Pour me a glass of vino rosso, sit me in a comfortable chair and ask me what my favourite film is.

Truth is I don’t care much for films. I get bored quickly; fidgety – even quicker. So the thought of sitting through most films leaves me cold. But favourite films – that’s a different matter.

As I swirl the wine around in the glass, pretending I know what I am doing – I’m letting it breath, right? – I will look up, with a dead straight face and say: “Either The King and I or An American in Paris”.

Obviously there is a love for the Star Wars or Godfather series, but there is something magical that keeps drawing me back to the mesmeric dance moves of both Yul Brynner and Gene Kelly. It’s the notion that two achingly-cool men could somehow look even better, as they moved across a dancefloor/stage/set – without any hint of campness shattering the illusion.

I first realised that I had found an icon in Kelly when watching films like “Singing in the rain” or “On the town”. Even as a child I understood the notion that men like women, want to be with women – might have to do something to impress women. Whilst I was still perfecting farts or play-punching, then running off from any girl that might have shown an interest – Kelly was showing me what I should really be doing. Jumping off a castle set, turning over a sofa and tap dancing his way in to the hearts of every woman he came across.

Brynner was different. Brynner was not just swagger cool; he was moody cool as well. Mean eyes staring out from under a bald head added an element of fear to him in “The King and I”, that I wanted to replicate. He doesn’t dance as much as Kelly, but then when he does – he bounds and glides effortlessly across the floor. It is of a time. I am clearly of the wrong time.

I must have watched “The King and I” a hundred times or more. I owned the soundtrack to “An American in Paris” – but I never did dance like my two favourite movie stars.

I once saw an advert for dance classes in the church hall when going to cubs. I looked at the people going in to the class – mainly girls or boys I didn’t talk to at school. As I stood in the door way in my hair shirt and woggle, I realised that was no place for me. Could you imagine the ridicule? I mean, the only men you saw dancing on TV were Lionel Blair or Wayne Sleep, and they never really seemed to capture the hearts of women, in quite the same way Kelly or Brynner did.

If only Billy Elliot had been written in the ‘80s.

As I got older I tried to dance whenever the opportunity arose. The ‘90s were great for making an exhibition of yourself through the latest nightclub dance trends. I may not quite have perfected the swan dive to caterpillar move, but the side shuffle in to Running Man was how I owned the floor – Keith Flint had nothing on me. Unfortunately the years passed, the pounds increased and the joints deteriorated. The last time I did the Running Man was at my mate, Neil Quigley’s wedding. I woke up the following day unable to bend my leg – spent a week off work with a Meniscus tear.

Never again I told myself. Well, not until the next time.

It is a shame I felt constrained by the machismo of youth. By the fear of being ridiculed for trying out something that didn’t involve a ball, a shout, an uncomfortable pair of shorts. Who knows, I could have been the next Gene Kelly – had the strut of the next Yul Brynner – but then, other than through the work of Baz Luhrmann, dance scenes in movies no longer seem to have that same wow factor as they did in films like “West Side Story”.

Ah well. At least in my head I have Sister Sledge asking why I am, indeed, the greatest dancer – but even then I concede that in terms of hopping around to music with Lauren, she’s the only one with a future on the stage.

My dancing days are behind me. My hobbling in to a pointy shuffle days are all that lie ahead.

Hmm… maybe I should focus on my role as an android in a western style, amusement park instead?

Belief.

It’s a strange thing to explain to people. A sense of knowledge and understanding that comes solely from within – even if it is passed down through the ages. Only you can believe. Only you have the power to believe.

Christmas is an interesting time when you have a young child. There are a number of messages – factual and make believe – that we, as adults, have the option to decide whether we play out in front of our children.

There is the role of the saviour of mankind – and then there is the jolly, cheery gift bringer. One will forgive you of your sins, whilst the other will log your misdemeanours on a list and use them against you. One transcends religions – the other advertises fizzy pop.

Only one of them will be discussed with Lauren.

I’m a non-practicing Catholic. I think that’s the polite way of saying that I haven’t been given a strong enough reason to believe in God. I’m not saying there is no supreme being – just, well, I’m 2000 years too late to see the water on my table turned to wine. It’s usually left to Waitrose to perform that miracle.

If I’m undecided as to whether I believe in God – it’s basically 99%-1% against – then I know I’m fully in the “there is no Father Christmas camp”. My mum tries hard to keep my faith in the cheery chap. I still get a gift tag or two from him. Usually a packet of socks or a book I’ll never read – but then I’ve known since the age of about five that there was only one person responsible for my Christmas morning Spurs kit, or the legendary Castle Greyskull year.

Lauren this year has two stockings. One of them is from Amy and me – one from Father Christmas. Amy’s made sure that the killer gifts, the ones that will hopefully make Lauren so excited that she’ll bounce like Tigger with delight, are from us. Old St Nick is the left with, well, stocking fillers. Something for her to open in the morning – before we move on to the marathon that is present time with both our families.

Imagine then a generation ago. Long after I should have stopped believing in Father Christmas, I was still preparing for my first Holy Communion. Still singing carols in church for whichever visiting Cardinal the school had lined up that year. I was made to believe in God. Made to accept Jesus for what he was supposed to be.

Something I couldn’t now explain to a child of two.

But I can explain Father Christmas. I can look beyond the fact that we don’t have a working chimney. I can give up half a pint of my beer, the last mince pie – I can usher in the dog to eat the carrot left out for the reindeers, all in the hope that it keeps up the mystery; the illusion that adds to the magic of Christmas. Not for me – but for Lauren.

For that’s all that matters.

I believe there was a man called Jesus who lived 2000 years ago. There are non-Christian sources, both Jewish and Roman, that give reference to him. For the record I doubt I ever really believed there was a Father Christmas. Maybe there was someone mystical, who, like Mario Balotelli, would spread joy and happiness around his neighbourhood – but he didn’t live in the North Pole; he didn’t fly on a sleigh pulled by reindeers. But then it doesn’t matter what I know – what I believed.

If Lauren wants to believe – if Dora the Explorer wants to sell an idea that makes a two year old excited – then I’ll embrace it, roll with it, and use it to my advantage. For I’ve never known a child smile at the prospect of a visit from Jesus in the same way that Lauren fell asleep happy; exhausted after a day of pre-Christmas excitement.

God bless Father Christmas. Soon enough Lauren will doubt you ever existed – until then, well – I’ll use you in whatever way I can.

Just as long as you continue to make my little girl happy.

I’m sat at a table. It is a table big enough to sit six large chairs around.

My hair is tidy; if a little long. My eyes are heavy – blue, but bloodshot. My features both puffy and sharp; stubble of two days is scratchy and loud to touch. I sit like a burst couch, slumped midway between chair back and table.

I’m wearing worn clothes. Not worn as in draped over, more worn as in fraying. The cuffs on my hoodie are going. The collar on my shirt has gone – the ends of my jeans both grey and tattered. I am a man who clearly does not care for shopping.

The room’s lights have been dimmed to the point I’m tempted to turn them up – but I continue to write. Continue to stare through the glare of the screen in front of me. I type on a laptop with a faulty G key. I have to press the G key harder than I think is wise.

The room is a kitchen. It’s a kitchen I worried would cost too much to renovate. Would be transformed and remain unused. I would still sit in other rooms. Still sit, transfixed to the sporting figures flickering across the TV in the ‘living lounge’ – as my daughter likes to call it. I was wrong. The kitchen is now my “studio”; my creative space. It is the place I surround myself with ideas – with things to write about.

The kitchen isn’t quite finished. A bare, unpainted wall is part hidden by the art work of a two and a half year old. For something to end up, not quite finished, is not uncommon in my life – my Open University studies, a number of books, a blog post or two – all evidenced in this room.

The room harbours an unhealthy mix of the old and new. Unhealthy in that it makes me crave the replacement of old, with the unnecessary desire for the new. An old oven is clearly unloved – dirty, covered in grease. It sits below a new, glossy – shiny oven with touch screen buttons. It is rare for us to use both as planned. I’ll rectify that with a roast dinner on New Year’s Eve.

Opposite the oven sits a coffee machine. It is a coffee machine that no longer works due to the laziness of this blogger. I put an important piece through the new dishwasher – tarnishing the portafilter. I can replace the portafilter. I’d rather replace the whole machine. It has outlived my want to replace it.

A bottle of wine sits on the table. It’s Australian. It is a blend; 14.5%. I ungratefully tweeted about the wine today. I should have happily accepted it in the spirit it was offered – instead I passed comment. I judged the wine. I wish my first step was to not approach life on the negative path.

I’m listening to “Birdhouse in Your Soul”. It’s a favourite, but rare in that I never moved beyond it; never checked out other records by They Might Be Giants. I have plenty of records by bands I only ever enjoyed one song from – why not this band?

I notice an envelope on the table. It has Amy’s name first. All, bar one of the Christmas cards we have received have started with Amy’s name first. I’m not a card sender. It is therefore unwise to assume I will be a card receiver.

My tea has gone cold. I’d prefer a coffee. The more I type the colder the tea will get. I will finish it, in one, with a wince. I never let coffee get to that point.

My thoughts return to the room – to the wine, the cow cup, the coffee machine, the exposed wood covering the pipes, the elephant painting, the dimmed lights, the seven weeks we were forced to live with the in-laws whilst we waited for this moment – even the money we spent. It was all worth it.

This is my room. This is my studio.

This is where my ideas come to life.

This post was inspired by Rembrandt’s “The Artist in His Studio”

On the first day of January.

Well actually, charity is merely extended – given to a new cause at that time.

Still fearful of that Humble Brag klaxon, but here goes with the latest cry for help.

I have been donating regularly for most of my working life. Previous employers would often give the last working hour of the year to their nominated charity. Other places, such as where I work now, hold monthly charity drives – usually coffee and cake mornings. You donate your pounds by adding the pounds. It seems to work.

But now I’m looking for inspiration. I’ve previously set up a yearly, personal donation. I’ve given to all the big names – Oxfam, Save the Children, UNICEF etc. It’s easy to donate to global organisations as you can work out how your money can be spent. £10 a month buys 36 textbooks for children via Oxfam. £3 a month saves lives through Save the Children. They also provide a breakdown of how your pounds are spent within the organisation.

So do I find another giant of the charity world to give my money over to – one that will simply deduct a direct debit, send me a badge, thank me for my donation – and email me regularly to see if I would like to top up my donation to support another area of the world in crisis?

Or is there another way?

I have 30 days now to choose a new cause. My motivation was sparked by an email asking me to promote a charity and its associated event on this blog. I declined. There was no issue taken with the approach, just that I feel no link to the charity – no desire to get involved with the event. If I am to promote something, it should be because I believe in it; right?

I am thankful for the approach, as it has made me question my own approach to charity. It all seems a bit, well, half hearted to say “I give to charity” when really it’s my employer that gives. I just sign/agree how much they do give once my wages hit my bank account. Surely there should be more to it than that?

So with that in mind, in 2012 – a new approach is needed.

They say charity starts at home. To look there for clues would throw up suggestions such as arthritis (me), diabetes (Mum), anything children related (in a “touch wood” manner). There’s even the work of Brook, a young people’s sexual health charity which has a friend as its National Director. I’m not young but am always engrossed by the commitment shown by Simon Blake to promote this worthy cause.

A quick scan of google throws up a host of viable names to set up a direct debit with, but should next year be the year I donate myself – beyond just my money?

Don’t worry; I’m not going to start updating my facebook status with photos of facial hair or the number of miles I’ve run this week. But I would appreciate a few hints as to what others do. How they might have got involved in volunteering – how they chose their charity in the first place. Is it a better idea to support local causes than national or even global organisations?

The clock is ticking. I have 30 days to make a decision that could, albeit in a small way, make the lives of others more bearable. I won’t win any philanthropy awards, but I might make a difference, I might actually enjoy the process by which I make that difference.

Just where I will make the difference is currently unknown.

Help!

If you would like to know more about Brook, please follow this link to their supporting page

The rain was getting harder.

Nix was sure Chris was behind her when she walked out of the bar; but now he was nowhere to be seen. She tried to call out to him, but couldn’t make herself heard over the sound of car horns and revellers spilling out of the bars on First Avenue.

She dived in to a doorway, desperately trying to regroup her thoughts; regain her composure. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have had that final giant martini. She looked in her bag for her mobile phone. It wasn’t there. She emptied the contents of the bag on the floor. It still wasn’t there. She swore. She chastised herself for swearing. She swore again.

She was about to brave the rain once more, when a voice called out to her from a darkened corner of the doorway.

“Hey, princess – you’re a princess right? I can tell from the way you were talking to yourself. I can tell a lot about you. Princess! Over here.”

Nix moved deeper in to the doorway. A taxi pulled up on the road beside her, illuminating the dark of the space with its headlamps. There, caught in the light, on a perch, in the middle of a rainstorm – was a parrot.

“Hey, princess – are you looking for a good time? I can show you a good time. All you need do is trust me. You do trust me, don’t you? Princess?”

How could you not trust a parrot, Nix thought?

“Yes, I trust you.”

“Good, good. Now listen here. I wanna show you a good time, but, well, you still trust me right?”

Nix nodded

“Good, good. OK, here’s what you do. Under my perch is a boot. Take a look inside that boot.”

Nix moved closer to the parrot, dropping her head under the perch to find the most beautiful, leather boot.

“Go on, look inside.”

Nix put her hand inside the boot. There was a solid object wedged in the toe. It was made of metal and glass. She took it out. It was a phone. No. It was her phone. The phone she couldn’t find in her bag.

“Read the message” the parrot squawked.

Nix could see there was one, unread BBM. She toggled to open the message.

WE’VE BEEN EXPECTING YOU

A door opened behind the parrot.

“Just keep on trusting me, princess. You’re in for one hell of a ride.”

Nix looked back towards the sidewalk. This was Chris’s first night in New York. He could be anywhere, lost, and stuck out in that rain. She then looked back at the door. A green light glowed dimly from the gap between the door and its frame. Nix wanted to say no, to turn back and find her friend – but the light seemed to call out to her – seemed to beckon her closer. She turned to ask the parrot what she would find behind the door, but the parrot and its perch were gone. The doorway was gone. The rain was gone. The sidewalk appeared to be almost out of sight. Nix walked towards the door.

———————————————————————————————–

On the other side of the door was a circular room with a single green light and two doors either side – the one she had just walked through, and another – with BONNIE TYLER scrawled across it. She felt the hairs standing upright on her arms. She felt the dampness of the fedora on her brow. She tasted the last of that giant martini in her mouth. This no longer felt like it was a good idea.

She tried to open the door she had just come through but the handle wouldn’t budge. She tried to call out to the parrot, but no sound came from her mouth. She closed her eyes, took off her hat and ran her fingers through her wet hair.

“You still trusting me?” a voice seemed to say in her head.

She opened her eyes, readjusted her hat – and walked towards the door. She reached out her hand and gently turned the handle. She could hear talking, but couldn’t make out what was being said. Trust the parrot she kept telling herself. She opened the door.

“Ah come in, come in.”

There, sat on a burgundy leather pouffe, was a slightly tatty, dusty looking swan. It was a talking swan – a swan that appeared to be colouring in the webbing of its feet with a red marker pen. The swan pointed its beak towards a sex swing hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the room

“Please. Do sit down.”

Nix nestled her bottom on the bar of the sex swing. The swan looked her up and down.

“You’re not a virgin. I asked the god Thor to send me a virgin. I need to have sex with a virgin; otherwise I’ll never regain my human form. No, no no. This just won’t do.”

“How do you know I’m not a virgin?” asked Nix.

“Did the parrot send you in here with the promise of a good time?”

“Yes he did!”

“Then you’re not a virgin. He keeps those for himself.”

Nix didn’t know whether she should be amazed or appalled by the criticism of a talking swan. She was about to defend her honour – to tell him that whilst she was no virgin, she could still help any creature find the hidden man in them; but the swan spoke again.

“You’ll have to go” it said. “I’ll have to summon Thor once more.”

Nix eased herself off the sex swing and back towards the door. She bid the Viking Swan farewell, and wished him better luck with his prayers.

“Dear Thor. Maybe this time you could send one that hasn’t seen such a good time.”

The swan’s voice trailed off as Nix walked out of the door and back in to the room. The room had changed. It was now square. The green light was now blue. The door on the opposite side of the room had a “Happy Birthday Bonnie Tyler” banner stapled to it. She backed round. There was no longer a door behind her. She looked around the room. There was nothing but the single door and a PowerPlate machine. Would she ever get back out to find Chris?

She walked towards the door, once more, gently turning the handle.

The room was bright, airy, yet full of the most captivating aromas Nix had ever encountered. In the corner of the room she noticed a man wearing a name badge. His name was Edward. Edward was making food of some kind. Spring rolls, noodles and shredded cabbage. Edward was shredding the cabbage with his hands; hands that appeared to have scissors for fingers. In the middle of the room were three figures. Nix’s eyes were immediately drawn to a Japanese woman wearing nothing but a New York Red Bulls scarf around her waist. She was shouting at a man sat opposite her, whilst another woman – staring, transfixed at her near, naked companion, egged her own.

“You told me this was a naturist restaurant. Do you really think I’d come for noodles without my kit on, if it wasn’t?”

“You tell him, ‘chell. Fancy getting you to come out for dinner with your growler on show – it’s just not on.”

The man saw Nix in the doorway.

“Hey, lady! Help me out here. Is there a sign on the door that promises an all you can eat naturist buffet?”

Nix looked for a sign. “Err. It says natural food buffet. All you can eat, natural food buffet. No MSG added.”

“Oh damn. Look, Michelle. I’m sorry. I went to the opticians last week. My eyes have been playing up. My optician is next door, but I must have read the sign on the way in. Let’s just finish our food and go.

“I’m never going to talk to you again.”

“I don’t blame you ‘chelle. But ‘chelle – if it’s any consolation; you do have great tits tonight.”

“Shut up, Dawn!”

Edward called over to Nix. “Can I get you anything?”

“Do you know the way out of here?”

“Yeah, just go back through the door and along the corridor. You should see a door with a brass plaque. That door will take you back out on to the street.”

“Thanks. And ‘chelle – Dawn’s right.”

The man smiled. No one else was smiling.

Nix turned around and walked back out of the door. This time she found herself in a narrow corridor. At the other end of the corridor was a tall, white door. Next to the door was a lamp. The lamp illuminated a brass plaque. Nix read the plaque:

“The residence of Dr Bonnie Tyler MD”

Nix knew the drill. She stretched out a hand, but as she did, she heard a knock on the door. The knocking got louder. Nix leant in closer. The knocking was followed by a voice.

“Hey princess! Are you OK in there?”

Nix turned the handle. The door opened out in to a unisex bathroom. In front of her stood a man dressed as a parrot.

“You were making some funny noises in there. Are you alright?”

Nix was no longer sure if what she was experiencing was reality, or another room – another level to the madness that had come before. She took a breath, closed her eyes and hoped this was reality.

“Err yeah. Fine. I think I just had one too many giant martinis.”

“You should lay off of those, princess. They’ll mess you up bad.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

Nix walked over to the mirror and smiled at her reflection. She quickly splashed her face with water, checked she had her bag, and made her way out of the toilet. On the other side of the door was Chris.

“What took you so long? That Finkelstein fella is doing my nut in.”

“Oh, err, sorry. I must have dozed off whilst having a tinkle”

“No worries. Come on, it’s still early. Where are we off to next?”

“Let’s go and get something to eat. But hey, somewhere where the staff have all their own fingers.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll explain on the way.”

Nix led Chris up the stairs and out on to the street. Chris hailed a cab. Nix heard a beep from her bag. It was her phone. It was a message:

WE HOPE YOU HAD A GOOD TIME. SEE YOU AGAIN SOON. LOVE BT.

I see her now.

She is dancing between the pedestrians on the side walk – disappearing and reappearing from behind the plumes of steam that rise from the road. I watch her as she punches the air – no doubt listening to something upbeat on her iPod. She is oblivious to the people around her.

She bumps in to someone. They go as if to snarl, but in an instant, their face glows with warmth and humility. She apologises. They chat as if they have known each other for years – and then, like the strangers they are, disappear back in to their own worlds. She bumps in to someone else.

I call her name. “Nix!”

She waves back – a smile arching over the road like a rainbow. She starts to cross the road, to jaywalk; forgetting for the briefest of moments that she no longer lives in Forest Hill. A traffic cop blows a whistle and points to the stop light. She takes a step back and catches my eye. I mockingly wag my finger as a teacher would to a pupil. I laugh. She always makes me laugh. The stop light turns green and she is over beside me.

We hug. It feels like years since our last hug.

“How you doin’” she says in a mock, Brooklyn accent. I remind her that she lives between Union Square and the Meatpacking District. You won’t find any taxi drivers or teamsters living where she does these days. They all moved out when the TV programmes started glamorising her neighbourhood. The only meatpacking she is ever likely to see is through the inappropriately skinny jeans the hipster boys like to wear these days.

“Where are we going on my first night in town?”
“Oh, shoot.”
Is she really going to use an American accent all night long? This act could get boring, very quickly.
“I completely forgot you were here. I’ve made other plans.”
Do I act surprised, or let loose with how I really feel?
“I’m only messin’ with you dude. We’re going big. Cocktail city, baby.”
I’m tempted to ask her if I amuse her, but feel the reference might be lost on her; feel I might pull out my own tongue if I start copying her.

She tells me about this great new place called The Beagle over on the East Side. How she bumped in to one of the Twilight actors, or she thinks they were in Twilight, she can’t actually remember. What she can remember is that they had the most divine bag with them. Or was it a pair of shoes? Did she even go to that bar?

We get a cab the length of 14th Street. She starts to reel off all the things we should do whilst I’m here. I tell her I want to check out a few sites – I want to go to MoMA and cross the Brooklyn Bridge. She laughs.

“No one crosses the Brooklyn Bridge. Not even people from Brooklyn.”

The cab catches every stop sign. Nix doesn’t bother trying to catch her breath. It’s as if she failed to declare any form of punctuation at passport control. They took all the full stops away – leaving her with only a comma, which must be shown to the local authorities on a weekly basis.

————————————————————–

You can see, hear, and feel the excitement in the cab. It’s as if she has travelled to New York and is reborn. She has had a spiritual awakening. Though you know the only spirits in her life come in glass bottles, served by achingly attractive men. I feel old and worn down sat next to her. When will I be reborn?

We get to the bar. I really need a drink; any kind of drink. The flight, the problems getting in to the city – losing my bag – have all made me cranky. My mood isn’t helped by the coolness that oozes from the punters in front of me. I’m not dressed for a place like this. I try to tell Nix that I need to go back to hers to freshen up, but she’s already three people deep ahead of me.

“Hey, come on man. Catch up.”

She bumps in to a guy she knows at the bar. You can never tell if Nix really knows someone. She interacts with strangers in the same way I talk to my family. She has them spilling out their life story to her – his name is Harvey Finklestein, he works in finance (don’t they all), he’s in my way. I try to be polite, try to act cool – I don’t do cool. I do irritated. I do thirsty. I do borderline alcoholism – which could be cool if I was an actor, or a pimp, but I’m in projects, at a university – in England. What’s cool about that?

Finkelstein is still chatting. Still between me and the bar. I can see Nix winding up the conversation. He offers to buy her a drink but she’s already on the move. Already chatting to an old/new/dear stranger in front of her. We’re now further away from the bar. I shout to her. “Nix, what do you want to drink?” “Anything, darling.” Why did she call me darling?

I get to the bar. I opt not to wave my $20 bill about like the rest of the customers around me – not because I think it’s rude, but because I’m not actually sure I can buy two drinks with $20. The barman asks what I want. I ask what beer they have. I don’t care too much for his response. I ask for a Negroni and an Espresso Martini. I turn back round to see Nix moving deeper in to the crowd. She playfully high-fives someone as she walks to a table full of model types, with untouched drinks and small sideplate meals. I look for some commonalty between myself and the table of people I am about to join, and all I can come up with is that we were once, all babies. This could be a long night.

I turn to pick up the drinks. Wow. Enough change to tip.

I walk from the bar to where she was standing, but I can’t see her. I catch a glimpse of her smiling face, but then I lose her again in the crowd. I lose her to the others she is chatting to. I lose my signal. I lose her Facebook status updates. I lose the chance to follow her, and then, just like that – I am back – back in a coffee shop in Leeds.

“Would you like anything else with that espresso, man?”

“A first class ticket to New York, please.”

“Err; I can do you a pastrami sandwich?”

“Better make it to go.”

Image: Brooklyn Bridge (EzineMark.com)

“Right chaps. The battles lines have been drawn.

Blog A. I want you to come round the rear flank of the profit making organisations that use bloggers without paying, and tweet them hard.

Blog B. It’s your job to facebook status the life out of those websites that use our content without asking, and don’t link to our sites in the way we expect them to.

What’s that Blog A – you’re happy to hand over your content for free, even though there is no guarantee it will lead to anything else?

What about you Blog B. I take it your think any exposure is good and you simply feel honoured that a popular website is using your content without adhering to our agreed protocol? You do? Are you sure?

Blog C – sound the retreat. Our defences have been compromised. Fall back to Blog D’s position, where I believe they are currently fighting a sarcastic battle against a journalist who may or may not have mocked bloggers that criticise their work.”

Starting a blog is an easy thing to do. You think up a name (this site’s name is a play on northern lights; because I live in the north and I have been known to write) – you decide on the topics you want to cover – and then you get on with it.

Keeping a blog going is much harder. Sometimes the well of inspiration runs dry. Other times I’ll get a flash of inspiration when stood in the shower – but by the time I’ve got out, spoken to Amy, got dressed etc – that great idea has long since passed.

And then there are the times when I just can’t be bothered.

The difficulties faced are you usually born of me. The (lack of) effort put in is down to me. The content I write is down to me. The decision to watch TV rather than coax an idea out for my reader (singular form) is down to me. The limitations on form, style, grammar – flow – all down to me (you can’t blame a teacher you spent five years ignoring).

What I didn’t consider was that a vision, position, on what I expect of the content once it goes in to the public domain – is not necessarily down to me.

Though it should be – right?

There have been two brouhahas raging through twitter over this past week. The first being the “misguided” and “inappropriate” way in which bloggers are happy to provide content for free – to sites/organisations that may make a profit from their work. The second slanging match – read heated debate, is the notion that other sites can lift your content, formulate their own news items and, after giving reference to your site (not necessarily linking), post it without permission.

I need to caveat any discussion of the misappropriation of material on the net with the obvious statement that I am, indeed, a thief. The images used on this site may have been used without permission. The images and videos used on my other blog – Parla Calcio? – are also used without permission. The videos used tend to be lifted from YouTube, but YouTube is clearly not the original source – and hiding behind the misguided view that I am sharing a shareable clip, is frankly, laughable.

And I don’t always reference where I get my content from. Fo shame!

Admissions aside – it is clear that the two arguments are very much interlinked, and given the reaction of the blogging community, have been causing much unrest for some time now. All they needed was a trigger to start the vitriol flowing.

One of the triggers appears to have come in the formation of a blogging section on a national newspaper websites. In one corner, the Guardian have set up a section where the team have handpicked a selection of partners that they have linked to, or asked to provide content for the new Guardian Sport Network. In the other corner is The Mirror, which has done a similar thing – where they have approached bloggers to write under the title MirrorSport (add name of sport) blogger.

Supposedly this is wrong.

A dissenting voice on twitter argues that no one should provide free content to a site that makes a profit – through advertising, commercial links or physical sales. That the idea of boosting a portfolio for free is redundant, and that bloggers are better off working on their own sites and charging when approached to write for other profit making sites.

I agree that if an organisation approaches you to write a piece they would traditionally have asked an employee to write, that you should be paid appropriately for your efforts. This might mean the likes of the Guardian or the Mirror stop using bloggers, but then I imagine it is much like the old football ticket argument – prices keep going up, fans keep going, if fans stopped going – well, prices won’t go down, as fans of the bigger clubs would simply be replaced by others that have struggled to get tickets in the past. Will the websites move on to other bloggers that will write for free? Probably.

The line by which we agree on will surely be blurred if we only focus on profit – without deciding what profit actually means. Any site with google adverts can make a profit, but how many will profit from this method if they have to pay out for every writer that worked on their site. Other site owners might then get offered paid work elsewhere – but then is that always down to their work or the fact they host work produced by other writers? Are they better writers or just better at marketing it all as their package? What is the view on a blogger getting complimentary tickets to events, but not dishing those out to people that have written for them in the past. Are kick-backs profiteering on the works of others, or not?

Surely there is no hard and fast rule for bloggers to work to? Paid or not.

The bigger issue appears to be when a site’s employees – of a profit making, wider reaching organisation – lift your content and use it without the expressed permission of the blog owner. Going back to my early admission, there is no accusation of stealing here as a site can attribute the story to the original blog, but does that make it any more palatable? Some think it is OK, as long as the hosting site provides a link (rather than just a name) back to the original site. Others feel you need to receive confirmed permission from the original blogger. There are pragmatic reasons why a rolling news site may not do this – may not have time to do this with every story they feel is appropriate for their site, but then is there any difference between writing for free and having your content used elsewhere without payment?

It is, as always, a hotly debatable argument. One which as a by-product, might drive more traffic to the original site – even after their piece has fallen off the front page of the site they have gone to task with.

I’m not comfortable with the idea that something I write could simply be lifted, tweaked and – even with attribution – be mistakenly thought of as the work of others. I can’t legally do this with mainstream website content (images and videos included) – so why should my blog be any different, other than the fact that I doubt I would have the power or the money to contest their actions.

It shouldn’t. Blogging, it could be argued is dictating the way the mainstream media positions its web content. There are events happening all over the world where a blogger is first with the story, way ahead of a journalist who has to report back to an office, gets stuck at their desk, and loses the scoop. The quality of that scoop may not be quite what it could have been in the hands of a journalist. Bias might sway the way the story is presented – ability might alter the way it is written – and ultimately read. But nothing should take away from the honour that blogger has in being first to get that content up on the net.

It should ultimately be down to them to decide how their content is used – free, linked, attributed or just a plain old name check. No one should be able to dictate simply because they are in a position to do so. In the same way, no one should tell them if what they are doing is wrong – simply because others choose to approach blogging in a different way.

I’ll write for free, I’ll host my stuff on other sites for free – but I do so, misguidedly, under my terms (working version 0.1 Draft).

Once those terms are broken – is there really any point in carrying on?

Image: The Hamburglar (original McDonalds mascot). Source: The.Glove.Box – first site found on google search

I’m surrounded by books.

Big books, small books, hardbacks and pamphlet like notebooks.

There’s fiction, non-fiction, maps and instruction manuals. There is basically one of every style of book you could want for; not just in one room – but nearly every room, hallway, prominent space or hidden away within my in-law’s house.

I’ll confess that I’m not a massive reader. Not in the sense of the majority of the books that are usually here within arm’s reach. I do read – every day. You’ll find me nose deep in papers, websites, forums, briefing papers, textbooks – the types of printed or electronic source material that is designed to inform, rather than allow the reader to escape.

My attention span; no – my patience doesn’t sit well with fiction. If I’m not engrossed within 20 pages then I never will be.

But there is one group of books that catches my eye more than others every time I walk through the door – a collection of cook books that near cry out to be read. If I find it a struggle to be whisked away by a novel, I near have to grasp my own ankles for fear of falling too deep in to a cookbook.

I am all too easily engrossed by the narrative of a cookbook, which is usually designed to take you from drab, boring culinary experiences – to try out those recipes savoured by others, anywhere in the world. Each entry is a new gathering of tales, ingredients and knowledge – passed on, retained; reproduced.

If you have ever read Homer, you will know that The Iliad and The Odyssey were never originally poems found on the bookshelves of the Ancient Greeks. They were stories to be told, without notes – without reference – to be passed on to future generations. How then, is that any different to the classic recipes you might find in a French or Italian cookbook? Replace Homer with a Nonna by a pot or stove and you have your poem – but in the form of ingredients rather than heroes.

What I love most about cookbooks is how they guide you to your choices – rather than the other way round. It’s easy in this technological age to walk around a supermarket with an iPhone and a website, but you will usually have had an initial thought – a base ingredient to start with. Cookbooks let you simply drop the spine, flop the covers and there in word and pictorial form, is your next challenge should you wish to take it up. To replicate what you see before you.

This is not to say that websites, blogs and even tweets do not aid the culinary adventurer – just that a cookbook will take their flashes of inspiration, and transform a simple dish in to a chapter of your very own, eating expedition.

But then, how much longer will cookbooks continue to dominate the kitchens of this age? There will undoubtedly be a time when the concept of having books that only containing recipes will seem like an alien concept to some. Why spend the money on a rigid, as in – won’t change – book when you can have everything you’ll ever need in a device no bigger than the size of your palm?

Because sometimes, I want to blindly wander through a book until I see a recipe that really makes me go – Wow. Where I’ve not chosen an ingredient, I’ve not fired up a search engine; not at any point decided on anything other than to pick up that book.

And to read.

Buon appetito

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 noticed, with genuine delight, that I’d had 10 times as many visitors in one day than I had ever achieved over the same time period before.

10 times!

I don’t know how many of those will be back. How many have bookmarked my site, or were casual one off readers – but thanks to one person, that one link – hundreds at least got to see what I can do.

Even if it was a one off. For unless he links again, or I send a link on to someone with a similar number of followers, at a time when more people are online – I’m hardly going to average the sort of numbers I did on Friday.

But I’m cool with that.

For in the main, I only write for one person.

You see, I can be quite a negative person – who gets downbeat from time to time – who gets frustrated by work, by sport, by a lack of opportunities; and the best way I have found of managing that frustration is through writing.

I’ve been lucky in the past to have had the opportunity to write for the likes of the Yorkshire Evening Post, DJ Magazine, Spin (The Cricket Magazine) and one of the local BBC websites. I’ve produced PR material for great club nights and brilliant DJs – all of which calmed the demons from within. But then the writing started to dry up. Magazines stopped using freelance writers, or I changed my attitude in terms of what I wanted to write.

I realised very early on that it would be difficult to go back – to educate myself in the art of writing for a living as university was simply not an option. So I accepted what little paid work I could get and was happy to do, and then focussed my attention on my two blogs.

So now it is the blogs that quell the drama. They tackle the negativity – as mentioned in another post, I’ll regularly delete something if I feel it’s not worth reading. They give me an opportunity to bottle that frustration and turn it in to something far more positive.

Everything else is a bonus from there.

Amy finding something to smile about in what I write. Lauren finding something to remember her dad, her childhood by, when she eventually gets to read her letters. Friends remembering the good times when I reminisce – or random strangers tweeting when they find a post they enjoy.

When I started this blog I did, at the time, think it was about the hundreds. I thought it was about the prospect of an editor reading something and taking a punt on me as a paid writer. That they might even lead on to larger writing projects, in collaboration with better writers or publishers – ending up with my name in print.

But now, as I look at the plummeting analytics they day after, the day before – I realise both blogs are really only about one thing.

Me.

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 describe them.

Just as pizza, pasta and cappuccino are commonly used as part of the English language, so to will you find Italian words creeping more and more in to the vocabulary of football writers and commentators – Catenaccio (always used in a negative way), Seconda punta (not to be said after too many drinks) and Trequartista (what every club claims to have, when they justify their midfielders smacking long balls over the heads of their strikers).

A glossary provided by Michael Cox of Zonal Marking gives a definition of those words

The plan is to pick a team (this will be explained in the second post on this site) and armed only with an Italian/English dictionary, an online translator, a copy every Tuesday of Gazzetta dello Sport and an, as of yet undefined method of learning Italian aside to this – be it lessons or an audio system – I hope to start to develop a far greater understanding of the language (hand gestures included) as the season progresses.

It won’t all be about football, though it will be linked to football – after all, that is the common language we are starting with.

Posts may range from memories of cities my chosen club is visiting, or comments on the local delicacies – the food, the wine – of that region. Either way, I hope to build my own glossary, through the titles used for each post, that anyone starting out at the same level can build a greater understanding of the language.

(NB – www.parlacalcio.co.uk is a blog that will sit in parallel to this one. I intend to start this off by keeping the two separate, but there is the possibility that I will morph the two together – preferably so that the new site is linked here as a direct page. Articles may appear on both where the main thrust of the subject is non-football related)