Must try harder

There seems to be some sort of internal dilemma facing you in your mid twenties. A feeling of personal guilt, coming from sitting about for too long, indulging more than is advisable, eating fairly irregularly and not exercising properly. Your limbs are starting to ache more than they should. Your stomach is becoming noticeable, and your muscles less so. There's a nagging voice in your head that perhaps you should do something about it.

You go through the options.

A bike ride. For some reason cycling always evokes romantic connotations of riding leisurely through the countryside with a picnic, to a spot with a nice view. Then taking a nap under a leafy oak tree, before rolling back down the hillside to arrive home before the light begins to fade.

The reality is less captivating. You're more likely to be immediately confronted with the undesirable challenge of a monstrous hill to conquer. You begin to ascend and your legs start to deceive you. Spiteful legs. You haven't used certain muscles in them for some time and it's time for their revenge. Stubbornness to conquer the hill and submission for the pain in your legs, blurred vision and lack of oxygen battle each other in the fight to make you get off the blasted thing and push it. Finding the right gear is another constant losing battle you have to fight. The high gears punish you. A condescending feeling, as your legs go around as if you were an anquished lobster lying on its back. Anything lower causes more effort than you feel able to afford.

Feeling slightly light-headed, you sway around, no longer in full control of the bike. Cars speed past you, blasting their horns. It's just started to rain.

Before considering all this it probably should have dawned on you that you don't own a bike.

A run then. People like running. Seems quite nice. Listening to your ipod, with nothing but your own thoughts in your head. The first time you don't quite get it. For some reason, you think it's all about pace. A good work-out should push you, after all! You run quickly up the street for about 500metres before coming to a prompt end, crouching down, gasping for breath and holding your sides.

The second time is a little easier. The more experienced runner having told you that your method is perhaps not the best. You enjoy it for a while. Maybe this is it. A born runner! Then the creeping realisation that you've been going for half an hour and feel like like you can't run another yard. You're two and a half miles from home. It's just started to rain.

Swimming? It has its merits. Certainly a good way to get some exercise. You look on the internet for a local pool. The nearest public pool is two miles away!? To go and bathe in a river of child's urine and oppressive chlorine that will make your eyes burn for the rest of the day? I'll pass thanks.

You're running low on options to do some exercise that doesn't involve another participant. And everyone's busy. A game of football is rarely on the cards. Not enough people to play. No one owns a tennis racket. You realise the only option left is the gym.

The gym, it then dawns on you, is perhaps the most undesirable place on earth. The gym, you reailse, is the place where you'd most likely find sanctuary when a new ice age is ushered in, but not before.

Why anyone would part with money to run up and down on the spot on a conveyor belt is baffling to you. You could always go and lie down and attempt to lift some weights above your scrawny frame, while a man built like a tree leers down at you contemptuously.

You resort to five push-ups, before collapsing and realising that the carpet is actually a lot more comfortable than you first thought.

Running from the Forest?

A man with more ups and downs in his career than a hotel elevator, the latest blow to Steve McClaren's managerial career saw a poor 3-1 defeat at home to Birmingham leave boos ringing in the manager's ears, chasing him all the way out of The City Ground and away to the sanctuary of Sherwood Forest.

The stage had been set for a successful return to English football. Having failed to achieve qualification into Euro 2008 as England manager, McClaren had sensibly moved to Holland, escaping the ever vitriolic English press.

Seemingly having undergone sessions of intensive hypnotic therapy to make him forget the last period of his career, and affecting a Dutch accent in the process, success quickly followed. McClaren led Eredivisie side, FC Twente, to an unprecedented league triumph for the first time in the club's history.

After a much less happy time at German club Wolfsburg, McClaren had been handed a nine month break from football. Nottingham Forest had seemed like the perfect English club to return to. A new season. A club on the verge of achieving their long overdue return to the top-flight. Few Forest fans would have argued against the evidence that McClaren was an appropriate choice by the board to be the man to achieve this feat.

Having gathered just eight points, and sitting just above the relegation zone, it is unfortunate that McClaren has decided that ten league games in charge is enough. It was a tenure that capitulated before it had a chance to take off, taking chairman Nigel Doughty with it.

Difficult though, for the fans to be patient. A feeling that resonates strongly through the Forest fan base is that this is a club that belongs in the top division. They've been getting closer. It's understandable that some might see McClaren's short-lived reign as a frustrating step back. Realising this, perhaps McClaren wisely decided to jump ship before he was pushed.

Moving house

A lack of entries in recent weeks has been down to me moving house, and the lack of access to the internet. More posts soon!

Mercury Music Prize gets it right (for a change)

The Mercury Music Prize has justifiably been the subject of much discussion and conflict over the years. Claiming to reward the best British album of the year on merit alone, the nominations can be slightly perplexing.
For instance, the inclusion this year of Adele's best selling album, '21' sits rather awkwardly against other competitors for what is widely considered to be the most coveted of awards. Not just because it has sold a lot of records. In most people's mind, the point of the prize is to reward an exceptional album outside of the mainstream. Not one that fills the silence pleasantly enough in family homes throughout the country. It's fair to say it's the type of album never likely to win, but then why include it amongst the nominations in the first place?
More often than not, the result of The Mercury Prize is met with a shrug of the shoulders and largely ignored by even the biggest champion of alternative music. 2005 and 2009's decisions to respectively deem Anthony and the Johnsons and Speeche Debelle worthy winners being very noteable examples of this.
Other years, the integrity of the award has been brought into question. When M People's 'Elegant Slumming' was chosen in favour of Pulp, Blur and Suede in 1994, many were heavily critical. Needless to say, Melody Maker and NME were up in arms(!) The subsequent years saw excellent albums by Portishead and Pulp rewarded, and with it came renewed respect for the prize.
Frustrating then, that as recently as 2007 the prize was given to The Klaxons. Surely the most undeserving winner of all. A gimmicky, 'blink-and-you'll-miss-them' passing fad of a band. Something that should have been obvious to even the most susceptible of folk.
This year saw strong nominations. Ghostpoet's lyrical and relevant take on contemporary London life for the underclass; 'Peanut Butter Blues and Melancholy Jam,' should have been a strong contender. The inventive and svelte sound of Metronomy's 'The English Riviera' another worthy nomination.
It is rare that the frontrunner takes home the award, but this year the judges made the right choice. PJ Harvey's Let England Shake is the sort of record that is rarely made anymore. In an age of music being available at the click of a button, it requires patience and dedication to sit down and listen to an album through in its entirety, without being distracted by whatever else may be on your itunes. 'Let England Shake' demands this in the most pleasurable of ways. For something that deals so heavily in themes of war and death, it is remarkable how accessible a record it is. It's testament to the quality of the song-writing. You can very readily hear the craft and invention that went into the creation. Far from being just a collection of songs, it's idiosyncratic nature makes it a very complete piece of work.
For all the failings of The Mercury Music Prize in the past, it was nice to see that this year, an artist received truly deserved adulation.

Back before it really went away

It returns long before you realised you missed it. A new football season. Just as a collective nation is sighing in resignation that the two weeks of sunshine at the end of May are unlikely to be repeated.

So nine more months of it. Sitting in slow moving traffic on a cold, damp Tuesday evening on the way to watch your team play out a bore draw. The struggling windscreen wipers indicating that perhaps the decision to come was unwise.

Memories of childhood excitement. My father's pipe smoke's comforting smell, and the obligatory tube of mints. The cheap, portable red radio pressed up against a near frozen ear to check the latest scores.

Gloved hands clutched around weak cups of tea in polystyrene cups. Screwed up faces, full of anxiety, braced against the ceaseless drizzle. Everyone suddenly outraged. The contagious, over-powering outlet to utter all grievances and frustrations. Howling obscenities and shaking your fist. Utterly outraged at the sheer unfairness of it all. The momentary elation of some dogged goal in the seventieth minute of the match. All soon to be forgotten after the full time whistle blows. Lying in bed that night wondering if that was really you; out of your seat, letting the world know exactly what you thought of the referee.

Reluctantly walking around freezing shopping centres on a Saturday afternoon with loved ones before Christmas. Skillfully slowing down on approaching Curries or William Hill to check the never-ending run of scores on the vidiprinter. (You never get to see what you want to know.) "Come on, you can look at the football later." A gritted teeth grunt of submission.

In the pub attempting to nurse a pint until the half time whistle. Endless discussion. The most passive of spectators fleetingly transformed into an opinionated braggart when discussing the merits or failings of a particular player.

The international language. The conversation starter. The conversation filler. The beginning of friendships. The testing of relationships. The collective feeling of all consuming grief. The collective feeling of all consuming jubilation. The extremities of a lifetime of emotions condensed into ninety minutes of watching twenty-two men kicking a ball around a muddy field.

You awake the next day and nothing will have happened. Your job will still be not as fulfilling as you hoped. The money worries will remain. Your hair will be thinning, your stomach growing. You will be another day older. But nothing mattered for that ninety minutes.

I slip into grotesque cliche, but, to use another one that's football! There's always disappointment (well, unless you support Man United, but the majority of them miss the point of it all...)

Somehow, the despair is where the appeal lies. Some unspoken feeling of knowing that if you can get through the crushing low of your team's defeat, then you can prepare yourself for almost anything. Placing it above all else in life in terms of its importance for that brief spell. Of course you get over the despair a lot more quickly than other tragedies that might befall you, but it's a snapshot of grief. It's akin to receiving an injection of meningitis to prevent you from contracting it. A lesson for life in general.

I have often spent time wandering why I care. Wondering why it matters. The escapism? The welcome distraction? Are these really big enough reasons? But looking at the sheer delight on faces and hearing the roar of absolute and unquestionable ecstasy when an important goal is scored, and feeling that emotion yourself has always answered the question.

Field Day 2011

Bad organisation, over-crowding and sound problems marred what was otherwise an enjoyable Field Day in London’s Victoria Park.

Bemused faces all around the entrance gates, and with no visible turnstiles, punters pushed and jostled with each other to get in, developing scenes fully representing a cattle market.

From various reports, security either seemed to be one of two of extremes; overly aggressive or remarkably slipshod. Receiving the latter treatment, one could be forgiven for feeling rather irked at shelling out the price for a can of warm lager, given several could have been purchased for a similar price in a newsagent, but these are familiar festival grumbles.

The disorganisation of the day in general, however, was hard to ignore, particularly given that it was such a challenge to find the appropriate stage for where you wanted to be. One signpost in the middle of the festival, with indecipherable arrows pointing in the vague direction of where the stage you were looking for might be, was far from adequate.

It was also clear that far too many tickets had been sold. Manoeuvring through the crowds to get where you wanted to became a chore as the day wore on. Queues for the toilets, particularly for females, who did not have the advantage of the urinals provided, were reportedly as long as forty minutes.

The food on offer was a high point, with an ample amount of good quality choices, and barely any queues because of this.

It seems strange to only get around to talking about the music at this point, but such was the disorganisation that it made it nearly impossible to see as much as was on offer.

Cloud Control at the Shacklewell Arms stage, entertained the few who managed to get in. A short set of catchy songs that seem determined to stay with you. The stage itself had an unusual side entrance, so those unable to get into the tent itself were left feeling uninvolved, and many gave up on trying to actually watch anything here.

A surprisingly large crowd gathered for Mount Kimbie, given the sort of audiences the two were playing to last summer, and they received an enthusiastic reception.

Later, Kieran Hebden and James Holden, with their pioneering, immaculate understanding of the textures and complexities of electronic music, was a definite highlight, though would have been much better suited to a later slot. It was baffling as to why the organisers felt their 7.00pm appearance appropriate, given they had got it more or less spot on last year, putting Holden on during twilight hours.

Actress similarly suffered. A rare spell of sunshine during his 6pm slot meant few were in the mood to listen to the kind of threatening, near apocalyptic soundscape he was busy building at the Blogger‘s Delight stage.

As daylight fell away, Gruff Rhys and Wild Beasts were enjoyable, but the inexplicably quiet sound level meant that it was possible to have a conversation with the person next to you without raising your voice. Something many chose to do, which rather drew attention away from the acts themselves. The crowd response was decidedly nonplussed. On top of this, you couldn’t help but feel that these headliners would have suited much better during the afternoon.

I’ve never been to a festival as badly organised as Field Day 2011. Fortunately this was just about saved by the determination of people to enjoy themselves, and the fact that the initial line up was actually very strong, meaning it was possible to find some fulfilment throughout the day.

LCD Soundsystem - Sound of Silver review - For Guardian Favourite Albums Section

It was a track from LCD Soundsystem's first record that so accurately, and with razor sharp wit, surmised the affectations of the all-knowing hipster. The people who moved in exclusive circles, driven along by the sense of their own self-importance.

"I hear that you and your band have sold your guitars and bought turntables. I hear that you and your band have sold your turntables and bought guitars," Murphy scoffed, with dismissive sarcasm. A feigned sense of being impressed.

Ironic then, that at around this time, in an increasingly homogenised era for music, this maligned crossover; i.e. the electronic influence on guitar music, became more and more prevalent as the decade wore on. The sound of four white indie boys with nice melodies and guitars and drums, suddenly sounded outdated and uninspiring.

James Murphy’s great achievement is making a record that has great crossover appeal. It works just as well as a disco-inspired freak-out record, as it does as an album to listen to with headphones on the last bus home. An album just as likely to be loved by dance-floor seeking clubbers as guitar band obsessed kids with floppy fringes.

There are songs about mistaken nationality, (North American Scum), about break ups ('Someone great’), about the draining experiences of urban dwelling (‘New York I love you, but you’re bringing me down.‘) And there is 'All my friends;' A song that seems to be about how the desire to be a part of the cutting edge results in a loss of touch with a more important thing; companionship. It’s the assertion that "You spent the first five years trying to get with the plan, and the next five years trying to be with your friends again." This notion of becoming increasingly isolated by the desire to remain relevant and subversive. The end refrain of "If I could see all my friends tonight..." is as significant a line about the potential for a loss of touch with you your friends are in the club scene that has ever been asserted.

That so much can be drawn from the songs on an album that is essentially one that makes you want to dance is testament to its greatness. From the building rhythms and a singular syncopated piano chord on the opening track "Get Innocuous!" the music is as infectious as you could hope for. It is a record that you want to play as loud as possible. One that you want to jump around your bedroom to like an idiot. But it is also one that explores serious ideas of isolation and getting older, themes never usually appropriated for dance music. Here is a record that is playful but sincere; humorous but poignant. Pulling off these paradoxes so successfully, with music of such quality as this, is simply a magnificent feat.