'Appy 'Arry: Arch Anarchist, Alas 'Aww-right Afterall? Absurd!

Harry Redknapp: a Nation wept. Or didn't actually.


Media-darling Harry Redknapp beams; omnipotent above a blazingly-beautiful early-evening London skyline, comfortable, master of all he surveys - yet his 'golden beams' may be melting his own face. There he was, projected to the Nation and given a platform for his tuppence-worth on a strangely Spurs-obsessed episode of Football Focus - and the net result - you guessed it,more cushty backslapping and no taxing questions (maybe arranged in some pre-agreed contract?).


Lets consider the parameters of Harry's managerial career. Here it is:

Teams managed
1983–1992	Bournemouth
1994–2001	West Ham United
2002–2004	Portsmouth
2004–2005	Southampton
2005–2008	Portsmouth
2008–	Tottenham Hotspur

How many of those teams are currently in financial crisis? 4 out of 5. Which one isn't (yet)? Why, its current charges, Tottenham Hotspur.


Now lets consider " 'Arry's" reputation: cheeky chappie, Cockney wheeler dealer, loves a gamble in the transfer market, eminently quotable as he emits soundbites as if they were ghastly unfashionable utterances - net result = media darling. "Oh Harry! What wit! How we lap up all he says without question!", didn't say one of his many Fleet Street hack fans/devotees.


Now lets look at the wreckage, first up, humble Bournemouth AFC. Ignore the FA Cup result attained way-back-when (you know the one, 4th tier Bournemouth eliminating top division Manchester United with a solitary goal victory in the 80s during Harry's first season as a manager), and fast forward to the present day. Bournemouth faced a High Court winding-up order, have had a transfer embargo imposed and basically should be out of existence, but for the miracles being worked by the League's youngest manager Eddie Howe and the gargantuan efforts of the fans and a new board. The Cherries soldier on, but for how long?


Talking of High Court winding-up orders, another pleading to get on Harry's CV is Premier League Portsmouth FC. Pompey, the 2008 FA Cup Winners and 08-09 UEFA Cup participants, that faced sides as illustrious as AC Milan whilst on their European soujourn, are on the brink of collapse. A side replete with internationals, all of whom were bought and subsequently sold on at profits (source: H. Redknapp) have become the laughing-stock of football, much to the chagrin of their loyal, (mostly) long-suffering support, who thought they were finally getting to enjoy their day in the sun. Well they did, and it was back in May 2008.


South-coast neighbours Southampton FC remember Harry too. Whence and thence, there and back to Pompey, he successfully relegated them and now they have fallen further to their now lowly standing in the third tier of English football. Here, the renowned motivator was in full-swing. It was the promise of avoiding relegation that was supposed to galvanise the troops - objective failed. Harry probably didn't much fancy the Championship, especially given the ignominy of having Sir Clive Woodward, the Rugby World Cup-winning coach of England appointed as Director of Football.


That leaves West Ham United FC. Or, as they were once known, 'Arry's 'Appy 'Ammers! As the French would almost probably definitely say, quelle ironie. Here was the place where the 'Cheeky Cockney Chappie' cultivated the reputation of the wheeler-dealer. The team were even sponsored by local Ford factory Dagenham Motors, possibly to add kudos and credence to this image. Who can forget the inspired signings of players such as Marco Boogers (sent off in first game for a viscious assault, never looked, er, at again?), (the previously excellent) Florin Raducioiou (a prototype Pavluychenko?) or Paulo Futre (who?). Currently toying with relegation, they almost collapsed too, following the failure of their then-effective-owners, the Icelandic bank Straumaur, and who are now run by vendors of top-shelf publications who really, really want to call the London Olympic Stadium home and who seem to love berating the beleagured and balding/greying/balding manager Gianfranco Zola.


And Harry in all this? No mea culpa! This is in NO WAY a trail of destruction that suggests Harry gets out whilst the going's good and clubs crumble around him. Not at all. It must be coincidence and down to mis-management at board level. As Nike told Pele to say, "JOGA BONITO!". Under Harry, many of them did play beautifully, now many just hope to play.



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Sum wurdz ahh did 4 ahh blogge

Responsible critiques by responsible critics or poisoned-pen proliferation: is anyone owed a duty of care anymore?

“Opinions are free. Opinions enlighten. Opinions are dangerous” *…

In today’s world of hyper-connectivity and 24-hour wall-to-wall event coverage (that helpfully keeps us abreast of even the most mundane happenings), it is perhaps hardly a surprise that myriad swathes of commentators are poised, on hand to give us their ‘tuppence-worth’; their unique perspective on (please insert any type of occurrence), as and when it happens. Our ability to access technology that allows us to efficiently and rapidly distribute our opinion gave rise to a form of people power/participation in the media that hitherto did not exist, save for the readers’ letters page in a newspaper, oft the favoured platform of the slightly unhinged. Step forward into the brink and the brave new (-ish) world – the blogger.

Aware as I am that an attempt to critique the existence and validity of the blogger whilst writing for a blog may be perceived as some new ‘zenith of pretentiousness’, I plead for you to hear me out. I believe in discussion, debate and the exchange of ideas however the information many people receive and accept originates from sources that have no remit to ensure accuracy, truth or quality. This is turn leads to people being influenced in their beliefs by essentially uncorroborated hearsay, in extreme cases. The danger is that, with so many people being able to circulate ideas freely and easily, it can lead to people being misled.

This is nothing new, I hear you cry. People have attempted to influence or manipulate others into believing unsubstantiated ideas since the beginning of humanity. This may be correct. Yet I feel many bloggers today sometimes unfairly use their access, distribution, influence and reach to promote defamatory stories that can have ramifications on an individual level. They no longer fit the remit of informing, they merely bully. This makes me sad.

Disclaimer: This blog cites no examples; it wishes you to think of your own.

This blog expressly wishes to state this is just a thought, and that no one was hurt in the making of this thought. Especially not any bloggers.

This blog hopes you consider information presented to you on merit, consider source, authority and accuracy – and it knows you probably already do.

This blog likes the absurdity of a blog criticising the concept of blogging – what a fiend!

* – this quote was made-up by me as I started to write this, many apologies.

Fits quite well though, mind.

[Blog I wrote, can be found at www.pavelware.com]

'Rainforest Adventurer'

In the midst of inanely stumbling around another internet job search (performed on 'job sites'), I found this job, standing out loud and proud, like a beacon of joy eminating from the gargling grey mass of words that maul the senses; words like 'industrial assistant', 'trainee accountant' or 'liaison officer' (though that one's quite good, sounds a bit racy). There it was - 'Rainforest Adventurer'. 'Rainforest Adventurer'. 'RAINFOREST ADVENTURER'.

Initially, I spluttered out a sound which resembled "tee-hee... hee", a disturbing laugh that would be made by the young, the wee and the meek. After this, my mind considered the possibilities - Rainforest Adventurer. I could be like a shite N.I. version of Tarzan, finding new and ever more ingenious ways of swinging and sloping from one tree to the next. Or I could be Sir David Attenborough, all crouched and whispering, recanting facts pertaining to how there were 5,767,586 varieties of cockatoo in my rainforest and how no-one else had seen 'em all, EXCEPT me, cos I'm class. Or I could be like Indiana Jones, in the fourth one where he is indeed at one point rainforest adventuring, but probably also wondering why things just aren't as good as they were in the Eighties. And he'd be right. A more innocent and simpler time, with Thundercats, Salmonella and Ford Capri's.

Then, much to my chagrin, I found out that this mythical, mystical and mesmerising position was ... drum roll ... showing kids how to correctly handle and lift animals. Seriously. Or, as the blurb blurted, "To present and perform animal handling workshops to primary age children". Ooh la la, 'The dream is over'.

How many others, I wondered, were taken in by the alluring bright neon lights of the job title RAINFOREST ADVENTURER, only to have their dreams so brutally crushed, shattered and trampled on, to find out that the job its describing is nothing like the job you imagined it to be? Perhaps I was being deliberately naieve, hoping beyond hope that such a job would actually be available in 'our humble wee province'.

The quest to validate existence goes on, the hunt futile, the effort to find gainful employment minimal - but I hope there's at least one other person that saw RAINFOREST ADVENTURER and meekly emmitted a 'tee-hee' of appreciation, and enjoyed laughing in the face of modern expectations.



---FIN---

Poem

Poem


One, two, three, four,
Out of life I want to get more,
Five, six, seven, eight,
Conventional achievement a faux debate;
Lining thread with coin,
Another kick in the groin,
Lining mind with vaudevillian hedonism,
Dystopian dream achieved;
That's not for you they say,
You should really know better,
Synapse collapse,
Education bypass,
Live the life that makes you alive.




---FIN---

ZOoOt aLoRZ

Thiz weak eye half bin mhost-lee indulging inn bee-lidge-err-enss, itt haz bin gr8.

Like seriously though, I have. Once upon a time, a night out was just that, a night out. Then there was the advent of the two-day party. Then the 3 day party. All sans sommeil, et sans souci.

So on day 1, which we'll call WEDNEZDAIIYY, I attended a concert by renowned singer, aktor and stunt-man Adam Green. This was one of the best concerts I have ever been to. And like, I've been to 6,234 concerts. He glided onstage energetically, elegantly and intent on blowing our minds. He performed many classics from his cannon of super-hits, including your humble reporter's fave ditty, 'Morning After Midnight'. Padina Sunshine and I danced merrily to this. As did other pals there Ciaran, Gemma, Charlotte, Claire, Dave, Matt etc so many to mention!

This was the most intimate gig I've ever been to. I mean intimate in the sense that I probably physically manhandled Adam more than most girlfriends I've ever had, often acting as his 'pivot man' lifting him skyward for his crowd-surfing. Some songs I was hugging him and even got to sing a line into the mic with him. It was delightful. He is a tactile, charming and charismatic gent.

After, went hanging in Lavs for a bit then on to some student residence where we hung out in the toilets. There, I wounded myself by trying to climb into a locked cubicle 'over the top', cut hand, blood pishing everywhere, yet other less-easily reparable organs were spared the insult of being damaged in this pathetic charade. "A man of action!", no-one said.

Then, stunningly, Adam's guitarist Jon and keyboardist Omer turned up to party! With us! So we made our way to another house and hung out with them, two truly lovely guys, it was great!! Many photos document this on fphazzze-bouk, though for the life of me I don't know why I have such a crazed look in most of them, I was very happy, not maniacal !! Maybe special keep awake produkktzz explain the wild-eyed, wide-eyed zany stare. Or not !!

So after they left, we continued. But like all of Thursday. Consumption of special keeps 'er lit. Went to another gig that night. It featured new Belfast rock-rap thingy Team Fresh, many danced in crazed fashion as I sat alone on a stool at a table in the midst of said japes. I felt happy to be sitting, nodding like a 45 year old that was told to check out the latest hip trend by The Guardian or some other such publication.

Day 3 was the MET gang event, featuring Padina, Issy, Esteban Fuertes de la Fuenta and other notable luminaries, Maria, Rui and Trisha. I was DJ-man. And rampant Gin-abuser. It was like London in the 1700s, during the Gin Street era and the Gin Riots - mothers standing on babies heads!! Got wile pished and all my charm and kudos built up trickled away with the salty tears rolling down my cheeks... naw it wasn't like that really, had a lovely time and super partied to the maximum!

I reminisced with Stevo about my dearest friend Neal Anthony Cunningham and explained to him the concept of the NCWC - the Neal Cunningham Work Community. I told him the offices were on the wastelands in Carryduff in a disused freight container (that had been bizarrely abandoned there - it's like, nowhere near a port... wtf?!!!) and that we would endeavour to serve the community but turn out to be so inept we would be chased outta town, much like witches in the middle-ages. Stevo wept at the beauty of this tale. Then I told him about Santa Claus not being real too, cos I'm 'such a hoot'. A terrible man.

So aye, some snipets of a 3 day period of living. Is how I live living though? Feel I should do more, be more productive, more creative, tell all the details, not hold back ... maybe I'll write a novella or a pamphlet, like just to get started on this exorcising and recanting of this life. It could be illustrated and done like properly. I could buy paints. I could get that easel out of the roofspace. I could ask my ma to try to enrol me in art college again, like she did when I was 8 years old. My artistic career ended in one fell swoop by the sniggering receptionist that said "you need to be 18 and have A-Levels and a portfolio..." - WHY WOMAN, WHY?!! GOD-DAMMIT!



I could have been a star. Instead, I'm me.



---FIN---

Consciousness

I saw the film Un Prophete this eve (apologies for the missing accent, I cannae paste it in. Boo! But at least I know it's missing. The Academie Francaise (also missing its' accent for same reason) need not be alerted) and it inspired me to think of consciousness and what it can mean to us at different times.

Its an intriguing concept, as consciousness doesn't mean the same thing to us at different times. And lo, I hear the baying crowd say "like, no shit, like, mate, like"... Indeed it is somewhat self-evident pointing this out, yet I feel its an observation that I want to state. One can see how the mind is so magnificent, so adaptable and how we, possessors of said mind, also are adaptable enough to work both within and at times beyond its parameters. We have maleable minds.

The kind of consciousness I want to experience or need to experience whilst say, driving a car, is totally different from when, for example, I sit on a sofa with friends for many hours, laughing, drinking, being merry, generally high on life... Yet both co-exist within the one mind/body/vessel and both can function as and when I choose. But how far can one push more hedonistic behaviour until it impinges permanently on the requisite daily and necessary hum-drum functions? I don't know.

The gamate of feelings one can experience (both positive and negative), plus the things we put in our bodies, plus our knowledge, plus our life experiences, plus our conscious and unconscious urges, plus our personalities etc etc can seemingly all be dropped into the rather large melting pot that is our mind, then we give it a whirl and see what comes out... its amazing!!

In the film, the main protaganists way of 'succeeding' made me think of how I have used the afore-mentioned mixture to deal with things I've encountered and by-and-large, I seem to have done mostly alright, on an 'experiential' level (... if that is even a word *blushes*).

This is wile serious! Perhaps the equivalent of thinking out aloud going on here.... Need to reign it in... Or sleep on it and let an understanding develop of what I want to say.... schucks.

Adam Green - I shall see him play tomorrow. He is a gent that makes me wanna explore the minds' possibilities... a terrrr-billl mannn, yet multi-faceted like every other human being - should be a rather spiffing night. "ARUBA - JAMAICA - OOOOH I WANNA TAKE YA..."


off the Florida Quays....



"L'homme est la seule creature qui refuse d'etre ce qu'elle est" - Albert Camus



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Padre Pio's Mit

So blogosphere, its been a while since this reporter has 'touched base' (to use the technical lingo) and in this piece of scrawl, or well what would be scrawl if t'were written by hand, dark ages stylee, you will find your narrator reflecting upon the mystery that was 2009 and looking with awe, wonderment and mostly deep confusion towards the foreboding (and already underway) 2010. Super mega!

2009 was quite the journey, and began as it ended, in the thralls of hyper-unemployability. Having just told the man 'to do one' beforehand in the now impossibly distant December 2008, I found myself free of the shackles that torture the mind and limit the scope of action for most of the populace. Oh, but what to do with all of this 'new-found time' - an abstract concept in itself. Why, go to Paris of course, for 2 weeks, decimating the last paycheck and knowing you'll live wondering where the next dime will materialise from after your return, but not caring as you value nourishment of t'mind over lining of t'pocket... How. Very. Noble.

Incredibly in these 2 weeks in Paris in January, some attempt was made to nourish the mind (3 cinema visits, gallery visits, a walk in a quartier I was hitherto unacquainted with) but as I know the place well from my 1.5 years of residence, the main focus was, as probably should be, seeing the people I hadn't seen well since my last visit, and making new friendships.

And lo, it was probz the best time of year to do so! Most young French people spend Xmas avec la famille in other parts of France and upon return to Paris, do get-togethers with mates that involve copious amounts of food, booze and funtimes - winner! Attended several such events, and sampled the delights of raclette and one-other-thing-that-uses-that-electric-cooking-device-but-I-can't-remember-what-its-called - why don't we cook cheese, meat and vegetables on an electric device on the table til the melt/are cooked then scoff it all, its delish, simple and a mega fantastico idea!

This party season lent itself kindly to my desire to let off steam following the trauma of working in a proper professional capacity, so much belligerence was attempted with my pals Gricha, Matthias, Joanne, Dimitri, Freddy etc, (sadly Yann was still in Brittany so didn't manage to see him), and new pals we met Etienne and Tom Bailey, twins from England but whose mum is French (cue "you look like Gary from the Cribs!" line from moi and chance meetings in Paris, which is quite difficult tbf) and Joanne's pals too... the Parisian streets were pounded, incredible experiences had and the alluring, seductive charms of possibility permeated every moment, ooh la la!

Upon return, the quest for coin forced my hand into attending the Salford Labour Exchange, one of the most terrifying places in the world. Had to go every two weeks, as is protocol, and look awkwardly at the carpet or walls, to avoid the glares of the scallies, who didn't seem to like my hipster ways, which is fair enough. This sustained me to May, ergo necessary evil.

Between which times, the final end game played out of my time in my delightful condo Krojo Towers, my residence. It had a balcony! It had a massive flatscreen TV! But more importantly it had Kryst and Mojo - Team Destroyer! And destroy we did, existence a maelstrom of concerts, nights out, random unplanned trips to Premier League games organised on the DAY OF THE GAME, like this:

Bolton ticket office - Bolton Wanderers ticket office, how can I help?

Kryst (hungover) - Can I have, ehhh, 2 tickets....... for todays game

B.W.F.C.- Er, yes sir, where would you like to sit?

Kryst - Um...... I dunno ..... one of the big stands along the side ...

(cue hysterical laughter from Krojo corp inhabitants.... lasts 30 seconds)

Kryst - Sorry, along the side. Oh, top tier.

(aside to Mojo - top floor, top drawer! More chuckles)

B.W.F.C. The Lofthouse Stand ok sir?

Kryst Aye, that'll do.

And so this was living, this was what we got. This and random daytrips to places like Newcastle ("I didn't realise it was so far away") and Leeds ("God I didn't realise it was so close!") This and seeing bands maybe about twice a week every week, took me up to May, by which point it became impossible to pay rent and forced me into the dreaded move home - oooh errr vicar!

So arrived back home beginning of May and oh my, how well did it start, what with two Morrissey gigs, one in Omagh, the other in Belfast, zing! Omagh was particularly spiffing, Big Red was tooled up and guided along the treacherous roads by moi with Stevo, wee Jamie Cosgrove and Seamy Shim-Bop towards our destination, a roadside bar/hotel near Omagh in anticipation of the gig in the Leisure Centre - incredible. At said show, the attendants were wearing shorts and t-shirts and there were actually people still using the leisure centre, swimming! Madness! As we left to go to the aftershow at Top of The Town, a passing, speeding car's window was screwed down and they shouted at us "Colenso!". I think they thought we were someone else... This later came to make sense.

Slinking into the summer months, I remember my familial trip to Killarney and little else (well I could if I tried, but I refuse to try). It was awesome! Surprisingly! Good food, nice hotels, and we even got dolled up and went to Ladies Day at the Horse Racing Track, it were ace!

The onset of Autumn, and all that sticks in the memory now is my epic gig tours - going to see the Cribs 3 times in 3 cities in a week (Dublin, Belfast, MCR) and to see Morrissey twice in two days in Leeds and Sheffield... A super autumn for Autistic Kris !!!

Then winter and "the terrrrrrrbill cowl of it all, yill get yurrr death in that sonny, we're all gonna die, get the mit" (said in voice of 94 year-old woman, inhabitant of THE KINGDOM OF MOURNE) and the party season. Though when is it not, he says! Schmaltzy!

And that was it 2009. So here we are on the other side, how is it shaping up? After 2 day NYE party and the following weekend's birthday celebration, it seems like it will be the year dubbed

"The Willful Destruction of Self and Others, a Greek Tragedy in 365 parts" by Kristos Higginovic...

Though what is 2010? These silly integers on a man-made scale are rather tiresome, n'est-ce pas?

---FIN---