Sing when you’re winning

We're well blessed for football in these parts. There are teams (yes, plural!) up here in Ringmer, Lewes has the Rooks and there's also Brighton & Hove Albion down the road in Falmer. I'll happily support local teams against their more-travelled opponents but I've never really been passionate about a particular club. This reluctance can probably be traced back to childhood. You see, I wasn't much good at football when I was younger; my usual role was that of scapegoat or 'defender' as my so-called mates described it. Unlike one of the children in my class, I didn't have the same permed hairstyle as Peter Ward. Heck, I played a musical instrument - apparently a sure indication that I was both homosexual and knew nothing about sport, according to my many detractors. And so I didn't support anyone. It was safer than choosing the wrong team.

My wife has a very different perspective. Born in Bolton, she's followed Bolton Wanderers throughout their oscillations between the top and bottom of the football league. With the 'Trotters' coming to the AmEx stadium for the first time, she was definitely going... and despite Brighton & Hove Albion tickets being easier to buy, we were heading for the 'away' end of the stands. Yes, we. I was to become a football fan.

The Saturday of the match was pretty wet; weather that would favour the northerners, I thought. The absence of my half-namesake, Wayne Bridge, from the Brighton line-up was an encouraging sign as well. At the very least it meant I wouldn't be standing in a crowd of people cursing my family name.

The positive omens were soon dispatched as Brighton started attacking. A number of Bolton's supporters responded with songs that seemed to condemn their rivals as being homosexual (this is starting to sound familiar) although the words weren't entirely clear. And if I couldn't make them out, I doubt that Brighton's players would have been too bothered. After Brighton scored, the Bolton fans turned into their own harshest critics and my wife's Lancashire accent intensified to the extent that she became utterly unintelligible. Fortunately I could interpret her facial expressions. She certainly wasn't happy.

The singing from the other terraces increased to a deafening level. Seaaa-guuuls. I kept quiet even though I knew the words to this one. I still couldn’t identify the lyrics to any of the Bolton football chants but was quickly learning the actions.

And then Bolton scored in the last few seconds of the game. They'd managed a draw. Suddenly the Albion weren't singing any more. As the final whistle blew, Bolton's fans tearfully embraced each other. Under different circumstances there'd have been a song for that kind of behaviour.

First published on vivalewes.com 29th November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Existential angst and egg sandwiches

It's not often that we have a family get-together. I visit mum most weeks, despite her apparent conviction that my journey from East Sussex to West Sussex is rather like crossing Berlin in the 1960s. She sees my brother more frequently, mainly because he doesn't live on the wrong side of Checkpoint Charlie. I sometimes feel under enormous pressure to defect to the West... but I also feel sure we're equally loved.

Little brother - for I'm two years ahead of him - has a whirlwind lifestyle that leaves me out of breath. Working long hours during the week, worthy deeds most evenings, golf at the weekend. Either that or he's very good at avoiding me. This week we managed to catch up, putting the world to rights by debating mobile phone technology, science fiction films and parking charges. The important stuff.

Sadly this family reunion wasn't a happy occasion. We were getting together for the funeral of a friend.

Now, I'm no fan of funerals. Unlike many of my mother's mates, I don't have a special funeral coat. I haven't turned funeral attendance into a hobby. I can even manage without the egg sandwich and cup of tea afterwards. You might think this sounds like fear and denial. Let's just say I'm more than a little disappointed that immortality isn't available on the NHS yet. At the very least, I reckon it should be possible to fit me with an atomic-powered mechanical exoskeleton by now. You know, rather like Robert Downey Jr in Iron Man. Not that I need it at the moment, although it would come in handy when running for the bus.

Anyway, my brother and I were chatting after the funeral and arrived slightly late at the wake, which meant most of the egg sandwiches had gone. As we're piling our tiny plates with spring rolls and cold pepperoni pizza, mum asks if one of us can refill her tea cup. Little brother obliges and I hear mum saying "my son is pouring me another cup". Not 'my younger son'. Not 'one of my sons'. I raise my eyebrows and turn to my brother, who looks apologetic. I'm not surprised. He's probably getting a mechanical exoskeleton for Christmas.

First published on vivalewes.com 15th November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

When age goes out the window

"Age is just a number". That's a phrase much used by my mother, particularly when deflecting unwanted questions about her birthday. Mind you, I think I've picked up some of the attitude. I'm certainly not happy about getting older. This dissatisfaction isn't usually obvious until I'm involved in some kind of activity that requires me to be categorised. Surveys (between 18 and 65, since you ask), holidays (not eligible for Saga discounts yet), pubs (go on, ask me if I’ve got any I.D.), car insurance (too old to be a boy racer) and so on. This week I've added parenthood to my list of annoying age-related assumptions... but first I'd like to clarify something. I'm not a parent. My lovely wife was already equipped with children and cats when we met, which has excused me from all manner of toilet training. It has, however, resulted in me becoming a step-father.

And there I go. I've been placed in an age bracket. People are picturing me walking through Lewes with one of those three-wheeled buggies and a cat on my shoulder. Nope, that's not me. Besides, the story I want to tell involves a step-daughter locking herself out of her home. That puts me in a different demographic, doesn't it?

Anyway, the event was the highlight of my week, so I shall tell my tale whilst attempting to maintain an illusion of agelessness.

A few days ago the phone rang at home. I didn't rush to answer it because I don't own any children or cats, not because I wasn't feeling especially spritely. It was the aforementioned step-youngster, somewhat concerned because she was locked out and her dinner was locked in. There was a little window open at the side of the house but neither she nor her boyfriend could reach in to open a larger window. Under other circumstances they'd have been pleased with the level of security. Not that night. We assembled a crack team of housebreakers - me, wife, resident teenager - and set off down the road with the tools of our newly-adopted trade. I had a small hammer and two screwdrivers, mainly because I'd once seen someone steal a car on The Bill with similar equipment. My wife had a wire coat hanger. Her son was in charge of the ladder.

On arrival my wife dismantled the coat hanger and started fishing through the letter box. The teenager held his ladder as nonchalantly as possible.

I climbed the ladder, reached in, unlocked the large window, realised I couldn't get back out without displacing my sternum on the latch, wriggled in through the little window and exited via the front door whilst avoiding the coat hanger. Cue applause.

I’m told this is the sort of thing that parents are expected to do. But an old chap couldn't have done that, could he?

First published on vivalewes.com 1st November 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Everyone wants a pizza the action

I didn't study economics at college. Maths, physics and chemistry were my chosen subjects. All very logical. I'd walk through the corridors wearing my acid-spotted lab coat and carrying a copy of New Scientist, imagining I looked simultaneously studious and exciting. Probably contravening assorted safety recommendations as well. But I did have friends who studied economics. I particularly remember one of my contemporaries emerging shell-shocked from an A-level economics class. The tutor, having prepared his class for their exams, had just admitted that college-level economics didn't really work in the real world. That reassured me I'd made the right choice. Not only was physics consistent outside the classroom but 'Power equals Current times Voltage' still comes in handy for choosing a replacement fuse.

The reality of local economics - microeconomics, I think my student friend would have called it - struck me this week when I popped up to the shops. First, the bad news. The greengrocer's is closed and the fish & chip shop has been campaigning against the arrival of a pizza retailer. Now the good news. The butcher's started selling nice-looking veg and there's a pizza shop coming.

A sign in the greengrocer’s window says "Due to local competition we will no longer be trading". The words 'local competition' are underlined, just in case anyone misses the point. I’m not sure I’d be so willing to admit that other people were doing a better job than me. This seems as implausible as Michael Schumacher announcing "I'm slower than I used to be but was hoping the younger guys would let me overtake them occasionally".

The situation at the fish & chip shop is equally confused. Last time I was there, a group of young lads almost signed the anti-pizza petition before they realised it wasn't a campaign to encourage Domino's into the village. The chippy is happy with the Indian restaurant and the bakery but doesn’t want another outlet offering takeaway food. Apparently that’s the last straw. (Probably a cheese straw if the bakery’s involved).

I know, I know, I'm oversimplifying. The opening of a pizza franchise may see enough mopeds on our streets to look like a remake of Quadrophenia. But complaints against someone adding variety?  As my physics-loving role model from Star Trek might declare, that’s illogical.

Maybe that's what the college lecturer meant when he said A-level economics didn't work in the real world. Maybe it’s the theoretical version that makes much more sense. It certainly does to me. Mind you, I also think pizza and chips sounds rather appealing.

First published on vivalewes.com 18th October 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

The CSI Effect

"Funny people live in Ringmer", opines my mother from the safety of West Sussex. She seems to have forgotten I've chosen to make my home here. I shrug, a gesture that's completely lost down the telephone line.

Mum isn't simply spraying slander but is commenting on the errant local teacher who's recently been making headlines. During the search for this man and his teenage charge, a criminologist was interviewed about the possible techniques being used by the police.

Although detectives could try to locate fugitives through mobile phones and credit card usage, he said most people were aware of this due to the 'CSI Effect' - and therefore anyone looking to avoid discovery would try not to use either. What he didn't mention was that the CSI Effect is rooted in fantasy.

CSI, an abbreviation for Crime Scene Investigation, is one of my guilty pleasures. It's an American TV drama that focuses on the high-tech processes used to solve crimes; I like to think of it as Quincy for the 21st century. All that's missing is Jack Klugman and his hearse. However, CSI is as much science fiction as it is science fact. Real forensic science isn't as slick as those technicians on television might suggest. But we're all falling for it.

I'm reminded of Dallas, the 1980s TV series that's recently returned to our screens. When I watched the original episodes in the innocence of my youth, I really thought adults behaved like those caricatures. Greed, lying, affairs... that was normal, right? Wrong, of course. Dallas is no more a realistic portrayal of the oil and cattle ranching businesses than CSI echoes Saturday night at Lewes police station. You’ll also notice there's no Dallas Effect, with home-owners keeping a couple of Friesians in the garden and drilling an exploratory bore-hole by the shed. No-one ever went into medicine because they thought it would be like The Singing Detective. Six Feet Under was never seen as an exposé of the funeral trade. Yet we have a CSI Effect, where everyone's an expert in fictional criminology.

Mind you, if those transgressing the law believe in the CSI Effect, there's nothing to worry about. Criminals who fear being tracked will leave their mobile phones at home, never to receive the warning text message that says "COPS R ON UR TAIL". They'll run out of money as they flee justice. And they'll sell their guard dogs for fear of being identified via canine DNA.

Anyway, since Dallas I'm no longer taken in by television dramas. In fact, work and domestic chores leave little time for TV watching these days.

Talking of which, our resident teenager has just attracted my attention. One of our cats has left a dead mouse on the doorstep. I carefully draw a chalk outline round its tiny corpse and reach for my chemistry set.

First published on vivalewes.com 4th October 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

Kate Middleton and the iPhone 5

I need to finish a piece of work in the next couple of hours. I’m working from home, which means I’m already being disrupted by the ongoing remodelling of our kitchen and the occasional disappearance of mains electricity as part of that process.

Worse still, having no electrical power cuts my internet connection off. Our resident teenager is taking it particularly hard. “It’s like the end of the world”, he says through mouthfuls of sausage roll. Eating is the only offline activity he can think of at the moment.

However, this cloud has a silver lining. Losing my internet connection creates fewer distractions.

Distractions like checking Google for the latest news. It tells me that Kate Middleton and the new iPhone 5 are currently trending. This apparently means they’re both immensely important to many people.

The most obvious difference between the iPhone 5 and Apple’s previous phone is that the updated device has a larger screen. There’s more on display than before, you might say.

The Duchess of Cambridge is in the headlines for a similar reason.

Now, some people have suggested the Duchess shouldn’t have been sunbathing topless in a private garden. They think she should cover herself at all times just in case she’s seen en deshabille by someone who isn’t Prince William. Maybe a thin layer of gold paint would suffice, rather like an Olympic letter box or the unfortunate Jill Masterson in ‘Goldfinger’.

Others say it’s an invasion of privacy, none of our business and is no more in the public interest than hiding a webcam in George Osborne’s bathroom or publishing Hannah Cockroft’s tax return. They say – and I’m in agreement with this group of people – that being famous doesn’t automatically make you a contestant in a ‘reality TV’ competition.

The truth is that neither Kate nor the new iPhone is remotely important in the grand scheme of things. Yes, the bigger issues of security, privacy, technology and communication are worth talking about… but getting excessively excited about a mobile phone and a half-naked woman? Not unless you’re a 14-year-old boy.

If the iPhone 5 offered time-travel, it would be worth discussing at length. If the photos of Kate had revealed the inner workings of a cyborg, newspapers could make a case for publishing them.

But these current reports are only about increasing sales, not about changing the world.

Anyway, that’s why I’m rather pleased the plasterer has switched off the electricity. It means I can get on with my work and not have this kind of trivia on my mind. Which, of course, it isn’t.

Right. Where was I?

First published on vivalewes.com 20th September 2012: http://vivalewes.com/

A science-fiction double-feature

In the past week there have been two significant events in my life. I have lost my kitchen and discovered the new 'Total Recall' film. Curiously, both are connected.

Total Recall, as you may know, began life in 1966 as a short story by Philip K Dick. The original story tailed off into complete fantasy, probably influenced by the author’s preferred medication. A couple of decades ago it became an action-packed science fiction adventure starring Arnold Schwarzenegger - and now it's been remade with Colin Farrell acting out a different plot. Arnie's movie asked whether our hero was confused by an 'artificial memory' he'd chosen as an alternative to a proper holiday. And Colin Farrell's story has many a nod to the earlier film while following a number of new secret-agent story elements. (Yes, chaps, there really is a woman with three chests in the new film - and not in the same sense as Portia in 'The Merchant of Venice').

I rather enjoyed the film once I'd realised it was neither a remake nor a brand new concept. You could say it was 'inspired by' the original version, not unlike the new VW Beetle, a mock-Tudor executive home or a microwave lasagne.

Anyway, one of the reasons we had a family night out at the pictures in Uckfield on Saturday was because our lounge is currently stuffed with the former contents of our old kitchen. We're mid-way through having a new kitchen fitted.

The previous kitchen had seen better days... and many of them, too. It had been given a facelift in the 1990s, which helped to explain the odd combination of brushed chrome and flaky varnish. Fortunately, we're blessed with a decent kitchen designer and supplier in Ringmer.

First, of course, the old kitchen needs to be removed. That's why we have breakfast cereal balanced on the TV in the lounge. That's also why there's a pile of old kitchen units in the back garden, guarded by a couple of puzzled cats who haven't quite worked out where their food has moved to. For several days the kitchen area looked distressingly empty and tatty. Previously-inaccessible cobwebs were revealed. The fitter's pencil marks on the wall gave the impression of a graffiti lesson for infants.

Stage two is now underway as the new kitchen units arrive. But d’you know what? It all seems rather familiar. Yes, it's clean and shiny and 21st-century but... well... you can't help wondering whether you should have just left it alone. Whether a quick wipe round with a damp cloth would have saved all that work. Let's face it, the important stuff is still roughly in the same place.

All of which has me speculating whether Colin Farrell thinks the same about his film.

More importantly, I'm also wondering if that embedded technology from the film will ever make it into real life. Mr Farrell's character had a mobile phone implanted under the skin of his hand. Right now, I'd be very happy with a hotplate.

First published on vivalewes.com 13th September 2012: http://vivalewes.com/