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.