Time For Heroes

This week, England has been ripping itself to shreds, burning itself to the ground. Riots and looting have been breaking out across London and spreading through the country. You already know the back-story. It all started in Tottenham, following the police shooting of Mark Duggan and has since escalated. Images of burning cars and buildings are on a loop on news channels, while police sirens soundtrack city streets. Bobbysix.com reader Nicholas Jerzembeck, who lives in Wood Green, a mile and a half-from Saturday's original Tottenham riots, told us, "Sunday morning was absolute bedlam. The high street had been decimated, shops had been smashed and looted, cars were set on fire and the street was cordoned off. At 5.30pm that night people were being arrested still in the process of trying to loot. It was absolutely fucking terrifying. I didn't even want to put a light on in my lounge."

Few people would question there were genuine motives behind the original protests, but it is the subsequent days' events that have polarised opinion. Commentators on both sides of the fence have tried to rationalise, to understand, to explain what has been happening. Are the rioters selfish, brain-dead morons, hellbent on destroying their own neighbourhoods while looting for new ipads and Nike socks, or is it the natural reaction to years of cuts, unemployment, discrimination and a feeling of being completely disenfranchised?

Our eye-witness continues, "I can kind of understand Saturday's demonstrations. Living in the area, it's apparent there's a lot of question marks over the way the police behaved. The following nights of violence have been organised by opportunist parasites though. I've never known a collective fear like it."

As the riots continued, The Guardian was one of the few media outlets to speak with a level-head. They said, "Decades of individualism, competition and state-encouraged selfishness - combined with a systematic crushing of unions and the ever-increasing criminalisation of dissent - have made Britain one of the most unequal countries in the developed world. Images of burning buildings, cars aflame and stripped-out shops may provide spectacular fodder for a restless media, ever hungry for new stories and fresh groups to demonise, but we will understand nothing of these events if we ignore the history and the context in which they occur."

This is a well argued point and, of course, society is at the core of all this. Rioters were not born to riot, but if society is responsible, then isn't it also responsible for the majority of people - who went to the same schools and were brought up in the same areas as the rioters - not smashing things up and stealing? Finding the source of the problem is surely impossible. There is no single starting-point. Capitalism, inner-city deprivation, parenting, the global recession, the aggressiveness of certain role models, the boredom of unemployment, the relentless insistence of advertising... where do you even begin?

Politics.co.uk's crime researcher at Civitas, Nick Cowen, suggests that simply witnessing people getting away with looting can be reason enough for others to get involved. "Cyclically, an outbreak of aggression makes potential offenders realise they are unlikely, as individuals, to get caught while the police are swamped. So they join in the looting and vandalism - thus making yet more potential offenders confident enough to have a go. Frighteningly, given the right context, a riot can almost become its own cause."

So, a genuine protest in North London turned ugly, wasn't quashed and has since been ambushed by the kind of opportunistic criminality which perfectly illustrates a time where actions and consequences do not marry. Take what you want, hurt who you choose. The individual rules. I defy anyone to justify burning your neighbourhood to the ground, looting and, for instance, trashing the place of business of an 89-year-old barber. Even if it is the result of being disenfranchised, downtrodden or simply the natural end-point of years of being told that being self-centred is okay, does it make it right to smash up a charity shop in Coventry or to pretend to help an injured person and then mug them? Absolutely not. I understand that any notion of a stable and supportive society is increasingly diminishing, but what statement are these people actually making by stealing a flatscreen telly before planning their next riot by tweeting from their Blackberry? And what about everyone else who lives in the areas they are destroying? Why should they suffer?

I hope that the rubber bullets and the deployment of tanks that some people are demanding are unnecessary. It is, in my opinion, a terrible idea. If you give aggressive people - who already, according to the interviews on BBC Radio 5 Live today, feel invincible - a faceless, stronger target to fight against then they will rise to the challenge and perhaps even perhaps gain unwarranted sympathy in the process.

But what is the answer? Another Bobbysix.com reader, Robert Kelly, says: "I do strongly believe that until we teach parents to start behaving like parents, until we lose this idea in society that unless you have a brilliant job, a flash car and the latest phone, you're some kind of pariah and until we ditch the sort of political rhetoric from the past year that has pitted everyone at all levels of society against each other (hate bankers, hate public sector workers, hate anyone out of work whether it's their fault or not) while still claiming to work 'in the national interest' then it's hard to see how we're going to make much progress."

So what now? Well, surely this is the perfect time for every single decent person to act. I'm not talking about going into the street Harry Brown-style and starting an us-against-them war. Rather, I suggest that - like the beautiful human beings who have been taking to cities with brooms and bin bags - we do the little things to help make lives better for the people around us, regardless of whether we live in an area affected by the riots. Visit an elderly neighbour for a cup of tea. Pick up litter rather than walking past it. Be extra polite to the person who serves you in the supermarket - indeed, say please and thank you to everyone. Give a bag of clothes to charity. Phone a friend that you haven't spoken to for a while. Buy a coffee for the person behind you in the queue at the cafe. Talk to someone at the bus stop - a conversation might brighten their day. If you receive good service in a shop - take the person's name and send an email to the company to express your gratitude. It's the little things that make a difference, don't you think?

Maybe all this sounds like a pathetic, hippy-dippy response to the violence that has occurred - fighting petrol bombs with flowers - but without access to the corridors of power and if all you have in your arsenal is a kind heart, then what else can you do? Making people feel wanted, happy, at ease and part of a functioning and pleasant society is surely the best place to begin rebuilding England, brick by brick.

I realise that most of us probably do kind things everyday anyway, but let's all go the extra yard to make our world a happier place. Now is a time for heroes. And heroism can come in the most unexpected places.

Words by Bobby Townsend. Email info@bobbysix.com

Support, encouragement and understanding. Not foot-stamping belligerence.

As well as casting his critical ear over albums and gigs, Bobbysix's Rob Townsend also writes a weekly column about football, for newspaper The Argus. This week's column, the first of the season, was vetoed by the editor for being a bit controversial, so you'll read something much more bland - penned in about ten minutes flat by a very stressed Mr Townsend - in this Friday's paper. However, we ain't afraid of no football fans here at Bobbysix.com, so here is the banned editorial, in all its glory. It will only appeal/make sense to football lovers really. Normal music/fashion/culture service to be resumed at Bobbysix.com later today:

This is surely the most anticipated season ever for fans of Brighton and Hove Albion Football Club as, after 14 nomadic years, the club moves into its brand new £100m state-of-the-art stadium. So it's a shame that I feel obliged to use my first column of the campaign to speak about something genuinely disappointing.

I've been lending a hand behind the scenes at The American Express Community Stadium over the summer as the club frantically prepares for the first league game there on Saturday. The hard work and long hours are, of course, worthwhile, as we are all building towards something special. Sadly though, the excitement and positivity felt by many of Albion's workforce has long-since been eroded as the club has been bombarded by a barrage of aggression and negativity from a minority of supporters.

It's been the busiest pre-season I've ever known at Brighton and Hove Albion and, inevitably, there have been teething problems with the big move, yet the lack of understanding from certain sections of Albion's support – both long-term followers and newbies – is bewildering. I'm all in favour of constructive criticism, but the vitriol with which a number of people have aired their views is something that I genuinely haven't heard since the darkest days.

As we all settle into our new home, Albion fans need to be at their most understanding and tolerant. There have been, and will continue to be, glitches over ticketing, swipe cards, phone-lines, catering, parking and so on, but these things will steadily iron themselves out. In the meantime, the moaners need to see the bigger picture. The club has gained 15,000 new season ticket holders and has gone from having one corporate portakabin to a host of swanky lounges. I understand that everybody wants their Amex experience to be just perfect - we've waited so long for it after all - but anyone who thought such a massive upgrade in facilities would be a smooth and easy transition is kidding themselves.

What the club requires right now is support, encouragement and understanding. What doesn't help is the kind of foot-stamping belligerence that was displayed at the recent fans forum. Nor does it need people shouting and swearing down the phones or sending angry emails about the pies being too hot or the fact that Tottenham were a terrible choice of friendly opponent because of Harry Redknapp's Pompey and Saints connections (those were both actual complaints).

Rest assured the Albion staff aren't deliberately trying to ruin your season, nor are they a bunch of hopeless incompetents. They love the Albion just as much as you and are simply tired, stressed and close to breaking point as they work really, really hard to complete this massive task.

So, if the ticketing website is playing up, if you have to queue to get through on the phone, if the food kiosk runs out of pies (or if they're too hot), if your top-up doesn't work or if your email doesn't get answered immediately, don't get angry. Things will run smoothly soon enough and the club will do their very best to deal with your concerns. In the meantime, forget the teething troubles and give yourself a reality check by basking in the glory of our beautiful new home. It's a universe away from Withdean, so why tarnish the experience with petty concerns? Enjoy the game and let's all pull together and turn The Amex into the cauldron of noise we could only dream of at Withdean.

UPDATE:
So, since I posted the above, I have had nothing but positive feedback, from the man in the street, to Albion staff to the bigwigs at American Express. Thank you everyone. To celebrate, here is a little video montage I made of one of the most magical afternoons of my life:

Rooney illustrates football's lack of respect

Rob Townsend's recent article in English newspaper, The Argus, caused a bit of a stir. Here is the gist: 

Everybody has seen Wayne Rooney's down-the-camera effing and everyone has their opinion on it. Here is mine. I think Wayne Rooney is an idiot.

Let’s look at the evidence. Rooney emerges a few years ago as a teenage star. He is embraced by the nation, who forgive him his ridiculous indiscretions with grandmothers, a red card in the 2006 World Cup and more off-field dramas. He hits the form of his life as England prepare to head to South Africa. Amid a stinker of a tournament, he looks down the barrel of the camera to berate fans for their disloyalty when they have the nerve to voice their displeasure at the tepid 0-0 draw with Algeria.

This season, as Britain struggles against the credit crunch, Rooney threatens to walk out on United, before changing his mind when offered a frankly obscene pay rise. The country is, understandably, disgusted. Even United fans are aggrieved at the way their hero seemed to hold the club to ransom. Still, even though he isn’t having the best season, they forgive him.

Does he show humility? Keep his head down and try and regain the nation’s affection? No, he looks into the camera again and swears at every single one of us with an aggressive demeanour more suited to a yob that's just about to punch your face in outside some small-town nightclub than one of the world’s supreme athletes. He is a role model to countless kids and yet abuses his position so openly. I have not an ounce of respect for the man.

And that is the key word. Respect. If Rooney needs to take a long hard look at the way he behaves, then so does the whole of the football community. At the moment we’re in a Catch 22 situation. Players act arrogantly because fans spend 90 minutes swearing at them and fans spend 90 minutes swearing at over-paid and ill-behaved players because they resent their arrogance and egos. Sadly I can't see any way that the never-ending cycle of mindless abuse and disrespect will end. From Premier League to Sunday League, the good nature and humour of the beautiful game is being steadily replaced with nasty aggression and anger.

Still, we don’t have to be a part of it. Let's enjoy our sport with dignity and with smiles on our faces and leave the thugs to try and out-moron each other. We may be in the minority, but that doesn't stop us being right.

Words by Rob Townsend.

A Few Of My Favourite Things... by Rob Townsend

Alongside regular feature, Getting To Know... BobbySix.com is launching an occasional series called A Few Of My Favourite Things. It's pretty self-explanatory and, to get the ball rolling, Bobby Six's head honcho, Rob Townsend, has a stab at it himself:

My Favourite Band
In the early 1990s I fell head-over-heels in love with an indie/pop/dance band from South London. Named Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine, they were a two-piece who played guitars and sang over a drum machine. Sans bassist. Sans drummer. I went to every tour they played, bought every T-shirt, copied singer Jim Bob's flamboyant haircut and even sneaked into the MTV studios in Camden to get their autographs. Combining social and political commentary with pop-punk sensibilities to create big, singalong tunes, there was an honesty and integrity to Carter that wasn’t in the slightest contrived and could not be doubted. Regardless of where they stand in the grand scheme of things - whether they are important or nothing more than a footnote on the 90s scene - there is always one band that makes a difference to a person’s life and Carter was that band for me.

My Favourite Gig
There are so many sweat-drenched moments of magnificence to consider. The Flaming Lips brought an incredible kaleidoscopic party to Brighton, while Kitty Daisy & Lewis got Sydney dancing. What else? Well, Regina Spektor at the Opera House, Morrissey opening his show with How Soon Is Now?, The White Stripes and The Strokes playing onstage together at the Reading Festival, the first time I ever saw Bridezilla and had the realisation I had discovered something amazing, singing Coolio's Gangsta's Paradise onstage with The Late Greats at Latitude... the list could go on and on. I think that experiencing Pulp play at Brixton Academy just after Different Class was released tops the lot. I have never seen a performer have such a command over the audience as Jarvis Cocker on that night. He is my hero. In terms of an overall line-up, seeing The Cribs supported by Jeffrey Lewis and Giant Drag was pretty much my indie dream come true.

My Favourite Song
There is a Light That Never Goes Out and Do You Realise?? come a close second and third to this:

My Favourite Album
While I love pretty much anything Tom Waits has ever done and I'll never, ever grow tired of listening to Pet Sounds and The Moldy Peaches, once again Carter USM triumph in this category. I can sing every word of their standout album, 30 Something (which was awarded 10/10 in the NME). They told us about life as it was and constantly conveyed the social deprivation around. Ballad Falling on a Bruise is the absolute jewel in its crown, telling a downbeat tale of dejection (“Some you win and some you lose, I’ve spent my whole lifetime falling on a bruise, and if I had the chance to do it all again, I’d change everything”). Followed on the album by the heartbreaking lullaby The Final Comedown (“I’ve been cut, I’ve been stitched, I’ve been buggered, bewitched and abandoned”) this was Carter’s finest hour.

My Favourite Destination

Sometimes a place and a person just connect. In 2006 took the plunge and ventured to Sydney with no idea whether I was going to be there for a week, a month, or forever.  Within a few days, I had found work as a music critic and discovered a network of wonderful, like-minded new friends. Five years on, I'm still ensconced within its warm embrace. When I am attending some awesome party, reviewing a gig at the Opera House, or just bobbing around in the cool sea underneath unblemished blue skies, Sydney feels like the greatest place on God's green earth.

My Favourite Book
I have recently become more that a little obsessed with Cormac McCarthy. There is so much atmosphere to his words. Whether he is recalling the Old West or conjuring harrowing images of an apocalyptic modern America, you can almost reach out and touch the landscape he has created. Also, the sense of impending peril he brings keeps the tension at a consistent and near-unbearably high level. Take, for instance, All The Pretty Horses. Nothing much happens until over halfway through the story but there is never any doubt that it will happen. It's just bubbling under the surface, waiting to grab you by the throat.

Honorable mentions also go to War and Peace, Dracula, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Schindler's Ark, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and Fever Pitch.

My Favourite Item of Clothing
With my wonderful girlfriend Emma running Dear Pluto, a whole lotta lovely vintage clothing passes through our place. With such a high turnover of awesome threads at my disposal, I often wear something for a while before growing bored of it. However, I am still just as in love with these shoes as I was when I first chanced upon them. They're beautiful.

My Favourite Film
In my humble opinion, This is Spinal Tap and Bottle Rocket are about as perfect as it gets. I love how the comedy and narrative in these films are driven by a completely natural dialogue and a sense of love and brotherhood amongst the lead characters. Elsewhere, my boat is floated by Life is Beautiful, Shaun of The Dead, The Wizard of Oz, Back To The Future Trainspotting, Toy Story 3, Juno and anything by Almodovar and Hitchcock.

My Favourite TV Show
I am an absolute situational comedy nerd. There is rarely a day when I do not relate a real life occurrence to something that happened to Jerry Seinfeld or to Mark and Jeremy. The lines between reality and fiction tend to blur in my head.

It's hard for me to settle on a favourite show but, if you're looking for pure genius, then you don't need to venture much further than The Office. The thing I especially like about it is how, on first glance, you think it is about David Brent, whereas to dig deeper is to find the sweetest love story based around Tim and Dawn. I have never managed to watch the Christmas special without crying.

My Favourite Memory

As I rummage back through my cluttered brain, there are lots of images that present themselves, like a montage from a slightly-less-cool-than-usual John Hughes movie. Playing cricket in the hazy English morning sunshine on my friend Max's stag weekend was joyous in its simplicity, as were the seemingly endless summer days I spent playing football on the Old Town recreational ground in Eastbourne as a kid (above). Meanwhle, drawing faces on balloons and throwing them from the roof of Hibernian House in Sydney with Emma and watching them dance with the breeze before being swallowed up by the vastness of the city is a happy memory that is as vivid now as the day that it happened.

My Favourite Food
Eggs are the greatest invention of all time. Okay, so they're not actually an invention, but if they were, they would be the greatest invention of all time. Although potatoes would probably give them a run for their money. They are both so versatile. Meanwhile, the most underrated food in the world is spinach. Yum. Contrary to what my skinny frame suggests, I like to eat. A lot. I'm generally into savoury stuff but, to be honest, if I could coat everything I eat in caramel, I probably would.

My Favourite Photo

This forever changes. At the moment, I have two. The first is of me on stage with David Ford as part of his choir at the Corbury Festival a few years ago (above). There was something amazing about looking around the stage and realising that every person there was one of my best friends and had been for many years. The other photo (below) is one of Emma and I that amazing photographer Daniel Boud took when were mucking about playing dress-up at our old place in Sydney. It was a fun afternoon.

Get yourself some of Dear Pluto's sweet European finds

If you're Sydney-based and have even the slightest inclination towards vintage clothing, then you'll surely know of Dear Pluto. Tucked away in Surry Hills, the pretty space hosts vintage sales each weekend as well as intimate events like Monday movies nights and swap parties.

Well, excitingly, Dear Pluto's main lady - the chick who also brought you those amazing Hibernian House Vintage and Retro Sales - has spent the better part of February scouring the op shops of Europe for stellar frocks, florals and all sorts of fancy threads. Today, she arrives back in the country, masses of clothes in tow. "At Dear Pluto," she tells us, "We like our vintage like we like our men. Sexy, European and with an accent thicker than Karl Pilkington. Okay, so vintage doesn't talk, but if it did, Dear Pluto's range would be charming the hell outta you."

Intrigued? Well, even more amazing is that the hand-picked goodies the shop offers all fall below the fifty dollar mark, with some pieces giving you change from five bucks. So, if you haven't visited Dear Pluto yet, or if you are overdue a visit, then this weekend is the perfect time to pop in to see Emma and Millie The Cat and snap up some embarrassingly cheap vintage awesomeness. Our advice is to get there early, as the European stuff is sure to fly out of the door.

Get rummaging on Saturday (11am till 6pm) or Sunday (11am till 5pm) at 5a Wilshire Street, Surry Hills (map below. The Facebook event page is here)

Words by Rob Townsend.

"Thanks very much and let's have coffee,"

There isn’t much room in football for fairytales anymore. Inter park the bus in front of the Nou Camp goal in the semis and then out-defend Bayern to win the Champions League. Europe apathetically half-watches while secretly wishing that Messi was banging in a hat-trick at Real’s home ground, or that Arsenal had somehow chanced their way to glory. Fulham march to within a whisker of Europa League silverware but come a cropper to a side that got to the final by drawing the vast majority of their games in the tournament. Real and Barca play in a league so two-sided it makes the SPL look competitive. Meanwhile, The Premier League is supposed to be the most exciting competition in the world, but I can’t think of a time when it has been more staid. People got worked up about Tottenham knocking Liverpool out of fourth place. Why? It’s not like they didn’t spend decent sums of money to do so. Is it really such an achievement to finish higher than a club descending down a slippery slope and a Manchester City team who, if you gave them Mourinho’s bus, would probably end up accidentally parking it behind the goal instead of in front of it?

Tottenham’s sense of triumph at reaching the Champions League qualifiers is indicative what is wrong with the Premier League. How long have we had the notion of The Big Four? Why do we have it? Why should ‘breaking the top four’ be lauded in such a way? The Premier League has now reached such a level of predictability that teams like Spurs and Everton set their sights on fourth place as the very best they can achieve. Tottenham’s top four finish was in no way, as some are suggesting, a fairytale. This will inevitably be proved when they are bundled out of the Champions League at the first hurdle before next season has even got going.

Not much has been said about it, but I think Wolves deserve a lot of credit for staying up. However, even they, by driving the streets of Wolverhampton and rounding up a bunch of strangers to make up their eleven at Old Trafford, highlighted just how the Premier League playing field is less level than Wembley’s.

Wolves' starting line-up at Old Trafford.

Thank God then, in a season when teams field the reserves against a side from the same division, because they know their best eleven has no chance either, for Ian Holloway’s Blackpool. The only footballing fairytale of the 2009/2010 season (so close, Ross County, so close). Playing in a three-sided ground in front of League One sized crowds, they were tipped by many for relegation at the start of the campaign. Marvellous then, that a late burst took them into the play offs. Even more marvellous that they went and got promoted. And the best thing about it? That they did so playing really exciting, attacking football. Their devil-may-care approach was best summed up by the final against Cardiff. You scored two? Okay, we’ll have to score three. Blackpool’s attacking style is a breath of fresh air and, as full backs rampage forward, leaving open spaces behind them with gay abandon, one can’t help get the feeling that this is the way football should be played. If Mourinho gave them his bus, chances are they’d all pile in it and drive it straight at the opposition goal.

So, well done Blackpool for giving football romantics a little slither of joy at the end of a dull season. And, when the critics are handing out plaudits, they should look no further than the man with more classic quotes than Karl Pilkington (see clip below) - manager Ian Holloway. By achieving the unthinkable with mere pennies at his disposal, he is surely the manager of the year. Mourinho might be the name on everyone’s lips as he takes over the hot-seat in Madrid, but I’d like to see him come to Blackpool and do what Holloway’s done on the same budget.

Adam Green - Minor Love

Six solo albums on from The Moldy Peaches' indefinite hiatus, Adam Green has gone back to his roots. After albums that have offered lush strings, ambitious arrangements and, on last album Sixes & Sevens, a shimmering mix of swing, soul and jazz, Minor Love lands back in the anti-folk realm of his magnificent debut, Garfield. By playing almost every instrument on the record and recording it in one go, the New York-based artist may have stripped things back, but this is no regression. In fact, he shows an emotional maturity never before offered in his usually flippant and potty-mouthed lyrics. You see, this is Adam Green's break-up record.

Following the end of his marriage, Minor Love finds Green in introspective mood, and Breaking Locks is a downbeat start: "I've been too awful to ever be thoughtful, to ever be nice." If it weren't for that distinctive baritone croon, you'd struggle to believe this was someone more used to penning words like “There's no wrong way to fuck a girl with no legs.” However, this isn't a journey through tear-soaked self-pity, there are still sniggering mentions of flatulence in his often cryptic lyrics, but more so than ever, there are really interesting themes and stories which punctuate sadness with moments of optimism.

Jumping between acoustic ditties and occasionally ramshackle garage-rock songs, Minor Love may not contain the obvious, leftfield pop gems that have been scattered through his previous albums, but it is his most coherent record to date and finds a happy middle-ground between Adam Green's deliciously irreverent past and a new sense of humility and depth.

Slinging things at Craig Bellamy's head

The state of football at the moment is pretty depressing, and I feel increasingly distanced from the game with every news headline I read.

I've been doing my best to avoid the whole John Terry circus, but I find it amazing, considering how many negative stories he has been at the centre of over the years, that it has taken people until 2010 to question his character. I understand the argument that a player's personal life and their career should be allowed to remain separate, but I wholeheartedly agree with the decision to strip the England captaincy from him. While he didn't break any laws with his infidelity, captaining a nation should be held in reverence by somebody prepared to be a role model and ambassador. I'm not sure whether Rio Ferdinand quite suits that description but, if England win the World Cup this year and Terry still had the armband, it would have left a seriously bad taste in my mouth. I only mentioned a couple of months ago how I wasn't sure I even wanted England to win it, as the thought of Ashley Cole becoming an MBE makes me want to vomit, and this latest Terry incident has only further fuelled my negativity.

It's not just players that have been failing to shroud themselves in glory either. Certain supporters have been doing their bit to drag the game down too of late by throwing objects from the stands. There can't be many people who haven't wanted to sling something at Craig Bellamy's head at some stage or other, but, even in an emotionally charged situation, very few of us would ever actually do it.

Elsewhere, governing bodies and clubs are adding to the miserable climate. In international football, the decision to ban Togo from the next two African Cups of Nations was mind-blowingly heartless and ill-judged, while, back home, Pompey are in all kinds of trouble and even the mighty Manchester United are in a mess and are the subject of protests from their usually subservient fans. If the biggest club in the world can't get its finances right, what hope is there for anyone else?

It's almost enough to make a person want to give up on football altogether, but then something happens that reminds you why you fell in love with the game in the first place. For me, it was seeing the greatest assist of all time by Real Madrid's Guti recently. It was a magnificent piece of artistry and, with the simple act of backheeling a football, this player made me realise why I bother with the sport. Because, at its purest, it is still the beautiful game, even if it is rife with idiots.

Henry’s juggling sparks plenty of debate...

Thierry Henry’s bit of juggling last week certainly sparked plenty of debate. The Irish, poor souls, are in uproar, the French are as embarrassed as they are relieved, and everyone else seems to be chipping in with their opinion. I find it interesting that morality, in this instance, seems largely to depend on which team your sympathy lies with.

Had Robbie Keane handled the ball to give Ireland the win, would there have been such a fuss, or would we merely have labelled him ‘cheeky’? Rather than focusing on this one indiscretion, we’d more likely have hailed Ireland for being wily enough to squeeze past France.

As a Brighton supporter, I can recall a couple of instances when my team were guilty of some rule-breaking. I have a vague memory of full-back Johnny Crumplin slapping the ball in with his palm at Cambridge one time. Everyone, including Crumplin, looked at the ref and waited for a free-kick and a yellow card, but, amazingly, a goal was awarded. At Withdean, striker Gary Hart punched one in with his fist in the last minute against Southend. Did you find Brighton fans suggesting the game should be replayed? No, they laughed all the way home, delighted with the three points.

Calls from the Irish Football Association for the France game to be replayed were frankly ridiculous and possibly the greatest ever example of clutching at straws. If a game were to be replayed every time a ref missed a key decision, teams would end up playing every day of the week. Every time Manchester United lost, Sir Alex would be straight on the phone to the FA demanding the match be voided because the linesman got a throw-in decision wrong in the first half.

In his distinctive, brilliantly angry way, Roy Keane put it best during a press conference. “France are going to the world cup. Get over it,” he shrugged. Okay, maybe he was a bit harsh, but he made a good point about how, earlier in the campaign, Ireland won a game which saw them score from a dodgy penalty, and there were no offers to replay that game.

People are labelling Henry a cheat, but he is no more a cheat than any winger who dives or any centre-half who grabs a handful of a striker’s shirt. It was an instinctive reaction to use his hand, and people who say he ought to have owned up should put themselves in his boots, in a game of such importance (remembering that this world cup might be his last) and ask themselves whether, honestly, they would have told the ref to disallow the goal. I’m not sure I would.

Regardless of this incident, I’ll always think of Henry as one of the greatest players I’ve ever had the privilege of watching. He transforms football into an art form, and outraged moralists should forgive him this one blemish and instead focus on the sheer beauty he has brought to the game. After all, even though Diego Maradona ruined my summer in 1986, I still regard him as the greatest footballer that has ever lived.

We all know that instant TV replays are a good idea but until they come in, we just have to accept that sometimes, no matter how heartbreaking it can be, you’re going to be stitched up by bad officiating or plain bad luck.

Another case of footballers making the news for the wrong reason

So, recently, English Premier League footballer Marlon King went and got himself banged up for 18-months for a sex assault. It's not the first time he has been in trouble with the law either.

This is yet another, albeit more extreme than usual, example of the kind of story that crops up every now and again in the newspapers, as footballers seem to be as much on the front pages for being involved either as the perpetrator or the victim of a fracas in the early hours as they are on the back pages for scoring goals.

Even though he intends to appeal, King is clearly a troubled person, but, when considering some of the slightly more trivial cases, I suppose it must be hard to go out on the town if you’re a footballer. I’ve had the occasional night out with groups of players and, sure, it’s nice to walk straight to the front of the queue and to be looked after by proprietors, but there are downsides too. There are inevitably supporters who want to sing your name or bend your ear about tactics when all you want to do is hang out with your mates, and then there are the opposition fans who, fuelled by too much booze, want to tell you exactly what they think of you. And if you’re Stephen Gerrard, a bit of a row about the music in a club ends up with you appearing in court.

I suppose the simple solution is that if footballers don’t want unwelcome attention, they shouldn’t go to places where they are most likely to get it. Harry Redknapp even went so far as to ban his Tottenham players from nightclubs after another King, this time Ledley, ended up in the local police station after a few too many. “I don't want players going out to nightclubs, getting drunk and misbehaving,” Redknapp said. “If you look at the problems, they nearly all come when people get drunk. I don't understand it; they're so well paid, so well looked after.” I think Redknapp echoed the opinions of millions of hard-working football fans with that vox-pop. Oh, and, incidentally, the alleged quote from Ledley King when he found himself dishevelled in a police station in the early hours of the morning was: "Boss man, boss man, I don't deserve to be here - I'm rich." Classic.

Footballers are young and vivacious, so telling them not to go clubbing is futile, but it does seem to be a very British thing to drink your bodyweight after a game. I remember hearing a story about an Arsenal party where the English players were throwing booze down their necks while the foreign stars like Henry sat in the corner nursing their orange juices and wondering why their team mates were abusing their bodies so badly. It’s not often you see hammered overseas players being snapped by the paps as they stagger out of nightclubs having just been involved in a dust up. Can you imagine Tierry Henry downing pints or doing shots of tequila in a dentist chair?

Of course, it’s none of our business how and where players unwind but, if having to miss out on going to a few of the rowdier clubs in town is the price they pay for all the other rewards being a footballer brings, then it doesn’t seem like a bad deal to me.

And, as far as Marlon King goes, the depressing thing is that another club will snap him up with no questions asked when he gets out. Okay, if he does his time then he is perfectly entitled to get back to playing football, but it just seems unfair that the likes of him and Joey Barton, yes, this Joey Barton, the one who is always in trouble, can live the wonderful lives of footballers and bank the pay-cheques.

A mercenary industry where cold hard cash supersedes loyalty

This week, my football column in The Argus focuses on Manchester City and on what money is doing to the game:
Even to people who have no real love for the English Premier League, a game to keep an eye on this weekend is Arsenal’s visit to Manchester City, as the juxtaposition between the two clubs is really interesting. One has a manager who, rather than spending the big bucks, likes to bring unknown players through the ranks, while the other is football’s equivalent of a Lotto winner going on a spending spree. It’ll be intriguing to see what happens and I’m probably not alone when I say that I’d really like Arsenal’s lovingly nurtured team to take City to the cleaners.

To be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about Manchester City. On the one hand, I want them to fail miserably. The way they are cherry-picking players by throwing silly money around is indicative of just what is wrong with the game nowadays. Money is a disease that is eating football from the inside out. It is creating a mercenary industry where cold hard cash supersedes loyalty and success must be attained immediately or the manager is given the sack (with a tasty golden handshake) at the first opportunity. All the while fans are finding themselves progressively more alienated. How much longer can we be expected to love a game played by petulant millionaires while we struggle to afford the ever increasing ticket prices? To see City pay £24m for Jolene Lescott, who is probably worth less than half that, shows just how distorted things are becoming.

On the other hand though, I certainly don’t begrudge Manchester City fans the newfound excitement that all these signings has brought them. It can’t be easy living in the shadow of Manchester United, and it would be nice if the top four’s monopoly was compromised. I suppose though, that the reason I’m not sure how I feel about Manchester City is because I realise that my problems with their wealth are born largely out of jealousy. In truth, it’s hard to be too resentful when I know, in my heart of hearts, that if an insanely rich Sheikh threw a gazillion pounds at my team, my outlook would be very much different. We’d all love it if success was achieved organically; if our club climbed the leagues through hard work and a sensible business model while retaining a sense of community, but if a place among football’s elite could be fast-tracked by an Arab with more dosh than sense, would you hear me moralising about how money is ruining the game? Of course not, I’d be too busy deciding which of our new superstar signings’ names I was going to have printed on the back of my replica shirt.

A Phoenix finally rising from the ashes

My weekly column has started up again for the football season. This year, it's in The Argus on a Thursday, not a Saturday. The wordcount is up to 550 now. Ooh. Here is this week's:I’m lucky enough to have seen some beautiful sights in recent years. I’ve watched the sunset turn Ayers Rock the deepest orange. I’ve gazed in marvel from an aeroplane window at illuminated streets flowing like lava through the blackness of the New York night. I’ve stood in the Colosseum, surrounded by the aura of ghosts from its brutal Roman history. I’ve been dwarfed by the steel magnificence of the Eiffel Tower in Paris and strolled the gothic backstreets of Barcelona. However, last week I saw a sight during my humdrum daily routine in familiar old East Sussex that topped anything I have ever seen before.

I was on the train from Brighton to Eastbourne when I noticed something that made my stomach turn somersaults and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It was a fleeting moment, yet one so perfect that I will always remember it. I was staring vacantly out of the window as the train chugged past Falmer station when I noticed, poking up from behind some trees, the tiniest glimpse of a metal structure. This may not seem like much to get excited about but, of course, this skeletal framework represented so much more than the sum of its parts. To me, and to all supporters of Brighton & Hove Albion Football Club, it is a Phoenix finally rising from the ashes, an embryonic vision of what will soon be Albion’s shiny new home.

Earlier this year I was at the Olympiastadion in Berlin. After a quick wander around to take in its history (it was there that black athlete, Jesse Owens, famously won four Olympic gold medals while Adolf Hitler watched on), I sat in the stand and breathed in my surroundings. Being a stadium nerd, this magnificent theatre of sport had me drooling, with its 3,500 ton roof and bright blue running track, and it made me think about how amazing it will be to finally get to Falmer. However, at the time, the idea of sitting in a comfortable ground, with decent acoustics and a roof over my head every fortnight seemed, somehow, still so far-fetched. Sure, as I was pondering this, work on the Falmer site had started, but it hadn’t amounted to much more than a few diggers churning through some fields. I had always said that, because the quest for Brighton's stadium had been going on for so long, I’d half-resigned myself to it never actually being built, and that I wouldn’t believe it was really going to happen until I saw the first brick being laid. Well, with a simple peek over the trees from the train window, I have now, finally, seen it with my own two eyes. It looked more like the picture above then the one below (which is what it will eventually become), but was still beautiful.If you haven’t already done so, then check out the stadium gallery on the Albion’s website. With photographs showing how it is taking shape remarkably quickly, it’s the best thing I’ve seen on the internet since I typed ‘lion reunion’ into youtube.

Regardless of whether I’m spending ages online, looking at photos of what is surely the most exciting construction site ever, or catching a real life glance out of a train window, I can finally now allow myself to really believe, with no degree of uncertainty whatsoever, that the Falmer stadium is on its way. And what a great feeling that is.

Back soon....

Apologies for the lack of updates of late. I am currently in Berlin, having spent the last couple of weeks in Santander and Frankfurt. I am laptopless.

Normal service will resume next week though, with some more reviews, including the new Regina Spektor album (arggh, I'm too excited) and Lady Of The Sunshine.

In the meantime, here is some genius to keep you entertained. Sorry about the douche at the beginning.

Bridezilla interview for Demo Magazine

It was love at first sight. And first listen. As I stood in a smoky underground venue tucked away amongst the brothels and strip clubs of Sydney‘s Kings Cross in the spring of 2006, I witnessed a musical performance of beauty and majesty entirely incongruous with its seedy surroundings, as one handsome guy and four pretty girls in elegant vintage attire purveyed a beguiling mix of indie, jazz and folk to a handful of punters. The band was intriguingly named Bridezilla and their musicianship was incredibly accomplished, beautiful and mature, and – if we must pigeonhole it – dissected the sound of The Velvet Underground and The Dirty Three. As a music reviewer tiring of a moribund live circuit made up of skinny-jeaned, angular-haired indieboy clones staring vacantly through fringes as they churn out second-rate Jesus and Mary Chain-inspired noise, Bridezilla’s show had a mesmerising effect on me. A kaleidoscopic frenzy of sound and movement washed over me as, amid a framework of drums and guitar, a violinist departed the stage and whizzed around the room like a whirling dervish while a saxophonist ripped the roof off with her lung-busting sax solos. Sashaying twixt them was a sassy, confident frontwoman, wonderfully named called Holiday Sidewinder, whose vocal jumped between breathily sultry and a powerful bass growl that would turn Björk’s eyes green with envy. She wore a cat mask, robot danced and totally owned the stage. She was fifteen-years-old.

Her fellow band members were similarly tender in their years. Of them, drummer Josh Bush was the oldest, and even he wasn’t at an age where he could buy a drink from the bar. The girls were all still at school.

Fast-forward a couple of years and Josh sits wearily in the corner of a warehouse party, having spent the day at Demo’s photo-shoot. Quietly nursing a beer and avoiding the insistent buzz of the party, he peruses some photographs of the shoot on his mobile phone. A smile cracks his face – dissecting pride and disbelief that anyone would go to the trouble to take such beautiful shots of his little band. The next day, violinist Daisy Tulley is back at work in a local record store. She is slightly cranky yet still has a trademark devilish glint in her eye. Like Josh, she seems just as incredulous at the attention the Demo shoot afforded her. Unassuming doesn’t come close to describing this band’s attitude. It’s as if they have no idea that the world might just be Bridezilla’s oyster.

When frontwoman Holiday and I meet in trendy Sydney suburb Surry Hills one overcast afternoon, she has more pressing matters on her mind than an exciting future in music. “I didn’t think I’d be this busy,” she gasps as she gallops into the restaurant a few minutes late with stacks of paper under her arm. When Daisy and guitarist Pia May left school in 2007, the youngest members of the band, 17-year-olds Holiday and saxophonist Millie Hall, had another year to go, and therefore found themselves in the strange position of having to juggle being burgeoning teen icons with completing their HSCs. As if to underline such a strange juxtaposition, in the two years since I first chanced upon Holiday in Kings Cross she has gone from being a puckish brunette girl to a dazzlingly beautiful bleached blonde young lady who looks every inch the superstar frontwoman. Whether facing an audience of thousands on a festival stage or absently picking at some vegetarian sushi in an empty restaurant, the statuesque aura about her usually remains, yet, judging by her uncharacteristically weary demeanour, studying and fronting one of the country’s most exciting young bands make uncomfortable bedfellows. “I don’t have any time for school,” she sighs with a resigned glance toward the pile of paperwork on the table as the restaurant’s radio plays middle-of-the-road hits which decorate the atmosphere like beige wallpaper. “I handed in a speech that was 14 minutes long when it should have been seven. We’d gotten back from Melbourne at nine o’clock the night before it was due. I wrote it and recorded it the next morning but I didn’t have time to send it before we went to Triple J. I had to send it from ABC.”

It’s a dichotomous lifestyle that the kids from Sydney have grown used to, and, as they have all discovered since they formed, being in a band while still in education meant that, rather than being the most popular kids in school, they became increasingly detached from their peers. After all, when you spend your evenings mixing in much older circles made up of industry people and musicians, it is not hard to become alienated from the kids at school who are too young to get in to any of your gigs. While Holiday [who completed the final year of her HSC by correspondence] has confidence that belies her age when nestled comfortably within the music scene, her time at school highlighted an uncharacteristically introverted side to her, and she would spend her lunch-breaks in the library rather than hanging out in the playground. “It was awful. So depressing,” she remembers. “I changed my name to Holly because I was too embarrassed about being called Holiday. I never let anyone call me Holiday. I was also taller than other girls and a bit more developed. I don’t know…” A long pause ensues, as unhappy memories seem to bounce haphazardly around her mind, before she goes on to explain how she even tried to conform by “buying bikinis and reading Dolly magazine.” A grimace follows. “I don’t even want to talk about it.”


 Compare this to their life away from school, and the difference is night and day. “Broken Social Scene love us and stood side of stage at our shows,” Holiday beams when talk turns to how Bridezilla has a host of gushing fans within the usually too-cool-for-school indie world. “I met Spiral Stairs [aka Scott Kannberg] from Pavement. I didn’t recognize him. What happened was, I was walking with one of the guys from Broken Social Scene who I’d made friends with and he was like, ‘Oh, there’s my friend. Do you know a band called Pavement?’ I was like, ‘Do. I. Know. A. Band. Called. Pavement? Are they not my favourite band of all time?’” As she doubles over laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, I ask if meeting such a hero led to her going all tongue-tied and red-cheeked. She giggles. “No. What happened was I went up to him and he was like: ‘Hey, you’re from Bridezilla.’” More uproarious laughter follows.

Mixing with indie’s glitterati is clearly something that the quintet is still adjusting to to. Being both young and made up predominantly of females, Bridezilla had grown used to being treated with disregard by promoters and club owners. As underagers, they were often unceremoniously kicked out of toilet venues’ doors by nervous licensees the second their set finished, like the time when, having supported Midlake, Holiday and Daisy spent the headliner’s set in the alley outside the venue with their ears pressed against the stage door, trying to hear the music that emanated from within. Those days are long gone though. “At our Wilco show we went to our dressing room and there was a table cloth and a bottle of vodka and everything was really pretty. I said: ‘Oh this can’t be our room. This must be Wilco’s.’ So I just walked out, but they were like, ‘No it is your room.’” The previous time Bridezilla trod the boards at the same theatre, in support of Eskimo Joe, the five of them were crammed into a room that was the size of a closet. And not even a very big closet.


Let’s rewind to the beginning. Like so many bands, Bridezilla formed in inauspicious circumstances, more by default than anything. Their story began in Holiday’s bedroom in 2005. “We’d all sit around eating spaghetti bolognaise, playing songs and having a fun time being the losers that we were. Geeky kids talking about not having boyfriends.” Holiday smiles as she thinks back. “Millie was playing at some band camp in Bondi and they asked her if she wanted to do a song to fill a spot. She came to us and said: ‘Hey guys. We can do a show if we want.’ So we worked out a song. Pia is good with structures and Daisy was the main part. That’s how it started and then we thought it’d be nice to have a drummer. I knew Josh. He wasn’t a drummer but he used to slap his thighs all the time.” This one show soon led to more performances, and it wasn’t long before Bridezilla found record companies falling over themselves to sign them. An eponymous EP was released late in 2007 to critical acclaim.

Bridezilla’s heritage actually stretches back far further than 2005 though, and it seems that music has always flowed through their lives like blood through a vein. Holiday’s first exposure came through her mother – famed actress/musician Loene Carmen. “At age zero I was sleeping on floors and suitcases in pubs while Mum played shows,” she says, as though it was the most ordinary upbringing in the world. “I’ve been writing songs since I was two or something. I’ve still got the little scribbled down notes from when I was a kid. [sings] ‘The sun is in the sky.’” Indeed, it was Carmen’s influence that eventually gave Holiday an exit from the disaffection of school and inspired her to team up with a gang of misfits to form a band in the first place. “Lots of Mum’s friends got me tickets to shows. I saw The White Stripes and The Strokes from the side of the stage. This was when I was thirteen so of course I was pretty inspired by that.” As well as her beloved Pavement, Holiday has a love of Dolly Parton, while her Grandfather [pianist Peter Head] exposed her to blues and jazz. Millie also leans towards jazz, while also having a thing for the Rolling Stones and The Velvet Underground. Yep, these youngsters certainly desire more from their music than something catchy to have as their ringtone. Indeed, when Millie and Holiday went to see Lou Reed at Sydney’s State Theatre in 2007, they literally wept tears of joy. Most 16-year-olds wouldn’t know Lou Reed if he slapped them in the face while saying ‘I’m Lou Reed,’ yet Millie queued on the street for 12 hours overnight to buy tickets to the show. Elsewhere, the folkier aspect of Bridezilla comes from Pia, while the classical edge is Daisy’s. And as for Josh? Well, Josh has a love of Silverchair that borders on obsessive.

And so, in spring 2008, Bridezilla find themselves experiencing the calm before the storm. With Holiday and Millie finally finishing their HSCs, the band is set to head straight into the studio to record a debut album, which will hit the shelves in the next few months when, for the first time, all five members will be over 18, free from the shackles of school and ready to take on the world.



Exciting times then, and one might think being in such a position would lead to Bridezilla’s members being the wild-children of the Sydney scene who live out the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle to the max. In fact, the opposite is true. How best to illustrate this? Well, before their debut headline show, while an anticipatory crowd filled the venue, sweet-as-sugar Millie wasn’t getting pissed, bigging herself up to fans or bitching about the rider, but instead sat quietly on a sofa at the back of the venue, wearing a dress with a Winnie The Pooh logo stitched into it and reading a Charles Bukowski book. It’s fair to say that these are not your average teenagers. Even now that three of the five Bridezillians are old enough to drink, you’re still unlikely to find any of them causing a drunken scene outside a club in the early hours of the morning. Holiday explains. “I’ve become ultra conservative and anti-drugs.” She pauses briefly, her attention diverted by a passer-by she recognises. Probably someone in a band. Everyone in Surry Hills is in a band. After carefully picking up some rice remnants with her chop-sticks, she remembers her thread and continues. “I’m more conservative than I’d like to be and I almost feel like a bit of a fascist when it comes to drink and drugs. I’m a bit counter-culture, because some of my friends are taking drugs, drinking and being with as many people as possible. I was at my Uncle’s wedding and my whole family and all their friends were getting drunk. My Mum came up to me and said, ‘Come on Holiday, you and I have got to have a drink, they’re calling us pussies.’ I’ll have a glass of champagne or one vodka and lemonade, but I don’t think it emphasises things. It subdues things. For me, to feel raw emotion and to be uncomfortable in a social situation is something that you’ll learn more from than drinking and feeling overconfident.” It may seem unusual for such wise words to come from such a young person, but Holiday’s attitude sums Bridezilla up perfectly. Regardless of the fact that they look like natural-born luminaries, to dig a little deeper is to discover a straightforward bunch of music nerds who consciously stay a step outside of the scene.

And so Bridezilla look to an exciting musical future with fire in their bellies and level heads on their shoulders. Even if they become the biggest band in the world, it’s safe to assume that they’ll always remain the down-to-earth kids that they are today. They are just five dear friends making beautiful music, and the bond they have will endure, regardless of what the future brings. “We started off with such a special relationship and we love each other to death,” Holiday says with a warm smile. “Josh always says: ‘Why don’t we all just get married?’ We all feel like that. We aren’t capable of loving anyone else more than each other.”

Words and pictures by Bobby Townsend.

Passion, noise and excitement?

Every Saturday i have my own column in English newspaper, The Argus. here is today's:
I gave my Australian girlfriend her first taste of English football last week. Being an integral part of the super trendy Sydney fashion scene, she is far more interested in high-waisted trousers and vintage dresses than watching 22 men with Toni & Guy haircuts chase a piece of leather around some grass, but, knowing what a big part of my life football is, she was happy to come and see what gets me so happy/angry/frustrated/depressed on a Saturday. Bearing in mind the only other sporting occasion she has ever attended was an Aussie Rules game played at Melbourne’s world-famous MCG in front of about 90,000 fervent fans, I had to try to choose a match that would equal that occasion for atmosphere and thrills. So, with that in mind, the most obvious thing to do would have been to take her to England’s important World Cup qualifier at Wembley on Wednesday night. I didn’t do that though. Oh no. I decided to give her her first sample of English football in a place that is perhaps least representative of its passion, noise and excitement. That’s right, we went to Withdean to watch a goalless draw between Brighton & Hove Albion and Tranmere Rovers.

We sat in the north stand and I did my best to explain what was happening on the pitch (“The Brighton player is kicking the ball to another Brighton player… oh, he’s kicked it straight at the Tranmere player.”). She seemed to take it all in, although, as Brighton's Dean Cox almost scored a cracking volley, I noticed her absently reading the list of ingredients on the back of her drink bottle. Later, as Tranmere fired in a corner, she was instead focusing on pulling a loose thread from her jumper. I’m sure we can all sympathise with the fact that her attention wandered at regular intervals and, for the most part, she actually rather enjoyed the game, even though she didn‘t get to see any goals. While she may not have sampled English football in its most indicative environment (like at a ground where the stands aren‘t a million miles from the pitch), she did at least get the full Withdean experience in just one afternoon. She got to see how the warmth of the sun can create a typically lethargic atmosphere, and how the inevitable rain causes everyone to reach for their ponchos. She saw fairly poor football punctuated by some decent moments, heard an equal amount of wit, moaning and expletives from fans, and got to join in with the occasional chant of ‘Albion’. Oh, and at least Brighton didn’t lose. I suppose, actually, in that respect, it wasn’t quite the full Withdean experience after all.

A tribute to Andy Sibson

In my weekly newpaper column, I recently paid tribute to a former teacher of mine, who died earlier this year. I was out of the country when a tribute was held at my old school, but I was touched to discover the other day that my words were read out on the evening. Here is what I said, which made up part of a longer piece about Leicester City:...While we are on the subject of Leicester, I would just like to finish by giving a mention to Andy Sibson, a massive Leicester fan and deputy head-teacher of Cavendish School in Eastbourne, who passed away a couple of weeks ago after suffering a heart attack playing football. He taught me PE for five years and was one of the most positive, friendly and genuine people you could ever wish to meet. Whenever Leicester beat the Albion (which was pretty often in those days) he would send little mocking notes to me in the register, and such banter was one of the few enjoyable things about my school life. I know his death at just 51 years of age has deeply affected a lot of people, and Cavendish School and Sussex sport in general will be a sadder place without him. An all-round good bloke.

Sydney to Eastbourne.

It was a long way.

Arriving at Sydney airport shortly after midday on Thursday, I eventually made it home in Eastbourne, England, at around 2pm on the Friday, without more than a couple of hours stuttered sleep in between. Twixt these two locations I stopped in Auckland and LA. Weirdly, having flown for at least 15 hours, I arrived in LA an hour before I departed Sydney. No wonder I am jet lagged. On the Auckland-LA leg, the turbulence was so bad that the seat belt sign stayed lit for the entire journey.

Auckland was fun. Everyone talked like Brett and Jermaine. Quaint. LA was not so fun. Even though the stop was only for a refuel, I had to go through immigration and passport control where stoney-faced uniformed drones took my fingerprints and scanned my eyes. Pointless and officious.

To fill the 30 hours flying time, I watched a lot of movies. I saw the heartbreaking, stunning The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas (8-year-old son of Nazi officer befriends Jewish boy in death camp), the impressive Doubt (Did the Priest touch the little boy?), Burn After Reading (beautiful, clever people playing ugly dumb people. How very Post Modern), the fun Twilight (Dracula meets Dawson's Creek), W (it was good but I dozed off through too much red wine), Rachel Getting Married (I hated every character so only made it to the 30 minute mark) and The Day The Earth Stood Still (so, so dumb. Keanu Reeves as a higher being? Come on).

And so, I am back in Eastbourne. Tired. Bobbysix will continue to be updated with new good stuff while I am in England. So keep them peeled.

Narcissism and Greed: the Premier League's plan to go global

In this week's Argus column, I couldn't resist venting my anger at the latest money-making scheme by the powers that be in English football:I have been a lover of the beautiful game all my life, yet because I currently live in Australia, every weekend at the moment is a weekend free from live English football; although this might change if the Premier League has its way.

Of course I’m talking about the proposal that every Premier League team should play an additional match each season in another country. This contrived and ugly idea stinks of top clubs finding new ways to line their pockets and, while chairmen are seeing dollar signs, I’m pleased that this suggestion has been greeted with scorn by the vast majority of supporters.

Football clubs’ genuine identities have been diminishing for a while now in favour of corporate branding and profit forecasts. The sport which used to be all about loyalty and a sense of community is now just a cash cow for foreign businessmen who care not that the common man is no longer able to afford to watch the team he has supported all his life.

I’m not naïve enough to suggest that we shouldn’t embrace the fact that the Premier League is admired the world over, but simply bolting another game haphazardly into the middle of the season in order to bully our way into foreign markets and earn more TV money is surely a lazy way to do it, and it brings with it the possibility of unfairly affecting the final league table through the capriciousness of the pairings for this extra round of matches.

Sure, the chance to see Arsenal play Tottenham in Sydney would be very appealing to someone like me who only has the substandard Australian A-League for entertainment, but what if the luck of the draw decided that two less glamorous teams were pitted together? I’m not sure the residents of somewhere like New York would be queuing round the block to watch Middlesbrough take on Aston Villa. And, without being disrespectful, if Blackburn were playing Bolton in my lounge, I’d probably stay in my bedroom.

Depressingly, while fat cats rub their hands together at the prospect of an extra few million quid falling at their feet, poor old Bournemouth – a lovely, family club - has gone into administration over an amount of money that wouldn’t buy the left leg of a Premier League player. Where did football go so horribly wrong?

The level of greed and narcissism in the Premier League is now so high that half of me hopes this proposal goes ahead and is an abject failure. Maybe it would take English football imploding on itself to finally give the people that run the game a sense of perspective.

2007: End of year review

I recently contributed to the Drum Media end of year poll in Australia. Here is an alternative version which takes into account the UK as well. Please feel free to add your own lists in the comments section: Top 10 Albums (released in the UK or Australia)
1. Myths of The Near Future - Klaxons
2. Panic Prevention - Jamie T
3. A Book Like This - Angus And Julia Stone (above)
4. Neon Bible - Arcade Fire
5. Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever - The Cribs
6. Because Of The Times - Kings Of Leon
7. Made Of Bricks - Kate Nash
8. Fur And Gold - Bat For Lashes
9. Songs For The Road – David Ford
10. Tonight At The Arizona - The Felice Brothers

Top 10 Tracks (released as part of any single/EP/album)
1. Be Safe – The Cribs
2. Golden Skans – Klaxons
3. Sheila - Jamie T
4. Ballad Of Lou The Welterweight – The Felice Brothers
5. Umbrella - Rihanna
6. Foundations – Kate Nash
7. D.A.N.C.E. – Justice
8. Brown Paper Bag – Bridezilla
9. What’s a Girl To Do? – Bat For Lashes
10. Commercial Breakdown – The Sunshine Underground


Best Gigs in Australia
1. Angus and Julia Stone – The Great Escape Festival
2. Bridezilla - Beach Road Hotel, Bondi (above)
3. Pet Shop Boys – V Festival
4. Lou Reed - The State Theatre
5. Muse – Big Day Out

Best Gigs in the UK
1. Carter USM – Brixton Academy (below)
2. Arcade Fire – The Latitude Festival
3. David Ford – Shepherds Bush Empire
4. Laura Imbruglia – Monkey Chews, Camden
5. Kings Of Leon – Brighton Centre
Top 5 Films
1. Superbad
2. The Science Of Sleep
3. Knocked Up
4. American Gangster
5. Hot Fuzz

Top 5 TV Shows
1. The Mighty Boosh
2. Peep Show
3. The Biggest Loser (Australia)
4. Extreme Makeover
5. America’s Next Top Model

Top 5 Websites
1. Youtube
2. Wikipedia
3. Boudist
4. Myspace
5. WWTDD

Top Podcasts
1. Mark Kermode and Simon Mayo’s Film Reviews – BBC Radio 5 Live
2. The Ricky Gervais Podcast

The Emperor's New Clothes Award
Facebook. Listen, I haven’t seen you for about 10 years and you didn’t talk to me at school anyway; why would I want to add you as a ‘friend’ now? And stop inviting me to be a vampire.


Best Media Moments
1. The Chaser’s War On Everything getting themselves arrested in the name of comedy (above).
2. Britney Spears’ terrifying ‘comeback’ at the MTV Awards. Yikes.
3. The Biggest Loser, Australian finale.

Highlight Of The Year
The glorious, long overdue ousting of Mr John Winston Howard.

Prediction For 2008
A new buzz band to appear on the scene approximately every 3 days, each with increasingly skinny jeans and ridiculous hair. Same as 2007 then.

Quote Of The Year “Rob Townsend is inane and out of touch.” An angry reader of The Argus writes in to tell it like it is.

A Personal Review of 2007
As with 2006, I was lucky enough to split my year between Australia and England and therefore witnessed the best of Britain in Sydney and vice versa. I saw great shows from English acts such as Jamie T, Plan B, Muse and Lily Allen in Sydney. In London I was delighted to spend some time with the beguiling Angus and Julia Stone as their star continued to ascend, and also caught a couple of Laura Imbruglia’s marvellous shows in London (above). I’m a big fan of Imbruglia, and I hope that 2008 brings her the recognition she deserves as an artist.

In Sydney, my favourite new band, Bridezilla, continued on their inevitable road to greatness. Seeing them grow from unsigned opening act to headliners and festival stars with an EP in the shops gave me great pride, especially as I have been championing them from the very first time I laid ears on them at Candy’s Apartment in 2006. Hopefully, they will take on the world next year. If the reception that fellow Aussie teens Operator Please received is any guide, England will welcome them with open arms if they get the opportunity to head that way.It was a year of festivals for me, as I took in Big Day Out, Laneway, V Festival, The Great Escape, The Essential Festival (in Sydney as opposed to Brighton), Cornbury (where I even took to the stage) and Latitude. Aside from the already listed highlights, there were great performances from Pixies, The Killers (who I saw two days in a row and, surprisingly, loved both times), NYPC (above), Ghostwood, Mercy Arms, Magic Numbers (twice), CSS, Jarvis Cocker (twice), Damien Rice (twice), Erin Marshall, The Young and Restless… the list goes on.

Elsewhere, I queued for 11 hours overnight to see Lou Reed, got a late, late call to review The Pretenders and was lucky enough to be in the front row of The Famous Spiegeltent for M. Ward in the beautiful Sydney summertime.Of the many interviews I was part of this year, my fascinating chat with Dolores O’Riordon (above) in a Sydney hotel is the one I am most proud of. Elsewhere, I swooned like a love-struck schoolboy when speaking down the phone from Melbourne to the exquisite Regina Spektor and laughed heartily with Caleb from Kings of Leon as he regaled me with tales of love and lust. I listened intently to the ambitious and terrifyingly intelligent Perry Farrell and, as always, enjoyed chatting to Klaxons.

I continued to pontificate in my own column in The Sports Argus every week, which continues to be compiled into a book, which will see the light of day this year after a self-imposed postponement.

Roll on 2008.