Agents...

Right, this might be a boring one for people, however today's topic of ranting is football agents. Now, they've been around for a while, so why bring up the topic now? Well, two separate incidents in the last week have rather piqued my interest.

The arrival of agents in the game has been much maligned and I can assure that over the next 5 or so minutes (or however long it takes to read this) they're only going to get more maligned. The first incidence was that of ex-Everton player Dan Gosling. A fairly promising young midfielder and occasional full-back who stunned the club by walking out after only being offered a verbal contract and taking the case to the Premier League, who ruled that the Toffees should miss out on the £4 million compensation they would otherwise have been owed (a drop in the ocean, one might think, in this age where many premier league board rooms are suffering from a sever case of the Sheikhs... ahem... however for a club such as my beloved Everton, where our chairman still has to have a Radio 2 show and put on Blood Brothers in the West End for another year to keep the wage fund ticking over, it's rather a pain to miss out on such an amount).

Us football fans are notoriously fickle and as the story developed, the reaction went quickly from 'let's just wait and see, it's probably just the papers stirring, as usual' to 'I hope the lad never walks again...'. While it's true that the club never submitted an offer in writing, it's also true that Gosling has reneged on a 'gentleman's agreement' offering a contract worth nearly double his existing one, probably in no small part due to his agent. For me, agents have no place in the game and especially not representing players younger than perhaps even 24.

Perhaps it is too much to expect footballers to be anything more than overpaid mercenaries (latest news was that Gosling's Newcastle contract was more than triple his old Everton one) however the agent-led machinations in this case leave a sour taste, that's for sure.

Reason number 2 for agents having no place in the game, is illustrate very nicely by Michael Ballack's agent, Michael Becker, who, quoted in the latest issue of Der Spiegel, refers to the Detusche Nationalmannschaft as 'a bunch of gays'. Reason number 2 is 'because agents say really fucking stupid things.... alll the time'.

Now, manager Joachim Loew may look as though he's stepped straight from the pages of the H&M catalogue, but to assert that most of the team (I say most, he referred to one of the newer members ((not to be named obviously)) as being 'half gay') is gay simply because of their footballing performance is a link which I don't quite follow. He claimed that their more elegant and lighter style of play stemmed from the fact that they were all homosexuals and that they missed out on the final because they didn't have the aggressive edge of the teams of the 70s and 80s.

Now, this delusional nonsense is exactly the kind of thing I would have expected to see Alan Partridge report on The Day Today and yet I find it on the Guardian website. Homosexuality in is seemingly one of the last taboos in football. The point that should be made really is that Germany fielded an ethically diverse team that played an incredibly incisive and eye-catching brand of football. Whether their players are heterosexual or homosexual is neither here nor there and certainly none of the business of the public or Michael Becker and to imply that they missed out on the final simply because they didn't resort to the hatchet man and cheating tactics of both this year's finalists, only leads me to believe that football would be a better place if more teams were 'a bunch of gays' as Becker so tastelessly puts it.

A Complete History of my Nemeses...

Well there are only 3 really, but they're all easily recognisable archetypes that I imagine we have all encoutered at some point in our lives. It also seems highly appropriate to talk about misguided arseholes on this the 42nd anniversary of Enoch Powell's 'Rivers of Blood' speech.

Number 1
The Moriarty to my Sherlock Holmes (that isn't just boasting, I have been compared to the legendary sleuth on several separate occasions... and not just because I play the violin and take copious amounts of laudanum, namely because I don't do either of those things...). This is the kind of fiendish Napoleon of crime who is just that little bit better than you in every way and the only way to take them down is to go down with them. Fortunately our paths have not crossed recently, but I'm always wary, for that's when nemeses are at their most dangerous, when you don't know where they are (a bit like wasps... oh God, what if there's a wasp in here right now... or in your room, wherever you are, dear reader...). It's hard to surpress the competitive nature though. A trip to Reichenbach Falls may be in order before all is said and done...

Number 2
This one is the massive tool who is somehow incomprehensibly popular. You never encounter them until you're required to compete against them for some reason, only to find that they don't have to put in any of the work that you do because they have 'connections' or '900,000 Facebook friends'. Bastards... I digress. Anyway, these people always get these positions and lower the general quality of whatever field it happens to be because of it. Bugger. Anyway, more on this on Friday... all will be revealed.

Number 3
Internet people. You know those internet people who are needlessly, personally offensive, when you're just trying to calm everyone down and stop them making the whole community look like a twat? Think anyone who's ever commented on a Youtube video... ever. Well, apart from you, if you're reading this. Anyway, the kind of 15 year olds who seem to think that attempting to belittle people over the internet will make them look big instead of like the twats they inevitably are. As a politically incorrect man once said "arguing on the internet is like competing in the Special Olympics. Even if you win, you're still retarded."

Midlife Crisis...

Right, I'm not sure, but I think I could well be having a midlife crisis (meaning that I'll live to the ripe old age of 36 - my lucky number, but obviously not that lucky...). I arrived at this conclusion today after returning from the bank. I hate banks, especially my bank. I won't name names, let's just call them, say, Lloyds TSP. It all stems back to July of last year, whereupon I entered my local branch to exchange some Pounds sterling into Euros and walked out with a new current account that costs me £8 a month! That's £100 a year! (give or take) £100! I very rarely spend such an amount of money on anything, let alone an intangible vault within which to keep my other money (which is disappearing by the second thanks to this draconian £8 surcharge).

After much wrangling I was told that the account would be closed, but there was a payment earmarked, so I would have to wait for it to go through and (this was the point where I realised my youthful exuberance had been fully syphoned away) I simply accepted that. No questions, no arguing with the young lady cashier (though I suspect she would have been fully unprepared if I had set my rant to 'stun'). Instead I went home and listened to a playlist (another hint that I could be having a midlife crisis) Jackson Browne, Nick Drake, Toto and Journey. Mellow songs from mellow songwriters. I'm also the kind of person (hint number 3) that says things like "on I Won't Hold You Back, Lukather's guitar licks sound like the raw emotion of the dying human soul". So I wasn't prepared to argue with a bank clerk, I listen to mellow music and I'm a poor man's Paul Gambaccini- futility, folk/soft rock and pretentiousness do not a crisis make, right? Wrong. This morning I woke up with a sore back. This is just plain ridiculous I must be at least 50 years old.

As I've previously mentioned 2 of the big hints have been music based. I consider myself to be somewhat of an expert on music and I have frequently complained about modern music and how some of it is "just bloody noise". I'm sure that this is probably another factor of middle age. I like classic rock and Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds. I'm essentially Ken Bruce. What hope is there for me?

As a man once called a younger, sexier David Mitchell (just by a friend, there wasn't a poll or conference or anything) I feel, like the great man himself, righteously outraged by many, many things that I suspect other people find to be merely trifling annoyances. I'd like to think that my comparison to Mitchell was to do with our shared rapier-like wit, however I suspect it has rather more to do with the fact that I am cursed with an underdeveloped jawline, quite like history and complain a lot. Mitchell is a hero of mine, as is Paxman, who did an excellent night's work yesterday (the expression as he says "I don't think so" is absolutely tremendous). Paxo is surely soon to be a national treasure. He has a healthy disregard for his superiors, he said 'fucking' on Newsnight and every Monday he puts 8 students well and truly in their place. Bravo, Mr. Paxman.

Will let you all know if I attempt to purchase a motorcycle or go travelling in central Europe. If that happens, then there is truly no hope for me. In the meantime, I'm off to listen to The Smiths and try and recapture some teen angst to flush out the middle aged malaise I'm currently experiencing. See you tomorrow, kids. If you have been, thank you for listening.

One of Those Days...

Everything's a bit shit, isn't it. Don't worry, it hasn't taken me this long to work that out, but it seems to be one of those days where it applies more than usual. Now, this is nothing to do with the fact that it's St. David's Day, actually that's one of the day's redeeming features, I've just had a day where things have angered me more than usual.

Today I was in Bath. I made my way to Westbury station to buy a train ticket from an unhappy looking man to wait on a platform with various other unhappy looking people to get on a train filled with yet more unhappy looking people. That's what public transport does, nothing new there, but it very much set the tone for the day. The first straw came in HMV where I nearly shouted at a man for walking down the middle of the staircase. Now this may sound seemingly inocuous, however I was at the bottom of the staicase, attempting to get up it. He could see this and yet he actively attempted to stay in the very middle, leaving no room for passing on either side. Shocked and disheartened by his lack of consideration for others, I did what real British men do- I sighed very loudly and mumbled something to the effect of "some people, tch" before clomping noisily up the steps.

Strike number 2 came when I had an argument with a toilet seat. It was a wooden one, maybe pine (I'm not an expert on wood types) and it was one of those ones which refused to stay upright, meaning that I had to hold onto it all the while. What kind of arsehole would design a toilet seat that doesn't stay upright? It defies logic. A man's peeing ability is severly hampered if he has to focus on holding up a toilet seat at the same time.

I had time to mull over these events back at the station, where I watched a pigeon being chased by a woman. Ok, pigeons are often hate-figures, but they can fly and generally go about things with feathery dignity. I'm not sure what right we have to bother them, we are basically just apes in suits. My train of existentialist thought was ironically interrupted by my actual train arriving and I boarded to find a man heading up the aisles litter-picking. Litter-picking! That's what they made us do in school as a punishment, this was his actual job. I had a good mind to go up to him and declare "on behalf of the human race, I'm really sorry about how this has all turned out" but thought better of it... eventually.

Strike 3 was when I came home to find that this had happened. So that's a hat-trick of minor niggles that have burrowed into the angry centre of my brain. Normally this would all be fine- just little inconveniences- but today they have been elevated to the state of massive injustices against myself and my fellow humans.

As I say this has nothing to do with St. David's Day, I was in the Millennium Stadium on Friday being as Welsh as possible and on my feet applauding Shane Williams for that try. That said, a row full of cougars in front of me did try and ruin my (and all the proper rugby fans with me's) enjoyment of the game, by talking, drinking and generally getting in the way. If they just wanted to get pissed and talk about things that weren't really appropriate for the situation they could have done that in a cafe or another of those Sex and the City type places. The night was redeemed by the banter between us and the most French man in the world, who was seated across the aisle. In full beret and moustache, he was incredibly drunk, waving his tricoleur triumphantly and generally being very amusing, so if that's you (probably not) then kudos, sir.

On the plus side, I did walk past Danny Grewcock today and gave him a nod and a smile, as if to say "you're quite good at the old rugby, aren't you".

Yesterday's Jam...

Ok, so supposedly I was wrong in my assertations yesterday. However instead of being reasonable and accepting my human fallibility, I intend to be unreasonable and try and change the world (George Bernard Shaw said it could happen so it must be true).

I understand that the high view of millennia from year 1 up to and including 1000, but lets face it, that doesn't make any fucking sense. Dionysius Exiguus placed the date of Christ's birth on the 25th December of the year before Anno Domini, but surely that's 1 BC, yet how could Christ have been born in 1 year before Christ? He couldn't, he could however have been born in a 'year zero', much like those present in the Hindu, Buddhist and even astronomical calendars. Sometimes science can be accused of trying to spoil people's fun, but the astronomical calendar has this particular issue bang on.

The Gregorian calendar is based on an inherent fallacy and around an incorrectly dated year 1. In a system based around dates of religious significance, one must analyse these dates, so let's do that. Ok, so Christ was born and 7 days later a new year began, but he wasn't 1 year old, was he? He was a week old. When a child comes out of the womb, one doesn't say, 'oh well, that child's 1 year old then', one says 'the child is a week old' or 'the child is six months old'. I'm 18 years old and am indeed in my 19th year, but that doesn't make me 19, does it?

However Christian stubborness to accept zero (perhaps some fear of nihilism...) would appear to have led to the 'generally accepted' system of centuries beginning from '01, but let's face it, no-one likes that. I am somewhat of a pedant, but when John Howard tried to ruin the Australians' fun by pointing out that the millennium in fact began in 2001, pretty much the entire population of the island thought that he was a bit of a twat and the local media branded him the party-pooper of the century (presumably 1901-2000 by his reckoning... in fact, if the Aussies had really wanted to rile him, they should have produced banners heralding 'John Howard: Massive Twat 1900-1999). The case for year zero was perhaps most eloquently argued by Douglas Adams in his article 'Significant Events of the Millennium' in which he highlights people such as Howard as pedantic spoilsports. If it's good enough for the tongue-in-cheek sci-fi author par excellence, then it's most certainly good enough for me.

When one counts through negative numbers, one must pass zero to make it to positive numbers, so it stands to reason that the descending system of BC should have passed zero to arrive at AD. Now I am aware that that isn't the case, but that doesn't mean that it should be like that, simply that it is like that. Would the populace not be happier, if things were simple and all the years written 201x belonged together?

I would venture that the general public would be far happier dealing with a system from 2000-2009 and etc. Indeed since Y2K many have. Religion is accused of holding less and less sway over the populace and frankly in this particular issue, I can see why. I've never been a huge fan of popular culture, but the pop culture interpretation of this issue is one that I have undying support for. Truth be told, the topic is clouded with so much dispute, that it would appear one must simply 'take their pick' of which method to use, but I know which is neater. The nub of the issue is that this is just one of those debates that keeps on going and drags in philosophers, scientists, the opinionated (of which I am probably a standard bearer) and the downright stubborn.

In real layman's terms, one doesn't get excited when the car milometer rolls over to 10,001, do they? They are rather more interested when (starting from zero, I might add) it reaches the round number and the 9s roll over to reveal the line of zeroes.

If you want to pick holes in my argument, then you're welcome to do so, but I will respond with a vengeance, for I hate being wrong almost as much as I hate Liverpool FC (a lot, if you were wondering). So if you want to nitpick, you're welcome to, but I'll come round with my plastic model of Tim Howard and beat you to death with it. You can try and work out if I'm joking or not.