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 You're surprised at a reference 14 years out of date?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.