TV is King

Although my obsession with all things film has been well documented recently I have had to come to terms with a new vice: TV. I have become aware, like a Trainspotting character coming down from a drug fuelled haze, of the extent of my televisual consumption; and its not healthy.

Instead of buying loads of soup and barring my bedroom door with planks of wood, in an homage to everyones favourite skag head, I have instead embraced my burgeoning addicition. Thus far I have not had to rob to fund my habit, I have not severed all ties from various family members and my school career is still on track. In fact my obsession could be seen as a positive, its keeping my away from the abject mediocrity and the sucession of shite shows that fill our screens daily,showing the possibilities of excellence in a world content with rubbish.

My bedroom is currently like Hunter S Thompson's red convertible, roaring towards Las Vegas with an arsenal of dangerous, beautiful, mind bending substances, and I assume I will be confronted with fear and loathing when I finish consuming them and realise how many hours of my life they have taken up. My primary drug of choice is The West Wing. I have currently devoured four seasons of the political drama and am constantly impressed by the stupidly intelligent dialogue, the authentic potrayal of politcal intrigue and the accurate forecasts of real events. It's as funny as it is earnest and totally and utterley engrossing. I doubt there has ever been a better ensemble cast on television and is aided by the fact that its main players were relatively unknown before meaning they are almost real to me and I imagine them knocking about the White House helping Barack Obama save the world.

The West Wing is a strictly DVD affair as I came late to it's brilliance, so late I can watch all seven series unhindered by adverts, a strategy which I should really employ on all TV shows. There is no chance of me using this idea on Lost ;the new series of which I am addicted to beyond rehabilitation. The prospect of having to restrain myself from watching the weekly installments until the DVD's come out is laughable. Lost is almost the highlight of my week amidst sixth-form based drudgery and the revelations are flying thick and fast at the moment in what looks to be the best series ever. The unhurried, languid way in which the story is told compared with the short sharp shit like CSI and House is admirable and the characters are brilliantly drawn. It's ambitiousness and sheer strangeness are reasons to watch avidly every week, which I have done despite many others not keeping up. Three words. Short. Attention. Span.

With Lost the only reason for watching television programs on the television at the moment I have been forced to return to DVD's to fill the time in between. The Wire is anything but filler and doesn't deserve such a lukewarm introduction. It is consistently the most brilliant piece of work I have ever seen. It's like watching a fifteen hour long fly on the wall documentary of life in a modern urban city. Omar's dramatic return in Season 3 and Mcnulty and Bunk's continued drunken antics is a pleasure to watch and all set in a context that allows the writers to go on quietly exploring resonant social and moral themes. It is the pinnacle of great TV with a cast of character's bigger than a Tolstoy novel all of whom you care about in some way, whether you want them dead or alive.

Despite The Wire's brilliance there is one television show that has just finished that in some ways tops it. Masterchef shouldn't be good. It's essentially people cooking in a room with no discernable prize. But it is. A recent investigation found that it was marginally less addictive than heroin and that is mainly due to the brilliance of it's judges. Gregg Wallace and John Torode taste the food as if the fabric of the universe depends on how well it is seasoned, as if there is some celestial battle of the Gods that we are involved in whereby the only way to victory is well cooked duck breast. Their earnest approach and continual proclamations that "This is cooking at the highest level!" make Masterchef a spectacle that belies its humble origins. That coupled with Wallace's verbosity make Masterchef both hilarious and serious. You want to cry when the big New Zealand fella says he wants a small cafe with his family and you crack up laughing when Wallace says that the mango sorbet he is tasting is so good that he wants to bathe in it.

Film will always be the highest form of visual poetry but when theres a man on TV that looks like a potato, tastes food and says stuff like: "That scallop just comes back up and gives you a big kiss" why go to the cinema?

Not Nostradamus

My Oscar predictions turned out to be shocking for a person that has spent far too much time in the cinema when homework really is far more pressing. Although there were a few suprises that made my set of nods even worse than I expected it really was a poor showing. My reasons behind the choices were all sound and I would contest that they were all the most worthy winners but the problem is the thousands of members of the academy don't agree. I think I went wrong in picking the performances/films that I liked rather than the ones that were most likely to win, although it was conceivable that they all could have "scooped the gongs" as the Sun almost always says in reference to awards.

Viola Davis was the loser that I was most gutted about. She's an actress that has done the rounds on American TV shows and gone uncredited in loads of average films and in Doubt she comes out of nowhere like some hurricane of raw emotion and conflicted inner turmoil. She has one, amazing, gut wrenching, beautifully authentic scene and holds her own at the very least and steals the show from Meryl Streep at best, a difficult thing to do under any circumstances. Angelina Jolie loss to Kate Winslet was slightly annoying, if inevitable, and would have been a shock for me to use as justification of my cinematic insight for decades to come. The Reader wasn't that good; Changeling was and (dare I say it) poor old Angelina seems to have been done on being slightly less credible in her past career than wholesome, artistic Kate. Sean Penn wasn't a suprise given his role as a homosexual civil activist a role that appeals to Hollywood's liberal sensibility and the fact that he is brilliant (if not a little Acting with a capital A) in Milk always helps. I did feel sorry for Mickey Rourke though as he had been practically assured of his Oscar and the vindication that it would have applied to his Lazarusesque comeback. David Fincher will be wondering what exactly he has to do to win best director and the only answer is probably don't release a film in the same year sa Slumdog Millionaire. Despite this no-one can really begrudge Danny Boyle the award; he's British, hes made consistently good films over many years and he's grounded enough to fufill his tigger promise to his children during the biggest moment of his career.

Smugdog swept the board and at least garnered me one correct prediction as well as a tide of good will for the whole ceremony. It is a quality film and probably the best behind Frost/Nixon in my opinion of the awards season. Heath Ledger winning wasn't exactly a prediction and was more a certainty but his performance merited it. There will be those that see his death as being the deciding factor but I don't think that could be more wrong. As the Joker he is startling, a fully formed maelstrom of a character that bares no resemblance to any human let alone himself. This is a rare thing in modern cinema, in a culture where Tom Cruise can play a Samauri with beautiful hair and Kate Hudson can play a high flying lawyer in Bride Wars. I hope he is lauded for it for years to come. Apparently Daniel Day Lewis could be in line to play the Joker in the next Batman ,a spectacle which could even surpass Ledger's reptilian turn. This would be incredible and a fitting testament to a brilliant piece of work.

Day Five

I felt strangely mournful on the,as always, packed and stinking train to Kings Cross this morning. Not that I wouldn't be getting the train of a morning any more, God no, but instead because it would be the last time I'd walk out of the station for a day of work at The Guardian.

There would be no more free papers and Coffee on arrival, no more comfy chairs from which to survey the morning sports news but at least there would be no more morning trains. I don't think I'm quite ready for a daily commute yet, regardless of how good the job is, and being brushed by a thousand inky, shitty Metro's every morning as they are constantly turned and rustled by people too stingy to buy a good paper is what I'd imagine the 1st circle of hell is like. The work experience has been brilliant if not slightly detaching from the real world. Normal people don't have the facilities and beautiful environment to work from available here and are rarely paid to go and watch football matches. In that sense it might be good to get back to reality, away from the tantalising aspects of a such an amazing job that I'm miles away from ever maybe having. It's an existence that I am glad to have been a part of for a week and a job that, after seeing it's intricate inner workings, I will always respect. The quality of planning and the execution of the work is amazing and bewildering, making newspapers a startling and fascinating industry. There's something strangely altruistic about the whole process, people genuinely want to make the website, or whatever aspect of the paper they are working on, brilliant, often for no tangible reward in terms of increased circulation or the promotion of the Guardian as a whole. In a sense, the website especially, provides a brilliant public service and is one of the most respected news and sports sites in the country with around 2 to 3 million hits a day. As well as this the blogging network  is constantly maintained and added to, all of which is available for free, and is used by hundreds of thousands of people daily. It shows what of a free market ethos I was reared in, in that I can't understand for the life of me why- why give Raphael Honigstein's expert Bundesliga opinion away for free? Obviously the more traffic you get the more you can charge for advertising, but before that you simply have to be good and the Guardian website and blogging network is definitely that and it delights in being so.

Hopefully one day I may be able to be a part of it; the perfect mixture of job enjoyability and political credibility (The Daily Mail Martin Samuels? Really?) as well as the home of nice cake. I have been take aback by the number of people that have willingly proffered their time and efforts to make my time fulfilling and they have made sure I have learnt some very interesting things (Russell Brand is a nightmare to get copy out of and no one will insure Jimmy Bullard are just two examples). It will be with a heavy heart that I bid adieu to the Guardian and it's plethora of exciting adventures. At least I can console myself with the knowledge that I will never again feel the deathly touch of the Metro

Enjoyable Anonymity

This is me! Well the first three are anyway. I thought I'd break from the well worn diary routine to impart this joyous news. It's weird knowing I actually wrote those things even if no-one else does and thoroughly exciting. I'd say I'm practically chief sports writer now. 

Day 4

Journalism is not a job. Thats what I have been able to discern above from all from my brief but amazing stay at the Guardian. I say this becuase my days work consisted of getting the train from Waterloo out into Surrey and then listening to the England rugby manager.

That is not work. That is pure enjoyment and for others, perhaps those who love the egg ball game more, a dream come true. It wasn't quite in those realms for me mainly becuase I have been instilled from a young age with a basic distrust of the more honourable form of football played by proper athletes. Even so it was an incredible experience. Penny Hill Park hotel turned out not to be a make believe territory for children but perhaps the most luxurious hotel I have ever seen (in my vast hotel experience), cut out of the Surrey hillside and surrounded by beatiful acres of land, golf course and rugby training pitches.

After getting off the train in Bagshot I began to fear that my morbid prediction of what would befall me would come true. It was tiny. There was no one there. There wasn't another train for an hour. It was wierd that just fifteen minute walk away was the headquarters of a premier sports team and a Michelin starred restaurant. I was pretty nervous on arrival (after the fifteen minute walk from the road to the reception and past a stern Johnson surveying training) as a repeat of "Hodgson Gate" would have been more uncomfortable in the presence of a rugby player with the same body mass as mount Vesuvius. Instead I was welcomed at the desk by the RFU's head press officer who knew me by name, was ridiculously nice and directed me towards the massive amounts of free bacon rolls and apple juice. The conference was due to take place in the Stuart Room and was not the monolithic press room I expected but a small space with about 15 chairs. After gorging myself and stepping out onto the terrace (I felt like I should have had a pipe and a tweed jacket, it was that kind of place) ,whilst listening to various Toff-type correspondents recount tales of whiskey and prostitutes, Rob Kitson from the Guardian arrived. If I had been told a little ginger fella would be waiting at a press conference for me to talk to, ruining an chance for me to eat free bacon rolls and chat with my more well informed counterparts, I would have been annoyed. Luckily Rob Kitson was incredibly nice and didn't stop talking to me ; giving invaluable advice and some funny anecdotes gleaned from his years as a journalist. Not only that but he gave me a lift back to Bagshot station saving me the walk of shame to the gate and the ignominy of Bentley's gliding past me, whilst simultaneously calling security because a youth in a harrington jacket was wandering the grounds.

The conference itself was interesting and engrossing. The current saga of young England players going to play in France, thus exempting them from the EPS agreement and possibly limiting their availability for England, was the order of the day and was pressed quite forcibly upon Johnson and Rob Andrew. There was an almost political feel to it as Johnson and Andrew spoke of "waiting to see what happened" in quite hesistant tones, despite it being clear they really werent happy about this possible exodus and how it could affect who gets picked or not. These veiled quotes say it all:

"It does make things more difficult, without a doubt.You can't compare players week-in, week-out. You have to watch tapes. It does make things more awkward. You can't deny that."

As well as Rob Andrew's more direct message:

"If they're not available, that will compromise their own situation. There is also the impact on the Guinness Premiership to consider and the domestic game in England. But the EPS agreement is about more than availability. There is medical profiling every week, fitness testing too. Players are also rested one week in five at their clubs and there is a 32-game limit in a season."

It was clear they weren't going to give and unequivocal answer on the matter, just as it was clear they are massively annoyed about this possible situation. There was evidence of tetchiness on Johnson's part today and if any more players commit their future to the lucrative Frence league then it could get very interesting.

When I got back to Kings Cross there was some tidying up to do on the worst pitches ever and cricket to watch whilst remembering that I had been in a room with no more than 15 people and one of the best athletes and only world cup winning captains England have produced. The journey was long, the start was early and the experience was tiring-but what a day it was.

*I Think I was watching training when the picture was taken today. Mental.

Day 3

After the Stanford Storm that emerged last night (I always knew he was dodgy) today has been a slightly more quiet news day. Away from the pleasant distractions peddled by Sky Sports news, such as the video of a 6 year French Algerian who's amazing at football (already named ZZ Tot. Incredible), there hasn't been the plan-shattering breaking news of yesterday.

Despite that the writing required from me has been the most of my working week. This morning brought copious research on the Mourinho/ Ferguson managerial relationship in preparation for their champions league meeting next week. Until started it I didn't realise the amazing record that Mourinho holds over the red faced, gum chewing "greatest manager in modern times" (according to Roy Hodgson). In their twelve games against each other Mourinho has had 6 wins and four draws in comparison with Fergies 2 wins, one of which was on penalties in the Community Shield. The quality of the ties next week in the UEFA Champion of Champions Thunderball cup is incredible and I'm a bit gutted I'm not here to try and stalk a journalist to the ground and follow them in, clinging to the tendrils of their journalistic credentials. After researching and writing 50 words on 5 key Mourinho/Ferguson clashes I had a strange longing for the "Special One" to return to blighty and take up his position as arrogant, handsomely continental scourge of the establishment.

After this misty-eyed examination of the past I had to assemble a list of the top 10 worst cricket wickets ever in the wake of the farce in Antigua and response to the news that Glamorgan are not ready for the Ashes. Amongst the tales of bowlers taking 6 for 22 on pitches that sounded as if they were made out of corrugated iron there were some funny stories, especially a certain yarn about a lawyer trying to get Sachin Tendulkar arrested for his part in having a match abandoned (they were really looking forward to it by the sounds of things).

Overall another engrossing day. There are some interesting stories about at the moment especially regarding Ebbsfleet Utd who look in dire straits after the myfootballclub.com bubble has burst and only a fraction of their members have re-subscribed before tomorrow's deadline. I heard a story in the office that detailed how a vote had been arranged to ascertain whether the fans wanted to start picking the team again. It returned a strong no vote of around 85% perhaps showing how much people can actually be bothered. But even worse only 500 people voted. Says it all really.

Tomorrow requires another trip in to Suburbia for the England Rugby Union press conference ahead of the weekend game. Hopefully I'll see man mountain and possibly the ugliest man on record apart from John Merrick Martin Johnson as well as "under-fire" Rob Andrew. There are several difficult train changes in order to get to the slightly weirdly named Penny Hill Park Hotel (I think sounds a bit like a make believe land from a children's TV program) but it wouldn't be half as fun without them. If however there is no blog tomorrow send the search teams to Bagshot in Surrey where my corpse will be clutching an arm full of useless train tickets.

Day 2

As the test match hots up so has my working week. This morning started, earlier than yesterday and meaning I looked like a cadaver from Night of the Living dead, with a trip into suburbia. Motspur Park ,home to Fulham's training ground, a tandoori restaurant and a train station, seemed like a difficult place to get to mainly due to "severe delays on the Victoria Line" and the fact that it's in the arse end of no-where. In the end it wasn't that as far flung as I anticipated and Roy Hodgson's press conference was worth the journey.

The conference was to preview tomorrow nights match with United one that given Fulham's ridiculous away record won't be hugely competitive. I was early. Massively early in fact as the "severe delays" promised by Transport for London never materialised and I'd thought I was getting a bus from Kings Cross to Vauxhall. Fulham's staff were welcoming and the training ground was quaint but as much as this was all lovely I ended up in the press conference room purporting to be from the Guardian with 2 camera men from Setanta and Sky News. At this point the fear of prospectively being largely alone in a room with Roy Hodgson, as affable as I'm sure he is, was crippling. In the end the seasoned journalists arrived, ten minutes rather than half an hour early, and I was met by Paul Doyle from the Guardian, and Football weekly podcast fame, which meant I avoided such a press conference faux-pas. Hodgson was incredibly articulate and didn't once pause to "erm" or use the time honoured "well, you know", widely praising Sir Alex as the "greatest manager of the modern era" and generally being a nice person. Later I was told he is fluent in 6 languages and has a penchant for quoting Voltaire and Churchill in press conferences reflecting an intelligence that I had never imagined from his somewhat bumbling image. It was a brilliant experience and although most journalists were at Guus Hiddink's first official "presser" just across West London I'd pick Roy and his renaissance tinged eloquence any day.

I have just come out of a features Editorial meeting about plans for the rest of the week and the champions league next week which was in the room with yellow sofas from yesterday (not as comfortable as they look). It was incredible the amount of depth the paper plans to go into and interesting to see the way angles are worked out from Mourinho and Ferguson's war of words being the centre-piece of the Inter Vs. Utd coverage to an interview with Tiago about locking the Juve president in the toilet being part of Chelsea vs Juve. I am gradually getting some sense of how every thing is planned and executed as a cohesive whole although I still haven't got over how mental it is that so much preparation goes into such a transient format.

I have just also found out how such best laid plans are blown out of the water. A story is emerging about Allen Stanford being done for fraud (I'm sketchy on the details, a quality shared by most people I think) which is making subs around me frantically drop work and wait for new copy to arrive. Editors are running around whilst the carefully mapped out 2.30 running orders are hastily revised or ripped up. This is news at it's most brilliant and terrifying and all that seems certain is that,soon, rather than having the Cricket WAGS on his lap Mr Stanford will have a large convict called Larry.

Day 1

There aren't many better ways to spend a day than watching cricket with an Apple Mac. This has largely been my arduous task to undertake on what has ultimately proved to be a a slow news day, meaning that the people actually being paid aren't rushed off their feet enough to give me their least enticing assignments.

Not that this has meant boredom at all. Instead I have spent the day trying to absorb the myriad complexities inherent in putting together a daily Newspaper whilst watching people with far too much time on their hands sway their pasty bodies to reggae music watching the test match in Antigua on one of the many big screens in the office. The premises here make this an even easier task than it sounds (difficult I know) as they are obscenely comfortable and have cheap food, all benefits of the recent December move. After spending time watching stories go live with sub-editors for the website and seeing articles polished in the revision section I am no nearer to knowing how on earth this comes together to form what we read. Thats not completely true I suppose as the people who have given time out of their busy day to explain their work to an excitable ginger child have been much better at explaining than that. All the same the process still retains the same mythical quality that it had when I turned up this morning.

I have massively enjoyed myself. It seems as though the week will ramp up as the week goes on but for now I'm just happy to be finding my feet, eating subsidised sandwiches and trying not to look to overawed when passing Kevin Mcarra on the way to the loo. Just simply observing meetings and the way people go about their work is a bit overwhelming and probably the best way to get used to everything before starting anything to strenuous. Saying that I did complete a task of some magnitude today in putting together the Guardian Quiz on the back page of the sport section something that has boosted my trivia knowledge more than a million pub quiz's ever will. It is strange actually writing something that will appear in the Guardian in any capacity and it will be nice having my own miniscule piece of anonymous involvement in such a brilliant paper.

So overall a strange, exciting and knackering day, despite my sitting in a chair for the vast majority of it. I don't think I 'll be used to sitting opposite the guy who wrote this or being asked to proof read The Fiver, before it being in my inbox 20 minutes later, by the end of the week but it'll be fun whatever happens.

* The picture is of the meeting room where all the editors assemble every morning to discuss the day ahead. I may turn up early tommorow and watch like an abandoned child, pressing my face hungrily to the glass as all raggamuffins do when watching smiling families open Christmas presents in bad films.

For the next week I have the privilege of doing some work experience at the best paper in the country, an a experience that will hopefully make for daily blog entries rather than the intermittent content currently churned out. There may even be pictures ( probably of the hot beverages that I will be making).

Bigmouth Strikes Again

Morrissey is one of the most distinctive personalities in Music. Whether he is being lauded as a laureate of generations, attacked for his views on immigration or being asked if he really is asexual the former Smiths front man refuses to go quietly into a third decade of recording.

As bands reform everywhere, forgetting their former hatred for one another to cash in on former glories, Morrissey has stayed true to the bitterness into which the Smiths descended despite rumoured offers of over £100 Million for one festival appearance. Such resolute stubborness seems to have typified his career and, as this review seems to suggest, his anger at the world and it's desire to finish him is far from quelled.

Is this the lasting impression that we need of Morrissey? I didn't grow up when The Smiths were in their pomp, I don't nessecarily relate to the feelings evoked by Morrisey's lyrics but they were one of the first "greats" that I truly discovered in the brilliant period when as a music fan you realise that modern popular music isn't all that exists. It was easy to fall in love with The Smiths. Morrissey's poetic lyrics and Marr's intricate melodies all combined to prove that "Indie" could be something great, beautiful and poetic. They stood as a testament to the enduring power of wit, cynicism and a few guitars. I would prefer that this is what Morrissey was remembered for, rather than a handful of average albums.

Predictions

The Awards season is almost coming to an end. Soon I will return to the cinema and search hopelessly through the brochure to see that the Oscar contenders, which I have been lucky to see so many of, are all gone. In their stead we will be graced with bad romantic comedies, dumb action comic book movies and probably Eddie Murphy.

Either way it's been good while it's lasted, an elegiac sentiment abundantly espoused in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. David Fincher's epic has either been derided or adored by the press but has emerged as a darling of the academy either way. I trudged through the snow to see the first showing on Friday afternoon and was astounded. It is the singularly beautiful piece of cinema I have ever seen, visually stunning with restrained performances at it's very core. There are certain narrative flaws but the enjoyment of Benjamin comes not from it's authenticity but from the careful, poignant way the story it's told- again proving that long films are only prosaic and languorous if a director can't direct and an audience doesn't have the needed attention span. I spent the whole film on the verge of tears and perhaps that brilliance of the film lies in the fact that I'm not even sure why. It was simply affecting and resonant throughout and I loved it.

Doubt was a very different film altogether. Set in New York shortly after the death of JFK it deals with problems in the clergy, the changing face of the church and ultimatley the problems of faith. At it's heart are the performances of Meryl Streep and Phillip Seymour-Hoffman who could both easily have a case made for them being the greatest actors on the planet. They are brilliant in Doubt and slug it out in an ominous fashion ,thunder and lightning almost always crackling over head, giving this stage to screen adaptation the definate feel of a horror film. Also a mention is deserved for Viola Davis as the mother of the boy at the centre of the molestation suspicions. Although she has just the one scene she is absolutley incredible and should win the oscar. It is a terse, dark, difficult affair which raises as many questions as it answers and there is little redemption to stave off the menance of Streep's demonic potrayal of a nun. Even so it's dialogue is beautiful and it's an engaging watch throughout.

Both are heavily nominated at the Oscars although I think they may lose out to British counterparts especially after the momentum gathered by 7 tim BAFTA winner Smugdog Millionaire. Benjamin Button may also fall foul of the "top nominations" jinx as predecessor Atonement did last year getting none of the major awards despite being heavily fancied. Some awards are easier to predict and here are mine for this years ceremony. Get your accumulators on now:

1. Best Picture - Slumdog Millionaire
2. Actor in a Leading Role - Micky Rourke (The Wrestler)
3. Actor in a Supporting Role- Heath Ledger (The Dark Knight)
4. Actress in a Leading Role- Angelina Jolie (Changeling)
5. Actress in a Supporting Role- Viola Davis (Doubt)
6. Best Director- David Fincher (The Curious Case of Benjamin Button)

Revolutionary Road

It has long been a convention of film and literature that behind the picket fences and glitzy facades of fifties living lay a restless hopelessness and emptiness. That sentiment is abundant is Sam Mendes' Revolutionary Road a beautiful but bleak, evocation of a married couple battling with life that they have created for themselves.

It is an awards season film. Kate Winslet and Leonardo Dicaprio act purposefully and sometimes not so subtly but manage not to cross the line of begging, openly, for an award. They are helped in this area by being very, very good. Winslet looks like shes a shoe-in for triumph on both sides of the pond and must be thankful that perhaps the most attractive role of the cinematic year was in a film directed by her husband, a role she performs with great nuance and poise. Dicaprio hasn't been as lauded in critical circles for his role probably becuase many of his major scences are arguments with his wife of biblical proportions and the notion that he is perhaps over-acting is not one that usually appeals to the pretensions of academy members. Saying that they did nominate him for his role as South African diamond smuggler in Blood Diamond reinforcing the theory that the academy love a good accent and see it as a barometer of characterisation. This seems unfair as his role as Frank is infinitley more nuanced and conflicted that the Bad Rogue turned loveable in what was an essentially and action movie with an issue.

Aesthetically there is joy in a film that offers little else in the way of redemption. Everyone smokes copius ciggarettes safe in the knowledge they are good for you and cars are glamorous shining American made homes on wheels. But apart from the good suits and manicured lawns Revolutionary Road is a tough watch although there is some element of catharsis in simply not being it's main protaganists. Its encouraging to see the makers havent shirked this fact opting for a simple white poster that doesn't proclaim the beauty of the piece and doesn't or make it out to be something that it isnt. Although brilliant Slumdog Millionaire was guilty of this and the posters hailed it as "Feel Good Film of the Year!" when in reality it was a fable of greed, abject poverty, rape and child torture.

Next up for me from the award season selection is The Curious Case of Benjamin Button that is more decorated than Harry Patch. Apparently it is unhumanly long, slightly self indulgent and ridiculously beautiful. I cant wait.

Gutted

I've always hated ITV. Ever since the Tactics Truck slot on the shortlived advert filled incarnation of Match of The Day their shoddiness has increased and the quality of their programmes diminshed. Every year they have about 11 and a half months worth of rubbish reality TV shows that either purport to be hugely important cultural events, like the X-Factor, where Simon Cowell spouts hyperbole about someone being "world class" who will invariably never be heard from again. Then we have the exploitative show, Britiains got talent, that wheel out either delusional people or those bordering on the mentally ill so we can laugh at them and Simon Cowell (again) can tell them how awful they are rather than just not airing the clip and ushering them home. Last, but by no means the least of all these Evils, is "I'm a Celebrity..."which is perhaps the most nauseating spectacle of the lot. Celebrities clinging on to the last vestiges of fame put themselves through eating of bug and sleeping with rats, again, so we can laugh at how little dignity they have as if we need a cathartic outpouring of releif that we will never stoop that low.

But worse than all of this is something far more recent. Last night ITV covered the FA Cup replay between Liverpool and Everton. After almost 120 minutes of, largely uninspiring football, they missed the only goal of the game, randomly cutting to an advertising break whilst the game was still ongoing. All night millions at home had sat through this turgid stuff as Liverpool attacked and Everton defended, the Reds growing more toothless as Gerrard limped off, Torres limped around and Lucas made others limp. They sat through the reversal as ten-man Liverpool retreated into their Spanish Shell and Jamie Carragher tackled and hoofed everything that moved within a ten mile radius. But they missed the goal. Not becuase they went to the toilet or to make some food (although this concept did seem appealing the longer the endurance test of a match went on). They missed it becuase ITV are shit and didnt serve their only purpose as a broadcaster of football- allowing people to see the goals.

This feeling of deflation that must come with the picture returning and your team having scored ,but you not being there in the rush of the moment, must have been unthinkably worse for one family. Dan Gosling turned 19 on Monday. David Moyes has been forced to play such youngsters due to a wealth of first team injuries but up until yesterday Gosling had only played the odd minute for the club he's represented since boy hood. Yesterday he got half an hour in a highly charged derby and both he and his youth team counterpart Jack Rodwell looked poised, assured and in no way out of place against a midfield that included Xavi Alonso and Javier Mascherano. His family must have been proud beyond measure sitting, more than likely although I hope not, on their sofa at home. Two minutes before the end a cross came over Gosling controlled neatly wriggled away from the meanest defense in the premiership and managed, with the aid of Martin Skyrtel's boot, to poke home. His Dad wouldnt have seen any of it. The picture would have returned and he would have seen his son emerging from a bundle of players overjoyed and aware he had made Everton folk lore. He would have seen the replays. But he will never have the chance to experience that impending excitement, the rising euphoria and the unalloyed, unadulterated, jump up and down and cry with pride joy that comes with such a significant goal. Lets hope that Dan Goslings parents were at the ground, although given the possibility of what their son playing and scoring I doubt they would have been there. But they had the trusty TV to experience the unlikley event -only they didnt. And that is why, more than anything, I hate ITV.

Deadline Day

The furore when the continental style transfer window was implemented in England was venomous. It was if the fundamental human rights of a club to make obscene mid-season bids for players had been eroded by a corrupot regime hell bent on preventing freedom of (monetary) expression. The point everybody seemed to miss at the time was the one that sells tickets, newspapers and the adverts for Sky Sports News; Drama.

The ensuing scramble when the magical window opens at the begining of each year is brilliant. Fans are glued to news channells and web sites, no longer having to think of a flimsy excuse to justify ogling Georgie Thompson for inumerable hours per day, but to see if their team have managed to land a late Christmas present to keep them up or to push for those elusive European places. Like the free market ethos that has made football's wealth possible the transfer period has the same air of aspiration-anything is possible. It could be your club that gets hold of the highly sought after British talent before anyone else (Fabian Delph anyone?), you could make an audacious bid for one of the worlds greatest players (Kaka-scourge of the Middle East) or maybe a messianic figure will make an uverdue return home (Pascal Chimbonda). Whatever happens the whole spectacle is pervaded by an air of drama although in reality the best most clubs can hope for is a Slovakian utility man coming in on loan. Even worse than that the time allows "selling" clubs to be stripped of those bought in with acumen on a small budget that have actually turned out to be quite good. Wigan for example have lost Wilson Palacios to Spurs and although they have made a healthy return I'm sure most fans would rather see his talents used to keep them up rather than help a struggling rival. Emile Heskeys move may be a greater blow as his goals and all round lumbering presence arent easily found especially with the paltry six million they received for the big mans services. The situation looks as though its getting grimmer up North as well as Antonio Valencia and wonder-buy Amir Zaki look as though they will be heading to pastures new at the end of the season, after gracing Rugby League FC with their presence for the remainder of the year. At least they can find solace in Charles N'zogbia's iminent move from Newcastle for the small price of giving the Toon Ryan Taylor, a swap deal which has echoes of when I was scammed out of my best pokemon card for three lollipops and an IOU at the age of ten. Steve Bruce has got an eye for a transfer but it must be easier negotiating with a drunk, tourettes sufferer in Joe Kinnear.

Although the machinations of agents and players with increased wages to court dominate most of the month deadline day is where the real excitement occurs. The scrambling, the sightings of Zinedine Zidane being shown around Stoke by Tony Pullis, the amount of coverage given to Norwich bringing in a player on loan from Benfica; it's incredible. This year is no excpetion as it looks like Arsenal will lose their transfer virginity by bringing in Andrei Ar$havin, who like a loose woman drunk on cheap alcho-pops has courted everyone and when no-one was really interested for the amount it was going to cost them a bunch of young lads with a lot to learn. Perhaps more interesting is the Robbie Keane saga who, after arriving with much hyperbole attached at Liverpool, failed to create the greatest striking partnership in the world with El Nino and instead has warmed the bench whilst Rafa Benitez desperatley tried to pretend he wasn't there. Now it seems he will return to Tottenham, bowed and I'd imagine a little gutted, like a character from a bad Catherine Cookson novel who has realised her friends in the big city werent as nice as they first seemed and her comfortable little hometown was nothing to be ashamed of.

Long may the transfer window continue, long may players reject vast sums of money to play for infinitley better clubs and long may an unpheasably large amount of column inches being allocated to Pompey's loan activities