Don’t be afraid of the dark

It was meant to be remembered for other reasons.  My friend Ben hadn’t been to his beloved Anfield for over 20 years, whilst it was my first time in the famous stadium.  Maybe - just maybe - Oldham’s underdogs would cause a famous upset.  Could this be a night of which FA Cup dreams are made? 

Travelling north we talked a bit about politics, the long-overdue Stephen Lawrence convictions, Diane Abbott’s ill-advised comments.  But mainly we luxuriated in footy chat:  could Liverpool survive with Suarez banned for racist abuse? might plucky Oldham spring a surprise?  most pressingly, would they let us bring our own crisps into the ground?

It didn’t disappoint.  Our snacks passed unconfiscated.  And on the half hour the unthinkable:  Oldham fired home a magnificent strike.  I yelled and punched the air – but only in my head, as I was in the middle of the Liverpool end (all visitor tickets sold within hours).  Latics fans were even beating the stunned home supporters on banter, chorusing ‘Where’s your famous atmosphere?’ to usually chirpy scousers.

But it didn’t last.  Liverpool were strong, even without their talisman Suarez.  Led by the impressive Steven Gerrard they were back on level terms in minutes, and went on the score four more (all flukey offside deflections). 

I must say it was a moving experience – the crowd clearly worshipped ‘King’ Kenny Dalglish, chorused ‘you’ll never walk alone’ with every scarf unfurled, and ended with a moving rendition of ‘stand up for the 96’, in memory of those killed in the Hillsborough disaster.

Yet this match will be remembered for all the wrong reasons.  Just ten minutes from the end, Oldham defender Tom Adeyemi raced towards the Kop end, pointing angrily.  The game was stopped for several minutes, and it took players from both sides to eventually calm him.

What had happened?  Maybe someone threw a coin?  Was is something someone said?  In the media buzz afterwards it transpires Adeyemi complained of being racially abused by one or more fans.  Apparently they were wearing Luis Suarez shirts. Police are investigating.  Oh dear.

The taxi driver returning us to the station was angry.  “This is a decent club, a family club.  This is the last thing we need. Suarez was bad enough, but this - what were they thinking?”.

But is this really a surprise, given the terrible example the club set to their own fans? 

Presented with irrefutable proof of Suarez repeated racial abuse of Evra, Liverpool failed to come clean.  Instead they shamefully squirmed, trying to defend the indefensible, refusing to criticise the clear wrong their star player had done. 

Their defence that the word ‘negro’ may sometimes be used affectionately in south America may be strictly-speaking true.  After all, I was referred to as mzugu (white man) when working and travelling in East Africa, and it felt like a (rather obvious) statement of fact, not abuse.  Friends even called my Rwanadan colleague mzungu after he saved enough money to build a house fit for a rich whitey!  Cambodia was the same:  constantly being called barraing (Frenchy) was a little irritating - wasn’t there anything more important by which to define me (the kind volunteer? the potato eater? the crazy cyclist? the super footballer?), but I never felt abused.

But Suarez’s defence was a pathetically disingenuous smokescreen.  The fact that it was used seven times during a heated argument, including the phrase "no hablo con los negros" (I don’t talk to blacks), shows this was simply ugly, racist abuse.

I can’t say I’m surprised – Suarez may be a great talent, but his history of bad behaviour is a matter of record.  I was particularly sickened by his unashamed cheating during the World Cup, and very dubious as to whether he should be forgiven and given a fresh chance to impress in the Premiership.

Now I’m a safe distance from Merseyside, I have to say that I think Kenny Dalglish got this very wrong. Perhaps he can’t be blamed for taking a chance on signing a flawed genius.  But a true leader would have ensured Suarez understood and quickly admitted his wrongdoing, and made a proper apology.  Failing this, he should have sacked Suarez:  he may be his best player, but no player is bigger than the club. 

Sure, Kenny was badly advised – but he was also weak and unprincipled, unusual and disappointing in such a great player and manager.

The ultimate irony was to hear fans from Oldham – place of my birth, and scene of some of Britain’s most recent and shameful race riots – chanting to Liverpool ‘you’re just a club full of racists’.

They’re not – but they need to do a much better job of showing it.

Two new sports...

Last month I was introduced to not one but two new spectator sports.

The first – rowing – is hardly a surprise in this town, but I initially dismissed it as little more than toffs in tubs. 

Yet anyone who braves 6am training in freezing water deserves respect.  And there’s no denying the strength and stamina needed to move a boat at pace – we had to sprint to glimpse our friend Hollie, star of the Lincoln College crew.

The speed is partly thanks to ultra-light boats – but these demand poise as well as power.  This much I know from experience: my only attempt at proper rowing was a few sessions on the Clyde.  And believe me, the Glaswegian water is quite an incentive to keep your balance.

But it’s the co-ordination which really impresses – when individuals work so tightly a team it is an stirring sight, and the synchronized movements of body and oar are undeniably graceful.  As with most of Oxford, there’s a strong incentive to conform – get the stroke a millisecond out or the angle a few degrees short and you risk wood in your face or a paddle in the water.

The second sport – ice hockey – was even more novel.  The nearest I’d come was a (field) hockey-playing friend, famous for his talented goalkeeping and for having the best student summer job of all: testing padding.  Is it entirely ethical to rate protective sports equipment by the wince volume of an impoverished student? 

The pads are also there on ice, along with helmets.  This time we followed Hollie’s Canadian boyfriend Tyler, who comes home battered and bruised each week despite the protection.  But all that padding makes punch-ups look a bit like handbags:  if you want to see fat boys fighting (and why would you?) then Oxford offers an irritatingly high infection of rugger-buggers despoiling parks and pubs alike.

What really made me laugh was that as soon as a player smashed an opponent into the boards they were instantly substituted – an infuriating lack of payback!  And what a lot of subs: 6 a side is tiring, but a lot easier with a squad of over a dozen… 

But there was plenty to admire.  Ice hockey is fast, sometimes furious, and at its best skillful and athletic.  Like 5-a-side football, control, passing and movement are all key, and when a player is sin-binned it is impressive how the attackers press their advantage through a ‘power play’. 

Some things were strange: handballs are allowed, refs dress as magpies, and it’s damn cold.  Others were irksome: the tiny puck is barely visible through the thick nets around the rink, and frequent stoppages are filled with dodgy rock music.  But overall it was great fun, despite an 11pm start:  a party atmosphere with as much action off the ice as on.

Both rowing and ice-hockey took place in bitter cold, at unsociable hours, and are probably more fun to do than to watch.  But these days, where else will you get such flashes of excitement, impressive teamwork and weekend entertainment for free?

Famous Belgians

Can you name 10 famous Belgians?

The best beer and chocolate in the world, what’s not to like?  I’ll always thank my friend Philippe for showing me to the ‘right’ way to drink Hoegaaden, and VSO colleagues Wim and Dom for bravely enduring jokes from friendly Dutch neighbours (I wrote a poem in their defense, but that’s for another day).

It’s not all good – King Leopold’s colonial legacy was worse than the Brits’, as I saw when volunteering in Rwanda.  And I didn’t appreciate my previous (involuntary) visit, when the hapless national carrier dropped me in Kigali not Nairobi (SABENA:  ‘such a bad experience never again’).

So how’s your list coming on? 

If you’re struggling, sports stars include not only multi-Tour de France-winner Eddy Merckx and Wimbledon champ Kim Clijsters, but also Jean-Marc Bosman, even if he’s famous for his ruling not his running.  I draw the line at unknown goalie Jean-Marie Pfaff, though such a silly name deserves fame.

I can’t mention le plat pays without Jacques Brel, and there’s a rich canvas of painters, from Breugel and Rubens through to Magritte.  Even screen goddess Audrey Hepburn counts as Belgian (real name Edda van Heemstra Hepburn-Ruston).

But surely top of everyone’s list must be the incomparable Hergé?

And the good news is that his timeless creation Tintin is now back with us, in a fabulous film, easily the most enjoyable I’ve seen this year. 

3d has transformed since the days of huge screens and bulky glasses, and the animators have a ball with soaring effects and clever set-pieces.  The 'motion-capture' is incredibly lifelike, but still has a likeable comic-book simplicity.

All the favourite characters are there, brought to life just as I imagined them as a boy.  The charmingly bumbling detectives Thompson and Thompson are consistently outsmarted in a tangental plot by a devilishly ingenious pickpocket.  Meanwhile the main action pits Smarmy evil Englishman Sakharine against Haddock, the jovial boozy Scot, aided by the intrepid Tintin and fearless Snowy, the true hero.

It’s everything you could wish for – lovable characters, inventive cinematography, bundles of action and archives of Hitchcock references for the filmbuffs.  Admittedly it has a flimsy plot, unnecessarily violence, and no female characters - this is glossy Spielberg not gritty Dardenne brothers.  But even the blatant engineering for a sequel can be forgiven, just because it's so damned enjoyable.

Get on down to your local fleapit right now – just as soon as you’ve finished your list.  Looking back I think have at least 9 – who did I miss out?

None so blind as those who will not see

Why can’t we just see when to give up, rather than blindly stumbling back for more?

I’ve just returned from Boots, after another humiliating failure to fit contact lenses.  I tried years ago, but was persuaded back given the apparent leap in ocular technology - and the fact that playing footy in bendy specs makes me look less like Beckham and more an accident waiting to happen.

But I’m a terrible pupil, and just can't get them to work.  At some level I think I don’t want them:  my failing sight handicaps my ball skills, but does that justify my eyes being jabbed by fingers, and foreign objects covering my cornea?

Yet I hate being a quitter – and this is the second such failure in a month, following my attempt at another kind of contact – trying to enjoy a massage.  How hard can that be?

A few years ago nobody would have foreseen we would now rely on daily disposables or a weekly spa.  Except me: not only have I shunned contacts, I’ve never enjoyed a relaxing massage either.  

It's hard to even get started.  I’m blind to subtle social signals, so spotting a suitable venue is a challenge, especially when I was in Cambodia.  How do you tell a spa dedicated to ancient oriental body art from the front-end of a brothel where a ‘happy ending’ is just the start? 

After an embarrassing first attempt, I persevered with a foolproof strategy:  I’d visit a posh place, on a main road, during the day, and with backup. 

On entering I locked eyes with the girl and stressed I wanted it “very gentle”.  Khmer style, like Thai, is seriously physical – fingers and toes bent back, arms and legs pummeled, they’ll even climb on your back to get extra leverage on your torso. 

But she turned a blind eye to my request, and the full torture regime was implemented as usual.

Worse still, others’ thought I was actually enjoying the experience:  Katja claims that from her perspective – on the next couch – my pleasure was clearly visible to her and all the masseuses!

Physically and emotionally scarred, it was nearly two years before I tried again.  The cunning plan this time was to be massaged by a blind man - genius!  No fear of misunderstandings, just a guarantee of a guy acutely in tune with his remaining senses. 

Not so!  This wasn’t seeing hands so much as fingers in ears – how else could he have so consistently ignored my screams for mercy?  Never again, I swore – that was it between me and massage. 

Until, that is, arriving back in the UK my great friend Pree announced she had qualified as a massage therapist, and to celebrate was offering ‘free’ sessions with just a contribution to a good cause.  My judgment clouded by the forces of charity and friendship, I headed to south London to give it one last try.

It was the best massage I’ve ever had! 

The atmosphere helped – a flat I know well, relaxing music, aromatic oils and a friend’s reassuring touch.  Pree obviously knows her stuff, worked hard, and was clearly delighted at the number of knots she removed from my lumpy trunk.

But the truth is, it’s still not for me.   Gentle rubbing is fine, tactile good, stroking great - but those aren’t massage.  You see, it’s about doing you good, not you feeling good.

So I’ve come to my senses.  I see my future sporting bendy specs and a knotted back - but mercifully free of the humiliation, manipulation and pain of either contact lenses or massage!

An Experience To Treasure

For the past two months I’ve been living in a single room in east Oxford.  It’s not an enviable experience, but it’s actually ok – we’ve squeezed a lot in – but however hard you try, there’s a limit. 

So for now my brother’s loft still hosts 17 boxes of my precious books.  Fingers crossed we’ll move to our own home round the corner soon, with shelves aplenty for storage and show.

So I sympathise with the university’s Bodleian Library.   They too have hoards of priceless, underappreciated manuscripts with too little space to keep, let alone exhibit them.  At least they have a firm date to move them to the adjacent Weston building, even if it’s not until 2015.

In the meantime the only treasures they can display are crammed into one room, with barely two score of texts on view.  What’s more, it’s dimly lit, and everything is a thick layer of glass away from sticky plebian fingers.  Not a promising start for an exhibition.

Oh, but what a top 40:  diminutive, dim and distant it may be, but I was blown away by the treasures of the Bodleian!

The tone is set from the start:  no less than an original first Folio of Shakespeare plays.  Next is a Guttenberg bible, one of the first books ever printed in the west, flanked by a mystical, ancient-Egyptian parchment.

Each was beautiful, even awe-inspiring.  But what I loved was that the library didn’t stop there, but instead offered some wonderful nuggets of extra information.

So, looking closely at the Shakespeare, you can still see the iron ring which was used to securely chain it to a rail.  This may imply that the library appreciated its value, but when a new edition came out it was discarded, and had to be bought back at huge expense.  Apparently they still keep a roll of names relating to the fundraising appeal – a list of those who refused to contribute!

Similarly, the bible marks a seminal moment in the history of printing, but for me the best part was noticing how the first letter of every sentence was picked out in red, making it not only beautiful but easier to read.  I actually preferred the ‘colophon’ next to it, hand-copied by an amateur scribe called Maria in 1476.  At first it looks old and impressive, but on close inspection it’s actually pleasingly imperfect, with inconsistent spaces between the letters and lines which start to slope down at the ends, just like my niece’s wobbly writing.

The Egyptian papyrus trumps others on age, but is also one of the most surprising subjects – not a worthy philosophical or religious tract, but rather an angry note from a petulant schoolboy complaining bitterly about being left behind while his father went off to Alexandria.  This is no literary masterpiece, just a timeless teenage tantrum, unofficially translated as “oh dad, it’s so unfair!”

This is what’s so great about this exhibition – the stuffy Oxford academics actually seem to have some humanity and even a sense of humour!

They even allow modern objects into their very limited space.  Early handwritten drafts from Jane Austin and Wilfred Owen may be monetarily less valuable, but are still priceless.

Again it’s the quirky details which catch the eye:  hearing Harold Macmillan’s speeches right at the time British colonies were gaining independence is intriguing – but it’s only by seeing the original typed drafts that you notice his timeless ‘winds of change’ phrase was actually a hurriedly scribbled afterthought.

And whilst it is laudable to include documents on suffragettes, the one which jumped out at me was a postcard from the seldom mentioned women’s anti-votes movement:  a primly-dressed lady with the simple message “No Votes For Women.  Thank You”.

Finally, I just love the first ever Penguin books.  The iconic design and borderline-autistic coded jackets are just my thing.  More importantly, the Bodleian, that bastion of dusty, rare manuscripts, makes the brave and unusual decision to include these colourful, populist books amongst its top treasures.

Perhaps this is the greatest success of all.  The curators of such a valuable collection could easily have settled on showing things worth a lot of money.  But to their immense credit they go further, seeing treasure as also something we do – to cherish what is valuable, influential, inspirational. 

Applying this enlightened approach to such an amazing collection - this truly is an experience to treasure.

Cheating birth or medical magic?

I'm charmed by the Scottish play, but always feel cheated by the witches’ prophesies.  Really - how does carrying a few branches as camouflage constitute a wood moving? 

Worse still is the reassurance that Macbeth should fear “none of woman born”, only for his rival Macduff to be exempted as he was “from his mother’s womb untimely ripped”.  What a rubbish trick!

Nowadays mothers are cast as the cheats:  they’re ‘too posh to push’ so ask surgeons to magic an unnatural birth to keep them honeymoon fresh.

This is particularly controversial in the UK just now, with the latest guidelines (released at Halloween) suggesting caesarians are now so safe they should be offered to all women, not just those with complicated pregnancies.  Midwives are cursing in their covens!

Here I must declare an interest.  Since Katja started her spell as a student I live vicariously as a midwife.  My breakfasts are dominated by birthing options, dinner chat is of breast feeding, even nights out focus on female reproductive anatomy (though not in the same way as most boys on the town). 

But at the risk of being spellbound by my nature-loving sisters, I think there is something to be said in favour of the latest guidance.

My starting point (as with everything) is that pleasure is good, and pain bad. Birthing guru Sheila Kitzinger says a natural delivery should feel better than orgasm.  But the detailed illustrations in midwifery manuals make me wince:  that’s got to hurt!  Surely we must sympathise with any mum who chooses delivery by a quick, safe and relatively painless surgical procedure?

And shouldn't this be about choice?  For years the natural childbirth movement rightly pushed for informed decisions and the opportunity for a ‘normal' birth.  But if caesarians are now so safe and easy, why can’t women choose this - even if some midwives may prefer otherwise?

Not spooked by a four-fold increase in complications, risk of obesity and post-natal depression (as you reflect on the dreadful magnitude of your failure)?  Haunted by wind, allergy to sex, your legs falling off and baby turning into a frog?  Of course pregnant women are not all ill, and must not be beguiled into undue medicalisation.  But as Catherine Bennett notes in the Observer, we should be suspicious of some of the pressure by the natural birth lobby to scare women from dodging a proper labour.

What is a natural birth anyway?  It’s certainly not the sterility of a hospital labour ward or theatre.  But what’s so normal about a thermostatic birth pool, amplified whale music and gas, air, scissors, suction or a waiting ambulance? 

And isn’t science good?  You could argue - as does Cristina Odone in the Torygraph - that nature is flooding my friends in Cambodia just now, not to mention shaking Turkey and plaguing Africa with malaria.  Meanwhile, technology has moved us from quacks to labs, leaches to laparoscopes.  Even if science isn’t better, can’t it work together with nature for a greater good? 

After all, if natural birth is so great, why are we working so hard to reduce maternal mortality in developing countries, where there are so few caesarians?  Please tell me I didn’t waste the last two years!

I’m equally unconvinced that a UK caesarian rate of 25% is simply due to greedy, arrogant doctors tricking vulnerable mums.  This slur could equally (and just as unfairly) be hurled the other way - as by Odone who rants that “beyond their calculated use of mystifying jargon, the midwives' agenda is to keep themselves in business - no matter what the risk to the women in their care”.  This is so not my experience of caring, dedicated midwives or doctors.  Obstetricians are no more bewitching mums into the latest expensive trend than midwives are promoting natural birth just to cloak their own insecurities or to sell kits, birth classes or alternative potions.

Let’s be honest – it really comes down to money.  As a health manager, I have the thankless job of conjuring world-class health services from a Sunday league budget.  I hesitate to suggest home births are cheap, as they disperse skilled midwives and require back-up.  But whilst surgery has economies of scale and location, it also requires an expensive team, kit and drugs (just like any Premiership club).

Even if they cost more, caesarians may be worth it.  Perhaps Odone has a point when she complains that if this were a male operation it would have been freely available years ago.

But dismissal of midwives as “placenta-munching Gaia-worshipping thugs” is hysterical.  Whilst caesarians may become even more common, some women will always choose a ‘natural’ birth.  They will therefore need caring and highly skilled professionals to help them. Natural birth cannot be dismissed as stone-age medicine, and midwives - unlike witches - will not be relegated to the mists of time.

10 reasons why you should support Oldham Athletic

I know what you're thinking.

But this is a blog, so I had to limit it to just the top 10 reasons.

1.  Sing the blues.  Did you know that teams who play in blue (like Oldham) win more than reds?

2.  Be distinctive.  Don't be a boring Town, City or County, let alone United, when you can be the only Latics fan - who else has such a unique name?

3.  Support your local team.  A proper, real club.  Connect with your roots.  Remember, your team chooses you, not the other way round.

4. Feel special.  Nobody outside Lancashire supports Oldham, especially if you live miles away (like in Oxford... or Cambodia).  You're not excluded, you're exclusive!

5.  Find an Oasis.  If you're stuck in the south of England and really can't make home games, simply join Oldham Athletic Supportors In the South (yes it really exists:  http://www.oldhamathletic.co.uk/page/OASIS)

6.  Enjoy winning.  Not often, it's true - but that's why you truly savour a Latics victory.  If you follow the big bad Manchester monoliths you expect to win and hate to lose - where's the fun in that?

7.  Get a ticket!  No queues, no membership, just push the creaky turnstile and pick from banks of empty seats.  True banter included, truly awful pies extra.

8.  Savour an atmosphere.  Hear 6,000 Latics fanatics fill the ground (not ripples of polite applause drifting from 60,000 gentrified Gooners at the Emirates).  And laugh at away fans who actually paid to come to Oldham - and to the highest and most inhospitable ground in the country, where the away stand doesn't even have a roof!

9.  Keep the peace.  Appease your 'friends', who never feel threatened by League 1 nonentities (Division 3 in old money).  Even seasoned yobs will show pity when you declare your allegiance - it's like a Glaswegian supporting Partick.

10.  Watch the highlights.  To see overpaid Premiership primadonnas you must stay in on a Saturday night, or buy a rip-off box / dish / gadget.  Not so for the lower leagues - just click the iPlayer on t'interweb and you'll be singing the blues.  Here's to another famous Latics win on good old council telly!