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 the Cubs. My mum had spent all that money on a woggle, a hair shirt, some dainty garters and I simply decided I no longer wanted to go.

Same when I took up BMX racing. Full kit, crash helmet, decent bike – and then one too many misadventures going over a table top jump and I walked away – possibly whilst limping; and never went back again.

Money down the pan once more.

I thought I’d overcome this wasteful approach to money and activity as I grew older, but then the old me – the quitter reared his head once more. I started a degree with the Open University with such great enthusiasm that nothing would stop me from becoming the great classicist of our time – well, nothing other than Lauren’s birth, apathy to homework, wanting to go out rather than sit in with my books. The lunchtime bookworm sessions were becoming few and far between. I was quitting before I knew it. A shame – as there was the odd flicker which suggested I was really enjoying the course. Just not the laborious work associated with it.

This elongated intro is a roundabout way of saying, err, I’ve not been blogging much of late.

The main reason is – as Cicero might allude to in his quote – I have nothing to say, or the desire to explain that away.

I appreciate that not everything I have written will have been of interest to the casual reader – even the closest of friend. But then there have been lots of times when I have sat down to compose an entry to this blog, only to hit delete half way through.

There are many reasons why I do this – the post makes me sound like the most miserable git on the face of the earth (quiet there; you don’t have to all agree). There’s also the half baked post where I start of with that old enthusiasm again – then quickly realise that there’s nothing further to say; so it leaves a page hanging with no real point nor conclusion.

Sometimes circumstance hands you inspiration – like with the London riots or the Letters to Lauren. But when all you’ve done in a week is eat the same food, drink the same beer; travelled back and forth from work and spent most of your spare time sat on a sofa watching the same TV programmes; you can be forgiven for thinking the rest of the world really doesn’t want to read about it.

Or do they?

Cicero is a far greater wordsmith than I, yet were he to blog now – would he really just drop snippets on the net on a daily basis (adhering to his earlier advice) to let his readers know he was still about; still very much active.

“Mark Anthony and Julius Caesar want to go out for dinner tonight. Might go to Nandos on the Palentine Hill. Toga collar popped and Oakley laurel leaf at a jaunty angle. Here’s hoping we end up back in the forum with a couple of Vestal Virgins each. Does anyone know the security word to get out of the ludi?”

For once, I’m determined not to just give up on this site – as I have the cubs, my Olympic BMX hopes and those beloved ancient Romans. Maybe it is a case of occasionally putting up posts to keep the relationship between thoughts and reader alive – even if I still haven’t grasped the idea of the short, snappy entry.

Maybe I should simply heed Cicero’s advice. Tell you all that friends came up on the weekend. That we had a great time but drank far too much wine. Am suffering terribly with my arthritis. That Lauren got to meet some great people and got a teddy bear out of it as well – and hey, I’m still here. Just waiting for something a bit more interesting to flow out through my fingers (arthritis permitting) and I’ll have your undivided attention once more.

I guess Cicero is right. Writing about nothing is better than giving up writing because you have nothing to say. No matter how boring my life may start to appear.

A guest post written for the football website, In Bed With Maradona, on the growing complexities within the game – and a modern reliance on data to formulate a view on how players perform.

Football. Previously a simple game

Post on the so called demise of footballing heroes – who shroud themselves in expensive suits; courting favours and votes in exchange for the right to kiss the hem of their cloaks.

In Bed With Maradona – No More Heroes

A guest post written for In bed with Maradona – an excellent football website.

A dilemma of how and if I should introduce Lauren to football.

Please read, enjoy and bookmark their site as it really is an excellent resource for football related features and articles.

Welcome to my new blog.

This is going to be somewhat of a work in progress to start with. I am going to need someone to design me a snazzy logo and no doubt teach me how to use WordPress properly. It’s also a rather busy time of year, so things may appear sporadically for the first couple of months or so – it’s just that I’ve been meaning to start a blog for some time and thought that if I didn’t at least set one up, I may never get round to doing it. Updates with links will start to appear on twitter as things progress.

Expect plenty of nonsense on culturally significant nonentities, my disdain for anything new unless it involves food or drink. A polite sideways glance at differing subject matters in a regular feature called “On” (taken from the Rhetoric & Philosophy of Cicero – Roman Consul in 63BC) – and sport; not too much so as to alienate, but enough so as to fulfil a minor ambition to see my views in print.

Early posts will focus on my life as a drinker, music lover and “athlete”. None of it is intended in a crass, display of what I claim to have achieved – more simply an introduction to the person I am.

I wasn’t sure the best way to start. Did I pick my take on a news story that has recently tickled me, a history of my drinking, eating or sporting life or simply leave it as a brief intro and nothing more. As is usually the case, I chose none of the above. Instead, here is a poem I wrote whilst walking home one day. It’s a fairly long walk, through a somewhat dingy wooded area, that offers an unsatisfying view over a rather boring stretch of Leeds. Still, I guess you have to find inspiration from somewhere.

Summer’s noise

Church bells ring up in the spire
A screech of breaks, a cab for hire
The ladies cackle, a clink of glass
Whirring blades cut summer’s grass

The unrepentant dog’s loud bark
The joy of children from the park
The old girl’s TV up too loud
The distant cheer from sporting crowd

The ice cream van peels one last chime
Police cars speed to scene of crime
A drunk sits whistling all alone
A teen declares their love by phone

Crackling coals consumed by heat
Lay spitting ‘neath the slabs of meat
Alfresco dining, this is the life
A husband’s pride enjoyed by wife

The workers trudging past our door
All tired out from daily chore
The chat drifts clear from bird to bird
A prelude to their chorus heard

For some the day has reached its best
For others now is time for rest
With setting sun there’s peace at last
The summer’s noise, a thing of past