Top 50 Palace Games Countdown: No.4 - Palace 5 Brighton 0

Originally published on www.fiveyearplanfanzine.co.uk, 2 August

Saturday 26th October 2002

Whilst most of the games in this illustrious Top 50 list concern important victories that sealed promotion, fought off relegation or simply gained a valuable three points, Saturday 26th October 2002 saw an altogether different type of contest. A seaside team from 40 odd miles away was making the journey up the A23 to Selhurst Park to battle an old adversary it hadn’t seen since 1988. 13 years and all that distance had, if anything, intensified the rivalry. This wasn’t about points, this was about pride.

As if a Palace-Brighton fixture wasn’t enough, this was also a game with a number of interesting sub-plots. The Seaweed, in an attempt to emulate their esteemed opponents, had recruited a couple of Palace old boys to bring to the party. Simon Rodger contented himself with a place on the bench, but all eyes were on Steve Coppell as he attempted to mastermind the downfall of his previous club. Of course, Coppell received a very warm reception, but it did leave the Palace faithful with a slightly bitter taste in the mouth.

This was also one of those rare occasions where Palace went into a match as favourites, although that was more to do with Brighton’s poor form than Trevor Francis’ samba football. Eleven straight defeats had seen the ‘weed languishing at the bottom of the table, and looking apprehensively towards a swift return to Division 2. And all this with talismanic striker Bobby ‘he’ll never amount to anything’ Zamora in their ranks. Palace too had hit something of a bump in the road, and the pressure was mounting on Francis. The previous game summed up our recent performances – drawing 2-2 having been 2 nil up after 75 minutes in our ‘away’ game against Wimbledon (thanks Shipperley).

The biggest gate of the season meant the atmosphere in the ground was electric, tampered only by the news that a few scuffles outside had meant kick off had to be delayed by 15 minutes. It didn’t matter though, as Palace were on the front foot from the get go. Barely four minutes had gone by when a looping corner from Julian Gray was volleyed back into the mix by Danny Granville, and Andy Johnson was at hand to delicately poke it home. In unusual fashion the Eagles continued to press, and were unlucky to have a Tony Popovic header from another corner ruled out because of a foul.

It was another Gray corner on 35 minutes that saw the Johnson score his second. Whipped low and hard to the near post, AJ dived acrobatically to nod it past ‘keeper Michael Kuipers to leave the Palace fans happy and in great voice come the half time whistle. This was Palace though, we had to remind ourselves, and as comfortable as the first half performance was it would presumably be a tighter second half affair –wouldn’t it?

We needn’t have worried though. Less than 10 minutes had passed after the restart when the Doog set AJ off and his little legs did the rest. Scurrying into the box with three players trailing in his wake, AJ was met by Danny Cullip who decided it was best to stop him by all means, unceremoniously dumping him on the floor, and the referee was given no choice but to award the penalty. With Palace fans calling for Johnson to be given the honours, Freedman instead stepped up and calmly smashed the ball into the roof of the net. This, AJ decided, would not do, and so he promptly won another penalty in almost a carbon copy of the first decision. This time the Scot could afford to be a little more generous, and so Johnson gratefully received the chance of a hat-trick, rolling the ball into the bottom right-hand corner. Brighton’s Paul Brooker was given his marching orders for this latest misdemeanor, wisely deciding to get out of Selhurst Park as quickly as he could.

By this stage the Palace fans were in full party mood, and the stadium was practically rocking. Everyone was happy, it seemed, apart from Julian Gray. Always an admirer of sexy football, he decided that two penalties were no way to end this mouth-watering match. Skipping past the bedraggled Brighton defenders, he rounded off the historic game with a beautiful fizzing shot low into the net.

After the game Francis claimed his side could have scored six or seven, but five suited me perfectly thank you very much. The performance more than matched the occasion, and in Johnson a Palace hero was born (he would go on to score another three goals in the following game against Walsall). As much as we love to hate Brighton, our games against them always promise to be something special. Bring on 27th September.

5 players who crossed the Palace - Brighton divide

Originally published on www.fiveyearplanfanzine.co.uk, May 25

Not many players have been brave enough to make the switch between Palace and Brighton, but after the news that the Eagles had snatched the Seagulls' best player in Glenn Murray this week, FYP's Sam Priddy looks at five others who have been as brave.

Dave Sexton

Dave Sexton joined Crystal Palace at the end of a short and relatively undistinguished career (he retired with us at the age of 29 in 1959). A striker, arguably his biggest achievement came in his two years at Brighton immediately preceding his move to green South London when, leading the line, he helped the club win the 1957-58 Third Division (South) Title. It was a particularly successful season for Sexton on a personal level too, as he notched up an impressive 26 goals. Being a high-scoring Brighton striker in a title-winning team meant the inevitable move to Palace came next where, despite a modest return of 11 goals in his one and only season with us, he then decided to hang up his boots. Sexton is best remembered for his managerial exploits – he won the FA Cup and European Cup Winners’ Cup with Chelsea – but I’m sure his fondest memories would have been of those beautiful 11 goals.

Neil Smillie

Neil Smillie is another member of that rare breed of players who achieved more success with Brighton than Crystal Palace. Starting his career at the Palace, Smillie notched up an impressive seven years in South London from 1975 to 1982, although in that time he only played for the Eagles 83 times. Lack of game time led to a succession of loans, including a dream move to North American Soccer League heavyweights the Memphis Rogues (“We’re the Ramblin’ Rogues from Memphis, the biggest kick in town!”), before he signed for our south coast chums in 1982. Smillie was part of the Brighton team that reached the FA Cup final against Manchester United in 1983. He played at left midfield in both games as the Seagull underdogs drew 2-2 in the first leg before being beaten in the second fixture (I think we can all empathise with that) by a team that included Ray Wilkins and Bryan Robson.

Gary O’Reilly

Gary O’Reilly only ever scored two goals for Crystal Palace, but ask any Palace fan and they’ll probably be able to tell you which ones they were (and possibly give you a play-by-play run through). His four years at Selhurst Park coincided with our most successful period of all time (1987-91), so I think we can probably forgive him his two spells and 107 caps with the Seagulls either side. Most memorably O’Reilly was part of the side that beat Liverpool 4-3 in the FA Cup semi-final of 1990, only a few months on from that 9-0 drubbing. Reflecting since, O’Reilly stated that ‘we knew we were never going to outplay Liverpool, so there had to be something else we could do’. O’Reilly himself scored our second goal on the way to a famous victory. In the final it was O’Reilly again who scored the opener with a header, before Ian Wright’s double took us to the second leg (but there’s no need to dwell on that). Brighton who?

Simon Rodger

There’s not really much I can say about Jolly that Palace fans don’t already know. Twelve years and 276 caps tell you all you need to know about his love for the club, and the feeling was most definitely mutual. Not bad for a £1,000 signing from Bognor Regis Town eh? Rodger was there through it all – from the highs of the promotions in 1994 and 1997 to the administration lows that swiftly followed – and he was never tempted to jump ship. Summing up his career on HOL one person wrote ‘if you cut Simon Rodger open, he would probably bleed red and blue’. After he left Palace in the early 00s Jolly soon found himself taking pity and joining Steve Coppell at our arch rivals to end his career, but no one at the Palace begrudged him his decision.

Jamie Smith

Prior to Glenn Murray’s arrival youngster Jamie Smith was the most recent player to cross the bitter divide when he joined Brighton from Palace in 2009. Full of initial promise, Smith progressed through the Palace Academy and was rewarded at the start of the 2008-09 season when he was given a one-year contract. Youth team coach Gary Issott was full of praise for Smith, describing him as ‘a diminutive attacking central midfielder in the mould of Eyal Berkovic’. Alas it was not to be and come the end of the season Smith was forced to look for a new club having failed to make an appearance for the Eagles. Following a successful trial he signed with Brighton, and had his contract renewed for a further season in 2010. Under Gus Poyet this season Smith has found his chances limited, and at 22 will be hoping to make a bigger impression soon.

What's up with Paddy McCarthy?

From defensive rock to Shakin' Stevens in a matter of months. What has happened to the Paddy McCarthy we all knew and loved last season? Sam Priddy has a think.

When Palace first signed Paddy McCarthy in the summer of 2008 it didn’t exactly set many hearts aflutter. Having watched Mark Hudson turn into a relatively decent player in his time at Selhurst Park it was incredibly disappointing to see him decide to move across town to hang out with our good friends at Charlton Athletic. In his place we got a Charlton hand-me-down; a little sympathetic gesture to soften the bitter blow of seeing one of our most consistent performers picking our fierce rivals over the club that had nurtured him out of his Fulham nappies. An Irish centre-back called Paddy no less. I for one can’t say I knew a whole lot about McCarthy, but the whole thing stank of mediocrity.

But alas, similar to the Clinton Morrison-Andy Johnson trade a few years earlier, it soon appeared that we had got the better end of the bargain as Paddy proved to be a much-needed rock in the heart of defence. His Clarence Seedorf impression against Derby that won the goal of the season award certainly didn’t do him any harm in the eyes of the Palace faithful either. Last season his heroics in keeping us up saw him named club captain following Sean Derry’s departure and everything seemed to be going swimmingly.

This season has been a different story however. In a shaky defence that has shipped in 59 goals already, McCarthy has at times looked the shakiest of the lot. The composure that endeared him to the fans seems to have disappeared, and instead we are treated to an almost weekly display of inconsistency and miscommunication with the rest of the defence.

There could be several reasons for this. It’s true that stability isn’t a word you would necessarily associate with our defence this season. Until fairly recently McCarthy had struggled to find a consistent partner, with Davis, Bennett, Gardner and even Alex Marrow shuffled round in the hope of finding the right combination. Regardless of the reasons for this – injuries, suspensions (oh hello Claude) – all too often McCarthy has had to shackle a new look defence when we needed it to be at its strongest. I’ve heard some people question his focus. Could it be that the added responsibilities of being captain are putting too much pressure on McCarthy?

That’s not to say it has all been bad however. The recent performances at home when playing with Anthony Gardener have shown there is certainly potential in their partnership. But still the cracks from earlier in the season won’t fully conceal themselves. Rash challenges on Shane Long in the 3-3 draw with Reading, and most recently against QPR, have shown McCarthy is still somewhat off the pace. Whether the red card was warranted or not, a suspension is not a welcome delight at this stage of the season. Nor was it nice to see a great performance against the stand out team in the league rendered useless.

But, having said that, I don’t think we should write off Paddy just yet, even though it is clear that he needs to have a reappraisal of his game. The little decisions, the positioning, the 50-50s that have been going against him have been costing us. He’s got an undesired break to mull it over.

Originally posted on Five Year Plan, the Crystal Palace fanzine, 28 March 2011

Have you ever come over a little Justin Bieber?

Back in September 2009 a few friends and I were having a few drinks on a Saturday night, before our planned assault on the cheap student nightlife of London town. At some point during the evening someone made us listen to the Chase and Status remix of the Nneka song 'Heartbeat'. Someone else then pointed out how well suited the song was for two iconic dance moves - the robot and the air guitar. Inspired, we filmed ourselves dancing along to it. Here was the result:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Os9LabSpbE8

We posted it online and the results were underwhelming. In about a month 80 people watched it. So we forgot about it.

Fast forward to 2011 and Rupert (who is so good at the robot they call it the 'ru-bot' these days) remembered our video and looked it up. To our great surprise it had gone viral. Not only had it been viewed by several thousand people, but a flood of comments were pouring in. I think I speak for all of us when I say we felt like 5 Justin Biebers.

If there is a downside to this uplifting tale it is said comments. Not only do very few people seem to appreciate our dancing, but we seemed to have united angry youngsters all over the world in hatred of posh boys (and no, I don't actually think we are that posh - aside from Peter 'yah guys, it's filming' Thompson-Glover).

The comments range from mild attacks ( 'how preppy are you!', 'Can see why you dance at home n not in public')...

...to genuinely upsetting observations ('wow a load of posh twats drinkig wine get a life u wankers im 15 and i got more of a life than u', 'room full of 19 y old virgins').

The last point in particular seems to have been appreciated by the Internet public, although it should be noted that, as Peter pointed out, most of us were at least 20. At least we can sleep sound in the knowledge that for the most part the spelling seems to be as much of an issue as the dancing in question. Thank God we can't see the comments that have been removed.

Will Gompertz - my new idol

This lunchtime I went along to a talk on modern art by Will Gompertz. For those of you who don't know he's the BBC's Arts Editor and appears on the news quite frequently doing unenviable things like interviewing film stars or visiting art galleries. He looks a bit like a mad professor (long hair flanking a rather bald brow) and, prior to today, was going someway to rivalling my all-time favourite BBC journalist, Andrew Marr. He seems to be getting almost as much airtime these days as Nick Robinson, and, like most humans, makes Robert Peston seem very dull and full of himself (but I must save my Peston rant for another time).

I don't know if I'm allowed to say why he was at our offices, so I'll keep quiet on that front for the time being. To our benefit he gave us a rendition of his Edinburgh Festival show, an introduction to modern art in the guise of a classroom lesson. The show was quite a success apparently, and the little man who introduced him (who was very excited) proudly exclaimed that it was a sell out. An embarrassed Gompertz pointed out that it was quite a small venue.

Gompertz really is an impressive speaker and had the whole room laughing from the start with his self-deprecating humour (he kept on stressing that he wasn't very funny). Best of all he didn't give a complete rendition of his Edinburgh show, but rather a commentary on what he did, so that we saw how he had gone about trying to make art funny. Some of it was rather childish and silly, but Gompertz was so aware of what he was doing that he made it rather endearing. In an effort to find out what we knew about art he made us all draw penises in the style of the art movements he wrote on his blackboard. It's not particularly nice seeing your mother draw a penis, especially when it's in a Pointillist manner, although my pop art penis was rather feeble compared to hers. Nevertheless he made something which could have been rather dull entertaining - I can most definitely see him presenting his own shows in the future. For the time being however he'll just have to settle with being my new idol.

Atonement

Three years after everyone else in the world saw it I finally got round to watching Joe Wright's 'Atonement' this weekend. It was a drizzly Sunday afternoon so a depressing film was in order, and Wright duly obliged. I must admit I haven't read the Ian McEwan book so was more attracted by it's Hollywood heavyweights, Keira Knightley and James McAvoy. I've been a particular fan of McAvoy's ever since he appeared in Shameless and State of Play (on the telly), and I was even more delighted to find out that he is a whole three inches shorter than me.

I was quietly hoping the film would be a bit of a failure though, in which case I could steal Rosamond Pike from the irritatingly successful Wright. If you haven't seen her in 'An Education' you should probably should do.

To my disappointment I was quite enjoying the film though. It is beautifully shot, has a nice loud typewriter detailing the various locations and features an incredibly rude word. I particularly liked the four-and-a-half minute long scene where McAvoy and his chums wander along the Dunkirk beach. It was refreshing to see Dunkirk in a darker, less triumphalist light.

Nevertheless whilst I was appreciating the movie I didn't anticipate in the slightest how upsetting I would find the last third of it. I think that the best films stay with you beyond the 3 hours spent watching them, and in the case of 'Atonement' I couldn't help but mull it over all day. It was completely haunting. I think I need to watch it again, but in the meantime Joe can keep Rosamond. He deserves her.

Ask Hadley

On my way home today I was accosted outside Kings Cross station by a man who pushed a copy of today's G2 into my hands. I thanked him, a little surprised, and he smiled at me and continued in his work, possibly the only person I have ever seen enjoying his job as a 'newspaper-thrusterer'. I was quite glad he did though as my journey home took a lot longer than it should have, during which time I read the supplement from cover to cover.

Of course, like everyone else who claims to have an interest in writing or anger, I'm a fan of Charlie Brooker, although his piece on fast food didn't leave any great impression on me. Instead I found myself chuckling along to the style agony aunt Hadley and her tirade against 'faux vintage' clothes - 'always sloganed clothing that features a juxtaposition of primary colours and says something unbelievably irritating such as "Jerry's Crayfish Stall"'.

Oh Hadley, how I feel your pain! My dislike of popular brands doesn't come from wanting to be different from everyone else (like those pretentious indie boys who wear granny clothes) but more from the sense that I would have been conned into trying to be cool. I'm not cool but I'm not particularly uncool either. I don't feel particularly strongly about making a statement with my clothes. I shop at Gap and Next ok?

Last week I went to Thorpe Park with a friend. We invented the games 'Jack Kills' and 'Supercry', which basically involved hurting each other whenever we saw a relevant piece of brattish clothing. Particularly uncool and childish but fun nevertheless. Well done Hadley.

My last few days of Solitude

Unbelievably the time has almost come for me to go home. It's quite surreal when I think that I've been away since January!

I'm currently in Port Douglas (Australia), about an hour north of Cairns. Ella abandoned me the other day and so my last few days have been with no-one but Gabriel Garcia Marquez and a few friendly lizards to keep me company. Talking of Ella, she's much better at this regular blogging malarky when it comes to travels. If you want a detailed account of what we've been up to Down Under you should probably visit hers! Otherwise ask to borrow my delightfully illustrated journal when I'm back.

There's a chatty Scottish guy in my dorm at the moment. He's been traveling since October 2008 and is disgusted that I've "given up" and decided to return home. He spends everyday playing computer games, smoking joints and trying it on with much younger female backpackers. I don't think I like him. But anyway, each to his own. I can't imagine hating home so much that you'd never want to return. Luckily I love old London town.

See you soon!

Home?

After spending the last few months venturing through Central and South America I was excited to be visiting New Zealand, a country where I could practise my very best English.

I hadn't realised that language wasn't the only similarity this country has with my fair homeland however. Not only does the traveller circuit seem to be completely swamped with Brits, there are a huge number of ex-pats working here (the hostel I stayed in last night was owned by a bloke from Burnley), the Queen adorns their coins and they even drive on the left side of the road.

I could deal with these minor irritations however - the reason I had come to New Zealand was the stunning scenery. Of course, it turns out that New Zealand looks identical to England too. The fields remind me of Somerset and the coast (draped in drizzle) is reminiscent of those dreary summer holiday days spent in Cornwall. Even dolphins weren't enough to convince me that I hadn't actually come home.

I do love home, but I've travelled half way around the world to see something a bit different. Apparently things get a bit more interesting as I head further south...

A Little Blue in the Face...

The worst aspect of the rainforest is, without doubt, the insects. Despite smearing toxic ´DEET´ over my body several times a day those pesky mosquitos always find a way of getting to my supple skin.

So imagine my sheer delight when Gigo, a member of staff working at Taricaya Ecological Reserve, told me of a totally effective natural insect repellant. We were checking on our butterfly traps deep in the jungle when he spotted some fruits lying on the ground. I was told that such fruits could only be collected two or three times a year and that, when mixed with alcohol, they produced a smell so strong that not even the most determined mosquito could bear to get within a few yards of you. To demonstrate the effectiveness of said fruit Gigo then proceeded to show me his arms which were, surprisingly, completely free of the marks and blisters that have become a trademark of mine.

I was very excited. Gigo also assured me that the repellant would be effective for a whole week. This meant that not only would I be protected against the critters, but that it would save me a lot of money too (manufactured repellant doesn't come cheap).

That night, along with about fifteen of the other volunteers, we prepared the fruit. We sliced them in half and then mixed the seeds with alcohol to make a paste. Then we all covered ourselves, not wanting to leave any skin exposed. Gigo helpfully rubbed the repellant all over my face.

Of course in hindsight I realise that everything about Gigo´s story sounded too good to be true. A free, natural, 100% effective insect repellant? Of course it wasn´t. A couple of hours later we discovered the real function of the devilish fruit - it is used to make the paint that people in this region of Peru use to colour their houses. And so now, along with practically every other volunteer, my face and arms are completely blue, and will be for the whole next week...

This week I have been mostly...

... struggling with sickness.

This has not been fun in the slightest. Before coming to the jungle I had been warned that it would be a common occurence but there still wasn't much I could do to prevent it. Despite the numerous pills I popped and gallons of water I drank nothing would stop my fever, headache and stomach cramps. I got quite delusional at one point, and if there is one thing in the jungle that you don't need more of I can assure you it is sweat.

One misguided fool back in the UK just told me she thinks it all sounds "quite romantic/film-like". I would like to show her my toilet bowl.

Aside from this near-death experience the week had a few highlights. I added to my growing list of fishing triumphs with four fish caught of the back of a boat with only a stick, piece of string and worms I'd pulled out of the ground, performed admirably in a sack race, had egg splatted in my face from thirty yards in the infamous 'egg catching contest', and planted cedar saplings for an indigenous tribe. So it's not all bad.

Amazonian Adventures

I really need to learn to read the small print of things. It's all very well signing up for a once-in-a-lifetime trip to the Peruvian rainforest to save baby animals but to be honest I wouldn't have done it if I'd known one thing.

Deep in the Amazon rainforest, two hours by boat from the nearest town (Puerto Maldonado) and staying in a lodge where water comes from a nearby creek and they only turn the electricity generator on for a few hours each day - there is NO internet access. Can you believe it? As such I can only get online once a week to update everyone with my news.

If, however, I can get over my impending technological solitude (sorry that sounds quite pretentious) I think I might grow to love this place.

I'm going to be living at Taricaya Lodge for the next two months. It's situated on the banks of the Madre de Dios River in Eastern Peru, a few hours from both the Bolivian and Brazilian borders. Along with about fifteen other volunteers (and a sprinkling of staff) my time here will be spent looking after numerous species of animals (most of them were previously pets) in order to prepare them for release back into the wild.

I've only been here a couple of days but already I've been introduced to a couple of huge tapirs (we want them to get frisky), numerous parrots, a couple of toucans, an otter called Sid who thinks he is a dog, a released owl who doesn't get the idea, and some small wild cats. There is also a jaguar who is too fat and comfortable to ever be released, but I haven't had the pleasure of meeting her yet. As opposed to the tapirs she is feeling rather raunchy and so wakes me up every morning with her mating call. I'm going to keep my eyes out for some males in the area...

I also have a roomate called Matt. He is a tarantula who eats all the insects in my room in return for lodging and my constant sense of paranoia.

So maybe I'll just leave my fantasy football transfers this week.

Postcards from Far Away

I´ve been feeling badly recently regarding my lack of blogging on my travels. And by ´lack´ I of course mean I have yet to write anything. And I´ve been away since January! As someone who aspires to have a career in writing this is not great news.

It doesn´t help that every travelling Tom, Dick and Harry have also written blogs on a nearly daily basis, and have made a point of informing me of this regularly, suggesting that I ´check it out´. I don´t want to check it out. I barely know Mike from Scunthorpe, and I certainly don´t want to read his overly-flowery description of the hostel I´ve spent the last four weeks in. I´ve seen the iguanas too Mike.

But I fear my guilt-ridden bitterness is shining through...

The most annoying thing about all of this is I have probably written more in the last month or so than in the previous four combined. First and foremost there have been the numerous emails, text messages, BBM messages (some function on my Blackberry that I still don´t really understand...) and Facebook posts that I have used to communicate with loved ones back in Blighty.

I´ve also spent quite a fair bit of time writing in my travel journal - a black Moleskine notebook given to me for Christmas. I´ve become a bit obsessed with it actually, perhaps inspired by watching ´The Motorcycle Diaries´ just before I left. I don´t like to compare myself to Che Guevara, but if there´s any chance I one day become a famous author I have to make sure the diary of my travels reads well!

Still, this is the only old-fashioned way of charting my travels that I have so far used. The Internet has completely revolutionised the gap year. I thought I was escaping everything back home (trying to find myself etc.), but in some ways I feel like I´m just as plugged in to what is happening in London as I was when I was living there. And I haven´t even started on Skype. Not only can I speak to my family but I can see them too! Admittedly I had never used a webcam before so this had added wow-factor.

And so, in terms of practicality, it seems like the age of the postcard is over. Nevertheless, it is always nice to recieve a little token from someone´s adventures. I have my fingers crossed that the Costa Rican postal service sorts itself out soon...

Movember!

Hello there. Those of you that know me may be aware that I like to do my bit for charity. I'm a giving guy, and always have been. I'll hold my hands up to that. Over the years I've done various things, but this Movember I faced my toughest challenge yet. Along with my work colleagues and thousands of men around the world I have been attempting to grow a moustache in aid of the Prostate Cancer Charity. Whilst some gentlemen may find such a challenge fun, stimulating, or even easy, this was not the case for me...

The one thing I was fairly confident I wouldn't have to worry about was the actual growing process. If you're lucky enough you may have witnessed the 'forest of love' that is my stomach you will know that follicley-challenged I am not. But this was far from my main concern.

When you think of Sam Priddy you think of two things: sexy football and sexy women. I was confident that my football would not suffer. If anything, I mused on a rainy late-October afternoon, my hirsute lip might strike fear into opposing defenses. I was more concerned, as ever, with the ladies. When you have a face like mine certain things are taken for granted, and adding a furry accessory could jeopardise my entire reputation. Whilst Movember has so far seen a continuation of the scintillating soccer that scouts across the world are used to seeing from me, the line of women that used to greet me outside my house every morning has dwindled, nay, stopped altogether. This has been a very hard time for me, and so any money you could donate to this fine charity would certainly help to cheer me up. I’ve done the math, and if every one of my Facebook friends gives just a pound we will have made £1,346,899. And people think that popularity is overrated…

In all seriousness though, whilst this explanation must have convinced you of my idiocy, the cause is most definitely one worth supporting. This charity works to provide support and information on prostate cancer, as well as funding further research into the causes of the disease. All the information you need to know can be found at www.prostate-cancer.org.uk, and if you want to know more about Movember head to www.movember.com.

To sponser me go to my justgiving page - www.justgiving.com/samgetshairy. Thanks.

Work Bonus

Got a new job which was nice. It's not bad either, pretty interesting work and my desk overlooks the River Thames (in London). If I crane my neck to the right I can watch the London Eye spin its way merrily through another day in the capital. And as I'm packing up my things to leave I'm greeted with the actual Waterloo sunset, the one the Kinks were always going on about. It's also paying for my amazing adventure around the world in January. So I should be pretty happy.

Alas things are not so smooth. Someone had the genius idea of creating a shelf and filling it full of books that hadn't been sold so that employees could have them instead. It has the intimidating name of 'the Pulp Shelf' and it is the bane of my working life. Don't get me wrong, at first I was over the moon at such a prospect. The people all around me told me of the old classics they had picked up, and I was worryingly excited when I managed to acquire a copy of that essential bedside reading 'The Fabric of the Cosmos' by Brian Greene. (It had a nice vintage cover).

For the last five days however I have dreaded going to the Pulp Shelf. Everytime I head down on the lift I allow myself to dream. For a few seconds there is a tiny glimmer of hope that all the best books haven't already been snatched up, and then, in a horrifying instant, it is shattered in the most humiliating fashion by Fern Britton's smiling face. She looks down at me from her autobiography and she mocks me. Every morning. It's a horrible way to start your day.

Moon

Popped along to the cinema with Little Girl Clark the other night and to our pleasant surprise twas 'Bargain Tuesdays'. We watched the Sam Rockwell film 'Moon', and I must say it was pretty darn good. If I went into any more detail it would wreck the entire plot.

But Kevin Spacey plays a robot.

Twilight

The teenage girl inside me had been bugging me to see this film. It seems to be all that anyone had been talking about for ages and so, when I spotted it in the sale at HMV I bought a copy, bowing my head in a feeble attempt to hide my face from the guy at the checkout. To his credit he showed no scorn whatsoever.

I was intrigued as to why there was such hysteria over the film. All I knew before I watched it was that it had a good looking vampire boy who falls in love with a human girl. Not exactly groundbreaking in terms of originality, but my sister had assured me that the tension between the two leads was unbelievable. Someone else had informed me that there were lots of luscious shots of woods, which was far more to my liking.

Encouragingly the film started well, as it followed a young girl as she moved to her father’s home in Washington State. The opening shots reminded me of an indie film, but unfortunately the rest of the film was fairly underwhelming. The main problem as I saw it was a severe lack of plot. I’m sure the Stephanie Meyer books are more complex, but the film was incredibly simple. The first half deals with Kristen Stewart’s character finding out about a vampire boy (and then falling in love with him) and the second half seems almost tacked on, as Robert Pattinson’s vampire attempts to protect her from another blood-sucker who has taken a shine to her.

The opening section is by far the better, as we learn about the vampire family (including a tour of their house in the woods) and love blossoms between the two main characters Bella and Edward. There are a few particularly nice touches: the vampires we meet are ‘vegetarians’ who feed on animals not humans, yet there is a tension between Edward and Bella as we are informed that, as much as he may love her, he also has a strong desire to drink her blood. Other interesting plot strands are brushed over, for example Bella’s relationship with her father (who she hasn’t seen for years), and the role of the American Indian tribe in relation to the vampires. Lots of angry glances don’t fully explain why the Indians have such power over the vampires.

A lot of the film is cheesy. The romance seemed inevitable as did the triumph over the vampire (who used to be in the O.C.) at the end. Whilst there are lots of great views of the woods, there are many more unanswered questions. Ultimately the film’s main problem is that it is the first in a series, and as a stand-alone film it doesn’t quite work.

Bloodbank

I’ve always been someone who is conscious of their role in society. My country looks after me and so, in turn, I feel I should give something back every now and again. In dramatic and brave fashion my gift to my society is my blood. One litre of it, every three months. And yes, I still don’t really understand why I’m not seen as a self-sacrificing heartthrob like that guy in Twilight. But I can put such shallow concerns behind me, and I did a couple of weeks ago in Brixton when I headed to the assembly hall to drain myself for the good of others.

I first started giving blood when I was seventeen, but I must admit I’ve been a little lax of recent. It doesn’t help that the previous two times I had attempted to give blood I had failed miserably: once because I was suspected of having some sort of North American bird flu, and the other time because they stuck the needle in the wrong place. This incident, which occurred up in Leamington Spa, was particularly embarrassing because I was trying to convince my then girlfriend to give blood, and she had come along with me.

As I lay back on the bed, with her looking over anxiously at me, I gave her a confident smile. The nurse then ever so quickly stuck a needle in me, whilst explaining how shattered she was from her day’s work. The pain was a lot greater than normal, but when I was asked how I was feeling I obviously said I was fine – I wasn’t going to seem weak in front of my girlfriend, especially as I was trying to convince her that the whole process was relatively pain-free.

It turned out they had missed my vein and stuck the needle into my muscle. Not only was this bad but first I was criticised (“Squeeze your hand harder, you’re slower than most…”) and then the nurse decided it was my fault because I had “small veins”. All the while I was trying to choke back tears . Of course, the whole error had nothing to do with the overworked nurse.

I put these past misfortunes behind me however, and the unsettling thought of actively volunteering to spill blood in Brixton, and marched down to the Lambeth Town Hall, little red donation card in pocket. I filled out the usual forms (‘Have you ever had sex with a man?; Have you ever paid for sex?; Have you ever had sex with a man who has paid for sex?’) and somehow managed to insult the woman on reception before eventually getting to donate blood.

Whilst lying down, squeezing my hand as fast as I possibly could (I’m not slower than most…), I encountered one of the funniest people I have ever seen.

A nurse was attending to the woman lying next to me when the patient’s husband walked up, a large man unsurprisingly clad in a Welsh rugby shirt. He paused, took a long look into the nurse’s eyes (a large Carribean woman who couldn’t have been more motherly if she tried) and then came out with the type of comic gold that would have been firmly at home on ‘The Office’:

“125 donations”, he said, leaving a moment for dramatic effect.

Then, with his eyes bulging he followed up with the killer punch – “Platelets”.

The nurse wasn’t really listening but he went on anyway, describing how there was a times when he had a needle in each arm (“pumping it out I was”). All the while his poor wife was lying next to him in silence. I was enjoying this thoroughly, when he managed to top everything by saying, “Once the doctors came up to me and said, ‘This blood is going to the children’s hospital, because it’s so PURE’”.

I couldn’t believe this man, and it was enormously satisfying to hear the nurse follow up his ridiculous boasting by asking him why he wasn’t giving any blood right then. He shrugged and explained he was diabetic, before going on a tirade against the blood services because he had once found out his blood was going to private hospitals. God forbid a dying person in a private hospital gets treated! The nurse correctly showed how stupid his argument was, but all he had to say was, “I’m not for sale”. I left the donation session with the conclusion that someone should give this man his own television show.

In the meantime give blood.

District 9

It is always easiest to criticise films, as opposed to praising them. Such films also allow me to get out my trademark biting humour. Because of these factors it is somewhat disappointing that the first few films I should see as I start writing my blog should all be rather good, and District 9 is no exception.

The film ran a rather good marketing campaign, and for the last couple of weeks or so I have been bombarded with ‘For Humans Only’ adverts on bus stops. I was also aware that Peter Jackson had produced the film, which no doubt helped getting it so much exposure, especially as it was a South African film with a previously unheard of director (Neill Blomkamp). I had no real intention of seeing it however, for whilst I thought the alien/apartheid metaphor was a neat idea the trailer had made it out to be a crude horror film in which I presumed the aliens just massacred the humans due to their maltreatment. I cannot admit to being a particular fan of horror films, but I was luckily convinced to go by a friend.

Parts of the film are shot like a documentary, supposedly some time after the events took place, and this gives a ‘realistic’ feel to what otherwise might have simply been a simple sci-fi action film. It is on the whole well acted, and the fact it is in South Africa immediately distinguishes it from most Hollywood alien films. What surprised me most was the plot. I had been expecting a tense build up until the first glimpse of a horrifying alien, but in actual fact the audience are shown the aliens wandering around from almost the first minute. The fact that they are also vaguely human in shape also means that, as the film progresses, it is easy to feel sympathy for them (a point Blomkamp has admitted was necessary, even if it was not what he originally intended them to look like). After the initial explanation of events (an alien spacecraft appeared over Johannesburg in 1982, and the aliens were subsequently detained in the grotty ‘District 9’) a gripping thriller begins as a human is infected by the aliens and has to team up with an alien to save himself, whilst the alien tries to find a way to return to his mothership. It all sounds a bit run-of-the-mill sci-fi, but the realistic character development, as well as the fast pace of the movie mean it is a step above most films in this genre.

Unfortunately the film leaves a lot of unanswered questions, and was obviously developed with a sequel, or indeed prequel, in mind. Here are just a few niggling thoughts that filled my mind when I left the cinema:

• Why did the spaceship come to rest over Johannesburg in the main place? (PREQUEL)
• Why are all the aliens so ill? (PREQUEL)
• If the spaceship is no longer capable of moving, how does it manage to hover above a city? (this question is more to do with alien technology logistics, but still irritated me a little)
• Why do human rights groups campaign for the aliens?
• Why does the lead character sound Irish every time he says the word ‘fuck’?
• For a film that takes its inspiration from apartheid, and especially the relocation of black people from District 6 in Cape Town in 1966, why does it portray Nigerians as criminals, prostitutes and witch doctors? (In fairness I do not believe this was intentional xenophobia on the part of the filmmakers, but is nonetheless unfortunate).
• Why is the child alien so smart?
• Why does Wikus (the main character) insist on calling the main alien Christopher Johnson, when the humans gave him that name?
• Does Christopher Johnson (sorry…) save his race? SEQUEL
• Does Wikus ever turn back into a human? SEQUEL

Even with all these hanging queries I found the film to be highly enjoyable, and would most definitely recommend it. Hopefully the next film I see will be awful…

Pukkelpop!

No one has ever heard of Pukkelpop, no one knows where it is, and no one has ever been. Yet myself and a few friends (Henry, Slutty, Ed and his little brother Alex) found ourselves at this obscure Belgian musical festival near the city of Hasselt this August. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. First of all I had never been to a music festival, but I was aware of the likes of Glastonbury, Leeds, Reading and Bestival. Even Exit in Serbia. This however, was a trip into the unknown.

When we arrived sweating on an overcrowded bus and were dumped in a dusty lay-by, my optimism over-shadowed the sense of dread that I should have been feeling. There were literally thousands of people everywhere. The Belgian police struggled to contain them as they spilled onto the four-lane road that handily dissected the festival from the camping area. As we queued to get into the dirty field that would be our home for the next four nights (a rather annoying ritual that would be repeated every time we wanted to go back to our tents) the sun bore down on our backs and by the time we could finally relax all of us were soaked through from our exertions.

Apparently 180,000 people visited over the three days we were there, which is not surprising. There were enormous queues for everything: the toilets, the showers (we only managed one the whole time we were there), and obviously to get into the arenas. The camping area was unlike anything I had ever seen. Tents were literally built on top of one another. It was so hard to find your way out of the tent city that had been hastily erected that every time we attempted it one of us would have to ‘run point’, picking a suitable route for the others to follow. All of us, needless to say, were useless at this and so there were numerous incidences of us stumbling over other tents and people, typically couples. One particularly funny moment saw Henry, as one of the elder statesmen, explaining to the somewhat naïve Alex that sometimes all you needed to do was to jump over the tough-looking stretches. This was inevitably followed by him attempting to do so, landing in a pool of mud and falling flat on his back. Whilst I am not a fan of camping, this ordeal was a small price to pay for the overall fun that we had at the festival. Here is my verdict on the acts we saw:

• The Maccabees – I found myself surprised by how much I liked their music. Special points for enthusiasm to the guitarist (Felix White) who threw himself about the stage like he was headlining Glastonbury despite actually playing to about 300 hungover people at eleven o’clock in the morning.
• The Twang – entertaining, but for all the wrong reasons. I must admit I had actually bought a song by them before, but I don’t think I’ll be doing it again. I had thought they were a young indie-pop group, but they were actually two mental, fairly old guys from Birmingham who thought they were the Gallagher brothers. One of them couldn’t sing and kept on doing the ‘come and ‘ave it’ gesture, whilst the other one retired at one point to get a whisky. They weren’t good enough to justify such rock’n’roll behaviour.
• Bon Iver – I had to drag my friends to this one, and was thoroughly rewarded. Justin Vernon’s voice is just as pained live as it is on the record, and it was amazing to see how all four members of the band harmonised. Henry got particularly emotional when the crowd repeatedly sung the line ‘What might have been lost’ from ‘Wolves’. Lovely stuff.
• Dizzee Rascal – we struck grimy gold with this one. The London MC followed Bon Iver meaning that all the indie fans couldn’t get out of the arena fast enough and we found ourselves at the very front. To make things even better he climbed on top of Ed and we got to touch his torso whilst he sang one of his hits. He is also an especially entertaining performer who had the entire crowd jumping throughout, despite the fact it was said to be somewhere in the region of 38˚. The best act we saw at Pukkelpop.
• La Roux – went down a right treat with the Belgians. Elly Jackson didn’t even attempt to sing the chorus of ‘Bulletproof’. She also smiles a lot more than you would expect, and looked genuinely touched by the adoration of the Flemish public.
• Faith No More – Alex quite literally dragged us to this one. We’d never heard of them but apparently they used to be quite big. Fairly average, but there was one entertaining moment when a fan got onto the stage and jumped off straight into a barrier. Someone should also tell the lead singer not to wear a peachy shirt and trousers combo. Their songs were so dire that we instead started singing along to Alicia Keys’ ‘Falling’, to the annoyance of the Belgian rock fans around us.
• The Ting Tings – worked the crowd well and impressed me with their playing of various different instruments, often at the same time. Better than I thought they’d be, but I still don’t know what her name is.
• Snow Patrol – the lead singer graciously chatted to the crowd a lot, but there was something quite irritating in the manner with which he did it (as if he knew they loved him). THEY DIDN’T PLAY ‘RUN’.
• Jack Peñate – a brilliant performer. He also has more hits than I’d realised. And he spat on us!
• Rusko – Henry’s dubstep recommendation. Great fun, but mostly because it was in a tiny heaving tent where we all got split up (I climbed up into the stands whilst Henry and Ed were carried away by security).
• 50 Cent – dire. Also, the members of G-Unit swear too much.
• N.E.R.D. – can’t actually remember much of this. I don’t think I was too impressed though.
• Arctic Monkeys – I really wanted to like them, but they were atrocious. Firstly they were awful performers, not saying anything and just standing there strumming their guitars. They were really, really boring and the majority of the songs they played were b-sides or ones from their then yet-to-be-released album. I think they were probably good if you knew all of their songs, Slutty certainly enjoyed it. People have since told me that they’re just shy and don’t like performing, but to me it looked like they just couldn’t be bothered to make an effort. It was a shame they were the last act we saw.

All in all though it was a thoroughly enjoyable few days and it was with sadness that we arose at five in the morning, after a couple of hours of sleep, to drive back to Bruges. To his credit Ed only fell asleep at the wheel once.