Misc. post about stuff

Karma police, arrest this man
He talks in maths
He buzzes like a fridge
He's like a detuned radio

- Radiohead, Karma Police, (it's a snide reference to Peter Hill-Wood, okay?).

I've only ever seen two Arsenal matches in my life, but I'm very impressed with Song. He's got a languid grace about him. He's positionally very good, and slips into defence very well when Toure goes off on his forward runs. In both matches, I didn't see him caught out once. Admittedly, he was playing against weak opposition, but he was still very impressive.

I think he's the future partner for Fabregas.

However, that's not to say we don't need someone now. Appiah, who's been linked to us on a free, would be good cover for a year while Song and Denilson get the experience needed for the first team. I'm not as convinced about Denilson, but then, I've only ever watched two Arsenal games. What the hell would I know about it?

Peter Hill-Wood said:

"If somebody came and made a really huge bid then you cannot recommend shareholders turn it down because we don't like it. We want the club to stay in its current ownership and, of course, you have some concern that someone will try to buy the club. The directors don't want to sell but we are a public company. It depends on the price."

I never get tired of saying it - Danny Fizsman needs to muzzle this guy, or at least make the position of chairman a non-speaking role.

And our Theo Walcott said after the Andorra match:

"I know how to scare any defender."

Please don't be too scary, Theo. You're such a nice boy. I'm going to name my first-born after you, if and when one comes along.

I'm leaving for Stratford today. Going to see where William Shakespeare was born. And the clouds have broken, the sun's shining, and the world is lovely and green. And it'll be this way for a day until the next low-weather trough drifts in from the west. Apparantly, England experiences what Florida experiences, only in a weaker form and a week delayed.

I hate the Gulf Stream.

On a Sunday

The breath of the morning
I keep forgetting
The smell of the warm summer air

I live in a town
Where you can't smell a thing
You watch your feet
For cracks in the pavement

- Radiohead, Subterranean Homesick Alien, my favourite lines from my favourite song from my favourite band

Before they were Radiohead, they were called "On a Friday". Before superstardom, they were just a bunch of skinny schoolkids who wanted to play music. And every Friday night, they'd unload their gear in a pokey little room above a pub in Oxford, and play to a tiny little group of people.

I spent the best part of a Saturday night walking around Oxford looking for that pub. It was the strangest experience. I didn't even know the name of the place, so I just asked people on the street. It lead me from one side of Oxford (where I'm staying) to the other side (to The Zodiac). That place had been turned into a cinema, but a woman on Cowley Rd directed me back across town to a pub called The Jericho. She had no idea where the pub was, but a guy in the city centre directed me to Little Claredon Street. That was wrong, but a drugged-out barkeeper directed me down Walton Rd, where I finally found The Jericho Tavern.

I walked in halfway through a mixed night, and saw a couple of bands - Censored, from Nottingham, and The Brent Wood, from London. Not bad, but not Radiohead. But to be fair, back then, not even Radiohead were Radiohead.

As I walked back to the hostel, I reflected on the strangeness of it all. No one knew where I was going, apart from the last guy I asked. Each person had a different idea of where things were. But somehow, it worked. I drifted from person to person, and it was far more effective than if I was armed with a map and directions. If you're open about it, turns out that people really do want to help you. Kind of renews my faith in humankind somewhat.

I'm not sure how it happened, but Oxford's turned from a walk amongst medieval college squares into a circuit of all of Radiohead's former haunts. The lady in the tourism office thinks I'm some kind of cultural Philistine. Here I am in one of the great centres of learning in the world, and I'm chasing the ghosts of an indie rock band with way too much pretension for its own good.

What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.

Nothing to do with Arsenal

I'm back from Tintern Abbey, and currently cooling my heels in Chepstow. Welsh buses are even more infrequent than Melbourne ones. Still, it's a nice looking abbey and all. Framed with rain and mist and lush, forested hills, it looks suitably mournful.

There's an air of sadness around all these moldy ruins.

It's a bit to do with the impermanence of man and how all our works will one day lie forgotten in the ground. You walk through delicately carved archways and soaring gothic pillars, and you realise how much effort went into making these things last for all time. When you look at all the monuments and flagstones dedicated to past luminaries, you start to realise how little you really leave behind. There's nothing there but a name and a touching little epiphet.

It's a bit to do with the whole futility of Welsh nationalism, how they seem to shoot themselves in the foot all the time. I'm not really familiar with their history (it's mainly pieced from Lonely Planet guidebooks and plaques off moldy ruins), but it seems a history of division and discorded, and lots of noble dudes sucking up to more powerful England lords. Even all their transportation is focused west-east instead of north-south (due, historically, to shepherds leading their flock to richer English markets). All these buildings they've built are like a monument to their fruitless, ill-guided energies.

Then again, it also might be because of the bloody rain. It always makes me melacholy and introspective. It rains 90% of the time when I'm in Wales, and 100% of the time when I'm in a moldy ruin. Often, there's dazzling sunshine when I'm in a bus, but once I'm out, it starts again. I'd quite like Cardiff specifically, and Wales generally, if it wasn't the case. It's quite a pretty little place.

Anyway, I'm off to Oxford tomorrow. And the way things are, I probably won't blog for a while. I'm too cheap to pay £1 for 15 minutes of internet. It's too much for too little. Like Wenger, I don't care if it's the market price - I want to buy my time on my terms, or not at all.

There's not a lot going on, anyway. There's an internationl match tonight (I think). My prediction's that Walcott will get a game against Andorra and score a hattrick, play against Croatia and get two more, and have a host of tabloids complaining that Wenger's been holding this kid back. Or something like that.

My Dad won something

1-0 to the CAV Table Tennis club,
1-0 to the CAV Table Tennis club,
1-0 to the CAV Table Tennis club,
1-0 to the CAV Table Tennis club!

- my Dad, to the strains of "Go West" by the Pet Shop Boys (which is also sung, without irony, by the fiercest, heaviest blokes at the Arsenal - which is funny with it being a gay anthem and all, y'know)

My Dad won a table tennis tournament the other day.

His club beat another club in a friendly competition. He was first seed, and beat his opponent. He sent me a few photos via email, and he looks proud as punch. If he keep this up, he'll be promoted to the A Grade team next year.

Made me a bit homesick. And it's only been 17 days. And it's mum's birthday next week. I'm buggered if I know how I'll cope after a few months.

I suppose it doesn't qualify as Arsenal news, but it's probably the closest to success we're going to get for a while, so I'm going to enjoy it. And anyway, as I said in my charter (it's in my first post), it's my fucking blog and I'll blog what the fuck I feel like.

Going to Oxford tomorrow. Not sure if any of the colleges are open (school started a couple of days ago), but it's a 4-star rated hostel. I'm sick of sleeping with 7 other guys who snore, stink, fart and undress in front of you.

Oh, Arsenal news. There's this article from the Online Gooner which says we need Dein and Usmanov at the Arse. Now, I'm not a fan of the board (in fact, I think Peter Hill-Wood is in need of a competency injection) and I hate how Danny Fizsman is dumping all the pressure on Wenger (yeah, like Wenger's going to ask you to borrow 30 million in this current credit climate, Danny boy), but a rich investor isn't the answer.

We've got the squad, the resources and the manager to remain solvent and 4th. Yes, we won't win anything without investment (which we don't have). But I'd rather we remain the Arsenal and be independent rather than being a billionaire's plaything. Of course, others may feel otherwise, but I don't hold with the win at all costs theory. It's just a personal opinion.

As Peter Garrett once sang, it's better to die on your feet than live on your knees. Of course, he was duly elected as a Labor MP and started towing the party line immediately, which goes to show that even the scariest looking rocker with a social conscience can be seduced by ugly, ugly people in Parliament. It's depressing watching this neutered version of him now, compared with the angry voice of Midnight Oil.

Hell, I've got to brave this rain and get to Tintern Abbey today. Why the fuck does Wales always have to rain?

I hate The Telegraph

"It is not easy to speak English in the Arsenal dressing room. The boss talks in French when he has discussions with players and only speaks English in team meetings. I do not feel that I am in a foreign country with all the French speakers around I am not in unknown territory. I have settled in very well."

- Sammy Nasri, from an awful Telegraph story

3 points today, before I comment on the above:

1. I'm going to Caerphilly. There's a big castle there built by a guy in the Middle Ages to keep another guy out of town. I'm hazy on the details, but it's supposed to be a big, big castle - the biggest in Wales. Should be worth a look.

2. I'm changing my mind about Cardiff. Apart from the rain, it's a funky little city. It's not big, but it's optimistic. It's a child of the Industrial Revolution, and parts of it are still full of dour, working-class terraces. But it's also relatively new, in that most of the current building boom has happened in the past ten years or so. It's a bit like a ghost town at the moment, because there's not enough people to fill all the streets, apartments and funky little boutique shops, but they'll come. Build it and they will come. It reminds me a bit of Geelong and their waterfront development.

3. I don't understand how anyone can approve of Sarah Palin running for Veep. Misogynists should be appalled because she's an underqualified woman - there are probably five men who have both the experience and the genitalia to do things proper. Feminists should be appalled because she's an underqualified woman - it makes a mockery of the ideals of the "sisterhood of the travelling pantsuit". What happened to the idea that you get the position because of your abilities, and not your gender?

But onto the quote.

It's from a Telegraph article with the headline "Arsenal's French-speaking dressing room leaves Theo Walcott lost in translation". And it has nothing to do with Walcott, and everything to do with how well Nasri is settling in. The story itself is the typical fluff piece about how well a player is settling into the club. No problem with that.

My issue is with the headline. This is terrible journalism. It's misleading. It's racist. And it treats its readers with contempt. It's got nothing to do with Walcott. It suggests that the Francophones are subbing our dear little Theo, purely on language. It insinuates that these foreign players are usurping places that belong to real Englishmen. And it presumes a readership that is xenophobic, ill-educated and gullible enough to swallow this tripe.

How do English newspapers get away with stunts like this?

Man City and Cardiff Castle

“As a Chelsea fan. I envy you. I know what it's like to suffer years of hope with nothing to show for it. But a couple of weeks before the January transfer window the speculation about which players you will sign will go ballistic and, to be honest, it's a great feeling to have the world's top players linked with your club. The thrill wears off after a couple of years so enjoy it while it's fresh.”

- SuperDad, bbc.co.uk/606, a comment from The Times

I've just come over from Cardiff Castle. I'd passed by it on the bus a few times yesterday, and I thought it looked interesting. It is, and it isn't. There's a 12th century castle on a motte in the middle, but the high walls and the Gothic clock tower are 18th century recreations by the 3rd Marquis of Bute. Being one of the richest men in the world wasn't satisfying, obviously.

He wanted to live in a castle.

I did the tour, and it turned my stomach. It's done up in a faux Gothic style, and it's so elaborately decorated (gilded, painted, carved, and highly polished oak panelling) that it looks a bit garish. It's looks a bit like the Cuckoo restaurant up in the Dandelong Ranges.

Please be patient, I do have a point.

There are a lot of billionaires in football at the moment. From Silvio Berlusconi to Roman Abramovich, and now to shady types like Thaksin Shinawatra and our own Alistar Usmanov, football's the trendiest acquisition for the man who can buy medium-sized African countries. They tend to buy an obscure club, inflate it with lots of cash, and then stock it with a lot of fancy players (and their accompanying bling). With Man City, Robinho's just the start. They also want Torres, Ronaldo and our own Cesc Fabregas.

The Greeks had a saying - nothing in excess. Too much of anything is bad taste. Even if you're buying the best, it starts to look a bit unnatural.

Take the Marquis of Bute's fairy-tale castle - each article is beautifully made. But with too much elaboration, it becomes gaudy. If you stockpile a room with gilded ceiling paintings, wooden vaults, oak panelling with acorns and monkeys, stained glass windows.... it looks too flashy. If he'd been a bit more restrained, and kept one feature piece in each room, it would've looked alright. But too much bling (even high-quality bling) is tacky.

The (long-suffering) Mrs Marquis of Bute slept in a separate bedroom with a separate drawing room. My tour group poked around her quarters, and they're spartan by comparison - pale green walls, a couple of wall-lamps, a carpet. I'd imagine her developing an acute visual headache in the main Gothic rooms, and then fleeing back to the calmness of her sensible Edwardian(?) drawing room.

Likewise, too many top, top players can get a bit much. Remember how we salivated when Nasri arrived? Now imagine how it would've been if we'd got Essien, Silva and Villa in the transfer window as well. Nice, hey? What about Akinfeev and Benzema in January? And Ronaldo, Vidic and Ramos after that?

Don't know about you, but if that happened, I'd be running out the room like much Mrs Marquis of Bute did in the 1700s.

Superdad (the source of my quote), has a point. Football speculation is like a fizzy soft drink. There's only so much carbon dioxide in each can. You can open it and sip, and enjoy the fizziness for the entire can. Or you can shake it up and have it escape in one enormously pleasing spurt. But if you do that, the rest of our drink is flat and boring.

That said, Wenger really should've bought a defensive midfielder. At Arsenal we like restraint, but it's not nice to live in a prison cell.

No player, no cry

So no, woman, no cry;
No, woman, no cry.
I seh, O little - O little darlin', don't shed no tears;
No, woman, no cry, eh.

- Bob Marley, "No woman, no cry"

So we didn't get anyone on transfer eve. We were good boys and girls for all the transfer window, we left out cookies and milk, and still Wenger Claus didn't arrive. It makes you wonder whether we should believe in make-believe characters who slides down chimneys and spends mega-bucks on players.

Sadly, those characters do exist, but only in Russia and the Middle East.

Man City bought Robinho. Which is funny, more than anything. Man City are building a second Roman Empire up there in the north, and Robinho is the foundation stone. The new owners have already handed a shopping list to Mark Hughes. Already, they've been ordered to get a top 4 spot, and a Champions League title in the near future. Hughes must be a little bit perturbed. Shades of Ranieri are in in the offing, and I bet the new owners want to throw big wads of cash at unsuspecting world-class managers (i.e. Guus Hiddink).

Whatever the case, I've got a feeling that, despite our paucity in midfield, it's Liverpool that's going to have to look over their shoulder. We're not a bad side, despite the weakness in midfield. We really, really need someone to do the donkey work. But Cesc is fit enough that he won't miss that many games. We will drop embarassing games like Fulham, because we're too thin to be consistent. But we're okay. We're not going to win anything, but we're not going drop out of the top 4, either.

Moreover, I think talks of a European Superleague is premature. The way things are turning out, all the best players are going to get sucked into the Premier League, so that'll be a de facto Superleague. Which, according to my friend in London, is what's happening with everything else worthwhile as well. Most of everything is relocating to London. It's hip.

And the Arsenal are there. Everyone wants to be close to the Arsenal.

I'm in Cardiff now, in Wales. Spent the past couple of days in Bath - really pretty city. It's like a Georgian-period theme park. It's situated on a bend of the river Avon, and it's ringed by hills. The whole thing's made out of sandstone and set out in grand terraced streets. The Germans bombed the hell out of it in WW2, so only a third of the original city's left, but it's still grand.

I stayed in an Italianate mansion up on Bathwick Hill, and when I walked up it at night, you could see the whole city glittering below. Bath Abbey's half made up of glass, so it lights up like a lantern. Really, really pretty city. Can't emphasize that enough.

Cardiff looks pretty ugly in comparison. It's a seaport, and has a stack of dour-looking houses in the surburbs where I'm staying. It's a new capital (so to speak) and the city centre is a construction site at the moment. And it's raining, which doesn't help.I should've spent more time in Bath, but I've got itchy feet. Now I've got to figure out what to do for 4 days here.