The Bread Roll Awards 2012

I hate award ceremonies. Awful, boring, dull things they are. They don't work on television. Interminable speech after interminable speech, joined together by offensive or just rubbish gags by a presenter you've seen far too much of recently.

The coveted trophies

Having said that, they always seem to work written down. Nice lists to skim through. Easy to read of a Sunday. A few bits of irreverent humour chucked in for good measure.

So here you are, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. The Bread Roll Awards 2012. Pick up your baguette at the door. Feel free to disagree, but, as the Voice of the Generation, I find it inconceivable that you will be any less than 100% in accordance with me.


Hero of the Year

I could have gone for an Olympian here. You're all expecting that aren't you? Farah, maybe? I could have gone for Jess Ennis. Heck, I could even have gone completely Route One and gone for Sir Bradley Wiggins. Instead, I'm going for a bloke who, whether I'm in agreement with his politics or not, kept me totally and utterly captivated during a night in November.

I would normally only wake up in the middle of the night for the first day of the Ashes, or a family emergency, like the house burning down, or the dog beating up the cat. Yet despite not having any real political leaning, for fear of being castigated or press-ganged into one side or the other, stayed up until gone 4am to see Barack Obama claim another term in the White House. The fact I'm studying American politics is a moot point- I love the man anyway. Oozes cool, possesses stentorian tones that any orator would be proud of, and, whenever I see him in the news, find it hard not to be amazed by the dichotomy in progress that the United States possesses. One month electing a black man merely forty years after the Civil Rights movement; the next, witnessing a tragic shooting because of its reluctance to surrender a right written on a piece of paper two hundred years ago.

Hero of the Year 2012: Barack Obama
Honourable mention: Roy Hodgson (for making me support the England team again); Bradley Wiggins; Jess Ennis; Dani Harmer.

Villain of the Year

There was a time, many months ago, when multiple singers walked the earth, with their songs, and their lyrics, and their music. Each event, we'd have a different one. We might see one singer twice in a week, but we were content with that. We could smile, joke that 'cor, she's everywhere this week!', but we'd relax, safe in the knowledge that we'd see a different minstrel next week.

Sigh, she's singing again.

And then, a plague struck the Hit Parade. The crooners were struck down, one-by-one, by a deadly curse.

The curse of Emeli Sandé. Striking off her challengers, cackling evilly as she was booked for event, after event, after event.

Olympics Opening Ceremony? Yeah, I'll do that. SPOTY? Sure. Fancy a montage? Why not.

ENOUGH WITH THE SANDÉ ALREADY.

Villain of the Year 2012: Emeli Sandé
Honourable mention: Carson Yeung, the owner of Birmingham City, for slowly destroying the club; Bruce Forsyth for ruining every episode of Strictly Come Dancing; the two boys from Coventry who tried to steal the Olympic Torch; Louis Smith.

Film of the Year

I could have picked The Dark Knight Rises, with its deafening sound effects and inaudible villain. I could have picked The Hobbit, but I like my films to have a bit of narrative drive to them, rather than be a slow amble around set locations.

The best film with a tiger since Ice Age

Instead, I've picked The Life of Pi, directed by Ang Lee. I don't normally go in for film reviews- I tend to leave that to those who know what they're talking about, like my film buff housemate's blog, which is excellent.

However, The Life of Pi was simply brilliant. Having repeatedly been tempted to argue with cinema bosses over the ethics of charging an extra £2 for one 3D effect in an entire film, this film completely changed my opinion on the extra dimension. It was, aesthetically, one of the most beautiful films I've ever seen; the storyline seemed to almost pride itself on having meaning on so many different levels; and it's probably the only film I've ever stayed sat in my seat for half a minute following the conclusion trying to work out what I made of the film.

Film of the Year 2012: The Life of Pi
Honourable mention: The Artist; Skyfall, despite its outdated sexism; Coriolanus.

Single of the Year

Music is one of those things that I repeatedly try in vain to sound intelligent about, but my tastes are about as sophisticated as a takeaway kebab. Not that there's anything wrong with that- I know what I like and I like what I know.

I don't even tend to buy albums that often, but one artist has captivated my attention in recent weeks- Nottingham's Jake Bugg. I used to get depressed that Blues players were younger than me; now I'm depressed that brilliant musicians are younger; soon, it'll be politicians and policemen.

Jake Bugg- shit hair-cut, great album

Bugg's music has a folky twang to it, but doesn't grate on me to the extent that the ubiquitous Mumford & Sons do. It's more indie, and the lyrics are earthy without trying to make himself sound older than he is.

I promise I'll never write another pretentious paragraph like the one above ever again. Promise.

'Skin up a fat one, hide from the feds' is a line from the song 'Two Fingers', but the song I've chosen as Single of the Year, which is reminiscent of Johnny Cash, is 'Lightning Bolt'.

Single of the Year: Jake Bugg- Lightning Bolt
Honourable mention: Carly Rae Jepson- Call Me Maybe, for its undeniable happiness.

Sporting Event of the Year

I refuse to cop-out here and say 'The Olympics', tempting though it would be. How can you? It featured enough sport to last a lifetime. It'd be like naming 'meat' as my favourite food.

Super Saturday was, simply, an explosion of altruism and good-feeling. I had the day off from my Games making duties, so in the morning, I sat and watched the rowing on a big screen in Canary Wharf, surrounded by the wealthy, their smartly dressed children, and the imposing tower blocks.

Watching Super Saturday in the presence of some pied wagtails

And I cried. I cried when we won, I cried when we lost. I cried when I picked  up my phone to text my Mum, my sister, my Nan, my friends, to say 'did you see that?'- I cried because there should be one more name on that list.

I yelled. I yelled in agony as Worcester's Zac Purchase just came up short. I yelled for a ginger bloke doing the long-jump, despite my deep-seated hate and fear of athletics. I yelled with the young volleyballers from Sheffield staying at our camp-site when their friend and our nation's sweetheart, Jess Ennis, fulfilled our nation's hopes and dreams. I yelled, along with the rest of Great Britain, for a Somali-born chap with a smile as wide as the running track named Mohammed.

And I, for probably the first time in my life, felt what it meant to British.

Sporting Event of the Year: Super Saturday
Honourable mention: The last day of the Premier League; the Ryder Cup.

The Special Award for My Team of the Year

2012 has been the most exciting year of my life. I can't say it's been the best, because it's impossible and simplistic to rank any selection of 365 days in an order of quality.

I've been a Games maker. I've taken up dancing. I've become President of a society. I've been accepted to a Canadian university. I've had a retweet off the Daily Mirror and Danny Dichio now follows me.

I promised I wouldn't cop out of the above award, but I'm well and truly sitting on the fence with this one. Thank-you to everyone who's made it such a fantastic year.

Team of the Year: The Games makers; CAS; my housemates; anyone who's helped me improve my dancing; my hilarious followers on Twitter; the lads I went to Italy with; and essentially, anyone who's anyone.

Have a fantastic 2013.

Blog Number 4, or how I used up all my puns in the main body of the text.

You may remember how only four weeks ago I was desperate to start a blog, yet couldn't think of anything to write about. Yep, well, I'm here again. My fingers have become itchy, and as murmurs of discontent arise over whether The Bread Roll Blog will become another pointless venture that takes up a cracking title with merely one post every month, I needed to pen something. My 'blog ideas' word document wasn't exactly overflowing with ideas. It consisted of Is the World Going to End?, and the slightly less hyperbolic How I'm Making a Playlist for My Grandparents' Party. Neither offered much scope for extensive blogging.

So I had a bit of fun. I showcased some dubious punning ability, with the help of my light militia of Twitter followers- (thank-you, in particular, @TheSpecialRon), and speculated on blog ideas that, in reality, will never go further than a title. A bit like Geordie Shore should have done.

Talking Eds: I interview various people called Ed, including Miliband, Sheeran and CBBC favourite, Ed the Duck. Includes a heated discussion over why Edward Sheringham spurned his real first name in favour of ‘Teddy’ for his entire career. Confrontational.

Ed’s Up: I travel to the top of tall buildings- Blackpool Tower, the Duomo in Florence and the Spinnaker Tower in Portsmouth in order to explain their foundations and discuss the panoramic views. Potential for a Tumblr. Scenic.

The cover photo for Ed's Up

Ed, El, Weiss: I interview El Hadji Diouf and Vladimir Weiss on their respective successes and failures as footballers whilst The Sound of Music plays in the background. Specific focus on the contrast of fortunes at Bolton Wanderers. Glum.

Ed, Ding, For Glory: I team up with Chinese snooker player Ding Junhui as we try our hands at various sports in order to become the best in the world. Features regular misunderstandings over language barrier. Riotous. 

Ed’s UK shun: Elaborating further on my Year Abroad blog, I discuss why I’m looking forward to ignoring the teaching methods of the United Kingdom and all it has to offer for the next year. Jingoistic.

Ed’s Tart: A double-header! Focussing firstly on the latest culinary delight to leave my kitchen; and latterly which scantily-clad girl I’ve seen wandering round Leamington Spa recently following a night out. Cheeky.

Higgs Bows-on: A series of photos of myself adorned with frills and bows, accompanied by a selection of pithy captions. Not suitable for work or for those of a nervous disposition. Saucy.

So we've established there is fairly unlimited potential for blogs that surround my name. I'm sure you'll agree there are some cracking ideas up there. Feel free to use any of them. A word of warning: they may not work if your name isn't Ed.

Keep bread-rolling!

Abroadly Speaking, I Haven't Got a Clue

As a student of the Americas, next year, I will be going on a year abroad. It's not that I despise Warwick so much that I have to spend a quarter of my degree elsewhere, it's a compulsory part of my degree, CAS. The Higgs World Tour has been planning its itinerary for some months now; in actual fact, it's been on my mind, on and off, ever since I chose this degree way back when life was so different.

Back then, Tinie Tempah was Number one with Written in the Stars, I was still refereeing, and David Miliband was the favourite to become the next leader of the Labour Party.

Back then, I hadn't got a clue where I wanted to go on my Year Abroad. And, up until three weeks ago, I still didn't.

Over the last year and a bit, I've changed my mind countless times. My personal, self-imposed criteria have changed on an almost daily basis. My hand has been forced somewhat due to circumstances beyond my control that have transpired recently, but that doesn't make the decision any easier.

I've eventually settled upon a destination, through a Russian Roulette type approach, but that's not to say I've always been entirely convinced that I've made the right decision. The process of deciding where I want to go, can roughly be equated to a motorway journey in horrendous weather, whilst drunk, in which you get a surprisingly delicious kebab from a dodgy-looking van at the end. To de-construct; the horrendous weather is the complications we've had thrown at us. The dodgy kebab is the notion that I don't know whether my decision will eventually come back and bite me. The drunkenness is just that I had a few cans of Carling when it all became a bit too much.

So anyway, here is the timeline of a Year Abroad decision. The most exciting motorway journey since my Sat-nav packed up around the Coventry bypass and I yelled the C word repeatedly at the top of my lungs for ten minutes.

October 2010: Apply to Warwick for CAS largely on the basis it contains a year abroad. I'll be somewhere hot for twelve months, chatting to everyone in a Hugh-Grant, quintessentially English manner, spending days on the beach reading F. Scott Fitzgerald and hanging out with Arnie. Maybe I'll even go to Latin America, if my Spanish is good enough.

November 2011: Arrive at Warwick and realise I won't be going to Latin America as my Spanish won't be good enough. Not disappointed in the slightest. Heart set on 'the States, definitely'. Laugh off suggestions that I could head to Canada as it's full of snow and moose, neither of which appeal to me. Besides, Mum wants to go to California on holiday.

December 2011: Decide to go all out for Columbia in New York, partly because it's a challenge, partly because I've always wanted a ride in a yellow taxi, and partly because the daughter in The Sopranos goes there. Stumble across the New England Birmingham City Supporters Club via Twitter and Facebook. Heart sinks at the fact I'll still have to be subjected to moans about the Blues even when I'm out of the country.

June 2012: Becomes apparent that Columbia won't be an option for our year. Exchanges have to balance, and for reasons I simply cannot fathom, a New Yorker doesn't want to spend a year in Coventry. They haven't seen Pool Meadow Bus Station. Cry for a week and then set my heart on finding a new place, enthusiasm renewed. Whispers that University of Texas may become an option.

October 2012: Preparations start in earnest. Rumours and scare-mongering that Connecticut is now off the list, and Texas won't be happening. Never mind, California has ten places, it'll be fine. North Carolina looks gorgeous on the destinations page, maybe I'll go there? Still not going to Latin America. Or Canada. Rather spend a year in Coventry.

November 2012: North Carolina's off the list. As is Wyoming. Connecticut is 'highly doubtful'. Oh, and California only has five places now. And one of them isn't actually on a campus, you'll be doing an internship at the local prison. Or something like that, I'm too blinded by rage to listen. Finally I crack and decide to pay Canada some attention. Toronto, I suppose I'll look at that. Canada has too many a's in, and Toronto has too many o's, it'll be rubbish. Don't even get me started on 'Ontario'. Putting vowel-ism aside, it doesn't actually look full of snow and moose. It actually looks a bit futuristic. Sort of New York-esque. Too proud to admit it looks stunning so bury head in the sand. Finally, tentatively, ask a current CAS student what it's like. He hasn't got a bad word to say about it. As does the course director. 'Like America without the nasty bits'. I'm being won round...

Mid-November 2012: Discover that Danny Dichio scored Toronto FC's first ever goal. A big, tall, rubbish player who haunted my childhood when he played for West Bromwich Albion. I'm big, tall and rubbish. It's a sign. Resign myself to fact that Connecticut is firmly off the list. Research some of Toronto's modules. Through slightly less gritted teeth, they look fascinating. History of Modern Espionage? Yes please. 21st best university in North America? Makes Warwick look like BCU. Second choice, Vancouver or something. I'm too set on Toronto to bother researching. Third choice, South Carolina. Or maybe it was California.

http://s0.geograph.org.uk/photos/28/55/285579_c90de42d.jpg
Pool Meadow Bus Station

Connecticut's back on the list.  As is North Carolina. Rumours that Toronto's doubtful. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy had fewer plot-twists than this. I threaten to set myself on fire in the piazza as a form of protest. Life becomes a game of stick or twist. Stick with Toronto, now one of the most prestigious universities on the list, only for it to eventually come falling down around me? Or twist and opt for Connecticut?

I stick. The waiting game commences. With so much tinkering and tailoring, there's no way we'll find out before Christmas; I'm in for the long haul.

November 28th: Text from our Social Sec: 'Check your email!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! x' Either the course has been scrapped with immediate effect or the Year Abroad placements have been announced. It's the latter... Santiago...California...North Carolina... Toronto...YES!

Toronto
http://www.toronto.intercontinental.com/resourcefiles/mainimages/downtown-explore-toronto-top.jpg

So, I'll be spending my third year of university in the sixth biggest city in North America. Toronto, Ontario, Canada. All the jibes about CAS, all the posts on Overheard at Warwick, all the little 'what the hell is your course?' comments. All of them, expunged with one click in the inbox. Those who can't see the appeal of our course can't fathom rational thought above the engines of the U1. It may not be Medicine. It may not be Maths with Applied Rocket Science. But it's our course, and the third year is our Mecca. Our utopia. Our raison d'etre. The ray of light that shines through Aisles E and F on Floor 3 of the library.

Bring it on.

My Dance Odyssey to the Centre of the Ballroom

My first term of my second year at Warwick University has been all about societies. Having suffered several crises of confidence, regarding both my course and the things I thought I enjoyed doing until the tragic death of my Dad in February 2011, I needed something to really get my teeth into. So, in addition to taking on the presidency of my course-related society, (which I will blog on at a later date), I have found myself absorbed in the world of ballroom dancing. This blog will detail why joining Warwick's Latin & Ballroom Sports Club has been one of the best decisions I've ever made.

I'm just about to go on to the competition dance floor for the first time. It's the Beginners' Waltz at the Edgbaston Tower Ballroom. My hair feels like it has been painted on, I have a number pinned to my back like a prized pig, and I think I'm about to throw up.

'Keep your elbow up'.
'Smile'.
'Don't dance in the shadows'.
'Look left'.
'F*cking smile'.
'Extend but not too much'.
'For God's sake, smile!'

I'm fairly sure the Moon Landing had fewer instructions than this. Then again, I doubt NASA were as helpful as the fantastic senior dancers at our club, who, seemingly, will do anything to improve your performance. And, when you see how fantastically they dance, you bloody well listen.

'Couples number 50-100, take to the floor'.

The music starts...

***

I took up dancing towards the end of the summer term, when I realised that the sum total of what I had achieved in my first year amounted to a personal record of Birmingham City games attended. There were a few taster sessions, my dancing house-mate always looked as if she loved the club, so I thought I'd pop along. In the first sessions, I think I took the motto 'dance like nobody's watching' a bit too literally. I was all a bit overwhelmed by just how hard it was, especially as the instructors made it look so easy. I persevered, however, determined to learn a skill I could be proud of by the end of university.

Eight weeks into dancing, I've already taken part in my first competition. This last week, to coin a cliche from It Takes Two, I've lived and breathed dancing. Thursday night, we practised for just over an hour. Friday, we danced for four and a half hours. On Friday night, I had a recurring dream in which I went arse-over-tit in the quickstep. Saturday, we rehearsed for another hour.

A 7am wake-up call on Sunday morning only adds to the notion that I'm fully committed to this dancing lark. The early start is fairly cushioned, of course, by the fact that I have a partner who I get on so well with, and that the club is surrounded by such good-natured people. In a strange twist of fate, we drive past the Birmingham ground on the way to the ballroom, as a sort of gentle reminder of what I've given up. The mental and physical torture of supporting the Blues vs the mental and physical torture of a first dance competition. It's a toss-up, to be honest. The second one doesn't involve Hayden Mullins, which slightly tips the balance.

Half a tin of gel and a bottle of hairspray later, we're ready to go. I had very little, or no idea, what to expect, as I imagine my readership equally does. To explain: there are roughly eighty beginner couples; ballroom in the morning, Latin in the afternoon. There are five judges dotted around the dance floor; five balding blokes, including one who, naturally, looks like Len Goodman. It's our job to wave our number in their faces and impress them. To begin with, there are six heats, containing twelve to fourteen couples. This then gets roughly halved, you dance again, and again, and again, until there are six couples remaining, and then the judges rank the final six.

Like I said, I had no idea what to expect. Frankie (my dance partner) and I had both said we'd go out and have fun, and what would be, would be. For a first competition, if we got through the first rounds on a few dances, we'd snap your hand off; anything more, crippling nerves and inexperience considering, (many had already danced a competition a fortnight ago) would be a bonus.

***

First waltz over, and the mixture of relief and emotion is enough to almost cause me to break down. No time for my diva fits, however, as we walk off the floor.

'You didn't smile!'
'Keep your elbow up!'
'Stay in time!'

Quite frankly I was just glad not to have accidentally trod on Frankie's toes.

After the quickstep first round, it's back to the waltz results. They read out the numbers of who's through to the next round in ascending order, so, as number 95, if it jumps from 87 to 101, we've had it. Goodnight. The only equivalent I can think of is when you catch the end of the football scores on the news and they can't be bothered to list the full result, so they say 'and elsewhere there were wins for Millwall, Barnsley, Derby, Nottingham Forest and Birmingham'.

'Beginners Waltz, second round. Numbers 12, 34, 45, 57, 68, 82, aaaand... 95'.

SCENES.

My little victory jig by the side of the dance floor will live long in the memory.

'Ed, get on!'

What? We have to dance again?! Getting through the first round was my utopia! At least smiling won't be a problem in this round...

Alas, we don't make it past the second round for waltz, or indeed quickstep.

It's a strange old place, a dance competition. I saw a bloke spraying anti-hair loss spray in the toilets at one point. You don't get this sort of thing down the Blues. Another time I walked in to the changing rooms and a rather advanced-looking dancer from Edinburgh was seething about 'dance politics'. I neglected to tell him that I was simply chuffed that I didn't end up falling over.

It's Latin in the afternoon. Practice makes perfect with regards to dance in general, and particularly Latin; I used to hate it, now I quite enjoy it.  However, our first dance, a cha-cha-cha, was probably the worst performance ever to grace the Tower Ballroom. Frankie and I completely lost timing, we forgot our routine, I nearly lamped a judge with a flying arm, and we stood looking blankly at each other for a good portion of the dance, mouthing 'sorry' at each other. No need for apologies really. Cha-cha, I'm later told by a sympathetic dancer, is bloody difficult to count in if you're a beginner in your first competition. Never mind, we're surely out of this one, time to concentrate on jive.

Just in case, as the second round starts up, I go over the routine in my head. Frankie, rightly convinced we're out, is eating an apple.

'Beginners recall for cha-cha, numbers 67, 75, 82, 91, and 95'.

'F*** off!' I say, a bit too loudly. I'm not being self-deprecating, it was the worst we've done the cha-cha in a long, long time. Nonetheless, granted a reprieve, we hurry sheepishly out and give it our all, scarcely stifling disbelieving giggles.

Photo courtesy of Tornar Yang

Jive, we make it through to the second round. Mission accomplished. Each beginner dance, through to the next round. Rumba is something of a free shot, what with it being a novice category.

'Beginners third round for cha-cha, 67, 91, 95-'

SCENES!

Third round! In our first competition! The nerves, by now, have completely evaporated, and I throw myself around like nobody's business. Sadly, our journey in the cha-cha comes to an end there, having just breached the top twenty.

It seems a funny thing to say, considering it's so niche, but everyone should try a dance competition once in their lives. The exhilarating nerves, the adrenalin, your team-mates shouting encouragement at you from the side, willing you to 'get your f*cking elbow up!', the genuine cheers of excitement and altruism when your number gets called, and the fact you've learned a skill that others are impressed and intrigued by.

Oh, and dance dreams are a close second to the dreams where I score at Villa Park and then shush three-quarters of the crowd.

All Blogged Out?

So here we are again. I've crawled back to the blogging world like the impudent hussy that I am. You probably hadn't noticed I'd gone.

Most people would have left the Internet for good following an extended run at something so vast as the London Olympics. Remember the Olympics? They were great, we all decided we preferred athletics to football for all of about a fortnight. This, of course, followed on from the blogging equivalent of Dante's Inferno, an horrendous journey through the Sixth Form hell of Higgsy's Blogsys. Shudder.

But I'm back. The most underwhelming return since Darren Carter went on trial at St. Andrew's at the start of the season.

My careers lady told me to start a blog. I've been suffering several crises of confidence recently, in terms of a career. I've opined upon scriptwriting- not enough ideas. I've pondered advertising- not enough like Mad Men. My Mum even suggested professional gambler- I'm the worst tipster in the world. Not even Arsenal's Invincibles would be safe from my accursed tipping.

Deep down, I think I still know at the bottom of my heart I want to live every male member of the Higgs family's dream and become a journalist.

So here I am. But what to actually blog on? Oh, what a question! There are so many Birmingham City-related blogs out there that it's difficult to come out with anything original. The same goes for sport in general, football especially.

I've discussed it with a housemate. I could combine my love of literature and football! I could compare Roberto Mancini to the Great Gatsby, keeping mediocre wingers in their packaging in his vast library of overpaid prima donnas! Alas, that was the only literary-football allusion I could think of.

I could analyse fictional characters! Why hasn't Mickey Mouse proposed to Minnie Mouse? Is he a commitment-phobe? Is there a problem with the pluralisation of their surnames? Or are they related? I think I'd struggle to fill a regular blog with those sorts of tenuous observations.

I could review films! Curses, someone's already got one of those blogs. And my attention span is infamously too short for films. I don't like films I have to concentrate on. (Still haven't watched Inception. Deal with it).

Eventually, after a good few hours of pondering what to write a blog on, where to find a niche, we joked I'd write one on 'what your choice of bread roll says about you'. Brown seedless- you maintain the illusion of healthiness but not enough to cut out carbs. Bloomer- soup fiend. One of those horrible ones that looks like it's got five o'clock shadow- you were too slow to get a nice one.

You laugh (you probably don't), but that was the best idea for a blog I had. Hence the title. Also, The Bread Roll Blog suggests that I'm avant garde, a little bit surrealist, quite Mighty Boosh in my writing.

I'm not.

But this blog may well turn out to be a trip into Surreal City. Who knows? I'm not tying myself down to a particular subject, so lord only knows where this Magical Mystery Tour might take me. I might even accuse another pop-star of being closely related to Satan. I'm not sure poor Noel-from-Hearsay's career ever recovered.