actually go away with real people, Jim, or were you on your own?” she asked, not without sarcasm. “No dear”, I replied, “you were there with me too”. So here she is, looking beautiful.
And just to prove that we aren’t one and the same person, here we are together, enjoying the sunshine and the fact that we could wear flip-flops at more than 1500m above sea level.I may have criticised the fact that the place is now all non-ski-friendly, and it’ll be a long while until I next blast through the trees or plunge through waist-deep powder on either Whistler or Blackcomb mountain, I shouldn’t grumble overly – the place is still just as beautiful as it ever has been. Just a bit differently, that’s all.