Oscar Wilde, Twitter and racism in football

In his essay the Decaying of Life, Oscar Wilde coined the now famous phrase "life imitates art far more than art imitates life".

While Wilde’s work is now well over 100 years old, the words still have resonance today. Especially in the context of football.

While the rest of the world has to comply with rules, norms and all manner of social conventions, football has become stuck in pre 1970s era where foreigners are treated with suspicion and racial slurs are still considered banter.

Football operates on a plane where banana throwing and monkey chants do not carry the stigma they would off the pitch. It would be considered, and rightly so, absurd if some of the things said at football matches were done in everyday life.

And while the Suarez/Evra affair left a bad taste in the mouth, perhaps more worrying is the rise of incident, and alleged incidents both on the pitch, and off the pitch, since the Uruguayan was slapped with an eight match ban.

A few weeks a, footballer Mark McCammon vowed to bring a race discrimination claim against his former club Gillingham, alleging that the teams black players and white players were treated differently.

He told the Sunday Telegraph: "I'm hopeful that truth will prevail."

Today, Russian football club Anzhi Makhachkala claimed that opposition supporters threw a banana at defender Christopher Samba, urging Lokomotiv Moscow to identify to fan responsible.

Samba said: "I try not to think about racism. I just want to believe that such problems do not exist on a global basis. Maybe I am mistaken but I do want to believe in it.”

However, more in line with the words of Wilde, is how actions on the pitch are affecting behaviour of the wider general public.

It would be crazy to insist that perfectly sane and rational people are turning into bigots because they idolise footballers . However, it may have legitimised inappropriate behaviour.

I myself, watching the recent Everton v Spurs games in a pub, heard a fan standing next to me refer to Fellaini as wog (he even turned and spotted me at the bar and there wasn’t even a hint of guilt in his eyes).

Also worrying is the treatment of footballers on Twitter, with Stan Collymore and the stricken Fabrice Muamba perhaps two of the more shocking examples.

Liam Stacey was arrested this morning after offensive and racial comments about Fabrice Muamba were posted on Twitter.

Stacey told police: "I was at the bar when I heard what had happened to Muamba.

I don't know why I posted it. I'm not racist and some of my friends are from different cultural backgrounds.

Funnliy enough, his words are strikingly similar to those of Liverpool in their defence of Suarez

A statement from the club said: “He has played with black players and mixed with their families whilst with the Uruguay national side and was captain at Ajax Amsterdam of a team with a proud multi-cultural profile, many of whom became good friends.”

Five rudest songs of all time

The annals of music history are bursting with songs that have offended the milder ears down the years. Notable tunes which caused controversy and moral panic, include 1980s hit Relax by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Since I Had You by Marvin Gaye and Donna Summers’ classic marathon Love to Love You Baby.

However, mild references to ejaculation and the sounds of a sexual climax, are nothing compared to lengths the artists have gone too on these filthy efforts.

Akinyele - Put in your mouth

As the unsubtle title of this number suggests, this song is an essay on oral sex. No subtlety required here, as the outro reveals.



Filthiest bit
You wanna go down why not
I be like Herbie and han you a cock

R Kelly – 12 Play

RnB fans will be well versed on the sexual tendencies of Chicago freak R Kelly. At one point in 12 Play, a tune from the 1993 album by the same name, he lists a multi-point sexual action plan he is hoping to deliver on an unsuspecting lady - like a really dity political manifesto.



Filthiest bit
Spread your legs apart
Feel me, I'm so hard

Big Pun – I’m not a Player

Big Pun, perhaps one of the dirtiest rappers of all time, earns his place in the forum of filth by dropping the C-bomb in the second verse (the entire verse is jaw-droppingly obscene) of this 1998 O’Jays-sampling smash.



Filthiest bit
Excuse me for being blunt
But I been eating c***s, since pimps is pushing
Pink Caddies with the fish tank pumps

Ying Yang Twins – Wait (Whisper Song)

It’s no wonder the Ying Yang Twins whisper all the lyrics to their 2005 song Wait, it is so obscene, and sexually threatening, that rapping out loud would have made them blush.



Filthiest bit
Ay bitch! wait til you see my dick
Imma beat dat p***y up

My Dick

The now deceased Puerto Rican rap star was so much in love with his appendage he penned an ode to his manhood in 2000. So moving it is almost like Shakespeare.



Filthiest Bit
Now you gon' get what you deserve
That's my dick in your mouth

Five films that should never have been made

Poetic Justice

John Singleton must have been sitting at his desk in 1992 wondering how to follow up his Oscar nominated Boyz’ n the Hood. He needn’t have bothered. Janet Jackson, who plays Justice, is a street poet from the ghetto who “discovers herself”. Some soundtracks are better than their movies but rarely by such wide a margin.

PS I Love You

The burgeoning prince of rom coms Gerard Butler plays a young lover who dies “suddenly” of a brain tumour but has the foresight to leave his wife, Hilary Swank, a series of creepy sugary hallmark messages from beyond the grave. As terrible as it sounds.

Thirteen Ghosts

Some rappers; Tupac, Method Man, Mos Def, make plausible actors. But whoever cast Rah Digga in this movie needs shooting. Digga, real name Rashia Fisher, plays the stereotype of a sterotype of a feisty African American woman, who snaps her fingers at all manner of ghouls. Oh know she didn’t!

Synecdoche, New York

Never has a film promised so much and delivered so little. The premise, a theatre director who decides to make a play about his life, is a good one. But it doesn’t take long for the pretentious movie to disappear up its on arse. It only began to make sense after it finished and I was able to look on Google. Probably got five stars in Empire.

Friday after Next

Friday = good. Next Friday = pants. Friday after next = diabolical. One joke was never going to last for three movies. Most people probably don’t even know Friday is a trilogy.

Didn’t they do well: Unlikely rises to stardom

Looking back at the careers of many of the most loved celebrities, it is a wonder how some - considering their uninspiring beginnings - made it to the top.

Ant and Dec



Now the UK’s favourite presenting pair, it is easy to forget that the Geordie duo began their careers in naff BBC kid’s programmes Why Don’t You? and Byker Grove. They even had time to make a number of cringeworthy hip-hop inspired records before finally landing their breakthrough gig as the hosts of Saturday morning programme SMTV Live. A far cry indeed from the X Factor and Britain’s Got Talent.

Guy Pearce



The English-born star of The King’s Speech, LA Confidential and Memento took the scenic route to stardom. Moving to Australia when he was still a toddler the young Mr Pearce was Mike Young in Neighbours and a bit-part player in Home and Away before Hollywood came calling.

Ian Wright



He might be a second-rate pundit and presenter today but it easy to forget that the former Arsenal and Crystal Palace star was once one of England’s most exciting footballers. The former record goalscorer for the Gunners, who also has 33 caps to his name, was a 22-year-old amateur before exploding into the big time after being spotted for the Eagles while playing for Dulwich Hamlet.

Happy Gilmore



Adam Sandler’s 1996 character Happy Gilmore was a wannabe hockey player and all-round loser before taking up golf in a bid to save his grandmother’s home. Spotted by one-handed coach Chubbs Peterson, Gilmore’s long drive took pro golf by storm helping the hot-head to victory in the Tour Championship against Shooter McGavin.

Colonel Sanders



The King of fried chicken was a steamboat pilot, farmer and insurance salesman before first serving his trademark to the dishes. He didn’t even develop his secret recipe until he was 49 - leaving him just 41 years to enjoy his finger licking creations until his death in 1980 aged 90.

Bunch of fives: 90s Nostalgia

For people 25 and above the 1990s represents the very pinnacle of popular culture. Too young to own fond memories of the neon glitz and glamour of the 80s, in the 90s today’s twentysomethings did their growing up alongside Bart Simpson and spent the formative years on the Sony Playstation and listening to Brit Pop.

It no particular order, and with no claims to greatness, here are five of the things that made the 90s memorable.

Pogs

The PlayStation was the must have games system of the decade but the console couldn’t match the sheer collectability of pogs. The game, which consisted on stacking up and knocking over discs of card, became popular enough to become the scourge of teachers up and down the country. It was banned at least twice at my school for causing fights. Walker’s crisps Tazos are often considered their poor relation but were equally as good.

See also: Merlin football stickers

Sister Sister

For kids In the 90s Nickelodeon was the home of good TV and there were dozens of shows that were amazing. Sister Sister sticks out because, even for a programme aimed at young folk, the plot was crazy. Twin sisters separated at birth meet up again at a department store and then move into one big house with their foster parents. And it had a young Marquez Houston in it. Go home Roger!

See also: Clarissa Explains it all, Are you Afraid of the Dark?, Moesha, Saved by the Bell and Galaxy High, Keenan and Kel.

Wham Bars

Apart from pricing, the world of sweets has rarely changed radically in the last twenty years but chew bars in the 10p bracket were king in the 1990s. Who knows what a Wham bar was made of, it was pink and green and pulled teeth out, but my God was it tasty.

See also: Quarterback crisps, Tangy Toms, Refresher bars, Mr Freeze Ice pops.

UK Garage

Every decade has at its music scene and in the late 90s it was garage. Just a few years before Blur, Pulp and Oasis ruled the charts and the best acts are still remembered today. Garage, an interesting hybrid of rap, dance and RnB, was diverse with some God awful songs but also some brilliant music. Sorry by Monsta Boy sticks out as one of the best. Buddha Finger by Reservoir Dogs was probably the worst.

See also: So Solid Crew, Wookie, Sia, DJ Luck and MC Neat.

Spliffy Jeans

Just one of many odd clothing trends in the 90s were Spliffy Jeans. Anyone who was anyone wore them and they were the unofficial uniform of the school disco (at might school anyway!). They were baggy, they were black and they had a blonde rasta throwing up a gang sign on the pocket. Classy!

See also: backward baseball caps, round sunglasses, Global Hypercolour and Ton Sur Ton.

My issues with Bizspeak

Anyone who has read George Orwell’s 1984 will be familiar with newspeak.

In a bid to crush free thinking and creativity the IngSoc party - the government of the dystopian Orwellian future - erase words from the English language to create a stunted charmless functional new lexicon.

Those who are yet to read the novel but have spent anytime working in an office, will still be familiar with Bizspeak.

To sound intelligent businessmen and women invent, twist or change the meaning of existing words to create a corporate langauge of jargon filled unintelligible bollocks which makes normal people curl thier toes in pure cringeworthiness.

The Bizspeak top 5

Synergy

Meaning two forces working together. Used as team name in The Apprentice every season. The word is not actually new, it’s Ancient Greek, but has been seized by corporates. Usually used just after a merger and right again before most of the new people - who fail to synergise - get the boot.

Value-add

Apparently when providing a service, it is not only the service itself which is important. It is also the value added by said service. Used by companies who are too crap to provide the service promised in the first place.

Touchbase

Apparently “lets touchbase” is Bizspeak for “let’s have a meeting”. Often said using microphone headsets, grinning stupidly and leaning back in an wheeled office chair. Also has to be said loud enough for the rest of the office to hear. Why touchbase without anyone else knowing?

Moving forward

This one is a staple of salesfolk. Quite why you cannot simply say ‘the future’ when you are selling toner remains a mystery.

Skill-set

A skill-set is always discussed when a new person joins a firm and simply means skills, or in most cases, the number of lies told on a CV. “His/her skill set is in synergy with what we need at this company, after we touched base last week we had to offer them the job due to their value add”.

Bunch of fives: Five things that ruin Facebook

Using Facebook is like the social networking equivalent of meeting an ex after a messy break-up. Parts of it are so good you wondered how you ever lived without it, but most of it makes you wonder why you ever fancied it in the first place.

The Facebook break-up

Breaking up with someone on the phone is bad, breaking up with someone via text is worse, breaking up with someone on Facebook is unforgiveable.

The cry for attention

Leigh Jackson is... having the worst day ever.

Who cares? If you need to vent go and call a friend. Having 30 people replying to status updates to check on your sanity won’t make you feel any better. Having no-one reply is fail.

Unusual friend requests

I never spoke to you in high school. Why would I speak to you now?

Shit games

Vampire bite, Bear Hug, Farmville… the list is endless! Play shit games in your time, without sending me endless wall posts with top scores.

The Facebook poke

If you can’t be bothered to exercise your fingers and type someone a message reconsider your friendship.

The dress code short straw

There is often talk of the differences in norms and values between the sexes but the dress code has to be at the forefront of the stakes of injustice.

As a man I can grudgingly admit that there are some advantages to owning a penis, inlcuding guilt free sleeping around and the ability to urinate standing-up.

But I would consider trading both for more leniency when it comes to sensible business wear.

Men, either in the office, at a party or a wedding reception, have a lack of serious options for meeting those two hard to define words – smart casual.

Jeans won’t get the job done, and there is never a suitable occasion for formal shorts. Which leaves one option – the trusty shirt and trouser combo.

The more flamboyant can dress it up with a tank-top, jumper or maybe even a loosened tie but we are seriously bereft of options.

The fairer sex, on the other hand, have more choice than is proper and decent. Their sheer breadth of shoes says it all – all we have is black, brown, laces or loafers.

Don’t get me wrong - I am definitely pro choice. It’s the abuse to the system that this freedom of choice allows which must no longer go unchallenged.

As men have been stuck in the uncomfortable trousers and their stuffy shirts for as long as I can remember, fashion conscious women have been blurring the smart casual line for years.

Leggings are replacing trousers, boots are walking in the place of shoes and skirts are begin to work their way further and further up the leg.

But it is acceptable because it looks good. Very good in most cases!

So this not a plea for a return to strict Amish style office wear for women, it is just a simple plea for fairness, equal rights and egalitarianism.

And, of course, to be able to dress like a scruff at all times. What does smart casual mean anyway?

Both feet in the rugby camp

Like the third round of the FA Cup and the Ashes test series, the Six Nation’s Rugby is one of those marquee sporting events that I have to mark on the sporting calendar.

But only because I want to avoid it.

I have a curious aversion to the game - and that is not fair on the game itself. As a sport, rugby can be intense, exciting and dramatic. It's the fans I don’t like.

Perhaps that is harsh because the majority of fans are great – especially the Irish, the Welsh and Scots . It’s just the England supporters that boil my blood.

But it’s not all of them. Like the England football fans, where a minority are unbearable, there is a small group of national rugby fans who are so cringeworthy that I can only look at them through the cracks of my fingers.

And what it boils down to is whether you are in the rugby or the 'ruggers' camp. I know where I stand.

It’s the Toff Tofington crowd that I can't abide, the fans who proudly sing Swing Low Sweet Chariot without knowing its roots in slavery and cling to the Calcutta Cup oblivious to its nod to the dark days of imperlaism.

Every rugby fan knows at least one supporter who fits the indetikit.

They are the fans who go to the pub in their replica shirts with upturned collars and loafers and loathe football for its “common” roots.

They pedal the myth that rugby is for thugs but played by gentleman, despite the spear tackling, the eye gouging and the arse poking in the scrum.

They treat rugby like a mark of class. A badge of exclusivity that separates the middle class wheat from the working class chaff.

At least you can watch football down the local, away from the hooray Henrys and Henriettas who are trying to seize the game for themselves.

I will be watching the weekend games but purely from the safety of my own home.

Then I’ll hold my breath before I have to go through it all again next year.

Trying to defend the indefensible

My housemate and I have been friends for more than 20 years and on the way to the tube station last week, via memory lane, the topic of conversation turned to childhood.

We started talking about living with our parents, the things we used to annoy them and their, often failed, attempts at trying to rein us in.

All the standard fare got a mention. The ‘wait until your father gets home’, the grounding (usually lasting for just a few hours) and the often underrated, and now frowned upon, slap.

Then out of nowhere, he said: “Did you ever get accused of showing off?”

It was something I had long forgotten and brought back vivid memories of the hundreds of occasions when my Mum, trying to get me to stop acting up when we had company, would level the immortal accusation.

“All the time,” I said. “And it always worked!”

And it did. The words could make the most unruly teenager stop in their tracks and rack their brains for the best response.

But there isn’t one. And therein was its power.

What could you say that wouldn’t make things worse? Denying that you were showing off always made it look as if you were being nonchalant about showing off – thus making you look even more like a show off.

And admitting to it made you look arrogant. It was like saying “I am showing off. And what of it?”

There was even the schoolmate version. If your mates ever needed to bring you down a peg or two they could accuse you of fancying someone – the least appealing the better because whatever you said just made things worse.

It’s the golden ticket of controlling behaviour – I just wish there was an adult equivalent.

The telephone voice

The majority of people I have spoken to in the past few days will probably have forgotten the sound of my voice already.

It’s nothing personal – I don’t stutter, I don’t have a serious lisp and I don’t squeak. My voice is that of a bog standard man, with a Luton dialect and a spattering of slang.

But all bets are off if you call me in the office.

People who have spoken to me on my work number would certainly remember my high-pitched, overly-eloquent, trying-to-sound-important-but-failing tones.

Anyone who wants evidence of this need only call the office after 6pm to behold my business answerphone message in all its glory.

Admittedly, at first I thought it was just me. Then I was able to listen closely to my colleagues and knew I was in good company.

Even my contacts at other companies do it.

One lady I met sounded like Kathy Burke when I met her face-to-face, which was particularly funny as I mistook her for Joanna Lumley when she phoned me the day before.

But what is the reason for the plummy, over the top, wordy way of speaking to business contacts when most people talk to their mates they are just their usual foul-mouthed, inarticulate selves?

What is it about the office phone that turns Len Goodman into Stephen Fry?

Is it a need to feel comfortable among colleagues and contacts? Is it to impress others? Or do we all secretly want to sound posh. And do posh sounding people use more slang and drop their ‘t’s when speaking on the office phone?

My conclusion is that I don’t know. It’s a complete mystery to me.

All I know is that it won’t stop!

Black to the future

I can’t help looking at the escapades of Doc and Marty with great envy.

Ok, so I haven’t yet invented the flux capacitor and I haven’t figured out how to generate 1.2 giggawatts of power but my attempts at time travel have been doomed to failure since the day I was born.

I would like a go at surfing the time continuium but as a black man the chances of me enjoying a flying DeLorean are slim.

I reckon I, and most other ethnic people, would enjoy the future – especially with Barack Obama around to shape it.

But how would we fare in the past?

McFly was able to go back 1885 and 1985 relatively unfettered. Granted, his modern clothes looked stupid but that would be the least of my problems.

The 16th to the 19th centuries are out immediately, as is the American Deep South during most of the 20th century (to be fair I wouldn’t visit during the present day) and I would stick out a mile as a serf in feudal England.

I don’t often feel the need to issue advice but if I was ever asked I would respond as follows: always be polite, treasure your friends and never, under any circumstances, travel faster than 88 mph.

The results may not be as exciting as they seem.

Childen in need... of a drink?

Looking back fondly on our teenage years, we all remember being turfed out or refused service at a pub, bar or some kind other drinking establishment.

Memories of sending my tallest friend (measuring a jaw-dropping 6’3 at just 15) into our local off-license to buy as many bottles of Hooch and WKD as we could carry still bring a smile to my face.

And while the pimpled faced youth of today remain unwelcome in places for adults, there has been a emerging trend in even younger pub patrons... toddlers.

I don’t remember it becoming acceptable, welcome or fashionable but there seems to be an explosion of parents smuggling their very young children into bars.

I was with my sister in a pub a couple of Sundays ago and we were almost outnumbered by the little people.

Children were skipping around, toddlers were sitting in high chairs mashing their fists into food and parents were looking on admiringly wherever I turned.

And this was in the middle of the night.

Not having children myself, I’m not in a position to say what is good parenting and what isn’t but it seemed unfair to both the other drinkers and – ironically- the children themselves.

As an adult, the pub hasn’t managed to retain any of its mystique. Literally they are places that just serve alcohol – usually at rip off rates.

So, simply put – for a child – the pub is boring. Which was probably the reason why everyone under five feet tall was engaged in a game of tag.

And like all the other drinkers, I had to mind my ps and qs. No rude jokes, no swearing and no objectifying the opposite sex.

It seemed a tad selfish of the parents to me – the pub is clearly a place not meant for the under 18’s let alone the under 5s.

Maybe pubs should have special areas for children... or maybe parents should leave the young ‘uns at home and let us joyless, childless folk pickle our livers in peace.

Champoholics Anonymous

Tidying my room last week and flicking through various CDs and games I came over all nostalgic when I realised that I had at least three 2D soccer simulation gems.

It pains me to admit that I still occasionally play Football Manager 2008 but nothing could beat the heady days of gambling away your future by starting up a game of Champ at the most inopportune moment.

My GCSE revision was interrupted on by my love for CM9798, playing the diamond with Barcelona and Juventus and buying in gems like Ibrahima Bakayoko, Richard Wright and Tom Youngs.

While doing my A Levels it was Championship Manager 3 and the new interface that was probably a contributing factor to my failure to make it to Nottingham Law School.

And even my degree suffered as I managed to take lowly Stevenage Borough through the league system from the Conference to the Uefa Cup on Football Manager 2005.

There were times when I would play for days at time – barely moving for the computer and only stopping to eat.

At times the love of the game can reduce the most civilized man into an unwashed, gibbering fool who is more interested in gaining promotion with York City than doing something more useful.

But who wouldn’t prefer comparing the merits of Luis Figo (20 for passing) and Zinedine Zidane (18 for shooting) than memorise a detailed history of equity and trust case law.

The worst thing about Champ addiction is that it blurs the lines of reality and fiction – at times I have had to remind my self that Arsenal didn’t sign Fernando Torres in 2006 and then go on to win back to back quadruples.

I’m going to have to write to the manufacturers and ask them to slip a sticker on the front cover. Warning: Champ ruins lives.

Better still we could all get together (and I know there is a lot of us) and start up a support group - Champoholics Anonymous.

“My name’s Leigh.... And I’m a Champoholic.”

Conversations I wish I had been a part of

Some people love London for the nightlife, others enjoy the food and some get a thrill out of being part of the world's most diverse city.

Personally, being a nosy bastard, I love the human drama.

Anyone who lives in the capital will know that it is difficult to exist without seeing mankind both at its best and its worst.

As people watching is my pasttime (I'm not a stalker by the way) I often overhear snippets of other people's phone conversations.

There have been a couple of incidents in the last month which made me wish I was the guy on the other end of the line.

Coming out of Tesco a couple of weeks I almost bumped into a posh woman talking on her mobile to who, due to the harsh tone, must have been her boyfriend.

“Darren!," she yelled. "I’ve told you a million fucking times that I can’t come. I’m in Namibia for a month.”

Poor Darren - he must keep forgetting about that. I didn't hear his response but I wouldn't have been suprised if he was grovelling.

The other was clearly between a couple of guys. It had to be - it was embellishment about a fight that had taken place the night before.

I was coming back from the Arsenal - Man City game at the Emirates and heard a burly Gooner say into his handset.

“You should have been there man. He got sparked out by a 15 year-old."

For good measure he added: "Cold!”

I almost pissed myself.

Sounded like a good fight though.

Apparently the teen is talks to fight Ricky Hatton!

Know your audience

Even though I am not a comedian I get the idea that a key element of good joke telling is knowing your audience.

Seeing two jokes fall flat on their face in the last two weeks illustrated the point perfectly.

The first was at work, when I overheard two of my colleagues talking about babysitting.

Being new, I imagined it would be a good time for some team building. After all humour can build bridges... when it is appropriate.

So one of my workmates is explaining that she is looking after one of her nephews for the weekend.

“He can be a handful,” she says. “But my boyfriend is with me so we can probably manage him together.”

Without even thinking I said: “One of you can hold him and the other can beat him!”

Stunned silence.

My housemate would have laughed his ass off!

In the second incident the joke was on me. I was on the train to Wembley to see Arsenal v Chelsea in the FA Cup and the train was rammed.

At the next stop a giant of a Chelsea fan squeezes himself on... despite the fact that I am already being felt up (not by design!) by an old man.

I was reaching for my pockets to pull out my Mp3 player and he mistakenly thought I was trying to reach for his.

Without a trace of a mile on his face he says: “If you take anything out of my pocket I will remember your face, find you and kill you.”

The he bursts into gales of laughter.

All I could think of was the quickest way of changing my pants.

Forced sisterhood?

A million comedians have told a million jokes about the subtle and not so subtle differences between the two sexes.

Men are competitive, aggressive and forthright, while women are sensitive, intuitive and caring.

And for the most part a lot of it is utter nonsense and overblown stereotype.

Who doesn’t know (and love) aggressive members of the fairer sex and how many women adore sensitive men?

The only thing that always makes me, and probably millions of other men, laugh is the idea of sisterhood.

What is it about girl power? How are sisters doing it for themselves? And what does 'you go girl' actually mean?

Ironically, It's all a load of bollocks.

How many women tell their friends they are well dressed but then tell everyone how awful they look when there back is turned?

How many woman mercilessly insult another women and then smile enthusiastically and hug and kiss them when they turn up at their local?

How many women praise each other on their looks, weight and body shape until they get into a particularly nasty argument?

Men too can be cutting and cruel…but too each other’s faces.

Most importantly, we don’t form cliques and pretend to like each other just because we have matching genitalia.

It’s silly to think that all women should get along just because they are women.

Women should take a leaf out of the manual and just admit that they are envious of their better looking rivals, be honest enough to tell each other when they look crap or open enough to tell someone a dickhead when the situation warrants it.

In some respects women really do need to man up.

An evening with Walsh and the Beckhams

This week I was lucky enough to be invited for a dose of Wembley corporate hospitality by Royal Bank of Scotland Insurance.

Having never been in one of the boex at Wembley, I was impressed with the surroundings and, of course, made sure I had as much free beer and pies as possible.

Before the game started, someone mentioned that the Beckham’s had a box at Wembley, which happened to be just a couple of boxes down from our own.

Once they game had kicked off Victoria came out of  with the boys and took their sets, which, in part was more exciting than the game itself.

I never thought that seeing famous people would massively excite me – after all they are just like me and you – but happen to be exposed to the glare of the media. 

And for the time being I was relatively calm.

Even when Brooklyn started play-fighting with one of numerous security guards and was disciplined by his Victoria in public I was not overwhelmed by their star status.

However, that was all about to change.

After half-time, out of nowhere, Tommy Walsh came to share I box and I couldn't contain myslef.

Before, he had even taken his seat I had enthusiastically thrust my hand towards him and introduced myself.

As he sat talking about his journey – I was listening.

As he was regailing the PRs with tales of charity football with David Beckham – I was listening.

When he was telling his young son about his friendship with the guys in Spandau Ballet – I was listnening.

I was so absorbed I didn’t actually see much of the second half and I managed to take a couple of stealth picture of him.

Even though Heat Magazine wasn't interested in them I didn’t care… I bloody love Ground Force!

Casual smokers

Not content with being unhealthy I am also slowly smoking myself into an early grave.

Unlike some smokers I picked up the habit fairly late and the moment I came to terms with smoking I felt stupid.

Not because smoking is inherently bad for you (or that it makes you a social leper) but because I used to be a preachy non-smoker.

And there is little worse than that...except for a casual smoker.

The transition from non-smoker to lung blackener is gradual process.

Now I am out of the smoking closet, have left the self denial behind and come to terms with it, it is impossible not to look back at myself and cringe.

Like looking back at old photos of yourself with once fashionable clothes or stupid hair there is nothing more embrassing than the phases of being a a smoker.

And it’s all because the phases between becoming an adolescent smoker and an adlt smoker are so annoying.

Fellow smokers, have you noticed that when non-smokers tell you how badly you are killing your lungs, casual smoker remain strangely quiet and never mention the fact that they smoke?

And casual smokers only smoke, or so they claim, socially – when they are having a drink.

But by far the worst is that they hunt in groups. And then they bum your cigarettes – never before has a pack of ten so quickly turned into a pack of two.

Casual smokers have a little smoker inside them struggling, scratching and clawing their way out desperate to blacken their lungs.

Either let the little bastard run free – or have the will be to commit an act of violence him.

Whatever you decide go and buy your own!

Racial profiling

As sure as an Englishman will always acknowledge a fellow Brit abroad, minority groups do much of the same here in the UK.

As a black person I often acknowledge other black people when I see them in public. Usually a nod of the head followed by us both muttering “alright” quietly and then going our separate ways.

It is not just black phenomenon either, I have seen my Asian friends do the same thing. In fact it is not even strictly a racial thing. If I see other Arsenal fans I will nod and mutter at them too.

It works particularly well when you are in a place where you are less likely to find people of the same background. It worked much better when I lived in Preston compared to where I live now in East London.

Some of my friends think it is strange and perhaps even racist. But it’s just a bit of fun… or so I used to think.

It seems that people are racially profiling me to make me do shit for them.

This phenomenon, which I call getting ‘blacked’ (insert your own racial term where appropriate), occurs when people try to use your colour as a flimsy pretext to get you do something for them.

I am always getting ‘blacked’ by the guy who sells The Nation newspaper, I constantly get ‘blacked’ by a tramp I see on Oxford Street and the 1,000 yard is useless against the charity guys who ‘black’ me almost on a daily basis.

And some people actually fall for it. Some guys hand over money and give up time on the basis of it.

Not me though – I’ve decided to walk with my head down from now on.