Personal
Barbarism Begins At Home
01/09/10 20:40
“Society is measured by how it treats its most vulnerable members.”
Used by figures such as Churchill, Gandhi and Pope John Paul II, the quote above, or a variation on it, has its original roots in The Bible. Its invocation is designed to inspire us into action to help those less fortunate than ourselves. But one can’t pick and choose when it comes to which of those considered vulnerable is most deserving of our concern and care. If you work in a field where the goal is to gain greater understanding of, and provision for, special needs children or adults nowhere does it say that you can’t also find it in you to care for the elderly. If you devote time to raising awareness of, and building structural support for, those who are impoverished by geography and circumstance you can also fight for those who are denied decent working conditions by their employers. It might come down to a battle for civil rights, whether that takes the form of marrying the person you love or protecting the people around you from harm.
And if those in need can’t speak for themselves you can and should stand and speak for them. Another version of the quote, as Gandhi related it, is as follows:
“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”
When I’ve spoken about my concern for animal welfare in the past I have occasionally been met with rolled eyes. Animals matter less than people and wouldn’t my time be better spent speaking up about the welfare of children, workers and so on? As if I should have only a certain amount of concern to spare and as if it’s an imperative to rank causes of interest in order of socially accepted importance and then allocate time in the day one should give them. Is the welfare of my family more important to me than the life of an animal in a factory farm? Yes. Does this mean I can’t regale anyone who will listen with appalling tales of factory farming? No.
As a Western consumer, I’m fortunate to have a great deal of choice at my fingertips and a wise friend once told me that the greatest power you have is where you spend your money. Four years ago I chose to never eat another sentient being. Before then I never spoke out on animal welfare issues because I felt a hypocrite. That’s just me – there’s nothing to stop any carnivore from being active in animal rights matters.
My choice often provokes a curious defensiveness. I’m quizzed with suspicion on my choice of footwear material, whether I buy goods from China, eat Nestle products or avoid Nike. If I fall down on any of these standards I’m told that I’ve failed to live the life I preach about. I’ve never claimed that it’s possible to go through any given day without sometimes having to make regrettable choices: you just try to do the best you can. Defending one’s choices is part of trying to be a person of conscience, I’ve found out. However, I do notice that vegans never question me on why I’m not one of them!
I’m often asked if being a vegetarian is hard, if it’s expensive and (the classic) if I eat fish. I smile and say no to all three. The latter question is the most common, so much so that labels like pescetarian have been adopted into common language – as if eating a fish didn’t count somehow. Well, it’s not as cute as a lamb is it? Never mind that we’ll run out of fish to eat before we run out of land to raise lamb chops on.
By making these choices and talking about them, am I subconsciously telling those who make the opposite ones that their choices are wrong? I don’t mean to but perhaps I am. I’ve never tried to convert anyone to vegetarianism, but I don’t mind presenting information should the moment arise. I’m a bore to my family, telling them tales of animal cruelty I have learned of. But even in the delivery of information, sneaking it into family dinners or events, I do my best to take the McCartney family approach, even if I lean towards a cheeky Meat Is Murder reference now and then.
Morrissey, who guilted a generation into putting down their mince, is of the militant, aggressive variety of animal rights advocates. He doesn’t care if anyone listens, he doesn’t care who makes him an enemy and he doesn’t care if anyone agrees; he’ll say his piece regardless. He won’t bite his lip about any subject and certainly not about animal welfare – many of his own fans recoil in annoyance at his on-stage sermons about eating ‘flesh’ and animal experimentation. A kindlier polar opposite, Paul McCartney, appeals to the emotional and practical side – he stopped eating meat in 1975 upon seeing a happy lamb outside the window of his farm, he promotes healthy meat-free eating by continuing the pioneering work his late wife started with her cookbooks and cuisine and his daughter Stella has recently completed designs on the Queen’s guard’s bearskin hats in faux fur. This Morrissey Vs McCartney scale is the difference between the eye-catching and aggressive shock tactics of PETA (who certainly gain victories, if not friends, by the truckload) and the reasoned and intelligent campaigns of the organisation Compassion in World Farming.
A friend took me to a CIWF meeting last year and, while I do support and appreciate PETA’s stunts, from naked models to forceful lobbying, I found that the practical idealism of the CIWF lectures spoke to me. Their approach was simple enough. People are going to eat meat. Most will never give it up. But what they can be persuaded to do is find a moment to think about what they’re eating and how it arrived on their plate. At the
CIWF lecture we were shown two side-by-side photographs of chickens, not yet matured. One had been raised free range, in a farm’s outdoor space, and the other in a wire cage. The difference between them was clear to see. One had bright, abundant feathers and sturdy legs; the other was considerably bigger, with paler feathers and bent legs. Due to being injected with hormones, but denied outside roaming, the bigger bird would provide more meat but could not hold its own weight. Any larger and its legs would surely break. It was then that I realised that I was being given the information on how to appeal to people who were fine with breaking this bird’s neck and eating it. Do you really want to eat a chicken stuffed full of hormones? Or a cow injected with a mystery serum to make it produce more milk? It’ll taste better if it’s had a good life, I started saying, with plaintive persuasion, to those around me.
It helps my case that the British public is, on the whole, a compassionate nation of animal lovers. One can’t imagine this country tolerating a condition I read about on a farm in Japan where, to prevent the pigs from moving in their cramped cages, a metal spike was speared through their jaws to keep them stationary.
Of course there are endless issues to address: animal labour worldwide in zoos, circuses, bullfighting, horse-racing and more; the passion for hunting that some barbaric sections of, among others, Africa, America and Canada still have; the status symbol dogs that I see far too often in the UK and the now sadly resurgent appetite for the fur industry. It would certainly also be desirable to break the hold that cheap, poor quality fast food has but doing that would be partly connected to breaking the hold that cheap, poor quality booze has and that, I fear, is a mission too far!
It is the issue of factory farming that is most easily addressed and prime for legislation and change.
So can we all agree on one thing at least? That if you must eat animals they should be treated well before slaughter. If you’re going to eat them, why not avoid torturing them during their short lives? Of course, there are different levels of torture. There’s being kept in cages, never seeing the light of day. There’s being mistreated by workers at slaughterhouses before the throat-slitting day comes. But there is only one delicacy that has physical torture built into rearing: foie gras, recently described to me as ‘animal water-boarding’.
The literal translation of foie gras is fatty liver. Mostly produced in France, it is made from ducks and, to a lesser extent, geese. For a few weeks prior to slaughter, the animals are subject to gavage, French for ‘to gorge’. In short, it’s force-feeding. A tube is inserted into their throats and two or three times a day they are pumped full of boiled maize and fat, in order to increase the size of the liver by up to ten times, which then leads to production of an expensive and, I’m told, delicious meal. After this process many farms then put an elastic band around the animal’s neck to stop it from throwing up the food.
During the rearing period, it’s possible that some of these birds may have access to the outdoors but not enough to produce their natural behaviour. If they are allowed outdoors, they can forage for food but are not given any other food before the force-feeding begins. However, it’s more likely that they are confined in tiny cages, day and night before being slaughtered at six months old. This force-feeding in human terms would be like having 45 pounds of pasta pumped into your stomach every day. It’s cruelty, it’s torture and for what? So posh restaurants with pretentious menus can serve it to their customers.
Force-feeding for foie gras production is prohibited or prevented by general animal welfare legislation in many countries, including most provinces in Austria, the Czech Republic, Denmark, Finland, Germany, Israel, Luxembourg, Norway, Poland, Sweden, Switzerland and the UK. EU laws that allow free movement of goods mean importing it can never be banned so a consumer boycott is the only option. The following places, in London alone, still serve it:
http://www.squarerestaurant.com/
http://www.odettesprimrosehill.com/
http://www.thewolseley.com/
http://www.comptoirgascon.com
http://www.capitalhotel.co.uk/
http://www.le-gavroche.co.uk/
As Harrods continues to sell foie gras, chains such as Selfridges, House of Fraser and Harvey Nichols have banned it. AirCanada, AirAsia, Virgin, United, Delta, SAS and KLM have removed it from their menus. It has been removed from menus at all royal functions, thanks to Prince Charles. Sainsbury’s, Marks & Spencer, Morrisons, Tesco, Whole Foods and Asda will not stock it while Waitrose sells CIWF-approved ‘faux gras’. And thanks to Tamara Ecclestone, PETA’s foie gras campaign ambassador, it has been removed from the menus of Formula One teams such as Williams, Cosworth, Mercedes, Red Bull and Lotus.
I’m sure foie gras tastes great - people wouldn’t eat it otherwise. The choice is your stomach or your conscience. Whether you love animals or couldn’t care less about them, anyone with an ounce of compassion shouldn’t sanction and participate in this kind of cruelty.
http://www.ciwf.org.uk/
Used by figures such as Churchill, Gandhi and Pope John Paul II, the quote above, or a variation on it, has its original roots in The Bible. Its invocation is designed to inspire us into action to help those less fortunate than ourselves. But one can’t pick and choose when it comes to which of those considered vulnerable is most deserving of our concern and care. If you work in a field where the goal is to gain greater understanding of, and provision for, special needs children or adults nowhere does it say that you can’t also find it in you to care for the elderly. If you devote time to raising awareness of, and building structural support for, those who are impoverished by geography and circumstance you can also fight for those who are denied decent working conditions by their employers. It might come down to a battle for civil rights, whether that takes the form of marrying the person you love or protecting the people around you from harm.
And if those in need can’t speak for themselves you can and should stand and speak for them. Another version of the quote, as Gandhi related it, is as follows:
“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”
When I’ve spoken about my concern for animal welfare in the past I have occasionally been met with rolled eyes. Animals matter less than people and wouldn’t my time be better spent speaking up about the welfare of children, workers and so on? As if I should have only a certain amount of concern to spare and as if it’s an imperative to rank causes of interest in order of socially accepted importance and then allocate time in the day one should give them. Is the welfare of my family more important to me than the life of an animal in a factory farm? Yes. Does this mean I can’t regale anyone who will listen with appalling tales of factory farming? No.
As a Western consumer, I’m fortunate to have a great deal of choice at my fingertips and a wise friend once told me that the greatest power you have is where you spend your money. Four years ago I chose to never eat another sentient being. Before then I never spoke out on animal welfare issues because I felt a hypocrite. That’s just me – there’s nothing to stop any carnivore from being active in animal rights matters.
My choice often provokes a curious defensiveness. I’m quizzed with suspicion on my choice of footwear material, whether I buy goods from China, eat Nestle products or avoid Nike. If I fall down on any of these standards I’m told that I’ve failed to live the life I preach about. I’ve never claimed that it’s possible to go through any given day without sometimes having to make regrettable choices: you just try to do the best you can. Defending one’s choices is part of trying to be a person of conscience, I’ve found out. However, I do notice that vegans never question me on why I’m not one of them!
I’m often asked if being a vegetarian is hard, if it’s expensive and (the classic) if I eat fish. I smile and say no to all three. The latter question is the most common, so much so that labels like pescetarian have been adopted into common language – as if eating a fish didn’t count somehow. Well, it’s not as cute as a lamb is it? Never mind that we’ll run out of fish to eat before we run out of land to raise lamb chops on.
By making these choices and talking about them, am I subconsciously telling those who make the opposite ones that their choices are wrong? I don’t mean to but perhaps I am. I’ve never tried to convert anyone to vegetarianism, but I don’t mind presenting information should the moment arise. I’m a bore to my family, telling them tales of animal cruelty I have learned of. But even in the delivery of information, sneaking it into family dinners or events, I do my best to take the McCartney family approach, even if I lean towards a cheeky Meat Is Murder reference now and then.
Morrissey, who guilted a generation into putting down their mince, is of the militant, aggressive variety of animal rights advocates. He doesn’t care if anyone listens, he doesn’t care who makes him an enemy and he doesn’t care if anyone agrees; he’ll say his piece regardless. He won’t bite his lip about any subject and certainly not about animal welfare – many of his own fans recoil in annoyance at his on-stage sermons about eating ‘flesh’ and animal experimentation. A kindlier polar opposite, Paul McCartney, appeals to the emotional and practical side – he stopped eating meat in 1975 upon seeing a happy lamb outside the window of his farm, he promotes healthy meat-free eating by continuing the pioneering work his late wife started with her cookbooks and cuisine and his daughter Stella has recently completed designs on the Queen’s guard’s bearskin hats in faux fur. This Morrissey Vs McCartney scale is the difference between the eye-catching and aggressive shock tactics of PETA (who certainly gain victories, if not friends, by the truckload) and the reasoned and intelligent campaigns of the organisation Compassion in World Farming.
A friend took me to a CIWF meeting last year and, while I do support and appreciate PETA’s stunts, from naked models to forceful lobbying, I found that the practical idealism of the CIWF lectures spoke to me. Their approach was simple enough. People are going to eat meat. Most will never give it up. But what they can be persuaded to do is find a moment to think about what they’re eating and how it arrived on their plate. At the
It helps my case that the British public is, on the whole, a compassionate nation of animal lovers. One can’t imagine this country tolerating a condition I read about on a farm in Japan where, to prevent the pigs from moving in their cramped cages, a metal spike was speared through their jaws to keep them stationary.
Of course there are endless issues to address: animal labour worldwide in zoos, circuses, bullfighting, horse-racing and more; the passion for hunting that some barbaric sections of, among others, Africa, America and Canada still have; the status symbol dogs that I see far too often in the UK and the now sadly resurgent appetite for the fur industry. It would certainly also be desirable to break the hold that cheap, poor quality fast food has but doing that would be partly connected to breaking the hold that cheap, poor quality booze has and that, I fear, is a mission too far!
It is the issue of factory farming that is most easily addressed and prime for legislation and change.
So can we all agree on one thing at least? That if you must eat animals they should be treated well before slaughter. If you’re going to eat them, why not avoid torturing them during their short lives? Of course, there are different levels of torture. There’s being kept in cages, never seeing the light of day. There’s being mistreated by workers at slaughterhouses before the throat-slitting day comes. But there is only one delicacy that has physical torture built into rearing: foie gras, recently described to me as ‘animal water-boarding’.
The literal translation of foie gras is fatty liver. Mostly produced in France, it is made from ducks and, to a lesser extent, geese. For a few weeks prior to slaughter, the animals are subject to gavage, French for ‘to gorge’. In short, it’s force-feeding. A tube is inserted into their throats and two or three times a day they are pumped full of boiled maize and fat, in order to increase the size of the liver by up to ten times, which then leads to production of an expensive and, I’m told, delicious meal. After this process many farms then put an elastic band around the animal’s neck to stop it from throwing up the food.
During the rearing period, it’s possible that some of these birds may have access to the outdoors but not enough to produce their natural behaviour. If they are allowed outdoors, they can forage for food but are not given any other food before the force-feeding begins. However, it’s more likely that they are confined in tiny cages, day and night before being slaughtered at six months old. This force-feeding in human terms would be like having 45 pounds of pasta pumped into your stomach every day. It’s cruelty, it’s torture and for what? So posh restaurants with pretentious menus can serve it to their customers.
Force-feeding for foie gras production is prohibited or prevented by general animal welfare legislation in many countries, including most provinces in Austria, the Czech Republic, Denmark, Finland, Germany, Israel, Luxembourg, Norway, Poland, Sweden, Switzerland and the UK. EU laws that allow free movement of goods mean importing it can never be banned so a consumer boycott is the only option. The following places, in London alone, still serve it:
http://www.squarerestaurant.com/
http://www.odettesprimrosehill.com/
http://www.thewolseley.com/
http://www.comptoirgascon.com
http://www.capitalhotel.co.uk/
http://www.le-gavroche.co.uk/
As Harrods continues to sell foie gras, chains such as Selfridges, House of Fraser and Harvey Nichols have banned it. AirCanada, AirAsia, Virgin, United, Delta, SAS and KLM have removed it from their menus. It has been removed from menus at all royal functions, thanks to Prince Charles. Sainsbury’s, Marks & Spencer, Morrisons, Tesco, Whole Foods and Asda will not stock it while Waitrose sells CIWF-approved ‘faux gras’. And thanks to Tamara Ecclestone, PETA’s foie gras campaign ambassador, it has been removed from the menus of Formula One teams such as Williams, Cosworth, Mercedes, Red Bull and Lotus.
I’m sure foie gras tastes great - people wouldn’t eat it otherwise. The choice is your stomach or your conscience. Whether you love animals or couldn’t care less about them, anyone with an ounce of compassion shouldn’t sanction and participate in this kind of cruelty.
http://www.ciwf.org.uk/
(all photos from www.ciwf.org.uk)
Football Is Life
11/02/08 19:10
It might be the first soccer blog (to be called football from here on) I've ever done here but if one day deserves a bit of talking about it is yesterday.
It had been somewhat of a strange week in Manchester. With the services to commemorate the Munich air disaster 50th anniversary hanging over the proceedings like a grey, sad cloud the match almost didn't matter. But they still wanted it to be perfect, and so they should. Perhaps the occasion got to Man United a little - or perhaps saying that is just a way of taking some credit away from my magnificent team. A team I have been so rarely proud of like I was yesterday. I've spent my entire life being disappointed by my team, Manchester City. They have consistently failed to do anything matching our richer, more popular neighbours, Manchester United, for nigh on 20 years now.
You can trace the history and traditions of the city of Manchester through its football teams. In the 50s, when both teams were good and one was struck by tragedy. In the 60s and early 70s when both teams were excellent, as good as each other. In the 80s when both teams were pretty poor. And then, a turning point - September 1989. A Maine Road hammering of United by City, scoreline 5-1. The United fans shouting 'Fergie out' at the hapless manager. But from then it turned. They won the then Rumbelows Cup in 1990 and capitalised on that with the European Cup Winners Cup in 1991. And from that point City have descended while United have prospered. They have become the biggest, richest, best supported team on earth while City have struggled in the doldrums. Now, with new investment we have started to rise, very slowly, from the ashes. I can't say where it will all end. I'm quite sure we will never be as famous or popular as them and nor would I wish to be. They're welcome to their overseas superstores and lucrative Dubai trips. I care about my team first. I'm a City fan, not a United hater.
At first it seemed like having the Old Trafford derby the weekend after the Munich anniversary was a pretty poor idea. Both clubs had the chance to object and, for reasons unknown, didn't. Rumour flew that some City fans (not really fans – United haters first, City fans a distant second, I have no respect for those people) were planning to disrupt the minutes silence before the game. The machines of both clubs swung into action. Warnings were given to the fans from both clubs, the media and even, in a very ill advised and idiotic last minute attack, a United player (Scholes). City were under the microscope and I feared the worst. A few boozed up louts might shame us all. I half expected to hear a few lone yelps followed by a thud as the City fans surrounding the offenders gave them a well-deserved smack in the face. I had been dreading the game and it dominated my thoughts all last week. In recent years our home record against United has drastically improved. After that famous 1989 win we didn't beat them again until 2003 - in the last Maine Road derby before the stadium move, Shaun Goater scored his 100th City goal to beat United. In the list of great footballing days of my life it was right up there with the Cup win at Spurs (3-0 down with 10 men, won 4-3) and the 1999 play off final against Gillingham (still the single greatest City related day of my life). After that we'd beaten them at home in the first derby at our new stadium, 4-1. We'd even beaten them, undeservedly, earlier this season at home.
But away from home, at Old Trafford? No wins in 27 games. No win since April 1974. Yes, 1974. My parents had been married for only a few weeks then. We hadn't beaten United away in my lifetime. I have seen all kinds of derbies there - robbed by a ref's whistle a few years ago of a perfectly good Goater winner, the draw following thug Roy Keane's career-ending assault on City player Haaland, a thoroughly depressing 5-0 hammering and so on. It's miserable playing there and on the very rare occasions we have scraped a draw I've greeted it with happiness and relief. It's just not a place anyone wins. United lose about once or twice a season at home, if that. Even teams ten times better than us like Chelsea, Arsenal and Liverpool often come away with little or nothing from a trip there. They have a home record that is the envy of most clubs on earth. They expect to win every home game and so they should. With four important players, all suspended, missing (two each – Rooney/Evra for them, Corluka/Elano for us) I thought the playing field, Ronaldo excepted, was relatively even. Though an excellent player I knew Tevez would find it hard to outplay man mountain and club captain Richard Dunne. The tactics had to be spot on or we'd be on the receiving end of an emotionally charged beating.
I tried to walk calmly to the pub with my iPod on. I switched it on and grinned as Don't Look Back In Anger came on random play. Oasis are the City band, always have been. I was a nervous wreck. The stadium was awash with red and white scarves, specially made for the day and given to each fan. The 3000 City fans in one corner had the same scarves, though blue and white of course. The managers walked with wreaths to the centre of the pitch and laid them down in remembrance as I felt tears welling up. And then the moment came, the silence. I held my breath and stood up in tribute in my local, a sparsely populated Arsenal pub. I blinked away tears as the fans held their scarves high and the players stood immovably. You could have heard a pin drop. Some fireworks were let off outside the stadium during the minute, which briefly confused me, but no-one batted an eyelid. They knew what they had to do. One might say, why should fans get praise for behaving properly? To say that is to underestimate the hatred that has grown between United and City fans in the years since the Munich disaster, back when many fans supported both teams. That was the 50s, things were different then. A nasty, greedy, Thatcherite veil has come down across this country in the last 20 years. Mean-spiritedness is the norm at football games. As well as good natured banter there's a nastier edge to football now, which no doubt partially comes from the increased corporate image of the game. It started when fans stopped being called fans and became consumers.
Well not this time. In that stadium were 76,000 people who felt it together. As one entity, as one city united in grief. I feared the worst and my faith in the best of people was restored. That was really all that mattered yesterday, the silence. The demonstration that for one minute people could reach out to each other and hold hands when usually they would hurl abuse. Football became honourable and pure and untouched by corporate greed, local rivalry and mean-spiritedness in that moment. It was one of the great moments I've experienced and I only wish I had been at home with my dad to celebrate it. So with the blown whistle came the sigh of relief across the 1 million-plus Manchester inhabitants who knew the world was watching. And now the usual United win could commence even with United without Rooney, City without Elano - arguably the two clubs two most important players. In the first minute Ronaldo got the ball and no less than three City players surrounded him, snapping at his heels. The tactics were clear - stop Ronaldo, stop United. How simple is that? But my god, it worked. He barely had a kick - not because of his own bad play, because he was not allowed to play. Not given the room and space that other teams give him and live to regret. He was crowded out, pushed, harried and, every so often, kicked. His own frustration, which led to typical petulance, came bubbling to the surface a couple of times. He never had two yards of space around him. And thus, United were impotent.
Tevez and Giggs were shackled by the tenacious, determined and tough Dunne and Richards. Scholes was not at his best and was repeatedly embarrassed by the talented Swiss youngster Gelson Fernandes. In the first half the best United player on the pitch, Anderson, walked all over City's Stephen Ireland. In the second half that was reversed. Hamann, who I only wish was a decade younger, was in complete control of midfield, his brain working a hundred times faster than his ageing legs. United looked dangerous going forward as they always do. But they ran into brick walls time after time. And when they got past the hard working Ball or England U21 international youngster Onouha they bumped into his England U21 team-mate, keeper Joe Hart, whose decision making still needs work but looks the real thing. And leading the line, our new signing Benjani. This guy looks the real deal. Thank you Jermain Defoe - if you hadn't settled for an easy life in Portsmouth instead of fighting for the Big Four place your talent deserves Portsmouth would never have sold Benjani. He was powerful, intelligent, did the simple things well, didn't give the ball away and held it up like the complete 29-year-old striker he is.
The first half was even. United weren't allowed to get going so they struggled. One man's poor home performance is another man's great away display. In order to win at Old Trafford you have to take advantage of weakness and we smelled blood. With two wins in twelve games for us and United going for fourteen wins in a row at home the odds were stacked against us but something happened - we scored. A United style counter attack, a jet speed break up the field and, after a poor initial shot, Vassell fired the ball home and ran towards the barely believing City faithful in the corner. And then, we started to believe. From that point onwards, despite my palpitating heart which lasted until the final whistle, we were taking punches and hitting back. We were standing up to the biggest boy in his own backyard. They found limitless heart and strength on a day where United should have won easily. A minute before half time a wickedly whipped in cross from Petrov was flicked into the net by Benjani. How could I ask for more? A goal on his debut at Old Trafford. Half time. Dazed, I exited the pub to buy some fags to calm my nerves. My stomach was churning, my head spinning. It felt like I was asleep and having the footballing dream I couldn't imagine - 2-0 up at half time at Old Trafford. But I'm no fool. I remembered a mid 90s game where we went 2-0 up by half time, with a Niall Quinn brace, and lost 3-2 to a late Giggs winner. And that was at Maine Road, not even an away derby! No chickens would be counted.
I settled into my seat for a heart-thumping, nervy, hand-wringing second half. The Arsenal fans in the pub couldn't understand it. 'You're winning, you should be thinking of 3-0, you're so defeatist'. I attempted to explain that I had been kicked in the teeth so many times that I couldn't bear to assume anything. Emotional insurance, I call it. 'You're mad, that's why you never do well, you defeat yourself'. I took a breath and replied, 'When you've been in the third division tell me that again. It's called humility. It's something that hasn't reached the south yet'. He didn't reply. I hope, no matter what happens to my team, I am never like that. That sense of self-entitlement and arrogance is why I've never liked Londoners much. My mind was racing. We were holding them off and playing well but United are known for late goals. The crowd roared the team forward as the City fans, who could barely believe what they were witnessing, sung their hearts out. There was no complacency here, no certainty that we would win and no taking for granted how hard getting to the finish line would be. I bit my nails until they were invisible. I fidgeted and chatted distractedly with another Arsenal fan next to me. He told me to keep calm. I resisted the urge to glare at him. A little late for that I'd say.
With a few moments to go I started to relax and realised we might actually do this. As the clock ticked past 90 mins into 3 of injury time I allowed myself a smile - and then United scored. Just shows, you should never celebrate before the whistle. Talk about tempting fate. But even then, when the team could have had a last minute panic, they didn't. They stood firm and tall and batted away every desperately lofted ball. The goal kick sailed high into the crisp Manchester air and the whistle was blown. We had won at Old Trafford. I'll say that again - we had won at Old Trafford. I confess, I thought it was a day I might never see in my lifetime. There's nothing quite like breaking a decades old hoodoo. I felt like this when we won the last derby at Maine Rd/first derby at the COM stadium. I punched the air as a huge beaming grin spread across my face and I've been stuck that way ever since. I'm quite sure I've freaked out random passers-by with my plastered immovable smile today. I almost felt sorry for United, doing this to them on their most sacred of days. After the game their manager fled the country. No really, he did. A pre-planned trip to South Africa - but he left without a word to the press. He'd once confessed that when we beat them 5-1 all those years ago he went home, put his head under a pillow and didn't come out for 24 hours. He's a bad loser and all the best managers are.
United assistant manager Queiroz tried to blame the international call-ups the week before for the lacklustre performance, saying many of the United players had been tired. Perhaps he forgot that just as many City players were also called up and played 90 mins midweek for their countries? It wasn't like the home win in August when we were hugely fortunate to win. This time we deserved it - and not because United were bad, but because we were good. And once we scored we believed we could win. And when it comes to beating United, or indeed any team or foe better and bigger than you, belief is half of the battle. United were surprised to not have an easy derby game, like they have often had in recent years. We surprised ourselves. And we got our karmic reward for every single City soul in that stadium showing our respect to United and their loss in a very difficult emotional week for them. I walked on clouds out of the pub as the emotion overwhelmed me and tears welled in my eyes. When we win, I call home and shout loudly down the phone. This time I called home and my dad talked while I stayed silent for a while - I had no energy to speak. He told me he was drained. My emotional and mental energy had been sapped too. But hearing his voice, his glowing happiness over the phone, gave me my energy back and we talked animatedly about the players and the game. None of this felt real. I watched the highlights just to make sure it was.
It was.
...
It had been somewhat of a strange week in Manchester. With the services to commemorate the Munich air disaster 50th anniversary hanging over the proceedings like a grey, sad cloud the match almost didn't matter. But they still wanted it to be perfect, and so they should. Perhaps the occasion got to Man United a little - or perhaps saying that is just a way of taking some credit away from my magnificent team. A team I have been so rarely proud of like I was yesterday. I've spent my entire life being disappointed by my team, Manchester City. They have consistently failed to do anything matching our richer, more popular neighbours, Manchester United, for nigh on 20 years now.
You can trace the history and traditions of the city of Manchester through its football teams. In the 50s, when both teams were good and one was struck by tragedy. In the 60s and early 70s when both teams were excellent, as good as each other. In the 80s when both teams were pretty poor. And then, a turning point - September 1989. A Maine Road hammering of United by City, scoreline 5-1. The United fans shouting 'Fergie out' at the hapless manager. But from then it turned. They won the then Rumbelows Cup in 1990 and capitalised on that with the European Cup Winners Cup in 1991. And from that point City have descended while United have prospered. They have become the biggest, richest, best supported team on earth while City have struggled in the doldrums. Now, with new investment we have started to rise, very slowly, from the ashes. I can't say where it will all end. I'm quite sure we will never be as famous or popular as them and nor would I wish to be. They're welcome to their overseas superstores and lucrative Dubai trips. I care about my team first. I'm a City fan, not a United hater.
At first it seemed like having the Old Trafford derby the weekend after the Munich anniversary was a pretty poor idea. Both clubs had the chance to object and, for reasons unknown, didn't. Rumour flew that some City fans (not really fans – United haters first, City fans a distant second, I have no respect for those people) were planning to disrupt the minutes silence before the game. The machines of both clubs swung into action. Warnings were given to the fans from both clubs, the media and even, in a very ill advised and idiotic last minute attack, a United player (Scholes). City were under the microscope and I feared the worst. A few boozed up louts might shame us all. I half expected to hear a few lone yelps followed by a thud as the City fans surrounding the offenders gave them a well-deserved smack in the face. I had been dreading the game and it dominated my thoughts all last week. In recent years our home record against United has drastically improved. After that famous 1989 win we didn't beat them again until 2003 - in the last Maine Road derby before the stadium move, Shaun Goater scored his 100th City goal to beat United. In the list of great footballing days of my life it was right up there with the Cup win at Spurs (3-0 down with 10 men, won 4-3) and the 1999 play off final against Gillingham (still the single greatest City related day of my life). After that we'd beaten them at home in the first derby at our new stadium, 4-1. We'd even beaten them, undeservedly, earlier this season at home.
But away from home, at Old Trafford? No wins in 27 games. No win since April 1974. Yes, 1974. My parents had been married for only a few weeks then. We hadn't beaten United away in my lifetime. I have seen all kinds of derbies there - robbed by a ref's whistle a few years ago of a perfectly good Goater winner, the draw following thug Roy Keane's career-ending assault on City player Haaland, a thoroughly depressing 5-0 hammering and so on. It's miserable playing there and on the very rare occasions we have scraped a draw I've greeted it with happiness and relief. It's just not a place anyone wins. United lose about once or twice a season at home, if that. Even teams ten times better than us like Chelsea, Arsenal and Liverpool often come away with little or nothing from a trip there. They have a home record that is the envy of most clubs on earth. They expect to win every home game and so they should. With four important players, all suspended, missing (two each – Rooney/Evra for them, Corluka/Elano for us) I thought the playing field, Ronaldo excepted, was relatively even. Though an excellent player I knew Tevez would find it hard to outplay man mountain and club captain Richard Dunne. The tactics had to be spot on or we'd be on the receiving end of an emotionally charged beating.
I tried to walk calmly to the pub with my iPod on. I switched it on and grinned as Don't Look Back In Anger came on random play. Oasis are the City band, always have been. I was a nervous wreck. The stadium was awash with red and white scarves, specially made for the day and given to each fan. The 3000 City fans in one corner had the same scarves, though blue and white of course. The managers walked with wreaths to the centre of the pitch and laid them down in remembrance as I felt tears welling up. And then the moment came, the silence. I held my breath and stood up in tribute in my local, a sparsely populated Arsenal pub. I blinked away tears as the fans held their scarves high and the players stood immovably. You could have heard a pin drop. Some fireworks were let off outside the stadium during the minute, which briefly confused me, but no-one batted an eyelid. They knew what they had to do. One might say, why should fans get praise for behaving properly? To say that is to underestimate the hatred that has grown between United and City fans in the years since the Munich disaster, back when many fans supported both teams. That was the 50s, things were different then. A nasty, greedy, Thatcherite veil has come down across this country in the last 20 years. Mean-spiritedness is the norm at football games. As well as good natured banter there's a nastier edge to football now, which no doubt partially comes from the increased corporate image of the game. It started when fans stopped being called fans and became consumers.
Well not this time. In that stadium were 76,000 people who felt it together. As one entity, as one city united in grief. I feared the worst and my faith in the best of people was restored. That was really all that mattered yesterday, the silence. The demonstration that for one minute people could reach out to each other and hold hands when usually they would hurl abuse. Football became honourable and pure and untouched by corporate greed, local rivalry and mean-spiritedness in that moment. It was one of the great moments I've experienced and I only wish I had been at home with my dad to celebrate it. So with the blown whistle came the sigh of relief across the 1 million-plus Manchester inhabitants who knew the world was watching. And now the usual United win could commence even with United without Rooney, City without Elano - arguably the two clubs two most important players. In the first minute Ronaldo got the ball and no less than three City players surrounded him, snapping at his heels. The tactics were clear - stop Ronaldo, stop United. How simple is that? But my god, it worked. He barely had a kick - not because of his own bad play, because he was not allowed to play. Not given the room and space that other teams give him and live to regret. He was crowded out, pushed, harried and, every so often, kicked. His own frustration, which led to typical petulance, came bubbling to the surface a couple of times. He never had two yards of space around him. And thus, United were impotent.
Tevez and Giggs were shackled by the tenacious, determined and tough Dunne and Richards. Scholes was not at his best and was repeatedly embarrassed by the talented Swiss youngster Gelson Fernandes. In the first half the best United player on the pitch, Anderson, walked all over City's Stephen Ireland. In the second half that was reversed. Hamann, who I only wish was a decade younger, was in complete control of midfield, his brain working a hundred times faster than his ageing legs. United looked dangerous going forward as they always do. But they ran into brick walls time after time. And when they got past the hard working Ball or England U21 international youngster Onouha they bumped into his England U21 team-mate, keeper Joe Hart, whose decision making still needs work but looks the real thing. And leading the line, our new signing Benjani. This guy looks the real deal. Thank you Jermain Defoe - if you hadn't settled for an easy life in Portsmouth instead of fighting for the Big Four place your talent deserves Portsmouth would never have sold Benjani. He was powerful, intelligent, did the simple things well, didn't give the ball away and held it up like the complete 29-year-old striker he is.
The first half was even. United weren't allowed to get going so they struggled. One man's poor home performance is another man's great away display. In order to win at Old Trafford you have to take advantage of weakness and we smelled blood. With two wins in twelve games for us and United going for fourteen wins in a row at home the odds were stacked against us but something happened - we scored. A United style counter attack, a jet speed break up the field and, after a poor initial shot, Vassell fired the ball home and ran towards the barely believing City faithful in the corner. And then, we started to believe. From that point onwards, despite my palpitating heart which lasted until the final whistle, we were taking punches and hitting back. We were standing up to the biggest boy in his own backyard. They found limitless heart and strength on a day where United should have won easily. A minute before half time a wickedly whipped in cross from Petrov was flicked into the net by Benjani. How could I ask for more? A goal on his debut at Old Trafford. Half time. Dazed, I exited the pub to buy some fags to calm my nerves. My stomach was churning, my head spinning. It felt like I was asleep and having the footballing dream I couldn't imagine - 2-0 up at half time at Old Trafford. But I'm no fool. I remembered a mid 90s game where we went 2-0 up by half time, with a Niall Quinn brace, and lost 3-2 to a late Giggs winner. And that was at Maine Road, not even an away derby! No chickens would be counted.
I settled into my seat for a heart-thumping, nervy, hand-wringing second half. The Arsenal fans in the pub couldn't understand it. 'You're winning, you should be thinking of 3-0, you're so defeatist'. I attempted to explain that I had been kicked in the teeth so many times that I couldn't bear to assume anything. Emotional insurance, I call it. 'You're mad, that's why you never do well, you defeat yourself'. I took a breath and replied, 'When you've been in the third division tell me that again. It's called humility. It's something that hasn't reached the south yet'. He didn't reply. I hope, no matter what happens to my team, I am never like that. That sense of self-entitlement and arrogance is why I've never liked Londoners much. My mind was racing. We were holding them off and playing well but United are known for late goals. The crowd roared the team forward as the City fans, who could barely believe what they were witnessing, sung their hearts out. There was no complacency here, no certainty that we would win and no taking for granted how hard getting to the finish line would be. I bit my nails until they were invisible. I fidgeted and chatted distractedly with another Arsenal fan next to me. He told me to keep calm. I resisted the urge to glare at him. A little late for that I'd say.
With a few moments to go I started to relax and realised we might actually do this. As the clock ticked past 90 mins into 3 of injury time I allowed myself a smile - and then United scored. Just shows, you should never celebrate before the whistle. Talk about tempting fate. But even then, when the team could have had a last minute panic, they didn't. They stood firm and tall and batted away every desperately lofted ball. The goal kick sailed high into the crisp Manchester air and the whistle was blown. We had won at Old Trafford. I'll say that again - we had won at Old Trafford. I confess, I thought it was a day I might never see in my lifetime. There's nothing quite like breaking a decades old hoodoo. I felt like this when we won the last derby at Maine Rd/first derby at the COM stadium. I punched the air as a huge beaming grin spread across my face and I've been stuck that way ever since. I'm quite sure I've freaked out random passers-by with my plastered immovable smile today. I almost felt sorry for United, doing this to them on their most sacred of days. After the game their manager fled the country. No really, he did. A pre-planned trip to South Africa - but he left without a word to the press. He'd once confessed that when we beat them 5-1 all those years ago he went home, put his head under a pillow and didn't come out for 24 hours. He's a bad loser and all the best managers are.
United assistant manager Queiroz tried to blame the international call-ups the week before for the lacklustre performance, saying many of the United players had been tired. Perhaps he forgot that just as many City players were also called up and played 90 mins midweek for their countries? It wasn't like the home win in August when we were hugely fortunate to win. This time we deserved it - and not because United were bad, but because we were good. And once we scored we believed we could win. And when it comes to beating United, or indeed any team or foe better and bigger than you, belief is half of the battle. United were surprised to not have an easy derby game, like they have often had in recent years. We surprised ourselves. And we got our karmic reward for every single City soul in that stadium showing our respect to United and their loss in a very difficult emotional week for them. I walked on clouds out of the pub as the emotion overwhelmed me and tears welled in my eyes. When we win, I call home and shout loudly down the phone. This time I called home and my dad talked while I stayed silent for a while - I had no energy to speak. He told me he was drained. My emotional and mental energy had been sapped too. But hearing his voice, his glowing happiness over the phone, gave me my energy back and we talked animatedly about the players and the game. None of this felt real. I watched the highlights just to make sure it was.
It was.
...
It was forty years ago today
17/05/06 19:23
photo by Mark Makin
A young Manchester lad, aged 15, went to see a concert 40 years ago today. He had asked a friend to get tickets for Bob Dylan at the Free Trade Hall in Manchester. The friend had not managed to get anything in the main, seated, floor, nor the balconies. Instead he had somehow gotten hold of platform seats.
These consisted of 2 rows of chairs behind the band. Or, in this case, The Band. With excitement and trepidation he and his friend Casper went to see Dylan perform. He had played the year before in 1965, drawing rapturous applause and plaudits. He simply strode on stage, all curly hair and leather jacket, acoustic guitar and harmonica, and played his own kind of folk music.
On that trip, following a meeting with the Beatles, he had become fascinated with electric guitar and had bought one in London. Upon returning to the US he employed Ronnie Hawkins band, The Hawks, and had renamed them The Band. In 1966 he returned to Europe with this band and the reaction was one of disgust. He was booed repeatedly, every night. The first half acoustic set went down just as in '65 but when 5 musicians appeared with him the appreciation turned to anger. The effect on Band drummer Levon Helm was marked. He decided he couldn't handle the abuse any more and with Bob's permission left the tour completely, to be replaced by Mickey Jones.
Though everyone had become demoralised by the audience disapproval, the fans of folk appalled at Dylan's traitorous betrayal into the world of electric music, they soldiered on. On that day, May 17 1966, they played in Manchester. The young 15 year old took his place seated behind Dylan, to stage right of Jones's drum kit. As with all the other gigs the first half went very well.
Then, the interval. Again, murmurs spread of the electric second half. The Band were very loud indeed and Dylan's new songs pierced the auditorium. Some sat in shock, some cheered, some booed. One foolhardy young man on the main floor waited until a quiet moment arrived to shout possibly the most famed heckle in rock history -
"JUDAS!!!"
Instantly, Dylan approached the mic stand -
"I don't believe you", he drawled, with some anger, "You're a LIAR!"
Then he turned to The Band and said something only heard clearly on the recent Scorsese documentary... "Play it fucking loud". The band tore into Like A Rolling Stone.
Dylan was clearly angry at his audience’s lack of tolerance. But the gig was electric. Later on the gig was wrongly released as 'Live at the Royal Albert Hall', a venue in London. But Londoners cannot claim this piece of rock history for themselves. Manchester has always been the cooler city - from the Judas concert to the Sex Pistols first gig a decade later: attended by everyone from The Buzzcocks and Morrissey to Warsaw (later Joy Division) and Howard Devoto. We always see the truth first. Over the years many people have claimed to be the Judas shouter. Who knows who he really is... the gig and his call found their place in rock history and I'm proud to say it all took place in my home city.
Forty years ago today the 15-year-old Salford lad behind the drummer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unwilling to make eye contact with anyone on stage. He wasn't sure if Dylan was going to storm off, he wouldn't move a muscle for fear of what might happen. It was a moment that he remembers 40 years to the day later. I know because I spoke to him this morning – my dad. And he remembers every detail. And if you look closely at the photo above you can see him, arms folded, just peeking out from the amp on the right, with the glasses on. His friend, to this day, Casper sits next to him with suit and tie on. Both of them look terrified. But it was a day neither of them will ever forget.
www.dylansal.colsal.org.uk/
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_Trade_Hall
www.bobdylan.com/albums/live1966.html
Football as therapy
07/11/05 19:31
What a strange few days it's been. Today I'm starting to feel a little more connected with reality. I think going to see my team play helped a lot on Saturday (even though we played poorly and lost). It was a classic case of needing to take my mind off the events of the end of last week and the match arrived at the perfect time.
Getting to a game in London is frustrating. Unlike many other stadia, which are often set in industrial areas with helpful additional public transport, the stadia in London are almost all situated in residential areas. There are no extra Tubes, trains or buses (unlike in Manchester where dozens of special 'match buses' are put on) so you struggle with the regular commuters, poor bastards, who are not that happy to be stuck on a Tube with a ton of football traffic.
Add to that the Fulham ground, Craven Cottage, is quite a way from home for me and it made for an interesting, if annoying, journey. Tube from Finsbury Park, change at Victoria. Infrequent Tube meant another extra journey - Victoria to Earls Court. Then finally a few stops to Putney Bridge. The train was so packed you didn't need to hold onto anything and I was surrounded by 'Is it the next stop?' kids eager to get there. Once off the Tube I was struck by the gorgeous surroundings of the stadium and the 15 minute walk to it. It's rare that a stadium can be reached by a leisurely walk by the side of the Thames, it was quite beautiful I must say. The stadium itself is small, one tier only all sides and not very Premiership friendly! In short, it's a stadium that belongs in the league below.
I took my seat - 8 rows from the pitch, a few feet to the left of the goal, just behind the delicious City keeper David James (who had a bit of an 'England' game for us). We saved our worst performance of the season until Saturday, typical. I go and *that's* when we play like shite. We deserved to lose and we did, 2-1. But despite that I enjoyed being with the City fans and I enjoyed singing the songs, I enjoyed abusing the incompetent adjudicators with profanities and I enjoyed cheering our goal. It was a primal scream, a release and just what I needed to do.
I find that it takes me longer to get over a defeat when I've attended than when I've listened online or watched it on Sky. It's just harder, normally I'm angry and pissed off and miserable and cantankerous for about 90 mins after a defeat, maybe an hour. After I've actually witnessed a defeat... well, I didn't start to feel like I wanted to talk to anyone for at least 3 hours! Maybe it's worse because there's a 2-week break now before the next game. No matter, the match served its purpose - £29 is a lot cheaper than going to a shrink, ha!
...
Getting to a game in London is frustrating. Unlike many other stadia, which are often set in industrial areas with helpful additional public transport, the stadia in London are almost all situated in residential areas. There are no extra Tubes, trains or buses (unlike in Manchester where dozens of special 'match buses' are put on) so you struggle with the regular commuters, poor bastards, who are not that happy to be stuck on a Tube with a ton of football traffic.
Add to that the Fulham ground, Craven Cottage, is quite a way from home for me and it made for an interesting, if annoying, journey. Tube from Finsbury Park, change at Victoria. Infrequent Tube meant another extra journey - Victoria to Earls Court. Then finally a few stops to Putney Bridge. The train was so packed you didn't need to hold onto anything and I was surrounded by 'Is it the next stop?' kids eager to get there. Once off the Tube I was struck by the gorgeous surroundings of the stadium and the 15 minute walk to it. It's rare that a stadium can be reached by a leisurely walk by the side of the Thames, it was quite beautiful I must say. The stadium itself is small, one tier only all sides and not very Premiership friendly! In short, it's a stadium that belongs in the league below.
I took my seat - 8 rows from the pitch, a few feet to the left of the goal, just behind the delicious City keeper David James (who had a bit of an 'England' game for us). We saved our worst performance of the season until Saturday, typical. I go and *that's* when we play like shite. We deserved to lose and we did, 2-1. But despite that I enjoyed being with the City fans and I enjoyed singing the songs, I enjoyed abusing the incompetent adjudicators with profanities and I enjoyed cheering our goal. It was a primal scream, a release and just what I needed to do.
I find that it takes me longer to get over a defeat when I've attended than when I've listened online or watched it on Sky. It's just harder, normally I'm angry and pissed off and miserable and cantankerous for about 90 mins after a defeat, maybe an hour. After I've actually witnessed a defeat... well, I didn't start to feel like I wanted to talk to anyone for at least 3 hours! Maybe it's worse because there's a 2-week break now before the next game. No matter, the match served its purpose - £29 is a lot cheaper than going to a shrink, ha!
...