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