A job offer of sorts...

A job offer of sorts

I was speaking to Dan online, when my phone rang. Since I finished at Uni, my phone has been largely unloved, so when it was a bit of a surprise to me when it rung. It was Richard Horner, my cricket coach from Leeds. Rich is a good coach and a brilliant man; selfless, generous and kind-hearted. The only problem being that he is getting old, perhaps too old to be a serious coach anymore. He hasn’t totally lost his marbles or anything, but he doesn’t talk as much sense as he used to. He told me how he’d been injured through the back end of the season, after a young bowler, ironically someone who he had been coaching, bowled a ball that hit him straight in the chest, causing him to suffer two broken ribs. Of course he had already told me this story twice already during the summer, but I let that pass, and tried not to laugh as he recounted the anecdote.
He was ringing to tell me about a job advert which he had been sent, which he thought I might be interested in, I told you he was kind-hearted. He has been sent a letter from a cricket club near me, asking if he knew of any young cricketer who would be interested in becoming the ‘club professional’. This role would include playing, coaching and overseeing much of the junior cricket played at the club. The letter was probably about 500 words long, and I listened patiently (for about ten minutes!) as he proceeded to read the whole thing across the phone to me. Nonetheless, this sounded like a good opportunity, and one that I would be well paid for, especially as the post included the chance to teach at various local schools. This being said, I have always had a strong allegiance to Sunbury, my home club, and I would be reluctant to leave. Rich suggested that he would reply to them via e-mail to encourage them to get in contact with me, then at least I could chat things over with them.
Moreover I could possibly use this ‘offer’ as a bargaining tool to earn some money playing for Sunbury, but I’m probably getting carried away, lets be honest the Eve Surrey Championship is hardly the Premiership, we still have female umpires for crying out loud. I know, that was a cheap shot, sorry ladies. If nothing else, this offer confirmed my assertion that I could get a job just by playing on my Xbox and waiting for my phone to ring.
My thus far ill-fated search for a job has led me to become increasingly obsessed with checking my e-mails. I don’t even know what I’m expecting, maybe to receive an e mail saying
“We’ve seen your CV, it looks brilliant, we really want to hire someone with not much experience in industry but who describes themselves as a ‘computer games expert’. We don’t even need to phone or interview you, see you on Monday”.
I know you may think that scenario unlikely, but I am still holding out hope. More likely I might receive an email from the ‘University of Phoenix’ or ‘This is Money’. However many times you delete these kinds of junk mails, they always keep coming back; like a terrible boy band they just will not go away, coming back again and again even though each time there material gets worse. Although on the plus side, I rarely receive penis enlargement e-mails, probably because I’ve got a massive wang. So I find myself checking my emails at least six or seven times a day. Rarely do I receive anything of any use or any value. Facebook now use email to notify you of any wall posts you might have received, or any groups that you have been invited to. This makes my email checking habit all the more frustrating. I will almost celebrate on the spot when I see that I have two new mails, only to be disappointed that I have been invited to the group ‘John’s lost his phone…again, he needs your numbers’, twice. I am embarrassed to say that I am, although increasingly less so, slightly addicted to Facebook. Perhaps it is the harmless yet provocative ‘poking’ application, or maybe it is the opportunity to waste a significant amount of time, but I find myself logging in far too often. Listen to myself; I really need to get a job. I’m sure nobody else is as excited by emails and Facebook as I am. The phrase ‘get a life’ has never been more appropriate. So on that note, I’m off to play golf. Right after I’ve checked my emails.

All sorts to look forward to..

Golf Day

I have mixed emotions about the upcoming weekend. Friday is the Sunbury Cricket Club Golf Day, followed by the Player’s Supper in the evening. This is always a great day, the golf is played in good spirits, unless of course you are paired with Mickey ‘O, a crazy, big moustached, very grumpy 3rd XI player. The Player’s Supper is usually drunken, indeed I can remember getting drunk for the first time there as a fourteen year old, before being sick all over Adam’s lounge carpet. Looking back, that wasn’t my finest hour. So of course I’m looking forward to Friday, a chance to show my putting skills in the day, before smartening demonstrating that I can now hold my bacardi breezers.
It seems that while I do very little in the week, my weekends are always busy, maybe that’s because everyone else works in the week. In fact, that is definitely why. As usual, I have football in the afternoon, although this week I fear we will be away from home. Then, to the big event. 8pm. Rugby World Cup Final. England vs South Africa. I cannot wait. The William Web Ellis trophy at stake. I have always liked that name, it is a good name for a cup, it sounds very important, so much so that I m going to find out who William Web Ellis was. Ah, he is credited as the inventor of Rugby, thanks very much Wikipedia, I should have known he wasn’t a great Nordic ice-skating champion. Whether England win or lose, Maz is having a party in the evening, he is turning 24. To me that sounds old and I will certainly let him know that. So, as I mentioned, it is a busy weekend. But back to those mixed emotions, this weekend marks a year since I broke up with Holly. No I am not a sad-case who counts the weeks; I just remember that we broke up the same weekend as the Player’s Supper, this time last year. To be honest I still look back on this with some regret, but at the moment, I m not quite ready to talk to you about it. Maybe a few more glasses of Red wine and I’ll open up. Anyway, it seems that that ship has well and truly sailed, and as such I need to stop mentioning it. Even so, I know that I’ll be thinking about it this weekend. OK, I know, I won’t mention it again. Nevertheless I am looking forward to the weekend. Tomorrow I think I might pay a cheeky visit to the driving range, just to brush up on my approach play! More likely I need to hit a few balls, in order to avoid scuffing my first Tee shot either into the trees, the river, or missing it altogether. Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes, I’ m sure you literally cannot wait.

Rave it up!

And so after the excitement of the rugby we headed off to the sports rave. Now, as I have previously mentioned, I don’t know much about raves, but I know enough to realise that 10.30pm is too early to get to a rave. Not that I was interested in being fashionably late, but I did not want to be one of the only bloody people in the place. Of course on our arrival we were laughed away by the bouncers, although maybe they were mocking our pathetic outfits. To paint a picture; I was dressed in knee length surfer-style Billabong shorts, a bright yellow T-shirt with a red vest over the top and various sweat bands. To add to this jumbled ensemble I styled my hair with some fluorescent yellow UV gel. Ridiculous. This being said, Pete was sporting a very tight ladies T-shirt which carried the logo ‘love life’, while Liam looked like he was auditioning for a part in an American teen college basketball player, albeit a ‘baller’ in sunglasses. Frankly the less said about Rob’s red hot pants the better, suffice to say they left little to the imagination. Guiche’s outfit was non too dissimilar to my own and as such it was equally pitiful. We looked nothing like ravers and not at all like sportsmen. But there is something about dressing up that puts you in a mood to have fun. And we did have fun. Guiche couldn’t believe his luck as within five minutes he was being chatted up by the barmaid. No really, he was. She actually seemed quite interested in him, even coming over to ‘clear glasses’ right by where we were stood. Yeh, she wanted him. But all this natural chemistry was undone by one rather unnatural incident. One lad, who himself was in fancy dress and is at Law College with Pete and his housemates, had obviously had one shandy too many. Nonetheless that does not excuse the fact that he threw a pint glass, yes, a fucking pint glass, at Guiche and his new romantic interest. Bare in mind this was totally unprovoked; we had not even met the guy, let alone done anything to antagonise him. I cannot understand why people do these kind of things. It is bizarre to even think that someone might just throw a glass at someone, its not big and its nothing like clever. Anyway, we were sports ravers and we would take on whatever was thrown at us, literally, and after a few cheeky Sambuca’s we made our way into the melting pot.
It was dark and gloomy inside, also noticeable was how empty it felt. It wasn’t packed by any stretch of the imagination but there were plenty of people around. There was such a distant feeling in the air that seemed to separate people from each other lost in their own little worlds. The ‘sports’ was represented by a series of rather pathetic sports accessories strewn about the place. Shuttlecocks and badminton rackets were thrown across the floor, while a large volleyball net swept across the main room, serving absolutely no purpose. The small trampoline situated by the bar was more fit for friendly 11 year olds than hardcore ravers, and it was no surprise when it broke after one particularly large lad bounced once too often, and no, it wasn’t me. All-in-all the rave was a disappointment. It was not the kind of hardcore, pill-popping, glow-stick-waving, sweat-fest that I feared it had be, it was a very average club night, in a run down venue. This did not stop Guiche from getting lost in one of the rooms downstairs for 20 minutes, or Pete being sick at the side of the bar, choking on his own medicine after buying everyone a round of vile shots. The highlight of the night, you may not be surprised to hear, was a well deserved kebab; good meat, good chips, nice amount of lettuce and mayonnaise to finish, culinary perfection I’m sure Gordon Ramsay would agree. Even on Monday morning I was still trying to rid the last streaks of UV paint from my hair, although, thankfully, I carry no lasting scars from my raving experience.

Live for the weekend.

Live for the Weekend.


Friday night was a strange one. It was Junior’s birthday, and, in celebration of him getting a year older, we were due to meet in the pub for about 8, with plans to move on into town. Rather bizarrely, Adam did not turn up for his own party. Typical Junior, too big-time for his own party, although he did send a text to let us know that he was being very ill, at both ends, lovely. Nonetheless AP, Titch Gav and myself did the honourable thing, and went to Oceana. The theatre of dreams was less busy than usual, but as usual there is still a tale to tell. This was the night when a normal lad, saved a life. I say this. What really happened; a girl was being sick and I held her head up so she was not sick in her mouth. Yes, Oceana is a glamorous place, with a classy clientele. Disappointingly, this act of great bravery and compassion did not impress the surrounding females; it clearly wasn’t worth the effort. My memory of the night is hazy, particularly concerning the end of the night. But I do distinctly remember being woken by Gav’s Dad at around 10am the next morning. Embarrassingly I was curled up on their sofa, still in my glad rags from the night before. More embarrassing still I had fallen asleep with the television on, although thankfully the adult previews had stopped and now the screen was filled with suggestive adverts about what some young lady was going to do with a banana. I took the opportunity to charge upstairs, away from Gav’s Dad and away from the TV.
When we got back to Sunbury a few hours later I only had time to grab my football kit, and shove my rave gear (remember the Sports Rave) into a bag, before jumping in the car and heading to the ground. A midfield berth awaited me. This was good because it was my favoured position. This was bad because it meant I had to do a lot of running and I don’t like running, especially not after a night out on the town. Nevertheless I managed to survive the 90 minutes, and survive is the right word considering the nature of the opposition. ‘Crunch him’, ‘break him in half’ and ‘oh fuck off ref’, were some of the more printable comments that I remember. You know you are in for a long afternoon when one of your opponents commits a foul, and rather than apologise chooses to engage in a big hi-five with one of his team mates.
So, Guiche and I retreated back to his house, watched the football, before heading off into London in preparation for the Sports Rave, although in truth I was far more excited about England’s imposing semi-final clash with France.
Don’t ask me why, but I ended up watching the game in my cricket whites. I might do the same in the final because we only went and bloody won! Amazing. Suffice to say my voice was a little hoarse by the final whistle, urging on the heroic warriors in white. Ironically, considering the state of my vocal chords, there was little to shout about during the game until the final ten minutes. That man Jonny Wilkinson demonstrating that perhaps there is some truth in the rumour that his ancestors can be traced back to the Greek Gods. A living legend, I am proud to say that I love him. We explode into life as he lands a drop goal with only four minutes to go, before celebrating the final whistle with real passion. Nothing says we’ve done it like a 22 year old man swigging from a can of Fosters in his cricket whites while sat on a bean bag.

dreams

In order to keep the sports-writing dream alive, I have started my own sports blog. An online portfolio if you will, a compilation of the reports I have written on various sporting events which I have seen. At present, the blog only consists of six articles, not an amount to be proud of, but it’s a start and I intend to continue adding match reports and previews as and when I write them. The thing about blogging is, especially in this context, is that it is difficult to make the public aware of it. It would be nice if potential employees might stumble across my collection of match reports, but that will never happen. Therefore I decided to increase public awareness of my blog, by entering several reputable online sporting forums and spreading the word about my journalistic haven. The BBC’s 606 forum site is, in my opinion, a very worthwhile and complete website. Members are encouraged to comment, create and debate the sporting issues of the day, offering opinions and challenging articles written by contributors. The perfect place for me to sell my blog then. I posted a message on the forum stating that I was an aspiring journalist and as such I had created an online blog, including various match reports and sporting comment. Almost immediately I received a several responses to my post.
Faddythehero commented that “soon as i seen the cricket I came off the page”. Oh, Ok. Asides from wondering how ‘faddy’ had achieved hero status, I could not help but notice the poor use of grammar that he had demonstrated, ‘soon as I seen the cricket’!, how old was this person, did they do English at school? Anyway, I took this criticism with a portion rather than a pinch of salt and quickly looked at the next comment. In response to a cricket match report which I had posted Terrypayne had replied “Can we not stop this kind of school essay nonsense? Bores a go-go”, I was quite taken back, insulted, but everyman must have his critics if he is to have supporters. In a more positive light, Shoottherunner suggested that the blog had little chance of succeeding, adding ‘while there is little wrong with it, why would people leave the BBC’, before suggesting ‘I think you need a stand out style or feature to get a bit more interest’. I totally agreed. And that is what I am going to concentrate my efforts on. I want to produce a website that rivals the BBC and SkySports as the leading, independent, provider of sports news. This idea is, at present nothing more than a pipe dream, but I can tell you now, I am excited by it. I would love to make this happen.

jobless

11th october


It has gotten to the point where I have all but given up on getting a job. I seem to have convinced myself that sports journalism is not for me. I even got a text earlier asking me if I was available to cover a game on Saturday, don’t they know that I’ve got a big fixture of my own. Home to Old Lyonians II’s may not sound like a glamour tie, but let me assure you, it could be huge. Following that, frankly massive fixture, England are on TV, football that is, an appetiser before a main course of rugby later on in the evening. And as if the day of sport needed an aperitif, the ‘sports rave’ in Shoreditch looms large and will run late into the night. In all honesty I enjoy writing about sport, but while I am still active and energetic enough to take part in it, that is what I would rather do. Thus my ambition of becoming a sports-writer is somewhat flawed, but for the moment I am content, proud to be pulling on the jersey for the Old Sutts 3rd XI on a Saturday afternoon in the winter months, before donning the whites for my beloved Sunbury Cricket Club throughout an inevitably rain affected summer.
I have been applying for various jobs for getting on for a month now, to the extent where it is getting depressing. Am I that unemployable? Do potential employees take one look at my CV before sliding it to the bottom of the pile, or worse still throwing it, crumpled and discarded, into the bin? I hold that image in my mind, imaging these suited types laughing at my CV; chuckling at my stint as Headboy of my junior school or joking about my 2 years as a ‘food and beverage assistant’ at the Wimbledon Tennis Championships. What do they know? Anyway the joke’s on them, I’ve still got my ‘headboy’ badge. But my lack of job is clearly not a laughing matter. Although I don’t have many expenses; I still live at home, with my parents, rent-free, I don’t have a car, although I do pay insurance on my Mum’s ‘motor’, and I am lucky enough to have a full fridge of food at my disposal, I have virtually no income. Moreover, I do enjoy the odd night out, and clubbing is becoming increasingly expensive; student nights in Leeds are far cheaper than London on the weekend. Thus my bank balance is steadily decreasing. For the past weekend I’ve been living in the dreamland that dictated that online poker would provide me with a steady income. But that dream has been cruelly snatched away from me. I have had no sudden epiphany, but it has come to light that I am more inclined to lose than win, not a great statistic for any sportsman, but particularly bad for a poker player. So for the odd night of success, that I am more than likely to document and brag about, there are many more nights (and days) which are not so fruitful, i.e. you lose money. So that is a career in poker down the drain. What a waste I hear you sigh, I know, I agree.
I have done the odd bit of work for Tim’s mum. Now that is nowhere near as seedy or inappropriate as it sounds. I have known Tim for years, and he is one of my best friends, but more on that later. I have also known his mum for a while (again, nothing dodgy) and she runs her own market-research company. She calls on me from time-to-time to work for her as a host. Quite literally hosting an afternoon of research, greeting the clients, offering them tea, coffee, a foot massage, or whatever it is they may need, before showing them to the interview room. All fairly easy really, and to be honest something that I would like to do more often. But this work is infrequent and ad hoc, and can hardly be classed as a regular source of income.
It is not as though I am not trying to get a job. Well maybe there is part of me that enjoys spending the day at home, getting up late, and spending an inordinate amount of time on my Xbox 360 and my laptop. Of course there is. But, there is another part of me that is greatly unfulfilled by this life of relative luxury. No, seriously. I would love nothing more to be in a job, meeting new people, learning new skills and having a routine, a structure to my week. Then I could justify living for the weekend. As it is the days drag by and weeks feel like an eternity. Paradoxically I feel like time is passing me by. It is suddenly October and I have done nothing of note since I handed my dissertation in at the start of September, over a month ago. It is no wonder I don’t have a greatest achievement, unless you class winning the World Cup with Wales on Pro Evo 6 on the Xbox an achievement (it is quite hard and Wales are not that good a team, so I was quite proud).
So what now? I ask myself. My honest answer is that I don’t know, not right now anyway. I suppose I am still holding out hope that one day soon, my phone will ring or I will receive an e-mail begging me to start work immediately. That, as my dad continues to remind me, will not happen. Thus I will keep filling out the application forms, visiting the websites, chasing up leads, in the hope that I may find my calling, I’ll let you know how it goes.

provided by website design online guide.

building continues

The building work continues. Perhaps I should invent a drill silencer. You know how James Bond always has a silencer which he screws, with some finesse and consumate ease onto the end of his PP7. Well, surely the same principle could apply to a big noisy drill. There doubtless would be a market for such a stealth power tool. I will look into it. Nonetheless, the builders are loud, the drill being the principle culprit. Thus I have had to leave the lounge, move upstairs, not into my room, because that is polluted by the drill, but into my sisters room. And that is what they do, they force you out.
I have a ridiculous spot on the side of my nose. It is no longer a spot though, it is now a feature of my face, like a nose or an eye. It stands proud, though rather than being red in colour it has adapted a distictly purpley black tinge, as if to make it unique and cool. Well at least if your going to have a spot, better it be cool than a loser spot. As I write, the builders across the road are recieveing a pep talk from their boss. Arm waving, nodding, the odd laugh, hands on hips and then smiles all round. And I realised they are smiling because they have been dismissed for the day, it is only 16:47, very lazy if you ask me. They collect their things and power walk to their car. I say power walk because they are clearly very keen to get out of here and go home. But do not want to appear as if they are so keen to get away that they are running. Thus suffice to say they are moving as fast as is humanly possible without actually running. The kind of walking that you use when your trying to get to the front of the school dinner queue. 'No running' warns the teacher. But you ve developed a walk thats nearly as fast as a run, fast enough to get you to the front of the queue, but with such an acquired tecnique that you don't get hauled up by the teacher for running. Anyway. Thats what these builders were doing. But they've gone now. They will certainly be back tomorrow, maybe I'll have the chance to propose my drill silencer idea.

Big bang theory

Our next door neighbours are having some building work done. Brilliant, just brilliant. They are knocking down their garage, which happens to be adjacent to my bedroom, and then rebuilding it, bascially because it is a shitheap. Thus, each morning for the past week I have woken to the familiar sounds of drilling, blocks falling and of course the dulcit tones of the builders themselves. This morning I could have sworn that they were camping out in my wardrobe, trying to drill their way out, an upheaval of noise, crashing and banging. If I sound a little bitter, I am. I don't like being woken up, not this early, not when I m having trouble sleeping as it is.
What makes me even more sceptical about these builders dates back to an incident last week. It was only the second day that the builders had been on site. In a botched attempt to knock down a wall separating our house from our neighbour's, the construction workers committed slightly more than a social faux-pas. The wall came down OK, but due to some grave miscalculation the wall crashed down, as if toppled by weapon of war, and with some force, crashed into the side of our house, most notably smashing through a conservatory window. I, the only one in the house at the time, was quite happy sat on my laptop, when I heard the crash. I dismissed immediate thoughts of an earthquake in Sunbury-On-Thames as ludicrous, there is no fault line in the borough of Spelthorne to my knowledge, and went to investigate the damage. The conservatory was covered in glass, one window, which is about four foot in height I might add, was totally smashed, the last shards of glass trying to wriggle free of the frame. The path outside was a mess of red brickwork and debris, I won't get carried away and say it was a bombsite, but it was certainly a terrible mess. 'What happened here then?', I asked a stocky lad, who was shovelling the debris into his wheelbarrow. 'Sorry' he said, with an Eastern European accent, Polish I thought. 'You have a nice window...well not anymore' he said with a smile. The cheeky little...I didn't know what to say really. I couldn't help but think he'd be brave to say as much to my mum when she returned to this mess, very brave. To be fair, and I do like to be fair, the glass in the house was quickly cleared, and the path was restored to being a path, rather than a collapsed wall. Indeed when my mum did come home, she was reasonably calm. I think she suspected more damage from the way I had clamoured at her to come on the phone over an hour earlier. Since then, a crack has been discovered, running right the way across the conservatory, a direct result of where the wall hit our house. An independent builder came to inspect the damage. His advice was just a jumble of words to me, phrases like 'two inch cavity', 'rendered' and 'breeze block', went straight over my head. But it doesn't seem as though the house is about to collapse. One piece of advice I took to heart, was to photograph the damage. Digital camera in hand, I set about my work, even making a small Tarrantino-esque feature on the crack in the wall, although I doubt it will be released to the viewing public just yet. The head-builder has been more than apologetic, offering to repair any damage caused and even offering to do any other work on the house that needs doing, free of charge. My room needs tidying, so I imagine that will be high on his priority list in the coming days!

I am supposed to be going to a sports rave on Saturday. I am, as I am sure you can imagine, not sure what to expect. I dont't like raves. But I do like sport, a lot. I hope that my love of sport will outweight my dislike for raves, raving and ravers and make it fun! I cannot see how this will be the case, but nonetheless I am looking forward to it. What to wear? I sound like my friend Neil. But seriously what do you wear to a sports rave. In fact what do you wear to a normal rave?! I for one, don't know. At present I am considering wearing either my full cricket whites, with or without all the protective padding, or my junior school PE kit. I am leaning towards my PE kit, as plimsols are 'in' at the moment, not sure about the 11-12 white shorts though.
Before the 'raving' begins, there is the small matter of a huge rugby match. The old enemy, France, in the World Cup semi-final. 'The old enemy' is, as a history student I l have you know, quite the appropriate exprsssion. Only 200 years ago, England v France would have been a contest on the battlefield rather than in the rugby stadium. French Cavalry rather than blind side forwards would have been charging towards the English troops, although in both scenarios the French were wearing berrets and had a fresh baguette in each hand, making it difficult to a)carry a gun or b) catch an egg-shaped ball. Anyway the English team wil have to put such images out of their minds as they attempt to defend thier Rugby World Cup Crown, although it would be quite strange if France were to try to claim the crown, considring they have managed without a monarch since the revolution of 1785, but enough with the history. It would be a phenomenal effort if England were to reach the final of the World Cup. The media, had cruelly but possibly with justification, quite literally written off their chances, after their poor display in their opening group match against South Africa. Against all odds, another old enemy, Australia, athough I don't know the history, beyond sporting rivalry, were defeated in a fierce contest by the narrowest of margins. Lets be honest, you have to be brave to play rugby. It really looks like it hurts, a lot. I am not a whimp neither am I of slim build, as some friends often remind me, but I dont think I would have any time for scrummaging, tackling, rucking or mauling. Far safer to watch events unfold on the TV and remark from the comfort of your sofa, that while of course it looks painful, it is also very gay. Full grown men tackling each other, spending most of the game, wrestling/fiddling with each other on the floor, while the commentator rattles on about their tackle ratio's and conversion rates. Very gay. Not that I'd say so myself, at least not to ther faces, I' m not manly enough for that. But I am looking forward to the match, and I would love them (not like that) to beat France and reach the final.

What is your greatest achievement

I m still without a job, and as such I am still looking for a job. My efforts are based mainly online; making my CV as accesible as possible (AAAP if you will), applying to posts advertised on various yet creditable job websites and filling in online application. One particularly notable motoring company included the following question in the application for its graduate scheme: what is your greatest achievement to date? I moved to answer the question, but my fingers could only hover rather pathetically above the keyboard, awaiting instruction and inspiration. For the most part I enjoy a good ramble, and have become increasingly accustomed to telling my laptop experiences I have had in working in a team, or a time when I ve needed to persuade others. But this question left me, not speechless, because that is the wrong word, as I do not, usually, speak when I am typing, but I was certainly all out of ideas. Has I achieved anything of real value? Has anyone who hasn't found a cure for disease, or invented something, like the clock, really achieved anything. I ve passed some exams, even managed to bad mysef a degree, and a Masters as the cherry on top, but is that an achievement that I am truly proud of, or that is great? I hoped that I had achieved something better. Racking my brains, I rememebered once having finished a puzzle, which mapped the world, that was pretty secial. Similarly I considered not being sick after doing a shot of tequila as a reasonable achievement, surely that would impress them, wouldn't it? I ve played some sport in my time, taken a few catches, scored a few goals, missed a few puts, but I' m no professional, my sporting achievements are not great in the grand scheme of things. I began to realise that I was either a difficult person to please, or I had achieved little of any grand value. I suppose to make things a little confusing, I could say that a great achievement would be to convince myself that any achievement that I had achieved is great. I don't think they would buy that for a minute. In the end I moved on, from that question, to return to at a later date. I did, however feel like writing, this question, has provided me with much food for thought, but on reflection, I have not achieved anything that I can consider to be great. But instead, I went to the kitchen and made mysef a sandwich, some real food for thought, chicken and bacon. Often such online application forms require you to recall a time 'when you worked well with others', or when 'you worked as a team to set targets'. Strangely, I have yet to be asked, 'tell us about a time when you have had to talk yourself out of a bad situation because you have unintentionally insulted a girl, whilst making a remark that apparently was 'not funny'. But if and when the time comes, I shall be ready.

Oceay Bananas

Friday night was the night, obviously, Oceana was the venue, again obviously, and Guiche was my partner in crime, you get the gist, obviously. Sure, cynics would suggest that I was going to meet Jodie, although, I maintain that I am a big Oceana fan, and if Jodie was going to be there, then, well, the more the merrier. If you believe that, then you'l believe most things, but I digress. As it happened, Jodie's appearance was brief, fleeting rather than flirting, and she was gone by half one, whisked away by a Scottish stranger. And for a stranger he seemed alarmingly threatened by me, questioning my sexuality amongst other things, I m glad he didn't ask me if I had a job, talk about giving the guy ammo. To reiterate, I dont have a job! No one will employ me, rejections aplenty, Oceana was supposed to lighten the mood.
The dance floor was then taken by storm by two strapping young lads, dressed to impress and with a license to thrill, believe it or not it was not Brad Pitt and George Clooney, but myself and Guiche. More accurately, we were wearing the same shirts we always wear, and our dancing was perhaps even clumsier than normal, although the signature move, one arm raised, one finger in the air, was still ever present. A young lady, pretty in pink, was seemingly drawn to me, like a moth to a flame, so I m telling people. In reality, i think her 'fancy dressed' friends probably dared her to pull the guy in the white shirt with man-boobs', but I think thats harsh, I 'd say they're 'pecs'. Perhaps suprised that she was relatively attractive, I could not think of a way to ask for her number. Strangely she was quick to leave when I asked for her full name, 'cos i want to look you up on facebook', i thought it was a great line, actually it was her cue to leave, a terrible coincidence, I curse my luck. All the while Guiche was making friends, at the danger of being slightly un PC, rough girls love to be your friend in a club. 'Oh look at your friend with her' , they'l say. And your just thinking, 'why are you talking to me?!', but then, without warning, drums, drums again, and yes, I think so, we're all friends here, Baywatch is on. Like prop forwards at the Rugby World Cup, we belt out the words to our anthem, 'I l be there/ready/very'...who knows , but I will be one of them. Great scenes.
The night is not complete without a Dirty Dallas, chicken fried in human fat and and car oil, tastes suprisingly good, after umpteen VK's and sambuca's, likewise a Subway goes down a treat, and that is my preferred option, Subway melt to be precise, in case you were wondering.
What is it about the eighties music, expensive entry and ageing DJ that draw us back time and again. I don't know, maybe that's the way aha aha I like it....

Another game of tennis with Ben today. As he gets better, I get worse. And he is getting better, and as previously implied, I am getting worse, thus the gap in quality widens. I lost again. Badly. 6-1, 6-4. I'm no Tim Henman; even for all his moronic critics crying 'he never won anything' and always bottled it at Wimbledon', I like Tim Henman and part of me wants to be like him, at least when I ve just fluffed a limp forehand into the net on the rain-soaked gravel courts at Egham Leisure centre. In the pub afterwards, Rich asked, I think jokingly, 'so did you serve and volley then Rat', before I could answer, Ben just laughed, not a giggle or a chortle , a solid laugh. Maybe I need a tactic, I certainly don't have a tennis 'weapon'. My forehand is better than my backhand because my backhand is non-existent, I am one of those terrible tennis players, who runs round the ball to get it on the forehand side. This is not a good thing for several reasons; 1. my forehand is shit. 2. I m a very slow runner. 3. It opens up the whole court, and thus even if I successfully hit the ball back to my opponent, he slams it into the areas of the court made vacant by my unelegant navigation of the ball. My serve isn't up to much these days either. I have often spent more energy eating a buffet (pizza hut) than on my second serve . A token gesture, no u11 girl woul dbe proud of, it is simply ballooned over the net, much to Ben's credit he keeps a straight face, although less admirably, he inevitably hits a winner. I asked my Dad for his tennis advice, whilst explaining my limitations, 'my serve is poor, I dont have a backhand, and my forehand is not all its cracked up to be!'. 'Hit more winners than losers' was his response. Cheers Federer, I thought, I hit about 2 winners per match on a good day, and with regards to losers, there is no bigger loser than me on the tennis court. Though I have the look of a pro, with my sparkling white wristband, washed by Mum, my excuse for a racket is the first indicator that I am what John McEnroe would undoubtedly call, 'shit'.
Of late, it has normally been dark when Ben and I have played, the floodlights, whilst perfect for the 5 a side football pitches, are a real dissapointment on the tennis courts, in that they dont work. Today, it was wet, and a bit dark, I'm not having a go, you can only control the controllables(!), all I'm saying is that I ve played in better conditions. So I got beat, again. The BBC's statistician is doubtless aware that Raven has now beaten R-Jones in all of their previous 5 encounters, all of which have been on, gravel. Personally I think I'm more of a grass player, a bit like Henman you might say, though I imagine he'd be less than flattered by the comparison.

swings and roundabouts

I have recently got back into the swing of playing online poker. A mugs game my mum tells me. She may be right, but I maintain I am decent, decent enough to win some money. I felt fully justified then when I placed 2/200 in a $1o tournament to pocket $310. The same evening, buoyed by that success and Spurs' late equaliser, I entered a $30 80 man tournament. Finding myself at the final table I negotiated my way to the final 6, with the top 5 being paid out, 129 through to about $540. I busted out in 6th trying to force a play with A8, and was gutted when the Big Blind called my all-in, turning over A9. Today, it seemed logical, or like there was nothing better to do, to enter more tournaments. I reached the last 18/80 in the $20 dollar before my AK was cruelly beaten by AQ all in pre-flop. That was just the beginning of my misfortune. Determined to place in the money (in hindsight my downfall), I entered the $30 dollar multi tourny, the limit of my bank roll really. Once again, I cruised to the final 20 of the eighty man field, despite being alarmingly card short. It seemed that, as so often happens on Pro Evo, or Football Manager, the computer wanted me to lose. It was my PKR destiny to be unlucky and lose. Time and again I was defeated with the odds strongly in my favour, with the river card often dealing the fatal blow. I finished in 15th, as my opponent hit a stray King on the river, bastard. Meanwhile, I was also playing in a $10 tourny, I know, I know, I m not addicted though, just going through a phase! Carelessly I called an all-in, still reeling from my previous dissapointments, and, miraculously I myself recieved a little help from the PKR gods. And again. And after hitting some nice cards, I found myself as chip leader, ruling the table with an iron fist, if I may write my own reviews! It wasn't t to last however. Lady luck dealt me a cruel blow, my KJ looked good on a board of K74, indeed it looked even better when I called an all-in for my opponent to show 33 in the hand. Devestatingly, perhaps inevitably, the river was a 3. Not nice. Not fun. At least I took it in good spirits. Fucking typical, I bashed into the table chat. Thats poker mate, came the reply from Barry653, cheers mate, fucking profound, idiot. But anyway, win some you lose some! Maybe mum is right, I am a mug!

jobhunt

I ve been looking for a job for about three weeks now. Since I finished my dissertation at the beginning of September I have been without work, except for a day of writing at Nonleaguetoday. Following on from my Masters, I would like to be a sports journalist. Without question writing about sport of the highest level on a daily basis would be fantastic; fun, interesting and rewarding. Sports journalism however, is not the pursuit of the sporting. Weekends are when the big action happens, Football, Rugby, Cup finals etc. Weekends are also when I play sport, exclusively cricket in the summer and increasingly football in the winter. As a freelance sports writer you cannot afford to pick and chose, you cannot afford not to be flexible, and you cannot afford to be unavailable at weekends. I don't wish to quit at the first hurdle, but liekwise I dont want to waste my time and efforts. I am not short of contacts; friends have been kind enough to provide me with some fantastic network opportunities, and as such I have a small advantage over must budding reporters. A uni friend, who is as good a writer as I could hope to be, experienced a similar problem this time last year. Working on the student newspaper he could write about what whatever he liked, although mostly he chose a specialist subject, music. As a young writer, options are limited, and you are restricted to the things that matter least, the stories which are small enough even for you to handle. As such I feel that I am best advised to seek more stable employment , at least for the time being. On top of job satisfaction, I still aim to be independent and self sufficient. Thus, I need a regular income, one that journalism, with my level of experience and skill, is unliklely to provide. I have become more general in my job applications, applying for teaching positions, sales, graduate schemes and sports coaching work. Now, after several weeks of unsuccesful applications, mainly for positions involving journalism or more general media, partiuclarly at sky and the beeb, I have become increasingly keen just to start work. Finally. Students. Tax dodgers , cut your hair and get a job!

diary of a spurs fan

Can Tottenham fans please start being more realistic in their valuations of our team. Sure, it would be brilliant, fantastic and all the rest of it if we made the top four, but its no coincidence that the same teams are competing for these places year in year out. It takes time to build a side that will challenge for the title. White Hart Lane must become a fortress, and while it is important to consistently beat the likes of Middlesborough and Fulham who stand for midtable mediocrity, Martin Jol also needs to find the right recipe to take on the big guns. The recent losses to Arsenal and Man Yoo were massively dissapointing not least because we created a lot of good chances, and competed for much of the game. Perhaps that is the very crux of the problem. Maybe we do need to park the bus like some old Chelsea manager Jose something once said. You can't afford the big teams chance after chance they will simply punish you by virtue of their extra quality. Enough ranting for now. It would be nice for Spurs to realise their potential immediately, and turn this season around. For now rebuilding a league campaign must come second to successful cup runs domestically and in Europe.

variety

They say variety is the spice of life and as such, we took a break from Oceana and ventured to Crazy Larry's. It is always interesting to go somewhere different, and it was good to spend a night out away from the New York Disco room. Of course, the tabloids would wax lyrical about a booze fuelled night out (definitely preferable to a drugs fuelled night), but it was not a particularly drunken one. As per usual the emphasis, particualrly towards the end of the night was on scoping the ladies. Rather nervous, bumbling and sometimes pathetic attempts to convince girls that your the man for them, or at least a man, repeatedly failed. Shockingly and suprisingly, even the finest disco feet in the business did nothing to attract anything other than the odd strange glance. There was even the embarrassing instance of a girl simply getting up and leaving after hearing two minutes too many of my very stinky chat. Nonetheless it was a good night, although doubtless a return to Oceana is imminent, I didn't even get to meet this wacky Larry charachter, although the taxi ride home with Mutley more than made up for that.

About this blog

I ve decided to start a blog. This blog is the new I pod, it is going to be massive. This is not necessarily designed for a particular audience, more a way to express ideas and opinions.

Olly, editor