Going to the dogs

The following post is largely for the benefit of those fool-hardy folk who kick a ball with me on a Saturday morning, and specifically those who attended our social last night, although other readers who know Ross Caws may also want to read on.

It is not often that my blog entries, let alone any comments that are made about Saturday morning football, are sombre and serious in tone, but there were a number of very worrying things that took place at the Dogs last night, and, in all seriousness, I would like to relate them to you so that together we can help the individual concerned.

For those unaware of the basic facts: a number of us from the football crew had a social at the dog-racing track in Brandon last night. In different circumstances, I would totally recommend it: three course meal; £10 worth of free bets; your own table from which all races can be viewed, and waiting service throughout. Our experiences, however, were not at all pleasant, and as a regular Saturday morning player I feel quite strongly that we need to rally round and do what we can to support a fallen comrade, Mr. Ross Caws. I am genuinely fearful for him.

Early in the evening, Ross was his usual, chirpy self - lots of banter, plenty of jokes and a plastic wallet full of pound coins. It was a genuine pleasure to see Ross back a winner in the first race. His little face lit up at the prospect of not only collecting his winnings, but also enjoying the bragging rights that he would have for the rest of the evening. Whilst the rest of us were discussing what food to order, Mr. Caws was sitting quietly, grinning to himself, clearly relishing his beginners' luck.

It was not long after this that things took a turn for the worse. Ross backed another winner, and another, and, inexplicably, another. As the winnings came pouring in, I began to notice some (initially) subtle changes in Ross's body language, demeanour and general attitude. All banter began to subside, and anyone wanting to make a friendly joke would be countered with a frosty stare. Whilst placing bet number three, his hands were visibly shaking, and when I tried to have a look at his ticket, merely to see which dog he had gone for, he snatched up his fork and slammed it down, sharp end first, missing my hand by a whisker. Shocked, I looked up at him, and was horrified by what I saw. His eyes, usually so bright and full of energy, were cold and dead, and his face had turned a deathly white. Clearly struggling to keep his voice under control, he whispered - "Don't...touch...the...Master's... ticket".

If all of this was alarming, then what followed was almost too distressing to relate. Ross's luck began to disappear, and after three wins on the trot, he then had three consecutive losses. After loss number three, his head slumped to the table, shoulders heaving, breathing erratic and irregular. His whole body was shaking, and by this point our entire party had become very concerned. A lady on the table opposite ours was talking quietly to her friend, and announced that, as she had run out of money, she would be making "no more bets". Upon hearing this, Ross jumped up, screaming in a way that was just not human:

"NO!" he cried. "I CAN TURN IT AROUND, I KNOW I CAN! PLEASE, YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'LL DO TO ME!"

As a silent and horrified restaurant turned to stare at him, Ross realised his mistake. Looking more deathly pale than ever, he mumbled something about "should be more careful" and sat down.

By the time we reached the final race, Ross had, to some extent, regained control of himself, although he was still uncharacteristically silent. As we made our way back to the cars, he walked, head down and shoulders hunched, some ten yards ahead of us. Just as we reached the exit, he suddenly spun round and confronted me.

"When's the next meeting here?"

"I'm not sure Ross, I'll have to..."

"WHEN'S THE NEXT MEETING HERE?!"

"Ross...please! Just let me look..."

"I'VE GOT TO KNOW! MY HEAD'S SPINNING, I...please, Joe, I'm sorry for shouting. I just need to know."

"Tomorrow, Ross. 7.30."

No sooner had I finished speaking than he ran past me, back onto the dogs track, and disappeared into the darkness, ignoring our shouts and pleas.


That was the last any of us have seen of him. We spent several hours searching, and even got some of the staff involved, but, apart from the occasional guttural scream echoing down the corridors, there was neither sight nor sound.

As you can imagine, I had a sleepless night, and was roused from a state of disturbed slumber at 7am by the manager of the track. He told me that a few minutes ago one of his cleaners had reported seeing a young man lying, foetal position, in the middle of the track, eyes wide and blood-shot, stroking an old tote card and repeating over and over "twelve and a half hours...twelve and a half hours...twelve and a half hours..."

I am planning to drive over there this afternoon. I'm not sure if I'll make it back again. I fear him, for here, truly, is a great mind overthrown.

Vitriol

Found myself in the belly of the corporate beast this afternoon - went to Starbucks for an end-of-term-celebratory Latte and piece of cake (neither of which were 'skinny', give me strength!) and had a good read of The Times.

My first port of journalistic call, as always, was the sports pages. I had always thought of Simon Barnes, one of the paper's chief sports writers, as a bit of a twat. Some years ago he wrote a very scathing piece about Middlesbrough FC, in which he was highly critical and patronising towards not just the football team but the place and people as well. I may have to revise my opinions, however, in the light of the article I read this afternoon. I'm marching shoulder-to-shoulder with him on this one:

'I am a Steve Mclaren fan. I shall sing his praises wherever I go...He is a hero of the beautiful game. I shall hang on his every word...Steve, I am your man.

Anything, rather than be counted with the England fans...

It began within fifteen minutes (of England's qualifying match against Andorra in Barcelona on Tuesday night). There was no thought of encouraging the players...This was a group of people hungry for hate, waiting for the first moment in which they could legitimately express their hatred. It was an absolutely poisonous occasion...If I were a player, I would wish never to play football for these people again.

(This) is considered a basic human right in football..."They've paid for their seats, they have a right to their views." A right to views, yes, but do they really have a right to hideous, violent and personal abuse?

I'll support him for evermore. I am prepared to believe that he walks on water. I want Mclaren in - if only to spite the poisonous bastards of Barcelona.'

Joe vs the System

Damn, blast, and eternal hellfire!

Stupid, PATHETIC, bloody machine hasn't let me sign in for AGES!!

Seriously, to all those more technically clued up than me (most, if not all of you), WHY would this evil Machine stop me from getting onto the Blogger sign-in page, when all other websites seem to have been working fine? For the last few weeks, I've waited for as long as 30, 40, 50 minutes for Blogger to load up, but it just hasn't. I have, in that period, become even more of a neo-Luddite than I was before. To the Devil with computers and everything asociated with them! I have nothing but admiration for my good friend Paddy, who seemed to bear very patiently with his machine when it wasn't working properly. Nothing irritates me more than a PC with attitude!!

Right, rant over. What's been going on over the past FOUR WEEKS!! (bl#*!y, f#*$ing, t#!*ing machine) A fair bit, actually. In a continuation of the rebellious technology theme, my mobile phone was broken whilst sledging. A friend had it in his pocket, and at some stage crash-landed on top of it, smashing the screen. Have a new one now but have lost all my numbers. If you are a person who likes to think of me as a 'contact', firstly my commiserations, and secondly please text or call my mobile so that I have your number again. Thanks.

Car broke down as well on Wednesday night. Very exciting. It just packed in while I was driving slowly past a group of hoodies. Very pleasant, helpful hoodies, actually, but all quite embarassing as they spoke to me in a language I didn't quite follow:

Hoody: You alright mate.

Me: Fantastic. Car's broken down.

Hoody: F***in' hell. Open the f***in' bonnet mate.

Me: Okay.

H: Where's the f***in' pump, mate?

M: The what?

H: The f***in' pump, mate.

M: I didn't know such a thing existed.

H: F***in' there it is mate. F***in' looks alright.

(H enthusiastically pumps)

H: Not f***in' working mate. We'll have to jump the f***er.

M: I'm not into that kind of thing.

H: We need to jump the f***in' f***er mate. The f***in' car.

M: Right. How do I do that?

H: Get in the f***er mate. Clutch down, into second, I'll give it a f***in' push, when I shout, clutch up.

M: Okay.

(Jump attempted)

H: Didn't f***in' work mate.

M: No, I noticed that too.

H: Got f***in' breakdown mate?

M: Yes.

H: Give the f***ers a call mate.

M: I will. Thank you.


Seriously, I was very grateful to this scary-looking stranger for doing what he could. I dutifully gave the f***ers a call, and they couldn't sort it out either. Had to have it towed to a garage on Thursday morning. Got the day off school, but ended the day £120 worse off. Still, I feel like the whole experience has been a bit of a rite of passage. I hope it doesn't happen again, but if it does I won't be as pathetic and stressed out as I was this time.

Oh, and for the literary types out there, I've just finished reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Absolutely brilliant. Totally recommended for anyone who likes their novels.

Right, I feel 'purged'. This entry had to be a long one to help appease my frustrations of the past four weeks. You watch, I won't be able to post it now...

Up the Boro

As previously stated on this blog, the most masochistic and self-degrading aspect of my character is my inability to stop supporting Middlesbrough FC. I moved away from the town eight and a half years ago, have been back only twice since, and don't really know anyone who lives there anymore, but for some reason (and despite a few conscious attempts) I can't seem to shake the feelings of despondency when they mess up (often) and elation when they succeed (rare).


I have found in recent weeks, however, that supporting the Boro has been a less debilitating condition than usual. During all the long years that I have taken an interest, their most infuriating characteristic has been the ability to play well and get good results against the big teams, only to slump to standards of unbelievable mediocrity against the lesser ones. In recent seasons this has been particularly evident. Last season, we beat Chelsea, Man Utd and Arsenal at home, but were also the only team in the entire league to lose a match against Sunderland, who finished bottom of the table with a record-lowest points total.

During the first half of this season, we once again beat Chelsea at the Riverside, and drew our away games against Arsenal and Liverpool, but guess what?! We were beaten by all three of the newly promoted teams, (Reading, Sheffield United and Watford) two of whom are currently languishing at the bottom of the league. This can all get very frustrating. If you had told me two months ago that Middlesbrough's next two games were away to Man Utd, then at home to Charlton, I honestly, honestly would have been more confident of a victory at Old Trafford.


However, as mentioned, I have noticed a rather subtle and very pleasing change in recent weeks. On Tuesday night, we battled to victory in an FA cup tie against lowly Bristol City, of League One. The score after extra time was 2-2, and we needed a penalty shoot-out to beat them. An embarassment for the Premiership side, then? Not at all. That was exactly the kind of game in which, until recently, Middlesbrough would have caved in, stopped trying, and allowed the lower-league boys to record a famous win. We had a similarly scrappy, roll-up-your-sleeves-and-fight type win against Hull City in the previous round of the FA Cup. In the league we have, since Christmas, beaten Sheffield United, Charlton and Bolton Wanderers, and got a point away to Portsmouth (read it and weep, Bastable!). Most, if not all of these games would normally have resulted in humiliating failure.


Even the recent 3-0 defeat against Chelsea didn't dampen my spirits - it's Chelsea, for goodness sake! We shouldn't be beating a team who have become to professional football what Tesco is to retail. We should be able to pick up points against the likes of Charlton, Sheffield United and Portsmouth (weep again, Bastable!), and recently, that's exactly what we've been doing.


Of course, no fan is more familiar with false hope than a Boro fan. Let's wait and see where we finish this season. For the time being, though, Gareth Southgate seems to be successfully motivating the likes of Viduka, Xavier and Yakubu (one last sob, Andy) to actually bother to try, and the enthusiasm of local young players like Stewart Downing, James Morrison and Andrew Davies bodes well for the future.


It is only fitting for me to conclude with one of the wonderfully inventive terrace refrains I remember from my boyhood days:

You are my Boro, my only Boro.

You make me happy, when skies are grey.

You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.

Please don't take, my Boro, away.

Unsuitable for children

Macavity's a mystery cat,

He's called the Hidden Paw.

For he's a master criminal,

Who can defy the law.

He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard,

The Flying Squad's despair.

For when a crime's discovered, then

Macavity's not there.

(T.S. Eliot)

I was simultaneously amused, inrigued and terrifed when, pulling into my parking space behind the house a few weeks ago, I saw this monstrosity staring down at me from the neighbour's garage roof. I immediately dashed into the house to get the camera, certain that never again would I get such a good opportunity to capture purest evil in photographic form.

I mean, what the dickens is THAT??! I would be too terrified to sleep at night if I was the owner of that thing! I am tempted to use the picture as a disciplinary tool at school. Even the rowdiest class would be reduced to silent whimpering by the sight of such a hideous monster.

I have not seen this cat near the house either before or since. Perhaps it was a visitation from the Underworld. Perhaps it never existed at all, and was some form of nightmarish apparition. Either way, I hope that, whilst staring at it in a state of morbid, transfixed awe, it didn't steal my soul.

Blood Diamond

Went to see this movie with Paddy, the Cooks and Chris Redstall last night.

I think the most satisfying movie experience you can have is going to see a film that you've never heard of, have no pre-suppositions about whatsoever, and then get blown away by. That's exactly what happened with this little gem (pardon the pun!).

Firstly, let's get one thing straight. Leonardo di Caprio is a flippin' good actor. His reputation seems to have been forever tainted by Titanic, and yet anyone who has seen What's Eating Gilbert Grape?, The Avaiator, The Departed, and now this movie can surely have no doubts about his talent. He has a magnetic screen presence, and almost always brings a real depth of understanding and emotion to the variety of characters he has played. His South African accent was (almost!) impeccable in this film, even including the quirky 'hm?' at the end of every statement!

In Blood Diamond, he plays a diamond smuggler based in Sierra Leone, who teams up with a native fisherman (Djimon Hounsou - also fantastic). Hounsou is searching for his son, who has been kidnapped and brainwashed by the RUF, an army of brutal guerrila rebels who trade diamonds for arms. Whilst working as a slave for the RUF, Hounsou had found and hidden a huge diamond, and in return for helping him find his son, Di Caprio insists that Hounsou show him where the stone is hidden.

Although at times quite sickening in its portrayal of hideous violence, the movie is full of hope. Shots of RUF members gunning down women and children are counter-balanced by panoramic views of stunning African scenery, and Di Caprio's character, whilst unquestionably portrayed as a crook at the beginning of the film, goes through a moving and entirely believable process of redemption and repentance.

The only problem with the film is that it uncovers the horrific realities of a trade which most of us never have anything to do with. I wish I was a regular diamond buyer, so that, out of protest, I could stop! I don't think I've seen anything that has so convincingly tugged at the heart-strings since The Lion King, at the age of 13! The scenes between Hounsou and his son almost moved me to tears, and honestly that doesn't happen often - I think my resistance would have broken entirely if I hadn't had Alex Cook on one side and Paddy on the other!

One warning: I could watch this with a (relatively) clear conscience, because I don't own and have never bought a diamond. If you do, or if you have, then just be aware that you may be tempted to throw it away or sell it after seeing this!

It's only words...

When I was younger, I used to get into trouble for using words and phrases that I had heard on the playground or in the classroom, but didn't have a clue what they meant. I would hear an insult, jibe, or colourful adverb that I thought sounded quite cool, remember it, use it in conversation, and inevitably land myself in a lot of grief.

I remember calling a boy at church a 'sex maniac' on one occasion. On the playground at junior school I approached a dinner-lady and told her that my friend was being a 'cunt', and I'll never forget the occasion when, at the age of 5, I announced to my family at the dinner-table that I'd had a hard day and was feeling 'fucking tired'.

I had thought that I'd left this undesirable trait behind, but in recent weeks it has reared its ugly head. A friend at work referred to me as a 'numpty'. I thought it sounded like a quirky little insult so have been using it myself. Problem is, I have no idea what a 'numpty' actually is.

Could anyone enlighten me? I really don't want to offend anyone!