Today is the day that FIFA will decide who is to host the 2018 and 2022 World Cups. With England in the running for 2018 - and seemingly with a very strong bid behind them - the excitement starts with the morning's coverage on Radio 5 Live. By the time I leave for work the final presentations by the prospective home nations are well underway. Before heading out of the door I check out a bit of the Spain/Portugal presentation which looks strong (in that they have things like the Nou Camp, Bernabeu and shots of Puyol et al lifting the World Cup in South Africa to slot into their video) but the presentation is drab, nervous. Surely it's an open goal for England at the presentation stage, with David Beckham, Prince William and David Cameron set to make impassioned speeches.
At lunch I watch the speeches themselves and the promotional video. Beckham pours his heart out about his grandfather's influence on his life in football and even Cameron comes across as passionate and convincing. He also makes the exciting argument that England, as a genuinely multicultural country, could offer a home crowd of sorts for every single game - and never worry about not selling out the matches. It all sounds very, very positive.
I can't get my hopes up too much though - since reading Andrew Jennings' brilliant book Foul! I have virtually no faith in the integrity of FIFA. Blatter, Valcke, Warner and the rest. I also can't shake the feeling that they all hate England - but that might just be a paranoid victim mentality.
By the time 3pm rolls round I'm literally twitching with anticipation. Blatter is on the podium and he's in no rush to get the first envelope out - but eventually he does. Looking almost through my fingers I see it: Russia. Russia will host the 2018 World Cup. Heartbreak - but it doesn't feel like robbery yet. That comes later; when it is revealed that England received only two votes, and were eliminated in the first round of voting.
The weirdest moment comes some minutes later when Blatter goes back to his envelope to announce that Qatar will host the 2022 World Cup. This one leaves me feeling a bit sick - sick at the obvious chasing of new money by FIFA, but sick at the thought of how boring that tournament could end up being. There's none of the romance of South Africa or even Russia - just the tedious inevitability of glittering, brand-new stadiums and everything going perfectly smoothly.
I get home itching to write something about it, and duly spend 20 minutes hammering out my first piece for twofootedtackle.com in a while, a piece I'm rather pleased with. It can be read here.
So not the happiest result to the day - but if nothing else I'm pleased that I actually got some writing done.
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
Monday, 6 December 2010
Wednesday 1st December
Tonight we're off to see The National at Brixton Academy, marking the second time I've been to the venue in as many weeks - which is a pretty poor attempt at "never going there again" as I vowed back in October. We don't head straight there, however. There's snow and ice on the ground in Brixton when I turn up at the station to meet K and her colleague Emma and we brace ourselves to walk up the road to a pub Emma knows. It's absolutely freezing tonight - and while London has so far by far escaped the worst of the cold snap it's definitely feeling like winter.
We get to the pub and hover around until we get a table, meeting up with Smithy and a friend of his, chatting quite happily over beer and crisps until it's time to head to the Academy. We get the bus down the road despite it only being a couple of stops (it's really that cold) and gratefully head into the warmth of the venue. The National are just about to come on stage so we take our place at the back of the packed audience to see them arrive looking far more confident than they had back at the Royal Albert Hall on Election Day.
They sound great again tonight, and the whole event is only marred by some idiot aggressively shoving his way through the crowd, almost sending a woman next to me flying. Not one to stand for unnecessary rudeness, I shove the guy in the back (without really thinking) who wheels round for an explanation. I tell him to calm down and to be a bit more considerate, to which he replies "are you fucking mad?", and walks off. Charming man.
We get to the pub and hover around until we get a table, meeting up with Smithy and a friend of his, chatting quite happily over beer and crisps until it's time to head to the Academy. We get the bus down the road despite it only being a couple of stops (it's really that cold) and gratefully head into the warmth of the venue. The National are just about to come on stage so we take our place at the back of the packed audience to see them arrive looking far more confident than they had back at the Royal Albert Hall on Election Day.
They sound great again tonight, and the whole event is only marred by some idiot aggressively shoving his way through the crowd, almost sending a woman next to me flying. Not one to stand for unnecessary rudeness, I shove the guy in the back (without really thinking) who wheels round for an explanation. I tell him to calm down and to be a bit more considerate, to which he replies "are you fucking mad?", and walks off. Charming man.
Sunday, 5 December 2010
Tuesday 30th November
Today is the FutureBook conference in central London, at the Congress Centre - an event run by The Bookseller at which a host of speakers discuss the state of the industry as far as the rise of eBooks, DRM and eReaders continues. It's something I'm professionally interested in so I had asked to come along - despite the fact that it means battling my way onto the tube earlier than I'm usually awake. I arrive at around 9 relatively unmolested, however, and take a seat while waiting for the bosses to turn up.
There are some interesting speakers from places like Google, Lovefilm and Oxford University Press and the venue is well-filled - mostly by people with iPads. I've never seen such a concentrataion of them in one place. I amuse myself by tweeting my observations on the attendees (using the official hashtag) meaning that lots of other people in the room get to join in.
At the lunchbreak I grab one of the tiny bowls of complimentary food but decide to brave the snow anyway and go for a walk in search of some more susbtantial food.
The speakers get no less interesting but some of them do drag on a bit towards the end of the day - so I'm quite ready to go when the boss decides to make a move during the Q&A section. We head to Green Park to make the beginning of the launch of filmmaker John Waters' autobiography, which is being held at a swankier-than-swanky mens' clothes shop called Comme Des Garcons in Mayfair. This place is decidedly not for the likes of me - stocking things like £600 jackets, for example, which I and my glass of wine are allowed to get far too close to - and, funniest of all, a 10" PVC disc attached to a keyring which is apparently an Oyster card holder. It cost 30 quid. Fashion is completely alien to me.
There are some interesting speakers from places like Google, Lovefilm and Oxford University Press and the venue is well-filled - mostly by people with iPads. I've never seen such a concentrataion of them in one place. I amuse myself by tweeting my observations on the attendees (using the official hashtag) meaning that lots of other people in the room get to join in.
At the lunchbreak I grab one of the tiny bowls of complimentary food but decide to brave the snow anyway and go for a walk in search of some more susbtantial food.
The speakers get no less interesting but some of them do drag on a bit towards the end of the day - so I'm quite ready to go when the boss decides to make a move during the Q&A section. We head to Green Park to make the beginning of the launch of filmmaker John Waters' autobiography, which is being held at a swankier-than-swanky mens' clothes shop called Comme Des Garcons in Mayfair. This place is decidedly not for the likes of me - stocking things like £600 jackets, for example, which I and my glass of wine are allowed to get far too close to - and, funniest of all, a 10" PVC disc attached to a keyring which is apparently an Oyster card holder. It cost 30 quid. Fashion is completely alien to me.
Monday 29th November
Having been impressed with the prices and so on at Swindon's massive Asda/Wal-Mart megastore, we decide to get our week's shopping delivered from Asda for a change. Their delivery charge is certainly cheaper than Sainsbury's - but the fact that we've never shopped there before hampers our decision-making and we take a lot of gambles on a lot of products. It does give the weekly grocery delivery that extra touch of surprise though, and so tonight I sit at home waiting for it to turn up while K gets on with her dressmaking course.
They're supposed to be here between 7 and 9, which is a bit annoying as I need them to get here so I can make dinner - and I'm already hungry when I get in from work. I try and get on with a little writing, but needless to say the van finally turns up just as I sit down to watch University Challenge, meaning that I not only miss the show and miss recording my score, but also that I miss the Panorama show on FIFA corruption that I'd been looking forward to as I'm now cooking curry.
No matter, I watch a couple of episodes of South Park instead (not quite as serious or thought-provoking perhaps) while chopping onions and peppers and getting my head round the strange new Asda products. Everything seems to have turned up OK - apart from the fact that we seem to have accidentally ordered a tiny loaf of bread. The website, I'm sure, should display items at actual size to avoid any such mishaps in the future.
They're supposed to be here between 7 and 9, which is a bit annoying as I need them to get here so I can make dinner - and I'm already hungry when I get in from work. I try and get on with a little writing, but needless to say the van finally turns up just as I sit down to watch University Challenge, meaning that I not only miss the show and miss recording my score, but also that I miss the Panorama show on FIFA corruption that I'd been looking forward to as I'm now cooking curry.
No matter, I watch a couple of episodes of South Park instead (not quite as serious or thought-provoking perhaps) while chopping onions and peppers and getting my head round the strange new Asda products. Everything seems to have turned up OK - apart from the fact that we seem to have accidentally ordered a tiny loaf of bread. The website, I'm sure, should display items at actual size to avoid any such mishaps in the future.
Sunday 28th November
Having been in no way disturbed by the baby in the night (the same is not quite true for the parents, alas) K and I sleep well and wake up at a leisurely hour - playing Angry Birds in bed for a while before getting up and joining everyone else for breakfast.
Later on we grab all our stuff and head out in two cars to a fancy hotel nearby which happens to contain (oddly) a Japanese restaruant which serves a well-regarded buffet on a Sunday lunchtime. We take our seats and plates and then head up to grab miso soup, tempura vegetables, cod cakes, chicken and noodles. It tastes great and I go back a couple of times - and follow it all with two bowls of creme brulee. The second is, at best, ill-advised and I end up feeling a little full and sick for much of the rest of the afternoon.
After lunch Nick drives us back to Reading (the trains still being down), a journey made lots of fun by scrolling through the dreadful one-hit rock wonders of the late 90s and early 2000s stored on Nick's iPod. What is less fun, though, is that the train back to London is a mere three carriages long and completely rammed full of people. The rail companies really put a lot of thought into this stuff don't they? We manage to squeeze on after a bit of a ruck as the disappointing train arrives, and stand for the whole of the thankfully short journey back to Paddington.
The tubes aren't running much better but eventually we're at home - where K cooks up an amazing cottage pie (something I'm only just ready for after the Japanese/creme brulee binging has been processed) while I get a bit of writing done. Later on we watch the next part of the very good Any Human Heart on Channel 4 before exhaustedly heading to bed.
Later on we grab all our stuff and head out in two cars to a fancy hotel nearby which happens to contain (oddly) a Japanese restaruant which serves a well-regarded buffet on a Sunday lunchtime. We take our seats and plates and then head up to grab miso soup, tempura vegetables, cod cakes, chicken and noodles. It tastes great and I go back a couple of times - and follow it all with two bowls of creme brulee. The second is, at best, ill-advised and I end up feeling a little full and sick for much of the rest of the afternoon.
After lunch Nick drives us back to Reading (the trains still being down), a journey made lots of fun by scrolling through the dreadful one-hit rock wonders of the late 90s and early 2000s stored on Nick's iPod. What is less fun, though, is that the train back to London is a mere three carriages long and completely rammed full of people. The rail companies really put a lot of thought into this stuff don't they? We manage to squeeze on after a bit of a ruck as the disappointing train arrives, and stand for the whole of the thankfully short journey back to Paddington.
The tubes aren't running much better but eventually we're at home - where K cooks up an amazing cottage pie (something I'm only just ready for after the Japanese/creme brulee binging has been processed) while I get a bit of writing done. Later on we watch the next part of the very good Any Human Heart on Channel 4 before exhaustedly heading to bed.
Saturday 27th November
Today we're off to Swindon to visit Nick and Lucy and their new baby, Mollie - who will forever have the awesome accolade of having been born on the 10th October 2010 (10/10/10). We head straight to Paddington station where I renew my Young Persons railcard for the last time, seeing as I'll be 26 by the time this one expires. K and Mike, our travelling companion today, laugh at me for being young. Yeah, young and with 33% off the price of his ticket. For now.
There's a rail replacement bus service from Reading to Swindon, so to spare us the indignity of crawling down the M4 and stopping at Didcot (and adding an hour and a half to our journey) Nick has kindly offered to pick us up in Reading. This means our journey is only half an hour and we're meeting Nick well before lunch. We drive back to Swindon in Nick's swish company BMW, stopping at the biggest Asda in the world to pick up food and drink for later tonight. It's started to snow - the first us London folk have seen of the "Big Freeze" currently terrorising the rest of Britain - and by the time we get to Nick and Lucy's house we're glad of the cosy, new-baby ambience.
We say hello to Mollie and all have a little hold while Lucy sorts out some delicious hot dogs for lunch. We get a tour of their very nice house too - but after being so grown up it becomes clear that we must venture to the pub. This is to be Mollie's first pub trip and her behaviour is exemplary while we all enjoy a nice couple of pints as the snow falls outside. It's dark by the time we cautiously head back through the ice and when we're home we safely secure ourselves in the comfy living room with beer and wine.
Mollie falls asleep quickly and we sit watching Get Him to the Greek on TV - a film K and I had enjoyed on the train up to Edinburgh back in September and it's even funnier the second time around (and after a few beers, obviously). Feeling festive now, before bed we stick on Elf - which seems a strange and incongrouous thing for four adults to do on a Saturday night - but why not?
There's a rail replacement bus service from Reading to Swindon, so to spare us the indignity of crawling down the M4 and stopping at Didcot (and adding an hour and a half to our journey) Nick has kindly offered to pick us up in Reading. This means our journey is only half an hour and we're meeting Nick well before lunch. We drive back to Swindon in Nick's swish company BMW, stopping at the biggest Asda in the world to pick up food and drink for later tonight. It's started to snow - the first us London folk have seen of the "Big Freeze" currently terrorising the rest of Britain - and by the time we get to Nick and Lucy's house we're glad of the cosy, new-baby ambience.
We say hello to Mollie and all have a little hold while Lucy sorts out some delicious hot dogs for lunch. We get a tour of their very nice house too - but after being so grown up it becomes clear that we must venture to the pub. This is to be Mollie's first pub trip and her behaviour is exemplary while we all enjoy a nice couple of pints as the snow falls outside. It's dark by the time we cautiously head back through the ice and when we're home we safely secure ourselves in the comfy living room with beer and wine.
Mollie falls asleep quickly and we sit watching Get Him to the Greek on TV - a film K and I had enjoyed on the train up to Edinburgh back in September and it's even funnier the second time around (and after a few beers, obviously). Feeling festive now, before bed we stick on Elf - which seems a strange and incongrouous thing for four adults to do on a Saturday night - but why not?
Friday 26th November
After work I head into town to meet Will. It's been ages since we hung out and I'm looking forward to getting there, but it's a freezing cold night and The Cock is absolutely rammed. Luckily K is early for her later plans and is there already having reserved a square of floor space by the fire. We have a pint with Tim before Will turns up. The lanky one eventually arrives and we have fun catching up over talk of this week's student "riots" and next week's impending FIFA decision on the location of the 2018 and 2022 World Cups - which is all good fun and guaranteed to alienate everyone around us. So be it.
At around 8 K and the others say goodbye - they're off to do karaoke in a launderette in Soho (naturally) and so Will and I get another pint in. The Cock starts to get a bit quieter but we still can't get a seat for love nor money, so we decide to walk up Oxford Street to another Sam Smiths pub nearer Holborn tube, The Angel. This is, predictably, also packed, but we take up residence between the dartboard and the men's bogs and take a couple more drinks. Later on, Alex turns up fresh from having seen a play called War Horse down the road and we chat merrily as closing time approaches.
Later still, Alex and I find ourselves enjoying a late pint at Turnpike Lane's premier gay pub (i.e. it has a rainbow flag outside and literally no one else inside) as it's the only place still serving - but after being stared at by some of TPL's weirder residents we decide it's probably time for bed.
At around 8 K and the others say goodbye - they're off to do karaoke in a launderette in Soho (naturally) and so Will and I get another pint in. The Cock starts to get a bit quieter but we still can't get a seat for love nor money, so we decide to walk up Oxford Street to another Sam Smiths pub nearer Holborn tube, The Angel. This is, predictably, also packed, but we take up residence between the dartboard and the men's bogs and take a couple more drinks. Later on, Alex turns up fresh from having seen a play called War Horse down the road and we chat merrily as closing time approaches.
Later still, Alex and I find ourselves enjoying a late pint at Turnpike Lane's premier gay pub (i.e. it has a rainbow flag outside and literally no one else inside) as it's the only place still serving - but after being stared at by some of TPL's weirder residents we decide it's probably time for bed.
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