This is just a quick post. It is a post that not many people will actually read, but its purpose is to highlight why I write a blog. Something happened on Friday in terms of my other blog, Parla Calcio? I sent a link to a football writer on twitter, as I thought they might like to read into the project I have started – to use football to learn a different language. That person, Michael Cox of Zonal Marking fame, has over 41,000 followers on twitter. He was kind enough to be polite about what I was doing, and retweeted – sent a link – to his followers. All 41,000+ of them. I casually looked at the analytics attributed to that site yesterday and
Monthly Archive:: August 2011
I swear. I swear a lot. I can never remember if it is like a docker, a trooper, a fox or a pig. Either way, it is something I do on a regular basis. Or at least I once did. Have a baby and everyone with or without a kid will instantly tell you that your life is about to change. What they don’t tell you is that, rather than the social, working or sporting side of your life – all of which you can just about manage to keep a hold of in some part – it is your mannerisms that change the most. Before Lauren was born, I’d regularly call friends a ‘knobber’ – within reason, as in they had acted like one.
I’m a mess. With each passing week – with each frayed collar, each lost button – every load of washing (of which I am unlikely to have played an active part), it is clear. I am letting myself go. I can’t remember the last time I bought an item of clothing – can’t remember the last time I set up the iron without trepidation of finding another stain, another loose stitch – my favourite shirt giving up the ghost. It wasn’t always like this. I used to take pride in my appearance. I’d regularly siphon funds from various pay packets to ensure that I had a new work shirt at least once a month – had a new round neck, imported American t-shirt – sometimes
Pro Vercelli – A logical decision Guest blog for the wonderful In Bed With Maradona site. Part of the continued introduction to the new site Parla Calcio? A brief(ish) guide on how to pick a football team – and the inner workings of an obsessive mind
Originally posted on Parla Calcio? Oh Italy. The place I’d love to one day call home – that beautiful country I have visited more than any other (if you discount Lancashire) in recent years. Italy – the home of great food, great wine, historical landmarks, fantastic football teams – and a language so, so, err, so…. Parla Calcio? This is a project I have thought about doing for a couple of years now. A way in which I can interweave my love for football with a burning desire I have to learn the Italian language. To see if the language of football – that of players names, club names, stadium names, formations – can be used as a bridging gap between the vocabulary used to
Bit of a departure from the usual stuff on here. Was given free rein to write a Nostradamus influenced preview for the forthcoming Spurs season. The repetition and length also lends itself to the Epic poetry of Homer etc.. Though that makes it sound fairly highbrow – when all it really is, is a chance to let my overly active imagination run riot – whilst taking the proverbial out of Spurs players along the way. Big thanks to Spooky at Dear Mr Levy for letting me bring the quality of his site down somewhat. The Tottenham Prophecy – Part One The Tottenham Prophecy – Part Two The Tottenham Prophecy – Part Three
Even if you have nothing to write, write and say so. Marcus Tullius Cicero I give up too easily. It’s one of the (no doubt many) negative traits I have. When I was younger my mum organised for me to join the Cubs. She spent a month sending me in my tracksuit, making sure that I was happy and enjoying the experience – and then, after I’d convinced the various Jungle Book characters that I was made of the right kind of “stuff” – they agreed to let me join on a proper basis. They gave my mum details of where to buy a uniform. And then, with uniform hanging in my wardrobe, I gave up – I simply got bored. I no longer enjoyed
What a mess. I’m finding it hard to watch the images on the screen. Even harder listening to the empty shell of a man trying to fathom why someone has set fire to his family business. What makes it hard is that the images are not from some far off battlefield, or political hotspot – but London; my London. OK – so it’s some six years and more since I last lived in London, but then – unless you really want to – I don’t think you ever truly erase the identity of where you were born. My accent betrays me the instant I start to speak – the words I use, not necessarily slang in form, can be traced back to my youth. Even
This guest post is part of a series of first memories of football. As the piece explains, this match wasn’t my first actually footballing memory – more the first time I can recall football actually meaning something more than just being a game, on TV, where the result was a mere formality. When it started to mean more than what it really should