The Bread Roll Awards 2013

Here we are again! The Bread Roll Awards, back by popular demand. If you read through last year's equivalent, it becomes clear just how brilliant a year 2012 was. I'm not sure how we fitted it all in, but we managed.

2013 was always going to have its work cut out to live up to those heady heights, where something exciting and newsworthy seemed to happen every day, not just in my life but in the actual, important news.

I anticipated this year to have a feeling of 'after the Lord Mayor's show', whereby everything would feel a little flat and post-climactic. This was, of course, to reckon without my Year Abroad, which has seen me move to Toronto, and encounter a whole raft of different friends and cultures. From August 28th, when I flew out here, to 4th December, when I finished my last exam, I don't think I had a day's rest, something which has driven me to doing, gleefully, almost nothing for the last 10 days.

This Year Abroad has been probably the greatest maturing episode of my life. It might not seem like it at times, but I feel like I've crossed the border from teenager to adult at some point in the last three and a half months.

With that personal 'voyage of discovery' (Eughh. Never use that phrase again, please- editor) I have to admit that 2013 might well be the year that popular culture passed me by. Lists like 'Best Albums of 2013' and 'Greatest Films of 2013' should really only be used for young people like myself to nod in a self-affirming fashion, safe in the knowledge that we've been right on trend throughout the year. For me, I'm using them as a whistle-stop tour through the last twelve months, a bit like having SkyPlussed something and then going forward on x2 speed.

I appreciate that the last paragraph is probably not the most comforting thing a reader can hear as they embark upon a list of great things to have happened in the last year, but if you're really using me as a cultural barometer, you're probably even further behind the times than I am. And nobody ever wants to be that person.

So here you are, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it's the Bread Roll Awards 2013. Pick up your baguette at the door and wave it above your head like Ryan Giggs in the 1999 FA Cup final. What? You're surprised at a reference 14 years out of date? Have you not been reading a word of what I've just written?

Hero of the Year

Last year, Barack Obama took the crown, something I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear. His unsuccessful campaign against gun laws, although admittedly doomed to fail, means that he hands back his focaccia.

This year, I'm giving it to a dead person, more through my tardiness of blog-writing than any particularly heroic deed. I wanted to write an article on this when it happened, a real, heart-felt eulogy, but sadly, I ran out of time, and the moment passed. So, I'm doing it here.

I've never been one to work my way through great HBO box-sets. I don't have the willing to just plonk myself down on the sofa or in bed and watch hours and hours of television. This isn't me being snobbish or dismissive: I genuinely wish I could, and people who do are witnesses to the amazing work of talented script-writers, whom we would surely revere in the same manner that we do William Shakespeare, if only we knew their names and faces.

In fact, the only box-set of greater length than two seasons/series that I've ever completed was The Sopranos. My Dad was a huge fan, and he had a shorter attention span than I do. Like a lot of people my age, I was allowed to listen to the brilliant Alabama 3 theme tune before I was permitted to watch the show itself. The one occasion I was allowed to outstay my bedtime and watch an episode with my parents, the first scene took place in Bada-Bing, the New Jersey strip club, and I was immediately sent to bed. As if it was somehow my fault.

But that's by-the-by. I think the reason I stuck with The Sopranos is James Gandolfini. I've heard people aloofly claim that every male character is two-dimensional; it's apparently all 'Eyyy Bobby, get me a soda!' They couldn't be more wrong. James Gandolfini plays Tony the mobster, Tony the father, Tony the husband, Tony the cheater, Tony the psychiatrist's patient- the list goes on and on.

Without wishing to give too much away, the ending of The Sopranos left an air of mystery. To aficionados of the show, whose Gandolfini/Soprano lines have blurred, it felt like Gandolfini's tragic heart attack dove into our consciousness and made the decision for us.

RIP Tone'.

Hero of the Year 2013: James Gandolfini. 
Honourable mentions: The sign-language bloke at Nelson Mandela's memorial; Ian Bell for proving my faith in him; Andy Murray.

Villain of the Year

This is an easy one.

As much as I wanted to laugh off being in a city that has a crack-smoking mayor, I'm not sure I can. Granted the attitude to drugs in North America seems a lot more lax than the attitude in Britain, but a mayor?! That's going a bit far.

And you know what? That's not even the worst thing about this story. His sexist remarks- 'I've got more than enough to eat at home'- were inexplicably creepy and vile, and so bloody stupid that In the Loop or The Thick of It would have dismissed them as too far-fetched.

His misdemeanours are endless. There's some wonderful satire out there on YouTube about the whole sorry saga, which I won't bother to even try and emulate, but when your professor comes back from Haiti and says 'wow, the Haitians really have a low opinion of our political system', you know something is probably awry. His undignified clinging-on to his seat is not just poor form from Ford himself, it's embarrassing for this great city and its people.

Villain of the Year: Rob Ford

Film of the Year

I'm basing this on films that I've seen in 2013- they may have qualified for the 2013 Oscars, but it's my blog and it's my rules. 

Thankfully, I didn't see anything quite as bad as The Hobbit this year, so each film had to work for its acclaim, rather than going by last year's category of 'just being better than that Middle Earth shite'. (Just let it drop FFS- editor).

I treated most journeys to the cinema with some serious trepidation in 2013. Films were either, by my pessimistic reckoning, going to ruin books and memories (see Gatsby and Les Mis); going to show me up for my lack of knowledge about my own degree (see Django or Lincoln); or I'd have to admit once and for all that fantasy films and books, tainted by The-Film-Which-Must-No-Longer-Be-Named are just never going to be my thing (see The Hunger Games).

Thankfully, all of the above were, in my eyes, utterly brilliant. Les Mis was perhaps the least brilliant, but I'd always harboured doubts about its big-screen qualities, and it was still a thoroughly enjoyable watch/listen, even if it didn't involve me in quite the gripping, emotional manner that the stage musical always does.

I just really like films that make you think. Not films whose intricacies push your brain to the brink of explosion, like Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, but ones that are a bit like a really, really entertaining university lecture. It's a toss-up between two films here, and both should probably be put on my degree course's syllabus. Whereas the subject matter and thought-provoking issues of the day in Django were perhaps a little bit more digestible, Lincoln was presented by critics and people alike with a stern warning face that said 'are you sure you're going to be able to understand this?' in a really, really slow tone of voice.

Thankfully, for me, Lincoln was the best advert for American history- the best type of history, by the way- that popular culture could ever throw up. Beautifully acted, unpretentiously presented, and if ever a subject deserved to take up three hours of somebody's time, it's the battle to end slavery. Not, as it turns out, a bunch of dwarf tossers ambling up a mountain. That's dwarf tosser, by the way, not dwarf-tosser.

Film of the Year: Lincoln
Honourable mentions: The Hunger Games: Catching Fire; Django Unchained; The Great Gatsby.

Single of the Year

Uh-oh. The one I'm dreading writing about most. Most of my music comes to me about thirty years after the rest of the country, so forgive me if I end up accidentally giving this award to The Beatles or Mozart.

I'm no music journalist, but I could listen to one song from 2013 all day, and probably not get bored. It's foot-stomping, seriously dark in some of its lyrics, and although completely unrecognisable from some of the band's early stuff, is still an example of why they should be viewed as probably the best, most consistent band of the 21st century.

It's One Direction with- JUST KIDDING!

Single of the Year: Do I Wanna Know?- Arctic Monkeys
Honourable mentions: Love Me Again- John Newman; The Wire- HAIM.

Sporting Event of the Year

As Blues sink ever deeper into the abyss, I've had to ramp up my patriotism and find sporting enjoyment in the more conventional channels. I've had to become a flag-waving, Keep Calm and Carry On ninny who takes enjoyment in Wimbledon and the British and Irish Lions. I only spent all those hours in front of the television begrudgingly, of course...

I've championed Andy Murray throughout his career. I don't do 'Oh, I've known this band/artist for ages before they were cool', so I have to find my kicks through doing similar in the realm of sport. I remember watching Sky when he won his first ATP title back in 2006. I can't claim to have 'seen something special', but I've always been a fan.

I even enjoyed his 'anyone but England' jibe. It was the sort of tongue-in-cheek comment I'd have made had I been a professional sportsman, and lots of people I know, despite their opprobrium of Murray, would have made. The difference is, we might have done it with a cheeky smile and a laugh, and gone on to talk cheerily and chirped on for a while and it would all have been forgotten.

It seems to come as a surprise to a lot of people that a kid who hails from a town synonymous with tragedy isn't always seen smiling and laughing. That's not to say he doesn't have a personality- and anyone who says that is guilty of trotting out the same boring hackneyed stereotype. Murray has a wonderfully dry sense of humour, and that documentary pre-Wimbledon showed his maturity and emotional depth.

When Murray stuck that championship point beyond Novak Djokovic, in a three-setter that for all the world seemed to contain all the emotions of a five-set epic, I let out a low, guttural, almost primal roar. It wasn't the same squeaky yelp that I emit when Blues get a famous victory, one born out of surprise that we've won a match. It was one that reflected vindication over my faith in Murray, and one that reflected my acute awareness of the lifting of British sport's great millstone- that of a men's Wimbledon title.

Sporting Event of the Year: The Wimbledon Men's Final
Honourable mentions: British and Irish Lions- about the only rugby union that I care about; Ian Bell's batting in the summer; Wolves getting relegated.

My Special Award for Team of the Year

I started this blog with a slightly lyrical ramble about a maturing process that has taken place on this Year Abroad. It hasn't been without its trials- journeys rarely are- and it hasn't been without a great deal of support.

On Twitter, there's a great account which rather brings together a Year Abroad community. In my email inbox, there's one email for every day that I've been out here from my Nan, and the odd pick-me-up from friends and other relatives. In my Facebook inbox, there's countless ongoing conversations spreading the Year Abroad joy. On my Twitter interactions bar, there's everything from #SweetsFootballers (Nikos Dib-Dabizas and Fabrice Mu-Wham-Bar) to people ribbing each other, and of course, the odd in-joke that just keeps you going through the bad days.

Make no mistake, Years Abroad are brilliant. I've seen incredible things, experienced the buzz of an amazing city, and met a whole batch of friends that have changed my outlook and, let's face it, life, for the better.

But these Years Abroad (Years Abroads? Year Abroads?) are also bloody hard. For people to perceive that being in a country where people speak the same language as you is a great deal easier is to be blind to the fact that three and a half months away from family and friends is bloody difficult whether you're in Canada or Kyrgyzstan. (It also belies the fact that you can't get proper gravy anywhere but England, which ain't a great deal of fun).

To everyone experiencing the culture shock of a Year Abroad, battling to find squash, coping with having your alcohol-buying rights snatched away, and struggling to explain or even, in my depressed England-supporting state, remember the virtues of cricket- I salute you.

And to anyone who's written letters, sent texts, tweets or Facebook messages, you'll probably never understand quite how much they've been appreciated. And neither, most probably, will I.

My Special Award for Team of the Year: The Year Abroaders.
Honourable mention: The #EdGoesToRonto Support Staff.

Have a very merry Christmas, and a fantastic 2014!

The Ashes- It Wasn't Supposed to be Like This.

Alone and no-one to rant to

It was supposed to be the winter that cricket finally came to Canada. I gleefully told and tweeted of the joys of my time-zone, with play starting at 7pm Toronto Time, setting me up perfectly for a winter of cricket. My enthusiasm for the game would prove infectious as England romped to yet another Ashes win. The ECB would welcome me off the plane at Gatwick airport with thanks and with job offers, as my PR campaign finally paid off. My friends and I would gather around the laptop and extol the virtues of this great game and this great England side, whilst I explained the intricacies of this wonderful sport.

Right now, seven days of play into the series, I don't even feel like watching it myself. Gutless batting and village green-standard fielding were supposedly a thing of the past. We'd done our time, crawled through mountains of shit, and ended up on the other side, all the while with Morgan Freeman narrating. This period of domination was, as some moronic blogger wrote during the summer, 'Catharsis Cricket'. 

The ramblings of a mad-man

It's still been entertaining, if you can be magnanimous enough to give Australia credit. I'm sure I will genuinely be able to in time, but for now, here's what I would say if I was actually magnanimous, and not writing through gritted teeth: seeing an angry fast bowler such as Mitchell Johnson run in and bowl at 94 miles per hour is undeniably a great spectacle. I'm just about too young to remember Ambrose, Walsh, Waqar and Wasim, and Brett Lee was fast, but never seemed scary. Johnson is undoubtedly scary.

However, to turn something from a great spectacle into great theatre, one needs dialogue, a response. Otherwise it just becomes a soliloquy, and these are rarely great without context. I've seen Hamlet. This is less like a gripping gladiator fight between two equals, and more like the scene in Reservoir Dogs when the bloke gets his ear cut off, absolutely powerless to resist. It's entertaining for all the wrong reasons. You're watching despite yourself. There's no fight. The best passage of play in this test match was Monty Panesar's brave resistance. If the rest of the team can follow Monty's lead, then this series might be something other than a procession.

I still believe that England, with every one (or at least a majority) of their players at the peak of their powers are a better side, man for man, than Australia. Other than Clarke and possibly Warner, there aren't any players that I'd have swapped before the start of the series. That is why explaining LBW and leg-side theory to Canadians is one thing, but comprehending this woeful England performance is rather a Sisyphean task. But, as an Englishman should, rather than backing away and showing that the task is not for this delicate stomach, I shall roll my sleeves up and try and explain away this dreadful nightmare.

1. The Rot. The questions came after New Zealand away, but we did not answer them, as we had Matt Prior. The questions came after Australia at home, but we did not answer them, as we had Ian Bell and James Anderson. The questions have come again in Brisbane and Adelaide, and the well of saviours has run dry.
   
   To not reach 400 in nineteen test match innings, since New Zealand back in March, is frankly abysmal. Matt Prior must be dropped, unless he gets runs in the second innings at Adelaide, and that frankly will not happen, based on recent evidence. I'm sick of questioning Kevin Pietersen's place in the team, as he's apparently undroppable, but slapping yet another 'flamingo' shot into the leg side was crass, irresponsible, and in the circumstances, unforgivable. Joe Root is apparently an old head on young shoulders, and yet his sweep across the line was the shot of someone nowhere near mature enough for test cricket. You can't have it both ways, and someone hopefully gave them a dressing down.
   
   Someone like Graham Gooch. Oh yes, our batting coach. Time to go, I'm afraid. The stats speak for themselves, and with several players regressing and several looking past it, it might be time for a complete shake-up of the set-up. Heavy Ashes defeats in the past have seen heads roll, and this one may well see Ashley Giles replace Andy Flower, and anybody, surely, replacing Gooch.
   
   Obviously, nobody wants to see a return to the revolving door selection policy of the 1990s and early 2000s, but right now, it seems that this England team, famous for its cliques, has gone too far the other way, and once that cosiness sets in, it's almost impossible to correct without an entire restructuring. I'm wary of using the phrase 'root-and-branch', but I doubt the ECB won't be so forthcoming.
   
2. Momentum. Here's a thought. Australia came away from the summer with greater momentum than England. Yes they hadn't won an Ashes test for seven matches. Yes they were thrashed at Lord's. Yes, they lost 3-0, but let's be honest: this result flattered England immensely. Many mocked Shane Warne in the commentary box and the Australians on the pitch for their belligerent optimism during the summer, in many instances claiming moral victories and improvements and criticising England for not being ruthless enough.
   
   England didn't dominate the summer series- they dominated at Lord's, and a few other days dotted about the calendar. In fairness to England, when they did have a good day, they were very, very good. In putting one heck of a positive spin on the series defeat and claiming some sort of victory at Manchester, Australia lessened any momentum that England had. Like I said above, I'm not even sure they had a great deal of momentum to begin with. Ian Bell may have done, but in hindsight, more questions (Cook, Prior, Trott, Joe Root- Lord's aside- opening) came out of the summer than answers. By Day 2 of Brisbane, any lingering memories of the summer had been well and truly wiped away.
   
3. The schedule: England's players and the PR team will tell us that they don't want to make excuses. The performances have been so abject that I'm not particularly inclined to take the blame off them. And yet an enormous part of me just wants to give the players a hug. Surely, surely Pietersen's and Root's shots were born out of mental fatigue. Cricket is not a game you can switch off from, and if Jonathan Trott's regrettable absence has proved one thing, it's that it's a game played largely in the mind. I'm desperately seeking mitigation, and that's the only thing I can think of.
   
   The ECB has flogged this team to the brink of breaking point, playing test match after test match, giving the people what they want- now it looks to have been at the expense of the team. It's akin to Simon Cowell parading One Direction around the world relentlessly. Sooner or later, Harry Styles will snap and the whole thing will collapse. Ideally, the England cricketers would have had a few months off, but this is the bed that the ECB and the cricketing calendar have made. The players, as ever, will bear the brunt, whilst the faceless suits in the corridors of power top up the ECB coffers. As it is, the decision to rest may be taken out of one or two players' hands, arriving in the form of the selection axe. 

I'm not claiming to be some great prophet. I predicted a 2-1 win for England. I certainly didn't see this defeat coming, and trust me, it will be a series defeat. There's been so much written about this failure that I doubt any of the above is particularly ground-breaking. Someone on Twitter remarked that Swann and Anderson looked tired even during the national anthem. You can almost see the weight of pressure on this side, and with Perth to come, for so many years the graveyard of English cricket, it shows no signs of abating. As far as this series goes, if someone offered me avoidance of a whitewash, I'd take it right now. All I can see from where I'm sitting is 5-0. 

#EdGoesToRonto: The Cringe Factor

It's been over a month since I last blogged, which means that I'm owing, both in terms of apologies and words. The fact of the matter is, I've been really, really busy. Harry Redknapp at the end of a transfer window busy. I have two exams left, two weeks to mess about in this great adopted city of mine, and then I'm back home to England on the 20th December!

I'd like to say that the events in this blog can only happen to an ex-pat. You know the sort- hilarious cross-cultural encounters that arise when England meets Canada. LOL-worthy moments involving pronunciation, points of reference, and the cold. Oh, so cold.

In actual fact, I'm starting to believe that the events in this blog can only really happen to me. For one, they've already happened, so that's a bit of a truism. Secondly, some of the moments are seriously worthy of cringe, so if you're of a nervous disposition, look away now and go and read the script of The Office. It'll probably be less painful.

I'm not wanting to imply that the events of my Year Abroad are in any way similar to one of the most controversial moments in history, but by using that old, tiresome, journalistic manner of sticking '-gate' to any event, this thing will at least resemble something vaguely journalistic, and won't just be a self-indulgent ramble. That's something to cling to.

Number One: Blues fan-gate
I've really missed going down the Blues this year. Yes, we're terrible, but it's always felt like a struggle supporting us, so that wouldn't really affect my attendance. It's been the little things, like sitting down next to someone you barely know and saying 'Oryte mate, down't fancy us much today, do ya?'

So imagine my surprise, at the start of September, walking round the affluent docks of Toronto, when I spotted a flash of Royal Blue and White. ¡No puede ser! Could this be the solution to my football homesickness? Someone to discuss Lee Novak with?

So needy and desperate to find Blue and White friends that I've started wearing this wherever I go

First, I had to make absolutely sure. No-one wants to be accused of being a Birmingham City fan, falsely or otherwise, especially in front of a crowd of people, probably on holiday. So what I did, was, I broke from my newly adopted Canadian branch of the Edtourage, and did a fast walk, went past the Bluenose, and checked back with a quick jerk of the neck. It confirmed what I already knew.

Make no mistake, I'm a sad bastard, and I know a shirt from 2004-5 when I see one. I could, obviously, have ignored him, and carried on my life. But to recognise your team's shirt, in a foreign land, and ignore it? Not in my name, son! I positively bounded up to him.

'OYMM MOYTE, YOU'M A BLUES FAN?!'
'What? Me? Who? Where? Excuse me?'
'You'm! Blues fan! Your shirt! Are you a Blues fan? Do you ever go? Strange, you don't expect to find many Blues fans out here, what do you reckon to Clark, think he'll turn it around? Where do you normally sit-'
'The shirt? Err, I... No... I've never been to Birmingham. I've never been to a game, I'm Norwegian. I just have the shirt. Sorry'.

And with that, he hurried off, scared, baffled, but probably not as baffled as I was.

Number Two: Wasabi-gate
After a pretty dull Saturday, I hollered up my flatmate Lauren to see if she wanted to get dinner. Lauren, although of British Columbia, knows all the best places round town. They say that in Toronto, you can get food from any country you like. With Lauren, it becomes a lot easier.

She suggested sushi. Lovely, I thought, I've never had sushi. I'm middle class, but not middle class enough, clearly.

We sat down, table for two, with a menu that I didn't really understand. I didn't want to let on how little I knew, so stabbed indiscriminately with a chopstick at a number and waited for it to arrive.

The food arrived. A few circles of stuff, some fish in the middle, lots of rice, and some green stuff on the end. Probably an arty green sauce. Guacamole, maybe. Hold on, isn't that Mexican? Must be fusion food. I'm no Giles Coren.

I can't use chopsticks. I've tried, and I just can't. I've inherited my Dad's skills in that respect. I think he tried once, threw them across the room after five seconds, yelled that his food was getting cold and went off to get a spoon.

Now in hindsight, I should have inherited that brazen quasi-xenophobia, and just asked the waiter for a knife and fork. But no, I'm an idiot, and idiots are nothing if not relentless. From the air, my chopsticks dancing around the restaurant must have looked like Bambi on Ice. Or, a bit like You've Been Framed, when a bloke has one leg in the boat, and one on dry land, and the two separate... At one point they flew out of my hand and into Lauren's plate and then onto the floor, so commencing the most awkward cutlery retrieval in restaurant history, whilst I received applause for being the night's cabaret.

So I stabbed around for a bit, got a bit annoyed, ate some ginger when I thought it might have been smoked salmon, but I still persevered.

Finally, a bit of success, when a ring of stuff stuck on the chop stick. Delighted, and not knowing if I'd ever reach this position again, I drenched it in the guacamole. Yum, avocado.

It wasn't avocado.

Guacamole

Wasabi

A burning sensation, similar to drinking Turps, I should imagine, gripped my throat. Mustard gas. They'd clearly found out I was studying Modern Espionage and wanted to kill me. I reached for the Coke. Still I was dying. Lauren looked on, aghast at the scene I was causing, but also with confusion and mirth.

I'd eaten an entire block of wasabi. In one. Enough, probably, to tranquilize a Japanese horse. And now my throat was on fire. Eventually I gathered my senses, was told of my mistake, and moved on.

'Toronto's great for food', they said...

Number Three: Santa Claus Parade-Gate
Perhaps not as awkward, but no less bizarre. Walking down the street one November 17th, I saw a couple of inflatable snowmen. It couldn't be a dream, as the cold was real, and my bed is warm. But it was November, and this was Christmas, apparently, here to annoy us curmudgeonly types once again.

I inquired of the point of this event to a woman wearing a t-shirt saying 'Santa Claus Parade TODAY', and she informed me that there was a Santa Claus Parade. TODAY. On November 17th!

She handed me a Santa hat, and so I stood, looking like a presenter from Top of the Pops in the 1980s, amongst the children of Toronto. Hours passed, and I'd still seen nothing worth reporting.

Then, it came. Thousands upon thousands of people dressed up as animals, elves, princes, princesses, marching bands, coffee cups, toasters and Christmas trees. It was like the Disney Parade on acid.

A display of marching so choreographed one hadn't seen this side of 1945

There was an awful lot of marching and flag-waving. I did feel like I was watching history repeat itself in that respect, but at least there was no talk of invasions. Just materialism. Lots of lovely materialism.

Proud sponsor of Christmas. Beat that one, John Lewis and your mangy bear.

A weird thing happened that day. I think I was visited by three ghosts during the Santa Claus Parade, as I ended up feeling festive. On November 17th. I know, I feel sick too. It's hard not to in Toronto. I was chatting to a friend out in California the other day, and she feels like Christmas is ages away, because it hasn't gone cold yet. Here, meanwhile, it feels like Christmas should have been, gone, had a shower, and left before the first football match of Boxing Day.

***
I started off intending to write of five moments, but like I said, I'm busy. Redknapp-busy.

So, to conclude, I could probably fill a book with these misdemeanours, but some of them are so bad they're not even fit for public consumption, and the others I'm saving for my sitcom.

Just a friendly reminder, that wherever you are in the world, the Cringe Factor will still find you.

In With The Ultras- Earnie, Me, and Toronto FC

This week marks the quarter-way point of my Year Abroad in Toronto. I'm halfway to Christmas! Speaking to a lot of students, both international and Canadian, it seems this week in particular has been quite hard, and I'm no different. Exams and assignments have been thick and fast, a few things have caused me to miss home, and this coming Wednesday would have been my Dad's birthday. Thankfully, a pick-me-up arrived, and, as so often is the case with me, it arrived in the form of The Beautiful Game. 

Ever since I found out I was coming to Toronto for my Year Abroad, I've taken an interest in Toronto Football Club. I've kept abreast of their fortunes via Twitter and Internet forums, and it's largely been a depressing picture. Formed in 2006, the club simply hasn't kicked on in the way that a sports-mad city like Toronto should have, and they are yet to make the Major League Soccer end of season play-offs. It's been a familiar story of underachievement, endless personnel reshuffles, and behind-the-scenes mismanagement, which has led to various journalists bemoaning that the club is 'cursed', and should start again from scratch.

Shit team, off-the-field problems, massive city but very little success? Christ, I thought I came to Toronto to get away from the Blues!

In an odd but enjoyable twist, Toronto signed Steven Caldwell from Birmingham in May, who has been a rare shining light in yet another poor season. He joins Robert Earnshaw and Bobby Convey on the list of 'players you might have heard of', under the stewardship of Head Coach Ryan Nelsen.

Having been extremely busy, we'd come to the final day of the regular season (with Toronto well out of the play-off picture) and I realised I still hadn't been to a game. No matter, I thought, I'll just wait til the Spring and go to a cheaper pre-season game. Caldwell will probably have buggered off then and I won't have to have Vietnam-style flashbacks of his performances at the start of last season.

Then, however, a Twitter competition sprang up to win a pair of tickets to the game. I've got a ludicrously good track record when it comes to Twitter competitions- I seem to have some sort of hold over social media accounts whereby I'm automatically picked to win whatever's on show. In the last eight months, I've won tickets to the Cheltenham Gold Cup, VIP Blues tickets, and now, thanks to my shameless declaration that 'I've come from Birmingham, UK, and I need to tell Captain Caldwell that I love him', I can add Toronto FC tickets to that particular roster!

Toronto Ultras- listen out for me at the end.

Taking along my English mate from Warwick (who has been twice the beneficiary of my good fortune), we turned up to the stadium in the downtown area of Toronto, and made our way to the pick-up place. I was asked what my name was to pick up the tickets (naturally, I said @EdBlues, my Twitter moniker), and five minutes later, after a quick flurry of activity, I was presented with two tickets, and a signed Toronto FC shirt! Completely unexpected, but something which is in keeping with a lot of the culture of 'soccer' in North America- the fans are treated with the utmost respect, and not as a cash cow.

Impossible not to get involved in this chant, even if it does originate from Crystal Palace.

We ignored what was on our tickets and sat amongst the Ultras. The die-hard fans. I've been highly cynical of these choreographed 'singing sections' in the past, but this was brilliant. Home-made flags, pyrotechnics, a guy with a megaphone leading all the chants, and, best of all, free beer handed out amongst the die-hard fans by some wealthy benefactor. Considering English football fans aren't even trusted to take a beer into the stands, it was quite a diversion from the over-priced watery piss that they're known to serve at Blues and label as lager. It led me to question whether a choreographed singing section would ever take off at Blues- our current incarnation, Forza Blues, is a figure of fun, and at the last home game I attended, seemed to have about 30 members who didn't make a noise all game. So why did it work today? Alcohol, a very good performance in an entertaining match, and persistence.

Interestingly, there was quite a revolutionary atmosphere ongoing during the game. It must be bloody hard to create an identity for a club that has started from nothing in the mid-noughties, but I was mightily impressed by the support for TFC. A lot of Forza's woes have been put down to apathy and anger towards the owners- here, with a banner saying 'Something is Rotten in Our Club', it appears that Toronto has had enough of under-achievement, and is using that anger to engender something of a fervour. So it appears it can work...

To say a little about the game itself- Toronto was to act as the 'spoiler' in Montreal's play-off party. A Montreal win, and the Quebecers would be guaranteed a play-off place. Lose or draw, and they would be forced to sweat on results elsewhere over the weekend. I had very little hope- whenever you mention that you follow Toronto FC out here, people laugh wearily and look pityingly at you. Again, it's a similar reaction I get to when I say I'm a Blues supporter.


I've often thought of the MLS as the place that once-good players come to die, so to speak. It's one last pay-cheque, and as such, I expected there to be quality on show, but played almost at an exhibition pace. To an extent, I was entirely correct, but I was pleasantly surprised by Toronto's showing. They knocked it about well, worked the channels, but, as was often the case, the pace had evidently gone from some players' legs. 'HMS' Caldwell never really had a great deal to begin with- I think I saw him go backwards at one point. Having said that, I don't want to denigrate him too much, he was brilliant in the Hughton season, and he never gave less than one hundred per cent. It was clear that he and Robert Earnshaw, once of West Bromwich Albion, had played at a higher level, simply by their positioning and reading of the game. With Earnshaw scoring the only goal and Caldwell helping to keep a clean sheet, it was pretty much a perfect game for the British contingent in amongst the Canadians, both on the pitch and in the stands.

'Braveheart', as the Reds fans have Christened him, hit the bar with a header and also had a shot cleared off the line. I think it's probably for the best that he didn't score, or else I might have combusted, and this blog would never have been.

So, once again, football comes to the rescue. Someone said this week, and they were completely right, that 'when the Year Abroad is great, it's absolutely amazing- but when it's hard, it's so, so hard'.

Thankfully, a few days that started off in the doldrums ended on an amazing high.

Thanks to Toronto FC and Purolator for sorting me with the tickets and giving my mate and I a great day. Purolator is Canada's leading integrated freight and parcel solutions provider- celebrating 50 years of delivering Canada!

Meeting the Man Who Made Obama

David Axelrod is a man with a hefty CV. For some, it's the sort of CV that leaves you in silence. For others, it's the sort of CV that leaves you wondering if anyone has had a better view of life in the corridors of powers over the past half a decade. In fact, for some, David 'The Axe' Axelrod might be the most influential man that you've never heard of.

You'd be forgiven for thinking that with a name like that, he was a one-time wrestler or darts player. Yet Axelrod is in fact the former Senior Advisor to President Obama and brains behind both the 2008 'Yes We Can' election campaign and subsequent re-election. Now, ousted by the team he brought to power, Axelrod, along with the Obama re-election campaign, is the subject of a new book by Richard Wolffe.

An integral part of the 2012 campaign and yet already 'former' Senior Advisor? Some turnaround. Wolffe's book has been billed as lifting the lid on Axelrod's 'axing' from the cabinet. With potential revelations over this issue in the offing, and the recent fiasco in Washington that has seen the self-styled 'Greatest Democracy on Earth' left in meltdown, American politics is at a fascinating crossroads. When I discovered 'The Axe' was delivering a keynote speech in my adopted home city, I simply had to go.

Entering a ballot run by the University of Toronto with no reply one way or the other, I'd given up hope of attending one day before the event. My disappointment was premature, as a missive landed in my inbox informing me of my attendance. With apologies submitted over missed classes (a mere five weeks into term?! I'm a changed man!), I made my way on the subway to the Metro Convention Centre in downtown Toronto.

In truth, Axelrod's speech was a touch anodyne. Not dull by any stretch of the imagination- American politics never is- but you willed for him to stray from the straight and narrow. Perhaps unsurprisingly, given his long-lasting friendship with the President, Axelrod refused to so much as hint at a criticism of Barack Obama. The tone was very much 'look how hard Barack is trying against those nasty Republicans and those crazy Tea Party folk'. It's not long since the Axe was axed, and as such, he may not be removed enough from the policies to criticise them, but even so, his unwavering defence was a bit of a disappointment.

The title of the lecture being 'America's Future and Leadership Lessons', Axelrod emphasised the importance of being a good leader rather than a popular one, someone who gets things done. Perhaps getting his excuses in early, Axelrod drew comparisons between Obama and Harry Truman, a President who left office with low approval rates, but has since been viewed as a 'go-getter'. Our speaker praised Obama's consistency, stating that he has stayed true to his opinions all through his political career, and would not cater to the opinion polls.

Nor, Axelrod said, would he back down to what he called 'the Rush Limbaugh constituents', the far right of the Republican party. On more than one occasion, he emphasised that Obama was an expert player in the 'long game', and it was the responsibility of federal politicians to do what they felt was right, rather than ceding to what the districts wanted.

In amongst the matey anecdotes and neutral generalisations, Axelrod delivered a few acerbic blows in the direction of the Republicans. On the Washington shut-down, he was withering towards those who delayed the healthcare bill despite Obama's re-election- 'It's called democracy... the clock is ticking'; on the recent Republican factions, he claimed that the GOP was in a 'cul-de-sac' and didn't know the way out; and on the race for the 2016 White House, he suggested, with reference to the increasingly ubiquitous Texan Senator, that the Republicans were preparing a 'Cruz Missile'.

One questioner, delivering a heart-felt plea to tighten up gun control, asked when 'you Americans are going to catch up with us', to much applause and laughter. You could sense Axelrod's frustration- yet another example of Obama's willingness to make things happen, yet being hamstrung by the 'screwy' political structures (Axelrod's words, not mine). Guns, to the Axe-man, are 'a blight on our country'. Yet, interestingly, a perspective that I had not heard before, he drew on the gun tradition of America, particularly with regards to hunters, as a defence of his nation, and then delivered the retort 'we've got our virtues'. I'm not sure the hunting argument particularly passes muster, particularly when it comes to things like the possession of uzis in downtown Chicago- as my Politics of the USA seminar tutor said last year, how many deer have you seen with a bullet-proof vest?

Refreshingly, Axelrod was highly complimentary of my generation. Before you raise eyebrows cynically, this was far from a student-dominated event, independent from the university and instead filled with businessmen and women. So much so that I was probably amongst the 5% of the audience not wearing a suit. He claimed our generation was the most socially-minded since the 1960s, and that he was now dedicating his life to engineering that spirit into politics, and persuading young people to run. The message? Find a campaign that you believe in, and help with it.

But what of his ousting from Obama's inner circle? Again, I'm afraid, an example of the anodyne questioning. I was up in the pleb seats with my jeans and t-shirt, as far away from the questioners' microphone as they could put me, and I'm not even sure I'd have had the balls to ask, but he did, without prompting, refer genuinely to 'my good friend David Plouffe'- one of those, if you believe the stories, at the heart of the Machiavellian axing. A pointed reference, no doubt about it.

These events are often plagued by embellished anecdotes about characters we think we know from the public sphere, but this next story made me smile:

'When we were discussing Obamacare, and just how far we could push it, one of the aides asked President Obama how lucky he was feeling. Barack replied "my name is Barack Hussein Obama, I'm a black guy, and I'm President of the United States. I wake up every day and feel lucky!"'

This event, it turns out, was in support of the Reena Foundation, which celebrates its 40th anniversary this year. The Reena Foundation helps people with developmental disabilities. Several truly heart-warming speeches were made before and after Axelrod's keynote address, and it is only right, having been the recipient of a free ticket, that I put the link to the charity up here. 

I've been here a month. Shit!

This is the third blog in my #EdGoesToRonto series, making an early attempt to succinctly explore the vast differences between the Canadian and the English university experience. The first blog, explaining the trials and tribulations of my first week in Toronto, can be found here. 

1) University Workloads
Warwick is a great school. Of that, there can be no doubt. A small victory, but, for my course, Warwick sits atop the university rankings. To celebrate being top of the rankings for American Studies is a bit like celebrating being top of the 'Pass Completion' charts whilst you sit bottom of the Football League, but nonetheless, no-one can doubt the pedigree of my home institution.

Having said that, I have literally never had as much work as I do now. The University of Toronto has recently been ranked as the top university in Canada, and, Christ, does it feel like it. Having visited
my sister down in Cambridge on many occasions, the atmosphere is definitely more akin to Oxbridge than I expected, and, frankly, there's nowhere to hide. In Warwick, if I was behind on work (rare, but it happened), I would perhaps 'forget' to read an article here, neglect to complete a Spanish exercise there. With grades given out for participation in North American universities, and a hefty percentage at that, not reading an article and being caught out could be fatal. It does, seemingly, punish shy people, but as someone whose contributions veered from hefty to absolutely minimal back home, I can categorically state that this manner of work has forced me into contributing in seminars, and as such, work, and, ostensibly time, has flown by.

2) Frosh vs Fresh
Every year, articles are written in both university and national newspapers condemning and celebrating British Freshers' week. I was a Fresher in October 2011, away from home for a concerted period of time for the first time, and thoroughly enjoyed it. I relished the opportunity of speaking to everybody, jumping up excitedly when anyone new came into the kitchen, like my pet Cairn Terrier. Only I didn't wee over people's shoes. Much. All this, despite not being a massive drinker (by British standards anyway)- alcohol being a huge part of British Freshers' week.

So, imagine a Freshers' week where you can meet people, join societies, explore your new surroundings- but, and it's a big but, you can't drink alcohol. That, essentially, is 'Frosh' week, Canada's bastardisation or enhancement of our experience, depending on your viewpoint.

Neither is without controversy. The University of British Columbia has been embroiled in controversy  following a disgusting chant advocating under-age sex. And, of course, we will soon be treated to pictures of British Freshers falling out of nightclubs, whilst journalists forget they were ever young once.

The comparative innocence of Frosh week may well be dictated by the law- the drinking age here is 19- but nevertheless, it makes waking up in the morning that little bit less dicey.

3) Parties and the Famous Red Cups
Whenever myself and the rest of my Warwick mates spoke about our upcoming Years Abroad, house parties and Red Cups always cropped up. Bizarre, really, when you consider what else we could have mentioned, but for some reason, they seem to have become the Official Drinking Vessel of the CAS Year Abroad for 2013-14 (TM).

I went to my first 'proper' house party on Friday, on the outskirts of Toronto (bit of an understatement- it took me about an hour to get home), and, lo and behold, there stood the Red Cups, laid out in beer pong formation, like the Red Arrows, signalling something special. There have been several 'Wow!' moments on this Year Abroad, when I've had to step back and register that I, Ed Higgs of Droitwich Spa, Worcestershire, one-time fruit picker, am studying for a whole year at a North American university.

One of those moments was standing for the national anthem at a football game, which I wrote about last time. One was getting soaked at Niagara Falls. And now, I have had the Red Cup moment, brought to you by tequila.

This definitely felt like a North American party. There were Italian-Canadians asking me 'how YOU doin', Red Cups, and the cops got called. All in a night's work.

4) Coping Away From Home
As alluded to in an earlier paragraph, the amount of work I've had has made it difficult to stop and think, let alone miss home. I'm bloody lucky with the Internet, admittedly. The novel I'm studying at the moment is, weirdly, about an Englishman travelling to Canada and having to write letters to his family back home, with frantic correspondence coming back fearing for his safety amongst the bears. I don't have this problem. Firstly, I'm more likely to get ravaged by homeless people up the road at the shelter than bears, and secondly, with Skype and email, it hasn't really felt like I'm any further from my family than Warwick.

My Nan's emails are a particular staple of the old 'missing home' diet. Remember those books you used to read when you were younger? It's like that.

'Me and your Grandad went to the beach. We love the beach. We took the dog. He loves the beach too. He didn't go in the water. Maybe he's scared of water. Then we went home'.

Or...

'Went to a garden fete today. You're probably wondering what that's all about'.

Dunno, Nan. Gardening, maybe? Take these emails away, and I'd probably be lost.

Missing family is one thing. Missing England is quite another matter. Sky Sports, for one, is now just a distant memory, like nursery, or Blues being in the Premier League, and I miss the old conversations I used to have with people about football.

The longing that I have for certain foods is quite gut-wrenching, at times. A Pukka Pie, some toad-in-the-hole, a bit of proper gravy, would all come in handy. Heck, I even miss Carling.

MUST ASSIMILATE, MUST ASSIMILATE!

So do I miss home? Of course I do. But then I missed home when I went to London for three days when I was 9. I missed home when I travelled round Italy for three weeks last summer. There's a point where homesickness doesn't really get any more painful. It's not like I wake up and think 'SHIT! BEEN HERE 30 DAYS INSTEAD OF 29 AND OWWWW!' It cometh, and it indeed go-eth.
***
A month has gone by. Do I feel assimilated? I'm drinking coffee out of a Toronto Maple Leafs mug, wearing a University of Toronto sweatshirt, whilst listening to Celine Dion*. I think it's safe to say I do!

*possibly not true

PS: Good luck to all my friends starting back at Warwick this week. 

#EdGoesToRonto- We're not at St Andrew's anymore, Toto...

This is the second blog in the #EdGoesToRonto series, detailing the trials and tribulations of my Year Abroad at the University of Toronto. The first blog, recording the first week, can be found here.

It is ten minutes from the end of the game. Toronto Argonauts, my adopted 'football' team for the night, have meekly surrendered a healthy lead and now trail by a considerable margin to Montreal Alouettes, some cocky upstarts from out of town. Instead of yelling 'fucking rubbish lads', slamming seats up and marching out with a quick 'wanker' sign to the opposition supporters, I pick up my free t-shirt, thunder-sticks and miniature football and amble towards the exit, without a minute's thought to the result of the game.

It's live sport Jim, but not as we know it.

***

So I'd given in. Less than five days since I'd arrived in Toronto, I was sat watching sport in an actual stadium. Far from simply being a drastic solution to numbing the boredom of the international break, this was a complimentary ticket with my 'Frosh' pack. The game in question, taking place at the multi-purpose Rogers' Centre near the harbour, was Toronto Argonauts vs Montreal Alouettes, in the Canadian Football League.

I know very little about American football, and try as I might, I don't really think it's a particularly entertaining sport. Multiple stoppages, thousands of rules and a necessity for padded equipment make it about as far away from soccer as possible, which perhaps explains my reluctance to embrace it.

The spectacle itself was, however, immensely enjoyable. Fan interaction, blaring music and barely a moment's peace were enough to keep me entertained for a good majority of the duration, despite hardly paying any attention to the action on the field.

Birmingham City, my team going through severely testing times, have experimented greatly with this Americanised idea of the 'match-day experience' in recent times, and it has, truth be told, been met with a considerable amount of opposition. There are those rugged supporters of days gone by who highly resent the idea of a 'welcoming' stadium, and I completely agree with them. I can't entirely put my finger on why, but I don't particularly like the idea of a family of four wandering up to the ground in full away replica kits and being welcomed with a foam finger and a picture with a bloke in a mascot suit.

No danger of that here, in this futuristic, mega-stadium. When Montreal scored, I looked around, expecting to see away fans jumping up and down and giving it what we call in England 'The Big-Un' to the home fans.

Not an away fan in sight. My first instinct was to stand up and belt out 'shit province, no fans', but when you consider it's roughly 600km from Toronto to Montreal, and I can't be bothered to travel any further than Leicester for an away game these days, it's probably understandable. As a most partisan sports fan, it made for a truly bizarre atmosphere. I needed somewhere to direct my ire, someone to yell 'F*CK OFF BACK TO QUEBEC' at, and yet I found nothing. I shouted into the air, but nothing came back.

As a rule, English football doesn't do external entertainment. You get your ninety minutes, and if you're lucky, that'll be half-decent. If you want something else, son, go to the theatre. Or, alternatively, support a 'family club', like Charlton, or Norwich. Opening ceremonies and flag waving by attractive models in body-suits is derided and cast aside as 'naff' or 'artificial', and the most entertaining thing that's ever happened at half time was when thirty thousand Brummies booed an on-pitch marriage proposal. We once had a competition where you had to fire a football at a shed, but that was quickly ditched when the club realised the name- On me Shed son!- was the best part of the game. By far.

Not so, in this cavalcade of North American wonder. A bizarre game of musical chairs took place at half time which quickly descended into an on-pitch scrum. Someone chased a bloke dressed as a coffee cup round the pitch midway through the half, whilst blindfolded. A family of squirrels was released into the stand, and the first person to catch one won a lifetime's supply of nuts.

Okay, I made the last one up, but you get the impression. It's a Knockout looked like a serious documentary about the dangers of inflatables compared to this. At one point, the big screen showed a picture-perfect family of four happily smiling and waving, the newly crowned 'Argonauts Family of the Game'. I'm sure a camera or big screen probably caught me, my Dad and my Great-Uncle at the Blues together once, but it probably screamed 'years of disappointment and a Vitamin D deficiency' rather than 'Family of the Game'.

All in, you could have a half-time show featuring Michael Jackson, Elvis and The Beatles, and if we lost 1-0 to Barnsley, I'd still come away feeling miserable. Conversely, when I was 6, and went to my first game, I didn't care what the result was as long as I got a hot dog and a lollipop. Luckily for the 'match-day experience', as far as American/Canadian Football goes, I'm closer to bright-eyed infancy than grizzled pessimism.

So...

Let's go Argo's, let's go *clap clap*
Let's go Argo's, let's go *clap clap*

#EdGoesToRonto- The First Few Days

This will most likely be a monthly or perhaps even more sporadic blog, detailing various trials and tribulations of my Year Abroad at the University of Toronto. WARNING: Some parts have been written whilst jetlagged, at 6am. 

Wednesday 28th August
As ever, the first insight into Canada that I am afforded is their customs system. I'm quite nervous about this- partly because I'm not even sure I have the right documentation, and partly because I've been stood in the queue for ninety minutes, whilst officials pore over the papers of everybody else in front of me. I get called to the front by the lady at one of the booths...

'Edward.... Beautiful British name'.
 Al Murray, is that you?
'They should have called the Royal Baby Prince Edward'.
Am I being let in? Nervous laughter should endear myself.
'Ha. Ha. It gets shortened a lot though, my name'.
'Are you an Ed, or an Eddy, or a Ted?'
Can't I just have my papers back? I don't feel I need to reach nickname levels of chat with a customs officer.
'There you go... 'Edward'. Enjoy your time in Canada'.

This is a bizarre theme. There doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to what people say when they discover where you're from. So far I've had two discussions on the Royal Baby, one on cricket, one on the break-up of Oasis, and several on the 'EPL'.

When I finally get to the baggage carousel, my suitcase has been dumped in a pile with arrivals from Hong Kong, which is definitely not where I came from.

My hotel appears to be in the middle of a Chinese shopping centre, which may or may not be a euphemism for 'brothel'. I have to walk from the lobby through the 'Relaxation Zone' to my room every night, so I'll leave you to decide that one. There also seems to be a bizarre number of people with orthopaedic shoes wandering about the hotel, but I'm not sure if there's a connection there.

I found the university, despite my terrible affliction whereby I can barely read a map, and do my best to stay awake until it's an acceptable hour to go to bed.

I manage until 8:30.

Thursday 29th August
After waking up in the middle of the night for the fourth time, I take the advice of Twitter and go and explore the city at the crack of dawn. It's not quite 'the city that never sleeps', but it's thriving nonetheless. From certain angles, the city looks like it belongs in the future, but then there's also a fair amount of inequality, particularly in the Chinatown district, which is where my hotel resides.

Things don't really get going, both in terms of this blog, and the university experience, until Monday. Friday, Saturday and Sunday are tough, in all honesty. Deep down, we all knew there would be parts of the Year Abroad that would test us to our limits, encompassing anything from homesickness to navigating the token dispenser on the subway. And as a sensitive soul, I'm no different. I've always craved routine, things to do, people to see, and once I've sorted the mundane stuff such as insurance, I'm left twiddling my thumbs a little bit.

Sunday 1st September
Moved into my house today. I don't think there'll be a tougher moment on this Year Abroad than when I first saw my room. A dirty (but admittedly huge), graffiti-d, smelly basement with a bin bag instead of a curtain and pipes sticking out of the wall like a Soviet Union interrogation chamber wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I applied to the accommodation, and it took a while to compose myself.

Like the Brit I am, I soldiered on, plastering the walls with photos of the nearest and dearest, covering the graffiti, and making plans for some nice net curtains like Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen.

Monday is Labour Day, a Bank Holiday, and as such, there's not much to speak of. The room appears a million times better, and my housemates, so far exclusively Canadian, are lovely. Still no sign of a cleaner for my room, mind.

Tuesday 2nd September
Probably the first day where jet-lag wasn't an issue. I'm taking part in St Michael's College 'frosh' week, similar to British Freshers' in that everyone is getting to know each other, but different in almost every other respect.

For a start, it kicks off at 8am. It's very 'North American', with chants, happy clapping, and oh my word, the attention I get over my accent.

'BRITISH DUDE!'
'OH MY GOD, SAY THAT WORD AGAIN!'
'TALK MORE, WE WANT TO HEAR YOU TALK MORE!'

It's incredible. For someone who has very much a Droitwich accent with a Brummie lilt, brought upon by cumulative hours moaning at St Andrews, it's so, so welcome to realise my accent is loved. Feel free to bring this up in a year's time, but I don't think I'll ever get bored with people giving me attention over my accent.

I've also been told I look like Steven Gerrard, and, surprisingly, people seem mad-keen on football (soccer). When I tell them I'm a Birmingham City fan, the most common reaction is:

'Yeah, but who's your EPL team?'

When I read the outline of the 'Frosh' schedule, I was highly dubious. Chanting 'hoikity-choik' and 'everywhere we go' sounds like a nightmare to a lot of people, but by midday, having forgotten all inhibitions (and sat through a Mass sermon- imagine that in the UK?!), I was thoroughly enjoying myself. Dare I say it, but as someone who isn't a massive drinker (or at least wasn't when I was a fresher in 2011), I think I prefer the Canadian Frosh to the British Fresh.

There's also old-style games. Not even ones that involve alcohol (most at Frosh are under the age of 19, Canada's drinking age), although I've definitely played versions of some of them whilst inebriated in the past. In that respect, it's good to get back to the roots.

Later on, we headed down to the multi-purpose Rogers' Centre to see the Toronto Argonauts take on the Montreal Alouettes in the CFL (Canada's version of the NFL). The differences between my experiences at the Blues and my experience watching the Argonauts could fill a book, but for now, you'll have to wait until a forthcoming blog. All I'll say is this: it sounds incredibly naff, but when I was standing for the Canadian national anthem at the start of the game, in a relatively full tier, surrounded by friends I'd made that very day, I definitely had to hold back some tears. Working towards a Year Abroad is a tricky experience to say the least, and for it to finally come together is a genuinely emotional feeling.

So, for now, #EdGoesToRonto is LIVE!

Coventry is lost without its football club

Here is a link to my piece for The Boar, Warwick University's student newspaper, on the damage that the economic and political fiasco that has ripped football out of Coventry has caused to the city.

http://theboar.org/2013/08/22/coventry-is-lost-without-its-football-club/#.UhcQYfmsiSo

'Red or Dead' left in the shade by 'The Damned United'.

Ed Higgs sat down at his laptop. His laptop, his life's work. His life's work in his laptop. Ed Higgs opened up his laptop. Ed Higgs logged onto The Bread Roll Blog. The Bread Roll Blog of secrets, of lies. Of lies and of secrets. Ed Higgs waited. Waited. Always waiting. Waiting for more lies, for more secrets. And Ed Higgs began to write about the new book by David Peace. 

When I heard about the novel, my first feeling was one of immense excitement. Peace's first football novel, The Damned United is easily the best of its kind, albeit in that fallow area of literature, the sports book. The story of Brian Clough's ill-fated period as manager of Leeds United has been made into a moderately good film, but it does not contain the poisonous moodiness of the novel. This is somewhat unsurprising, as Peace's unique selling point as a writer is his wonderful capacity to create an authorial voice, something impossible to replicate on screen.

Read this.

When I heard it was to be about Bill Shankly, I felt some disappointment. I pride myself on knowing an awful lot about football, but when it came to Shankly, my knowledge was relatively sparse. I knew he was incredibly successful, I knew he was the first to declare that football is 'more important than life and death', but beyond that, I was fairly ambivalent towards him.

I should have taken that as an invitation to leave the book well alone. Football loves to lampoon, to criticise and to bait. Plenty of people have mimicked Brian Clough, snarled 'yous a bunch of fucking idiots' in the style of Sir Alex Ferguson, and punned upon Jose Mourinho's 'The Special One'.

But Shankly?

Therein lies the problem. Bill Shankly is too nice. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't sat there urging the novel to take a twist whereby Shankly reveals a desire to brutally murder Bob Paisley and burn down the Kop. Alright, maybe a little bit. And the book does contain historical appeal, even literary appeal. The style, mimicked in my italicised opening paragraph, isn't even that grating. Alright, alright, it's fairly grating, but like I say, as a literature student, who am I to argue if a writer wants to experiment? A bit of post-modern never hurt anyone.

The problem with any novel roughly based on historical events is there's only so much tinkering with the plot that a writer can do. We all vaguely know the story: Shankly takes a struggling Liverpool and turns them into a power-house, via a love-affair with the city and the supporters. We are, like it or not, reading about the rise and rise of Liverpool Football Club.

Meanwhile, Clough takes a brilliant Leeds side, is despised from the start, and is sacked after 42 days of non-acceptance and bitterness from both parties. Clough hates Leeds, and the only reason he took the job is to prove his arch-rival Don Revie wrong. Yet in that story, David Peace ensures that everyone (aside from Johnny Giles who later sued him) is a winner. Neutrals understand that Clough is not the problem at Elland Road, and this is why he will go on to have a very successful spell with Nottingham Forest. Readers recognise that Leeds are the pantomime villains, a role which their supporters still relish. And, despite the bitterness seeping through the pages, Clough retains his popularity with the reader through his family ties, biting wit, and 'bromance' with assistant manager Peter Taylor.

I'm happy to love Shankly. It's impossible not to, he's bloody annoyingly perfect. I'm happy to love the book, despite Peace's style. But I can't, as much as I try, enjoy reading a success story of Liverpool Football Club. Shankly forever has Bob Paisley at his side, another demi-god of football, and another reminder of how this is only going one way- you are reading the rise and rise of Liverpool Football Club. It's by no means stomach churning, and Peace, as a gritty Yorkshireman himself, does not do schmaltzy sentiment (strange for a man who immerses himself in the past as a method-writer). Nonetheless, this is the house that Bill built, and I can't help but feel, in my paranoid Birmingham City state, that I'm reading about how Bill Shankly somehow contributed to our 7-0 FA Cup defeat by Liverpool in 2006.

Only hardcore Liverpool fans need apply.

The Damned United had light and shade, even beyond the pages. Light in Clough's meteoric rise as Derby manager (on the page), light in his back-to-back European Cup victories (off the page). Dark in his damned spell as Leeds manager (on the page), dark in his battle against alcoholism that eventually killed him (off the page, but hinted at in the book).

Red or Dead is a book perhaps better suited to the Anfield club shop than Waterstones. Shankly is all light. And, in the twenty-first century, if you're all light in the world of football, then frankly, nobody really cares.

Football and the Faustian Pact

There have been several events in the world of football this week that have increasingly worried me. I have come to the realisation that I am a human being first, probably a Birmingham City supporter second, and that being a 'football fan' comes somewhere between 'one-time fruit picker' and 'Year 8 B-Team leg-spinner' in my personal identity.

Before you reach for the 'New Tab' button, let me offer a disclaimer: this will not be an #AgainstModernFootball rant. For a start, 'Modern Football' is the only thing I've ever known, being born in 1993. Secondly, most people who go under that banner do so whilst tweeting in front of Sky Sports' Super Sunday.

I'm still enthralled by the game itself. The ninety minutes of football still holds me in my armchair in a way that a film or TV show rarely can. Forget the moans about diving and play-acting; that's just 1970s leg-breaking tackles in a different guise, branded by the same motif of a natural urge to cheat. It was ever thus.

But that magic is leaving us romantics behind. Football is a sport increasingly played behind closed doors, in the boardrooms and corridors of power.Last week, I went to a Sports Journalism course down in Wimbledon. First up, there was a sports quiz. It was telling of the modern media that most of the questions revolved around chief executives, directors and chairmen. It was perhaps even more telling that I knew almost all the answers.

Which brings me neatly onto the events of the week. I consider myself to be very knowledgeable about the sport, and yet, there have been two players signed this summer, for a combined fee of £60m, that I have never heard of. One is Fernandinho, the other is Soldado. Irrelevant to an extent, but just to give you some sort of context.

Recognise this man? He cost £34m.
http://www.independent.co.uk/incoming/article8648505.ece/ALTERNATES/w460/62-Fernandinho-mcpa.jpg

Meanwhile, Coventry City are going to the wall. The football club has been put into liquidation, and the future looks extremely bleak. A club that has won the FA Cup more recently than West Ham, Newcastle, and Aston Villa, a proper, one-team footballing city, bang-smack in the middle of the country. I really wonder how many people knew, or even cared. To discover the ins and outs, I had to watch the local news. Not Sky Sports News. The top story, if Sky was even capable of introspection, should have been how anyone can justify paying such money for the above players, when a club such as Coventry, part of the fabric of English football, have been left to rot? For Sky, and their assorted minions of supporters, it barely registers on their radar.

We used to say it would take a club- any club- to go to the wall to make the clubs and owners sit up and take notice. You think that will happen now? No chance. Now it seems it will take, naturally, one of the Sky Power Elite, to go bust. Perhaps, in 2050, we can have Liquidation Sunday, presented by Jim White's grandson, whereby Ray Winstone offers us odds on which of Manchester United, Chelsea and Manchester City will be wound up first?

It was symptomatic of the media that when I found out the news about Coventry at the course, on a corner of the BBC Sport website, I announced it to the rest of the room. The man taking the class, not much older than us, and a fan of one of the Power Elite, exclaimed 'Oh my god really?! Oh no, wait, actually I don't care'. And so the talk turned back to the Premier League.

Up in Doncaster, a member of One Direction now has a contract. I'm not joking. So what, you might say? If it brings in extra revenue, then maybe Coventry should have wised-up earlier and signed Gary Barlow back in the early 2000s? This move surely signifies the final nail in the coffin of football's meritocracy, the spit-and-sawdust, flat caps and whippets of football's School of Hard Knocks. Think of the young Doncaster trainee, who, following the announcement of the mandatory 25-man-squads, turns on Sky Sports News and sees that Louis Tomlinson has been selected ahead of him. The trainee is forced to move on and disappears into non-league obscurity, whilst everyone laughs at how silly Tomlinson looks trying to play professional football, and the gimmick is over. Unfortunately, so is the young trainee's career. Such is the knife-edge for young players.

Doncaster Rovers' new gimmick- er, signing.
Pic: http://www.calcioweb.eu/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/tomlinson.jpg

Across Yorkshire, Hull City have hammered the final nail into any sort of identity coffin with their re-branding as 'Hull City Tigers'. Their Egyptian owner deemed the suffix 'City' as 'too common'. Imagine! Formed in 1904, but forget it, some bloke passing through in 2013 doesn't like that, so you're Tigers lads, or we're going to the wall. Don't make me sell you to Coventry.

As supporters, if we choose to buy into anything other than the team and the ninety minute experience, are just play-things, or, at the very least, waiting to become play-things. We're kidding ourselves otherwise. And don't worry, there's nothing wrong with a bit of self-delusion. Football is built on such glorious imagination. I'm deceiving myself every day as a Blues fan that we'll retain our identity forever more. And there definitely are teams who still keep their dignity, for now, anyway. But who's to say what's next? Blues will likely have new owners within the next year, and who knows what crackpot scheme will evolve? Merger with Coventry? Don't forget lads, before our rich owner arrived, we were going to the wall. So you'll play as West Mercia FC or I'll sell you to Hull City Raccoons.

It is, of course, easier to whinge from the outside looking in. I can moan about the MCC being an old-fashioned, archaic Old Boys' Club, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't jump at the chance to have steak and chips in the Long Room. I think of the Premier League as a glass prism. Once inside, everything is distorted, phantasmagorical, the light is colourful and magical, and you forget there's a whole world outside. It takes a few years outside the glass prism to really appreciate the ninety minutes for what they are.

Every football fan.
http://www.empowernetwork.com/empowerednetworker/files/2012/08/Devil-and-Angel-Homer-New-300x205.jpg

I would take being in the Premier League in an instant and all it entails, on the pitch at least. And that, I guess, is why Sky Sports and its riches is such a powerful, Faustian drug, and why, for as far as I can see into the future, clubs will sell their souls to eat at the top table.

There's a little bit of the Devil in all of us.

Cricket Pundits vs Football Pundits- A Game of Two Halves

This summer, with no full-time job, I've treated myself to wall-to-wall Ashes coverage. Whilst watching I've wondered out loud, on Twitter and the like, how cricket punditry came to be so thoroughly excellent. At first I attribute it, as I do most things, to Sky Sports, but then I remember the ways that football punditry has stood still for the last twenty years, and I think again, desperately searching for reasons and for mitigation for football.

It is, admittedly, fashionable to knock football in the summer months, especially when every other British sport is excelling. The same arguments resurface about wages, laziness, and celebrity lifestyle, and it's easy to lump in punditry, particularly considering some of the fees that the Match of the Day talking heads command.

Football pundits- bad.
http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/06/11/article-1025830-017D09EC00000578-572_468x370.jpg

But I've learned so much from watching The Ashes this summer, and I was hardly a novice in my knowledge of the sport to begin with. I've learned how Shane Watson is consistently a target for LBW decisions because of the way his front leg comes across his stumps; I've learned that Jonathan Bairstow is predominantly a bottom hand player, and as such, his technique lends itself to wayward, rash shots; and I've realised that Phil Hughes doesn't use his feet. Admittedly, you don't need Geoffrey Boycott to tell you the last fact in that little list, but the point still remains.

Then I try to remember what I learned from football's pundits last year. Not a lot. Strikers who score goals 'need to be watched', defenders who make mistakes 'get punished', and big strikers 'are a handful'.

But why? Why, with so much to talk about, are football pundits getting left behind? At first I put it down to the pace of the respective sports. Cricket ebbs and flows, it has natural lulls that need to be filled, whereas football, with its frenetic pace, lends itself more to description. Yet how do you explain fifteen minutes of platitudes in between halves on Super Sunday, or an hour and a half of matey generalisations on Match of the Day?

Cricket pundits- good.
http://www4.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/Nasser+Hussain+England+v+New+Zealand+pi1ezlr8d1Zl.jpg

Is it, akin to the desire to knock football at every turn, that we want to hate the football pundits? Is it that Alan Shearer is a sad Geordie *******, Stan Collymore played for the Villa, and Alan Hansen is a dour Scot that shouldn't be commenting on England anyway? Is it a partisanship that doesn't really exist in cricket? Sure, Geoffrey Boycott is synonymous with Yorkshire, but nobody really hates another county, not unless you've got a bit-part in Richard III, anyway.

Again, partisanship is fairly irrelevant. Take Gary Neville. An immensely divisive figure whilst playing for Manchester United, he has completely altered many people's opinions with his analytical punditry. Other football pundits are loved, relics of a bygone era like Barry Davies, but this is more for their lyrical qualities than their analysis of an offside trap. Pundits have to prove themselves in whatever sport, and Shearer, Hansen and Collymore have only reinforced the negative perceptions.

A touchy subject, but is it to do with education? Messrs Hussain and Atherton achieved degrees at Durham and Cambridge respectively, and are two of the more articulate commentators on our screens. On the other hand, I'm reminded of a quote from Mike Bassett: England Manager, where we learn that winger Alan Massey 'is not stupid. He's got five O-Levels,you know, including a D in Technical Drawing'. It is harder, and a bit of a silly decision, to marry a football career with a university degree. Why, therefore, is there a reluctance to use non-footballers as anything other than the Village Idiot, a sounding-board for the 'proper' pundits? I know that Adrian Chiles has knowledge of football, so why this bizarre deference to Roy Keane? I learn more from reading the views of 'ordinary' people on forums than I do from the apparent demi-gods of ITV Sport. Alas, it was ever thus. When an analyst from the Football Manager computer game series had the temerity to put his opinions across on Twitter, Stan Collymore, that oracle of football knowledge, went off on a rant about 'playing at the highest level'. Articulate you may be, possessing a degree in Classics having studied Aristotle and James Joyce, but until you've put Des Walker on his arse, you're nobody in football punditry, says Stan.

To continue along the theme of Stan and the Stats Man, there seems to be a perception that to analyse football to an acute degree is somehow geeky and weird, something to be left to the boffins, whilst MoTD chuckle about what a 'big unit' Christian Benteke is. This Luddism has spilled over into goal-line technology- for many years, something to be feared. Cricket, thankfully, got over that many years ago, and its punditry is better for it.

Why not have a Simon Hughes prototype statistician? Why do, for example, Tottenham struggle without Gareth Bale? Why did Stoke get so much joy from utilising height at set pieces, when the LA Lakers are rubbish at football? When Cristiano Ronaldo's weird bendy free-kick stance was analysed, it was like Man had discovered fire. I want more of that.

Perhaps there is just more to analyse in cricket. Yet people get a genuine joy out of listening to the raconteurs on Test Match Special, whereas I'd have probably got more out of listening to Showaddywaddy's Greatest Hits than hearing Shearer talk about how 'he's passed it, he's shot, and he's scored'.