Author: bowlingatvincent

Films, eh?

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It’s not the same – they’re really not the same. But I’m going there.

Apocalypse Now, in a cinema in downtown Grimsby, and The Quiet Girl, ‘at Haverfordwest Film Society, last night. The former immediately obvious as a giant; the latter a quiet insinuator. The scale, thunder and ego of the one and the timeless farmyard-backwater of the other. Brando and delirium and slaughter; grass and potatoes and family.

Both will haunt me, or have registered in a way that feels weirdly comparable. They were both palpably affecting.

In Grimbo all those decades ago we walked out shell-shocked in a deeply disturbed silence that defied the cut of conversation or analysis. The heft of the fucking thing left us gobsmacked – 100 people, maybe. That noise; that scope; that insane, thrilling annihilation with or by poetry! Not understood or received in the same way, of course: not to be snobbish but guessing only a handful of us had read Heart the Darkness but… nobody said or *could say* a word, as we traipsed out. Not us punkettes; not the Ordinary Locals. A) Out of multi-level deference to Coppola’s staggering achievement and b) because it felt necessary to slump against the nearest wall first… and – sheesh – recover.

1979, or possibly 80. But the two lads walking out together were as they say(?) changed by the event: how could we not be when it felt obvious we’d just seen the most powerful film ever made? It was like some public/communal de-flowering – and if that’s a dangerous image, who cares? This was a dangerous, wonderful, ruinous, life-changing moment which went beyond ‘the flicks’. However we might express it – with a shrug, with a nauseated heave – we all knew this was a truly rare affirmation of the power of art.

The Quiet Girl doesn’t look to compete with that – or not in the same key. But it does affect. As the bastard-of-a-father angrily stomped to either collect his wayward daughter or (we can only hope) give her up – yup, probably angrily – to the Other Couple, people around me were already raising hands to their faces. As the credits rolled and the lights prematurely rose, nearly everyone was tearful – and some were exposed ‘in bits’. Sobbing. So The Effect was not the same… but the validation, the triumph, the rubber-stamping of the capacity of words and pictures to move folks, to stir them up or down, was there.

Quiet Girl is traumatic despite being something of an ode to the pastoral. It’s all ‘unspoilt Ireland’, except for the unseen but undoubted abuse. It’s cows and hay and loveliness and that thing of handing over – ‘just for a bit, y’understand’ – a child who may be traumatised already and feels like one too many to cope with. Whilst the baby’s being born. ‘Sure y’understand?’

In case you’re wondering, if there is ever a fear that the universe doesn’t need another exposition of any sort on the mistreatment of children then that concern is emphatically and skilfully dumped, here – in fact it’s never raised! – by the compelling nature of the tale and the acting.

This Irish Story (in the Gaelic) looks and feels grippingly authentic, except perhaps for the brief scene where the girl’s potential saviours (Eibhlin and Sean) mistakenly allow her to be watched over briefly by a neighbour. (Have foolishly just read a review of the film, from the Guardian, to grab names/check spellings – forgive me if I don’t spend ages digging out the accents over some of the names – and it completely contradicts what I am about to say about the minor role of Una. Lols. But out with it). Sean, when the child (Cait) is rescued, swiftly and profusely apologises for the error, describing it as an example of his wife’s naive generosity. She even believed in Una. (This we can believe: Eibhlin is a genuinely gorgeous human).

Two things on this: Una is so witchlike the handing-over, even for a short time, didn’t seem plausible, even allowing for the plot-line development in the relationships. And also, for me, Una is poorly-executed. Neither convincing nor darkly funny. Something may be lost in the translation, but she seemed irritatingly out of kilter with the fabulous acting from Cait’s adopted ‘parents’ and from Cait herself. But this is a minor quibble, given my intention here is to thoroughly applaud the first-time direction of Colm Bairead and re-state that this is an outstanding, affecting film. So much so, I might even quote the Guardian, for my deferential, peacemaking final flourish:

‘It is a jewel’.

It’s guitar / it’s guitar / it’s guitar.

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Firstly, they’re just lovely things; the woodiness is often wonderfully attractive to behold and to feel. And the shapes, being both deliberately sexual forms and fitting so well against the body, are kinda lush. It’s easy to fall for, or just really enjoy the feel, never mind the sound of a guitar.

I’m neither a techie nor an anorak and I don’t have money to ‘collect’ or even consider buying guitars that catch my eye. In fact, I deliberately don’t go looking, mostly, so as not to waste energy or tempt fatal expenditure. I can’t and don’t buy axe magazines and only occasionally meander into music shops, although this is partly a function of geography: there ain’t many geetar stores in rural West Wales. I’m also probably in that strum-prone sector of humanity that recognises its limitations: so may not even play anything in a shop, cos That Bloke Over There looks tasty. Feeble-but-true, then; relative poverty and relative shyness are factors. I do love music shops – and probably especially, yaknow.

Guitars are great. I have three, one of which is my bro’s, on long-term loan. That one’s a Spanish/classical job, characteristically sourced from a charity shop. No maker’s name, (not that this would necessarily mean anything), and very plain-looking but sounds really good. Woody and full. I’m a rhythm guitar chord-merchant but sometimes get a decent flow going. A recent return to regular playing has also meant that the softer strings are well-received – lay-offs do mean that acoustics or electrics bite a little.

Historically I’ve been on my Ibanez acoustic but right now the classical feels and sounds encouraging, even if I’m banging out Cure, Radiohead or Talking Heads(!) (It may surprise none of you that I’m using a soft plectrum, mostly, whilst committing this sin against high culture). I can fake some simple flamenco – or could – but (or because) mostly I’m a strummer, not a picker. I’m working on improving the left hand fingering-thing – the riffs, the ‘choons’ – but a) have never wanted to learn to read music and b) thrashing or embellishing chords or just finding a groove is perfectly satisfying. Oh and c) I have a developing Dupruyten’s Contracture in my left little finger, which is definitely starting to impact on twiddles.

I bought my acoustic as an angry know-nothing teenager, in a music shop in Grimsby. It cost £90, a reasonable wedge in about 1978 and, luxury-of-luxuries, it came with a hard case – now lost. Mum bought the guitar because ‘Dad wanted you to have one’. (He had died, tragically, some months before, of a cardiac arrest, aged 44). So there’s unavoidably heavy sentiment around this baby, but I can set that aside to clinically report that this guitar is genuinely excellent; I completely fluked it, having had a fairly cursory play, and genuinely knowing nothing about either makes or quality. It felt like a real weapon, significantly better than all kinds of Fenders or Epiphones or Tanglewoods that I have test-driven, since. I fluked it: it’s beautiful, having that extra ring or energy or soul that top instruments have.

Hilaro-fact: I did get Bert Weedon’s ‘Play in a Day’ with the guitar, before trying to get hold of (or learn) the preferred punkystuff.

Am suddenly struck with a senior moment regarding whether I bought my electric *before* the Ibanez, or not. No: I think I was given a catalogue electric guitar first – Christmas; the one I took on a pushbike to France – then bought the acoustic.

Either way I was in the business of learning Jam/Clash/Pistols/Buzzcocks/A Certain Ratio, maybe. The phase of Bill Nelson worship had passed: this was indeed the Modern World. Even on the acoustic I was knocking out the spittle: maybe a lurch here or there into anthems or ‘great sound’ – ‘You Can’t Be Too Strong’ Graham Parker. The electric was a toy, mind, and that did need sorting.

Manchester was 120 miles or so away but I got it my head that I would surely find an axe that felt like me there, so I went. Solo: bus, I think. Had no clear picture of what £120 would get me (in about 1979) but as it still felt possible at that moment to launch the greatest band in the history of the universe – rivals to Weller/Bunnymen/Costello and even Pil[1] in terms of wildness and fearlessness and relevance and ambition – it would need to be right.

I didn’t know Manchester and I certainly didn’t have the dosh for taxis to flit smartly around the gaff. Long time ago but I think I only found two or three music shops of any interest. What I probably wanted (Telecaster? Gretsch?) was beyond reach. I should have shrugged my shoulders, blamed the capitalist pigs and gone home. But no. I bought a sunburst Antoria Les Paul copy. It’s alright: it looks kinda smart and the bloke from the Undertones had something similar – although no doubt a full-on Gibson. Despite buying a second-hand Vox AC30  – ver-ry Jam and ver-ry Edgy Postpunk Superwallop – I’ve hardly played the fekker for forty years.

The guitar is goodish. My mate Jay (who could actually play) borrowed it and ‘loved the sustain’. Flash git that he was, he’d bought a new Fender strat and, to be fair, had *very generously* done a two-week swap with me: he thought the Antoria was okay. It was. But it never felt like me, not even when it sounded outrageous – when the Vox was attacking the world order via my passable Joy Division riffs. It’s parked by my bed, as I write. I had it serviced. It can sound half-decent but somehow I’ve never quite liked it; even with new Super Slinkies or Ernie Ball’s. Not me – too Supergroupie or would-be-muso.

Now the more I think on this, the more seminal it becomes. In the sense that however mad the next sentence sounds, it could be true, or contain stuff that’s stacked with possibility/regret/weird, wild delusion. If I had found a fabulous, sexy, spirit-animal of a geetar that day, I wouldn’t be here. I would be dead – indie-famous and then dead. If The (Only) Lads hadn’t buggered off to university – or if, less likely, I had found a coupla soulbro’s or sisses who* really bought in*, I might have been at the heart of a punky, spunky, dark and edgy, upful and monstrously-spirited rock and roll band. I would have launched at it and let it consume me. I would have been ‘inspirational’ and a pain in the arse. The drugs and exhaustion would have killed me.

Instead I’m oldish and I’ve had a different ride. Longer. Better. Wunnerful kids and fulfilling work. Giant gaps – years! – where the music that was everything receded. Where I never lost the spirit of ‘Poptones’ or ‘Hit the North’ but different blessings were the ones.

I stopped playing the guitar and wow, the circle turned. I have time. Is this me time? Maybe. Where’s my money at? How long can I indulge this? Don’t know. Don’t know.

Whatever; I’ll grab a weapon and strum, and maybe find some words.

[1] Yeh, o-kaay, they may have come later.

Notes on Nationalism… and porkies.

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In the new age of Tory über-twattery it was a tad deflating to note, as I innocently flipped open ‘Decline of the English Murder’ that Eric Arthur Blair himself was educated at Eton. Jesus. Had forgotten that. But the more I dug in to that collection of disparate essays the more I liked, or re-liked the man.

It’s opinionated; it’s judgemental; it’s prone to the occasional hideous lapse – n-words, daft generalisations – but also chockful of brilliant, even timeless observations about life, politics, philosophy. It’s bolshy in an entertaining way about trends of thought and cultural icons. Almost certainly, it’s prescient regarding the filth that is fake news and that particularly modern (but plainly not) phenomenon of swamping the universe with porkies of a particularly poisonously-charged variety. This in the knowledge that most of the media will give it a platform unchallenged and enough of the people will be titillated by its raw bigotry.

(From Notes on Nationalism, 1945);

‘The general uncertainty as to what is really happening makes it easier to cling to lunatic beliefs. Since nothing is ever quite proved or disproved, the most unmistakable fact can be impudently denied’.

This of course is absolutely the essence of the Bannon and Trump playbook… but also surely redolent of the Cummings Project in the UK, and more recently Braverman’s ‘appeal’ to Confused and Angry, of Grimsby. Yes, Orwell’s essay is specific to nationalism but plainly – and sadly – its reach is into and across the racist spectrum.

I am much taken with the idea that although

‘nationalistic loves and hatreds… are part of the make-up of most of us, whether we like it or not’,

we must and can

‘struggle against them, and that this is essentially a moral effort’.

For me this is a truth and something of an inspiration: that we must recognize some degree of ‘inevitable bias’ and then act intelligently. We can therefore prevent both concession to evil and, through opposition that is self-aware, steer clear of ineffectual, ultimately inactive rage.

‘The emotional urges which are inescapable, and are perhaps even necessary to political action, should be able to exist side by side with an acceptance of reality’.

Orwell is making the case for a generous kind of engagement here, something which decimates the (il)legitimacy and rank ugliness of Braverman’s contemporary posturing. The absence, within the current political discourse, of Orwell’s connection to commonly understood decencies has been profound. And deliberate, surely? We may fascinate over the degree of consciousness exorcised around the fug that is our philosophical vacuum, but not, I think over its prevalence.

If only the likes of Kuenssberg and Peston had the wit, nerve or grounding to challenge the likes of Johnson, Patel and Braverman for their obvious, perennial spite – their badness. The UK might be in a very different place had the direct and essential questions not been confined to honourable margins such as Byline Times, or the Twitter feeds of outraged individuals.

Major journo’s have gone missing. They apparently remain undisturbed by the grotesque distortions around Small Boats. They failed to stir at the whole Rwanda invention, despite it being a manifestly provocative kite-flying operation, designed to delight the most perverse and cerebrally-deficient amongst our rightist brethren. They saw and heard nothing during Partygate.

Presumably it’s just too difficult these days to find balance around moral questions? These people, even those with no ties to ‘journalistic principles’ or obvious stake in the grift of the press barons, utterly facilitatedthe fall into mindlessness. They were lazy, they were cowed. Orwell calls them out, from 80 years back:

‘this, I repeat, needs a moral effort’.

Them’s the rools.

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There probably IS a law that says if you win 6-0 away from home, in a critical game, you should go through. In the same way that if you leg it eight times round Scotland you should get the Elgin Marbles – yeh, those ones – and score the winner. But this didn’t happen for Hempie, or for England. On a perversion-fest of an evening, Bronzie nodded an injury-time ‘clincher’ which didn’t quite clinch and fresh, starry legs somehow didn’t quite freshen. Plus er, Holland.

So the Lionesses, who were ver-ry close to superb, over the last 130-odd minutes of their Nations League campaign, were left with what ifs of a stomach-curdling magnitude.

What if Hemp had tapped in either of those gifts? What if the outrageous James had continued to rage (admittedly in her fabulous, drugged-kitten kindofaway) beyond the hour? What if the swift and intelligent Russo or the surging, willing Toone could have made a blind bit of a difference? But nope. Thrashing Scotland would have to be it. Normally – thrilling. Here – devabloodystating. Out. You. Go.

We can blame the Netherlands for being a) good and b) resolute. We can find moments when either James or Kirby dipped below their level and failed to deliver a killer pass, or Charles misread the obvious, or Stanway was a tad selfish. But mainly we should be saying ‘wow. What drama! What collective effort. What heroic stuff’. England ultimately missed out: but Jesus they entertained us on the way.

Scotland were thrashed. Fair enough. Their level is waaay down on England’s – because of resources both on and off the park. Except that hang on. Wales are similarly a slack handful of goals behind the Lionesses, but they held Germany tonight, so what does all that mean?

 It may mean only that Scotland failed to find the compensatory discipline and energy which ‘lesser teams’ need to latch onto, to offer them a chance. Wales are a match for Scotland, quality-wise: ordinary, to be blunt. But despite having a disappointing, not to say torrid Nations League campaign, they battled like hell tonight, against a German side that on the proverbial paper wallops them five or six several times out of ten. (Good stuff and congratulations to Wales, then). But Scotland.

At Hampden the Scots had only a briefish period of the first half which offered hope or respite. England had gone ahead, deservedly, but the home team produced if not a rally… a flurry or two. Then it was only mild carelessness that stopped England from scoring at will. Hemp’s left-footed pass against the foot of the post wasn’t unlucky, it was a howler – a shocker. And later she found herself around the penalty spot with time to choose a corner: but no. She remained a committed bundle of energy and oozed quality, somehow, on a night when along with James, a hat-trick was surely there for the taking? (She must have felt that? She must be feeling not a little responsibility for England’s exit? Cruelly, for she – Lauren Hemp – is an authentic world star, now).

James notched with a fluke off the defender’s back and then claimed the night’s Sublime Moment with her second. Stood up the fullback, dropped the shoulder a little and eased into space. Curled a sweet one (like she does in her sleep-of-the-ju-ust-fabulous), into the far top bin. Notably – because they knew, they knew – her face betrayed not a flicker as she jogged back to go again. Four nil to the Ingerland at the break but they knew (and were constantly updated) of the requirement to stay three or more goals ahead of them pesky Oranje. Lionesses miss out on the Nations League finals and therefore the GB team (is that right?) miss the Olympics.

The Scotland boss, Losa, apologized to their fans, post-game. Fair enough. They were relatively poor, but out-gunned, patently. Disappointment but no shame. He’s entitled to grumble about lack of discipline, defensively but some of this, inevitably, is about lack of quality – of awareness. Scotland were exposed by better players: you work like hell to avoid that but it can happen.

Is it dangerous to suggest that because of the stage of development that the women’s game is in – improving wonderfully but some years away from the situation where lower-ranked teams can routinely compete – England or Germany or USA or Netherlands *might well* stick five past Scotland/Wales/Northern Ireland? But it’s likely that gap will close over time. Scotland don’t have a Bronze or a Hemp or an Earp or a Stanway (even). Until either those players emerge in their squad or the general level of smarts rises, they have to get organised, battle relentlessly and hope.

Tonight England gave them little hope but their own ambitions were cruelly, dramatically squished. On a night of brilliant football, in fact.

Tel.

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He was a player, a nightclub singer, one of the lads loosening that tie. Oh – and England manager.

He was El Tel. He was the bloke that knew about Sheringham and believed in Anderton. He really probably was a Wide Boy, but most of us didn’t really care because his football ideas were kinda great and any idiot could see that the lads loved him.

Terence. A name of its time and location. Maybe bit sarfy, bit boozy, bit likeably bobby and weavy. Common but also showy – even show-bizzy? Hardly sophisticated, more redolent of nights out or misadventures than nights in over a good book, but (maybe like Shankly/Clough/Bobby Robson?) there was intelligence relevant-to-the-task in the armoury. Acute intelligence: we might even cross over into philosophic intelligence, because Venables, despite sharing in the traditional Brotherhood of Gaffers capacity to intuit, was a shade more modern than those other blokes.

Robson, of course also went to Barcelona, and was also a great and original coach, loved by some very talented, high-profile players. He also managed England, intermittently with real distinction. But Venables, perhaps because he blurred those lines between mentorship and friendship a little more, and still drove playing-styles and formations forward, was unique. Tel – or El Tel – could push or persuade the pattern convincingly. The players did love him and did believe.

There’s rightly been a return to the Netherlands Moment, since Venables departed for that nightclub in the sky. It was a triumph for him and for a beautiful, rather un-English way of playing. The emphatic finish from Shearer, after Sheringham’s fabulous, weighted pass lives long in the memory for a chunk of us. It was the punctuation mark for the shift towards fluency and skill and tactical freedom that Venables stood for and aspired to. He made it possible because of that combination of personal charisma – who better to ‘put an arm round?’ – and a genuinely cultured understanding of strategy. England had done ‘limited’, largely, for decades. Venables brought liberation.

He was lucky to have players, sure. But not only did he select well (and boldly), he got into their heads. It’s one thing to know you’re good enough to play in any league on the planet; entirely another to form a team that looks full of that confidence, however fleetingly. Venables persisted with teams featuring *all of* Anderton/Gascoigne/Sheringham/Shearer/McManaman. At a time when it still might be tempting to view both ‘wide men’ as potential luxuries.

It’s true that his defence looked ver-ry ‘trad England’: Seaman/Neville/Adams/Southgate/Pearce, but both fullbacks liked to fly forward, if only to deliver crosses (asyadid, back then). Besides, the role of these stout fellas – probably the best available, in any case – was to facilitate enterprise up the park, via yer Gascoignes and Sheringhams. Venables did make the Three Lions watchable… and in that daft way of sporty things, this felt important.

Cheers, Tel. xxx

Pic via Daily Mail.

We also did this.

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Of the three of you who might read this blog, two may remember that the raison-d’etre of the mighty bowlingatvincent.com span round the sport/art axis, pret-ty much alternately. Meaning I *really did* try to write something sporty then arty.

This I think was more about gentle inclination than actual cunning planning – although I reckon I was conscious that no fekker on the planet was writing on M U then Frieda Kahlo. That minor dawning was about as close as I’ve ever gotten to Marketing , or Social Meedya Planning. Anyway – apologies – I’ve drifted from that aspiration.

I’m not in a position to promise any meaningful kind of comeback; just that I’m conscious of the drift and *would like* to address it to some extent. (In the (allegedly) Real World, I’m writing another book and pouring most of the creative energy into that… so don’t expect any progress on this for some months. However).

We all have faaaar tooo many WhatsApp groups, yes? I certainly do – and I almost hate it. Who are these people who feel they have to set up a separate group for every micro-section of every ‘team’ or department? (Answer; these people are YOU!) Bollocks. They are bollocks, most of them.

I have eight hundred but need two WhatsApp groups. Maybe three, including family. One for cricket and the other for keeping shit together; real shit, like heart and soul and meaning of everything. (Thankyou, lads). This WhatsApp is the greatest and funniest and richest and most life-enhancing WhatsApp group in the history of the universe. Like yours is, I hope.

One of the four individuals within this magbloodynificent posse sent a Spotify covers version-thang over. Most of it was instantly of us. Meaning it was surefire gorgetastic and appropriate: an easy win. Some of it, less so. I’m going to write about one of the tracks.

We all grew up in and through punk and the glorious aftermath. Joy Division, Bunnymen, Costello, Weller, Fall, Magazine, Clash, Cure, Gang of Four, Talking Heads. Later Pil, Specials and all that malarkey. One of us – *cheesy grin emoji* – still hasn’t grown out of the phase predicated on anger. But guess what? I’m writing about K D Lang.

It was a cover, yes? Guess which one?

Nope – or yeaaaah! – A Case of You: the Joni Mitchell song.

This is not my territory. I’m deeply (punkily?) suspicious of the world of melody, of beautiful projection – of choons. Realise this is utter cobblers, the immediate exclusion or de-legitimisation of everything Paul McCartney and Almost Everybody ever did… but still hold onto that ultrapunk notion that making cute, beautiful-sounding things led us to the wall-to-wall masturbatory shite that was the seventies super groups and most of commercial Pop Music.

Us Angry Bastards are still right to be anti-airhead, anti-vacancy, anti-conciliatory: it’s still not right, not enough, to be a music-maker who wants to be adored for their wizardry or musicality. Not when the world needs improving so much. But hey; I’ve gone off on one…

Torch songs are not my territory. Great, tuneful singing rarely moves me.

A Case of You is about Mitchell’s fine, fine songwriting… but mainly it’s about the singing. It’s next-level gorgeous. Lang can sing but here she is into the sublime, crossing and dipping her toes into the stream that is the piano.

Things ease more than they twinkle: the vocal is parallel then sliding or surging ahead. It’s rich and melancholic but (critically?) somehow ego-less. Lang and the sound crew produce a quiet triumph of technical excellence where the soulfulness is in no sense neutered by ‘performance skills’. (In fact the fekkers make it work, goddammit!) This is High Torch but still manages to be risky and human and genuinely poignant.

Try singing it. The spacing – and the range, obvs – are a challenge. Lang is masterful. It’s a dollop of perfection, the kind of thing you want aliens want to discover when they land next August and find we’ve self-incinerated. Because it’s about us. Lang’s singing is Peak Expression of our capacity to relate and to feel. It captures and vouches for us.

The more you listen the more you hear a very rare mix of control and luxuriant risk. It’s full of blood and wine and maybe damage. A Case of You is not, I think going to change the world but it passes the Punk’s Test for value. It’s a great, full human statement: a complex story we don’t need to unpick. I want those space-travellers to find it and nod in approval.

We humans were lousy but we also did this.

It Goes On…

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It goes on. Painfully; extraordinarily, the crassness of it all being weirdly relentless – almost as though These People are intent on wearing us down.

Building regulations ‘opened up’… in clear, bullish, provocative contradiction to the water crisis. Deals cut for the Barclays; reams of contracts reeking of the same, foul whiff, succeeding the awesomely flagrant track-and-trace and the (useless) protective equipment deals. Remember those? Remember the bee-line to donors and pals? Remember your cash being systematically pilfered? It goes on.

Johnson’s lazy, assumptive greed may have been at the epi-centre of this historic low: but his Cult of Endowment has spread. The modern Tory seems to generally believe that the rules don’t apply to them. They are without conscience and they recognise no authority but their own ability to push things through.

We can’t let their dumb selfishness, their raw, idle corruption and their hatred of others drag us into the kind of desensitized fog that suits their purposes. We really are (and really have to be) better than that.

Zoom in. Our rivers – the arteries of our landscape – are choked with shit. It’s a perfect symbol for the era of Johnson and Gove, Truss and Patel, Mone and Sunak, Braverman and Zahawi and Rees-Mogg: the time when shamelessness, greed and the worst, most indulgent kind of uncaring trumped the authentic work of government.

Add to that list the names of Shapps, Jenrick and Coffey and we have a pret-ty clear picture of the Deeply Crap People who have constituted the party-in-power for more than a decade.

They were murderously incompetent through the pandemic. They were more obviously corrupt around the sickening Covid Fast Lane (for sidekicks and schoolmates) than any government of our lifetimes. Only #theveryworstofus could turn international but also deeply personal family tragedy into a business opportunity for the clan. Only that Johnson tribe (and its flunkies in the media) could squeeze filthy lucre out of that moment.

But it goes on. Via inevitable subterfuge – the disappearing stories, featuring Mone, Harding(!), All That Covid Money – or through the whole, wretched, perennial Tory donors thing. Environmental standards sliding yet again (despite the outrage around our rivers!) because the Tories need to payback the developers. Sunak the smiling void implicated in a zillion convenient outcomes for his family, for the people he needs. Crass, mindless gifting of advantage to industries or individuals that back the Conservatives – even these Conservatives. Just how stupid do these clowns think we are?

It’s possible that the wearing-down of our intelligence (and therefore our resistance) is strategic. The Soul-Dead Robots advising the Tories *really might be* sensing, in their foul, ‘pulse-gathering’ systems, that pressing the Small Boats button or the ‘look, Wokes!’ button hard or often enough might see these charlatans through.

We have to be better than that. I think we are. We have to gather ourselves; protest; use the law – even when the process feels tilted against us. Not only must these Tories go… but they must be held to account.

Pic from Reuters.

Quality will out?

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Better team won? Think so. The first half was a good watch, the second that familiar mix of drama, am-dram, controversy and disjointed play… but Spain unquestionably deserved the win.

Wiegman was stirred into action at the half, changing formation and personnel. Whether you think this was shrewd and positive or belated, given the likelihood that a Walsh and Toone or Stanway axis and a back three would be stretched (if not unhealthily contorted) *by this opposition* will of course depend on the level of your Sarina-lurv. (Mine is high-ish, but Spain have quality, they have intelligence and they have a team shape/’way of playing’ that is going to expose lack of numbers and/or width across midfield. The universe knew this).

England started well; brightly, with Hemp doing that bustling striker thing with notable conviction. Russo was less involved, perhaps predictably, but under-achieved a little on the keeping possession/linking play front. This, and the need for tactical re-organisation, meant the central striker was withdrawn at the break: that will have hurt but it did make sense. Walsh was again present… and yet not; her contribution, like too many of her team-mates, being fitful or ultimately ineffective. It may be telling that the defensive bulwark that is Carter was the Lioness emerging with most credit, on the day.

The story of this World Cup should maybe start and end with the astonishing antipathy betwixt management and players in and around the Spanish squad. Several worldies flatly refused to play under the Vilda regime and yet they not only went and won it but looked like a team buying into something, throughout. They played largely in that groove. It’s an extraordinary achievement for both coaching team and players to be so divided and yet make something this complex (and fraught with variables) work.

The goal was a gem which felt like a rehearsed execution. Bronze gave the ball away, criminally, in midfield. Sure, her comrades had not done enough in terms of making angles for the pass but Bronze ploughed on, greedily, head down, her angst brewing with every yard of error. There were ways out of that mess she chose to ignore.

England’s brilliant veteran has again too often looked like a Huge Talent veering alarmingly between overconfidence and over-thunk misjudgement. Here, as she stumbled towards the centre-circle, Bronze did not look like a player over-doing the reigning-in of her superior gifts and athleticism. She looked a bit daft: she was culpable.

The inevitable concession of the ball preceded the simplest, purest, most ruthless exposure you can imagine. Have ball, head up, go left. Full-back in space (known to be vacated by Bronze). Pin-sharp drive across the keeper. Goal. A truly glorious *routine*.

Carmona’s symbolic, statement, quiet-wondernotch won the game – and rightly, somehow reassuringly so. That it came early may have contributed to the rather unsatisfactory nature of the second half, which was disjointed, stressy and almost bad-tempered by comparison. We saw some fluency again, from Spain, but England were physical – sometimes in a way we might characterise as ‘borderline’ – ‘direct’ and still unable to raise a significant or sustained threat.

James, Kelly and England came on, to little effect: the latter two being frustratingly wasteful when they must surely have been heavily instructed to use the ball with care and commitment. There were fouls and a little exaggeration. There was an hour-long wait for a penalty, against Walsh, for a relatively minor (but obvious) movement of the arm towards the ball. Earps, after some blatantly cynical but arguably successful interference from Bronze, saved.

The referee lost some of her nerve and control as the half proceeded and the stuttering and shapelessness began to dominate the football . Bronze should have been booked. Hemp and Stanway and some of the opposition should have been booked, for clumsiness and/or that now ubiquitous ‘breaking-up’ of the game. Paralluelo, (if the letter of the law, blah-di-blah) should have been sent off, for kicking the ball away, having been booked earlier. (That might have mattered).

The Lady in Black opted out, not enough to spoil the contest, but, in a competition where one of the major plusses has been a marked improvement in the admin, this was unfortunate. Penso was lucky, in a sense, that her drift appeared to be non-instrumental. The team in red found more space and more angles than the team in soft blue. They looked more likely to extend their lead than England did to nullify it. In short we got the right result.

Yup. In sport we want the best and most entertaining teams to win tournaments, yes? Spain may have been a narrow second to Japan on the watchability front, but they brought a particular, highly-developed quality to this that no-one could match. So good luck to them. I hope they enjoy their separate celebrations.

England, meanwhile have had a good tournament, in which they have ‘max(x)ed-out’, by playing well once or twice, and ‘finding a way through’ on the remaining occasions. (Such is tournament football). More importantly, they will undoubtedly have inspired the next generation. They have players and are likely to remain a force.

Spain, with top, top players *outside of the current squad*, may find themselves building a dynasty.

Producers.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Another vid; this time Leeds. It does burn, eh? That arrogance, that gulf of apparent indifference. Headsets on, blinkers on, dead souls dreaming of cornerflag dance-moves. Fans? What fans? ‘Banging choon, dis, Lukie!’

But friends we better acknowledge – because it’s surely fact? – that plenty of footballers are good guys (and gals). It’s just the other stuff that makes them seem like mindless twats.

In the last few days I’ve seen two England players – Trent, and Callum Wilson – project some authentic positivity and awareness. The Liverpool man has launched himself with some conviction into the flash but scandalously dumb world of the Academies. (Dumb because the Great Arrogance holds: that riches lie in wait; that the world will be scoured; that selection and development can be shite, because Everybody Who Could Possibly Have a Shot At This, is in the building. Dumb because a zillion players will be cut, with poor preparation and aftercare – hence the Trent Intervention).

Wilson, in #MOTD interview, spoke eloquently and wisely about poverty, exclusion, embarrassment. We do see this and we need to, partly because many of our footballers did come from ‘nothing’. Their background was scruffy and under-privileged. And it’s therefore only right that there are Football Officers at every club, doing real community work. So… how come we see that gulf, so often? Players behaving appallingly or heartlessly or with no feeling for either other people, or for the responsibilities they must know come with their profile? Do they know? Ain’t that part of the Academies’ job?

Lots of players are stupid. Some are genuinely arrogant and uncaring. It’s entirely possible that incident A/B/Z might trigger the concern that many lack any real understanding or attachment to what we the Solidly-Decent Ones might consider to be acceptable, non-negotiable values. Some of this crassness and delusion is learned behaviour, centred on or springing from the Academies and their status. And predicated on mind-scrambling money. Like the pandered elite, these kids really don’t need to care. They know they’re important, because the facilities and the environment infer that. Plus they have sixteen cameras on them, or will have. And some bloke will be thrusting an urgent ipad or a wee whiteboard under their nose(s), and they’ll be told to speak behind their hand, because they hold precious secrets. Everything’s vital; the game-plan, the barnet, the moves.

Truths do lurketh, but this provocatively traduces so much and so many. There are wonderful people working in football at all levels just as there are in cricket or any other sport. So the modelling of behaviours can be magbloodynificent, too. But footballers do seem to behave and/or react disproportionately badly, whether that’s ignoring or not even registering the existence of fans or cheating, faking or routinely and foully abusing officials on or around the pitch. (Bold opinion: footballers are shocking for this. As are managers, of course). Importance and self-importance must play a significant role, here.

Football People on your tellybox are very often lying, manipulating, or at the very least myopic. It’s accepted. Despite the physical impacts and clashes being patently less loaded (and therefore less provocative) than they were, footballers react badly very often, either being dishonestly ‘dramatic’ or plain cynical. Again, fascinatingly unknowable how much of this is bastardised vanity – stay down, roll around a bit, you’re on the telly – and how much tactical cuteness. (Milk it; make it work for you – their fella might get a card). Whatever, the void where the instinct-to-play should be, the ‘get up and crack on’ impulse, never mind the values-thing, is depressingly ever-present.

It’s also unclear how much of the poor behaviour is coached. If Zaha – now substantially reformed – was at one stage the most obvious diver in the Prem… was he coached to do that? Were Kane and Sterling coached to adjust and engineer and feel for ‘contact?’ Did they throttle back on that, somewhat, after Southgate had a word? I suspect that this is more learning-in-the-environment than explicitly instructed, but don’t tell me that strikers don’t get told to ‘go down’ if they feel a touch.

This asks questions of the leading managers: like who can we respect, for their civility? For their fairness?
Klopp is a good man, a Football Man who loves the game, his players and understands Liverpool. He gets most things, he has soul, you suspect, but even he explodes, outrageously at officials – as he did during the Tottenham game. (And don’t go telling me he was provoked. Unacceptable: he almost seemed to concede that by joking about his mid-abuse muscle pull). Pep is generally able to keep a lid on his emotions but does like the occasional incandescent rage. Arteta I find unlovable, for his own, peculiar, deeply-brewed, extravagant inflammations and that dark, pointy vitriol. Plus those strategic ‘break-up-the-game-by-going-down’ rotations. Given the extraordinary profile these guys have, their level of discipline and respect is obviously woeful – not just woeful. This is undoubtedly why the phrase ‘role-model’ has gone from the game – because many of the most central figures are too often an embarrassment.

For me the idea that we need to cut these fellas some slack, because of the intensity and pressure in the game, is cobblers. And ‘passion’ of this sort is not ‘part of the theatre’, (Mr TV Production Geezer), it’s part of the problem. Because, speaking as a sports teacher and coach, I can tell you that young people are influenced, negatively, by what they see. In games lessons – not games! – I have been harangued by kids who cannot accept my fairness and cannot control their emotions. I can think of a young, strong lad who ‘stays down’ for minutes virtually every time he experiences contact. (It’s absolutely hilarious; he will roll and silently fake deep, deeeep agony but it’s also weird… & depressing).

These kids think they are Kane/Sterling/those Gods on the Telly. When it comes to decisions, contention is their kind of default position, not acceptance. They are imagining the cameras, the spotlight, the high-resolution impact and import of this moment.

Let’s re-set. Because there are also moments when the likes of Match of the Day offer a glimpse of decency, social-conscience and intelligence. And may even evidence the care and commitment that can and does come from players – the best of it, away from the limelight. Alexander-Arnold and Wilson impressed me, over the weekend, and they are not alone in giving something back. I doff my flat cap – sincerely. But if we look at football behaviours in general terms, there is an argument that a crucial part of the sportsmanship*, the honour**, maybe even the point, is irretrievably gone. It ain’t coming back.

(For what it’s worth I’m sympathetic to this view, that we compete wholeheartedly, and therefore honestly***, and I register the slippage away with real sadness).

But does this then, overwhelm or preclude all other state-of-the-game hypotheses? No. We may think that in other general terms, football is as good or better than it’s ever been. City under Pep are amongst the most fabulous, watchable sides to have played the sport. Defenders are now more rounded players, more capable players than ever before. (They just can’t defend – lols).

I’m sympathetic to this view, too. Meaning that, spitting blood, I’m being bundled towards another unsatisfactory conclusion, both stylistically and in terms of meaning. The universe now has us where its cheesy, salesy Producers want: between, goddammit, beauty and the beast.

* & **. Yup, I know. Archaic or anachronistic. But also some truth, yes?

*** And yup, I guess I am saying we aren’t competing entirely wholeheartedly if we’re not competing honestly.

Moral Authorities.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Aaaargh! Keane, ‘analysing’, actually uses the c-word – clever – to describe Paquetà’s hideous thirty-foot, spine-distorting dive to claim the pen, for West Ham. Half-challenged by the host, he then adjusts to include the possibility that the player may have cheated, by saying that he’s ‘not saying that he cheated… but’. The hilariously execrable Hasselbaink goes along with him. It’s another depressing moment for this game, football, the playground of #PremierLeagueLegends, and for sport.

We are all Keano, these days. Entrapped by the laws, by VAR, but mainly by a universe where players routinely ‘seek to draw contact’. It may just be an extension of the whole truth-void phenomenon. Trump lost, Truss was let down and Dido Harding was all over everything in a good way. It’s both obscene and o-kaaay.

Paquetà has no other thought than to adjust his feet & body so as to maximise the chance of drawing *any contact whatsoever*, at which point the centrifugal whirligig-thing kicks in, and propels him into the next county. Even live you could see that the defender, fearing his own potential misjudgement, withdraws everything withdrawable, to try to prevent the slightest of touches. He probably or possibly fails. VAR and Keane think it’s a penalty and perhaps it is. But it’s also an obvious travesty.

Can anything be done/should anything be done, about this? Does it matter?
It would seem my appallingly pro-decency view of this is an outlier. But what the hell. I still think that there could and maybe should be some accounting for cheating or deception or cynicism; ideally calibrated to work against its most offensive forms. I do not accept, friends, that it’s okay to set out to (for example) get a penalty. However laughably out-of-touch it may seem, in the face of relentless acquiescence around behaviours that may be lawful but patently awful, I advocate a fightback. Note the cheating – log it and/or tot it up. Significantly publicise the results: in short, call out these Clever Clever People.

Fans know who the cheats are, or what cheating is – even if their tribalism excuses the naughtiness from their players in the moment. Keane knows exactly what Paquetta has done but thinks that the defender was clumsy in the miliseconds before and probably made contact, despite trying not to. Therefore he goes along with the decision. Simultaneously, he think it reeks… and I can live that… because these things are complex.

There’s an acceptance by some that strikers are entitled to seek contact even if they move arms/feet/legs ‘un-naturally’ to achieve it. Others – like me – think both the idea of that entitlement and the practise of engineering contact are shit. A player’s intention can of course be open to interpretation: it’s therefore ver-ry tough to prove that Kane or Zaha faked or dived, but this can be accounted for by intelligent witness and by noting or scoring the transgressions skilfully. So for example Paquetà gets a debit mark for ‘seeking and adjusting to attract contact and obvious exaggeration, with dive’. Or similar. The heaviest and most heinous examples of whatever kind of crap get the strongest response… from our unashamedly Moral Authorities.

In my happier daydreams stuff like this really happens. Weekly reports are drafted and a league table of scheissters produced. There are even penalties – I mean real ones! Not financial, obvs, they mean nothing. Games missed and a certain level of public humiliation. A calling-out.

You with me? 🤨

*Wonders aloud*: would the Premier League pay me & a couple of others to grade matches for Sporting Behaviour (or whatever they wanted to call it?) A wee panel, covering every game; noting miscreants.
Thirty grand seem reasonable? 🤓