tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24739753334726497232024-03-14T10:46:33.585-07:00the simplest gamethe ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-86786265977431924812010-02-09T20:05:00.000-08:002010-02-09T20:11:36.764-08:00The Secret of Football Fiction<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfqOXRj5Z9al7h7J2vbOInzcBSYAPwc2x-db7V4bNRoJqEXSx0CAtXaLlKxstMb86MRucXmJ3CdEm7wGHIMf-GUIO1rvyQop3ELE2km_7QuyulxDqcuaFyyXUGeYcwguFE94FR8MxuPkH/s1600-h/Bob-Marley-soccer-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNfqOXRj5Z9al7h7J2vbOInzcBSYAPwc2x-db7V4bNRoJqEXSx0CAtXaLlKxstMb86MRucXmJ3CdEm7wGHIMf-GUIO1rvyQop3ELE2km_7QuyulxDqcuaFyyXUGeYcwguFE94FR8MxuPkH/s400/Bob-Marley-soccer-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436462121206068594" /></a><br /><br />It's no secret that I've been writing a <a href="http://leemcgowan.wordpress.com/">new blog</a>. The football fiction content has been severely limited. But I've rectified the problem and finally got back to writing about football fiction. You can look at it <a href="http://tsgfootballfiction.wordpress.com">here</a>.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-70362149841388647862009-06-14T04:11:00.000-07:002009-06-14T04:39:33.448-07:00Changes are afoot...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWzPqroJBPYMSmBxNtwz8GU7snywdbbdT5O_Cslfc1Wn4RMK8PP587k00KOxEZQxd8APJK61Nm9dwmOP_qIqOlVnnT9P8jE8TaWh3P1nT1rR5WemOri_yXCw8I040h9YSNi9d_Z5sfn8P/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 92px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWzPqroJBPYMSmBxNtwz8GU7snywdbbdT5O_Cslfc1Wn4RMK8PP587k00KOxEZQxd8APJK61Nm9dwmOP_qIqOlVnnT9P8jE8TaWh3P1nT1rR5WemOri_yXCw8I040h9YSNi9d_Z5sfn8P/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347141831575920034" /></a>I have mentioned in passing that things might be changing around the simplest game offices... and then, of course, there were a few erratic posts and it looked like I just couldn't shake it. But things, new things really are afoot <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DNGoArHQ5xiYGHpfqPcsa3ytsVcXSvyparHOsZYC_m8i5SGCkPuplvOlupUz6T7kBYFKOlPTVKkmdYKZUx-7M5Blxoengk6nH6nxp2gRd9dMG5v1LG9_cgS_vmI9hSY20bR5FwlIxyxs/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DNGoArHQ5xiYGHpfqPcsa3ytsVcXSvyparHOsZYC_m8i5SGCkPuplvOlupUz6T7kBYFKOlPTVKkmdYKZUx-7M5Blxoengk6nH6nxp2gRd9dMG5v1LG9_cgS_vmI9hSY20bR5FwlIxyxs/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347141662780940946" /></a>In the next few weeks the changes will become permanent and the new blog will be rolling like a solid pass down the touchline.<br />The simplest game blog will be housed under the simplest game banner, but things will be changing a bit. The content will still contain the tom foolery and the football fiction shenanigans, but it will now be run alongside a blog under my own name.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwq_ceRTiJvW6PnjZvviG35XFTBF1bILYg5w9i8t7kxktuO4G9xM8edCirW7Vd4PDoosEsZ1szjAlZ4bJThm4a2b3LxbWnrTR8-BdFQiA4w_pgxRRUOC-tAiRqTqmCy4RW5AKvA6_GU5qC/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwq_ceRTiJvW6PnjZvviG35XFTBF1bILYg5w9i8t7kxktuO4G9xM8edCirW7Vd4PDoosEsZ1szjAlZ4bJThm4a2b3LxbWnrTR8-BdFQiA4w_pgxRRUOC-tAiRqTqmCy4RW5AKvA6_GU5qC/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347141919102853314" /></a>Yes, thesimplestgame has been stripped of its anonymity, among other things.<br /><br />It's still very much in development but the new site is running. Have a look anyway...<a href="http://leemcgowan.wordpress.com/"><b>the (new) simplest game.</b></a>the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-36284259222693694042009-06-03T19:52:00.000-07:002009-06-03T22:35:00.017-07:00bitterness and reticence and biographic nonsense<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-KSopqoubLYhMkIGWgg1sX1aIZglbm9H1f2Aihn-uwvbij8ljNw1BuzAup8HfS3Jf2tQQfjJKSNiRQ5u0RdwoztfBF0UUSqBEHGI25pFfb5DOcitEPQD1r7mDIbeGTDK34NWERkLlCnx/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 128px; height: 122px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-KSopqoubLYhMkIGWgg1sX1aIZglbm9H1f2Aihn-uwvbij8ljNw1BuzAup8HfS3Jf2tQQfjJKSNiRQ5u0RdwoztfBF0UUSqBEHGI25pFfb5DOcitEPQD1r7mDIbeGTDK34NWERkLlCnx/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343303424763150914" /></a>The leg’s better, much better, thanks. The bullet wound is healing painfully slowly, as is the way with someone in the early autumnal stages of life, so the wife (still laughing) assures me. Still no football though. Or running. It’s a bit rubbish. <br /><br />And the football season’s finished.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-sYizosLoI-uJ1Q36nZI6UTS7mkIHfIDMwhi6kknpQ4ocE_OGh4jT_QvI-1iKn8hIQIGoVYEKoKX3JoViE1De0VOjJFy1JPd4CI2xW77AOinxeSTWbsojI7pzo2HUPI9iB8I934nM2F6W/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 103px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-sYizosLoI-uJ1Q36nZI6UTS7mkIHfIDMwhi6kknpQ4ocE_OGh4jT_QvI-1iKn8hIQIGoVYEKoKX3JoViE1De0VOjJFy1JPd4CI2xW77AOinxeSTWbsojI7pzo2HUPI9iB8I934nM2F6W/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343304238735891170" /></a>Thesimplestgame would like to reticently and bitterly offer a heartless congratulations to the debt-ridden conglomerations who triumphed. Well-done’s must go to both Chelsea and Man (and boy) United.<br /><br />Though on reflection, there is no need for bitterness or reticence. These clubs actually need our help. Yes, our help. Both squads will need large and exceptionally absorbent towels to dry their eyes after their respective puerile remonstrations and humiliating demonstrations of footballing impoverishment in the Champions League. Winning the Premiership or the vainglorious FA Cup cannot remove the images of forever-tarnished, fat and teary, petted-lips from our collective minds. It only makes their plight, a plight no football fan can afford or ignore.<br /><br />So here’s thesimplestgame’s end of season charity plea: If anybody out there has a spare £750 million, could you help either of these dispassionate and unemboldened clubs, who, despite having the most expensive and roundly celebrated footballers on the planet, were unable to carry themselves with even a modicum of the decorum expected of professionals in other walks of life.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFH2VdGEzMRLe9n46KSQAw5qqhcEBzeFhvpW8OSbLrs9zGKYKaP5YwqmhWf1A_qcKkxThAAV4HG-5VaBW8wljrtvFoAz6hhnMqEdNsAf_LJfhDh5z7PbLq0-x-uS3hcIgg0ARleFOqRszx/s1600-h/images-5.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 121px; height: 121px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFH2VdGEzMRLe9n46KSQAw5qqhcEBzeFhvpW8OSbLrs9zGKYKaP5YwqmhWf1A_qcKkxThAAV4HG-5VaBW8wljrtvFoAz6hhnMqEdNsAf_LJfhDh5z7PbLq0-x-uS3hcIgg0ARleFOqRszx/s320/images-5.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343303849953144866" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijez2a1Z7qHdQotCLOFdVLSJJyybSQoJRcsDoAbYG5FN5WXrD40U0hHY9_o-vhoXRZCmLFBs3jppObVqjoLx7J82bkw5mfSRAiZcpYakrc-_ejlvPdRMd6nOrDb8ByaK2BZ0eXg_W2VUaT/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 137px; height: 118px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijez2a1Z7qHdQotCLOFdVLSJJyybSQoJRcsDoAbYG5FN5WXrD40U0hHY9_o-vhoXRZCmLFBs3jppObVqjoLx7J82bkw5mfSRAiZcpYakrc-_ejlvPdRMd6nOrDb8ByaK2BZ0eXg_W2VUaT/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343303584720266194" /></a>Maybe I’m bitter because I’d just got myself fit enough to play for the first time in years – a series of bulldozer throwing injuries had kept me from playing the beautiful game in my characteristically horrible and uncouth fashion for almost six years - and I find myself sidelined again. Maybe I’m bitter because the teams I follow lack the strength to carry the weight of these 'giant' clubs' debt-accumulating prowess. Maybe I’m just sick of watching pampered, excessively-paid, over-rated adult footballers kick-off like kindy kids. Maybe I'm just bitter.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1QKJtRLkXbe8xaDe78YgzRFhj173592U7Af7sMea8B0K0LlU3T4dd4VYL6vzGXwH4sKiRYNwjABvF6jnHRDeQdba5kRvN8QuaQCA_ZtOTBlCa3I5hVsqfBW9jigXVsdrK6XeV-Om8dl9P/s1600-h/images-3.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 128px; height: 77px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1QKJtRLkXbe8xaDe78YgzRFhj173592U7Af7sMea8B0K0LlU3T4dd4VYL6vzGXwH4sKiRYNwjABvF6jnHRDeQdba5kRvN8QuaQCA_ZtOTBlCa3I5hVsqfBW9jigXVsdrK6XeV-Om8dl9P/s320/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343304030996234194" /></a>Man (and boy) United Striker, Wayne Rooney, at 20 years old, agreed a 12-year contract with HarperCollins to write, that’s right, write a minimum of five books for an advance of £5m plus royalties.(He really is holding a Harry Potter book in his right hand.) If you were ever wondering where the boundaries of football fiction and non-fiction blurred together, thesimplestgame suspects that there would be a good place to start looking.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-43435300194950496932009-05-18T23:11:00.000-07:002009-05-19T02:34:40.765-07:00too old for football?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsS7CX79Qes1qqsL6FOU7V93hAeD47FhTqpbKiWmbExvTlmhAwFcSSOeINGS_nb-mtC_ehrvEvLXuBDEoPSkXrM05QPJkP4zHALSnl3n8v9fvSclD26n5L7H1ciyaXP58Hq_LbpT0WgqL8/s1600-h/MiddleAgedMenPlayingFootball.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 420px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsS7CX79Qes1qqsL6FOU7V93hAeD47FhTqpbKiWmbExvTlmhAwFcSSOeINGS_nb-mtC_ehrvEvLXuBDEoPSkXrM05QPJkP4zHALSnl3n8v9fvSclD26n5L7H1ciyaXP58Hq_LbpT0WgqL8/s320/MiddleAgedMenPlayingFootball.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337414587220811154" /></a>Thesimplestgame is couch bound. Ripped a hole in the middle of a calf. Its no bovine injury, the back of the lower left leg feels like it has a bullet wound.<br /><br />“Too old for football,” the wife laughed. Apparently there’s a cut off. When do we get too old for football? Isn’t it what keeps us young? The ranting at the telly, the boyhood obsession. The love of football was there before the wife was thought of. Yes, churlishness is a possibility.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QKOriV-1MNPurRh6G0C8Y2NgqWiNJ5TINIS2NF7L4pE2kPneB0WJeQQy7S3l-Ru4x9ecncNX4u_6OnnOwZtXhyUAzaSL_b-szDcd7fa6jJbiIzSvRS0FAUB0ABBMWyBpQ2DUms8Rud3f/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QKOriV-1MNPurRh6G0C8Y2NgqWiNJ5TINIS2NF7L4pE2kPneB0WJeQQy7S3l-Ru4x9ecncNX4u_6OnnOwZtXhyUAzaSL_b-szDcd7fa6jJbiIzSvRS0FAUB0ABBMWyBpQ2DUms8Rud3f/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337414732793807314" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vKnZv0h4I1yDrLYeKEOd-qZ9b59BKVQMEXz02iNW3zAtbsXvAaG6ICZTM5YjcXgR5oYsPcbo-Oa-XBQWqwExWPzQ9C2qQrAhnpoBVd5ZMoUreq0hVYJvKZgjfUf0yPophc73Fhp3aw21/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 89px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vKnZv0h4I1yDrLYeKEOd-qZ9b59BKVQMEXz02iNW3zAtbsXvAaG6ICZTM5YjcXgR5oYsPcbo-Oa-XBQWqwExWPzQ9C2qQrAhnpoBVd5ZMoUreq0hVYJvKZgjfUf0yPophc73Fhp3aw21/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337417699454474818" /></a>She laughed even harder. She knows football is important, I'd go as far as to say she knows its really important, but there’s only a little recognition of a deeper understanding. It’s only a game, she used to say.<br /><br />I know, that’s what I thought. She knows better now. She’s happy with a win and regrettably sympathetic if there’s not. That, my friends, is all a football fan need ask for in a non-footballing partner. Just ask Nick Hornby.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzwdknx3z6df0q9UoNvUTrOiuOnqj4tKHrdX2a9UZwLDvnmIF0yON-wxPNKsidha7miJ_3EsR1i-RPQpRmfG9Fvr83gLmX6nRuNXEWUhKef7tm421ki0vbMFVHqPB_M71DtFC8m0b7ftx/s1600-h/old+man+football.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 167px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzwdknx3z6df0q9UoNvUTrOiuOnqj4tKHrdX2a9UZwLDvnmIF0yON-wxPNKsidha7miJ_3EsR1i-RPQpRmfG9Fvr83gLmX6nRuNXEWUhKef7tm421ki0vbMFVHqPB_M71DtFC8m0b7ftx/s320/old+man+football.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337414918345073170" /></a>I’m taking part in the QWC AWonline writer’s race tonight. It’s the reason I’m blogging here now. A warm up. A wee stretch before the exertions. And yes, both were done preceding the sustained the footballing injury (I was the only one who did!).<br /><br />Here’s the link - <a href="https://www.awmonline.com.au/Home.aspx"><b><em>AWonline</em></b></a>. It’ll be a laugh. AWonline has some brilliant resources attached. Well worth having a look at.<br /><br />Changes in these blogging patterns are still afoot, or there are issues in squad development, something like that. thesimplestgame promises, if nothing else, to keep ye posted.<br /><br />Incidentally, the painting is called Middle-Aged Men Playing Football by David Fawcett. You can look at and even purchase his <a href="http://www.davidfawcett.co.uk/"><b><em>very nice paintings</em></b></a> here, if you're interested.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-31779153554434379352009-04-29T21:26:00.000-07:002009-04-29T21:39:17.682-07:00Apologies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJE2PUwyVG_8gWoYSGlR4MCv19iWy0tB-igqYDNE6KgUrA1iCE_U3DXa43Ml0YmYAbe2xeyPAzmm4kX6PhUg4A7tZr13WKF4jmRJ_3mJ5-5cO_PaatX7M79VzJE3xsjHu0l8eBZ9PQa37A/s1600-h/jerseyhead.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 127px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJE2PUwyVG_8gWoYSGlR4MCv19iWy0tB-igqYDNE6KgUrA1iCE_U3DXa43Ml0YmYAbe2xeyPAzmm4kX6PhUg4A7tZr13WKF4jmRJ_3mJ5-5cO_PaatX7M79VzJE3xsjHu0l8eBZ9PQa37A/s320/jerseyhead.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330337714210730514" /></a>Thesimplestgame is currently working on some rather dramatic (for us anyway) changes in format. I know. Sounds really exciting. It's not really.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_c3M9AkqJMBkbpov85xDr-xDjf9MEcrD3QbjMMJ23WKtl2aiJPtdIAShT74fVompCfCtcaozoEv86pJW7G_jlZsTffeGlRH5H_ecuYnbPbMWCeVj2utLIQUKN24nO9jJXaE14zNm4O92/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 143px; height: 108px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_c3M9AkqJMBkbpov85xDr-xDjf9MEcrD3QbjMMJ23WKtl2aiJPtdIAShT74fVompCfCtcaozoEv86pJW7G_jlZsTffeGlRH5H_ecuYnbPbMWCeVj2utLIQUKN24nO9jJXaE14zNm4O92/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330337538385510114" /></a> We can only apologies for the somewhat prolonged, or, you could say, slightly frozen, service of late and assure you that issues of intermittency will be resolved as soon as poss. The new changes will be rolled out when they're done. It might take some time though, so please bear with us. We might even do something about the pishy patter.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-2139308837842164392009-04-14T04:32:00.000-07:002009-04-14T05:36:17.906-07:00Have ye got a pair of boots?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_U6rWfPyuWK-HcgYb85fDxOnq81Z_hQ5dlKtlhvJn7pn4SU2M6u1yR68HPg2slvvE1u_K8f3TDGGQ1P_FeqXeXa9cB2yjljg8Qwre-OvQYoheOCfd60mHZtyXF87n5EUaKC-GSzdFSAy/s1600-h/ayr-parkhouse-1910-11-400.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_U6rWfPyuWK-HcgYb85fDxOnq81Z_hQ5dlKtlhvJn7pn4SU2M6u1yR68HPg2slvvE1u_K8f3TDGGQ1P_FeqXeXa9cB2yjljg8Qwre-OvQYoheOCfd60mHZtyXF87n5EUaKC-GSzdFSAy/s320/ayr-parkhouse-1910-11-400.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324517196788145442" /></a>The first paid football players were Scottish. They emerged out of the mists on the rain soaked border to show the English how it was done. I like that. I like it a lot. It might reinforce myths concerning the Scot’s financial shrewdness, maybe not those working for the Bank of Scotland right enough, but I like to think it was because they were so skilled or at least skilled enough to warrant payment. I’m not ruling out the combination option, but the point stands – at least once in the history of the beautiful game, the Scots were considered to be very good, maybe even the best. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-I0DPm7PW9E6u1e3c4rkIeJBSoLFqSX81pXINEyOmIyjVjR2nCYafoq92uJWrt8ErA4OBPzo3HHHSv6jx-ZRHoCzvhW6WfEGNJUH0cN51ZNeROoNQmrEegR3DE9lbTOJuKduaJxK0Uxp/s1600-h/images-5.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 93px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-I0DPm7PW9E6u1e3c4rkIeJBSoLFqSX81pXINEyOmIyjVjR2nCYafoq92uJWrt8ErA4OBPzo3HHHSv6jx-ZRHoCzvhW6WfEGNJUH0cN51ZNeROoNQmrEegR3DE9lbTOJuKduaJxK0Uxp/s320/images-5.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324519107206235506" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4FZExfYzOpthe-SjV-c5GRiKuUzPc3nynf7Ku55_pobfZLDI2JuERfiigqPr-WzZg5W5akTmIjEdQcGpB9hcaiomNAbSqIqm0_-O6PeR2MwZKP55NuNRHUY2yZakShKrkU6KQfC_oG9oC/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 127px; height: 106px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4FZExfYzOpthe-SjV-c5GRiKuUzPc3nynf7Ku55_pobfZLDI2JuERfiigqPr-WzZg5W5akTmIjEdQcGpB9hcaiomNAbSqIqm0_-O6PeR2MwZKP55NuNRHUY2yZakShKrkU6KQfC_oG9oC/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324518472523107682" /></a>Since then, before you say it… things have changed a little. A helluva lot, actually. Yes, sadly it seems we’ve been getting progressively worse since those glorious halcyon days. The lowest point, worse than Ally McLeod’s late 70s combover and nationwide humiliation, came under the stewardship of a horrible wee German - no the other one - Berti Vogts. He steered us into some serious trouble. Enough to arouse suspicions about his real motives.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5PdDINm6fJn7FygRFTFUa3H00CmitBfPmWFeNkEsQfA66BPwd5Myv_YK0HsewIVkRMdd5V96_0G8-R3RUHkqpsA1JGyGt60IXJWKYGLKyqM1eJADCnjy3DkJJoNOVSzkYgzDqaJszsvX/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 101px; height: 145px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5PdDINm6fJn7FygRFTFUa3H00CmitBfPmWFeNkEsQfA66BPwd5Myv_YK0HsewIVkRMdd5V96_0G8-R3RUHkqpsA1JGyGt60IXJWKYGLKyqM1eJADCnjy3DkJJoNOVSzkYgzDqaJszsvX/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324517657680701970" /></a>Even before that though, things had taken a turn for the worst. The stalwarts all retired, Goram gave up gambling and didn’t need the cash, Wee Baz wouldn’t play with Lambie and cheeky chappy Coisty got too heavy to lace his own boots. We’d also unhappily started on the Jackie Charlton management plan. Surprisingly, handing a pair of badly polished Umbro boots to any <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizkIDJ3bDbmPdMJrNfXomGPaXHqQknaBjZuo6XNn1PLyL6fz2SrfBBFWH13RzYEPlv6FX72HB2BWL6y6F1WpyP5GSXcEVbvX1_2K7l-aDczI8G6hrpQfMmlxa5e_t1uNfjkoOHj5Hkt35s/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 149px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizkIDJ3bDbmPdMJrNfXomGPaXHqQknaBjZuo6XNn1PLyL6fz2SrfBBFWH13RzYEPlv6FX72HB2BWL6y6F1WpyP5GSXcEVbvX1_2K7l-aDczI8G6hrpQfMmlxa5e_t1uNfjkoOHj5Hkt35s/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324517365044483810" /></a>player who’d been near a plate o’ haggis, tatties ’n neeps, an empty Irn Bru bottle or had been seen waiting outside their local chip shop for a battered mars bar supper, is still proving to be as stable a proposition as making an investment in a US bank. <br /><br />Recruitment aside, our world ranking unceremoniously dropped to 254th. One place above Burkina Faso. It prompted a Scottish national daily newspaper to pose the following question…<blockquote>What’s the difference between Scotland and Burkina Faso? One’s a football backwater the other is a small country in Africa.</blockquote> Now obviously thesimplestgame don’t want to be knocking an entire African nation or their footballing prowess. Professional players in Burkina get paid less than 30 pound a week apparently - less than it would cost to rap one of Wayne Rooney’s ears in brown paper. Burkina Faso is not a culturally impoverished country. It hosts one of the world’s most celebrated film festivals and, importantly, football is the favourite national pastime of the "men of integrity". Their poorly financed professional game is in 'development'. It’s not even 50 years old yet. It’s a different story for Scotland. To go from the very origins of professional football to not even being in the top 250 rankings was a blow even the most tartan spectacled fans couldn’t help making light of. Today, things are on the up, we were even in the world's top ten for a couple of weeks, yet we've failed to qualify for a major tournament in over a decade.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMQLkIr4iaMDIsQMZMgX2hfncKUwKgDF87F776YC3pofDvjVYp3A3Yo5Lm4jFiP-CQpdiI7DrPk-OEXMGtvc-JTrMR6eVpgGblPnBILgZduOxz6i1V7aVnY2W3reGW0r8uoAx8uP4Q98AS/s1600-h/images-3.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 110px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMQLkIr4iaMDIsQMZMgX2hfncKUwKgDF87F776YC3pofDvjVYp3A3Yo5Lm4jFiP-CQpdiI7DrPk-OEXMGtvc-JTrMR6eVpgGblPnBILgZduOxz6i1V7aVnY2W3reGW0r8uoAx8uP4Q98AS/s320/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324517885359240146" /></a>Now this is a site dedicated to football fiction, so it is with a mixture of pride and dismay that we discovered of the earliest examples of football fiction, including <i>Tom Brown’s Days at Oxford</i> in 1861 and PG Wodehouse’s <i>Psmith and Mike </i> in 1910, only Arnold Bennett’s <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ5hz4P7-BajYMFOyo8ObPprnB7PKBBxTnR9hurzIuH3CwxJSS1I06Fnub6UwVLXx7_IQF4_mKUejQyLQ4mqEpBGRMu8XCltMiU0JtalxsaNbpZ7kBt8SIRnqqTp7haDZLFLBku__2yK7q/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 92px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ5hz4P7-BajYMFOyo8ObPprnB7PKBBxTnR9hurzIuH3CwxJSS1I06Fnub6UwVLXx7_IQF4_mKUejQyLQ4mqEpBGRMu8XCltMiU0JtalxsaNbpZ7kBt8SIRnqqTp7haDZLFLBku__2yK7q/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324519953703738514" /></a><i>The Card</i> in 1911 features professional footballers, not much of a stretch considering the advent of the sport's professionalism only occurred a couple of years earlier. From an academic point of view this is what makes us happy. The dismay comes in that so few of the players in his work were Scottish (none - I think I need to check). Is it a legimate criticism to hold against the Yorkshireman? Some would say it is. Still we feel there’s a definitely place for his work on the football shelf before any of his pioneering peers.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-49816636961726322922009-04-08T19:24:00.000-07:002009-04-08T19:49:12.603-07:00staff boundaries<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYZwHZoACSXRE86qH5hQrzUGXcOtorVJwwva0PaCHr-2Iw-E54XzRUB-OF2uT1jgR3dT0tPTpDW7a5x3kFJttJ-lpqzLvLGShAid-GzLRwMDR4_rFVeRn4YU5kDKmpRc1J67iX6FSBgHu/s1600-h/bookceiling-704383.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOYZwHZoACSXRE86qH5hQrzUGXcOtorVJwwva0PaCHr-2Iw-E54XzRUB-OF2uT1jgR3dT0tPTpDW7a5x3kFJttJ-lpqzLvLGShAid-GzLRwMDR4_rFVeRn4YU5kDKmpRc1J67iX6FSBgHu/s320/bookceiling-704383.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322516559482185058" /></a><br />I was in a large bookshop yesterday. For the sake of the story, we’ll call it Boundaries. Hey, before you throw down in disgust. Try it. It makes you feel much better about shopping in your favourite independent bookshop. Boundaries has lots of books. A lot. A really good selection. But then, they should have. It’s a feckin BIG shop and maybe that’s why it’s kind of expensive, but maybe it's not. I'm talking expensive compared to independent bookshop prices. Take Michael Chabon’s <i>Maps and Legends</i>. $32.95 in yer local independent. $57 in Boundaries. I mean Really? Is there any need for that shit. I thought the idea of the corporate homogeneity is larger volume, cheaper prices. The Indies can be more expensive than chain-store equivalents sometimes, but at least you get the benefit of informed, interested staff who generally know what they’re talking about. In chain-world this is the exception rather than the rule, but we get it and we even accept it. The indies want you to come back because they like it so, so much they want you to do the same.<br /> <br />Boundaries isn’t always more expensive, mind. There are exceptions. The ugly spine of ‘fast book nation’ mentalities coupled with economies of scale allow for the notorious 3-for-the-price-2-deal. A bargain? It would be except there’s only ever really one book you want. There’s maybe one other, but it’s a half-interest; a might read if you ever get done reading the things you want to read. The rest you’ve either read already or never will. It’s the ‘more you spend the more you save’ sham. Still it must work for some people and charities like Lifeline definitely benefit. <br /><br />Before I go on I should declare my part-time employment in a particularly good indie in Brisbane. This is hardly an objective piece, BUT were I otherwise employed, I’m confident I’d make the same observations.<br /><br />While I was in Boundaries, I asked a staff member at the counter if there was a sports fiction section? He looked at me like I’d asked him if I could poo in his shoe. “You what, mate?” he says. <br />I said, “Sports fiction – fiction with sport in it. D’you have any books or even a section of sports fiction?” He looked at me the way people look in empty plastic bags, when they know there’s nothing in them. They’re done with them. Only good for drowning seagulls now. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkLbxAM3eV0GTH6Y2QPgGuOVvIZ0bDtD_WuRWaq_1wgXoQx3HOEk8yj36JPBqmHImVfXGFFKCkpmtQ6px_vtV2Tj84SIb7WSSLogktLXh0kM41itLxcA_puovEbRIKuF6ufhFXkenSAuT/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkLbxAM3eV0GTH6Y2QPgGuOVvIZ0bDtD_WuRWaq_1wgXoQx3HOEk8yj36JPBqmHImVfXGFFKCkpmtQ6px_vtV2Tj84SIb7WSSLogktLXh0kM41itLxcA_puovEbRIKuF6ufhFXkenSAuT/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322515554002559394" /></a>So I said, “You know books that are fictional and have sport in them?”<br />He actually scratched his head. <br /><br />Now the first time, it could well have been my lilting Scottish brogue that confused him. The second time maybe too. But the third time I said it like I was patronising a non-English speaker. Hand signals and everything. “You know? Books…that…Ah rrre …phic shon al …annnDD… have… sssspoarrrt… iiinnn… tthem?” I said it the way Lee Majors ran after he’d had the $6million dollar operation, a bit of creaking and a lot of slow motion.<br />Still…<br />Nothing.<br />A solid wall of blankness.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3cUElfohajzIUJNzf7mSpWrPI1NXx7aE907EpquanfkU5VmxMtg5XQJBJvRMdfO1M3MUCj8mGxvylfKtHS3zbV_nXhvNIhdUfIZyFnfBau80aHKZ-9SdnA6iGkzZ-QGb5jLD6LDGnKqME/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 76px; height: 116px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3cUElfohajzIUJNzf7mSpWrPI1NXx7aE907EpquanfkU5VmxMtg5XQJBJvRMdfO1M3MUCj8mGxvylfKtHS3zbV_nXhvNIhdUfIZyFnfBau80aHKZ-9SdnA6iGkzZ-QGb5jLD6LDGnKqME/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322514091373757250" /></a>It was disconcerting.<br />Another scratch and a flicker of light intruded into the empty space in his eyes. He said, “There’s some sports books upstairs mate.” <br />He was right. But they were all non-fiction. I said, “Yeah thanks.”<br /><br />What chance do I have of establishing football fiction as a genre if the staff at one of the city’s largest bookshops cannot imagine that a thing like sports fiction exists?the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-39413606028647110482009-04-01T04:16:00.000-07:002009-04-01T05:25:55.330-07:00A floating green zone of fantasy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMbTUW67Xgna_68Iy04tAOYJ6Kwpo-jyeFDydcywQjoYDhDgkYalNDrNHJd6Pt5KnMJO1aHfvDmNlchBViU0FocEEKPE8J-ekbnG5DjUgdkf8BdC9Z3CnI9xLRHCkPLvjBvb9UHDLiipI/s1600-h/hamish_tmb.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 98px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMbTUW67Xgna_68Iy04tAOYJ6Kwpo-jyeFDydcywQjoYDhDgkYalNDrNHJd6Pt5KnMJO1aHfvDmNlchBViU0FocEEKPE8J-ekbnG5DjUgdkf8BdC9Z3CnI9xLRHCkPLvjBvb9UHDLiipI/s320/hamish_tmb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319692473227370530" /></a>The title of this post is taken from The Global Game. I think it's relevant to all football fiction, but it works well for this week football fiction subject. Comics. How good were, no, are they?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwuK-CYxZb0RAT7yfl7zd34xk4l8njivTz_Qwj6blut7IJT3Y6lVSZyl4gi6dKePeSs4DOMN2ZtXq22UiMmNKmj-6c5_mBMTb_A3i8TtpOzgTxkKqQwCOWFq6hb5_Fhz81o7ncPHxtuyt/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 114px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwuK-CYxZb0RAT7yfl7zd34xk4l8njivTz_Qwj6blut7IJT3Y6lVSZyl4gi6dKePeSs4DOMN2ZtXq22UiMmNKmj-6c5_mBMTb_A3i8TtpOzgTxkKqQwCOWFq6hb5_Fhz81o7ncPHxtuyt/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319690146253688530" /></a>My first experience of the wonder, romance and let's be honest no small amount of nonsense of football fiction was in comic book stories like those in Tiger (1954-1985) and Eagle (1950-1994), where star quality football stories like Billy’s Boots, filled with Dead-shot Dean’s football magic, won him all the games and scored all the goals he really needed to score. What I would have done for a pair of those incredible boots. The closest I got to a pair was the wobbly boots on a saturday night. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHzavzq72Dijo55e4TnCjAmL-QnMCF1aN6t0MwOhT7KJ2HwNmFgtmdNIcoCr7N3pSCqp4drExe2WsvDLuUfKTLm8y-xqyd0ZXXTnBJg0e9ElR1zDYy5qmMUcpoj7KaZRUKDZ_lBhe2eyPV/s1600-h/250px-Hotshothamish.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHzavzq72Dijo55e4TnCjAmL-QnMCF1aN6t0MwOhT7KJ2HwNmFgtmdNIcoCr7N3pSCqp4drExe2WsvDLuUfKTLm8y-xqyd0ZXXTnBJg0e9ElR1zDYy5qmMUcpoj7KaZRUKDZ_lBhe2eyPV/s320/250px-Hotshothamish.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319693416036755618" /></a>Hotshot Hamish has been reprised in one of Scotland's most popular weekly Scottish national newspapers - The Sunday Mail (I said popular I never said worthy). Still it warms the cockles knowing a whole new generation will be able to experience the power of Hamish's size 16. He could smash a canon ball shot straight through a steel plated A-team built vehicle without so much as a pity the fool - and he's Scottish. His team mate highlanders, including the insanely goofy Mighty Mouse, benefitted from the big man's big toes more than once.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRko9G-jTULyBMoYng-SHQsYnG2FPDI4Zztp2LmFLoXNRBNMcOfywCSEgKL2D5E6KGHGqSo_Uvxe4RC2Gs1Ch3xL7kLB2HXxi_MHUrLI4IkXgl0Tneai7INGr9ZOycp5JuEEQtRQuflvcZ/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 88px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRko9G-jTULyBMoYng-SHQsYnG2FPDI4Zztp2LmFLoXNRBNMcOfywCSEgKL2D5E6KGHGqSo_Uvxe4RC2Gs1Ch3xL7kLB2HXxi_MHUrLI4IkXgl0Tneai7INGr9ZOycp5JuEEQtRQuflvcZ/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319689940578965314" /></a>Roy of the Rovers, possibly the most famous of all the football comic strip characters, is also still being produced in a number of fanzines as far as I'm aware. More gifted than Best, Pele, Ronaldhino and Michael Flatley combined Roy could do anthing with a ball. The comic ran through Roy's incredible career, management jobs included and then even soapily involved his son's adventures. As far as I'm aware, they followed the great tradition of famous footballer's sons the world over, in that he failed to capture his father's acclaimed success or any of his ability. Still he managed a career - which is more than can be said for my own game.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKn96guTwTglm7a7lgrxIh0Qtz1IWQ8fWdhRx1ZbcOjO_YZ8_pD266lMmpznRrVBaIZ1vRO364Ok8RxzJc2r1lVg9GLneaQpctK8Npm4xg9Qho3Pue442f0nfISFwCHyT-YuHLk7WnxzVU/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 105px; height: 79px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKn96guTwTglm7a7lgrxIh0Qtz1IWQ8fWdhRx1ZbcOjO_YZ8_pD266lMmpznRrVBaIZ1vRO364Ok8RxzJc2r1lVg9GLneaQpctK8Npm4xg9Qho3Pue442f0nfISFwCHyT-YuHLk7WnxzVU/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319693829313471730" /></a>Striker, The Sun newspaper's long standing football player comic leaned toward the adult end of the market, ye know more tragic footballer's wives than wizened old boots with any magic in them. Particularly when it changed to 3D in an effort to keep up with the times. If nothing else it was a series which was remarkable for its unremarkableness. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkRdOoavPJUgvce33AkVa3qpvh_nb7qNXKoG84S34zQc_anjbjPNf8SiSErI4VX64pgWvOjIgh9DF3UeT1P8aLrBo-4KglzZpA3ihtf096tXf8u9D5mbjr-w1y_ja6bzuIxk1_r4iVBlm/s1600-h/images-3.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 123px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkRdOoavPJUgvce33AkVa3qpvh_nb7qNXKoG84S34zQc_anjbjPNf8SiSErI4VX64pgWvOjIgh9DF3UeT1P8aLrBo-4KglzZpA3ihtf096tXf8u9D5mbjr-w1y_ja6bzuIxk1_r4iVBlm/s320/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319690321977351218" /></a>There are many others. Football comics first appeared with regularity in the early 1920's, but that's a blog for another day. <br /><br />It was long before I moved to books, novels mostly, only to be haunted by the lack of football. It seemed there were no football novels. Things may have changed a little, but it's a little and I'd like to go some way to putting those ghosts to rest in the creative practice parts of my PhD.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-84589810205569572952009-03-24T00:00:00.000-07:002009-03-24T01:09:30.912-07:00football n fiction, ...they started walking out together.Now I've talked about defining it. I've talked about the books. I've talked about the history of this lovely wee genre. I've even talked about how it works. Now it's about time I start putting it all together. It's going to take weeks. The progression will be fractured and distracted with all the usual nonsense - journal entries, updates on my PhD, spurious argument and obviously football books as I find them. [It's been beyond mental in thesimplestgame back office. It's nice to be back]<br /><br />The first question I need to address is... Is football fiction really a genre? <br /><br />Football fiction may have started with Shakespeare. In act one, scene four of King Lear (1606), the Earl of Kent kicks and taunts Oswald with the line, “Nor tripped neither, you base football player.” I have read too that there are references in The Comedy of Errors (1592). So, it's possible that football fiction has been around for longer than the modern version of the game, which developed some 260 years later. I doubt it though.<br /><br />In <em>Ray of the Rovers: the working class heroine in popular football fiction 1915-1925 </em> Alethea Melling puts football fiction's roots in working-class “factory or dialect fiction”. But there are examples of football fictions existing before that. In <em>The Encyclopedia of British Football</em>, Cox and company do a good job of contextualising the history of 'football literature', but in following Alethea's lead, they spurn the chance to create a definition themselves. <br /><br />The only other uses of the term football fiction I have encountered are for classification purposes on the East Sussex (England) public library website and on a gay erotic fan fiction site. I hope the two never get mixed up, the East Sussex WI's knickers' would be so twisted for so long, there would be tears in every brown eye.<br /><br />In an attempt to broaden the field to include other forms of football writing (a practice I want to steer things away from), including non-fiction, plays, revues, photography collections and poetry, DJ Taylor, in <a href="http://thesimplestgame.blogspot.com/2009/01/dj-taylor-on-football-fiction.html"><b><em>Rally Round You Havens!</em></b></a> and John Turnbull, Thom Satterlee and Alon Raab, in <a href="http://www.theglobalgame.com/"><b><em>The Global Game</em></b></a> have assigned the collective works of football writing the distinction of being soccer or football literature. <br /><br />This was the definition I developed (in an earlier blog). It raised a couple of eyebrows during the auld confirmation process.<br /><br /><blockquote>Any work of fiction with a significant reliance on football as a central or substantive element of the narrative. </blockquote><br />It's still a little spongy. It'll need some reworking, particularly around what qualifies as significant or substantive, but what it does is offer a centre spot, somewhere to play from until the field firms up. Otherwise where would you start?<br /><br />Do you include Barry Hines’ <em>A Kestrel for a Knave </em> (1969) for example? As John Turnbull pointed out on this site, it’s about a boy and his bird, but there is also a single, narratively ‘significant’, 20 page game (in a book of 159 pages). Do you include John King’s <em>The Football Factory</em> (1996) even though the reader rarely sees any actual football? <br /><br />Albert Camus and the boy Nabakov have both written about football - particularly their own experiences as players, (see the Global Game site, its full of great stuff like this), should I consider their work? <em>The Plague</em> (1970) is full of football references, well not full, but it is mentioned a number of times.<br /><br />I would say no to Shakespeare on the grounds of historical perspective. King’s trilogy <em>The Football Factory </em>, <em>Head Hunters </em>(1997) and <em>England Away </em>(1998), works of stunning violence and football hooliganism, are saturated in the parlance of football culture and are assuredly first eleven. Barry Hines makes the subs bench as Billy Casper, the wee boy in <em>A Kestrel for a Knave</em>, is colourfully and clearly developing as a character in the scene that, more importantly, is a sustained description of a football game. As for Camus and Nabakov, I’m not so sure.<br /><br />This all seems well and good, except people have been making stuff up about football since football began; in skewed match reports, transfer speculation filled newspapers, websites and ‘pub-storytellers’ recounting great events. If you counted everyone who’d allegedly attended Scotland’s defeat of England, then reigning World Champions, in 1967 in Glasgow, the stadium would have been filled at least three times over.<br /><br />It'll do though. More next week.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-34270084404228036522009-03-06T19:33:00.000-08:002009-03-06T20:41:18.416-08:00Detached from the world…still chasing the ball<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEr3dNRdnaKup3pS9bCnSJtuQZak1Mi8iXZmy4bQQ_eJroj972SbZcwYPBbRNAsPDxiLkmuJkcF281lq8k2bkooqi966k2gLhC3CdAf3P1bXniTcKjAZoW7zmID5Jwc2vMA8_iscacTJ2U/s1600-h/3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEr3dNRdnaKup3pS9bCnSJtuQZak1Mi8iXZmy4bQQ_eJroj972SbZcwYPBbRNAsPDxiLkmuJkcF281lq8k2bkooqi966k2gLhC3CdAf3P1bXniTcKjAZoW7zmID5Jwc2vMA8_iscacTJ2U/s320/3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310297121046314962" /></a>thesimplestgame must apologise to regular readers for the less than regular service here over the last couple of weeks. My life has been given a fairly hefty doing by the PhD confirmation process. I’ve now completed and submitted the document. I can honestly say that the 140 page academic ‘tour de force’ was one of the most difficult tasks I have ever undertaken and I still have the presentation and the gruelling 5 person panel interview/review to do.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDe4L73JYr7CDzBDTT65uexakWzAnia-J2N82nEgQ1wwQ18WbCzwB9kViNABJFVW6OQOxlPHf2sq7LAGl2DAWMb187WDcn8DcJvmtCBhEp6bYZRTvK210JLMnpUJ1_XYs6KCsHjO9MglK/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 98px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDe4L73JYr7CDzBDTT65uexakWzAnia-J2N82nEgQ1wwQ18WbCzwB9kViNABJFVW6OQOxlPHf2sq7LAGl2DAWMb187WDcn8DcJvmtCBhEp6bYZRTvK210JLMnpUJ1_XYs6KCsHjO9MglK/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310298031404798770" /></a>Such an intense period of thought, research and study has left my battered, bruised and bloodied brain feeling like it’s been sitting on a hot plate for the last six weeks, or in a bain-marie. Either way it’s kind of soft, hot and sweaty. A less than nutritious goo has been beading my ears since last thursday. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0mLimn951zlyQaSkodp6wC3E3UK3H1kAEYgBjmNkvlh8jn09yVbn283su1FMjlDauoA4JSREcy2R8wA4rqHzB3MdZWQxTmgcjX3_cJayXKHNuhBotCEko4RbSIBFx0ZrvbZADlw4OgDc/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 131px; height: 101px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0mLimn951zlyQaSkodp6wC3E3UK3H1kAEYgBjmNkvlh8jn09yVbn283su1FMjlDauoA4JSREcy2R8wA4rqHzB3MdZWQxTmgcjX3_cJayXKHNuhBotCEko4RbSIBFx0ZrvbZADlw4OgDc/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310299065189125714" /></a>Every time I’ve sat down to knock over the latest spraff on football fiction the front heated window of my mind steams over and I can’t get started. It’s the reason for the delay in posting this week. It’s not a block of writerliness as such. It’s simply a matter of unravelment. Like an auld woolly jumper on a washing line in the rain, my brain feels like it's come apart in fairly substantial sections.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy4ACCJmAfQq5CF5UgWyfvmW7uMV3-JH7O8lSKMp-vl5Y4P8kyt73hYl8gR1Xey1F7FIkV0M-MD8AywqlN7W0WkxIMCAleL4QFGXwt-rul83dgNGb-2a0tc1xxrFtlyy5eHKDVs93SZ37K/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 139px; height: 83px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy4ACCJmAfQq5CF5UgWyfvmW7uMV3-JH7O8lSKMp-vl5Y4P8kyt73hYl8gR1Xey1F7FIkV0M-MD8AywqlN7W0WkxIMCAleL4QFGXwt-rul83dgNGb-2a0tc1xxrFtlyy5eHKDVs93SZ37K/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310299275545334162" /></a> The re-enravelment process is not happening as quickly as I had hoped. As you can see from this here word deposit, it’s still too difficult to concentrate for long enough to throw a couple of lines together.<br /><br />My thesis is about football fiction. Specifically the differences between young adult and adult works. To do this I’ve graphed and historicised the sociology of fictional football writing. It’s been really interesting. I’ve blended work from people we’ve seen on this site, such as DJ Taylor and John Turbull with work by cultured theorists like Steve Redhead, Alethea Melling and the writers of the Encyclopedia of British football. I’ve also come up with some of my own ideas on the genre – which is the way of things I suppose.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJGYKZ1pLV4lkk0HzmRmvtnjgmboxzligOF1RF4ShOQxs6Bh5K3jGqDiclX2eIJEShV-zfBwpvF8qnyKrfKMvDkQCbt_2cqUSOtc1h3UDcIoBGR_5Yl5foy9zObFVcBFJuxJD4ItblPTy/s1600-h/images-3.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 84px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJGYKZ1pLV4lkk0HzmRmvtnjgmboxzligOF1RF4ShOQxs6Bh5K3jGqDiclX2eIJEShV-zfBwpvF8qnyKrfKMvDkQCbt_2cqUSOtc1h3UDcIoBGR_5Yl5foy9zObFVcBFJuxJD4ItblPTy/s320/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310299701156839362" /></a>I’ve broken the genre down – because I can say with some authority that it is a genre – into streams and movements, which I will discuss when I’m feeling a little more attached to the world.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-87226978880231517482009-02-26T22:17:00.000-08:002009-02-27T00:06:11.536-08:00its criminal.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5yz8gJ1oSAR-LlPIcdE3Nsys9-jEnXulyQKm50x0W83g1fHI8g3uWxdHW3l6v80sPuyeqVobBmqekPpd5iVZRRb3hrfpFuy0SfD6eEymTxC-1oZYCmwwFKCg9tdi6PGO4BO5QcJP64da/s1600-h/887715756_1d95452626.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 217px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5yz8gJ1oSAR-LlPIcdE3Nsys9-jEnXulyQKm50x0W83g1fHI8g3uWxdHW3l6v80sPuyeqVobBmqekPpd5iVZRRb3hrfpFuy0SfD6eEymTxC-1oZYCmwwFKCg9tdi6PGO4BO5QcJP64da/s320/887715756_1d95452626.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307381372345972994" /></a>Crime-related football fiction is a world unto itself. I nearly said underworld. It started a way back in the day, we're talking the 1920s and 30s here. Sydney Horler's Tiger Standish series probably aren't strictly crime but they are crime-related and more importantly, we here at the simplest game think they're great.<br /> <br />Tiger was a secret service agent who banged the goals away on the weekend and banged the bad guys away during the week. Barring hiccups, replays and midweek European ties obviously. Mind you, you'd have to presume the Euro ties would've been great cover for catching up with the international bad guys.<br /><br />Plenty of thrills, the review in the Evening News said at the time. His real name was the Honourable Timothy Overbury Standish. He's the son of the Earl of Quorn, Master of the Quorn Hunt (that'd have to be some kind of vegetarian picnic), a better than bond style secret service agent and the finest centre forward in the land. What a Guy! He was so inspirational, Benny, his butler, followed him through four years of war in Flanders and then played on the left wing for his team - it's absolutely champion stuff. <br />Here's a wee sample I found elsewhere...<blockquote></blockquote> A pipe, a dog and a golf club : if you want to win the heart of a man, give him one of these. And when I say a man, I mean a MAN - not one of these emasculated cigarette smokers.<blockquote></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0t_HP5itTu9ZAthOmrrDorYBGIc37lJ3jYa4_Dqh-mNvrDAiB7ENK3r-FHhoGS_a89Z8JhOEVyuUavx0xdzQdZ_zhiC-Dq5b6Ucv_6stvHZVMvb9LncE2e6NAHLgyY_HC_ftzpmH8Qe6/s1600-h/gribblearsenalreplay.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 182px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0t_HP5itTu9ZAthOmrrDorYBGIc37lJ3jYa4_Dqh-mNvrDAiB7ENK3r-FHhoGS_a89Z8JhOEVyuUavx0xdzQdZ_zhiC-Dq5b6Ucv_6stvHZVMvb9LncE2e6NAHLgyY_HC_ftzpmH8Qe6/s320/gribblearsenalreplay.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307376459455302866" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9J0kBe5Q4a4Aln92o_IUbf03sRUoz-k_D8JPYkfdvgIMAFwH3i-MI4eItWG1mJfIAg6N-PJtWdL23UPW75XSdRxzvcKAChAANwECLOIg0haK102tKM6Lkc9KXxnXDHKnQQ9APiGVPINhF/s1600-h/gribars.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9J0kBe5Q4a4Aln92o_IUbf03sRUoz-k_D8JPYkfdvgIMAFwH3i-MI4eItWG1mJfIAg6N-PJtWdL23UPW75XSdRxzvcKAChAANwECLOIg0haK102tKM6Lkc9KXxnXDHKnQQ9APiGVPINhF/s320/gribars.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307378482167316610" /></a>My other favourites of the day are Leonard Gribble's <i>The Arsenal Stadium Mysteries</i> (1939 and 1950). There were two of them - he pushed the boat out coming up with a name for the sequel. It was called <i>The Replay</i>. They were serialised in the papers. Gribble was allowed unprecedented behind-the-scenes access to the Arsenal stadium and team. He cut a deal with the Chairman of the club and included actual players and their names in the mysteries - like they were playing themselves in a movie. Imagine getting a deal like that now. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0L3aT2MyVapJjWvlSHckv8TRu-uIR8D1N9J9KFl6t9d5jIfRixwD-Ag-V1hZ4fDFxoXOkFCYqZ0fdD51X8vQ7H9yRQSikllWMx4BqL36Ucs49ePjsaUUYPTx_1b5bJ9TeHS6EAMGm9gqP/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 88px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0L3aT2MyVapJjWvlSHckv8TRu-uIR8D1N9J9KFl6t9d5jIfRixwD-Ag-V1hZ4fDFxoXOkFCYqZ0fdD51X8vQ7H9yRQSikllWMx4BqL36Ucs49ePjsaUUYPTx_1b5bJ9TeHS6EAMGm9gqP/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307379217253694850" /></a>He also wrote <i>They Kidnapped Stanley Mathews</i> which was about, you guessed it, the kidnap of a famous player. Loads of fun. <br /><br />There's also Gerald Verner's <i>Football Pools Murder</i> (1939). I've not been able to learn anything about it so far - apart from what the title tells you. John Creasey's <i>Inspector <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0mgHolRtDi01Nl2af2w4q_sZR0GWvRSSgOJ1AFZd94Cs2tla0Y-MShR3wiy-aBIiJ4yXygz670Hm8Bzj3jAt7t2L7AscOPlL6j5Qnd8MH8_Zte9FTOJ7lFHVDpEg9W8hOe_CJGL9u-hHM/s1600-h/images-3.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 83px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0mgHolRtDi01Nl2af2w4q_sZR0GWvRSSgOJ1AFZd94Cs2tla0Y-MShR3wiy-aBIiJ4yXygz670Hm8Bzj3jAt7t2L7AscOPlL6j5Qnd8MH8_Zte9FTOJ7lFHVDpEg9W8hOe_CJGL9u-hHM/s320/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307379046196849282" /></a>West Kicks Off</i> (1949), is a murder mystery which leads Inspector West on a trail from the body discovered at a football match, through the echelons of big club football and into the world of organised crime. The other book I'd love to learn more about is <i>Cup Final Murder</i> by Brendan Newman (1950).<br /><br />Next week I'll have a look at the comtemporary offerings in the crime-related football fiction movement. In the meantime if anyone could tell me more, or at least anything, about these books I'd sure appreciate it.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-7092827197698115622009-02-18T15:50:00.000-08:002009-02-18T17:56:36.246-08:00the Global Game meets the simplest game part 3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFSQCg9EeYGWZKkD_8wamlo_ATUFMD0bBagDD1vS5_sPu4NfyGVgsUVEcGPcfN_8gVdijWlh0MbKgMomyeEkrBzH_bwlQMdO7aqkeY67RWvA6ogYyqemrQhnjJJxOAWuO8SSeycJV9HgCJ/s1600-h/ggamebksm3.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 156px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFSQCg9EeYGWZKkD_8wamlo_ATUFMD0bBagDD1vS5_sPu4NfyGVgsUVEcGPcfN_8gVdijWlh0MbKgMomyeEkrBzH_bwlQMdO7aqkeY67RWvA6ogYyqemrQhnjJJxOAWuO8SSeycJV9HgCJ/s320/ggamebksm3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298889263610974722" /></a>This is the final part of John Tunbull's interview for <i>thesimplestgame</i>, but I am absolutely positive that this will not be the last time his words will appear on this site. John Turnbull, editor of the glorious collection of football writing <i>The Global Game</i>, is the guru of football writing. I've just read one of his papers about football journalism and I've got to tell you, the guy really knows his gear. But I'll get to that in the next couple of weeks. The book is a remarkable piece of work. I'll be reviewing it soon too. These are the rest of John's answers...<br /><br /><i>thesimplestgame: What about football appeals to you as a writer and reader?</i><br />John Turnbull: Football contains the world. I cannot imagine an aspect of human experience – faith, fellowship, politics, language, law, love, resistance – that could not be addressed by considering the football ground. It is probably the most subtext-heavy sport on the planet. For a writer with interests in theology and international affairs and cross-cultural study and language, football offers all these ingredients.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjN3XscDQqK9M5Dt1EmNKSpG2NpaX_QrfqSG9y_TSeNsjUVtCHiq6nTs_AtmxCPjB7hldqbacRexGP-7o4pv2asNFe151VIxygl6EIrrZItogPWsWtHxbPSnbhalc9tMcg7FW4ddLFkfQd/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 89px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjN3XscDQqK9M5Dt1EmNKSpG2NpaX_QrfqSG9y_TSeNsjUVtCHiq6nTs_AtmxCPjB7hldqbacRexGP-7o4pv2asNFe151VIxygl6EIrrZItogPWsWtHxbPSnbhalc9tMcg7FW4ddLFkfQd/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304316526958092594" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SHYz6hhD7kTwRP_3ymSMnZCQqR6MwuCJ2bBlZZOBa8Ok0-idxpn6IfckvyS9rK2BfOzXrRNTVvLy9Epf0Rpk_WZ04SbhaOcmiDQI8eEiunWxOOOSI8Wq9PkcqmSS_Uz54UITyMk2wIHy/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 81px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SHYz6hhD7kTwRP_3ymSMnZCQqR6MwuCJ2bBlZZOBa8Ok0-idxpn6IfckvyS9rK2BfOzXrRNTVvLy9Epf0Rpk_WZ04SbhaOcmiDQI8eEiunWxOOOSI8Wq9PkcqmSS_Uz54UITyMk2wIHy/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304316352322295842" /></a>My interest in football as a reader really began with Eduardo Galeano’s Soccer in Sun and Shadow – a beautiful title, especially in the original Spanish, El fútbol a sol y sombra. After referring to the “astonishing void” in academic histories of the region, Galeano demonstrates how football bears much in Latin American society and culture. His is not a rhapsodic, nostalgic treatment. He is critical of the sport as spectacle that, in the modern day, is “organized not for play but rather to impede it.” That the best football writing might accommodate such perspectives of melancholy and loss – the game’s shadow side – is a strength.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8YWuY9AnRe3YG1A4i44rIjtGrO7GnAKJ9IG4EQX43K1_2ujQMefLCYbnaxnm4pgYvUIQR4KKinauWsxAHryNXQss0uvYBrBzXHWBzU3mJUUfK_nzB0bBjs4Y_KmTnJf8LXpVahHEwRWs/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 110px; height: 110px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8YWuY9AnRe3YG1A4i44rIjtGrO7GnAKJ9IG4EQX43K1_2ujQMefLCYbnaxnm4pgYvUIQR4KKinauWsxAHryNXQss0uvYBrBzXHWBzU3mJUUfK_nzB0bBjs4Y_KmTnJf8LXpVahHEwRWs/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304316902510912050" /></a><i>tsg:There seems to be a general belief that men prefer reading non-fiction over fiction – it’s been put forward as one of the reasons for the dearth of football fiction. Another theory is that footballers are better at expressing themselves with a ball than a pen. Why do you think there is so little fiction about a sport that is so popular?</i><br /><br />JT: The problem with the statement is the assumption that only men would be interested in football fiction. I suppose it is an explainable bias. Decisions about football books in English, to a large extent, come from publishing houses and agents in London. And as <a href="http://www.theglobalgame.com/blog/2007/10/the-stoning-of-steven-guardian-blogger-pricks-both-sides-of-usuk-sporting-divide/"><b>Steven Wells</b></a> says, “From the British perspective, football is a measure of masculinity. It’s actually more important than possessing a penis.” Therefore, from commissioning editors lacking in imagination, with pounds sterling and the euro as the only frames of reference, we get fed a diet of hooligan memoirs (aka “hoolie porn”) and ghosted biography.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZT7ZTwAdCU5JMenLn5twXufSjr6ZlqVWB31uA0sfTlfuikY5jAFOY-TKrLVQG3FE6Jv2KfwztfWJAMNK8OkJZ-W83TIvXd1ok7RlvB0kxWseO4fDsBf-OOTUHw-POPAuc6-creB2bIGG/s1600-h/images-5.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 96px; height: 96px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZT7ZTwAdCU5JMenLn5twXufSjr6ZlqVWB31uA0sfTlfuikY5jAFOY-TKrLVQG3FE6Jv2KfwztfWJAMNK8OkJZ-W83TIvXd1ok7RlvB0kxWseO4fDsBf-OOTUHw-POPAuc6-creB2bIGG/s320/images-5.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304318322845212514" /></a>There might be some parallel in fiction to Galeano’s observation concerning the absence of sport from academic histories. Football exists in a nether region between intellect and emotion, aesthetic and kitsch. On the one hand, many writers and intellectuals see the game as too common to inspire higher sentiments; at the same time, our stereotypical image of sports fans is that they do not respond to appeals to the mind and reason. Yet clubs in the UK such as Tottenham, Barnsley and Brighton and Hove Albion have or have had poets in residence. Why not novelists in residence? Or philosophers in residence?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH4Qp97FrQ7WiPIHsxONyanLLwiXKmREaBVJ0XWmgbjH19R07T4uURNGtwS74BE1kn-yH39-c002xo89ZfPSYCU7Op94QM7kdhtSQ6g5FT1PS1XrnNXJ-Vzw_bu1uVbgUxFG105oGFaruy/s1600-h/images-6.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 96px; height: 96px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH4Qp97FrQ7WiPIHsxONyanLLwiXKmREaBVJ0XWmgbjH19R07T4uURNGtwS74BE1kn-yH39-c002xo89ZfPSYCU7Op94QM7kdhtSQ6g5FT1PS1XrnNXJ-Vzw_bu1uVbgUxFG105oGFaruy/s320/images-6.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304318572556893394" /></a><br /><br />Jorge Valdano alone would disprove the thesis that footballers are incapable of narrating their own experience. I imagine that talented writers are no more or less common among footballers than in the rest of the population. It is open to question whether non-English-speaking footballers receive better educations or are more broad-minded than counterparts in the UK, USA, Australia and so on. From Australia, for example, the late Johnny Warren has written eloquently on football’s capacity to transcend cultural and ethnic divides.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwm-uFDKh-KGnzIyFfUTioLbg3wGgIqHwG0LO-uHJqA1ILx4FqywHaP1fFBOeAlwVausJyIJ_Feg1BX7PasOT6hlWNfceAaT1SbqYi5wvkPlYv-qtybL-3HxzBeb0JDL_hh-umZttp170/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 90px; height: 127px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwm-uFDKh-KGnzIyFfUTioLbg3wGgIqHwG0LO-uHJqA1ILx4FqywHaP1fFBOeAlwVausJyIJ_Feg1BX7PasOT6hlWNfceAaT1SbqYi5wvkPlYv-qtybL-3HxzBeb0JDL_hh-umZttp170/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304317855231471298" /></a>But Alexei Smertin, a Russian player with experience at Chelsea, Portsmouth and Charlton, mentions to Marc Bennetts in Football Dynamo the challenges of learning English when “surrounded by guys whose vocabulary is limited to ‘fuck,’ and who make mistakes with grammatical tenses. ... I found it quite hard to communicate with English people in a non-football environment.” Bennetts has also quizzed Russian footballers on their favorite books. One popular selection is The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. Smertin also likes Nabokov and Balzac.<br /><br /><i>tsg: Do you think there is a defined market for football literature, particularly fiction?</i><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywJJZodBXIaKd7ojhTgmWUx8SqgBFcccuW2HSKkH-uVehjWitUF8LVGx6IaCOUTwfo2FzDdZnTrzUcjH8fvhESu4b1VaCn3ZxNSSgBnTnYRGaqg2GTGmPp9XDTsQ7XBmCaZm1eCd0ZTYM/s1600-h/images-3.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 82px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywJJZodBXIaKd7ojhTgmWUx8SqgBFcccuW2HSKkH-uVehjWitUF8LVGx6IaCOUTwfo2FzDdZnTrzUcjH8fvhESu4b1VaCn3ZxNSSgBnTnYRGaqg2GTGmPp9XDTsQ7XBmCaZm1eCd0ZTYM/s320/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304317107603458194" /></a>JT: The answer depends on the market that one considers. Certainly one would have better success pitching a football novel in Barcelona than New York. Having said that, I am aware of several novels in the United States on the “soccer mom” theme – bodice rippers about women whose overcharged libidos stray far from the touchlines.<br /><br />John Turnbull's interview has been something of an enlightenment. An education in football writing. thesimplestgame is very, very grateful. We would like to thank John for his help, his time, his generosity and his patience. Thanks John.<br /> <br />You can have a look at excerts from John, Thom and Alon's book or even buy it at <a href="http://writers.theglobalgame.com/"><b>The Global Game</b></a> The site really is worth a look.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-45209380188201998062009-02-11T16:20:00.000-08:002009-02-12T23:49:24.116-08:00The Global Game meets the simplest game part 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFSQCg9EeYGWZKkD_8wamlo_ATUFMD0bBagDD1vS5_sPu4NfyGVgsUVEcGPcfN_8gVdijWlh0MbKgMomyeEkrBzH_bwlQMdO7aqkeY67RWvA6ogYyqemrQhnjJJxOAWuO8SSeycJV9HgCJ/s1600-h/ggamebksm3.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 156px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFSQCg9EeYGWZKkD_8wamlo_ATUFMD0bBagDD1vS5_sPu4NfyGVgsUVEcGPcfN_8gVdijWlh0MbKgMomyeEkrBzH_bwlQMdO7aqkeY67RWvA6ogYyqemrQhnjJJxOAWuO8SSeycJV9HgCJ/s320/ggamebksm3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298889263610974722" /></a>John Turnbull is the editor of a colourful, often beautiful and equally riotous, truly international, collection of football writing called <i>The Global Game</i>. But I told you that last week. I’ve now read a whole lot more of the book. It's a remarkable piece of work. I'll tell you more when I review it. Right now I want to post some more of the answers John generously gave when we spoke to him about football fiction.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkeKsB2vQiD0o88ylKRDWFKG7-qKPlGvueClyB2c8zhAqIMbgmOhUfdQymdnSpEtd85634g_Njhc4x0ZkYpIMozEmtVWdpVCXOKlkDEdy_ViCzNif3e9tRhipSHqlON-fFVIKeusQ1Dasu/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 79px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkeKsB2vQiD0o88ylKRDWFKG7-qKPlGvueClyB2c8zhAqIMbgmOhUfdQymdnSpEtd85634g_Njhc4x0ZkYpIMozEmtVWdpVCXOKlkDEdy_ViCzNif3e9tRhipSHqlON-fFVIKeusQ1Dasu/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301709581507175954" /></a><i>thesimplestgame: <a href="http://thesimplestgame.blogspot.com/2008/10/ian-plenderleith-talks-football-fiction.html"><b>Ian Plenderleith</b></a> said good writing about sport avoids action on the field of play as much as possible. Nick Hornby said there's enough drama in football as it is without people needing to make up stories about it. Would you agree with either of them?</i> <br /><br />John Turbull: It is true that little content in The Global Game: Writers on Soccer describes match action. Orhan Pamuk’s comment is suggestive: <a href="http://www.spiegel.de/international/europe/0,1518,557614,00.html"><b>football is faster than words.</b></a> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJAcv8XpeCIk8_VcGiaJJnsfQiIg9LJANE6jbuMCxggYzbzeI99xMIV7AO-ERrRkOEnIFZXA5WsAK11VkLD2wrbCenXT1-ee2KgFeAQ139LWcjCwh51L2eKuddG19VRVM-MzdkWFDNCe_/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 82px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJAcv8XpeCIk8_VcGiaJJnsfQiIg9LJANE6jbuMCxggYzbzeI99xMIV7AO-ERrRkOEnIFZXA5WsAK11VkLD2wrbCenXT1-ee2KgFeAQ139LWcjCwh51L2eKuddG19VRVM-MzdkWFDNCe_/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301707845496723426" /></a>Matches tend best to be described in the recollection, when the action can be parsed and account made of the writer’s perspective as supporter or participant. Ian Plenderleith himself, in “Save of the Day,” describes his protagonist making a series of stops in goal, but the narrative keeps its distance. “My life at that time,” the narrator says, “was in fact a series of mental football games.” Other writers have made use of the unique existential position of the goalkeeper to help get around this conundrum – the need to describe action at a pace faster than that possible on a page. A notable example is Peter Handke in <i>The Goalkeeper’s Anxiety at the Penalty Kick</i>. Albert <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVVi479C88jOCgvMrI3krgUsL5OTd8SmyzsHCIdoS_fwHaZX_OeqrmguzVE8BR_7hAcOsC79O-Eclue90BZFpNLVQM_94qqug6XfeAI0sYA-oixM6FeAzkUruQFpf8mXNDRqUBmhDZEN6/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 106px; height: 99px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVVi479C88jOCgvMrI3krgUsL5OTd8SmyzsHCIdoS_fwHaZX_OeqrmguzVE8BR_7hAcOsC79O-Eclue90BZFpNLVQM_94qqug6XfeAI0sYA-oixM6FeAzkUruQFpf8mXNDRqUBmhDZEN6/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301709030198440802" /></a>Camus and Vladimir Nabokov have drawn on their time as young players – both goalkeepers – with Nabokov famously saying that, at Cambridge, he served less as the keeper of goal than “keeper of a secret.” The goalkeeper, to Nabokov, is “lone eagle, the man of mystery, the last defender.” He continues, writing in <span style="font-style:italic;">Conclusive Evidence</span>:<br /><br /><blockquote>I was crazy about goal keeping. In Russia and the Latin countries, that gallant art had been always surrounded with an aura of singular glamour. Aloof, solitary, impassive, the crack goalie is followed in the streets by entranced small boys. He vies with the matador and the flying ace as an object of thrilled adulation. His sweater, his peaked cap, his knee-guards, the gloves protruding from the hip-pocket of his shorts, set him apart from the rest of the team.</blockquote><br /><br />One of the most sustained descriptions of match action I have encountered, in English, is that by Barry Hines in <span style="font-style:italic;">A Kestrel for a Knave (1968)</span>. Again the young hero, Billy Casper, is a goalkeeper – and not a very committed one. At one point he climbs onto the crossbar “to scratch his arm pits, kicking his legs and imitating chimp sounds.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY5gnTnaV0dzy8PfCTxk-vt5leen3GSZZTAlwBL2JuwvhPje7Ym639vRi8kxSE7E4J6jkeyNrU8Sc-DVRRYtqk0NK1Kl20F3x-aclnzS_7khgKHyrA2r6iWjmCHF5guw_fKjAsB0aRNyab/s1600-h/images-3.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 75px; height: 122px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY5gnTnaV0dzy8PfCTxk-vt5leen3GSZZTAlwBL2JuwvhPje7Ym639vRi8kxSE7E4J6jkeyNrU8Sc-DVRRYtqk0NK1Kl20F3x-aclnzS_7khgKHyrA2r6iWjmCHF5guw_fKjAsB0aRNyab/s320/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301709831350353666" /></a>One criterion for composing credible match action might be that the matches do not replicate fixtures in the real world. Were one to insert 10 pages of Arsenal v. West Ham in a novel – unless something were happening in the stands (as in Yury Olesha’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Envy</span>), or the account were written from a fractured, Joycean perspective (like the match description in Antonio Skármeta’s <span style="font-style:italic;">I Dreamt the Snow Was Burning</span>) – it is hard to imagine how this would serve exposition. (Chris Cleave’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Incendiary</span> is based on an attack at Emirates Stadium during Arsenal-Chelsea, but I have not read the book.) But given that the authors above have integrated their own memories and imaginings into a world they have created, with their own characters and narrative logic, the football matches they describe take on meaning. Consider that the football scene in Hines’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Kes</span> consumes 20 pages (the match itself is roughly eight pages) of a fairly short novel – Hines must have felt that the football evoked important qualities in Casper’s character.<br /><br />I should also mention that as I write about “match action” and descriptions of such, I think of a male-centered world. This is a bias that is hard to discard. It might be interesting to analyze how Nalinaksha Bhattacharya, in <span style="font-style:italic;">Hem and Football</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Hem and Maxine</span>, integrates football action within novels involving a principally female cast.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim85uUdJRDBjuV-dYtW4GaI4Xl3l0bM02Qz8mRbSrurirGLkV0X0FiJiFYOdQcG6qvMNF8v2-5slpFJXrsgBghrj4kvUBIR9RlKVj41d2-ODeSlJDEJaRhocMLQ_uSS0z_Cu4QxIl5S1Pd/s1600-h/images-5.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 116px; height: 114px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim85uUdJRDBjuV-dYtW4GaI4Xl3l0bM02Qz8mRbSrurirGLkV0X0FiJiFYOdQcG6qvMNF8v2-5slpFJXrsgBghrj4kvUBIR9RlKVj41d2-ODeSlJDEJaRhocMLQ_uSS0z_Cu4QxIl5S1Pd/s320/images-5.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301711165005654994" /></a>Regarding Nick Hornby’s comment, I would be interested to learn more about the context. I suppose, if you think about Zidane’s head-butt near the conclusion of the 2006 World Cup final, it would be hard to create a more dramatic football scenario on the page. Yet if one were to construct a story that integrates Zidane’s upbringing in stretched circumstances in Marseilles, his conflicted heritage as a Berber and Frenchman, his talismanic role on a timeless green zone of fantasy, liberated for 90-minute intervals from all inhibition ... the climax might appear still more thunderous.<br /><br />Hornby himself has written a lovely fable, <span style="font-style:italic;">Small Country</span> of a boy press-ganged into playing for the national XI of the mythical Champina. (He read the story, part of a McSweeney’s collection published in New York, on an <a href="http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?sched=1152"><b>American radio program</b></a> in 2005.) So, it’s likely that Hornby would wish to nuance this statement, if he has not done so already.<br /><br />Part 3 of this interview will follow next week. In the meantime I've set about tracking down some of the books he mentions. At least the ones I haven't got yet. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDl8SJ-BBSyz8_p9Irr69vni-09lmjO2qmhs4KFqqhO7XHCEDd7n4Dc8hvkDtoQdB2xRh6JBVIWPGjH-2OGkKffgzEE3vX-otE4c9MQT6ArudAMkWFk7LOWT9LmhcH2xopGwyWJq8N1ywA/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 105px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDl8SJ-BBSyz8_p9Irr69vni-09lmjO2qmhs4KFqqhO7XHCEDd7n4Dc8hvkDtoQdB2xRh6JBVIWPGjH-2OGkKffgzEE3vX-otE4c9MQT6ArudAMkWFk7LOWT9LmhcH2xopGwyWJq8N1ywA/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301709332712743442" /></a>thesimplestgame are extremely grateful for John's time and generosity in providing us with so much material for the site and for the PhD. Thank you John.<br /> <br />You can have a look at excerts from John, Thom and Alon's book or even buy it at <a href="http://writers.theglobalgame.com/"><b>The Global Game</b></a>the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-4989236674709824482009-02-04T02:12:00.000-08:002009-02-12T23:51:04.188-08:00The Global Game meets the simplest game part 1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFSQCg9EeYGWZKkD_8wamlo_ATUFMD0bBagDD1vS5_sPu4NfyGVgsUVEcGPcfN_8gVdijWlh0MbKgMomyeEkrBzH_bwlQMdO7aqkeY67RWvA6ogYyqemrQhnjJJxOAWuO8SSeycJV9HgCJ/s1600-h/ggamebksm3.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 176px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFSQCg9EeYGWZKkD_8wamlo_ATUFMD0bBagDD1vS5_sPu4NfyGVgsUVEcGPcfN_8gVdijWlh0MbKgMomyeEkrBzH_bwlQMdO7aqkeY67RWvA6ogYyqemrQhnjJJxOAWuO8SSeycJV9HgCJ/s320/ggamebksm3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298889263610974722" /></a>John Turnbull is the editor of a colourful, often beautiful and equally riotous, truly international, collection of football writing called <i>The Global Game</i>. What I’ve read of it is fantastic. When I’m done I will certainly include a review here. John and his friends in football, Thom Satterlee and Alon Raab, have done something that's a little special. Ye see, for the first time, that I know of anyway, someone has taken the time to seek out and translate football writing from around the world and put it in the one place. It's like a sampler, only smarter. With something to read from, and an introduction to, each author. It's an education, that's entertaining. And that's the way we like it here at thesimplestgame.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpgsTGKdbo_3Ls816JCxJCFevfwSnEpcZo17MLgFV6GkLy41URgS0LDLy66ZfvMX7Crh72A37L15glup3AqVpXx7umkaRttEQ4e6F8INv0x7qh1zXHrsRqmU_NzBmhP3CK1sKOpm5hwTHs/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 96px; height: 122px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpgsTGKdbo_3Ls816JCxJCFevfwSnEpcZo17MLgFV6GkLy41URgS0LDLy66ZfvMX7Crh72A37L15glup3AqVpXx7umkaRttEQ4e6F8INv0x7qh1zXHrsRqmU_NzBmhP3CK1sKOpm5hwTHs/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298889453255092034" /></a>They aren’t all fiction. Some are just straight out quality football writing. There’s work in there by the likes of Mario Vargas Llosa, Gunter Grass, Simon Kuper, Ian Jack, Ted Hughes and Elvis Costello. There’s a whole lot more. Writers from all over the world. Over the next couple of weeks I’ll be looking at the book in much closer detail as well as adding some of the answers John Turnbull gave me when thesimplestgame approached him to discuss his work.<br /><br />The sites are well worth looking at too. Here’s a link to <a href="http://writers.theglobalgame.com/"><b>The Global Game - soccer writers site.</b></a>You can buy the book there too.<br /><br /><i>Thesimplestgame really like the site, what motivated you and your colleagues to kick it off?</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG-5GgDJXjV3mzikve7VOwnUCSad9PoQyAklthvYqfmU79Cl5mR3EUs2PxERSIaQ57oG0SLJM2Xnkv09CySrEhvX1PSS5znpFxaTHTu5rcyLkuCBpk5Z7z6OIaqx_SfJ5j4PEj1-INSnID/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 102px; height: 137px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG-5GgDJXjV3mzikve7VOwnUCSad9PoQyAklthvYqfmU79Cl5mR3EUs2PxERSIaQ57oG0SLJM2Xnkv09CySrEhvX1PSS5znpFxaTHTu5rcyLkuCBpk5Z7z6OIaqx_SfJ5j4PEj1-INSnID/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298890275996112498" /></a>John Turnbull: Certainly there is a promotional aspect to the Web-based material, but, speaking for myself, I wanted to use interactive tools and especially podcasting to reduce the artificial separation between anthology editors and contributors. We are lucky to live in a time when such connections can be made with relative ease. Given that it was our intent in the book to draw on material from cultures and languages unfamiliar to Americans, it was inevitable that we would include selections from writers that we, as an isolated country, had never heard of before.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy2Yxri9_Wn7smsrtiBQcs7Icv2S1CpjGlRFkYY6pnLP7qXAQMclCLqU7O5OiRU3k600mMedORL8r0Dgno27CQcxNc-9hgMZhlp02nHSKGVcULVlV5ydl-nif9FF9bNxHz8jHGM6Xj3kaa/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 86px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy2Yxri9_Wn7smsrtiBQcs7Icv2S1CpjGlRFkYY6pnLP7qXAQMclCLqU7O5OiRU3k600mMedORL8r0Dgno27CQcxNc-9hgMZhlp02nHSKGVcULVlV5ydl-nif9FF9bNxHz8jHGM6Xj3kaa/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298889600763671394" /></a><br /><br />For example, within the book and via Internet telephony - in a podcast on the Writers on Soccer microsite - we have the chance to hear from <a href="http://bigcontact.com/theglobalgamewriters/interview-with-elisabet-jokulsdottir"><b>Elísabet Jökulsdottír</b></a> of Reykjavík comparing the mystery of football to the mystery of the ocean. After our conversation, she said that she had never spoken before with an interviewer from North America. That her name and her work might reach a broader audience alone is one reason for the book and accompanying Web site.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJLbMSMtSu6PGnt3V6MwJAVGjMrrqvGm8DxryCy5hl6j73rvBTJSqI3ieMSFVaIORxFeTUW9mx_Yajjv_cC5XJ433JmdoVgpvGNLEj69KQ3iTw2hk2q1A26fGw5ojQXdGabtk2JAdERNlJ/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJLbMSMtSu6PGnt3V6MwJAVGjMrrqvGm8DxryCy5hl6j73rvBTJSqI3ieMSFVaIORxFeTUW9mx_Yajjv_cC5XJ433JmdoVgpvGNLEj69KQ3iTw2hk2q1A26fGw5ojQXdGabtk2JAdERNlJ/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298891622556933314" /></a><br />I also spoke to <a href="http://bigcontact.com/theglobalgamewriters/uro-zupan "><b>Uroš Zupan</b></a> of Slovenia. It would be an oversimplification to say that his prose makes him the Nick Hornby of Central Europe, but he does cite Fever Pitch as at least partial inspiration for essays on overlapping recollections of World Cup tournaments and of his upbringing in the former Yugoslavia. I was able to speak with him about his 2007 book, <i>Textbook Panini</i>, and how he grades both teams and players via a private set of aesthetic criteria. Interesting that, for Hornby, Arsenal Football Club to some extent <br />shaped his identity as well as his attitude to the wider world. Zupan, in contrast, samples from the menu on offer without prejudice as to nationalities, perhaps a trait acquired from having lived in a culture of restrictions. But, more likely, he is probably just curious.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglqnVMY1e-NTg1wlq39SYWwNawTuDIUieLzq8H31Kz8hou1fyjAyZposINyIOLz18zLV6RWz8q7p6lMt61OC-Wl8pWpQPUHbDfWA-QIoar0QjigiFz_YIAFykpOnQSZdGSgt7dZfN157Te/s1600-h/images-3.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 84px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglqnVMY1e-NTg1wlq39SYWwNawTuDIUieLzq8H31Kz8hou1fyjAyZposINyIOLz18zLV6RWz8q7p6lMt61OC-Wl8pWpQPUHbDfWA-QIoar0QjigiFz_YIAFykpOnQSZdGSgt7dZfN157Te/s320/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298890067516263122" /></a>There’s a whole lot more to come from John Turnbull - too much for one blog. Thesimplestgame are very grateful to John for his generosity and his time and look forward to many more electronic conversations with a man who, it has to be said, really knows his football writing. We're also grateful for the opportunity to put Elvis Costello and Gunter Grass in the same blog.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-70425019020899420052009-01-28T02:16:00.000-08:002009-01-28T14:48:27.588-08:00thick herberts - DJ Taylor on Football Fiction<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfbU_d5CErXPSOp0iCmdMdAyPFWb3sT6aq7CoXx9n05DfbPovcNQ11tsn9WdP_-DyrVC9l5xykh7H7zNdUwlofWitNySDeKgS3VsSqauCAF3_HwiOSGqPXB1yHxbNzx8GV_swZYDYGljG/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfbU_d5CErXPSOp0iCmdMdAyPFWb3sT6aq7CoXx9n05DfbPovcNQ11tsn9WdP_-DyrVC9l5xykh7H7zNdUwlofWitNySDeKgS3VsSqauCAF3_HwiOSGqPXB1yHxbNzx8GV_swZYDYGljG/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296286992818128514" /></a>DJ Taylor is a critic, novelist, biographer and most recent hero of thesimplestgame. He received the 2003 Whitbread Biography Award for his work on George Orwell and contributes to <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtAwqeprrbl8YVDi28NoYsopnnTCKF65Z4RT5OvgtKAESTfZ1snhd4MMGYgQgE1HuTYZpT0cf-xsrisw8rLoeQFfKvOTTdZ4lnO44ybdheUZ5WIZcxkBE3T4q5bjXb6MdiAnIjmvQZ9K4/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 84px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtAwqeprrbl8YVDi28NoYsopnnTCKF65Z4RT5OvgtKAESTfZ1snhd4MMGYgQgE1HuTYZpT0cf-xsrisw8rLoeQFfKvOTTdZ4lnO44ybdheUZ5WIZcxkBE3T4q5bjXb6MdiAnIjmvQZ9K4/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296288378867619010" /></a>The Daily Telegraph, The Guardian, The Independent, New Statesman and The Spectator among others. Importantly he’s published a football fiction novel called <i>English Settlement</i>(1996), a non-fiction work called <i>On The Corinthian Spirit: The Decline of Amateurism In Sport</i>(2006) which is ‘mostly’ about football and penned a rather significant essay about football fiction. Like I say, he’s made a heroic contribution to my PhD without even realizing it. (thanks David). He was even good enough to answer a few questions.<br /><br /><i>tsg: The Encyclopedia of British Football notes your observation on what it calls ‘the predicament of football writing’. Apparently serious writers avoid the topic of football literature (fiction anyway) because of the often patronising or negative response given to books that try to reverse the trend. Did you know they’d mentioned you? Did you really make such a statement? And could you elaborate on what you meant?</i> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyO-PD0dzQ2FPThWXUpmNAa2BEUmreMUqedbQ-_3ix5z6HFODH1WTWJOeE5HzFmP6VSWJkhV6sSxcqT-D0qwDNE2AhGgunyKaXlAsP68A6PMR7q2x41w5K7AAPmGP-YynO6MF780v33PI/s1600-h/314DDHSMX8L._SL160_AA115_.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 115px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyO-PD0dzQ2FPThWXUpmNAa2BEUmreMUqedbQ-_3ix5z6HFODH1WTWJOeE5HzFmP6VSWJkhV6sSxcqT-D0qwDNE2AhGgunyKaXlAsP68A6PMR7q2x41w5K7AAPmGP-YynO6MF780v33PI/s320/314DDHSMX8L._SL160_AA115_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296291741148800818" /></a>David Taylor: I didn't know about the reference in the Encyclopaedia. I think it refers to an essay I wrote in a short-lived (but very good) book-length soccer biannual called Perfect Pitch (four issues, 1997-8) published in the UK by Headline Review. (tsg will be discussing the essay soon) The piece appeared in the first number (1997) and is called '"Rally round you Havens!": Soccer and the Literary Imagination' and the quote, about why it's so difficult to write convincingly about football, runs:<br />"Another drawback might be the characteristic inarticulacy of the game's participants, which in fictional terms is the eternal problem of equating the sensibility of the artefact with that of the characters the author has chosen to populate it. Perhaps in the last report this is just a way of saying that novels about soccer tend to be written by educated gentlefolks who have observed the game from afar while the cast of such works will necessarily be thick herberts, and that a certain amount of patronage, or rather distance between writer and raw material, inevitable."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BkFRyS1QzFUVBEPvr7-z05i4Qxrv8zFFxBQEiRdkEpnNsKgHqlnkL3a-VTrVoxehdeOh6A1LAvCh51bxBPjuyX9_OZAHSII7-TTKZm3S-67mQFWE-IGp_G4iDyTSygqcyeT0h2Nri5E6/s1600-h/418RHHNXS2L._SL500_AA240_.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BkFRyS1QzFUVBEPvr7-z05i4Qxrv8zFFxBQEiRdkEpnNsKgHqlnkL3a-VTrVoxehdeOh6A1LAvCh51bxBPjuyX9_OZAHSII7-TTKZm3S-67mQFWE-IGp_G4iDyTSygqcyeT0h2Nri5E6/s320/418RHHNXS2L._SL500_AA240_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296286814786185602" /></a><i>tsg: What motivated you to write English Settlement? Was it a response to your observations about the market?</i><br />DT: I wanted to write a satirical state of the nation novel about England in around 1990 and I thought football was a wonderfully symbolic arena to set it in. Also a good background for the plot - an accountant friend once explained that there's no better place to launder money than a big soccer club.<br /><br /><i>tsg: Ian Plenderleith said good writing about sport avoids action on the field of play as much as possible. Nick Hornby said there's enough drama in football as it is without people needing to make up stories about it. Do you agree with either of them?</i><br />DT: Plenderleith not necessarily (see a brilliant novel which is, inter alia, about soccer called <i>From Scenes Like These</i> (1969) by Gordon Williams). Hornby - no with emphasis. There are no off-limits for novelists.<br /><br /><i>tsg: One of <i>English Settlement</i>’s real strengths lies in how much it allows you to say about England at that time (Thatcher out, Major in). The football seems to provide a window to look at the country. Was this a deliberate ploy? Was it because there were things you had to say? Or did you find that the football wasn’t enough on its own?</i><br />DT: If I could boringly quote from the essay mentioned in 1:<br />“On the face of it, football...ought to provide a perfect subject for fiction. There are several reasons for this, but one of the more obvious is that it involves at least 22 people spending 90 minutes in the same place, leaving aside the pre- and post-match socialising. Another is the game's centrality (along with boxing, pop music and organised crime) to the whole notion of working-class self-advancement, a social phenomenon in which the twentieth-century English novel has occasionally shown some mild interest. Then there is the agreeable, if sometimes faintly insidious, way in which soccer can transform itself into a moral exercise - the rock-like defender humbled by the jinking imp, the non-League club that brings down the Premiership's finest, that whole motivational dynamic of doing one's best against insuperable odds. Finally, and in some ways uniting the previous explanations into a single point of focus, there is the fact that soccer is essentially a <i>romantic</i> activity.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEHPTpJYbtaBmIcxFym8iyT5GySYLFaPx5SiUTYFK7-WIxm8Z8e07CxwnhrnNlh9uK1EEMWJAX6184ywAf13smhYJN4dj3SiLN_N9Hqo7MZn8XVI_YgcJON2fHtU_gQMRjLEZLKUnAhJs/s1600-h/images-3.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 82px; height: 118px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEHPTpJYbtaBmIcxFym8iyT5GySYLFaPx5SiUTYFK7-WIxm8Z8e07CxwnhrnNlh9uK1EEMWJAX6184ywAf13smhYJN4dj3SiLN_N9Hqo7MZn8XVI_YgcJON2fHtU_gQMRjLEZLKUnAhJs/s320/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296287392135093170" /></a><i>tsg: You’ve also written about The Corinthians. What do you think it is about football that appeals to you as an author?</i><br />DT: I think that this is more or less answered by my response to 2. This was just the time when money was coming into the game in huge amounts - Sky etc, first inklings of the Premiership. Although <i>English Settlement</i> is probably more nostalgic for the old megalomaniac chairman for whom the club is a kind of private fiefdom - Walham is based on the pre-Al-Fayed Fulham, whom I used to watch in the '80s.<br /><br /><i>tsg: There seems to be a general belief that men prefer reading non-fiction over fiction – it’s been put forward as one of the reasons for the dearth of football fiction. Another theory is that footballers are better at expressing themselves with a ball than a pen, why do you think there is so little fiction about a sport that is so popular?</i><br />DT: see the essay again, which is a 20 page discussion of exactly this.<br /><br /><i>tsg: Do you think (or did you think when you wrote <i>English Settlement</i> that) there’s a defined market for football fiction?</i><br />DT: No and (probably) no. <i>English Settlement</i> was the least successful novel I've ever written (though, oddly, it was translated into Italian and won a prize there). I thought the 'literary' audience would take it as a novel, but they were puzzled by the football stuff. I think the football audience was puzzled by the literary stuff.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxkWubUousiP4qve28UbuNy2o9u0ASoQni5LQ7_QMpCb8YPyfBmBvMNC6A0ka2pRy05n8BwG6QpRLO61pNNgyy7fP5Qab6FJT9hc72eFwLmQ2uWigtcCmr4NyuOgwh0AZX5P_um8I7xphV/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 122px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxkWubUousiP4qve28UbuNy2o9u0ASoQni5LQ7_QMpCb8YPyfBmBvMNC6A0ka2pRy05n8BwG6QpRLO61pNNgyy7fP5Qab6FJT9hc72eFwLmQ2uWigtcCmr4NyuOgwh0AZX5P_um8I7xphV/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296288152469898002" /></a>thesimplestgame would like to thank DJ Taylor for his time, efforts, answers and generosity. We’re particularly grateful for his contribution to the field - academic, non-fiction and literary. It’s about as good as it gets as far as my PhD is concerned.<br /><br />Unfortunately <i>English Settlement</i> is out of print, but <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/English-Settlement-D-J-Taylor/dp/009973091X/ref=sr_1_15?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1233137704&sr=8-15"><b><i>you can still get a copy if you’re lucky</i></b></a>. We’ll review it here in the next couple of weeks. It’s worth a look.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-17050343500173657402009-01-21T17:35:00.000-08:002009-01-21T19:12:00.668-08:00Queensland's Women Roar<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfwFeXg4zNPk_2gV6KIGWEjeZ06tJ1LEDS5zL6CVXjeh5PZqsOr94lorkt6Xidn6nhEI31kJ3a270odwCtUdtnPTCOkVjjZm42bve1PaXGtnGFsIsviom1atT5HABBGfAw3MN8gZOzdff/s1600-h/roar1_wideweb__470x264,0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfwFeXg4zNPk_2gV6KIGWEjeZ06tJ1LEDS5zL6CVXjeh5PZqsOr94lorkt6Xidn6nhEI31kJ3a270odwCtUdtnPTCOkVjjZm42bve1PaXGtnGFsIsviom1atT5HABBGfAw3MN8gZOzdff/s320/roar1_wideweb__470x264,0.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293926347189144866" /></a><br />thesimplestgame has a remarkable interview to post. David Taylor, author of <i>English Settlement</i>, was generous enough to answer some questions so we’ve been looking forward to posting it. <br /><br />And I will, soon enough. <br /><br />Not today though. Today, its hats off to the Queensland Roar’s W-League team who followed their minor premiership win by taking out the grand final on Saturday.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxA-br9vLWkBSrTHKFdMt3uQMXOitJwSXKOkgee0GXrSi7Uyvb_xqtf_HBmTit__dPdN9tMX93R48QG6VYT83UIGcfa03gQFODJadjuNDxb9o2VG8ov7YjooGme25AIqbtVt4B9IfeYXP/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 117px; height: 94px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxA-br9vLWkBSrTHKFdMt3uQMXOitJwSXKOkgee0GXrSi7Uyvb_xqtf_HBmTit__dPdN9tMX93R48QG6VYT83UIGcfa03gQFODJadjuNDxb9o2VG8ov7YjooGme25AIqbtVt4B9IfeYXP/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293935123534761810" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNj6qlnhnjDovQxW53Q_sg7al1Sf0fvhafFf6hISuHsec8df6BehwkyWqg0-mjUjF50fgcrkWsx90Lvm6yRAWWDC5kphwVYaWWSJVPohh0mgBkQ0o1xQbJ4spd-ue4Ue3pTnKj8_7-68U-/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 64px; height: 90px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNj6qlnhnjDovQxW53Q_sg7al1Sf0fvhafFf6hISuHsec8df6BehwkyWqg0-mjUjF50fgcrkWsx90Lvm6yRAWWDC5kphwVYaWWSJVPohh0mgBkQ0o1xQbJ4spd-ue4Ue3pTnKj8_7-68U-/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293926955121163714" /></a>The game itself wasn’t a great spectacle. Two good goals inside the first 25 minutes wrapped it up for Queensland. Canberra United never recovered. The event though, the winning of the inaugural league in front of over 5,000 paying fans, is something to consider. If a women’s league final can generate this much interest the game is clearly gathering strength and position in this country. <br /><br />A-League fans would tell you that it’s been happening for a few years already. Their detractors, and there are still a lot more of them, would have you believe otherwise. For thesimplestgame, avid supporters of the W-League and our local team, a noisy women’s final is surely all the evidence that’s needed.<br /><br />My wee lassie’s first trip to a big game was the story for the day. It’s hardly news right enough and she’s been in a stadium before, a glorious stadium, but she was too young to that remember now. She’s a sturdy, ‘grown-up’ (her words not mine) six year old.<br /><br />One hot dog and 20 minutes of concern over the food wrappers being blown onto the pitch later, she’d missed the first goal. She was elated to have caught the second, and cheered along with the rest of us. I spent the remainder of the half explaining as much of the football as I could. Like any dutiful daughter she listened politely. She even exhibited some signs of interest.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZxYnyxh4Z12MpEd_lIEQROqrysSPLgn5ey0KSK6hopBeo1X9oBBqjY9xNhi1TF20hPb39q9szD8Z15BELqpG0xG5cczIVa6TVmfJ2RFn1LmagqOvJK-UZXw0mMYx64Xxs8-8RHtSdyhE/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 103px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZxYnyxh4Z12MpEd_lIEQROqrysSPLgn5ey0KSK6hopBeo1X9oBBqjY9xNhi1TF20hPb39q9szD8Z15BELqpG0xG5cczIVa6TVmfJ2RFn1LmagqOvJK-UZXw0mMYx64Xxs8-8RHtSdyhE/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293936468026043954" /></a>Half time refreshments called for a run up and down steep stairs and a trip to the merchandise van, despite the Aladdin’s cave of orange attire on offer, all she wanted was a flag. So we got one. She waved the living shit out of it for the first 15 minutes of the second half. We stayed away from seated punters so she could do so with a reasonable amount of freedom. I then managed to get her back to our seats, but not before we’d tried higher in the stand and then lower, before settling back to the midway point. We sat in front of the wall at the bottom of the tier. She could not see the pitch and spent the duration of the game standing on my knees shouting as loud as her wee voice would allow. <br /><br />With only a few minutes left we decided to start making our way to an exit. Thankfully she missed the streaker, if only because my explanation of that incident would have generated slightly more confusion than the offside rule.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqbm_bpFRCeuZRPyOjQEWIJU013HbuKJ2xUWA0yFQaR9LIAA9s-Hwab2LkHRpQDbDNHhGKsu9V1qfRFd2wPCG0gShwzX31CJxWO0FbCdtOQz9ap2ZWCQhFUgUnj9tm4UpNaD2Qy3ZCzbS/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 110px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqbm_bpFRCeuZRPyOjQEWIJU013HbuKJ2xUWA0yFQaR9LIAA9s-Hwab2LkHRpQDbDNHhGKsu9V1qfRFd2wPCG0gShwzX31CJxWO0FbCdtOQz9ap2ZWCQhFUgUnj9tm4UpNaD2Qy3ZCzbS/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293937438519636962" /></a>Most importantly she wants to go again. She wants to go as soon as the season starts. I’ve not pushed her. Yes the game was my idea and the onus was on me to entertain but the Queensland Roar women’s team helped me out, enough to see her want to return.<br /><br />It goes without saying that the more popular the game is, interest in football fiction will follow suit.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-26251347712767897752009-01-14T21:46:00.000-08:002009-01-14T23:03:42.338-08:00Could it really all have kicked off with King Lear?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9gCSI0UJ77tryoJ8KIV8HhNf-LZmpDeD9ALVhiFSLMLLkIqAiqfaSBWqreH47SrhMg7a8lccWDmiWvoFILQjxQNa8qAYX8vJJ5xepvPO7s348AwPuuK7gsZ3CKDQ0PJzYIMgJlukj8Frn/s1600-h/books-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 128px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9gCSI0UJ77tryoJ8KIV8HhNf-LZmpDeD9ALVhiFSLMLLkIqAiqfaSBWqreH47SrhMg7a8lccWDmiWvoFILQjxQNa8qAYX8vJJ5xepvPO7s348AwPuuK7gsZ3CKDQ0PJzYIMgJlukj8Frn/s320/books-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291393262286403890" /></a>Football fiction has turned out to be a tricky little vixen. I’ve had a great deal of difficulty in tracking stuff down, but now I’m starting to get places. Thanks in part to the <i>Encyclopedia of British Football</i> written by Richard William Cox, Dave Russell, Wray Vamplew and the National Football Museum.<br /><br />I’m looking at scoping the history of the genre. The where-it-all-began. It’s hardly a journey back through the mists of time, but it spans the best part of a hundred years. So long as you don’t count Shakespeare. But I’ll get to that. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0xwWi6cUqrUz9JNYph4pHgUR8hYqS-LqDjFPE4qnZ_NT5AWE3pgi2uoGtsDzorWZnYi69PxyVa9sBOZgqzpokQ64pkEr6DPmIT5QkPXY4sWnJnEoMJswLAA8M0L5M0ThfZdGZ7X08Mcz7/s1600-h/Lifes-a-Game-by-Sydney-Horler-Popular-Fiction-Revolving-Round-Football-Giclee-Print-C12382188.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0xwWi6cUqrUz9JNYph4pHgUR8hYqS-LqDjFPE4qnZ_NT5AWE3pgi2uoGtsDzorWZnYi69PxyVa9sBOZgqzpokQ64pkEr6DPmIT5QkPXY4sWnJnEoMJswLAA8M0L5M0ThfZdGZ7X08Mcz7/s320/Lifes-a-Game-by-Sydney-Horler-Popular-Fiction-Revolving-Round-Football-Giclee-Print-C12382188.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291394651016351154" /></a>It didn’t start with Sydney Horler either, but among the 150 or so books he wrote, Horler penned a spree of almost romanticised football fiction (about 20 of the blighters) like <i> Life’s a Game</i> about spy footballers and all sorts. Along with works by Arnold Bennet and JB Priestley, they were published around the 1920’s right up until the 50’s. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUB3Ix2-jIGmwyOXNEBRCjs2msZHN2J1DNL5ge6cC_S1RHNR-6DxSA-sMCPGRY81Aq82nwShUq3PxmOTe9LDjTek4h3lDGrkwDgNZrSNi0F4ZnQqamTBzq_fPZ3iRFwQCZEqQrUDNjO-c/s1600-h/m2818.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUB3Ix2-jIGmwyOXNEBRCjs2msZHN2J1DNL5ge6cC_S1RHNR-6DxSA-sMCPGRY81Aq82nwShUq3PxmOTe9LDjTek4h3lDGrkwDgNZrSNi0F4ZnQqamTBzq_fPZ3iRFwQCZEqQrUDNjO-c/s320/m2818.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291409038784697394" /></a>A new favourite author of mine, Robin Jenkins, wrote <i>The Thistle and the Grail</i> in 1954 and little seemed to come afterwards until the mid to late 60’s when Barry Hines knocked out <i>A Kestrel For A Knave (1968)</i> a cold, hardbitten northern English story. Hunter Davies published the notorious <i>Striker</i> in the late 70’s and the story of <i>Sinderby Wanderers</i> was published a couple of years before it. Reviews of some of these titles will follow in the coming weeks. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumBUz_M21htBX6vUALalZL3El_7s_M-2x366G0CBefiyhB7iu9tvXqR8H79cUqaghD0I6j2U78OpWPyH7v6G8fwkGrrGRBuf-L2tGGIt9kEJDnAnzBpHCNU4cDXfGDXJ9XqxYKsydIBio/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 95px; height: 123px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumBUz_M21htBX6vUALalZL3El_7s_M-2x366G0CBefiyhB7iu9tvXqR8H79cUqaghD0I6j2U78OpWPyH7v6G8fwkGrrGRBuf-L2tGGIt9kEJDnAnzBpHCNU4cDXfGDXJ9XqxYKsydIBio/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291393585623612274" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1arltuHRonAN3PFBNiBIW2Etz4_bk_wfMTFXYpY5rqiK-Zc3Bsz5QHHZgkotIszsNM8LRGlleNuce_ayWnFFako2-IKvy6Fs3Oc7iGQGq-Q4pBFE1ElvqqfzPfBwP_6sJplixexr5Kjc-/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 122px; height: 91px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1arltuHRonAN3PFBNiBIW2Etz4_bk_wfMTFXYpY5rqiK-Zc3Bsz5QHHZgkotIszsNM8LRGlleNuce_ayWnFFako2-IKvy6Fs3Oc7iGQGq-Q4pBFE1ElvqqfzPfBwP_6sJplixexr5Kjc-/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291393481255387986" /></a>Things picked up in the 80’s and 90’s when the likes of Roddy Doyle (<i>the Van</i>), DJ Taylor (<i>English Settlement</i>), Julian Barnes and Martin Amis, among others, wrote about or made reference to football in their work and, wittingly or not, established or imposed something of a literary level on the genre. No doubt, the nobility of the Italian World Cup, with its Nessun Dorma’d operatic theme contributing, the low brow gained some height before the likes of Irvine Welsh (<i>Marabou Stork Nightmares</i>, <i>the Acid House</i>) and John King (<i>The Football Factory</i>, <i>Head Hunters</i> and <i>England Away</i>) brought it back to earth with a lager-fuelled, hard-edged come-down and a solid terrace-style beating. <br /><br />Since then there have been a number of other standouts, peers and undeserving derivatives of those mentioned, as well as a few which found themselves out of play for one reason or another. More recently David Peace lifted football fiction out of the doldrums with <i>The Damned United</i>. (<a href="http://thesimplestgame.blogspot.com/2008/08/damned-united.html"><b>I've reviewed it already</b></a>)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ybH-CJd0xurFd6sWMttshJyDABFN8fiW51S0AWTwDrOiZICM4EQ10Ef2jgUkp3qslleoGGyzHQCUtNr__tefVd81-cG3DsUwxKqADKK6kv9f8ozKyz7TSAz7ywam2nYxMh1bnFZt2wSS/s1600-h/418RHHNXS2L._SL500_AA240_.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ybH-CJd0xurFd6sWMttshJyDABFN8fiW51S0AWTwDrOiZICM4EQ10Ef2jgUkp3qslleoGGyzHQCUtNr__tefVd81-cG3DsUwxKqADKK6kv9f8ozKyz7TSAz7ywam2nYxMh1bnFZt2wSS/s320/418RHHNXS2L._SL500_AA240_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291395876203875618" /></a>There’s more to this in my PhD. Things are filling out. But my main concern will be in identifying trends, peaks and troughs, hits and misses and the anomalies, the oddities, the plain old plums and the triumphs. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0qrytfezbH50rPn7QQmlEYHp4ewdWTcLULZDXHPgN9vG46eeqOhV78nu7PkOZkN-D9NOKPl9hYlivhLCBh88ZPKbuTF50LIlw-QSU3J8Jyh_kXs_kRGwsVe1U1YkW1GrmYWLYCPTJ2K3W/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 101px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0qrytfezbH50rPn7QQmlEYHp4ewdWTcLULZDXHPgN9vG46eeqOhV78nu7PkOZkN-D9NOKPl9hYlivhLCBh88ZPKbuTF50LIlw-QSU3J8Jyh_kXs_kRGwsVe1U1YkW1GrmYWLYCPTJ2K3W/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291396348103719122" /></a>Importantly I’m searching for the exact place it all started. There’s been speculative news reports and comic strips and a host of other stuff too including fiction books for kids of all shapes and sizes since the dawn of the era. I would imagine people have been telling football tales, tall and true, since the first ball was kicked. There’s even mention of a “football player” in King Lear, which could mean that Shakespeare wrote the first football fiction.<br /><br />As much as I doubt it, from my studies point of view, I think it might be very cool if he did.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-44951657950012016352009-01-08T01:48:00.001-08:002009-01-08T03:05:21.599-08:00probably the pishest part of a PhD<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeaRbf6bAY7ZSYwrh9xN0ETjqtgL3mRkfidkJrrC0sRhGrfy0czqqv619RgT-tWgGbSuNLXXTNSSEuF3uG9wB3wHikxy4vIySblYMX1AO8mlGgRmeiE2jtPKLyXhdfv4ALnvBfHIhk-dVY/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeaRbf6bAY7ZSYwrh9xN0ETjqtgL3mRkfidkJrrC0sRhGrfy0czqqv619RgT-tWgGbSuNLXXTNSSEuF3uG9wB3wHikxy4vIySblYMX1AO8mlGgRmeiE2jtPKLyXhdfv4ALnvBfHIhk-dVY/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288860543409566642" /></a>I would’ve liked to have started the new year with a cheeky wee book review. A nice easy opportunity for diatribe. When I say that I mean wholly objective critical examination obviously. But I’ve not the time to read or even examine said reading. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLAr2vnnbrWL-yEmoj1PwQe5OzMlhyphenhyphenjOUaD4_htezZ5ZFvbUV8ES97Hq8c6dDa6jSrWAzTG5W9xguy4n8va4c4BfWBZYpKI2SGH1nC7hpEiTNgnSbUo_3DNZkBgqieZvgVpIb43IGsvTEi/s1600-h/images-5.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin: 0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 97px; height: 146px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLAr2vnnbrWL-yEmoj1PwQe5OzMlhyphenhyphenjOUaD4_htezZ5ZFvbUV8ES97Hq8c6dDa6jSrWAzTG5W9xguy4n8va4c4BfWBZYpKI2SGH1nC7hpEiTNgnSbUo_3DNZkBgqieZvgVpIb43IGsvTEi/s320/images-5.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288865792999816594" /></a>I am currently embroiled in writing the confirmation paper for my PhD. You could say up to my alabaster scottish neck in it. (Aye, alabaster - I’ve not been out of the dark wee room for days). <br /><br />It requires a great deal of thought, hard work, perspiration (I know. That’s exactly what I said. Nobody tells you about that bit) and, if I’m honest, gluttonous persistence – read: sitting in a dark wee room trying to write like an academic till you’re so far past the point of boredom, it’s back on the horizon because you’re about to Lance Armstrong lap it.<br /><br />And I don’t mean lap it up. This is the penance for accepting a scholarship, the part where they get their money’s worth.<br /><br />I tell you all this not for sympathy – my old man used to say sympathy comes between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXlqbtAT9WyvupYSgz60vV2-yAm2T7CKh3jQy2ULUWg5QYs1Ned986lOLEHLQopu03k_HUgxSUKtkDNjOsFRQY-0Geoasd48Va4Xj6KjXm1LchXBB2Tm0bjlWIhN9F-3jMyP0ya0Gh5J8/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 118px; height: 96px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXlqbtAT9WyvupYSgz60vV2-yAm2T7CKh3jQy2ULUWg5QYs1Ned986lOLEHLQopu03k_HUgxSUKtkDNjOsFRQY-0Geoasd48Va4Xj6KjXm1LchXBB2Tm0bjlWIhN9F-3jMyP0ya0Gh5J8/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288860853613861298" /></a> I tell you because the process requires a 'real life' definition. In the throes of understanding the parameters of the cosy little niche I’m attempting to carve for myself, I need to determine, beyond it being the umbrella that shades my blog, what football fiction is exactly. <br /><br />Any definition would have to be simple because, let’s face it, I’m no really that clever. It would have to straight forward enough to withstand scrutiny of the definition police in attendance at my confirmation, and it will requires a great deal of flexibility or be hard enough to take the beating it'll need to fit into or, at least, get strapped onto my thesis.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-3i-Q49kTw0_IgM85NPcNLPAgLi7urAEYzaweyW3Ya5FMfSPyEl5PDitq0nirrHSRlnHuPBvjDtTuBvl9nfGvSBa7n2F1aGduaMmlKSk9NEmTii5ZTZUJxToGk29kjoOmmoqX3hpcxv__/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 93px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-3i-Q49kTw0_IgM85NPcNLPAgLi7urAEYzaweyW3Ya5FMfSPyEl5PDitq0nirrHSRlnHuPBvjDtTuBvl9nfGvSBa7n2F1aGduaMmlKSk9NEmTii5ZTZUJxToGk29kjoOmmoqX3hpcxv__/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288861078379203618" /></a>Here’s what I’ve got so far:<br /><br />Any story with any degree of makey-uppy football in it. <br /><br />There, simple, straight forward, hard and flexible. I went through all my posts to see if there were any I rejected on the strength of some spurious criteria but I’ve either been extremely discerning in my choices up to this point, too embracing read lenient or I haven’t developed stringent enough criteria. I can’t write that in my PhD though. I could try, but I’m pretty confident it won’t help my cause. It’ll have to be something more like…<br /><br /><i>Any work of fiction with a genuine and significant reliance on football as a central or substantive element of the narrative.</i> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBVJS85VxZ3He_DayTc_totntB_T5lKhGbpn_YzGx2kX8G-Jz4w9Bswgb0ZXshnNA22Rg4OOPO1ZcMOWwP5GmRlvLbhErChBYjW4oeLNounqgupeslfvjIdQRsIxFgf_MFtWM0aZmSxrj/s1600-h/images-6.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 127px; height: 96px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBVJS85VxZ3He_DayTc_totntB_T5lKhGbpn_YzGx2kX8G-Jz4w9Bswgb0ZXshnNA22Rg4OOPO1ZcMOWwP5GmRlvLbhErChBYjW4oeLNounqgupeslfvjIdQRsIxFgf_MFtWM0aZmSxrj/s320/images-6.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288866941641714002" /></a> In the unlikely event that you feel a twinge of sympathy, a sense of altruistic good (bloglike) neighbourliness, or even the need to pour hot saucy scorn over the happy sandwich filler I've managed to process so far, please feel free to do so. Smashin'. Thanks.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-69713105832879438512008-12-29T22:22:00.000-08:002009-01-05T23:52:47.374-08:00Irn Bru and Boys in Dresses<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQifwPek3EQuTbWyuU2vZmRq2dSu5kbbZCxh9QDNMYau-CXgwM8rKpTUzOOS4Uk5sXUqbW6kD5zj1ucmFU6RPTE0ROHeIx-mHE8XyZijUAhyMmog3sKRNG4eivv8W3fKpQ50PFxvePKEsY/s1600-h/images-5.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 145px; height: 90px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQifwPek3EQuTbWyuU2vZmRq2dSu5kbbZCxh9QDNMYau-CXgwM8rKpTUzOOS4Uk5sXUqbW6kD5zj1ucmFU6RPTE0ROHeIx-mHE8XyZijUAhyMmog3sKRNG4eivv8W3fKpQ50PFxvePKEsY/s320/images-5.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285466126872352674" /></a>I was going to leave this till the new year but I figured it’s a good place to close one year and enter into the spirit of the next where discussions about what isn’t and what is football fiction should continue unabated. Ferociously even, if I can manage it. <br /><br />David Walliams has written a book about a boy who plays football. A boy who plays football and likes wearing dresses. In the interests of additions to the shelf, thesimplestgame thought we’d better take a look at it. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXPGuhMdZ4K4c5rRx5hh3VLrEEABN7uHpFYEM5rQ_I2T3bly2LC_83kGEEmcwrfxn5IKgZQliS0FzTy6MAm2f97OQkCZwfUsshpaYHQqPYsi_2deaTHBELzIWvHdVaBxqO1LZdoR1zaFc/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 78px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXPGuhMdZ4K4c5rRx5hh3VLrEEABN7uHpFYEM5rQ_I2T3bly2LC_83kGEEmcwrfxn5IKgZQliS0FzTy6MAm2f97OQkCZwfUsshpaYHQqPYsi_2deaTHBELzIWvHdVaBxqO1LZdoR1zaFc/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285466566776714994" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_QqWgtLMDcrSjhXWqeGmFAbHWgLdZ5b4Ae0Rj6HR3wdbc-HieD7JdldkrFw4-i38SPTYy7L1TbSQfBKda8VRM6-y5JfbgVorLe0y9Uk72aLrGC5oXZd0z6FPdXgbAE2XUD-kIJ3QKpwh/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 86px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_QqWgtLMDcrSjhXWqeGmFAbHWgLdZ5b4Ae0Rj6HR3wdbc-HieD7JdldkrFw4-i38SPTYy7L1TbSQfBKda8VRM6-y5JfbgVorLe0y9Uk72aLrGC5oXZd0z6FPdXgbAE2XUD-kIJ3QKpwh/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285466289864383426" /></a>David Walliams is the tall one from <i>Little Britain </i>. While that should tell you about the level and style of humour in the book, for the sake of context, had you not seen the very popular BBC (now stateside) series, he’s a straight man more comfortable wearing dresses than talking about football. Still he’s had a crack (oh dear, apologies).<br /><br /><i>The Boy In The Dress</i> has done well as far as bookshops are concerned and it should. It’s funny, touching, heart-warming, sweetly delivered to its intended audience and, possibly best of all, has potential for controversy. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmimW06V7LspGYf4W9MMLK0kmnJk5Nr4jvtIdtsV8ORhn8HtXRNLwpqGsYakZxZP5_tmLjEg1EdFbMNsuTOqB_ge4fqLoE4LZ9x55V2kfI4PBJH7CnkjBLFmkmt9aagqrhYjrdnbCFBrAK/s1600-h/9780007198726.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 94px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmimW06V7LspGYf4W9MMLK0kmnJk5Nr4jvtIdtsV8ORhn8HtXRNLwpqGsYakZxZP5_tmLjEg1EdFbMNsuTOqB_ge4fqLoE4LZ9x55V2kfI4PBJH7CnkjBLFmkmt9aagqrhYjrdnbCFBrAK/s320/9780007198726.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285468493595189778" /></a>I lost the very stiff woman I was trying to sell it to at ‘…and he likes wearing dresses’. Odd in itself because I imagined Australians more tolerant of cross-dressing than they are of football. That’s if it is cross dressing, for kids this age it probably still qualifies as dressing up, doesn’t it?<br /><br />Back to the book…Its a delight to read. And not, as your brain leaps into panic at my flagrant use of the term ‘cross-dressing’, about a boy with a sexual identity crises. He just likes wearing dresses. Make up, eyelashes, tights, heels and dresses. He likes playing football too. Almost as much as he likes wearing dresses, which is just as well, because it’s his football prowess that wins his detractors over in the end. That would be a spoiler to some, but only a few, discerning readers.<br /><br />See his Mum’s gone, his Dad, a fairly hefty cardboard cut-out of an earnest and fairly typical embodiment of overtly masculine fatherliness – he likes football a lot too, but he doesn’t do boys in dresses – (apologies again for inappropriate word choice) is left to look after the boy in the dress and his rough ’n ready big brother. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxaNxC3yXSVoblQoJFCykIbeHZw-PXDQTe8lYbiWXakSZfcN-fgQt91fq510tqMw3veB8Dr0GZnoIp8Gknx2AhG0HXuEWfWj7eb0Lib2tVREH1yBFLNnnLD-YvnRHMhi2SODQjzSvlZ4b/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 98px; height: 142px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxaNxC3yXSVoblQoJFCykIbeHZw-PXDQTe8lYbiWXakSZfcN-fgQt91fq510tqMw3veB8Dr0GZnoIp8Gknx2AhG0HXuEWfWj7eb0Lib2tVREH1yBFLNnnLD-YvnRHMhi2SODQjzSvlZ4b/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285467978334317778" /></a>When he’s sent to detention the boy meets a girl. She’s only the school’s coolest, most beautiful girl. The girl he’s had crush on since like forever. They make friends and she seduces him out of his clothes and into her best frocks with a pile of Italian Vogues and a nice shade of lippy. Before anyone realises what’s going on, he’s become <i>The Boy in the Dress</i> in class, at his own school, where he poses as a female French exchange student until he falls over and shakes his wig loose.<br /><br />Importantly, he’s also the school’s star footballer. His skills allow him some Shane Warnesque leeway when his couturian adventures are unveiled. Before the stumble, he plays a few games and even scores a couple of goals, which help get his teammates to the grand final. With his teammates needing him and the headmaster having banned him for all their blushes, Williams promises and delivers an excellent resolution opportunity for the whole will-he/won’t-he-play, will-they/won’t-they-win scenario.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrp2Ksysd2uPzOiRWrx3TpfwX7Jjm2uw2zp1q8ipSiqealYUbjhPCuJsv6OJ-wnhINEguBlVt0zRvUBqNkfhqO6pDUzMimyT0B_WKPSGDmJGQKB0HxVlslPF2B_pY63Bg2k1Zqfk84coYP/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 107px; height: 143px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrp2Ksysd2uPzOiRWrx3TpfwX7Jjm2uw2zp1q8ipSiqealYUbjhPCuJsv6OJ-wnhINEguBlVt0zRvUBqNkfhqO6pDUzMimyT0B_WKPSGDmJGQKB0HxVlslPF2B_pY63Bg2k1Zqfk84coYP/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285468291392745570" /></a> Walliams’ description of the football can be painful and may even be excused when the narrator openly announces early doors (page 28) that he knows nothing about the game. Its an effective way to reduce audience expectations – this is not a sports novel. In fingering the flaw Williams essentially highlights the football as the vehicle that gains the protagonist understanding (from his family), ‘forgiveness’ (the awful general societal kind) and acceptance in his local community. It also lets Walliams make one of those oft used, parochially English, self-deprecatory joking truths designed to smooth the sharp edges off a blatant lack of competence.<br /><br />That’s not to say that Walliams is lacking in competence. He’s a funny man and he writes well. It’s just his football knowledge that’s tosh. I would imagine in terms of a football fiction perspective his efforts have, at the very least, taken the game to new audiences. That has to be commended and as a result we’d have to say <i>The Boy In The Dress</i> has found a home on the shelf.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggM9As42x-6nSxIGKeHcG8kQhlwwhkidDQu2fBClv2hvjRGb9K32Q2w3K3IjyUUqI1wL2AtLP3oa9bIjCByti0Ty827n13K2uz6ucn_CJ3PNCX38qTTJWa7OsQ6Aw52KS_Gpwm6mGlNONT/s1600-h/images-3.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 127px; height: 72px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggM9As42x-6nSxIGKeHcG8kQhlwwhkidDQu2fBClv2hvjRGb9K32Q2w3K3IjyUUqI1wL2AtLP3oa9bIjCByti0Ty827n13K2uz6ucn_CJ3PNCX38qTTJWa7OsQ6Aw52KS_Gpwm6mGlNONT/s320/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285467503186972130" /></a>Be safe in your bringing the year in. Nurse your hangovers with Irn Bru if you can and if you can’t, we hope you don’t suffer too badly. All the best from thesimplestgame.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-46805301052447000712008-12-20T19:11:00.000-08:002008-12-20T19:51:31.480-08:00popular pictures and women's football<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfD8vt3_nhjUGeJ9115h8V3Q0FhO8k9M_2LwQVXnsIZYeET0o6arMDonf2rgQw03ytAT34x3MwfkiCHPKufoxVmMsCwbGRfvvi6b6l3P6JYI9gNTcnwTiYoKPx4ueiuCxlvAnvwtxlERw/s1600-h/W+League+Rd+9+Canberra+v+Victory+-kkNc3I6WeGs.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUfD8vt3_nhjUGeJ9115h8V3Q0FhO8k9M_2LwQVXnsIZYeET0o6arMDonf2rgQw03ytAT34x3MwfkiCHPKufoxVmMsCwbGRfvvi6b6l3P6JYI9gNTcnwTiYoKPx4ueiuCxlvAnvwtxlERw/s320/W+League+Rd+9+Canberra+v+Victory+-kkNc3I6WeGs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282078075553853346" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ60iLC4PyQ2hIU13csT04MsK4Jp6vS_RnKfGBmPzn-PH-DljAmS2ASUBzU-OU-t7F9zzK5GVNqQ0tQavJwgNe2ywYmJzxD5fKx_K8GRKtbJi7YcHISWPsZNQPq0LDj3KfA02zUmk4YZS8/s1600-h/Australia+v+Canada+Women+International+Friendly+LWouugirbFjs.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 184px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ60iLC4PyQ2hIU13csT04MsK4Jp6vS_RnKfGBmPzn-PH-DljAmS2ASUBzU-OU-t7F9zzK5GVNqQ0tQavJwgNe2ywYmJzxD5fKx_K8GRKtbJi7YcHISWPsZNQPq0LDj3KfA02zUmk4YZS8/s320/Australia+v+Canada+Women+International+Friendly+LWouugirbFjs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282076145128462690" /></a>Whether its prawns and bottled beer by the pool or a couple of pints and a whisky round the fire in the pub, it seems to be the time of year for reflection and family and watching loads of telly and eating too much and drinking more than is considered reasonable. It’s the holidays though and you should be good to yourself. <br /><br />I gave a passing thought to joining the fray and posting one of those ‘the year that was’ posts, ye know, where we all cast an eye over my motley assemblage of entires into cyberspace, the football fiction, the events or the authors I’ve encountered, but you know what? You can read through those posts yourself. Have a wee look at the archive thing, <i>past the posts</i>, on the side there. >>>>>><br /><br />One thing that has been very curious though is the popularity of this picture of a woman holding her ball.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwmgTO-BIIQqd6f0oqjwYiGSjBUrznFt9vocaiveOlZUWwee0j2H4lJ1byVGnvEh8vraF7K0Zp1AJQv8bpHvny2cSn2jbsx0eFqaHhP_IiZrshNcQ_NX6lPk5Sl8c4EnsxDcJlYs-0lI4/s1600-h/girl-football-picture.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwmgTO-BIIQqd6f0oqjwYiGSjBUrznFt9vocaiveOlZUWwee0j2H4lJ1byVGnvEh8vraF7K0Zp1AJQv8bpHvny2cSn2jbsx0eFqaHhP_IiZrshNcQ_NX6lPk5Sl8c4EnsxDcJlYs-0lI4/s320/girl-football-picture.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196760373851325042" /></a> I used it to discuss <a href="http://thesimplestgame.blogspot.com/2008/05/women-were-meant-to-play-football.html"> <b>women’s football</b></a>, and maybe highlight the attractiveness of their more graceful game, but for some reason this photo keeps pulling visitors into my wee football fictive world. Now I’ve put pictures of Hiedi Klum, David Beckham, Jessica Alba, Robbie Williams, Jessica Biel, George Clooney, Angelina Jolie, the girl from Sex in the City, a women’s beach volleyball team and Danny Glover in my posts and yet the picture of the woman holding the ball has been the most requested, looked at, linked to article on my humble pages. Obviously I would love the main attractions to be my dazzling wit, rapacious insight, content, football fiction celebrities or even my sense of humour, but if it means people are reading it, it can’t be a bad thing. Can it? As unfortunate or desperate or debauched as detractors find it, sex really does <i>sell</i>. <br /><br />And that leads me nicely to my next point. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcUld416ProeudAPDkDKrXcKTfqQYMepaX7xhQJM_UNgjhPdQMoIbAtBLN9s5bxvzyHxaSxeDbdGa1O2oeic1Rqz6V_RPiu3KPU1gIOLQGDwv24PQJjE6lqP7Lpv6TpfHcLBAJynNnfSy/s1600-h/wroar5_gallery__518x400.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 154px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcUld416ProeudAPDkDKrXcKTfqQYMepaX7xhQJM_UNgjhPdQMoIbAtBLN9s5bxvzyHxaSxeDbdGa1O2oeic1Rqz6V_RPiu3KPU1gIOLQGDwv24PQJjE6lqP7Lpv6TpfHcLBAJynNnfSy/s320/wroar5_gallery__518x400.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282077726568489938" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtXVIjbM4GukXn0TfuGndAwWGhVfKZA1xO8Zn1LdOLNYTZjRWN5tjeFcJtMH4l-t8IhumMOolZE6SJSui6ShAE2LTlyLgYBQZmD7OT8laT0MoKiu4tD-jqcZjPQVHUn5R3IpfnSFxJpiJi/s1600-h/W+League+Rd+2+Roar+v+Canberra+VdQ8tr8v0cbs.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 154px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtXVIjbM4GukXn0TfuGndAwWGhVfKZA1xO8Zn1LdOLNYTZjRWN5tjeFcJtMH4l-t8IhumMOolZE6SJSui6ShAE2LTlyLgYBQZmD7OT8laT0MoKiu4tD-jqcZjPQVHUn5R3IpfnSFxJpiJi/s320/W+League+Rd+2+Roar+v+Canberra+VdQ8tr8v0cbs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282076751784814610" /></a>I can only sit back and wonder why the W-League is not picking up even bigger audiences, it’s being marketed well, Australia’s ABC have been televising weekend games and the football’s good - if you needed any more convincing that it was worth watching Tameka Butt’s absolutely delicious goal against Melbourne Victory, a perfectly weighted curler into the postage stamp, is an excellent example. <a href="http://blogs.abc.net.au/grandstand/2008/12/round-8-goal-of.html"> <i>I can assure you it’s a belter but have a look anyway</i> </a>. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQOmRF-znJv21KA1poVVPwupg70MzY_ZLDoFBWfBvKkKJutYADwgQIOhyqbcc5fm6o8jRn3rrH9pEd1L38IkCGpMU6STrPnHpB9sv4zymWEAg_swiUB38cPcHTr9R7BhyXENzOISYFcQ0/s1600-h/W+League+Rd+1+Roar+v+United+jnBvr5OfTpOl.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQOmRF-znJv21KA1poVVPwupg70MzY_ZLDoFBWfBvKkKJutYADwgQIOhyqbcc5fm6o8jRn3rrH9pEd1L38IkCGpMU6STrPnHpB9sv4zymWEAg_swiUB38cPcHTr9R7BhyXENzOISYFcQ0/s320/W+League+Rd+1+Roar+v+United+jnBvr5OfTpOl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282077049988700786" /></a>Our local team, the Women’s Queenland Roar, have just won the minor premiership and are odds on favourites to win the grand final in mid January too. The peeps at <i>thesimplestgame</i> would like to take this opportunity to congratulate the girls. They have our full support and ask that they would have yours too dear reader.<br /><br />I know there isn’t much football fiction in this post, but there will be loads in the new year including a look at David Williams (<i>Little Britain</i>) foray into the young adult fiction market. <br /><br />Before I finish I would quickly like to point to the close, and obviously unrelated, timing of the Australian Government's announcement of a $6.1bn effort to tackle homelessness and the success of the homeless world cup which finished on December 7th (that's another two fingers to you, Andrew Bolt).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRDJZe6kOBCRVWoIP8Q65VcewfsnObjkHOIwVCiewKDgFCDZyKREGxAavYKa15WAHGQnWkyRGfedpaRtWERm-mHDCl74IMPpYucoO8rwEH8OEr28Jly6yJ3t9JGWYPpO62bhSMiW6Ie5H/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 97px; height: 137px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRDJZe6kOBCRVWoIP8Q65VcewfsnObjkHOIwVCiewKDgFCDZyKREGxAavYKa15WAHGQnWkyRGfedpaRtWERm-mHDCl74IMPpYucoO8rwEH8OEr28Jly6yJ3t9JGWYPpO62bhSMiW6Ie5H/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282079130889428130" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg57HUQ-aMQVk7DWiA8-FabBkEUVhE8k-sFPiNXt3gWAhl9cuQZl5HoHhYUSZKEbDld91bi2sns6sJvNSzOIj4clX0-mattYsuprenmk8IPuPOPO1zxn0_PR3Q6zn9bvNuio0zbwfzqIHLG/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 103px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg57HUQ-aMQVk7DWiA8-FabBkEUVhE8k-sFPiNXt3gWAhl9cuQZl5HoHhYUSZKEbDld91bi2sns6sJvNSzOIj4clX0-mattYsuprenmk8IPuPOPO1zxn0_PR3Q6zn9bvNuio0zbwfzqIHLG/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282078996877790498" /></a>To everyone else thesimplestgame says, enjoy your holidays, enjoy your pressies (if you’re lucky enough to get any), enjoy yourself (I don’t mean it like that... but if that’s what it takes, knock yourself out – just wash your hands afterwards). Go merrily onwards and Slainte!the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-88780003661671953712008-12-13T17:22:00.001-08:002008-12-14T03:17:46.560-08:00they may take our homes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsl28wGs3H-jAO11MBurcdjgXbX6nn39NOP2JIVAJOvfa7rNrfbBjH-lgOHonyROGrB_TzeydXkfi1bAzcIyTZ3K_gOpvjGF3qtAGXZt-kxpsvYyy__EfOK3viupybLXJUTBMCbFa3gkqE/s1600-h/IMG_0022.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsl28wGs3H-jAO11MBurcdjgXbX6nn39NOP2JIVAJOvfa7rNrfbBjH-lgOHonyROGrB_TzeydXkfi1bAzcIyTZ3K_gOpvjGF3qtAGXZt-kxpsvYyy__EfOK3viupybLXJUTBMCbFa3gkqE/s320/IMG_0022.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279450284464187682" /></a>The 2008 homeless world cup was an amazing experience. It’s only now with distance I realise how connected I was to it. I followed the progress of a number of teams, managed to sneak into places I wasn’t supposed to be, won a few friends and witnessed some cracking football. But it had more of a grip on me than that. I could wax lyrically about the melodrama and emotional rollercoasters, but I’m not sure I could do it justice. Much of the time I was balanced somewhere between pragmatic joy and brimming over with heart strung happiness. Lumped throat, watery eyes and everything. Even when we were wandering round the Victorian State Library or eating Gelati on Lygon Street, my mind was in Fed Square.<br /><br />To those not lucky enough to have been near it, that may sound over the top. Even writing it does, but I’m at a loss as to how to convey exactly how I felt, except maybe that I was content while the tournament was being played out and more than a wee bit sad when it finished. <br /><br />So if it had that effect on me, how can it not have had an impact on the participants? My fear for those who played would be in having to return to face their own realities. I struggled a little with my own, so I don’t blame those who’ve sought refugee status for doing so – we, I should say Australians, keeping telling everyone what a great place this is, it surprises me that some still have the audacity to be stern and, worse still, abhorred when other people from somewhere much worse actually decide it is better than where they’ve come from and want to stay. Andrew Bolt, you are a dick. (I considered posting a link to his latest right wing diatribal drivel, so you could decide (see) for yourself, but elected against wasting time, yours or mine, on it.) <br /><br />Afghanistan won. They beat Russia in the final. Aye, see now there’s something in itself. The fairy tale ending. People travelled the length and breadth of the country to witness it too. Melbourne’s Fed. Square resounded with their clamour. And to defeat the Russians, well, it’s like getting yer own back on the back in the day school bully for all the chewing gum/toilet water/spit/ (<i>please insert your own personally suitable alternative</i>) in your hair.<br /><br />More important than all of that, Scotland’s quarterfinal penalty shoot out defeat of England. That’s what I said. We beat the Auld Enemy. It’s the first time in the tournament’s history that the two nation teams have met. We done them. The rivalry was energetic, fierce and very humorous. It provided a great advertisement for what the tournament’s about and a great argument against the nonsense of a GB team for the 2012 Olympics.<br /> <br />Fear not, I’m not going to turn this into one of those things where we say… ‘Och well, we got beat in the semis by the Russians and then lost to Ghana, a team we beat comfortably in the second stage, in the third place play off, but none of that matters, because the game against England was the team’s real triumph.’ That would be puerile. Churlish even. But we did beat them. We done them and the roar across Fed Square when we did made my heart sing, but I’d leave it there.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8mQmCr3y4zauyK6aJRb_EMT3vtzLjJ-LShMad2Xcv2kYWBj1GWpv4VKss-exygLqi-qV0VQXjmc0h7vhUlI5tjNYk442EG9AUdGJk2wgntFmzKyMXOohO_yef7m-7OEjzi1xUZftKRce/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 165px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8mQmCr3y4zauyK6aJRb_EMT3vtzLjJ-LShMad2Xcv2kYWBj1GWpv4VKss-exygLqi-qV0VQXjmc0h7vhUlI5tjNYk442EG9AUdGJk2wgntFmzKyMXOohO_yef7m-7OEjzi1xUZftKRce/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274981923359846962" /></a>Like I said the tournament was an amazing experience, it has the power to change things for people, like really truly madly change things. In Milan 2009, I expect it’ll be even bigger, attract even more attention – good and bad - and be an even bigger success. I'd happily get involved again.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-66699648421761698062008-12-03T15:16:00.001-08:002008-12-03T15:25:08.858-08:00impressions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8mQmCr3y4zauyK6aJRb_EMT3vtzLjJ-LShMad2Xcv2kYWBj1GWpv4VKss-exygLqi-qV0VQXjmc0h7vhUlI5tjNYk442EG9AUdGJk2wgntFmzKyMXOohO_yef7m-7OEjzi1xUZftKRce/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 165px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8mQmCr3y4zauyK6aJRb_EMT3vtzLjJ-LShMad2Xcv2kYWBj1GWpv4VKss-exygLqi-qV0VQXjmc0h7vhUlI5tjNYk442EG9AUdGJk2wgntFmzKyMXOohO_yef7m-7OEjzi1xUZftKRce/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274981923359846962" /></a>Things that have impressed me most about the homeless world cup…individual player’s stories, the how they got here and the difference it makes would break your heart a hundred times. That teams like Zimbabwe, Afghanistan and Rwanda, countries literally torn apart in recent years, are here at all. And the embracing warming sense of community, people are happy to be here, to help one another out, to get along. I know, I could be falling over clichés. But it is incredible.<br /> <br />I met one of the Scottish players on his way to play in goal for the Canadians. I stayed and watched the game. He had a good game, they needed his help. I also met the Argentinian goalkeeper. He can’t speak English and I can’t speak Spanish, despite rumours to the contrary. Mumbling common and sometimes lucky words and phrases, offering hand signals, the strangest expressions, we found a way to converse. I then watched their game against the Ukraine where he let in at least 9. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgDCL9GYqZ1u2NK5e3RxSHDwX6u1kdbfj_YvmlOIRy8khpSjlKtVsOiwozjrTOsoULhNrEssiSI5PSddUGAaLTe-Ov4hBu17evpv33UZzrVuuJ-fJnp2moYEtOJaVP0V1zrE_zmcecIJMC/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 105px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgDCL9GYqZ1u2NK5e3RxSHDwX6u1kdbfj_YvmlOIRy8khpSjlKtVsOiwozjrTOsoULhNrEssiSI5PSddUGAaLTe-Ov4hBu17evpv33UZzrVuuJ-fJnp2moYEtOJaVP0V1zrE_zmcecIJMC/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275707425285750354" /></a>He passed me on the way out after the game. He looked so gutted I didn’t have the heart to say anything – in Spanish or English.<br /><br />The other thing... some of the football has been absolutely stunning.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-56193378628842148302008-12-01T16:13:00.001-08:002008-12-01T16:34:35.305-08:00Moments from a tournament<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8mQmCr3y4zauyK6aJRb_EMT3vtzLjJ-LShMad2Xcv2kYWBj1GWpv4VKss-exygLqi-qV0VQXjmc0h7vhUlI5tjNYk442EG9AUdGJk2wgntFmzKyMXOohO_yef7m-7OEjzi1xUZftKRce/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 165px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8mQmCr3y4zauyK6aJRb_EMT3vtzLjJ-LShMad2Xcv2kYWBj1GWpv4VKss-exygLqi-qV0VQXjmc0h7vhUlI5tjNYk442EG9AUdGJk2wgntFmzKyMXOohO_yef7m-7OEjzi1xUZftKRce/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274981923359846962" /></a>The Homeless World Cup is an awesome tournament. The street soccer is fast, sharp and entertaining. Goals everywhere. Better still, the people are spectacular. I have a number of moments of magic which I will maybe share at length in later blogs but I’ve not the time… in the tradition of tv football commentary here are some highlights. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIjNpBgC9ib8cGDWP8EG2pVuMYD5gb12nc6lCki7y9ELqjzXJM14ebWr9tZeLWROsZY9s6LQIdmBabxvP_UatWlNaEoCpM7NSNsCgsVN4VccBCYJbK7UGmKeIHY36GimtYKdjV1ziOPdI/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIjNpBgC9ib8cGDWP8EG2pVuMYD5gb12nc6lCki7y9ELqjzXJM14ebWr9tZeLWROsZY9s6LQIdmBabxvP_UatWlNaEoCpM7NSNsCgsVN4VccBCYJbK7UGmKeIHY36GimtYKdjV1ziOPdI/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274980616711761554" /></a>Meeting the Scottish team. Great lads, resplendent in our national strip and out done by a classy Afghani side. The boys battled well to come back from a two-goal deficit. The game finished 5 each and the Afghani boy slid the ball around our keeper. He’d had a great game as well. I don’t think it was a bad start, in fact I think it’ll work in their favour. I believe they’ll win the rest of their games now. I think it was a result of too much pressure – when was the last time Scotland were the world’s footballing number one? <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfnbmkCb_rJWkRZ8HMXYLo9udliW3R6NwOt2mql8u7wOc_jz9-XoG8U0SpoPItm6dTKViLE-lEEJzkE09PO1Mf2PB__RN7FIuP3JzFrGkyChP8qm64lDO9qrxluCW54wUKAYeLpKc7wNmf/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 118px; height: 95px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfnbmkCb_rJWkRZ8HMXYLo9udliW3R6NwOt2mql8u7wOc_jz9-XoG8U0SpoPItm6dTKViLE-lEEJzkE09PO1Mf2PB__RN7FIuP3JzFrGkyChP8qm64lDO9qrxluCW54wUKAYeLpKc7wNmf/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274980839656801906" /></a>I’m pretty sure the playing of Scotland the Brave as our anthem, instead of Flower of Scotland may well have had an impact. It upset me. If nothing else, I was looking forward to singing it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_O5O0EZBx7LkxPhwL0UogPmpQyHNpA5AQiGIevWDtmDQaRBaAHYtPh0A2iuEE17cACWhDkq0VBm4rtDPNdwiq_o1PrO1GZ-Xf6pyUnffqP5xqMspSVhyphenhyphenEugx5_BMPMBdnSL6zdMUb2GL/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 99px; height: 99px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_O5O0EZBx7LkxPhwL0UogPmpQyHNpA5AQiGIevWDtmDQaRBaAHYtPh0A2iuEE17cACWhDkq0VBm4rtDPNdwiq_o1PrO1GZ-Xf6pyUnffqP5xqMspSVhyphenhyphenEugx5_BMPMBdnSL6zdMUb2GL/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274981302550203762" /></a>I met The Age’s Martin Flanagan, a man of great stories. Easy to see why I like reading his work, right enough. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDlDTtLcVwYUS7gpsM3alukF2YH7n4yD1ogJjPfG_rbzkID3aiLf262YHEvCH4h33CNeFAK3ZfMq7MiT_R4Q1uYeZDjPU0Vn9da2YybGza7Mh5PpJ4Mim_FXFgRKZQL6C4gdeZpBF2k2y1/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 97px; height: 64px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDlDTtLcVwYUS7gpsM3alukF2YH7n4yD1ogJjPfG_rbzkID3aiLf262YHEvCH4h33CNeFAK3ZfMq7MiT_R4Q1uYeZDjPU0Vn9da2YybGza7Mh5PpJ4Mim_FXFgRKZQL6C4gdeZpBF2k2y1/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274983121422744338" /></a>I met Lawrence Cann whose blogging about the tournament for the NY Times. He’s also President of Street Soccer USA which I think is most impressive.<br /> <br />Chibbing Craig Foster about his dislike of Scottish football and quietly reminding him that we won this tournament last year was a touch of gold to an already bejewelled day.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhrUP3GP724ORrO39MX3XONbQ77BskPeCKSEkJONLc7TkpMzJkYapbwPwnJoRSndSW6y9-UpwaRIZqp5pd4ZXWQh6bSYo_9MuzSdRXrJoLvFvoCR4qKy2HOyA1NfeginneLQ_zzkrveeAf/s1600-h/images-3.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 91px; height: 127px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhrUP3GP724ORrO39MX3XONbQ77BskPeCKSEkJONLc7TkpMzJkYapbwPwnJoRSndSW6y9-UpwaRIZqp5pd4ZXWQh6bSYo_9MuzSdRXrJoLvFvoCR4qKy2HOyA1NfeginneLQ_zzkrveeAf/s320/images-3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274981496099105346" /></a><br /><br />But watching the opening matches from the touchline among the photographers was something special. Me n the wee yin, she was on my shoulders, were moved on a number of times, but a kindly soul, a lovely lady, let me stay for the duration of the Scotland game at least. <br /><br />If the rest of the week is even half the adventure of these few wee hours, I'll be a very happy man.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-83675321733658100152008-11-27T03:50:00.000-08:002008-11-27T16:45:18.112-08:00Knuckleheads on football forums<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9AW_ffex590HmiH5vYVKsxd4qmx8x5AXOoRCUOLf6HpFhJq5dQpInV3MDPMyr9Zm2_u858aqMAYDPuD-yFlbo8vyLdKfFnQMiPmt8gBoQb0KCZWVNEzaJG5KftJwvoDWJfRZQH9tXUad/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 152px; height: 108px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9AW_ffex590HmiH5vYVKsxd4qmx8x5AXOoRCUOLf6HpFhJq5dQpInV3MDPMyr9Zm2_u858aqMAYDPuD-yFlbo8vyLdKfFnQMiPmt8gBoQb0KCZWVNEzaJG5KftJwvoDWJfRZQH9tXUad/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271007789171653858" /></a>The most worthy of international tournaments is almost upon us. Sunday night is draw night for the <a href="http://www.homelessworldcup.org">homeless world cup</a>. The route to the final which takes places the following Sunday (that'll be the 7th) will be announced. It’s exciting. Heidi Klum won't be pulling the balls out of her bag, but it is exciting nonetheless. As an added bonus wee sleekit Sepp isn't there either.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1B1AkQW0SIaK58Qenk1KvdZV2nKn3LrxVrG31BfP2KGUEa5ld8q-_d-0fyhqxerppekroAhoXlOprvddStd5NJ88_onPHe8MB2zBKQpdVKzmfQU296XzzraZjIvFLcSUaILOQE9sWOxzo/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1B1AkQW0SIaK58Qenk1KvdZV2nKn3LrxVrG31BfP2KGUEa5ld8q-_d-0fyhqxerppekroAhoXlOprvddStd5NJ88_onPHe8MB2zBKQpdVKzmfQU296XzzraZjIvFLcSUaILOQE9sWOxzo/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273309324318605554" /></a>The teams have been arriving all week. The team from Scotland came out of the gloomy rain to the warm shine of the Melbourne sun with big smiles on their faces. If you were ever looking for an example of how far the tournament has come and how far it’s brought the people it has embraced, they'd be one of many.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqDbGHXRIMZvultQbhDPuDx8NhVdfzW-8CsiRNlE93DLssekJfYbP0QRxHFmh8dxROkowdDVY53HgZULnd48fsG6WS0guDpA_DJ8VI4yf790l4S9umxdbfoEk6EkF74d_OTAjdzVDiJab4/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 87px; height: 85px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqDbGHXRIMZvultQbhDPuDx8NhVdfzW-8CsiRNlE93DLssekJfYbP0QRxHFmh8dxROkowdDVY53HgZULnd48fsG6WS0guDpA_DJ8VI4yf790l4S9umxdbfoEk6EkF74d_OTAjdzVDiJab4/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273310491504474162" /></a><br /><br />Nelson Mandela famously said, “Sport has the power to change the world.” The ripple effect of the homeless world cup which runs from the 1st to the 7th of December will be felt long afterwards. Within twelve months of 2005 Homeless World Cup in Edinburgh, 77% of players had changed their lives. They moved into education, homes, jobs, come off drugs and alcohol and improved and developed stronger social and family relationships. 12 players even got work in football as semi or professional coaches or players.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRiMqVeSqR7MAEy5fh7B1f9WptMAVZM4Hqcux38NwUfsrI7DUNWjx_Lsmto7AMRrX5KmU5jke0s1eAFLr5Thq1YLgV44idjYfyKxn1cqt-1kSFpV_Jc30YtefRe5Qa-9l8-2PeNEUdoWqb/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 137px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRiMqVeSqR7MAEy5fh7B1f9WptMAVZM4Hqcux38NwUfsrI7DUNWjx_Lsmto7AMRrX5KmU5jke0s1eAFLr5Thq1YLgV44idjYfyKxn1cqt-1kSFpV_Jc30YtefRe5Qa-9l8-2PeNEUdoWqb/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273307098581281442" /></a><br /><br />That makes the HWC a powerful thing. With 56 countries competing in men’s and women’s tournaments, this year’s HWC is the biggest yet. SBS's World Game will televise the final. Channel 10 in Oz are currently making a doco about the Street Socceroos. You know something’s working when the event is getting that kind of attention. People are really taking notice. And they should its really making a difference. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7rkwtH1Y4-UfJtnLtQ-1LO_xrWBHYFgnzEwb5Mc8uSeedpCDUdmss_UzQaUUljylbF8u7TFKFxHCnsgrYw5F15-DB90HPSP8h6_zW_VebUmVak6oB3yJUO-ILNtpqanG5HoV_T44I5us/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 123px; height: 86px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7rkwtH1Y4-UfJtnLtQ-1LO_xrWBHYFgnzEwb5Mc8uSeedpCDUdmss_UzQaUUljylbF8u7TFKFxHCnsgrYw5F15-DB90HPSP8h6_zW_VebUmVak6oB3yJUO-ILNtpqanG5HoV_T44I5us/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273305643253552258" /></a>I’ve spent close to 20 hours in the last week or so trying to get it talked about, spruiked and promoted across a number of different online forums and blogs including the old facebook. I got into trouble there for sending lots of people the same message. Spam, apparently. Pish, if you ask me.<br /><br />It’s fair to say I met with some success in some places and little or none in others.<br /><br />A true believer in karma and justice of the poetic nature, I’ll not mention names. A couple of knuckleheads on the World Game’s forum for example will hopefully be shitting hedgehogs next time they sit down to squeeze their heads. I have to add here that I think the World Game's site is a solid one with great coverage of the beautiful game. They can't be held responsible for a few broadbanded lolly boilers.<br /><br />There are some very decent peeps out there. This clip is well worth a look and it was posted by one of the many posters on the same forum... <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwmk0f2_ulM"><b>lovely music, lovely idea</b></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.brimson.net/"><b>Dougie Brimson</b></a>, author and long term friend of this blog, has vowed to give the tournament a shout on his site. Jack Bell, soccer blogger extraordinaire at the New York Times blog <a href="http://goal.blogs.nytimes.com/"><b>Goal</b></a>, is a gentleman lending his support and his blog - the US team Coach will post from the tournament. And <a href="http://au.fourfourtwo.com/aleague2008.aspx"><b>Fiona Crawford</b></a>, a foxy blogger putting the boot in for the girls at 442, is a gentle lady with plans for HWC coverage.<br /><br />I hit up some more blogs to a range of responses, including ignored, and worse, removed. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3M6xZbELohyphenhyphenXesXzdd6OWHeY84gwnrfdTzHyrbebcGokq-XgTpQfkKntyiMskNXZXWHC9D6vMEjBzNzTKNL3noqrbhHxNHwkudVldBktxrhyphenhyphenHXsFrM9R0zdYTsuTgPz4yMtRot5qcgys/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3M6xZbELohyphenhyphenXesXzdd6OWHeY84gwnrfdTzHyrbebcGokq-XgTpQfkKntyiMskNXZXWHC9D6vMEjBzNzTKNL3noqrbhHxNHwkudVldBktxrhyphenhyphenHXsFrM9R0zdYTsuTgPz4yMtRot5qcgys/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271007955906827298" /></a>I’ll be providing some scribbles and some updates here, but I’d ask you to look at the <a href="http://www.homelessworldcup.org"><b>Homeless World Cup</b></a> yourself, n maybe give somebody who needs it a hand up while you're there.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2473975333472649723.post-59959340299553552962008-11-20T23:18:00.000-08:002008-11-22T17:01:26.164-08:00A Hand Up Not a Hand Out<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3M6xZbELohyphenhyphenXesXzdd6OWHeY84gwnrfdTzHyrbebcGokq-XgTpQfkKntyiMskNXZXWHC9D6vMEjBzNzTKNL3noqrbhHxNHwkudVldBktxrhyphenhyphenHXsFrM9R0zdYTsuTgPz4yMtRot5qcgys/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3M6xZbELohyphenhyphenXesXzdd6OWHeY84gwnrfdTzHyrbebcGokq-XgTpQfkKntyiMskNXZXWHC9D6vMEjBzNzTKNL3noqrbhHxNHwkudVldBktxrhyphenhyphenHXsFrM9R0zdYTsuTgPz4yMtRot5qcgys/s320/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271007955906827298" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9AW_ffex590HmiH5vYVKsxd4qmx8x5AXOoRCUOLf6HpFhJq5dQpInV3MDPMyr9Zm2_u858aqMAYDPuD-yFlbo8vyLdKfFnQMiPmt8gBoQb0KCZWVNEzaJG5KftJwvoDWJfRZQH9tXUad/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 137px; height: 95px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-9AW_ffex590HmiH5vYVKsxd4qmx8x5AXOoRCUOLf6HpFhJq5dQpInV3MDPMyr9Zm2_u858aqMAYDPuD-yFlbo8vyLdKfFnQMiPmt8gBoQb0KCZWVNEzaJG5KftJwvoDWJfRZQH9tXUad/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271007789171653858" /></a>I love the Big Issue's slogan. It’s smart, simple and it means a great deal to the people who’ve sold the big issue in all the countries it’s now sold in. It says it all. Its not just a magazine, it’s about giving people a means to regain something, rebuild a bit, a means to get by or enough cash for a decent feed. Its a way to help the vendors sort out whatever it is they need to sort out whether it’s a job, a home or themselves.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLps6FZFRtTSXyl7NQIpAiNe_XRjsN8lByfdP5GkYgeKuE5qMUS8_6l59BJPAr3DQP-M7yg7xW7BWut8IpI2ZilW4Z9TjHbPIhwQneNbVxbGqq1I-u0mT0_Z4KlFQ4rWXw2_yGv67oZ867/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 143px; height: 99px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLps6FZFRtTSXyl7NQIpAiNe_XRjsN8lByfdP5GkYgeKuE5qMUS8_6l59BJPAr3DQP-M7yg7xW7BWut8IpI2ZilW4Z9TjHbPIhwQneNbVxbGqq1I-u0mT0_Z4KlFQ4rWXw2_yGv67oZ867/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271008081494310706" /></a> To me it’s even more than that but. What about the stick they have to take? People taking the piss or worse. It takes bollix to stand on a street corner, to be ignored by hundreds of passing people. It takes bollix to stand there and say, “Hey I know I made mistakes, I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t, but I’m trying to fix them now and you, yes you, can help me.” It takes bollix to stand there whether the weather’s shite or not, because well because there’s a millions reasons int there? I don’t know if its something I could do. They’re the ones making an effort. All we need to do is stop for a minute, put our and in our pocket. When a nod and a smile are a comfort and someone actually buying the paper is a bonus, it’s a hard road, could you do it?<br /><br />Quiet, smiling Tom, the guy who sells it on QUT campus is a gem. If it’s the second week, he even tells me, he’s like, “You sure you’ve not got this already?” and I’m like “I’m sure Tom just give us the magazine, will ye?” I’d get it off him every week. Because he’s honest, because its a good read (interesting, topical, funny and definitely worth 5 bucks) and because he’s making an effort. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7BRRqlVWhN9gaz8-EdOFJOos_8uJvd-ZhOYEcz28CE7Eh3AwsR9StU_4Qn5IqNhyxZR00k_ELK5HXnKYWu1yTT4ROLhKuB1LZnsmof5Sgs9NmNy5fdW3paHVSh5ApofyjXEbLSxtj4CzO/s1600-h/images-6.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 128px; height: 96px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7BRRqlVWhN9gaz8-EdOFJOos_8uJvd-ZhOYEcz28CE7Eh3AwsR9StU_4Qn5IqNhyxZR00k_ELK5HXnKYWu1yTT4ROLhKuB1LZnsmof5Sgs9NmNy5fdW3paHVSh5ApofyjXEbLSxtj4CzO/s320/images-6.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271009546801626130" /></a>Now when Mel Young and Harold Schmied banged their heads together and the homeless world cup fell out, it took the issue to a new place. They weren’t talking about giving somebody a wee job for a spell, they weren’t talking about helping somebody or giving them a hand. This was something new, something much bigger. They set out to give people a once in a lifetime experience. Along with their respective organisations they've said ‘Here, start again’ or ‘Life doesnae always need to be a struggle’. <br /><br />Hey, it’s no a holiday by any means. Try 15 minutes of street soccer. Its hard work. The team players don’t just show up on a Saturday to find their boots polished and the strips ironed, they have to put in a tremendous effort off the park as well as on it. Just getting to practice every week is a steep hurdle over the water.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn7EKY_WsiWCm2QNRqzofKDZEON5Ut1dAgo8gMPaSsiRNYIAZmQX5TVoSH-Y58LpqYEX3uLjAJq9-R51FBAiIp9s8ALrO2pBcDtfqusoYJuSrwQigHTnQ9PWrTcu5dCIGrd87niK1DG23O/s1600-h/images-4.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 78px; height: 116px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn7EKY_WsiWCm2QNRqzofKDZEON5Ut1dAgo8gMPaSsiRNYIAZmQX5TVoSH-Y58LpqYEX3uLjAJq9-R51FBAiIp9s8ALrO2pBcDtfqusoYJuSrwQigHTnQ9PWrTcu5dCIGrd87niK1DG23O/s320/images-4.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271008393372724114" /></a>I don’t just think the <a href="http://www.homelessworldcup.org">Homeless World Cup</a> is important, I love it. And not just because Scotland are the current world champs either. The HWC is about football. Football that actually changes people’s lives. Really changes them. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Scotland’s coach, is just one of many shining examples of what I’m talking about.<br /><br />You don't have to imagine it, football is the Anthony Robbins here, and it’s not charging some mug a small fortune to walk over hot coals.<br /><br />So make an effort, it doesn’t even have to be a big one, just show them some support. Buy an issue, donate some cash, take the vendor a cup of coffee. Go and see the documentary.<br />Or <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQiszH1hyphenhyphenhngWoJ9d-WI30BtqzJweHxyCHZQk4tkNiE2HG1h2UisyBbu6-iwEpE_ca1Hdk8EPFMivzP7BwRjBAjt89meHckn2DaoH2kcL0MNxmWWkVhj0qWJrUMyZhj-vrywUc8fvtwRy/s1600-h/images-5.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 94px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQiszH1hyphenhyphenhngWoJ9d-WI30BtqzJweHxyCHZQk4tkNiE2HG1h2UisyBbu6-iwEpE_ca1Hdk8EPFMivzP7BwRjBAjt89meHckn2DaoH2kcL0MNxmWWkVhj0qWJrUMyZhj-vrywUc8fvtwRy/s320/images-5.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271008585054891442" /></a>Keep an eye on the results at this year’s tournament in <b>Melbourne - December 1st to December 7th – </b>if your in Melbourne Federation Square is just one of the venues.<br /><br />There’s 56 countries competing this year, so there’s every chance your country could be could be a world champion football side and you wouldn’t even know it.the ink-stained toe-pokerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08223704916998468741noreply@blogger.com3