A Dale of Two Cities
It’s easy to forget that a snooker player like Dominic Dale is actually one of the best in the world. Such is the brilliance of the world’s top cueists that a heavy shadow is thrown over anyone outside the top 16, widely recognised as the sport’s elite. The televised stages of events held in Britain rarely feature anyone other than these players past, say, the semi-final. Dominic’s best came in the 1999/2000 season, a world ranking of 19, just outside that bountiful first echelon. Even then, he failed to win a ranking event. I was only nine or ten years old at the time – I’d been watching snooker ever since a bout of illness aged six coincided with one of the week-long marathons that the BBC hosts thrice a year – but to me, at that age, it was about potting balls and nothing else, and someone like Dominic would never have appeared on my radar.
Dominic’s form seems to have dipped between then and now, because now he’s playing well enough to have appeared in both of 2011’s televised majors. Perhaps Barry Hearn’s revival of the Players’ Tour events has had an effect here; Dominic’s won one final and lost in another. During the World Championship in Sheffield earlier this year, I was sitting in the library every day, attempting to work on several essays at a time. During rest periods I’d boot up a tab for the BBC’s live coverage and on one of these days I watched Dominic play Ronnie O’Sullivan in the first round. Although he succumbed 10-2, there was clearly something a bit different about his conduct and personality compared to a lot of players. Dominic shrugs around the table, somewhat bear-like, although it’s obvious how much he’s concentrating on each shot. Watching him play reveals an aptitude and enthusiasm for the sport befitting of his world ranking (25 at the time of writing) and having been able to get my hands on some footage of him playing in the Australian Goldfields Open prior to this month’s UK Championship in York I got a better idea of his style. He’s a solid breakbuilder, although a little slower than other household names (O’Sullivan, as well as the likes of Ding Junhui and Judd Trump) and I do remember seeing him hit a break of around 130 in his match against Trump earlier this week. Sometimes you can watch him on the table for what seems like half an hour, only to glance at the score and see that he’s only compiled a break of 24. His safety play can be a little cautious, seemingly aiming to roll the cueball up against a cushion rather than go for the snooker. Equally, every time I see him stun the white into the pack, he’s unsuccessful in terms of establishing a pottable red. These impressions are based on a couple of televised first-round appearances and it’s clear that these do not form the basis of his entire game. Perhaps he performs better in the untelevised tournaments and I shouldn’t forget that he’s won three ranking events.
When Ronnie O’Sullivan took that 12th and winning frame of the first round of the World Championship, Dominic rose from his seat and said a few words to him as the two players shook hands, smiling as he had been doing all match. As ever the commentators praised Dominic’s attitude and outlook. It was refreshing to see one of the second-tier players leave an impression. Successive trips to Wikipedia and Youtube later and I’d seen him sing Frank Sinatra after winning the Shanghai Masters four years ago. The likes of Dennis Taylor and John Virgo love him, while Hazel Irvine affectionately refers to him by his nickname, the Spaceman. Some of the videos online see him sporting bleached hair and pink or red shirts with black or white waistcoats. He comes across as a fun-loving eccentric, but remains driven and professional. He played very well against Trump, but like Rory McLeod against John Higgins two days before him, he fell victim to a better-known, higher-ranked player lucking out on two flukes. Dominic is the sort of player I can identify with, the kind that pays their dues and earns their name through continued graft and hard work. I hope he continues to play into his forties. It seems he earns a decent crust in snooker and he’s more entertaining to watch sat in his chair than a lot of players are at the table. I daresay there won’t be many of his kind left in ten years’ time, when the norm will be for players to win ranking tournaments at more tender ages. The likes of the Spaceman are the ones who keep me interested in playing and watching the game.
Fragment IX
‘Today is a Friday. The midweek drudgery sometimes makes me wonder if I’m beginning to submerge in the morning soup. Friday is different because it reminds me that this won’t be forever. I have finished my education – or at least put it on hold – and I’m now into the first year of my full-time working life. With Fridays I can dream. If I wanted to spend the entire weekend chasing my dreams I can, and if I want to live for the immediate short-term I can. When I began this blog, I wanted to ride out the crest of the educational working wave. Towards the tail end of my time at university I was writing in excess of two thousand words a day and I wanted to channel that energy into writing creatively and sharpening the way I could express myself in a style I wanted to. Inevitably, I worked out that writing two thousand words a day was a product of the adrenaline the body produces in times of stress to help us cope with things that have a sustained, yet temporary, impact. Of course, by the time I handed all my work in, the output dried up.
So when I finished university I had dug myself into a hole and hadn’t really plotted ahead for the future. I couldn’t fund a last blowout of a summer, if such a thing exists in an immediate graduate life. I moved back home and regressed into the constant weekend of my seventeen year-old self. This wasn’t good. I would do a bit of menial work, door-to-door leafletting, for a contact of my dad’s, as a sort of slow bankroll for my activities and an appeasement of my parents. Setting off mid-morning, I would work until the early to mid afternoon, at which point the slow, warm tug of home would begin to take control of my sleeves and guide me to the bus stop. Have a bath, walk the dog, concede the day. I was starting to become absorbed in the void that university had left and really feeling sorry for myself. Cursory searches for employment would regularly turn up fruitless. They were probably deliberately crafted like that. This cycle of light work, video games, getting out the house to see my mum or my best friends – it washed initially, but time wears on and eventually things got to a head and I was really sat down and read the book.
Eventually I packed in the leafletting and began looking for work. I eventually found work, on good money. Not something I’ve ever done before and not something I’m entirely sure I’m good at. But this is so early on in life that it doesn’t matter because of where I am on the curve. I was given a massive chance to get on with it. So now it’s time to actually write some more. Think about what I like to write about and do it. It can only be good to write – and the more I write, the more I read for inspiration. So Gimme the Car starts now, really. I’m over the regressive summer hump, I’ve embraced life. I need to start writing it down.’ - Rohan, October 2010
Fragment VIII
“Harry Glasskinger turned the key in the door and pushed down on the handle. The corridors were warm, airy. Ornate. He wasn’t used to this level of luxury. Given time, he could achieve it in his professional life, especially given his most recent break. Harry’s story was testimony to a meticulous, methodical approach to learning everything about something vaguely commercially appealing. He had taken the first syllable of his surname and turned it into his life.
Harry shut the door and placed his suitcase flush by the bed. The atmosphere of such an elaborately furnished room intimidated him to the degree that he had become geometrically rigid in his movements. He loosened up, removed his jacket, and was suddenly agent to some olfactory cornucopia as the familiar noise of aviation roared overhead. Lemon and polished oak. Quite pleasant. The walls were painted the green of a lawn and mellowed the pink furniture. Not something he would have picked, Harry Glasskinger. It worked, though – it was a confectioner’s palette. The chestnut wooden columns of the four-poster bed were a delight. They had a sheen that reflected the light streaming through the window. Well polished, but not aggressively perfect like an American’s teeth. More authentic and therefore ideal, made more so by the limit of its attraction – a principle by which Harry Glasskinger had lived much of his life.”
Fragment IV
- Snippet from Wikipedia entry
Rowan Jr. was similarly ambivalent: “When I sort of figured out what was going on, I was in two minds – one that I wasn’t giving myself the benefit of the doubt and that I was just winding myself up, because this is only cyberspace after all; two, that I was kind of angry. It didn’t take much for them to kick me to the kerb, you know? - And I thought I meant more than that. But maybe I didn’t, and if I didn’t, then maybe it’s time for me to move on and just learn my lesson.” In June 2011, it was made public that Rowan Jr. had resolved his differences with all other parties, but relations were cordial, rather than warm. However, they did not confirm whether or not they were working on any new material.
Fragment VII
“The other night was a nice night. We watched the boxing at someone’s house and we drank cans of cheap cider for ages. Day took ages to turn into night. I knew less than half the people there, but this isn’t like three or four years ago. People are easy enough to get on with, and I don’t feel the pressure to talk to everyone and make a good impression. So I just kind of drifted around for a while. You were there, I hadn’t spoken to you in ages. Seeing you walk through the door was kind of weird, but I felt a kind of inner peace there. A couple of years’ churned emotions wrapped in a nice, thick two year-wide blanket. All the same, through the bubbly haze I got that lovely feeling; melancholy, nostalgic, drunk. I touched your arm and passed it off as an accident. I told you about my brother and we shot the breeze. After a while you left with your boyfriend and I got sort of light-headed after a cigarette and had to go to bed. I think everyone had a nice time, I was content with how it had gone on. Pretty good night. Nice to see you again.” - Rohan, July 2010
The Paper Plane, Chronicled III
“Chronicling the last fifteen years is, perhaps, most easily measured by the rise of the internet. Begin this period in 1998, and the web is still in its shell and needs coaxing out. Of course, the bubble is still growing, the eBubble, the bubble.com, but it’s got a couple of years’ swell left to go and the pages still look like Blue Peter competition entries. You can get rich very quick. The rub being here that you would need sound economic knowledge to extract the riches from the fire without getting burned, but the ones who stuck their hands in knew about as much as the man in the street with a dial-up internet connection.
Like many of the stories in these columns, it’s set out in the mould of ‘that was then, this is now’. However, it won’t address or even regard those old pages or the spike in share prices. Of course a lot has happened in the last fifteen years that barely concerns the internet, at least not in anything more than a peripheral sense. The rise of the internet, and its rapid appeal and access for just about everyone, means that the world and his wife continue to take full advantage of a distinct lack of quality control. I have no problem with bloggers per se – far from it; not everything should be compiled of discursive brows or subject to editorial. However, the tone and motive for much of blogdom (or, millenniumcentrically, ‘the blogosphere’) is enough to make you a bit sad. Enough of the internet is taken up by pornography without even beginning to process how much time is spent indulging oneself in uttering moribund perspectives on trifling matters. I’m just about willing to give Rohan the benefit of the doubt (see last issue) but, in all seriousness, such self-aggrandising nuggets of auto-infatuation deserve at least a turn or two through the mill. We’ve all had to deal with compromise and sometimes taking pleasure in things a little simpler than we like. It’s what can round us as people, making our outlook more realistic and one’s person less susceptible to disappointment. Equally, you might concede quite early on that your lofty visions of stardom or wealth aren’t quite within you just yet, or at all. It’s not a slight on your character whatsoever, you’re just being pushed a little bit closer to practicality. If you’re going to be someone that can function in society, who never has to worry about whether they’re treading on someone’s toes, someone that never ends up skint because they actually work that sort of thing out – someone with their own place, with healthy relationships and a good level of self-esteem, that’s something you very much learn as you continue to live in that society. Whether it’s bloggable or not is another matter. Some people just need an outlet, you cry. They need to justify themselves to make themselves feel better about being ten-a-penny. I get all that. Why make it so public, though? Sorry Rohan, but I gain very little from your asides regarding expensive consumer goods. If I have those things, where do I stand? If you don’t want me to gain or lose anything, why put something like that in the public domain? Good for you that you look after yourself so well and that, even though you don’t have a life plan, one day you might end being the person you like, working the job you love, and having the things you don’t mind having. I can’t knock that or begrudge you for it, and don’t want to either. Just don’t tell the world. They’ll only hold you to it.” - JRJ, July 2013
Fragment VI
“Once you get past that peculiar two or three year-long gap where you’re starting to think about what you want to do with your life and actually realising it, all those half-baked preconceptions about the world of work sort of crumble away a bit. I remember being about sixteen, about to taste the colour of money for the first time, albeit in a bonsai sort of form. Throwaway Saturday shifts that teach you very little other than the art of looking like you are working. Or a science, you could probably measure it either way. But the nub of those funny, kind of quaint teen opinions boils down to not very much. When you’re sixteen, and your only experience of work is being told what to do by someone who cares only a bit more than you do, and your only experience of life outside your home is of being told what to do by loads of people who don’t care at all, you can’t really imagine enjoying a job that isn’t directly in your line of interest. That’s what I thought, anyway. I bet loads of people feel the same. If you’re fed the same way through the sausage machine like me, and I doubt school really changes that much from generation to generation, fundamentally. We’re all a mush of ends and sawdust. My point: you get out of uni, or college, or school even, and you start a job; you’re finally earning enough money to plan a bit forward or buy the things you like, and all the cons that people sneer in your face about just kind of kick about in the background minding their own. Of course you’re working every day and you get stuck in a rigid pattern. But that also means that you get to leave your work at the door at five o’clock every evening and get into your car.
I work in an office. I do very routine admin work. This was never part of the plan, but the money was. I earn enough to put away a bit for a rainy day (about a couple of ton monthly I save) but it’s weird; I’ve started doing all the things I never thought I’d take pride in. I buy a new suit every three or four months. I end up being really well turned out. When I go down the pub on a Friday night, I’m happy that I’m no longer a student. I can rock up in my civvies and talk work before getting an early one to ring the weekend in. I look after myself – I swim and I play sports. I look after things like my skin a lot more than I used to and I teach myself how to cook new things every week. I still smoke a shit load, but we all have our vices. I’ve sorted the practical side of things out. I’m out of home, I do more things that real people do compared to before. Fairly straight-up. The thing I’m having a little more trouble with is going from here. Sure, I’ve believed the same thing for a while now. If you’re willing to be disciplined with the things you tie yourself to, you can keep going without a plan for a while to no great cost. It’s when you start weighing yourself down with loads of extraneous shit that you can’t plan ahead. The Blackberry and the laptop for which you’ve a credit card to thank and beg simultaneously. The enormous television and the even bigger Sky bill. A holiday in the distance. All of which will take up your time, because if you’ve paid for them, you need to use them. I live in a modest enough place to keep most of the money I make a month when everything’s paid for. Even if I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m still only twenty-four and I’ve got my entire life ahead of me. Just need to make sure I don’t end up telling myself that for the rest of my days.’ - Rohan, June 2013
Fragment III
“I want to work out this world for myself. I want to keep growing as a person. I must be strong; what is the answer? I don’t mind working menial jobs as long as I work out what I enjoy doing and spend my time constructively – I need to put away some money. I don’t want to be one of those people that just plans their life away. I know people that just love to plan, but they don’t want their plans enough to act them out. I need to stay positive, bear my lessons in mind and cut away the hurt when I go through them. I’m going to be optimistic, let music influence me, and try to become talented in the things I enjoy without too much inhibition. I’m going to do it – I’m going to be disciplined and keep going forward. All it takes is to plan my time and put away enough money for when the rainy day comes.
I’m gonna keep being a blog tourist. It’s weird getting an insight into people’s lives. Thanks to the internet, it’s so much easier to flesh out our characters; you don’t even have to leave the room. But I’m gonna keep stuff in this head of mine. Experience shapes the writing process, and if that’s reason enough to get out and find stuff out for myself then that’s good enough for me.” - Rohan, August 2008
The Paper Plane, Chronicled II
What’s In Your Basket? - 450th Anniversary Special: Brian Butterfield
About two years ago, I became disillusioned with my physical appearance. It is difficult to feel empowered in the presence of business colleagues and potential future lovers when you aren’t confident in your own body. It is the only one that you can wear. It took me a long time to get the gee-up to sort myself out. After studying Nutrition and Dietetics at Oxford College in Leatherhead, I then formulated and marketed a diet plan that has enjoyed moderate success, with six people applying, one of whom continues to eat in accordance to the plan even today. For the enjoyment of readers, I decided to make my basket that of my ‘treat day’, a big date in the calendar of the Butterfield Diet Plan. Saturday is the day where you can eat literally anything. I enjoy spending the entire day eating. To ease myself in, I tuck into a sandwich casserole chased with a synergy of potato grids and artificial bacon, occasionally placing an item of each inside each part of the casserole to create a cacophony of flavour. Naturally this can be rather cloying on the palate, and so I take this opportunity to enjoy some during-dinner mints while allowing myself a rest. While studying Dietetics, I noticed that many of the case studies of binge eaters had patterns of what I dubbed ‘food nostalgia’, in which dieters binge heavily on foods linked to their childhood. It was very interesting to note that ‘treat day’ for me does indeed comprise of many such foods, although I’ve never quite been able to accurately recreate my late mother’s garlic pudding.
Throughout the day I tend to snack on pork cylinders washed down with pints o’ cream, as a means of keeping my metabolism going. After eating so little in the week as part of the plan, it can be very easy to overface yourself too early in the day as a result of a ‘shrunk’ stomach, and I find that constant snacking is far more satisfying and sustainable in lieu of thrice daily binging. I save my favourites for what would conventionally be called ‘dinnertime’ in a normal day. When the sun begins to go down, I enjoy my own speciality, hoisin crispy owl. It’s a blend of Chinese and nocturnal cuisines, and I first tasted it after a cock-up with the deep fat fryer in Watford Gap services in 1998. Now, it’s a Saturday night staple.
From dinnertime to midnight, I eat anything left in the cupboards and fridge. I tuck into an unfeasible plate of large macs purely for my own gluttonous pleasure, eating a burger with one hand while cutting myself a slice of birthday pie with the other. Experience has taught me to slowly decrease the gradient of consumption as a means of tempering myself towards bedtime. By the final hour it is virtually impossible to fit anything else in bar some bonbonbonbons, and this heady mix of polysaturates, greasy carbs and impossible levels of sugar does its level best to ensure that I feel a shell of man come Sunday morning.
Dr. Briffa’s Analysis:
Dear me. In all of my 450 years at the helm of this feature, I have never seen a basket quite so bereft of anything nutritionally sound. Brian may feel that the resultant ailments of the dangerously-monikered ‘Treat Day’ extend only to Sunday, but overall he will find that a diet so recklessly irrational as this will cause him to experience lethargy, frequent illness and a poor overall sense of wellbeing, regardless of his assertion that he ‘feels like a new man’ ever since starting his diet plan.
Sandwich Casserole:
A peculiarly-named dish, as upon investigation I discovered that no sandwiches actually undergo the casserole process; it is simply a number of sandwiches sufficient to fill a casserole dish. The sandwich represents a more conservative side to Brian, and can be nutritionally sound if cards are played correctly; I would suggest brown bread, ensuring that the filling contains any number of nuts and seeds. Sandwiches can represent an enjoyable way to get the body’s daily quota of fats through meats and cheeses, although I would swap the bread for quinoa, the meat for celery and the cheese for vaporised peppermint tea. I have nothing but disgust and contempt for potato grids and artificial bacon, so Brian, in an ideal world, would have to forgo these.
During-dinner mints:
The mentha herb has been known to promote certain medical health benefits, such as its decongestive powers, inhibition of itching and breath-freshening. Idealistically, Brian would swap these for peppermint tea, which is an excellent way to relieve the digestive system of undesirables, and when drank in the morning is fantastic for kick-starting the metabolism. I am pleased to see the presence of mint in his diet, but its form ensures that, sadly, very little nutrition will result from this mint-based confection.
Garlic pudding:
As a dish that I have never come across in all of my years of clinical experience, I must admit to being at a loss. Through a rigorous medical examination, garlic pudding reveals itself as, surprisingly, the dish with the highest nutritional backing of all of Brian’s basket. Research shows that garlic is an easily-assimilated way of preventing cancer, particularly the strains of the stomach and colon. Equally, the use of cream, eggs and butter are a great way to gain the essential oils that the body can use to improve the skin, nails and hair. One pointer, though – Brian could do worse than to replace the milk with mud, as its natural qualities would improve his long-term memory and ankle sturdiness.
Pork cylinders:
Again, Brian confused me with his name for what is essentially a pork pie, something that I have never eaten. I would rather kill in cold blood than eat such a disgraceful foodstuff. The preservative qualities of salt ensure that the pie is inherently high in sodium, while any pork pie, large or small, will always include at least five times the maximum recommended daily allowance for saturated fat. Frankly, this is fucking awful. I am quite partial to one after eleven pints, mind you.
Pints o’ cream:
The most curious thing about this particular choice of ‘treat’ is its logistical implausibility; whipped cream is extremely difficult and cumbersome to drink, yet is too sickly to be considered a food outright. There are some positives linked to dairy food, such as the presence of calcium and monounsaturates, but Brian would be better off drinking a pint of cream made from the milk of goats or rice.
Hoisin crispy owl:
A variant on the more conventional duck, I have to say that I applaud Brian for his unusual choice of bird. Owls are naturally more nutritious than ducks because of their own diet, which in turn presents a better nutritional set than that of our anatine friends. Owls eat tasty insects and small rodents, like me, and therefore have a better medical make-up than ducks, who seem to eat nothing but bread and bits of kebab. Brian needs to be careful where he buys his hoisin sauce, though – many supermarket versions will be starchy and contain MSG, which is the devil’s work. He would do better to ignore the sauce altogether and just not enjoy the owl at all. Eat it raw maybe, or while it’s still alive.
Large macs:
Well, OFM has done so many articles on McDonald’s products that I feel any further information would be superfluous. Despite this, I still feel the insatiable need to make Brian feel bad. If he absolutely must eat these horrible burgers, I would recommend replacing the burger with a mixture of water and carrageenan, the bread with quinoa mush, and avoiding oral insertion of the gherkins, with rectal or intravenous absorption preferred for maximal nutritious benefit.
Birthday pie:
While I would certainly not condone ever eating birthday cake, or ‘pie’ as Brian puts it, it is generally fine to allow yourself 50g of something very bad for you on your birthday, but only then. If it is not your birthday, birthday cake becomes forty times as bad for you, and therefore should be avoided like the bubonic. What I would recommend to Brian would be to eat a mixture of dried fruit and seeds, which promote better hair retention, longer nails, and bigger ears, on his birthday if possible.
Bonbonbonbons:
Oooooh, my favourite. Go on then.
The Paper Plane, Chronicled I
Scene of the Crime Billy Joel - ‘Scenes From An Italian Restaurant’
“Major historical events, or at least their interpretations, often fall on the latter side of a tipping point. When the discontent of individuals gathers straws, the retrospectives look for the camel’s back-breaker. 1977, then: NYC had the Ramones and the New York Dolls, while the Clash and the Sex Pistols took up the London front of a pincer-attack of sonic knife-wielding, beelining towards progressive rock’s ever-fattening calf, with intent to maim and devour. But what lit the blue touch paper? In ‘Interview Flexi’, a bonus track from the deluxe release of Sonic Youth’s acclaimed Goo album, Kim Gordon explains: ‘girls invented punk rock. Not England, not the US; girls.’ It’s an assertion with some unshakable weight and belief, a rejection of the traditional geographic view in favour of a more lateral thought process. A valid evaluation of the punk explosion and the resultant subcultural populism of anarchic ideology, pseudo or real. Gordon thought outside the box; this review attempts to do the same. The straw that broke the camel’s back took seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds to do so. Billy Joel’s ‘Scenes from an Italian Restaurant’ caused punk to blow up in distortion and spit.
The song itself, from his album The Stranger of that watertable year, is considered ‘classic Joel’ by Billy’s fans. Listening to the song all the way through does, to its credit, present a straightforward case as to why they might think this. The lyrics are vivid, and do attain the overlying message: a tableau of the eponymous Italian restaurant. The production is fairly well tailored to Joel’s aims, and Joel’s vocals are strong. Even these achievements, however, are tinted by the perpetration of hackneyed stereotypes through a lens of touristy exoticism. The opening couplet reveals the limit of Joel’s poetic ambitions from the off: ‘bottle of white, bottle of red, perhaps a bottle of rosé instead’. While it might seem facetious to criticise the lyrical simplicity given that the review’s axe to grind lies with the song’s penchant for excess, the washed-out lexicon, the only element with which Joel showed any modicum of restraint, is glaringly reflective of the track’s vision overall. A medley of three suites, neatly segued, depicts the restaurant’s narrative. Joel claimed that the second half of The Beatles’ Abbey Road inspired the form. On the basis of ‘Scenes from an Italian Restaurant’, I struggle to think of a crime heinous enough to which the punishment of listening to The Stranger all the way through fits. Comparing such self-indulgence to Abbey Road’s masterclass of brevity and saying more by speaking less is at best, deluded, and at worst, criminal. Three saxophone solos! A contrived, ostentatious string crescendo! Meanwhile, inordinate wheedling clarinet punctuates an embarrassingly affected couple of jazz fusion-tinged minutes, during which Joel sings about two regulars, Brenda and Eddie, with whom we are supposed to feel some sort of affinity by the end of this treacle ocean. A raucous interlude of piano follows, and the whole thing feels like an impression of an acquaintance’s wedding doused in 1920s Americana. No-one really knows how to act, but they sure as hell want you to know that everyone’s having fun. Fittingly, the song ends as it starts, a carbon copy of the initial turgid sax sound, the sort that never seems like a good idea. Listening to ‘Scenes from an Italian Restaurant’ will fire no passions within you bar the most important: to find the restaurant from which Joel attempts to find inspiration and burn it down. No wonder those punks got so angry.” - JRJ, May 2011
