A dickhead (some time after a defeat)

Jimmy Grimble got to play; the kid in Air Bud scored the winning basket; Scott Hatteberg, taking to the plate in the top of the ninth, against a Royals team that had rallied from 11-0 down to 11-11, hit a home run that won the Oakland A’s a 20^th game in a row. That night they tied a record. The film in my head ended. They’d done it; they’d achieved something, not necessarily what they’d set out to, but a remarkable feat nonetheless. This 20 game streak – the players hugged it between themselves, high fived it back and forth to one another, jumped up and down at home plate to the sound of it. Every hallmark of a sports film came into one. I almost picked up my coat and made for the exit. The film carried on.

They’d won, what else is there to know, to want to know? But Moneyball isn’t one of those Sport films, nor is it about wanting to play Sport; it’s about how Sport is always trying to rip your heart out, about how Sport needs you as much as you need it. There’s a scene early in the film, where Billy Beane (Brad Pitt), with the game he’s listening to not going his team’s way, throws a transistor radio out the window of his car, and then, when it still continues to emit the play-by-play, he gets out the car and stamps on it. He stamps it more than once. That’s what Sport wants to do to your heart: throw it out your ribcage into the street somewhere and pound it, more than once, ’til it stops.

And Billy is more than aware of that. He knows it more than most. Exposed in the Major League’s as a player, not hitting, not catching, not running, not being able to do what he was taught, he became lost and angry and frustrated. What made not being able to do what he was taught worse was the fact that he could’ve been taught more things, different things at Stanford¹. It’s because of this that he needs Sport. What can he do outside of the clubhouse, or, later, the front office? He’s a forty year old with a high-school diploma. He’s shit-scared about being that person out in the beyond baseball world. At some point, Sport probably did rip his heart out and probably did pound on it, ’til Sport realised Billy’s heart wasn’t going to stop. His ability to hit the ball into play might’ve failed, but his spirit wasn’t about to extinguish on him.

But the mark of Sport has not been left solely on Billy. Art Howe (Philip Seymour Hoffman) is upset about his contract, annoyed about the way the A’s treat him like shit, sad that his methods of how to field a team count for shit. David Justice (Stephen Bishop) is old – enough to make any athlete despair. He’s sad because he can’t see himself as he is now; he prefers the star he was at teams before the Oakland A’s, teams that played different baseball to the A’s. Scott Hatteberg (Chris Pratt) is sad about his arm being fucked, about not being able to throw the ball any more. Scott Hatteberg is, like Billy, shit-scared, but of first base (first base! Catcher’s don’t play first base!²) rather than beyond baseball. The scouts are mad. Who the fuck is this kid, they ask, with his computer and his numbers and his “Bill James bullshit?” They’re old too, but not David Justice old. The season prior to joining the A’s, Justice wore stripes; the stripes the scouts have run horizontally across their foreheads. Grady speaks for all of them when he fuck you’s Billy. But Grady is less fuck you-ing Billy, more Sport, really. Fuck you, Sport. Fuck you, and fuck becoming obsolete/old/injured/ignored.

Peter Brand (Jonah Hill) isn’t sad, at least not that in the sense that he’s upset over something. He’s sad in the sense that he hunches himself over his computer, where he pours over his numbers, where he finds the players that will lead Oakland to their historic 20 game streak. He’s new, he’s young, he went to Yale, what is there to be unhappy about? Peter’s fuck you-ing Sport, too – just in a different, less traditional way. The scouts screw up their faces, chew on tobacco and stick their two fingers up; Peter, with a smug look on his face, uses a laconic middle finger.

Part of why, in fact, most of why Sport’s overbearingly sad moments are so overbearingly sad is because the brilliant moments are so beautiful. Sport itself is a microcosm of life: life is about enjoying yourself, about pleasing other people, about, by and large, playing by the rules. Life in this way will produce beautiful moments. At the same time, life is as much about sacrificing opportunities, letting people down and disregarding rules. Life in this way will produce messy, unattractive moments. Sport produced the time Manchester United came from 2 goals behind to beat Bayern Munich in the closing minutes of the Champions League final. More personally, Sport produced the time West Bromwich Albion were promoted to the Premier League for the first time after catching their bitter rivals Wolverhampton Wanderers, who at one stage were an almost nailed-on ten points ahead. In the film, the A’s win their twentieth game, Hatteberg plucking a home run from nowhere. Sport also produced the time Manchester United lost to a rampant Barcelona in the final of the same competition; the time WBA were promptly relegated the following season ; the Minnesota Twins clinching the Division series from the A’s. After the beautiful moments have been and gone, the ugly moments seem to matter more. An awful team or individual can go on being awful , so long as they’ve always been awful. Success doesn’t afford teams that taste it that opportunity. “I remember that time when we were good,” the fans’ll say. “When I played, we won something,” the ex-player’ll say. “I told you about Geronimo. Now look at him,” the scout’ll say. Sport, more often than not, has history on it’s side, and history is where these moments get assigned.

Without making it its overriding theme, Moneyball makes, or shows, subtle references to history. The Cleveland Indians have a black and white photo in their waiting room. The Cleveland Indians haven’t won a World Series since before technicolor. Towards the end of the film, Billy tells John Henry he can destroy the Boston Red Sox’s Curse of the Bambino with the stats-potion he’s been brewing at Oakland. The Red Sox hadn’t won a World Series in technicolor. A stats-potion brewed in Oakland got them two in near-succession. Peter Brand would “amen” that; Scouts would squirm at it.

And then there is, as Michael Lewis put it, The Human Element. Committed and dedicated individuals make Sport their lives. Most of us get found out young, fall by the wayside and realise we were never good enough. But there are a few who got there, or got near, but were not quite good enough. Players leave, players have to be cut, traded, or sent on assignment (cutting someone the nice way). Peter Brand doesn’t amen this; he most definitely squirms. People find it much harder to let go of Sport, than Sport does of them. Yet sadder than being cut, or traded, or cut the nice way is what happens after: the struggles, the slumps, the adjustments. Bye Mags. Bye Pena. Bye Giambi. Close the door on your way out. Sports are much harder to replace than people. The entrance door opens and the future of the kid who used to be out in right field is forgotten. Hey Ricardo. We’re sure happy to have you on board. Take a seat. It’s a sort of fuck you/thank you thing.

With it’s use of televised game footage, the film plays like a documentary. The slightly saturated look of the print suggests we’re already watching a fond, if painful, memory. “Do you remember that time Billy Beane nearly overhauled the entire world of baseball with no money, with maimed players, and nearly did it?” the cinema-goers’ll say. And then at some point they’ll go to a game, see their team, and feel sport attacking at their heart, leaving enough of itself inside to not be forgotten. “I remember,” they’ll start, telling a story to cope with the sadness. And someone who hasn’t had their heart ripped out, hasn’t been infected by the Sport disease will say, “It’s only a game.” Or they’ll huff out, “ah well.” Or, worse still, they’ll say, “it’s not about the winning; it’s the taking part that counts.” To which the reply will be -

FUCK YOU

An overbearingly sad person (after agitation).

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

First things first, it’s going to be solely for writers based in Midlands. I haven’t quite drawn up an outline of what is and what isn’t the Midlands – safe to say if you live on the Isle of Mull, I’m afraid it’s a no – but I’m searching for an archaic map of Albion where I can draw perimeters based on history. Why Midlands writers? Because I notice when I’m flicking through opportunities for writers sometimes distinctions are drawn: so and so want an authentic northern voice, somebody else want a true southern voice. It seems rare that anyone ever wants a Midland voice (I’m sure there are such outlets, just I haven’t come across them yes. If you know any, do share. They could come in handy.) Where can submissions come from? Writers based in the Midlands would be preferable, but exceptions could be made for Midlanders who have left for pastures new. One key area that I want to try and target are students from Midland Universities (BCU, Birmingham, Coventry, Staffordshire, Wolverhampton – forgive me if I’ve left anywhere out), particularly, but not solely, those on Creative Writing/English courses. People like me.

Something I felt when I finished University was that I’d become a better writer, but I hadn’t become any more of a connected writer. I could write the stories but I didn’t know where to send those stories to. Such a magazine would become a place where we’d encourage students from the establishments listed above to submit work, hopefully with the backing of the Universities. Even more hopefully, for a bit of free advertising the Universities could maybe subsidise printing costs for a limited run? I am the least moneyed-up person on Earth so help with this part would be greatly appreciated.

That’s the vague(r) stuff out of the way. The more concrete stuff is what a magazine would need: contributors, people familiar formatting and designing magazines, illustrators. There are doubtless more that I haven’t thought of. Unfortunately, I’d be asking people to give their time for free, as I wouldn’t be able afford to pay anyone – including myself – and any money the magazine would make, if it was sold, would go straight back into the magazine for printing costs etc. A website or a blog would be much easier, I know. But a) there are more than plenty of those and b) I prefer the product you can hold in your hands and turn the pages, rather than scrolling down an eye-popping screen. Of course there’d be a web presence so people could get in touch and know where to submit to, though that would be it’s main use.

I realise how few specifics there are to this at the minute and how very stream-of-consciousness it all sounds. But with a little advice and help I’m hoping it could be knocked into some shape. That’s where you come in. Tell me what you know and what you think, what works and what doesn’t. Ask questions if you need more information, I’ll be happy to answer them if I can.

NB: I am available to perform this for a reasonable fee if Tessa Sanderson or Joanne Latham fail to turn up. Other universities: commissions can be left as comments.

***

The people that sit before me now are changed. They may not know it, or think of themselves as being irrevocable but they have transformed, whether it be to adults, to academics, to advocates of education; they are all now graduates, and they still will be once they de-robe themselves. Congratulations. You have succeeded. You have made your parents proud, to the point where they are fit to burst.

There will be photographs and celebrations and further congratulations after this, ones that will probably mean more to you than what I say here. Take them, they are yours to collect.

But first: Turn to your left. Look at the person sitting next to you. You may not know their name, but in twenty years time when you think back to this moment, possibly when your packing your own children off to Universities, their face will be all you can recall. And that’s not a bad thing, no matter how awkward you feel now. The person sitting next to you may have taken a different path to get here. In front of me, the fuck ups sit next to the drifters, the drifters sit next to the choosers, who, heaven forbid, chose to attend. And yet, now there are no barriers between you. Just the arms of slightly worn chairs that have seen better days. One and the same, all of you.

Before you all head off in different directions there are some things worth knowing first. You have changed, some of you in major ways, some of you in less significant ways. A University education has brought you out a different person to what you were before. Now you must continue to evolve. Realising what you want to be, what you want to do is the first step. Some of you will have already decided, some of you will have already achieved, or be on your way to achieving , this. Great. But it’s not enough any more. You have to figure out not just where you fit in but how to fit in. Stand out, push boundaries, don’t be afraid to fail. Failing’s okay, some of us do it all the time.

University isn’t the ending, it’s the beginning. The beginding. Now is not the time to stop because you have graduated. Push on, be educated some more, drive determined towards what you really want to do, build yourselves an imaginary pedestal, better still a plinth in your mind and put yourself on it. Be brash, be bold, be confident but not arrogant. If three years ago you were eager to be better than you were then, now you should be striving to become better than you are right now at this very moment.

In daydreaming moments you may see your future as rosy, but getting to where you want will be anything but. You will be rejected, told you are under-qualified, told you are overqualified, told you just aren’t good enough. Tell them bollocks. With a capital B. Bollocks. You are a graduate from the University of [insert whichever institution you went to here], damnit! Don’t let them get in your way. The only person in your way is yourself, and only then it should be at the mercy of others. You are unstoppable, baby. Don’t you ever forget that.

Forgetting. Forgetting is for when you’re old, when you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. Now that you’re in the prime of your lives the time is ripe for amassing, for knowing, for learning, for growing. You have learnt some great things here, don’t forget them. Sadly, you’re young over-active memories mean you won’t be able to forget that time Roger got his arse out but file it away somewhere behind Peter Elbow and Steve Neale but just in front of Laura Mulvey. You can forget when you’re old and you’re all lightyears away from that yet. Even you, Post Grads.

They say age is just a number, which is just a clever way of saying a number is just a number. Like a 2:1 or 2:2 or a 1st. They are just numbers squashed together or with sts or nds after them . See? A degree has not been wasted on me. What your degree boils down to, though, is just a nice bit of letter-headed paper that your mischievous little niece will crayon a picture of a horse with wings over. It is not you. It will not make you and it should not become you. Don’t let your degree, and whichever bracket you fell into, define you. Your degree might feel like the proudest achievement in the world today and you’d be right to feel that way, just don’t think of it as your future written down. Other things will come along: achievements will be bigger and better and, hopefully, more frequent; pride will manifest itself in events that will humble this one. Today is today. Be proud now, it is your right. But the tomorrows that come have the potential to bring more. Invest in them, it might be worth it.

To end, there is only one thing I can ask of you. Graduates: give life Hell. Make the most of it. If you’re only here once I implore you to give it your best shot. It is yours to do with what you will. See the dreams and chase them. Fruition will bring success, but the chase will bring fervour, passion, excitement and maybe even happiness. Surely there’s no better way to live a life?

To quote the Mamas & the Papas song, go where you wanna go and do what you wanna do.

Once more, congratulations.

For proper words of encouragement written and spoken by people with status rather than an egomaniac like me, click through. 

For the best commencement speech on the internet scroll back up. The video below comes a close second.

Twat in the Gantry

I have not realised the dream of supping on fine ales with men in crisp white shirts, ties Ramboed around their head after a long, arduous shift, quite yet. The closest I have got to a true experience of a working life is a Kombat Opera song. In the wilderness of the job market, I am still the ill-experienced youth, weapon in hand, chasing after the boar I’m not 100% sure I want to skin.

However, I thought I’d struck gold when a friend, via a social networking site, shared an opportunity to be a football commentator. I was in a confident enough mood to think I could take this on. Even the man at the JobCentre encouraged me. So, with no previous experience apart from a small part in a radio play as someone being sick, I began to record myself.

But before I could properly record myself there were things to consider. I needed a format that would make me stand out above the hordes of other entries. The job was with a local radio station where most of the coverage is Wolves and Albion, so in my infinite wisdom I opted for the five best goals scored by Wolves or Albion players since I was born (June 1990, fact fans). From fifth to first they were the following:

Kevin Muscat – Wolves vs Ipswich December 1998; Artim Sakiri – West Brom vs Burnley August 2003; Andy Thompson – Wolves vs Birmingham sometime in 1995; Darren Bradley – West Brom vs Wolves September 1993; Kevin Phillips – West Brom vs Wolves May 2007.

Apart from the obvious bias included in the last two goals I was pretty happy with that list. Kevin Muscat even made it into the list without GBHing anyone. Once this aspect was sorted I began to record.

Watching the goals back on youtube, I tried to synchronise my monosyllabic screams and grunts with the actions taking place. But it wasn’t working. I needed a script. The need of a script worried me though, because I knew the greats like Steve Bower and Jim Proudfoot don’t work from scripts. A reaction to a goal can’t be prompted. It’s instinctive. But sitting in my bedroom, waiting for cars to drive past so my phone didn’t pick them up, I had too much time to think about it. Words would make me feel better about it. They weren’t going to know I’d prompted myself as much as I was planning on. Until I turned up to a broadcast of Wolves vs Blackburn with every feasible outcome scripted.

Off I went again, more shouting into a phone but this time with a little more focus and less swearing.

Even with the assistance of words on a page, though, there was one thing I couldn’t shake: feeling like a twat. With every individual recording my voice peaked higher and higher at the sight of a goal. I wasn’t commentating but shrieking. When I tried to calm it down I sounded like I couldn’t give a shit, which for goals 5 and 3 would be a fair assessment. I decided I’d leave it for another day when I felt less self conscious and when the neighbours couldn’t hear me.

The other day never came. I gave up, admitted I wasn’t cut out for football commentary and called it quits. I almost, almost, found a new respect for Peter Drury. One thing I did do, though, was keep the recordings I made. I have posted them below so you can listen and laugh. In this search for any employer that will have me we might as well eke out any humour where possible.

By now someone else will have got this job. If you find this entry congratulations! On getting the job, not finding my blog. You have two things I am envious of: the gig and the ability to to not feel like a twat. But seriously, well done.

 A couple of months ago, I was sat in a lecture where we received a talk from an author by the name of Joel Lane. Some of you may already be familiar with his work, but for the uninitiated – like myself – you can find his works here. But it was less what he wrote, than what he said that got me thinking. He informed me and the rest of the class that he’d set stories in Bilston and, even, West Bromwich. That’s where I live, I thought. Maybe that was when the lightbulb went off.

This past week I’ve been in Birmingham a fair bit. When I go to Birmingham I feel like a tourist – a massively fawning tourist – and that’s even with having a Birmingham postcode. Technically and geographically, I live in Birmingham; local identity and (waning) dialect suggest I live in West Bromwich. I’m more Black Country than Brummie.

Birmingham overwhelms me. It’s a massive metropolis and makes me feel like I’m in a Fritz Lang film, or, dread the thought, a Christopher Nolan film. The Wesleyan building and the area around there would make for a great legal thriller starring Ed Harris as a corrupt cop and James McAvoy as a wide eyed, ambitious lawyer in search of the truth. And nothing but the truth.

But what made me fall in love with Birmingham was today, sitting in that square opposite Snow Hill station. (Local people will know the one – it’s got a church in it and a fair few benches). Birmingham is a rush of activity at 8am, no-one stops. I stopped, though, and sat on one of those benches. The sun was making the back of my neck warm, gently tickling it with it’s heat. From where I was sitting you could see the buildings with their old architecture meeting with their ghastly concrete counterparts jutting out over them.

Like I said, Birmingham is a rush. Most people are marching along to their city jobs, and march they do. Sitting there watching it it looks like a procession or a military drill. There’s an order too and it goes something like this:

Someone with a briefcase, a schoolchild, someone with a pull-along luggage carrier, someone you’re attracted to, someone you’re attracted too – they usually come in pairs which makes it difficult to choose which one you’re attracted to more – someone with a briefcase, someone who stares at you funny because you’re sitting down, someone you’re attracted to, someone in a Villa shirt and someone you’re attracted to in a Villa shirt which is a catch 22 situation if ever there was one.

Something as banal as watching people walk past onto a shit day at work, an extra-marital affair or to visit an old friend made me like a city I’d never given much thought to.

And then some little girls started chasing birds as they flew from tree to tree. It wasn’t quite an epiphany, but it was cute enough. Sadly, then I had to get up and leave because I had appointments to keep.

So, rather than constantly set stories in midwestern cities I know nothing about, I’m going to set stories in Birmingham because this past week I’ve realised I quite like the place. And I don’t even know half of it yet, or half of what goes on around there which is exciting.

But Telly Savalas says it better than me. Birmingham, here’s looking at ya.

Liverpool are just now beginning to put their stamp on this close season transfer market in the build up to the new Premier League season. The signing of Jordan Henderson is an interesting one – a good worker and passer in midfield, a young prospect for a club on the rise. While Alex Ferguson is being heralded for warding off bidders with a £16m swoop for the highly rated Phil Jones, Dalglish and Liverpool are being derided for paying a considered ridiculous price for a player of roughly the same experience.

But this is a new Liverpool. A Liverpool casting off its worn identity, a Liverpool prepared to look back fondly on its history rather than cling desperately to it, a Liverpool who’ll remember Istanbul, rather than constantly trying to relive it. To become new, Liverpool must invest in new.

And all this is going to happen under the stewardship of John Henry.

For those unfamiliar, John Henry is the owner, in part, of the Boston Red Sox, one of the most recognised and celebrated teams in Baseball. His background is in futures investing and so in a professional capacity Henry is a man who looks forward, not back. Henry has owned other sports teams before the Red Sox, and owns others still, but it’s the Red Sox that gave him the most success. Or, more aptly, that he brought the most success too.

Pre-Henry Boston were a club with a name, a historic club who couldn’t figure out a way to beat the Yankees – a club with an even bigger name – to the pennant. In 2001 they were posting a fairly impressive 82 wins, 79 losses record, a record of which lesser clubs would be proud. But not the Red Sox. That year Boston were spending an incredible estimate of $109,333,333* on players’ salaries to not reach the post season. In comparison, the 2001 eventual World Series Champions, the Arizona Diamondbacks, spent a paltry $77,455,499 on player salaries.

The following year, Henry’s first in charge of the Red Sox, he cut these salaries down by around $5 million and in 2003 salaries dropped another $5 million. A drop in the ocean, maybe, but salaries is where Henry and his team did their most astute business. Successful players were tied down, and when 2004’s salary jump to $134,119,000 came their improved contracts were part of the reason. Other factors were the $12,000,000 spent on pitching ace Curt Schilling, a wise move considering his 21 win, All Star worthy season and the useful additions of players like Pokey Reese and Gabe Kapler for relatively cheap considering the amount of games played between them.

Similarly to his first full season at Boston, Henry’s first thought as Liverpool owner was to slash the inflated wage bill. As this piece by supreme blog the Swiss Ramble informs us:

On completing due diligence, John W Henry said that Liverpool’s wage bill was one of “a number of unpleasant shocks”. Specifically, he was [typo] thought that it was a huge payroll for a squad with little depth. It stands to reason that the £114 million wage bill should be reduced, especially when you consider that it is so much higher than Tottenham’s £67 million. That does not imply a “slash and burn” approach, more a case of the club getting better value for money, as Henry explained, “We have to be more efficient. When we spend a dollar, it has to be wisely. We cannot afford player contracts that do not make long-term sense.”

Henry describes his methods in a nutshell. Players are only invested in if they make long term sense. Sure, there’ll be the odd squad player who Liverpool spend the small millions on, but the big millions are reserved for the youthful and the brilliant.

If the Oakland Athletics were the pioneers in the use of sabermetrics to decide who the best players were, the Red Sox under Henry were the pioneers of Wengermetrics.

Andy Carroll is the raw power and the brutal, if a little more flattering, physique of Kevin Youkilis. Where Youkilis hits home runs for fun, Carroll diverts balls into the opposition’s net with sublime aerial ability. Luis Suarez is the skill and speed of Dustin Pedroia and Jacoby Ellsbury, or, to keep the 2004 World Series winning Red Sox analogy running, the thirty stolen bases of Johnny Damon. Liverpool’s latest coup as mentioned at the beginning of this post is the latest in Henry’s educated, long term signings.

At some point the Red Sox needed someone to replace Manny Ramirez and that man was David Ortiz. At some point Liverpool need someone to replace talisman Steven Gerrard and, maybe, just maybe Jordan Henderson is that man.

The sale of Torres has already shown both Henry’s ruthlessness and sound financial sense. The sale of a player for £50,000,000, purchased for around £26.5 is nothing to sneer at, especially when under the previous owners Liverpool had largely made a loss on player profits. The fact that this money was then ploughed straight back into the club shows Henry’s willingness to succeed and improve Liverpool.

Furthermore to Henry’s idea of adopting Wengermetrics, he seems happy to let Dalglish bring Liverpool’s youth through – something a lot more prevalent in American sports with their college traditions. Employing Dalglish as manager was Henry’s first intelligent move, a move full of Liverpool sentiment, and if the likes of Kelly, Flanagan, Spearing and Shelvey all work out maybe the success to match the sentiment will arrive.

With perhaps a few more additions and more examples of Henry’s financial smarts, the forthcoming 2011 Liverpool could be the Boston Red Sox of Henry’s first years in charge – a prudently financial outfit while also an impressive, improving force on the pitch.

After 2004’s success the Red Sox won another World Series three years later in 2007. If Liverpool under Henry reach a stage like Istanbul again perhaps it can be the springboard for a steady, sensible and satisfying period of success both home and abroad.

*All figures are estimates acquired from Baseball Reference and do not include the salaries of rookies and minor league players.

Culturally as in cultural-y. Cultural would do, I know, but I get embarrassed.

Something to do with books or films. That’s what I want to do. Something.

“Something’s anything” my Mum says. She pulls jobs out of papers and shouts in a fit of excitement “here, you can get a job at the college” as she holds out a scrap of newspaper with advertisements for plumbing apprenticeships on. I explain that I can’t be a tutor at a college, I’d need extra training for that. I’m tired of explaining that I can’t be a tutor or a teacher or a lecturer. I tell her that I can’t do a course in plumbing either as I’m not very good with my hands.

Most of the people who ask me what I want to do aren’t graduates and see University as this mythical place where, once left, doors magically open and corporate types in expensive suits start kissing your feet. This hasn’t happened to me yet. Hopefully it doesn’t either.

I know that with next to nothing on my CV I won’t get a job straight away which is why I’ve applied for internships and sent polite emails off volunteering to help out at places of interest for free. Out of the emails I’ve sent less than half have been replied to. Of the internships I applied for all the places were taken.

Something to do with books or films.

That’s what I like. Books and films. I can’t get a job as a footballer or a baseball player or a musician, so that leaves the other two things I like. Or a job as a crisp tester. There’s a thought.

I did find one job though. The Guardian’s website had a role as a Writer in Residence. Wow, the perfect job, I thought. After a mouse click it turned out that it was Writer in Residence at four different prisons, all at a fair distance from one another. The prison bit scares me, but the travelling makes it impossible. Of course, I could move away to get a job but the travelling for this particular job is still a large amount.

I guess what I’m looking for is something to do with books or films in the West Midlands.

But it seems there isn’t a lot of that round here. Jobsites depict the Midlands, both and East and West, as a cultural wasteland, and yet I know it isn’t which is why I took it upon myself to fire off emails instead of using jobsites because most of them are useless or want me to work in marketing. Nothing against marketing, but nah.

A couple of weeks ago I found an article the Birmingham Post ran on my University. There was a quote about how excellent they [the University] are at finding jobs for students. While I’m sure they are in some cases in mine they palmed me off with an incorrect email and a few volunteering opportunities in third world countries.

As much as I’d love to volunteer in these countries I don’t have a passport yet. I need someone to fill the forms in. Will someone do that for me?

It seems that when faced with a graduate who doesn’t want to work for a giant corporation, who doesn’t want to sell products or policies people don’t need, who doesn’t want to sit in an office picking up phone calls from disgruntled customers then nobody knows quite what to do with them.

Maybe that’s what I’ve got to do.

But I want to do something to do with books or films.

I can do some freelancing for now if I can remember the name of a site I was pointed in the direction of. That’ll tide me over. I wouldn’t mind that. But I want one of those jobs where I can meet people, make friends and make enemies, go drinking with them after a bad day and loosen my tie with a huff when I get home.

I want one of those jobs, just without wearing a tie.

Proofreading. I could do that. Editing. I did quite well at that and got drunk on the power. Writing. I can do a bit of that too, as much as this post disproves it. Films. I’ve watched a few.

If there aren’t any jobs, or if I end up working in marketing, I’ll go back into Education and do something else I’m interested in or an extension of what I’ve already done. Maybe. But for now on the off-chance someone of some standing sees this…

Have you got a job? Will you give me a job? Will you give me a something to do with books or films job if you’ve got one?

I make a good milky cup of tea.

Alternatively, please accept my resumé in the form of a pop-punk song.

So, yesterday I did a blog post which was just a very basic list of stuff I’d read fairly recently. A nice little blog post to ease myself back into a more regular writing schedule. Towards the end of the blog I mentioned a hashtag I’d been keeping to myself (#bookwatch – as heroic as Bluewatch from London’s Burning, but better read) and then I received a tweet from @SHMSTR asking about a twitter book club. I replied that this was something I’d thought about which was a bit of a lie. Whilst I had thought about the idea I wasn’t that arsed to sit down and think about how to work it all out. But after tweeting the question there was a smattering of interest from a few people so that’s what I did, I sat down and worked it out, kind of, and this is what I came up with.

Bluewatchs favourite book: In The Heat of the Night

Book-choosing

Everyone gets their turn in choosing a book, obviously. I played around with the idea of 2 people choosing different books and then letting the members choose whichever they wanted to read, but I decided against this for two reasons: 1) if everyone reads person A’s book and no-one reads person B’s book, B ain’t gonna be too happy. 2) to force people out of their comfort zones. If there’s two options, say, a straight up novel and a collection of poetry but no-one wants to read poetry because it’s poncey and wet and crying then they’re not going to challenge themselves. If that sounds like you, probably best not to join. Sorry if that sounds too dictatorial and a little condescending but it’s for the best.

This isn’t just any book club, it’s an M&S book club

I say this because I don’t want us to be a straight up novel reading book club. As above we can read poetry. But we can also stretch ourselves to other things – short stories, a book of lyrics, plays, musicals and – my favourite – cookbooks where we can all attempt something out of a cookbook and then take pictures of our achievements/non-achievements and post them. I’m trying to think of other ideas of how to make this a little bit more inclusive and less stuffy than a normal book club. You have any?

Of course, if you want to choose a novel you can – there are no rules against that, there are no rules for or against anything as long as it’s authored – but out of the box thinking is encouraged.

Meetings

Unfortunately, with doing this online there’ll be no tea, biscuits and cakes. On the plus side being online will eradicate the chances of anybody picking Catherine Cookson though (No rules – Ed). Maybe. Anyway, we need somewhere to put our opinions, thoughts, rants and whatnot. A blog, a forum, a hashtag to follow could all work. Each have their pluses and minuses: a blog would have thoughts sent to an email for the site to stop their being an endless amount of authors; a forum would require people to remember to visit and there’s nothing worse than an empty forum; a hashtag needs something catchy (#bookwatch is alright, #twitterbookclub is a bit too long) and needs to stand out amongst all the #Bieber4eva guff. Again, your thoughts on which way to go are more than welcome.

Too many Cooksons spoil the broth.

As for thoughts and opinions, present them anyway you want. You can send an email of text, you can draw a picture or series of pictures explaining the plot or how the book made you feel (try not to be too psychotic), you can take photos (not to sure how that would work) or if you’re a bit more confident or have delusions of grandeur you can podcast/vlog. Whatever, just get something out there. They don’t have to be essays, but the more thought put into the words/pictures/faces you pull, the more other members will get out of them.

Regularity

Weekly, fortnightly, monthly? What’s the best for you. I think it’d be safe to scratch the first one as people have schedules to work to and other things to keep them busy that don’t involve reading and nerding it up with a bunch of strangers but it’s there for you to choose. If I’m busy, as I should be now, it can take me up to a week to read a novel (disgraceful I know, but them’s the breaks when you’re studying for a degree and managing a struggling German side on Football Manager). The two latter options are the more preferable, though monthly might be a tad too long. But, like I said before, your input is welcome on regularity as well as how and where to work it.

I think that’s about all I had written down in my little notepad. I’ll set up an email fairly soon so you don’t have to keep coming back here and feeding my hits-mad ego but while you’re here spread the word, tell your friends, improve your own virtual life and become a member of the Twitter Book Club (better name pending). Just don’t pick a Catherine Cookson novel.

Writer as Reader 

Reading is the only way to become a better writer I’m always told. Can’t argue with that. The best writers are the best readers is another truism constantly pointed out to me. My response was I was always busy doing uni work to read. But I bit the bullet recently and found I could actually keep my mind on more than one thing a day so here’s some books I read recently:

The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break: Absurdist fiction. But not too absurd. I’d quite like to write absurd fiction, I think.

The Minotaur is a somewhat ridiculous figure worthy of our pity and our understanding, rather than our scorn and fear. His horns keep catching on things (and people) every now and again, but that’s just an occupational hazard. I was surprised by the prose of this. It wasn’t the formulaic, stodgy on the unfunny bits, clear on the funny bits prose I expected. It was flowing and poetic (naturally, having been authored by a poet) in places and though the story is narrated in the 3rd person the choice of language helped me sympathise more greatly with the Minotaur. Sympathising with a Minotaur. Fucking hell.

The Last Sherlock Holmes Story: I’ve found a new respect for crime fiction. It’s no longer that genre which gets turned into serialised dramas on cable TV channels starring people with strained East End accents. It’s something which takes an awful, awful lot of plotting and skill. And even then it still might not be perfect as Dibdin’s wet salmon of an ending proves. I won’t tell you the ending but it is AARGH! worthy. If you read the first 170 or so pages though, you’ve got yourself a good little book.

Blood Meridian: This is a book that doesn’t have many commas because commas clutter up the page and don’t make words look like words or something and sometimes because of this lack of commas you have to if you’re simple like me go back and read things two or even three times because it didn’t quite register the first time and the sentences are really long too and if you read in the early hours of the morning like me whilst watching baseball and drinking 7up these meandering sentences fuck up your eyes but if you can get past the commas and long sentences and no speech marks (which I didn’t mind. Mainly because speech marks look bloody stupid) then it might just be the second best novel ever written.

O City of Broken Dreams: This is one of my favourite short stories ever written. So I re-read it and re-read it again. And then I looked up the words that were a bit above my level of intelligence or were Americanisms and then I sat back and thought, yeah, I really like this Cheever guy.

Jesus’ Son: Seriously, if you’ve not got this collection of short stories stop fannying about with your life and go and buy it. Denis Johnson is my most favourite writer, I’m always reading about his fucked up characters on public transport and wondering if the bloke in front of me or behind me or opposite me ever ran an inebriated guy around town in his car while thinking about killing somebody. You don’t deprive yourself of opportunities like those

Let me grab a passage from my favourite, Car Crash While Hitchhiking, so this hasn’t been a whole waste of time:

And later, as I’ve said, I slept in the back seat while the Oldsmobile – the family from Marshalltown – splashed along through the rain. And yet I dreamed I was looking right through my eyelids, and my pulse marked off the seconds of time. The Interstate through Western Missouri was, in that era, nothing more than a two way road, most of it. When a semi-truck came towards us and passed going the other way, we were lost in a blinding spray and a warfare of noises such as you get when being towed through an automatic car wash. The wipers stood up and lay down across the windshield without much effect. I was exhausted and after an hour I slept more deeply.

I’d known all along exactly what was going to happen. But the man and his wife woke me up later, denying it viciously.

And there you go. I’ll leave some other stuff for another blog post so this doesn’t get beefed up to an opus and so I have something to ease myself back in with fairly soon.

Until then maybe you could join in my #bookwatch hashtag on twitter, commenting on what you’ve read in 140 characters (or 130 when you’ve taken away #bookwatch. 129 with the space that will follow) But yes, it’s been nice writing at you again. Come back for more won’t you? The next few blog posts might be moaning about not getting a job which is well worth ten minutes of your time.

SO WHEN CAN YOU DO ALL THIS EXCITING STUFF?

Tuesday 7th December in the brand spanking new Students Union drinks lounge.

Come along, bring anything written, bring an instrument or four (vuvuzela’s are banned), bring a skit, a rap, a performance art piece, bring pretty much anything you can perform in front of people with a microphone (maybe) without having some form of attack. Please try to ARRIVE EARLY IF YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING BIG and try to keep the time down to around the 10 minute mark.

If anyone wants a flyer emailed to them drop me a line and I’ll get one forwarded to you.

Alright then. I think that’s it, so come, bring your friends, wrap up warm, don’t slip on the ice and have some fun. Now, will someone tell me where the Students Union drinks lounge is?