I'm Hot to Trotsky!

Now, for someone who blogs to admit they're not 'on' social media, these days seems like a counter-productive action. And yes, I'm aware that my recent blogs are far from recent (but then, like the boy in the joke, 'up until now, everything has been satisfactory")

But I dropped Facebook in December, and recently I lost my enthusiasm for Twitter. My political leanings meant that, at some point, it was a dead-cert I'd offend someone in my circle of FB friends, by rounding on UKIP, or the ubiquitous Help For Heros, or my dislike of religious dogma. So, I dropped off that radar, and felt all the better for it. Plus, it's much easier to give that up than smoking (coff, coff).

But no-one knows me on Twitter, and that seemed a reasonable way to stay in touch with favourite artists, and movements, and some of the people I admire, as well as drop in the occasional bon-mots about what the Tory Party are doing to our country, or what the Religious Right are trying to achieve in the U.S.

Imagine my surprise then, shortly after I re-joined the Labour Party in September when it appeared to have come back to the people, to find all sorts of in-fighting going on within the Twitterati. Nothing new there, I suppose, since everyone knows the interweb is full of trolls and bullies who take pleasure in belittling people's thoughts, ideas and beliefs. Except, a lot of these people throwing words like Trot, Commie, and traitor around at the new-found enthusiasm for the left of the Labour Party, were not Right -Wing nuts, or EDL bigots. Oh no, they were - that's right, folks - Labour Party MPs!!

In a horrific example of standing up for democracy, and then complaining when it doesn't bring the results they wanted, a large number of the PLP have spent the last few months roundly accusing supporters of Jeremy Corbyn and Tom Watson, as well as John McDonnell, of being Extreme Left Wing, Militant Tendency Trotskyists who want to storm the Houses of Parliament, string up the Lords and share the wealth around using insurrection and anarchy.  I myself, and a number of my Twitter friends and acquaintances, were immediately blocked by Tom Blenkinsop MP, for simply asking questions about why they were undermining the will of a majority of the Party by sniping and infighting around Jeremy's style of leadership. There was no discussion - scores of people were tweeting the same thing about Mr Blenkinsop - that he, or someone on his team (because surely he had better things to be doing) was blocking anyone who posted such a question, without having the decency to even respond to them first. Mr Blenkinsop is not alone - Michael Dugher MP has also been casting aspersions about the direction the Party is now headed, simply because they seem to be scared that their careers will suffer if Labour aren't elected.

Now, I've stated before on FB (when I was still addicted) that the best thing they could do would be to start a new political party to put forward their, mostly spin-driven, brand of centre right opinions and policies. A party where they could pick a leader on their image, or their lifestyle choices, and on their electability alone. Then they could spend 5 years back-tracking on pledges and manifesto promises, the way New Labour did once they'd become the establishment, or Nick Clegg did when he finally flip-flopped his way to a decision on which party the Lib-Dems would attach themselves to in 2010.

What MY Labour Party doesn't need is the petty back-biting and sniping that's been taking place since the leadership election. Especially now, when there are so many things imploding in the Conservative Party, who've traditionally been seen as the divided ones. At a time when we could and should be widening those cracks in their facade, and showing how our party can and will listen to the voters on taxation, Europe, Trident and austerity, we are losing the fight because of the deliberate apathy of large parts of the PLP who want to take their ball (or Balls) and go home.

I really hope that, together, the Party can put these ridiculous arguments to one side (or preferably see the light and forget them completely), so that we can unite to bring the country back to becoming once again a socially caring, responsible assortment of people of all creeds, colours and beliefs. That is what the Labour movement has always been about. Let's allow people to see that side of us. Please?

Bicester - Can we have our town back please, Mister?

Now, I've just driven home through the rain, up Middleton Stoney Road away from Bicester Town Centre.  Rainy days are nothing out of the ordinary, of course, it's what makes this a green and pleasant land. I wouldn't say, though, that today was too pleasant for the poor person standing on the Bicester side of the road, waiting to cross at the new Pelican Crossing that's been installed. Soaked to the skin is not a great way to set you up for the evening, but that's what they must be now, because of the poor thought that went into the planning or preparation of the crossing. There is a natural 'dip' in the road there, and the poor drainage that dogs roads all across the area (Bicester isn't alone in that problem) means that even a relatively small session of moderate rain creates a small lake. Anywhere down the road, I'd suggest that isn't acceptable given the work that's been done, and continues to be done, on making this an experimental test-bed - sorry, that should read Garden town - but the fact it is EXACTLY where the only pedestrian crossing is sited, strikes me as just poor planning and/or execution.

Not only that, but between the planners and whoever plans out public Transport, they have decided to site a bus-stop near the crossing.  No, that's not correct - it's immediately next to the crossing. So, if a bus has stopped there, vision for drivers coming in the direction I was tonight is badly compromised should there also be anybody waiting on the town side to cross the road. Surely a little forethought would help in just moving the stop some 20 yards closer to town?

But it doesn't end there. The mysterious traffic-calming bumps that suddenly appeared like molehills (originally without markings to highlight them, but we'll let that pass) are probably a good idea. They're certainly better than the road-narrowing that was originally mooted, or intrusive traffic islands as are used in surrounding villages. However, when you then add in cycle lanes in either direction, but without a widening of the road, you are creating an environment that will end in injury, damage and possibly worse. The two measures are to be applauded, but not combined. The natural tendency of some drivers to try and avoid the bumps by steering either to the kerb, or to the centre of the road, means an accident is waiting to happen. Why not take the opportunity to widen the road on the Kingsmere side?

It strikes me that planners are paying no attention whatsoever to Bicester residents when it comes to traffic planning and infrastructure, and are just steam-rolling on (pun intended) to enable house-building and commercial developments first, without ensuring simple things like this, and Doctors' Surgeries, and schools, and on and on, are put in place and committed to in a structured way to avoid stretching the existing resources up to and beyond their limits.

We need councillors who will do just that - listen - and involve residents in decisions that impact on those residents daily lives.

Now, who's looking forward to negotiating the A41 approach into Bicester in October for Black Friday, now the new "Supersize" Tescos is about to open?

Sunday Salads

When I was young, I recall I loved to eat cucumber - not in those slight, prissy slices, regardless of skin on or off - no, I could eat a whole one, gnawing it just as it was. Cucumber is refreshing in any case, but so much more of a thirst quencher when it's eaten 'au naturelle'. Whole cucumber, cut in half, and just devoured. My summer treat - especially since, every Sunday in summer, we had salad for Tea. Cucumber, a great wedge of Red Leicester, pickled beetroot, lettuce, boiled egg (I skipped that - I was a fussy little bugger), spring onions, and either ham, or tinned salmon, with the crunchy little bones mixed in it. All the above, as is obvious I suppose, since it's the first paragraph of the book, is apropos of nothing, other than the fact that my daughter is reading a book called 'Cool As A Cucumber', and, after switching her reading light off and coming downstairs, I set to thinking about these things. Does everybody do that? I suppose (or can only hope) that we do. Something crops up, you recall something from your past, it leads on to other thoughts - it may even lead you to write them down‚ See, there I go again. 

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I begin to write this, because it occurs to me, more and more every day, that I know next to nothing of my parents' lives before my involvement in them. As each day passes now that I'm a parent, I think about how little I can tell our children about mum and dad, other than how much they would love them, and be loved in return. The main reason, then, for this account, is to shed a little light on my life, for them to read when I'm either gone, or no longer in a position to tell them tales of who I am, what I've done, why I did it, and why it went wrong, or so spectacularly right once I met their mother and they burst forth on the world as a result of that love. They may not want to know, they may well find it excruciatingly dull - Charlie Small I most certainly am not - but at least there won't be an empty space where their father's previous life is concerned, which is the part that's hardest for me to come to terms with. I was born in July, 1962, shortly before the Sixties burst open with the advent of The Beatles. I think it was very nice of them to wait until after I was born to make their entrance; given the fact they actually recorded a version of Love Me Do in June, it appears they were conscious of the fact they'd spoil this story by entering the scene too soon, so pleasingly waited until November to release the song. I have been forever grateful, and will continue to be so, as evidenced by the amount of money I have given to each of them over the years. As I have to E.M.I., though what they ever did for it, I don't know. 

 I was a 'late' baby; mum and dad were both 40 when I was born, and my brother and sister were 12 and 9. I found out much later, in fact after both my parents had died, that they'd had another child who had been still-born. The facts of this are still foggy to me - I don't know how long before my birth this happened; I'd imagine 2 or 3 years, but that's purely conjecture. Like a lot of this story, for whatever reason I was never told, nor did I ever ask. Since I was certainly big enough and ugly enough when I found out about my lost older brother, I have no idea why I failed to ask then. I was 29, married, moved away - so why, then, didn't I? Possibly because I still had a lot of the spoilt child about me, and I wanted to hide from it, and from the fact that they were both gone now, way before their time, and I thought I'd find out in the natural course of time. Well, here we are, twenty years later, and I still haven't asked. I promise you, I will do my best to fill in all these missing links once this book is finished. If I can find enough out, I may add it as an appendix.. The fact that I was a late addition, that my parents were quite old (in those days, I think since the trend was not for career women, families were had quite early, and 40 was considered old - seems these days, 40 is probably considered too young, unless you're already a CEO), and that my siblings were a fair bit older than me, goes some way to explaining why there were huge parts of my parents' lives that were never open to me, and to why I never asked. I was never really in the position to. We weren't an open chatty family - not that we weren't close and very affectionate; mum would always be cuddling us, telling us she loved us, and that was evident anyway - we just never sat down and talked about things like - well, anything, to be honest. Part of that may be down to my brother growing up and leaving home so quickly. The family unit wasn't a unit for very long, and certainly not at all by the time I was old enough to even think about these things, let alone discuss them.But I get ahead of myself.. 

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Alice Patricia (Pat) D*****, my mum, was born in October 1921, in Shepherds Bush, London. It was a house I visited quite a few times until I was about 7 or 8 (there I go, vague again). A typical London townhouse, I think three storeys high, but with a basement. I was always fascinated by the steps leading up to the front door, and by the steps leading down to the tiny patch of ground between the front of the house and the pavement, and thus to the coal store, and the door to the basement rooms, and the image of them stayed with me. Both my maternal Grandparents were pretty tiny, it seems to me, or at least that's my abiding memory. They'd both died by the time I was 6, I think, so for all I know Grandad was actually 6' tall, but I don't think so, given the stature I inherited. There was a sister, and two brothers; Bet, Dennis & Ron. I knew and loved Auntie Bet best of all; Uncle Den I knew less well, and he died before I was 9; Uncle Ron I knew not at all. He'd been killed in Italy, and in my youth I'd always imagined it to be during the war, since I had been told he'd died when his tank, or armoured vehicle, went over a verge. In actual fact, it was after the war in Europe had ended, but he was still on active service, in 1946. When I was young, I suppose I'd imagined it to be tragic, but no more so than the millions of soldiers, sailors, airmen or civilians who'd lost their lives over those unimaginably horrific 5 and a half years. Finding out later that it was after peace had broken out, makes it seem more of a waste of life, so heart-rending that his parents, and brother and sisters had lost him, just when they all thought that they'd all survived, where so many families had been shattered. 

 Pat and Bet were beautiful; I've seen pictures of them, taken during the war, and they stand out. In fact I remember a picture that showed them to be not unlike the then Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret, with whom they were near contemporaries. Mum was a brunette, and Auntie Bet fit the description 'flame-haired'. I know nothing of what they did, what their ambitions were, when they were young. I do know (or think I know) that mum had an opportunity to go to Grammar school, and there was veiled talk about further education beyond that, but, and this is only an assumption, World War 2 put paid to that. Mum joined the WRAF, as I think did her sister. Somehow, as a result of that, and of the rootlessness and wrenching apart of families that the war led to, Mum met Dad. In an age before the war, it would have seemed unlikely that two people born so far apart would have even met, let alone married. Mum born in West London, Dad in Lincolnshire, 170 miles away. And yet it was only because of this horrendous conflagration, with so much death and destruction, displacement and rupturing of familes, that our family, my immediate family, came to be. Neither of my parents, despite the fact they came to find each other because of it, were ever in the least bit sentimental for 'The War Years'. I have them to thank for fashioning my opinion of what war means, and what it can do to peoples lives and friendships, and my thanks are eternal. Not for them the rosy reminiscences of times when everyone pulled together, and every man and woman looked after each other, and you could leave your front door unlocked. No memories of how, with backs to the wall, and shoulders to the grindstone, united against the enemy the nation fought its way to freedom for all. No, when they spoke of it, which wasn't often (usually on occasions like the Remembrance Day Tattoo, or watching the occasional war film), they were quite definite. Whilst they'd made friends, of course, with people they would never have met in other circumstances, and they were relieved to have made it through relatively unscathed, their memories were more to do with how much it hurt to lose friends and acquaintances, and I suppose in Mum's case, with her parents in London, the constant fear about what may be happening at home on a daily basis would have played havoc with her mind. That fear, that no-one born in the last 65 years can possibly know, can only imagine, was with them and the millions like them for almost 6 long, excruciating years.

Okay, enough of this. I’d intended to make this some kind of autobiography, but that would involve writing about people who, likely as not would prefer their past NOT to be discussed.

 

So, what this will now be is a confessional as such. The stupid things I’ve done, the bad stuff, the mistakes I can’t take back.

 

No flowery stuff, just the facts, ma’am.

Bak to 1981. In love, properly, for the first time. I’d met Karen in 1979, she was still at school, I was a year out of it. In March 1981, we got engaged, and decided to save for a deposit on a house and a wedding. She was great at it; me. less so. I still wanted to buy stuff. Cigarettes, albums, I don’t remember what else, but I had no idea of budgeting (still don’t). I was running an overdraft that nobody knew about. I couldn’t keep up. I was getting paid about £35 per week, and it didn’t stretch. I remember I couldn’t even afford a haircut – there are pictures of me at Christmas ’81 with a mop of unruly hair. I didn’t know what to do about it.

I’d also been seeing someone else. She worked in the butchers next door to the shop I worked in, was fun (a Teddy girl, in 1981?). We’d fooled around, but then she moved to a town about 25 miles away. However, her replacement in the shop was just as pretty, and again, we flirted and saw each other secretly.

 

Christmas Day 1981: Karen had arranged for me to have lunch with her family. Mum wouldn’t have even contemplated me eating elsewhere, and I was a coward when it came to any possible confrontation. So that was already making me nervous. Then whilst Karen was round in the morning, the girl from the butchers shop rang me – there were no mobile phones then, just a landline, which in our house was un the front room. How do I explain that? I have no idea now how I did. Ended the call as quickly as I could, and came back into the sitting room. Karen and I then left, and had Xmas lunch with her family. A little later, I came back home, and ate a second Xmas lunch with mum & dad, under an uneasy cloud of suspicion.

Boxing Day was traditionally the day we went to my brother’s house for more food, and games. Karen wanted me to be with her. Something had to give. It was me. I decided to hide from it. I sat in the front room, headphones on, listening to music. I ignored the phone when Karen rang, two, three times. Then dutifully went along to Chris’s house to sit sullenly.  The next day, dreading the fallout, I went around to Karen’s house in the evening. Apparently, that had been the final straw for her, and over the course of the next couple of hours, she told me it was over – I needed to choose between my family and her. Justifiably, as it happens.

 

The next few days and weeks were horrible. We withdrew what we had saved and split the money. Heartbroken as I was, it didn’t stop me spending my share on a new bike and a Sony Walkman. I’d like to think that was an emotional action, but that’s bullshit. I was just stupid. And worse, I effectively became a stalker. I’d walk over to where Karen lived, most nights, and weekends. I was lovelorn, long-haired and lousy at being honest, with myself or anyone else. I’d sunk so low that one evening, sometime in January or early February, I got steadily drunk on a mix of Martini and Cinzano left over from Christmas, and then walked the 2 to 3 miles to Karen’s house, stood against the wall of the alleyway that led to the entrance to their flat, and listened to music, my only saviour. All this time, the alcohol, sickly sweet at the best of times, was working on my digestive tract. I realised I had to empty my bowels (sorry). So, I lowered my trousers and pants, and sank down against the wall and did the act.

Then fell asleep.

I don’t know how long I was out for, pants at half mast. I don’t know if anyone saw me in this position, though I’ve imagined (known?) ever since that Karen did, possibly on her way to the off-licence on the same block. I don’t recall what woke me up, though most likely it was the cold, and I don’t recall how I got home. Dignified, eh?

 

In the following years, my lack of money management continued. I’d sneak the occasional fiver or tenner out of the drawer where mum kept her insurance money (to pay the premiums with) to buy cigarettes, or have enough for lunch (usually a rock cake and a doughnut). I knew money was tight for my parents, but I still did it. I hated myself (still do).

 

 

To 1984. After a short-lived job as a manager of an independent electrical store, I returned to my previous employer, and was moved to manage a store in a town 15 miles away. I got a flat in town, and this was my first time living away from home. I couldn’t afford to furnish the flat, so I slept on a mattress, and the only things I had with me were my hi-fi and my records. I lived on Chinese food and sandwiches, and remember staying up one night, and around dawn, leaning out of the flat window with a microphone recording birdsong. This was not a busy store – it was tucked off the high street, and really, most of the customers who came in were just paying their TV or VCR rental. Sales were not high. But, on one occasion, someone came in to buy a TV. I remember specifically it was a Grundig, priced £205.00. I gave the customer a receipt for the purchase, but didn’t actually ring it through the till, and I’m ashamed to say, pocketed the cash, which covered my rent for the next few weeks. Guilty, but I managed somehow to get away with it.

 

 

In 1987, I’d been with my girlfriend (later my first wife) for 6 months. I’d met her because I worked with her mother, and she’d come in after work, and we eventually got together. That year, the company had won a sales competition, and the prize was a long weekend in New York for 2 staff members, and I won the draw to go along with the branch manager. The trip was at the beginning of February ’87. I’d never been out of the country, so we’d had to rush through a passport application. We flew on the Friday, landed in New York around 5pm NY time, by which time we’d been awake some 18 hours, but we were scheduled to go for a meal around 9pm, and ended shortly after midnight. 23 hours awake, drinks and jet lag. On the Saturday night, we’d all gone for a meal at the South Pier (48 blocks away from the hotel). More drinks, a stop at a bar, then a long walk back via the Bowery to the hotel. There was a young lady from Northern Ireland on the trip, and we’d hit it off earlier in the day on a trip to the Empire State Building. No excuses for what happened once we were back at the hotel, but I slept with her (I wasn’t very impressive as I recall but we were both drunk). Even worse, I can’t now remember her name. Shitty. We returned to the UK, and a few weeks later, a letter arrived from Ireland, wanting us to keep in touch. For whatever reason, I kept the letter, hidden in a cupboard in my room at home, and at some point my girlfriend found it and hell broke out.

 

The Nineties were a shitshow for me, from beginning to end, for various reasons. In 1990, my mum had a stroke, and it was so severe that the family had to place her in a nursing home, since there was no-one to look after her at home. (My Dad had died in 1987).  By this time, I was married and living in my first wife’s old house. On visits to the nursing home, despite mum recovering slightly from the stroke, she was still very frail, struggling to eat, and not always remembering who her visitors were. This, and the depressing setting , with other residents who were in a similar or worse state, made me dread visits with mum. Eventually, I became so cowardly that I would ‘pretend’ to visit her; I told my wife that I visited her a couple of times a week, directly after finishing work, but in reality I would either drive around town, or park somewhere until my ‘visit’ would have ended. I continued tis charade until the beginning of October 1991, when Mum had the stroke that would eventually cause her death week or so later.

 

 

My marriage was never really happy – we were both not ready for the serious work needed, and in a very short space of time, we were both drinking heavily almost every night. Alcohol just fuelled ridiculous disagreements, I was struggling to hold jobs, once spending six months as a security guard working 12 hour shifts, most of which were night shifts. At some point during those six months, my wife started an affair with her boss, so there was even more to argues about. Those arguments descended into some violent clashes, and I’m ashamed to say that drunkenness and frustration meant that I did hit her, my lowest point in life. We tried to make it work, following our move south from Grimsby to Oxfordshire for my work, but it was doomed and we eventually separated in 1999 and divorced a year later.

 

 

Bizarrely, my ex-wife was the catalyst for my getting to know Lizzie, and from 2003 on, my life has been an entirely different journey, with marriage and 2 great kids lifting me out of a long depression.

The Best? Part One: The Beautiful Game

When I were a young lad, I spent large chunks of my time reading football annuals, those that were given to me every Christmas, and those left behind by my brother when he left home. Like all football-mad boys of that time (late 60s, early 70s, and it was always football then as well, NOT soccer), my reading was voracious, and particularly the older annuals were crammed with references to di Stefano, Ferenc Puskas, Eusebio, and young Pele. The articles waxed - well, not lyrical, because these were annuals for boys, and 'lyrical' would have been wasted on us - in awed tones about their talents, and skills, and the way Puskas in particular had, almost single-handedly, rid England of the view that this was an English game and as such, we were the masters. Two games, which we lost 6-3 & 7-1, and in each of which he scored 2 goals, nailed that particular myth in its coffin. We may have been re-animated for a short while some 13 years later, and staggered around enough to win the World Cup, but we've never really recovered. At the time, I had to take those writers and editors at their word, for I'd never seen footage of most of those players. I did get to see Pele at the Mexico World Cup on TV, but by this time he was 30, somewhat past his best (though still phenomenally talented), and seemed to direct things with the proverbial 'pipe and slippers'.  It may be sacrilege, but I couldn't see quite what the fuss was, and on that showing, still don't. He was patently more at ease on the ball than any of the English players I'd watched, as were all the Brazilians, but to be honest Jairzinho caught my eye more than Pele.

I watched and was an admirer of George Best, Johaan Cruyff, Michel Platini and others as the years went by, mourning the fact that the latter 2 were denied World Cup Glory by Germany (twice) and Argentina. Still though, those old black and white photos and  the stilted prose of those old annuals sang about the old days.

Cut forward to 2012, and for the last five months I've been watching La Liga games to follow Barca and Real Madrid in their battle for supremacy in Spain. Week after week, I've been astonished, mesmorised, flabbergasted and thoroughly blown away by the talents on display from both sides, but in particular Barcelona, with their majesty and trust of the ball, and what they are able to do with it, and to make it do for them. I've been left open-mouthed at their ability to know just what each other will do, where their teammates are going next, what space to run into. Each week, it seems, there are more things to gasp in disbelief at, more examples of vision, timing, footwork that leaves you dizzy.

Last night, March 7th 2012, Lionel Messi became the first player in the Champions' League era to score 5 goals in one match. I watched in wonder, and was left laughing and crying by the sight. He has it all - supreme first touch, the ability to run with the ball as though it's laced to his boots, the skill to play a pass with any part of either foot. He has the centre of gravity, apparently, of a Weeble - in most cases, he will not go down under challenges most players would be left writhing in agony over- yet he bounces up, still with the ball, to play the pass or strike at goal. I've never seen anything like it.

Today, I've been reading various opinions of him, and his position in the footballing pantheon of greats. Lots of support, agreement that he's the best. However, there's also a school of thought that he's a sheltered icon; that he's only ever produced this for one club, rarely for his National side; lots of talk along the lines of 'let's see him do it on a rainy Wednesday in Stoke'  - the usual 'our League's better than yours' guff. What garnered most quotes, though, was the view that he cannot be crowned the best player who's ever lived until he wins a World Cup Winners medal,  citing Pele, Maradona, Zidane and Ronaldo (not that one, the original).

Complete hogwash. Let me say that again, hogwash.

Let's take Pele. He won three World Cups. Hang on though, yes, he won in 58 with Brazil. He didn't play in 62 beyond the second game in the group stage, and had to have his winners medal claimed retrospectively. In 70, he'd just come back from international retirement, and as mentioned above, took the game at leisurely pace. He was also helped by playing in a fantastic team, that revolutionised how Europeans saw football.

Maradona did win a World Cup, scoring in the process a wonder-goal that I'm sure we've all seen. Breath-taking indeed. But so was the blatant cheating he employed to give his team the stepping stone to that victory, and all the ambigous piffle about a 'Hand of God'. And the following World Cup, he came back leaner and meaner and more wired - of course he did, he was out of his head on drugs. HIs record should be expunged.

Zidane was a marvellous player, with time, vision, great passing, marvellous set-piece play. But did he score as many goals as Messi? What was his work-rate like when France (or Real) were defending? He disappeared. And to cap it all, in his great swan-song, whatever the provocation (and it was mighty) he blotted his copy book with that pathetic head-butt and a sending-off.

No, because his National coach doesn't play him with players who like and love the ball, who don't exert the possession that his Barca team-mates do, Messi's discounted from the title of best there's ever been. Or worse, because his Argentina coach doesn't pick him, (Jose Pekerman, 2006) even when everyone knew what he was capable of, he's at fault. Tell me, did Puskas win a World Cup? Did di Stefano? Nope, and he tried with three different countries, perhaps Messi should try that? Did Cruyff? I rest my case on that aspect.

Then there are the goals that Pele scored. 'Until Messi can point  to 1,281 goals in 1,363 games, he can't lay claim to the throne'. Some problems with that. First, that was over a period of 21 years. Messi is still only 24. Secondly, most of those goals were in Brazil, where defending has always been a mysterious art that other countries practice, not Brazil, and also included lots of non-competitive games (his actual club total in the Brazilian leagues was 589 in 605. A mighty tally, agreed, but let's not forget those non-existant defences). And then there was his time in Major League 'Soccer'. Well, I mean to say. Really?

I'm honoured and blessed to be able to watch Lionel Messi, and to know that I'm unlikely ever to see his kind again. I will hold him as a shining example to my kids (who already have their Messi replica kits) as someone who plays that way in part, because he loves what he does; he plays with a smile on his face, not a snarl, nor a pout, nor an expletive on his lips. Sure, he isn't perfect. I've seen him dive; seen him handle the ball - but he's never hidden that behind some awful 'my God was acting through me' excuse. He celebrates his goals the way players always did when I was young - no posturing, no stupid dance moves at the corner flag, no phoney 'kissing the badge' for the fans. And I can assure you, he has more reason to swear his allegiance to Barcelona for what they've done for him than most who've worn the shirt. He wants to play every minute, of every game - even the ones that don't matter to the club. Because they matter to him, just the simple act of playing this game.

Opinion will always be divided when it comes to football, mainly for ridiculous tribal reasons, or because one player denied someone's side a title, or a place in a final, or showed them up in a one-on-one. However, I'm happy with my opinion, and that is that we are currently enjoying the prodigious talents, and delightful humility of, without a shadow of a doubt in my mind, the best footballer the world has ever seen. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you…..Lionel Messi.

And your alternative is?

In an horrific, nightmare week for the unfortunate people in Japan affected by earthquakes, tsunamis and now nuclear radiation, obviously questions need to be asked about the planning and building of some sites, in light of their known proximity to serious fault-lines in the earth's crust. Whilst the immediate concern is resolving and minimising the extreme danger caused by this, there must be urgent enquiries into these aspects, both in Japan at the affected sites, and elsewhere in the world where powerful climatic and geological events could (and will) occur.

However, the knee-jerk reaction of the West in those countries where serious earthquakes are statistically unlikely to ever occur, proclaiming the 'end of Nuclear Power' and the doom-mongers crowing 'we told you so' is short-sighted to say the very least. Properly planned and managed - and those are the key words - these sites are the most effective way to produce power for the world. Should we go back to mining for increasingly scarce fossil fuels, and weaken the earth more? How many wind turbines or solar panels are needed to supply fuel and power for a world whose population has grown out of all proportion in comparison to pre-Industrial Revolution ages?

We've opened the box now, for good or bad, and we can't stuff what has emerged from it back in and close the lid. We have to play on with the hand we've dealt to ourselves, and Nuclear energy is the way to do it, at least to buy time for proper, practical planning on viable alternatives.

My 17 year old self would probably  baulk at the fact my 48 year old fingers are typing this now, given their proximity in time to Three Mile Island, but I'd say to him - 'you really don't know nor understand all the implications, you're being led on and fed limited information by right-on rockstars and journos'.

Here's sending all my thoughts and hopes to those affected, and those already bereaved. Let's also hope that past their sell by date rockstars don't try to boost their flagging sales figures with the standard cry of long-gone youth - but I fear it's already too late for that...

...they can borrow my extension if they like...

Oh dear, anyone would think we were talking about an unprincipled thug, with a history of temper tantrums, foul and abusive language toward anyone and everybody, a complete disregard for the people who pay his wages (that's the fans, by the way, not the Glazers), and a history of poor life decisions.

Unless Rooney has started running with a comedy-music-hall, cheeky-chappie swagger where his elbows come up and out sideways, he had no other intention in mind when he did this. Does the answer lie in the matey way Clattenburg puts his arm round Rooney when he explains his (in)decision?

Anyone who knows me well, will know I don't now, and never have, supported capital punishment. But I'd happily pay to see this one staged - BOGOF and they can do his 'man of the common people' manager at the same time.

This idle technology's going to kill me...

So, there I am. Creeping over 14st (89kg, for those of you born after 1966) for the first time. Limited exercise since the neck problem - not that I was a gym member before, but you know what I mean. All leading to lots of clothes not fitting, and those finely chiselled cheekbones disappearing behind chubby cheeks and jowls.

Got Nintendo Wii a couple of years ago, but a dislike of being spoken down to by a disembodied ...erm..speech bubble meant I twagged off using Wii Fit. Next move is to get Xbox Kinect and Kinect Sports, and I have to say. it's a great deal of fun, more involving, and a lot more intuitive for grown-ups and kids. Yes, I do realise I fit both descriptions, thanks.

What happens? I manage to tear a calf muscle whilst running 400 metres - whilst standing still - the ultimate degradation and humiliation for a middle-aged man. At least I'm not wearing lycra or motorcycle leathers though.