Liza Finn at Purple Turtle, Camden

Liza Finn has a new band and last night an appreciative crowd at Camden's famous Purple Turtle saw the debut live performance of the five-piece. Having performed around London over the last few years, the band is beginning to move up a level of venues as it becomes more and more established on the circuit.Having handed keyboard duty to her new band member, the singer-songwriter looked happy to be free from the constraints of sitting down on stage. The person who enjoyed this most was her boyfriend Mike: "I've never seen her legs before", he exclaimed (possibly only half-joking).

Tight and precise throughout, the band's jazz-pop sound is aided by a refreshing combination of bongo drumming and trumpeteering. Later on, Liza informed me that this was the first gig she had ever earned any money from and, on this showing, it will be the first of many at venues across the capital.

Lies, Damn Lies and Republican Party Statistics

I’ve long thought that, were I a US citizen, I’d be a card-carrying Democrat. But the recent actions of the Republican party have left me dumbstruck at their audacity, to say nothing of their outright dishonesty, in attacking Barack Obama’s plans for universal healthcare.

I’ve never been a tub-thumping patriot but I confess to feeling more than a little aggrieved at the vitriol recently directed from across the Atlantic at the NHS.

Despite having made only very limited use of it in my life I’m in no doubt that it’s an absolutely crucial part of the fabric of our society – something, without which, countless people would suffer from sub-standard healthcare and restricted access to important medication, treatment and advice.

Anyone reading this from the United States finding that this sounds at all familiar? Yes, that’s right, this description could easily refer to the current state of healthcare in the US.

Aside from gross misapprehensions and downright lies, the Republican party is unashamedly playing on the lowest common denominator in American politics: fear. By engaging in the cheapest, most base level of coercion the Republicans are creating a climate of fear to scare Americans into rejecting what would be a revolutionary change – for the better – in one of the most inequitable healthcare markets in the developed world.

It seems to come down to something fundamental in the make-up of your average right-wing voter. Universal healthcare comes in, some insurance plans are no longer viable and I might have to pay a bit more for their excellent level of care. Poorer families will benefit, but who cares, because now I’m $50 a month lighter.

I’m sorry, but if a family earns in excess of $350,000 a year it can afford to subsidise the poorer sections of society. They clean their houses, they cook their meals, they empty their trash cans, often for woefully inadequate wages. They owe them.

Forgive me for trotting out some dyed-in-the-wool lefty rhetoric but the provision of health is something far too important to be controlled by the free market. I simply do not believe that the trusting something so volatile to allocate resources most efficiently in the financial sector, let alone something as fundamental as healthcare. If you let the market decide, a large proportion of people get royally screwed. This, if nothing else, is what the recession has taught me.

What currently passes for a Labour government in this country seems hell-bent on shifting the NHS closer and closer to a market-driven model, via none-too-subtle changes in structure, reflected in nauseating linguistic changes. ‘Service users’, not ‘patients’ is just the tip of the iceberg.

How things change. Our government is continuing the shift away from the founding principles of the NHS (a move which began about 5 minutes after the thing was actually created) and at the same time the US – up until a few months ago the bastion of liberalised, free market principles – is looking to socialise healthcare to ensure that no American is left behind.

People are naturally conservative. Change is scary. And some there are some who are genuinely so elitist that they genuinely don’t care if poor people have access to healthcare.

But taken logically, the change Barack Obama proposes is for the better. What doesn’t help is scaremongering, fear-stoking and outright lies about the NHS and universal healthcare - music to the ears of the faction of reactionary lunatics who, somehow, seem to have more of a voice than 100 of their moderate, reasonable peers.

Tightening banking regulations to stop huge bonuses and potentially catastrophic, short-termist investment decisions relies on the same logic as ensuring a basic level of care for people across all their healthcare needs. If we ignore lessons like this then we risk falling back into the same pattern of boom and bust, the kind of unsustainable growth which will eventually leave us out of pocket. We are all responsible.

The Republican Party should be ashamed of itself. Dr Stephen Hawking should appear on television, broadcast coast to coast, and denounce the claims that a ‘American NHS’ would have left him for dead years ago. Obama should do more to counter the ludicious claims being made on TV and at rallies across the country. The American people should trust in the man than they, ultimately, elected to provide adequate health care for every single citizen, not least the 47 million uninsured and 25 million under-insured.

Will all of these things happen? Only time, and the determination of the most exciting US President in living memory, will tell.

Extrasensory perception

If you weren't absolutely certain of the fact that the world's top 100m sprinters are finely-tuned speed machines, minutely calibrated to the nth degree to wring every last drop of speed out of their musclebound, Gatorade-chugging frames, then Jamaica's second-fastest speed merchant has dispelled the last lingering speck of doubt.

"The ankle is in shape to go 9.7 [seconds] but I'm not sure it's in shape to go below that," he revealled to BBC Sport on the eve of his appearance at the Crystal Palace Grand Prix.

Awesome stuff. Plus, he also thinks the reason British sprinters don't pick up more medals is because they're lazy. Is there nothing this man doesn't sense?

Woah, look out!

A dangerous thing happened today. In its infinite wisdom, the DVLA consented to let me drive, unaccompanied, on the roads of this great nation. At about 12 noon, I passed my driving test at the second time of asking. As you can see, "a dog with two dinkles" just about sums it up. After learning for about a year, I have finally got this particular monkey off my back.

The end of a couple of eras

Sad times, all, for this week two big parts of my recent existence came to an end. On Thursday I took a big step into the world of hackdom and completed my last NCTJ exam. But potentially even more earth-shattering, the previous night I watched the final episode of the West Wing. From today, I must move on to pastures new.

Virtually every evening since Christmas has seen almost my every move gear up towards the hour when I can retire to my bed, remote in hand, and delve for 40 minutes into the brilliantly-rendered world of Washington politics.

As such, I'm open to suggestions as to the next US TV boxset with which I can fixate myself. I'm not interested in anything with an abundance of initials in the titles, so that rules out NCIS, CSI or any of its geographically-located cousins. I hear good things about The Wire and I know people who positively swear by The Sopranos. Clearly this is something that requires some serious time and thought - probably far too much than should be spent decided on what to watch on telly.

What is far more scary is that the world of unemployment is now upon me. Having been able to chalk up my depressing lack of cashflow down to something as convenient as "being a student" for the last 20 weeks, I now have no excuse than to get my sorry rear end into employment.

And it's not even as if I have some leeway with having to immediately get a job. After finishing a three year degree you'd be amazed at how easily I'd convinced myself that, given the length of my period of economic inactivity, I could afford myself some time off before getting up before 10am every morning with any consistency.

Now consider that I've just finished a course which lasted just 5 months - so by my reckoning I need to find some work within about the next week or else I'm just mugging myself off.

Sad times indeed.

Chunky knit genitals and the family-friendly paper with a new set of boobs every single day of the week

I've never had much time for tabloid journalism and every so often I spot something which confirms my misgivings. For all it's exposed nipples and papping of female 'celebrities' sunbathing in the noddy or falling out their tops while falling out of a nightclub, once proceedings move beyond base titilation the Sun comes over all nudge-nudge, wink-wink and adopts a tone of cod-moral disapproval.

A case in point is its coverage of the latest promotional stunt for Sacha Baron Cohen's new film, Bruno. The premise of the event was a fairly ham-fisted pastiche of the controversial United Colours of Benneton adverts of the 1990s ("United Colours of Brünotton", in case you were wondering). Baron Cohen and a few others appeared in the middle of Berlin wearing chunky-knit body suits (most of which were pink, with a yellow one and a brown one chucked in for good measure).

The Sun, in it's infinite wisdom, decided to pixellate the family jewels of each of the suits. Yet, ITN, the Daily Telegraph and the Evening Standard (and these are just the ones I discovered before I got bored and stopped looking) left the images untouched for the world to see the crocheted genitals in all their glory.

Hats off for the man behind the stunt to pay such attention to detail that he gave the 'black' body suit a tiny penis and endow the 'Chinese' one with something that could, at first glance, be mistaken for a French riot policeman's nightstick.

As for the Sun's approach, it's the journalistic equivalent of a bunch of geezers sitting in a pub, drinking pints of Carling, using terms like "John Thomas" or "member" to refer to a penis: utterly laughable and cringe-worthy in one fell swoop.

Shh...their spies are everywhere.

I spent most of today sneezing my own brains out at the office. It's official, my hayfever has kicked in. This relatively recent development has only begun to afflict me in the past few years but now, each summer for one or two weeks straight, I am rendered incapacitated by sniffing, snorting and rubbing my nose red raw with supposedly supersoft tissues - all the while necking antihistamines like I'm trying to take an overdose.

Forgive the graphic detail, but today my left nostil ran like Red Rum on steriods, it just wouldn't stop. And it was of the particularly thin kind that creeps up on you with no warning. Most embarrassing when talking to your editor.

By the time I got home my schnoz had started behaving itself and what could have been a potentially fraught trip to the supermarket passed off without incident.

I returned to my laptop and logged into my email. Ooh, I have 1 new message.

"Kleenex Tissues is now following you on Twitter!"

HOW DID THEY KNOW!? Did they plan this? I've come to the conclusion that's all one big conspiracy and they must release vast quantities of pollen and other airborne irritants from a gigantic Tuppaware container somewhere over the channel and wait for the prevailing winds to take hold.

Their marketing manager is a genius.

Is there something we should be told? (after Private Eye...)

I don't usually go in for these, but this occurred to me during a recent flick through the papers.

Cast them as cousins.

Anyway, now to the serious business. Yesterday Newcastle United Football Club placed a notice on it's website declaring that, once again, the club is up for sale, this time around for the princely sum of £100million. A steep sum for an outfit playing in the second tier of English football, you must agree.

The latest move to find a buyer can only have confirmed among the most ardent supporters what outsiders knew long ago: the club is under the stewardship of a complete amateur. At the time, Mike Ashley's acquisition was seen by some as a welcome move given the burgeoning trend of low-profile foreign money men taking controlling stakes in top-level teams.

While cries of "Cockney Mafia!" have since echoed around St James' Park and beyond many fans were pleased to see the old administration make way for the new. How things change. While the faithful are die-hard to the point of self-denial, it has become increasingly clear to fans and commentators alike that the club was being run by someone without even the first idea how to do so.

The unprofessional - if direct - nature of Ashley's way of advertising his desire to rid himself of this multimillion-pound burden is all too apparent. What compounds it is that this is only the latest incident in a long-line of forehead-slappingly stupid moves.

"What's that?" said Ashley to no-one in particular when he heard of Manchester City being offloaded by its unscupulous former owner to a band of oil-rich squillionaires from the Middle East, thus simultaneously purging the club of any lingering scandal and pumping its coffers full of dosh that they would be hard pressed to actually spend despite laughable delusions about being a 'big club'?

"I'll have some of that," he must have muttered to himself as he got on the blower to his travel agent.

The thought of someone of Ashley's not inconsiderable mass touching down in Dubai and stepping out of an air-conditioned first-class cabin into 40-degree heat is comical enough. But the notion that the kind of individuals to whom he was looking to sell would just allow him to turn up at their corporate headquarters with the keys to SJ'sP and a stack of replica shirts with "Sheikh" printed on the back is staggering in its ineptitude. Something tells me necking cocktails in public during the holy month of Ramadan didn't do him any favours, either.

What's more, it seems that no-one has yet learnt from Ashley's mistakes. Fans have espoused the need for a manager who loves the club to sweep in and take over, perhaps in tandem with a new owner who understands what NUFC is all about. This would surely only compound their woes and see them sink ever deeper into the mire. Tough love, or perhaps no love at all and instead sheer pragmatism, is what is needed now more than ever.

And the sooner Mike Ashley sells, to almost anyone, the sooner the club can begin to redeem itself in the eyes of football fans in general and, most importantly, its own supporters. The faithful might still believe in their side's stature for the time being. But something tells me that, by the time the whistle blows on the first day of the season and they line up to face not Manchester United or Chelsea but instead the likes of Plymouth Argyle and Doncaster Rovers, the shit will have well and truly hit the fan.

For a comprehensive and compelling look at the club's current need for a detached and utterly unromantic manager, read Times columnist Matthew Syed's thoughts on the matter - rightly described by my friend and fellow blogger Matt as "the most 'nail on head' article I've ever read".

Is this Silvio Berlusconi's penis?

Adolescence is a time of upheaval, change and discovery but despite this it does, from time to time, offer the odd chance to stop a short while and reflect. Such is the effect of impending adulthood and burgeoning indepedence, it's only natural to ask questions about the world and think of what the future holds.

At the age of 17 or so, these questions can be glaringly short-termist, such as 'Will I pull at the house party on Friday night because two of my friends have gotten some in the last month and it's starting to get ridiculous?'. Or they can take a more laudible and far-sighted character, such as 'If I do a degree in Sociology will I still be sniggered at in a decade's time?'.

However, I would be so bold as to wager everything I have and, were it possible, everything I ever will on the fact that not once did it cross my mind to ponder, even for a second, the following question, which at the age 23 I now find myself incapable of avoiding:

'Is this the president of Italy nursing a semi-on?'

For me, the tan lines are a dead giveaway - although, if there's one major world leader who would sunbathe naked it's this guy, right?

El Pais
BBC News

And while I'm on BBC Sport... "Progress"?

How can it be considered 'progress' that the Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish FAs have so little interest in the profile of the sport at an Olympic level that they would so readily withdraw their involvement and consent to 11 English players taking the field under the auspices of Team GB?

It's a sad indictment of our national game that petty differences and paranoia about independence can get in the way of what would almost certainly be a temporary arrangement for London 2012.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/olympic_games/8072981.stm

A loaded choice of words...?

Janko Tipsaravic: "a naturally offensive player" (according to BBC Sport).

Is it the floppy hair or the silly specs that make him so objectionable?

Slow News Day...?

Granted, it's a Bank Holiday Monday - but surely this doesn't merit a front-page link on the BBC News website.

Versace denies boardroom dispute

I don't read Vogue or anything, but seriously...who gives a shit?

Hollyoaks 1 - 2 Celebs XI

The XI isn't the number of players on the team in Roman numerals, rather the 'list' that they constitute in the grand scheme of Celebdom.

Yesterday afternoon I took in this sporting spectacle at Chester City's Deva Stadium and shortly after the final whistle had to be treated for two burst eardrums, such was the volume of high-pitched shrieking to be heard every time "Jason-out-of-Coronation Street" got anywhere near the ball.

The revelation of the day was one Ralf Little who, in addition to being the only person present who could justafiably be referred to as 'famous', was easily the best player on the park.

His place in my estimation went up even further when he turned out to be a thoroughly good bloke as he chatted away to my missus and her friends, as naturally as you like, as he and his fellow players did the rounds signing autographs and posing for photos after the match.

"It's a fucking disgrace!"

Allow me to stir the pot a little bit.

I'm normally among the first to bemoan the lack of respect footballers show towards officials and often sympathise with the frequently-voiced view that these outrageously-shekeled primadonnas should just keep it shut and concentrate on what they do with the ball.

In a game I love so much, it's the one aspect I think the governing bodies should address with utmost urgency and have often looked to the example of rugby players or supported the proposed idea that captains should be the only players allowed to address the match officials

I didn't actually see the coverage of the Chelsea-Barcelona match but after watching a replay and witnessing the subsequent reaction, I found myself feeling a new-found respect for Didier Drogba.

So often found lacking under Avram Grant and Phil Scolari, the Ivorian powerhouse seemed a shadow of his former imposing self from Mourinho's reign (that dodgy first season, when it appeared £24m couldn't even buy you a decent first touch, notwithstanding).

If anyone was left in any doubt whether he had been fully revitalised under caretaker coach Guus Hiddink, they need look no further than his full-blooded reaction the conclusion of last night's semi-final. There he was in all his fist-pumping, badge-kissing glory and I found myself in (I admit, somewhat surprising) admiration.

Were his actions so reprehensible? After all, it's hardly the first time a player has vented his spleen at a ref after the final whistle and, in light of what occurred in the preceding 90 minutes, I cannot recall circumstances more deserving of such protestations. The words he gave to the nation were born of a sense of injustice and were not directly accusing the referee of being complicit in anything untoward.

Moreover, the incident was broadcast after the watershed (such as we understand it in our post-Sachsgate world) and at the error of the show's production team, for whom the time-delay safety net of live telly is supposed to be a crucial tool.

Somewhat at odds with my instincts, I have often found it ridiculous that managers can be censured for comments made after a game about a referee's performance. As a trainee journalist the principle of free speech (and all the many complications and caveats that accompany it) has been drummed into me from day one. Are football managers not afforded the same privilege? And, indeed, are their charges, especially under such controversial circumstances?

See the big man in action for yourself:

Arsenal 1 - 3 Manchester United (1-4 on aggregate)

So many column inches and minutes of airtime are devoted to speculating about the outcome of football matches across the gamut of the sporting media each week - and then every so often a game comes along that, within the opening 11 minutes, absolutely blows all of that out of the water. Tonight's Champion's League semi-final between Manchester United and Arsenal was just such an affair.

Delicately poised at 1-0 following John O'Shea's goal at Old Trafford, football fans and pundits alike will have spent most of today ruminating on team selection, formations, tactics and all manner of other variables which could have swung the tie one way or the other. On the night, it was an unfortunate error from an inexperienced youngster and a moment of audacious brilliance from arguably the finest player in world football which put matters to bed. We should all give up trying to predict these things and just enjoy them from the sofa with a beer or two, shouldn't we?

A final thought: this season Darren Fletcher has all but dispelled ideas that he is somehow a weak link in the Manchester United team and has consistently performed in domestic and European competition. How sad then that a poor refereeing decision should cost him his dream of playing his first Champion League final. Chin up, son.

Flora London Marathon 2009. I feel tired just looking at the pictures

Earlier this month, an uncharacteristically sunny day greeted the many thousands of crazy people who each yeah trot their way to all kinds of blisters and nipple burns in the London Marathon. For the first time in living memory I actually knew some of the participants, but this was not enough to ensure I actually made visual contact with any of them, such is the vast gargantuan scale of the whole thing.But being there in the flesh for the first time was actually quite an emotional experience and I was made to realise, like never before, that each and everyone of the people who participate in this world-famous event are absolutely fantastic.

My warmest congratulations to you all.

Facing my two-wheeled fears

After a virutal blackout, enforced by the increasingly demanding workload of my NCTJ course (6 weeks in, going really well, thanks for asking) I can return to the blogging fold with the news that today I rode a bicycle for the first time in nearly a decade. I can confirm that the adage is true - you don't forget how.

To her great credit my thoughtful, considerate and always well-meaning girlfriend has on several occasions tried to get me to get back on the saddle. Despite the calm, rural surroundings of her Cheshire village and the number of vehicles at my disposal in the garage I have managed to resist all but the shortest of trundles in her back garden.

But today was different. After my usual sulky refusal routine, for some reason, I softened, pondered and, swallowing my pride, mounted

After a shaky start I realised that this cycling lark isn't really as hard as I'd made out and before I knew it I had done two laps of the car park. Fast forward 20 minutes or so and I'd left my girlfriend behind and was exploring the cycle paths of Delamere Forest

Next on my list of things to rediscover after spending 10 years telling myself I couldn't do them: swimming.

A good night in with the husband

It's not that fact that Home Secretary Jacqui Smith's husband filed an expense claim for watching a couple of mucky films - it's the two viewings of Ocean's Thirteen that I'd be embarrassed about.

On a serious note, in the news coverage of the latest scandal involving MP's allowances, one member of this merry band of privileged individuals implied that if they were only paid a decent wage then they wouldn’t have to claim every little extra cost incurred in the course of their working lives.

My heart, it bleeds. As of April 1st 2008, the salary for a Member of Parliament was £63,291, with a London supplement of an additional £2,916.

On top of that they can claim up to £100,205 in "staffing allowance", £22,193 in the gloriously vague "Incidental Expenses Allowance (IEP)" (possibly the second home allowance – clearly given its own special acronym to lend just a soupcon of legitimacy), "additional costs allowance" of up to £24,006 and a "winding up allowance" of a maximum of £40,179 – whatever in God's name a "winding up allowance" is meant to be.

So, in addition to earning almost three times the average wage for a UK worker, they can claim in excess of £200,000 each year, which is before you factor in transport expenses and all manner of pension shenanigans.

Is it a huge assumption to say that this renders their entire net income as (excuse my cynicism) beer money?

In Parliament today, Gordon Brown proposed scrapping the second homes allowance for all members. If you genuinely believe this should be done, for the good of our economy and for the efficacy of the cockpit of our nation, contact your MP and urge him or her to support this move.

If I were you, I'd study their response carefully.

A sporting day to remember

Today started well, went rapidly and unavoidably downhill, before picking up again and finally reaching a jouyous finale by tea-time. Such is a day in the life of a sports fan.

The main focus of my Saturday was covering London Scottish vs Rugby Lions, a Division 3 fixture taking place in Richmond. My journey across the city seemed relatively straightforward but, this being London, I arrived at the ground some two hours late (don't ask). only reaching the press box when the match was an hour old. A few cobbled-together words and the gracious help of a couple of employees meant my match report (a term I use loosely) actually made some kind of sense by the time I phoned it in about half an hour after the final whistle.

I was actually very disappointed to have missed out on much of the afternoon, such was the party atmosphere at the Richmond Athletic Ground. In honour of the Calcutta Cup being contested just a short stroll away at Twickenham, the club has gone all out with the celebrations and a festival marquee, a Deuchars IPA-themed bar and a merry band of pipers and drummers all added to the spectacle of seeing the home side notch up a record victory of 85-3.

In other sporting news, my beloved Tottenham Hotspur defeated Chelsea at White Hart Lane in a hard-fought contest which sees us rise to the heady heights of 9th in the Premier League table. The optimist in me feels a UEFA Cup...sorry, Europea League spot could be ours come the end of the season. Elsewhere, Manchester United - clearly still reeling from their mauling against Liverpool - went down 2-0 against Fulham at Craven Cottage.

Andy Murray added to his already impressive record against Roger Federer with a win in three sets at the Indian Wells 1000 and England put together a pretty convincing performance to defeat Scotland 26-12 in the aforementioned Calcutta Cup, althought this was somewhat overshadowed by a thrilling Grand Slam-clinching win for Ireland against a dogged Welsh side. Rarely has the Six Nations ended with such high drama.
Here's hoping England's women can overcome New Zealand in the Cricket World Cup final to round off a pretty epic day of top-class sporting action.

A cider-soaked weekend in Bristol

When my friend Nick, at whose stunning harbourside apartment my friends and I lodged during our recent weekend of revelry in Bristol, described his adopted city as "cider-soaked" I took his words with a pinch of salt. With hindsight I feel the most enduring image of the soujourn is as follows:

Just look at the colour of it. I'm not even much of a cider drinker, but the rich variety of Bristolian brews on offer - best acquired from one of the city's 'cider boats' (quite literally a floating bar on the river) - are enough to convert even the most sceptical quaffer. While meandering our way drunkenly around the centre of town I was stunned to see a eyrar of swans (yes, that is the appropriate collective noun, I looked it up) as up-close-and-personal as I have ever witnessed. I now regret getting as close as I did to take this picture as I'm sure the pair of tasty bites I now sport on my right calf are the product of a fleeting encounter with some kind of airborne insect.

This blurry shot of the light of the adjacent drinking establishments reflected in the water is a good representation of my vision at any given point after 10pm that night.
While stumbling through the newly-regenerated part of town between our base and the city centre we witnessed all manner of impressive sights, not least this huge chrome structure which our host informed us - in complete deadpan - was the actual spaceship used in Flight of the Navigator. For a moment, in our apple-fermented haze, we almost believed him.
The next day, flagging somewhat, we took a leisurely drive to the outskirts of Bristol. While some might find the landscape a little bleak, I felt it was oddly beautiful with its soft, sweeping lines and rolling hills.
The urban landscape is just as striking. Aside from the numerous works by a certain Banksy dotted around, there is a wealth of other examples of local graffiti artists. Something about the roughened, slightly world-worn nature of the former industrial hub creates the ideal backdrop to this colourful, idiosyncratic art form.
On our last day in Bristol we felt it was high time to take a trip on our local river ferry service. At 60p each way it was as cheap as chips and is actually incredibly handy as the only other means of crossing the river lie a good few miles in either direction.
We tried to sneak onto this boat without paying. We were, much to our chagrin, caught red-handed.
Shortly before packing up and heading home we sat with one last pint to contemplate the revelry of the weekend and the memories we had shared (not to mention the unwelcome sight of my good friend Kirks walking towards us with blood spattered on his cream jacket, the result of an encounter with a local pikey outside a nightclub).
Despite this sole incident of wanton violence, there's no doubt that Bristol + copious amounts of cider = good times.