http://www.oxbridgereject.co.uk/year-abroad-mix-up-leaves-student-with-grim-year-ahead/
Here is a link to an article I wrote for satirical Warwick University magazine, The Oxbridge Reject.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Swann's Flight Leaves Gaping Hole in England Side
It’s becoming painfully clear that this
most disastrous of Ashes tours will have ramifications far beyond the
departures gate at Sydney Airport. If finding a replacement for Jonathan Trott
didn’t appear difficult enough, then the shock retirement of Graeme Swann has
instigated a task that must be somewhere close to impossible.
Since his test debut in 2008, gifted to him
at the relatively late age of 29, the mournful strains of the Joy Division-inspired
ode to Swann have echoed round cricket grounds all over the world. For the last
few months, however, Swann’s off-breaks have ceased to ‘tear you apart’-
instead, they have rather meekly pawed.
That said, Swann will be remembered as the
best English spin bowler since Derek Underwood, the right-armer who played his
last test in 1982. For years, Swann coming on and dismissing batsmen with his
first ball of a spell was almost a matter of course. Just ask Gautam Gambhir,
Shiv Chanderpaul and Marcus North, batsmen of the highest quality, and dismissed
sixteen times by Swann between them. Left-handed players in particular will
sleep a lot easier from now on.
Cricket fans my age have been blessed and
cursed by our experiences of spin bowlers. We are blessed in the sense that we
grew up on a diet of Muralitharan and Warne, the two best spinners to ever play
the game; cursed in that every spinner’s record pales in comparison. In terms
of English spinners, however, no-one can doubt the quality of Swann.
In an age of the doosra bowler, Swann was
the traditional off-spinner, a regrettably dying breed. What made him so great?
Put simply, it was a combination of the incredible spin that he imparted on the
ball, and the nagging line that makes any bowler difficult to play. Good
spinners tend to possess one of those qualities, and occasionally stumble upon
the other. Swann, however, was better than good, and held both.
He will perhaps come to be seen as the
epitome of the Andy Flower era. Undeniably gifted in one area of the game,
Swann’s batting (an average of 22 is a healthy one for a tail-ender) and slip
fielding made him a cricketer who was greater than the sum of his parts. Hard
work and discipline have been the hallmarks of this team, and for so long,
Swann was the flag-bearer.
Now, epitomising the shambolic nature of
this Ashes tour, Swann may well become the pall-bearer. No-one can blame Swann,
or even be surprised by this dip in form. It’s an argument for another time, but
the ECB’s excessive schedule has caught up with some members of the squad.
Unsurprisingly, Swann does not want to
carry the drinks for the remainder of his test match career. This decision to
fly home should not taint his legacy, and indeed, it would seem that it will
eventually be seen as just another painful facet of the tour rather than be a
black mark upon Swann’s character. Perceived criticism of teammates and an
unsavoury Facebook comment may prove to be viewed differently.
The brilliance of Swann, like so many
legacies in sport, may only become apparent in the years to come. Nobody quite
understood Andrew Flintoff’s importance as a test match number six until
recently. To quote the old adage, ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s
gone’.
As if to emphasise that point, England
hardly possess an embarrassment of riches in the spin department. Monty Panesar
may well have two games, free of the pressure of a competitive Ashes series, to
stake his claim. However, he is the anti-Swann. His laughable fielding and
batting will not sit well with this particular England camp, so keen to have
players of more than one discipline.
It seems now that it is a question of when,
rather than if, Andy Flower leaves his post. In that event, the smart money
appears to be on Ashley Giles, for so many years a steady hand on the tiller
rather than a world class spinner. If he coaches in the same fashion, the
conservative bent of English cricket may well look to Moeen Ali or Scott
Borthwick, but Ali’s credentials in particular lie in his batting, not his
bowling.
If not epitomising the Flower era, then
Swann at the very least represents the cricketer we’d all like to play with on
a Sunday. Fiercely competitive on the field, to the point of admonishing
fielders for misfields, Swann’s jovial conduct off the field in Twitter and in
interviews, until this cataclysmic tour, has softened the image of the team,
with the steely Cook/Flower duo at the top.
England’s spinner, their best for thirty
years, will be remembered fondly, despite the regrettable ‘swan song’.
Monday, December 16, 2013
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!
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!
Saturday, December 7, 2013
The Ashes- It Wasn't Supposed to be Like This.
 |
| Alone and no-one to rant to |
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 |
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.
- 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. - 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. - 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.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
#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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 |
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.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
In With The Ultras- Earnie, Me, and Toronto FC
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!
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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