The modern malaise

The legendary Astronomer Patrick Moore has recently caused a stir by claiming “television is rubbish, and it’s the fault of women”.

That’s summarising his point dreadfully, but I think he meant that a lot of the television market is now, more than ever, aimed at women. Mr Moore, or is it Sir Moore or Lord Moore, suggests that “banal television” such as Cookery shows, the Soaps and Make-over programmes are dumbing down the standards of British tv to a point when men don’t need to watch the box at all.

This prompted a little light-hearted conversation amongst my colleagues, about the impact of females on our society which rapidly developed into an argument over “who’s the stupidest, men or women?”. Real mature, eh?

Patrick Moore’s comments have been dismissed by the higher Exec’s at the BBC (probably all women) as being the thoughts of a man who refuses to acknowledge that times have changed. However, at the risk of exposing myself as a sexist misogynist, I kind of see his point, and lot of it comes down to the following questions.

When did style replace substance? Why are politics and television now aimed at the lowest common denominator?

The ideal women’s night of television seems to be thus - sitting for an entire evening watching Northerners sit in a pub and moan, then switch over to watch a bunch of Cockneys do the same, before letting two obnoxious women tell me what to wear just before a scary old woman looks through some poo.

I will hold my hands up and say that, like most red blooded males, my first loves are Sky Sports and Sky Movies. But credit where its due, watching these channels will require an attention span of over 2 hours sometimes. 2 whole hours!!!

Female-based television is aimed at viewers with short attention spans who want to see quick programmes about celebrities in shiny colours. Big Brother is addictive, because it doesn’t require any viewer involvement. We can just sit there and gawp at a bunch of nobodies doing nothing. It’s like going to the zoo, but with less interaction.

It’s not just television that is letting us down. Music as a commercial industry has been going strong for around fifty years, and yet we already seem to have run out of ideas. Most dance tracks on Radio 1 are purely samples of 1980 disco classics. The health of the Movie industry is judged more and more on the strength of the “summer blockbusters” which 9 times out of 10 will be the second or third sequel in an already successful brand. So nothing new, no risks, no minds being opened.

Our local radio newsreader, Amy Garner, steadfastly refuses to pronounce her words properly, because it’s “cool”. So “getting” becomes gettin’ and “going to” becomes “gonna”. She went for an interview, got through auditions and got the job. Her bosses must hear her broadcasts every day, and yet she is still there every morning. So somebody thinks that for a newsreader to lack basic pronunciation skills is perfectly acceptable, because anything else would seem “stuffy”. The lowest common denominator wins again.

These factors have created a state of apathy throughout Britain, a slumber from which we shall struggle to awake.

I’m not sure how all these threads blend together. But writing this is good therapy and my soul feels lighter already.

An Everton fan's day out

Not so much a day out, more of an experience. A 7-hour round trip courtesy of Arriva and Virgin Trains — all for 90 minutes worth of football. Oh, and We’re All Going on a European tour.

The good lady dropped me at Abergavenny station with 30 seconds to spare. The train rolled in and I found a good seat to admire the scenery along the Wales-England border, whilst tuning in to Bolton’s second-favourite son with Kay as his surname, and relax. I didn’t really want, or need any refreshments, but the trolley is so magical with all its Jaffa Cakes and crisps, that I became mesmerised and, before I knew it, I was buying the most expensive cup of tea in the world. All change at Crewe, where a couple of scallies buy two ciggies off me and I’m reminded that the smoking ban hasn’t come into force yet in England, so I have a sneaky one in the bar.

Then onward to Merseyside. You know that moment when the stewards pile around the ground as we approach injury time. Well the number of Bluenoses boarding the train between Crewe and Lime Street provided that same sensation — we’re getting close!!
A quick stroll through Liverpool and a fiver spent in the Wimpy (I swear this is the only Wimpy still open in Britain) and I’m on the bus to Goodison. The customary walk around the ground, a sniff around the players’ cars and then I buy my programme and go into the ground to watch the Manchester derby. Strange that all this furore has been caused by a Manchester City left back, who wasn’t Ben Thatcher and it’s not like Michael Ball has any previous. Still it was the only interesting moment in an awful game.

Then I find my seat, in the Park End, and watch David James practising his goalkicking. Make no bones about it, he is massive, and I began to panic about how little James and little Victor would face up to him. I needn’t have worried. The team is announced and I’m probably going against the grain by admitting that I was pleased to see Neville at right back. He was excellent there earlier in the season, and his second half performance vindicated his selection over the limited Hibbert. I had hoped to see a bit more from Fernandes and was just praying that Ossie doesn’t do his normal trick of carrying the ball 20 yards before falling over.

The first half was dreadful, although we in the Park End were unaware quite how horrific Vaughan’s slice was when through on goal. Primus came forward for a corner which he knocked harmlessly over the bar... Thank god for half time, when the announcement that Bolton were getting webbed at West Ham drew the biggest cheer so far.

Straight from the kick-off in the second half, a strange thing happened. The Everton players started to put their foot on the ball, and play it around on the deck. The magical, mercurial Arteta was always hungry for the ball, jinking around fullbacks, splitting the Portsmouth backline, whilst wee Leon Osman was a menace to the giant defenders, especially the gangly Traore who seemed to lose Osman in-between his legs.

Ironically, the first goal was a result of a long ball forward from Howard, which Anichebe flicked on to Vaughan, who in turn flicked it around the otherwise outstanding Primus. Cue Glen Johnson... and the rest is history. Arteta held his nerve, and within a few minutes Yobo found himself unmarked to make it 2-0. The third goal was particularly sweet, as Beattie flicked on to Naysmith who, in the words of Motty, “buried it”. 3-0, and then Bolton and Reading had lost, so Everton are all-but guaranteed Europe.

Fernandes was a disappointment, with a few flashes of skill and the odd drag-back, but he went missing far too often. Carsley and Stubbs blocked everything that came their way, whilst Yobo and Lescott tidied up anything else. Neville was excellent at right back, bombing forward to overlap and providing some deadly crosses. And the two boys up front were excellent, constantly closing down the defenders, winning headers, skipping over tackles, orchestrating the crowd, and generally having a good time playing football whilst getting paid for it.

I don’t think a single fan left before the lap of honour and it was a privilege to be there and have the team thank the crowd for our support. “We’re all going on a European tour”. Barring an eleven-goal swing, of course, but that doesn’t rhyme.
So then we filtered out into the street, all singing, all smiling. I got a bit lost once I’d got clear of Goodison and ended up walking the whole way back to Lime Street, again just making my train. Happily, it was the train to Euston which was packed with fans of relegated Brentford, fresh from another spanking at Tranmere. “We’re going down like a hairy Lesbian” they sang, before apologising to all Hairy Lesbians on the train. I got chatting to a number of ESCLA members, and they were very generous in sharing their lagers around. Thanks guys, you know who you are.

I left them at Crewe and found my little train to carry me back to Welsh Wales. Listening to Greeny on 5LIVE! just made my blood boil, but I heard that Bristol City had been promoted so I rang my best mate to congratulate him. A great day all round. The good lady met me at the station and we picked up a Chinese just in time to watch Match of the Day. We won 3-0, by the way.

Joe Wightman