The Continued Family Love Affair with Cheltenham

Everyone who knows me will know of my family's borderline obsession with Birmingham City, and football in general. Most of you will know about our love for cricket, and the days spent at New Road and Edgbaston with friends and family respectively. But it's a little known fact that horse-racing is a love that has been passed down from generation to generation, and on the eve of my first trip to the Cheltenham Festival, it seemed appropriate that I should write this blog on some of the stories that have made me laugh and cry so much over the years, the little anecdotes that make each family what it is.

I won't pretend to be an expert on horse-racing, first of all, lest you all start hanging on my every word for tips and subsequently slashing my tyres when it falls at the first hurdle. My gambling expertise doesn't go much beyond following Cornelius Lysaght on Twitter and picking a horse called Franklin Roosevelt on the day that I'd spent writing an essay on the Presidency (it won, by the way. One in the eye for the over-analysts). That honour went to my Dad. He always insisted his specialist subject, should he ever go on Mastermind, would be the Cheltenham Gold Cup, or horse-racing in general. A subject this broad would no doubt have put to shame Myleene Klass's efforts at answering posers on Sex and the City (Series Two). Not that he ever really used his knowledge for financial gain. He'd bet on the Grand National, out of tradition (although he was always fairly disdainful of its merits as a race), and of course, any day he went to the races, usually once a year. He followed jockeys, and tended to bet on them, as opposed to the horse. The up-and-comers. It was telling, in fact, that we ran a donation for the Injured Jockeys Fund at his funeral, for which we received a beautiful card thanking us.

A delicate subject, but other members of my family have fallen foul of the curse of horse-racing, something which my Dad stayed well clear of. He watched it simply for pleasure, interest, and, what's more, to doctor the work of Rudyard Kipling, he 'never breathed a word about his winnings'. That was to us anyway...

'How did you do today?'
'Broke even, really'.

It was always slightly baffling when, therefore, the next fortnight he might have taken us out for dinner.

His love for horse-racing, as far as I know, stemmed from my Great Uncle Mick, the eccentric fella with the flat cap who's looked out for us immeasurably over the last two years. At 82 (I think), he still seems to know the best tip for the 3:10 at Chepstow, usually thanks to his mate down at the fish market. And to think you all thought I was from thoroughly middle class stock...

My Dad also always said that the first thing he'd do if he won the lottery would be to buy a racehorse. Not that this would have been our family's first foray into owning a four-legged running thing, as the following anecdote will display. I already know it's many of my friends' favourite anecdotes ever, so bear with me if you've heard it before.

Mick: 'Have I told you about the time me and your Dad and some friends got a really highly regarded greyhound over from Ireland between us and ran it over here?'
Me: 'I don't think so... is this going to be another made up story, like Mr Isles who shaved the cat?'
Mick: 'Well, basically, we brought it over for its first race, and it's really sad but... well, in Ireland it had been used to running on straight tracks... on its first race on an oval track, it kept on running and went straight into the wall at the end'.

The best thing about that story is I have absolutely no idea if it's true or not.

On what I think was my thirteenth birthday, my Dad took me to Warwick races, where we proceeded to lose every single race. He reminisced further that day.

Great Uncle Mick- Conman Extraordinaire and Scourge of Greyhounds

Dad: 'There's the trainers' car park... Mick always looked like a trainer in his flat cap so almost every time we came here we just got him to tip the peak of his cap, say 'cheers mate' to the attendant and got in for free.'
Me: 'We're not doing that today are we?'
Dad: 'I've got a flat cap in the boot to be fair...'

It's some coincidence that my grandparents, on my Mum's side, live a stone's throw from Cheltenham Races. - a neatness that knits this wonderful family affair together. The local knowledge of the area has led to my Nan and her friends either taking in Irish lodgers in their beautiful Cotswold village, or gladly informing with pride anyone brave enough to ask for a short-cut to the races. On his first trip to their new house, I'm told my Dad looked out the window and did a little jig of childish glee when he surveyed the Cotswolds and pointed at the Grandstand far in the distance. From then on, he would always take the week of the Cheltenham Festival off work, even if it was just to sit in front of the telly.

A great photo of my Dad in amongst the throng- I'm assured my Mum wasn't checking how much he was putting on...

Horse-racing gets a lot of bad press, especially with a spate of recent Grand National deaths, with the race regrettably often coinciding with unusually hot days. But accidents do happen in almost every sport, and every walk of life. The adulation and love these horses receive almost makes up for those tragedies, and to have the sight of a true thorough-bred galloping down the home strait tarnished, or even taken away, would be a great shame to all those race-goers: a strange mix of shady bettors, wealthy owners and trainers, hard-working stable-hands doing it for the love of the horse, and of course those looking to make a quick buck or just have a right old laugh.

The Times' Simon Barnes, probably the finest sports journalist around (although he has recently turned his hand more to nature articles, in my view a shame), wrote a wonderfully powerful piece in the wake of the tiresome horse-meat scandal about why the nation was in such a pitchfork-wielding state. It was a love for horses that had been butchered- the noble steed, the beautiful thorough-bred- and the line had been crossed. It explains why there has been so much uproar in certain circles as to why Kauto Star, two-time Gold Cup winner, won't be allowed to live out his retirement in glorious, studding peace, and instead must be made to traipse down to the other end of the country as little more than a show-pony.

It's fitting, really, that in a sport where winning and losing can have such high stakes, I 'won' my tickets (VIP!) for tomorrow's day of racing in a competition on Twitter. I doubt I'll sleep tonight, and am immensely looking forward to taking a good friend of mine with me. He won't mind me saying that if my Dad was still around, he'd have knocked Matt over in the rush to take the ticket, there with his boots black and a copy of the Racing Post under his arm. Indeed, I felt a very strange twinge when I won the tickets, desperate to text that extra person my good news.

Doubtless there'll be one or two tears shed by this blogger when the famous Cheltenham roar rises up, as the curtain lifts on another year of 'The Greatest Show on Turf'.

Presidential perks

On the 9th March 2012, I was elected President of Comparative American Studies Society, or CAS Soc. Next month, I will hand over to my successor in a cavalcade of personalised hoodies and flags, provided I am not impeached beforehand. Here is my ten-point plan to running a society:

1)   Pick a society with a successful blueprint, and run with it: I was extremely lucky to have a predecessor who put an incredible amount of time and effort into the society, making it a friendly, fun organisation with many opportunities for inter-year group collective congratulating and sighing in equal measures. I could have started a society from scratch, but I’m not really sure many people would join my ‘Knitwear and Scampi’ Society.

Our risqué tweets: A hit with the DoS

2) Remember the good socials, forget about the bad ones: It’s fair to say that certain socials can be a disaster, for whatever reason. Equally, when our flagship event of Term One, Thanksgiving, came together, with over 30 people, some not even CAS students, dining on turkey and pecan pie, it made the previous week's work pale into insignificance. The temptation is to hold an inquest after every one, debating the whys and wherefores and pinpointing the successes and failures. The best thing to remember is that we’re History & Literature students, not experts in the field of Events Management. Laugh it off, shrug your shoulders, and move on to plugging the next Facebook event!

3) Use the things you love: It’s fair to say I’m an obsessive when it comes to social media, and the CAS Soc Twitter account has given me moments to cherish. I’m not sure how much information has ever been gleaned from it, but when you go to see your Director of Studies for talks over a Year Abroad and come out discussing which was his favourite tweet from the night before, it means as much as a successful social!

4) If you’re wondering about whether you’re running for the right reasons, trust me. You are: I ran for CAS Soc President for a multitude of reasons. It's difficult to rank those reasons, having fast-forwarded a year, but I'm fairly sure 'personalised hoodie' came close to the top of the list. I also wanted something to show from my time at university other than a degree of dubious quality and worth, and, with CAS Soc having delightfully impinged upon most of the things I did in Year One, this seemed like the obvious challenge.

5)  It’s your society. Your time. Use it wisely, young Jedi: Every year things get improved upon, changed, altered, trimmed, cut down, expanded, whatever. If a society’s events had the same appeal every year to every year group, there’d be no need for a committee, it’d be ‘CAS Soc: Just add water’. Thankfully, your creative licence comes to the fore. Who’d have thought that a quiz about the Super Bowl which had nothing to do with the Super Bowl during the Super Bowl would become one of my personal highlights of the year?

6) If you’re not enjoying it, you’re doing it wrong: There will always be times when you wonder if you’ve done it right. Remember the Events Management. If being a volunteer, in your second year of university, working amongst your closest friends to organise coffee mornings and celebrations for even more of your closest friends has become a chore, then you’re taking it too seriously.

A highlight

7) We’re not Warwick Finance Society, we’re CAS Soc: I’ll be the first to admit our society isn’t the biggest or indeed ugliest on campus. That’s why it’s great. When I come to graduate, I won't remember essays about Caste Wars in Mexico; it'll be the dance competitions, and the successful socials that will stick in the mind.

8) ‘The presidency has many problems, but boredom is the least of them’- Richard M. Nixon: You will never get this chance to run an organisation and make so many cock-ups in such a forgiving environment ever again. The next time, if ever, I run a group again, we’ll be out of the pre-season of my career and into the harsh winter of real life. And trust me, it won’t be as fun out there with the real ball.

9) Surround yourself with an exec that no matter how tough a week it’s been, will still laugh at your jokes: I’ve been lucky enough to be accompanied by a tireless committee who have spammed Facebook walls, sent emails down the rabbit hole of communication that is Warwick SU at times, and have reminded me of points 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 10 on an almost daily basis. You know who you are!

10) Smile, you’ve got a new nickname. And a hoodie.

El Presidente over and out.

Dickens, and a Q&A with one of Britain's top writers

The 2012 film adaptation of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations, directed by Mike Newell, with an adapted screenplay written by David Nicholls, writer of One Day and Starter For Ten was shown at Warwick Arts Centre this afternoon, preceded by a question and answer session with Nicholls himself. I went along to listen to one of the most sought-after writers around.

Nicholls- looks writer-ish, doesn't he? Courtesy of guardian.co.uk

I read Great Expectations when I was in Year 9, having been assigned it by my somewhat ambitious English teacher. The plot is one that every young boy prone to falling in love should familiarise themselves with: the 'haughty and capricious' Estella, perceiving herself to be above Pip's station, intent on breaking his heart, egged on by her vengeful (adopted) mother, Miss Havisham; encountering a fortune and the morals of accepting it; in many ways, it is the ultimate bildungsroman. I would add 'assisting a convict' to the life lessons, but I didn't find many of them in middle-class Worcestershire, unless you count my uneasiness of celebrating Marlon King's goals.

It was a difficult read for a thirteen-year-old. I'm not saying I didn't finish it, but let's just say that Miss Havisham's death took me aback somewhat when I saw it on stage. If anyone thinks that's a spoiler alert, then I feel over 150 years since publishing date is enough grace for a writer to reveal certain elements of the plot.

Anyway, I like Dickens. I like the devil-may-care attitude to his characters' names- this is the man, after all, who called a cruel schoolmaster 'Gradgrind'. (He makes the character of 'Jock Strapp' in Carry On Dick look positively subtle). I like the simplicity of the plots, and I like the misery that comes with seemingly every chapter. If that's a bleak outlook, then consider that eight-year-old me hated Enid Blyton's stories because they were 'too happy' and 'unrealistic'. I'm more at home with plague and rickets than I am with lashings of ginger beer.
I was sceptical about the event for two reasons. Firstly, I've got what I can only describe as 'Dickens fatigue'. 2012 being the two hundredth anniversary of his death (pass you by, did it, what with all the jubilee and sports, did it?), I religiously watched the BBC's documentaries and adaptations, safe in the knowledge that we probably would live a Dickens-free diet for the foreseeable future. And then I see a bus with a poster for more fucking Great Expectations. Only this time with Ralph Fiennes, Helena Bonham-Carter and Robbie Coltrane. With a cast like that, I begrudgingly admitted that it was too good an opportunity to turn down.

Secondly, I read One Day, Nicholls' most famous novel (or at least part of it), in the upcoming days to the event, and I wasn't overly enamoured. The staccato, oh-so-dry humour of Emma coupled with the raffish charm of raffish Dexter with all his... raffishness. It didn't do a lot for me.

Courtesy of flickeringmyth.com

But he was pleasantly charming, self-effacing for a writer, and an extremely successful one too. The Q&A took place prior to the screening, which wouldn't have been my preference, and most of the questioning was done by a Leamington-based writer. There were roughly sixty people in attendance, students, and the silver-haireds of Warwickshire, including a bloke who wheezed like he might expire on us at any moment. He spoke of the challenges of adopting the novel and remaining faithful to the text. He was reluctant about taking on the project due to the book's much-loved qualities- I neglected to tell him that I failed to finish it. He talked about the cinematic aspects of Great Expectations, (in the process answering the question that I had lined up); and also how Dickens is unfairly described as someone who creates two-dimensional characters. I apologise for the earlier Gradgrind quip, Mr Nicholls. He also said how he is in the process of adapting another Thomas Hardy novel (I gleaned that he meant Far From the Madding Crowd- one of my favourite novels), and his awareness at becoming restricted to 19th century novels.

I even asked a question myself, one of only four to be posed. It wasn't particularly grilling, something along the lines of 'I likes your work Mr David, but do you find it frustrating that Mr Charles has already writed the descriptive bits of the novel and you can't really be as creative, yes, you know?'

Like I said, it wasn't Watergate. But he answered it completely and engagedly, explaining how essentially anything you do is an adaptation of some sort, but yes, he wouldn't be adapting many more works as he liked the challenge of creating the next Miss Havisham. Good luck with that one.

The film itself? It won't change your opinion on Dickens particularly. A fresh adaptation, one that was bleak, but not dreary, and still conveyed the humour of the novel. Yep, Dickens could do funny too, perhaps the greatest revelation to come out of the film for those who absorb the loaded term 'Dickensian'. Ralph Fiennes apparently channelled the eel-man from The Mighty Boosh in his terrifying but ultimately unoriginal portrayal of Magwitch, and Helena Bonham-Carter was Helena Bonham-Carter, which is to say, she played a very convincing turn as Miss Havisham. I've seen three versions of Great Expectations now. One on stage, in Stratford, one on the BBC, and this one. And, sadly, each portrayal of Pip has been instantly forgettable. It's a hard role, probably the most multi-dimensional role in the novel, and as such impossible to do justice to in two hours, but maybe the next version will leave a lasting impression.

Just, you know, leave off the Dickens for a while, okay? Good.

A Brief Tribute

'Each happiness of yesterday is a memory for tomorrow'- George W. Douglas

Whether it be the time Darren Carter was about to take the most important penalty kick in our lifetime and your first thought was 'just' to turn to me to make absolutely sure I could see.

Or the time you ran downstairs for the post, scrabbled around, and ran back upstairs to tell me I'd passed the entrance exam for RGS, grinning like a madman. 

Or when we were told we weren't allowed into Old Trafford hospitality areas with our chips and home-made sandwiches, so we stood and wolfed them down on the spot, in the process making ourselves feel sick for the rest of the game.

Two years since my Dad's passing

Or whenever I was getting dogs' abuse when I was a referee and you'd 'just' have a word with me at half time, and for some reason the second half was never as bad.

Or if I had to go to bed at half time in the football and you'd 'just' sneak up to my room to tell me the final scores.

Or if I fell asleep in the car on the way home from a night match and you'd 'just' carry me up to my room instead of waking me.

Or all those times we'd 'just' sit and watch the worst piece of televised sport ever, but it was alright cos we were 'just' discussing how many points Blues would get from the final ten games.

They weren't grand gestures, but they were 'just' the best 17 and a half years anyone could wish for. 

Keep Right On xxx

Working in TV, Radio and Film

My latest attempt to discover my perfect job led me to a talk on 'Working in Radio, Film and TV' at Warwick University. By all rights, this report should be appearing on Warwick Careers' website, but I was given the wrong email address- by the time this mistake was rectified, the role had been filled. I'm not bitter.

I've been to a few of these career talks now. It's difficult to pinpoint the exact purpose; more often than not, it means different things for different people. Like Christmas. There have been varying degrees of success in recent months. Last year, I attended a talk on 'Marketing and Advertising', which, in all honesty, left me feeling a little bit broken. In recent months, I've decided to pursue the dream that I've latently harboured for much of my life, once I gave up the hope of playing for Birmingham City.

Sports journalism has always been the ambition, and, unwilling to restrict myself to one medium, I've brought myself along to this talk, under no illusions. Six speakers, each, understandably, looking rather pleased with themselves. And why not? Media, we would be repeatedly reminded, is one of the most notoriously difficult industries to break into.

The first person, a Warwick alumnus (one of five to frequent the Copper Rooms in their student days), was a 'Freelance Shooting Researcher'. He'd worked as a runner. He revealed he'd worked on Splash! with Tom Daley. Boos almost rang round the lecture theatre. That show seems to have become the TV equivalent of saying you're a traffic warden, or a Conservative MP. Interestingly, and, for someone who's spent some seriously dull weeks sat in an office making tea, the speaker suggested that work experience was not the be-all and end-all. Admittedly, this went against the grain of the evening, but, if that particular Warwick student can find his lucky break into the industry, why can't this one?

The second speaker, a radio producer on Capital FM in Birmingham, took the more well-trodden path. He'd worked on RaW (Warwick's student radio station), produced demos, joined street teams, and used phrases such as 'Theatre of the Mind'. Radio is still one of the most versatile forms of media out there.

The speaker that intrigued me most, naturally, was the Director of Strategy for talkSport, the commercial radio station. talkSport often gets a bad press from those who religiously rely on the BBC's sports radio coverage, but, in recent years, has become a serious player. It is, at times, sensationalist, but it has overtaken BBC Radio 5Live, in my opinion, as the most entertaining sports broadcaster. It engages fans, it provokes debate, and approaches issues from the angle of the modern day supporter. The football betting market is growing by the day, and talkSport taps into this, offering live odds during commentary, updating us on presenter's 'accas' (accumulator bets), and really driving home the twin elements of social media and gambling, something which, through 'tipster' accounts, are natural bedfellows.

As my thirst for regularly attending matches dwindles amidst a backdrop of abysmal ownership and growing apathy, I have enjoyed the 'armchair' supporter's experience. I can tell what's good about football coverage (talkSport's 'Matchday Live' coverage), and what's bad (the levels of punditry on Match of the Day). I've grown up with local radio, particularly their football coverage. Contrasts between the premier commercial local football broadcaster and the BBC's equivalent are vast. Each has a place, but who knows what shape coverage will take in a few years time? For a start, the producers on Match of the Day might realise that 'I don't know much about this player, but-' is not an adequate level of punditry for the fee that certain former Newcastle strikers command. Perish the thought.

And I told talkSport's Director of Strategy my thoughts. I'm still not entirely sure what networking means, but I think that was it. He seemed impressed- 'know your audience' was his message. He also pressed home that, being at a top university, and having get-up-and-go, would, more often than not, see us achieve our ambitions.

A man from BBC Radio Oxford took the option of reaffirming the difficulties of the industry. I'm not entirely sure what speakers are trying to achieve through informing us that a frighteningly low number of on-air radio jobs are currently paid, but I suppose it ensured that nobody left with any illusions. Hardly likely, considering the repeated scaremongering that students encounter with regards to jobs. If I believed everything I heard, read and saw, I'd give up my degree and pick up the dole now. It's a horrible cliché, something which football pundits seemingly use as currency, but a career path is referred to as a path for a reason. You could encounter something you'd never expected to see on that path. You could also, conversely, encounter dog shit.

Careers events are most certainly not for the faint-hearted. Unoriginal tales of 'sleeping on the sofa' still raise a nervous laugh, as does any mention of debt. This event, however, left me with more feelings of positivity than negativity. I will be looking to radio on my Year Abroad in Toronto as a means of furthering my media ambitions. If I can persuade listeners in Toronto that news of Birmingham City's latest defeat is in any way relevant to their lives, I could be onto a winner.

The Bread Roll Awards 2012

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

The coveted trophies

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

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


Hero of the Year

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

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

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

Villain of the Year

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

Sigh, she's singing again.

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

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

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

ENOUGH WITH THE SANDÉ ALREADY.

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

Film of the Year

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

The best film with a tiger since Ice Age

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

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

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

Single of the Year

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

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

Jake Bugg- shit hair-cut, great album

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

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

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

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

Sporting Event of the Year

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

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

Watching Super Saturday in the presence of some pied wagtails

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

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

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

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

The Special Award for My Team of the Year

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

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

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

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

Have a fantastic 2013.

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

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

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

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

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

The cover photo for Ed's Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep bread-rolling!