Saturday 28 April 2007

This Is (Was) England ...


This Is England, is the story of a summertime school holiday, those long weeks between terms where life changing events can take place.It’s 1983 and school is out. 12-year-old Shaun (Thomas Turgoose) is an isolated lad growing up in a grim coastal town, whose father has died fighting in the Falklands war. Over the course of the summer holiday he finds fresh male role models when those in the local skinhead scene take him in. With his new friends Shaun discovers a world of parties, first love and the joys of Dr Martin boots. Here he meets Combo (Stephen Graham), an older, racist skinhead who has recently got out of prison. As Combo’s gang harass the local ethnic minorities, the course is set for a rite of passage that will hurl Shaun from innocence to experience.

shanemeadows.co.uk

The Virginia Tech Shootings: The New Yorker

A very disturbing and challenging subject, discussed in a very sensitive, poignant and intelligent manner, as one would expect of The New Yorker.






I can't even begin to ask the questions that this tragedy provokes.

But, America, please review your gun laws - and for the rest of us, please let's urgently re-assess just what the potential impact is of ever-increasing levels of violence in the media, and its portrayal as 'entertainment'.

I remember studying - in much more innocent times - the cathartic nature of violence in the media (and this was long before CGI-gore and psychotic shoot-'em up games) - even back then I very much doubted there were any 'cathartic' justifications for such mindless violence being presented as 'entertainment' - some 30yrs on from those teenage musings, tens of teenagers muse no more.

R.I.P.

--



The cell phones in the pockets of the dead students were still ringing when we were told that it was wrong to ask why. As the police cleared the bodies from the Virginia Tech engineering building, the cell phones rang, in the eccentric varieties of ring tones, as parents kept trying to see if their children were O.K. To imagine the feelings of the police as they carried the bodies and heard the ringing is heartrending; to imagine the feelings of the parents who were calling—dread, desperate hope for a sudden answer and the bliss of reassurance, dawning grief—is unbearable. But the parents, and the rest of us, were told that it was not the right moment to ask how the shooting had happened—specifically, why an obviously disturbed student, with a history of mental illness, was able to buy guns whose essential purpose is to kill people—and why it happens over and over again in America. At a press conference, Virginia’s governor, Tim Kaine, said, “People who want to . . . make it their political hobby horse to ride, I’ve got nothing but loathing for them. . . . At this point, what it’s about is comforting family members . . . and helping this community heal. And so to those who want to try to make this into some little crusade, I say take that elsewhere.”

If the facts weren’t so horrible, there might be something touching in the Governor’s deeply American belief that “healing” can take place magically, without the intervening practice called “treating.” The logic is unusual but striking: the aftermath of a terrorist attack is the wrong time to talk about security, the aftermath of a death from lung cancer is the wrong time to talk about smoking and the tobacco industry, and the aftermath of a car crash is the wrong time to talk about seat belts. People talked about the shooting, of course, but much of the conversation was devoted to musings on the treatment of mental illness in universities, the problem of “narcissism,” violence in the media and in popular culture, copycat killings, the alienation of immigrant students, and the question of Evil.

Some people, however—especially people outside America—were eager to talk about it in another way, and even to embark on a little crusade. The whole world saw that the United States has more gun violence than other countries because we have more guns and are willing to sell them to madmen who want to kill people. Every nation has violent loners, and they tend to have remarkably similar profiles from one country and culture to the next. And every country has known the horror of having a lunatic get his hands on a gun and kill innocent people. But on a recent list of the fourteen worst mass shootings in Western democracies since the nineteen-sixties the United States claimed seven, and, just as important, no other country on the list has had a repeat performance as severe as the first.

In Dunblane, Scotland, in 1996, a gunman killed sixteen children and a teacher at their school. Afterward, the British gun laws, already restrictive, were tightened—it’s now against the law for any private citizen in the United Kingdom to own the kinds of guns that Cho Seung-Hui used at Virginia Tech—and nothing like Dunblane has occurred there since. In Quebec, after a school shooting took the lives of fourteen women in 1989, the survivors helped begin a gun-control movement that resulted in legislation bringing stronger, though far from sufficient, gun laws to Canada. (There have been a couple of subsequent shooting sprees, but on a smaller scale, and with far fewer dead.) In the Paris suburb of Nanterre, in 2002, a man killed eight people at a municipal meeting. Gun control became a key issue in the Presidential election that year, and there has been no repeat incident.

So there is no American particularity about loners, disenfranchised immigrants, narcissism, alienated youth, complex moral agency, or Evil. There is an American particularity about guns. The arc is apparent. Forty years ago, a man killed fourteen people on a college campus in Austin, Texas; this year, a man killed thirty-two in Blacksburg, Virginia. Not enough was done between those two massacres to make weapons of mass killing harder to obtain. In fact, while campus killings continued—Columbine being the most notorious, the shooting in the one-room Amish schoolhouse among the most recent—weapons have got more lethal, and, in states like Virginia, where the N.R.A. is powerful, no harder to buy.

Reducing the number of guns available to crazy people will neither relieve them of their insanity nor stop them from killing. Making it more difficult to buy guns that kill people is, however, a rational way to reduce the number of people killed by guns. Nations with tight gun laws have, on the whole, less gun violence; countries with somewhat restrictive gun laws have some gun violence; countries with essentially no gun laws have a lot of gun violence. (If you work hard, you can find a statistical exception hiding in a corner, but exceptions are just that. Some people who smoke their whole lives don’t get lung cancer, while some people who never smoke do; still, the best way not to get lung cancer is not to smoke.)

It’s true that in renewing the expired ban on assault weapons we can’t guarantee that someone won’t shoot people with a semi-automatic pistol, and that by controlling semi-automatic pistols we can’t reduce the chances of someone killing people with a rifle. But the point of lawmaking is not to act as precisely as possible, in order to punish the latest crime; it is to act as comprehensively as possible, in order to prevent the next one. Semi-automatic Glocks and Walthers, Cho’s weapons, are for killing people. They are not made for hunting, and it’s not easy to protect yourself with them. (If having a loaded semi-automatic on hand kept you safe, cops would not be shot as often as they are.)

Rural America is hunting country, and hunters need rifles and shotguns—with proper licensing, we’ll live with the risk. There is no reason that any private citizen in a democracy should own a handgun. At some point, that simple truth will register. Until it does, phones will ring for dead children, and parents will be told not to ask why. ♦

Shootings: Comment: The New Yorker

Sunday 22 April 2007

Arctic Monkeys - welcome back, lads ...

A painful air of discomfort has surrounded Arctic Monkeys in the 18 months since they made it big. The earliest sign of their unease under public scrutiny arrived when their first official single, I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor, went to number one, and they duly called their debut album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not.

Since then, interviews have been rare and stony-faced. Their bassist lost the plot, and was substituted. Headlining Reading Festival, singer Alex Turner appeared poleaxed by the sheer magnitude of the crowd.

Events beyond their control seemed to have robbed the four Sheffield lads, barely in their twenties, of the innocent joys of rocking out.

It's something of a miracle, then, that this second album has arrived so quickly. Even less foreseeably, Favourite Worst Nightmare is totally the equal of its predecessor, full of exhilarating twisty-turny structures, shout-along choruses, dashes of sublime melody and observational lyrics which unswervingly nail their subject.

Brianstorm, the opener, surfs in on a militantly tough riff, as Turner offers a withering portrait of an American schmoozer the band met in Japan. "We can't keep our eyes off your T-shirt and ties combination," he notes, drily.

Arctic Monkeys, in their anoraks and straight-leg jeans, are fiercely anti-trendy. So it's surprising that they recorded this in fashionable East London.

Perhaps Turner pitched himself into the midst of everything he despises to keep his lyrical fire burning. On Balaclava, he acerbically satirises the callous womanisers who bar-hop around Shoreditch, leaving conquests "with salty cheeks".

That caustic wit is often levelled at male malignancy. On The Bad Thing, a confused woman justifies her fiancé's beatings. Mercifully, the music recalls the Smiths at their jaunty best - indeed, throughout the album, there's melodic light to offset the narrative shade.

Only Ones Who Know is just beautiful, a ballad of desperate dreams and echoing twangs worthy of the young Elvis Costello.

At the last, on 505, we find the singer emotionally adrift on the road, his longing for home set to a simmering organ which builds to a furious guitar crescendo - a magnificent end to a brilliantly paced record.

Favourite Worst Nightmare cannot fail to sustain Arctic Monkeys' tenure at the top. Following second-album triumphs by Franz Ferdinand and Razorlight, could it be that a new strain of post-Britpop bands has emerged, equipped to survive the pressures of fame? Andrew Perry

Pop CDs of the week Cd Reviews Music Arts Telegraph

Saturday 21 April 2007

Sex and the internet | Devices and desires | Economist.com

WHEN the internet took off in the 1990s, it was demonised as a steaming cauldron of porn. It has certainly made pornography more widely and easily available than ever before. The online porn industry is difficult to measure, but was valued at $1 billion in 2002 by America's National Research Council. Google, which publishes its “zeitgeist” list of top search queries, redacts sex-related terms from the rankings for fear of causing offence. But the popularity of pornography is clear from figures compiled by companies that track user “clickstreams”. Last year about 13% of website visits in America were pornographic in nature, according to Hitwise, a market-research firm. For comparison, search engines account for about 7% of site visits.

Yet the Hitwise data suggest that sex sites are now being dethroned. In Britain search sites overtook sex sites in popularity last October—the first time any other category has come out on top since tracking began, says Hitwise. In America, the proportion of site visits that are pornographic is falling and people are flocking to sites categorised “net communities and chat”—chiefly social-networking sites such as MySpace, Bebo and Facebook. Traffic to such sites is poised to overtake traffic to sex sites in America any day now (see chart).


Does this mean the internet has matured as a medium? After all, pornographic content is often the first to take advantage of new media, from photography to videocassettes to satellite television. “Sex is a virus that infects new technology first,” as Wired put it back in 1993. Once a new medium becomes popular, its usage is no longer dominated by porn. Although this may soon be true for the web, however, it is not true for the internet as a whole. Much pornographic content may simply have shifted from the web to peer-to-peer file-sharing networks, for example.

Or consider Second Life, the booming virtual world. It is regularly feted as a flourishing platform for virtual commerce, yet a large portion of its economic activity relates to sex. Exactly how much is unknown, but an employee of Linden Labs, the company behind Second Life, once ventured that 30% of transactions related to sex or gambling. Edward Castronova of Indiana University estimates that sex is “a substantial portion, perhaps even the majority” of economic transactions in Second Life. (Users must first buy genitalia for their avatars, who otherwise resemble Barbie and Ken dolls when unclothed.)

The growing popularity of social-networking sites is not entirely unrelated to sex, either. Such sites are often used to find and attract potential mates. Porn sites may have reached a climax, but sex remains as potent online as ever.


Sex and the internet Devices and desires Economist.com

Sunday 15 April 2007

Greetings from the White Stripes

So, The White Stripes are back and as bohemian-enigmatic-eccentric (and no doubt as talented) as ever, with a new album entitled 'Icky Thump' ... if you are familiar with the folklore of Northern English accents then this may be familiar (albeit slightly bastardised) expression to you; rarely used in parlance nowadays but parodied in a gentle, affectionate way by many as representing being 'Northern' - and especially Yorkshire, where we live - dialect.


So far, so good and appropriately quirky for Jack and Meg - but, quite why Jack and Meg are pictured in quintessential Cockney Pearly King and Queen style outfits on the album cover is quite another matter. Still, makes a nice change from the uber-cool-art-house-dandy-look, Jack! Or maybe they are just trying to appease the soft, Southern fans in their homage to the much superior Northern fan-base? (Joke).

No doubt it will be as unique a sound as ever. Whilst we have a few weeks to wait yet for its release, at least the recently released new album from The Kings of Leon will help us to psyche up for more musical wizadry from Jack and Meg.

We're going to see The Kings of Leon this week, so listening to the excellent 'Because of the Times' a great deal since its recent release, so we know the new tracks as well as the older stuff.

All of this excellent new music is in danger of somewhat stealing the thunder from the much-anticipated new Arctic Monkeys album, 'Favourite Worst Nightmare' ... again of course a product of Yorkshire (and my beloved Sheffield) ... but, somehow, I think they'll cope. It's a great time for innovative, non-conformist pop music at the moment.

PS, Jack - don't forget we all need a follow-up album from The Raconteurs, please.

Greetings from the White Stripes

Tech.view | Apple pipped | Economist.com

THE mobile-phone industry’s recent jamboree in Florida was a brutal reminder of how fast innovations come and go these days. A bare three months ago we were drooling over Apple’s forthcoming iPhone, with its ingenious touch screen that responds to pinches, pokes and other pawings. But though not available until June, the $500 iPhone is as mouth-watering today as yesterday’s cold pizza. The phone that stole the show at CTIA Wireless 2007 was the “Ocean” from Helio, a youth-oriented newcomer to the cellular business.



In many ways Helio has out-Appled Apple. The start-up—launched less than a year ago as a joint venture between SK Telecom of South Korea and Earthlink, an American internet-service provider—caters to young trendsetters who appreciate ease of use and cutting-edge design.

Whereas the iPhone encapsulated a ho-hum smart phone in an exquisite package, the $295 Helio Ocean has been winning plaudits for its ingenious user interface that neatly integrates all the disparate functions of a modern multi-media mobile, such as dialling phone calls, texting messages, listening to music, taking pictures, recording videos, playing games and surfing the web.

To make a call, the Helio Ocean’s screen slides vertically to reveal a phone keypad. To type an e-mail, do some texting or send an instant message, turning the device horizontally and sliding the screen upwards reveals a full keyboard. With a separate microprocessor to run the media player, the Helio Ocean gets 15 hours of playing time from a single charge. Little wonder it was hailed as the rock star of the industry’s show.

But it is the Helio Ocean’s EV-DO (Evolution-Data Optimised) wireless technology that renders Apple’s iPhone an also-ran. Mobile experts have been mystified by Apple’s decision to use Cingular’s EDGE (Enhanced Data rates for GSM Evolution) network when far better wireless communications methods abound. EDGE is a marginally enhanced version of the old GSM (Global System for Mobile Communications) cellular technology introduced in Europe in the early 1990s. Cingular’s version of it provides data speeds of between 75 kilobits per second (kbps) and 135 kbps—not that much better than a dial-up internet connection, and often much worse.

By contrast, the EV-DO networks used by Helio (as well as Verizon and Sprint in America and KDDI in Japan) offer 450 kbps to 800 kbps, rates similar to those of DSL broadband connections. EDGE’s slower data speeds mean that iPhone users must rely on Wi-Fi to do anything more than make phone calls or send the odd e-mail: the iPhone has a Wi-Fi radio embedded in its circuitry so users can access internet “hotspots” using the popular 802.11 form of wireless broadband.

Wi-Fi may be handy for networking wirelessly around the home or in hotel lobbies, coffee shops or airports. But it is hardly the most efficient way to download videos or play multi-user games—tricks that multi-media mobile phones are supposed to perform flawlessly.

Mobile-phone companies have their own ideas about how to meet these new demands. Most are working feverishly on upgrades for their existing 3G (third-generation) networks. Qualcomm, the company behind the CDMA family of cellular technologies, has shown in trials that its EV-DO enhancements can deliver data rates of over three megabits per second (mbps). Cingular and other GSM-based networks are pushing a rival technology called High-Speed Downlink Packet Access (HSDPA) in a bid to close the performance gap. In real-world trials HSDPA has clocked speeds of up to 1 mbps.

But even EV-DO, let alone the slower HSDPA, might prove too little too late. The mobile-phone companies are about to be overwhelmed by a tsunami called WiMAX, a souped-up successor of Wi-Fi with a range of 30 miles or more instead of 100 yards or less.

Whereas 3G cellular networks might get 3 mbps and Wi-Fi around 30 mbps, mobile WiMAX is a 4G technology promising speeds of up to 100 mbps. Comparable 4G networks from the cellular industry, such as the proposed Ultra Mobile Broadband from the CDMA camp or the Long-Term Evolution effort among GSM’s descendants, are still in the laboratory. And that’s where they might well remain.

WiMAX (or 802.16, its technical name) was conceived as a way to deliver broadband to remote areas beyond the reach of DSL or cable TV. The mobile version of this form of wireless networking was supposed to be a more advanced sibling called 802.20. But with Intel, Sprint and the European Union throwing their weight behind the interim 802.16 mobile solution, the WiMAX bandwagon has become unstoppable.

In addition to being able to transfer at least twice the amount of data per second achieved by the best technologies of the cellular industry, mobile WiMAX is relatively cheap. During the spectrum auctions of the heady dotcom era, cell-phone companies scrambled to outbid one another for 3G frequency allocations, paying typically $5 per megahertz for every member of the population covered. In today’s more chastened times, mobile WiMAX licences can be had for less than one cent per megahertz per person—a whopping 500 times less.

This has tipped the tables in mobile WiMAX’s favour. And with it, the writing on the wall is looming ever larger for most of the 3G phone operators. Why Apple should have hitched its wagon to so fading a star shows how quickly even the most talented of companies can be blinded by today’s blistering pace of wireless innovation.


Tech.view Apple pipped Economist.com

Sleaze City: The Current Cinema: The New Yorker


With the three-hour-and-eleven-minute “Grindhouse,” the writer-directors Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez have put together an entire evening’s entertainment devoted to the violent schlock movies and decrepit theatres that they loved as kids and never stopped loving. “Grindhouse” is a single film with no intermission, but it includes two new features and such divertissements as trailers for ridiculous imaginary pictures (“Werewolf Women of the S.S.”), ads for revolting food at local restaurants, and artifacts of down-at-the-heels moviegoing from decades ago. At climactic moments in the two features—say, just as the hero and the heroine are about to get it on—the scene sometimes comes to an abrupt halt, and the words “Missing reel” flash on the screen. Now and then, the movie develops hiccups, as if frames had been chopped out—a tribute to needy projectionists of old who kept the images they liked best. And deep scratches, as lovingly inscribed as the speckled antiquing on a blanket chest, run through long stretches of film. The general intent here is to louse up the surface of the movie as much as possible and make that degraded surface, in a kind of high-tech punk conceit, a central part of the experience. Tarantino and Rodriguez are trying to re-create their memories of moviegoing as a blissfully sullied urban folk ritual in which sprawling teens squandered their time in seedy picture palaces.

Why would such technically sophisticated filmmakers, who have the power to do whatever they want, make a movie like this? Because it amuses them, and because the movie just might irritate the squares—the schoolteacherish elements in the audience who still believe that movies should be nice. And also, perhaps, to free themselves. Embracing trash is a way of not giving a damn about feelings or art or anything else except craft. Down there on the sticky floor of the theatre, you can be as crazily violent or as sleazily erotic as you want. What surprises me, I suppose, is not the impulse itself—who hasn’t, in a foul mood, felt something like it?—but the widespread notion in the press that Tarantino and Rodriguez have become moviemaking radicals. They haven’t: genteel, middlebrow culture lost its sway years ago, and plenty of other filmmakers are doing hyper-violence and sleaze. Tarantino and Rodriguez aren’t going against the flow; they’re trying to get ahead of the flow. What they’d like, of course, is to bring to their version of trash that extra touch of madness which turns exploitation into wit.

In the first of the two features, “Planet Terror,” Rodriguez, the co-director of “Sin City,” unleashes a plague on a small town in Texas. People who are infected become zombies that prey on the living. Or something like that. In any case, this dawn-of-the-dead fantasia is gleefully disgusting: flesh melts, bodies explode like packages of liquid squeezed too hard, testicles roll around on the ground like spilled Brussels sprouts. The slaughterhouse outrages, combined with a complete absence of meaning, are what’s supposed to be cool about “Planet Terror,” and the audience (largely young men) whoops and hollers on cue. I closed my eyes here and there, and then opened them again, looking for signs of irony. I found a few.
Rodriguez did the cinematography himself, and the camera occasionally loses interest in what’s going on, pausing to leer at an actress’s cleavage. Continuity is intentionally spotty, focus intermittent. Rose McGowan, as the heroine, Cherry, a retired pole-dancer, seems as entranced by her own sexual splendor as a ruby-lipped tomato on the cover of a Mickey Spillane novel. (Yes, I know, wrong period—but that’s what she looks like.) When Cherry loses a leg to the ghouls, her old lover (Freddy Rodriguez, who’s a pocket-size dynamo) outfits her with a machine gun for a stump; she raises it like a dog taking a pee and blows away anyone within fifty yards. Some of this flaming luridness is exciting, but Rodriguez quickly becomes desperate.
The movie is as repetitive as hell and, despite his continual attempts to raise the ante, quite boring. At a certain point, of course, a loving re-creation of something tawdry isn’t all that different from the original. Even a postmodernist bloodbath is wet, sticky, and red.

Tarantino’s feature, “Death Proof,” though it’s based on seventies car-chase movies like “White Line Fever,” isn’t as flagrantly imitative as “Planet Terror”; nor are its images as rigorously defaced. The movie begins with a chummy girl posse (Sydney Poitier, Jordan Ladd, Vanessa Ferlito) riding around Austin in a red Honda Civic hatchback, and then settling into a comfortable bar for the night. The talk is intimate, detailed, funny. Tarantino demonstrates his usual insistence on sociability: everyone gets a chance to elaborately explain herself, curse up a storm, and wrangle with friends. Then Kurt Russell enters the bar; he’s the legendary Stuntman Mike, a veteran stunt-car driver, and, as he sweet-talks Ferlito in his soft voice, his weathered ease is enormously charming. Something like normality appears to be taking over the screen.
But Mike, it turns out, has a mysterious grudge against young women. His stunt car has been reinforced against crashes—made deathproof—and he rams into the three women on the highway in the dark. Homicide by vehicular assault is a gooney teen fantasy, and Tarantino goes all the way with the extreme violence of it, showing us the women’s bodies being pulled apart over and over.

Tarantino obviously likes his characters a great deal, but he’s caught in the contradictions of making an hommage à schlock: he has to kill the women in order to set up the rest of the movie. It’s as if he couldn’t decide whether to be a humanist or a nihilist, so he opportunistically becomes both. Immediately, he brings on another group of chattering girls, two of whom (Zoë Bell and the fast-talking Tracie Thoms) are movie stuntwomen themselves. Just for fun, Bell straps herself to the hood of a roaring 1970 Dodge Challenger, with nothing more than two belts tied to the window posts. When Stuntman Mike shows up and starts banging his death car into the Dodge, the women refuse to give in, and a classic battle follows. As the cars try to force each other off the road, the struggle rages across backcountry Texas terrain, in (as far as we can tell) real space, at good speed, and without digital enhancement.
Nothing quite this exciting has been seen since Steven Spielberg’s 1971 film “Duel.”
Illustration: YUKO SHIMIZU

Sunday 8 April 2007

Tarantino - Death Proof vs. Vanishing Point

Table of Malcontents - Wired News: "In this clip from the half-hour chase scene in 1971 indie movie Vanishing Point, you can see the origins of Tarantino's obsession with the white 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T, with a 440 cubic-inch V-8. This is the very same make and model that the car-crazy gearheads take for an almost fatal spin in Grindhouse. The characters in Grindhouse talk a lot about Vanishing Point, and their fantastic car chase is clearly a tip of the hat to the 70s film, but there's a huge difference in tone between the two movies. While Vanishing Point is slow-paced and its hero unperturbable, the Grindhouse film Death Proof is action-packed and full of crazed beatings, car crashes, and beheadings.





Plus, the hero of Vanishing Point checks to make sure the guy he ran off the road is unhurt before he drives off, while the women of Death Proof are on a killin' rampage. The difference between the two films is like the difference between a disco beat and a techno beat -- you can hear the former in the latter, but it's utterly transformed. Note: you can see the rest of this incredible car chase on YouTube (it's in 4 parts, plus a flaming finale)."

BBC SPORT | Football | Championship | Cardiff 1-2 Sheff Wed

Who'd have thought it ... a few games away from the end of the season and we (Sheffield Wednesday) are just a few points away from a play-off position and the lure of the Premiership.




Deon Burton (above) celebrates his goal at Cardiff this weekend. One of the most holistic players you will see at our level. http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/eng_div_1/6513485.stm
Makes one wonder about motivation, desire and man-management; just a few months ago we were lamentable and right by the relegation zone - the prospect of a return to League One was rather unappetising to one and all - especially the chairman (the somewhat controversial Dave Allen) - so, he sacked yet another manager (the popular Paul Sturrock) and brought in a relative unknown from the lower leagues, Brian Laws - who had until that time been one of the longest-serving single-team managers in the country; albeit at the rather provincial Scunthorpe.




The fans - me amongst them - were generally very unhappy with the sacking of Sturrock; he was (is) a noble and personable man and his woes at the club were more related to injuries, a lack of funds for new players and an increasingly poor relationship with our somewhat obtuse (allegedly) chairman. So, Laws came in to a pretty unreceptive environment and after an initially positive start (mainly due to a feeling of guilt from our players, seeing that their under-performing had cost Sturrock his job) we then slipped into a dire run of defeats at the start of 2007. But, in recent weeks a new, cohesive and positive aura seems to be within the squad - aided by the signing of an excellent loan keeper, Ian Turner from Everton. The parallels between football and business often intrigue me - what is the difference between success and failure? Is it as simple as the personalities involved (and how they gel?) - this is an enormously influential aspect to success or failure, I believe - more and more so in fact, as I get older. Anyway, "Up the Owls!" (Our rallying cry).

http://www.swfc.premiumtv.co.uk/page/Home/0,,10304,00.html

ps, I am heartly sick and tired of this blogging tool - it's rubbish.

Lewis Hamilton - 3rd, 2nd .... next?

Well, what a freshman season in F1 this young man is having: 3rd on his debut in Australia a couple of weeks ago and now today in Malaysia, he comes 2nd. OK, he's clearly in a pretty good car - the McLaren - but he's clearly made of 'the right stuff'.



So, as Button and Coulthard's respective stars wane, we Brits have at long last an inspirational role-model sportsman to take over the mantle of David Beckham - transcending F1, and possibly as globally marketable (maybe more so) as one T. Woods. Roll on Bahrain next week ... let's see you on top of that podium, Lewis.


Lewis Hamilton - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Dubya gets Animated ....

I really wish I'd pursued my teenage dream of becoming a full-time cartoonist; with the animation tools now available, the ability to make an impact via cartoons/animation has never been more compelling.

For some reason the animation frame won't embed into my blog (I have several blogs, each uses a different tool, and I must say this is probably the worse).

So, in time-honoured tradtion, please follow the link:

http://www.economist.com/daily/kallery/displaystory.cfm?story_id=8857324

Nice one, KAL.