My Days as a Mover and Shaker

Between the champagne reception and the breakfast on expenses I knew one thing: I had well and truly arrived.

Of course, it took a fair bit of time to get there. Two hours and eight minutes, to be precise. That's how long the train from Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston took. The train that tilted from time to time, and did nothing for my travel sickness. The train with free Wi-Fi and an onboard shop. The train that drove me to bigger and better things: my two days as a mover and shaker.

*   *   *

I've never had much cause to think of myself as a businessperson. Life has never much required me to wear a suit. But as we get older, and our careers progress, such occasions are bound to crop up from time to time. Which is how I found myself travelling down to London, to attend a conference dedicated to young leaders.

In preparation, I had purchased a brand new business suit, as my old one was looking decidedly rough around the edges. It is important to make a good first impression, after all. I even packed three ties. I own five ties altogether, although how I've accumulated so many I have no idea. They just seem to turn up from time to time, buried amongst the debris that builds up in any bedroom. I lugged a heavy travel bag onto the train, sat myself down, and spent the entire journey writing. Every single word I penned I'd somehow lost by the time I got back to Manchester, including one of the most perfect paragraphs I have ever been responsible for. My attempts to put it back together again from memory have completely failed.

*   *   *

As soon as I exited Euston station I was comprehensively lost, in that I had not bothered to research where my hotel was located and thus didn't have the slightest idea how to find it. For about five minutes it seemed reasonable to assume that I would remain lost for the rest of my life, but then I rooted around in my bag, pulled out a couple of maps that were rather lacking in detail, and managed to gain my bearings. I immediately walked past a film set, which is how I imagine every day in London must be for those who live there.

Upon arriving at my hotel, the girl who checked me in was both in training and a very colourful character. She engaged me in humorous banter, but due to creeping exhaustion I was of no use to her, either as a straight man to her comedic stylings or as a human being offering normal conversational responses. Toward the end of our exchange I attempted to crack a joke of my own, but it fell flat. Both of us were glad when our dealings were complete.

The room I stayed in was modest but well-appointed. There was a Bible and everything. I skimmed through it, making a mental note to replace Anthony Powell with Genesis as my bedtime reading. Switching on my computer, however, my worst fears were confirmed: no free Wi-Fi. The only two options were to bankrupt myself paying BT Openzone rates, or begrudgingly go without. There was a TV, but I hardly ever bother with TV these days. Unless I stream it, of course. With nothing else to do, I filled up the kettle and put it on to boil.

After a cup of tea came the realisation that I needed something to eat. I briefly considered finding a restaurant of some kind and eating there, alone, but as time was getting on I decided that I wanted neither the bother nor the expense. I remembered that on my way to the hotel I had passed a Sainsbury's. I contemplated wearing my new business suit to Sainsbury's - being anxious to take it out for a spin - but decided that the formality of the dress would not be in keeping with the occasion. I headed back out, trudging past the film set once more, this time paying a bit more attention to the trailers. There was one for a guy called Guy and one for a guy called Josh. And one for Nat and one for Chloe. And an entire trailer dedicated to an unnamed dialect coach.

When I arrived at the supermarket I was disappointed to discover that I had left my wallet at the hotel. The duck and hoisin wrap I had been hungrily eyeing up remained on the shelf as I exited and walked past the film set for a third time. By that point the novelty had worn off. I spent the minutes that followed traversing the hotel's corridors pretending that staying there was a profound meditation on loneliness and isolation, just like Lost in Translation. After an interminable period I had finally secured a sandwich, and just about had enough time to eat it before I fell to sleep.

*   *   *

The conference itself was great. Lots of networking and keynote speakers. Presentations and teamworking activities. The type of stuff they don't teach you in schools, because they're too busy teaching ancient mathematics with no practical day-to-day usage. They taught us how to get ahead. And who doesn't want to get ahead? Better that than standing still or heading backward. Alternative culture has a lot to answer for, teaching generations of individuals that ambition is a bad thing. And the only lesson I remember from school is what an Oxbow river looks like.

A lot of people had iPads and iPhones. All I had was a water damaged Samsung that refuses to send text messages. But in the cutthroat business world, you can't let such disadvantages get you down. At the end of the first day, we walked by the canal toward Camden, en route for an evening of free food and drink. All dressed up with somewhere to go. The luxury of the surroundings suited me far better than the fluorescent lighting of a takeaway joint serving tragic fried chicken and soggy fries at three in the morning. And when servers are constantly topping up your wine glass, it becomes impossible to tell whether you've consumed two glasses or two bottles.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and once the conference wrapped up I was simply a commuter, elbowing past people in a desperate dash for any available seat. As the train pulled out of London Euston I knew one thing: I had well and truly departed.

;-)

Let us take a trip back to June 2010, when I posted the following:


"Let me note that Kilgore Trout and I have never used semicolons. They don't do anything, don't suggest anything. They are transvestite hermaphrodites."

Just as the semicolon was becoming a vital addition to my writing, Kurt Vonnegut - one of my favourite authors of all time - had to go and ruin it for me. Still, I bow to his superior literary genius, and accept that I'll have to modify my style accordingly. The above quote is from Timequake, which I've just finished rereading. Just one of the many examples of his brilliance.


Back in 2012, I still admire and enjoy Vonnegut a great deal. However, when I penned the above my own writing was still in its formative stages. Almost two years on I'm much more confident, and therefore much more inclined to take on sacred cows. The semicolon is a perfectly useful literary tool in the hands of those who know how to use it; one that can be deployed effectively in order to establish the mood or flow of a sentence, much like commas and full stops can be. Vonnegut was wrong to dimiss it, and wrong to suggest that writers should avoid it at all costs.

It's a stance he reasserted and expounded upon often, further dismissing the semicolon by suggesting that "All they do is show you've been to college." In this sense, his complaint takes on a distinct air of anti-intellectualism for anti-intellectualism's sake. If we accept that he's wrong then the comment becomes nothing more than a cheap shot at the educated, Vonnegut playing to one crowd whilst trying to make another feel foolish. The notion of blacklisting any grammatical device is ludicrous and restrictive, in a way that inhibits writers rather than challenging them. It's no more a valid statement than Stephen King's "don't use adverbs" mantra, but it's more celebrated simply because Vonnegut is held in higher regard by literary critics and "educated" readers (funnily enough), whereas King is more a man of the common people, and thus seen as easier to dismiss.

The point, of course, is that you shouldn't listen to anyone who would attempt to impose barriers on the way you write, or influence you away from certain techniques and devices. Guidelines are fine, and often very useful indeed, but cast iron rules only narrow what can be achieved. Vonnegut may well have been a genius. He even had a great many of the answers. But not all of them.

Links of interest:

Jon Henley considers the semicolon's place in modern literature.
A spirited defense of the semicolon.
An explanation of how and when to use a semicolon.

Reflections on seeing Jeff Mangum live

It can be difficult to write about a music festival. Offering a straightforward review doesn't really work, simply because the "I saw this band and they were good, then I saw another band and they were also good" approach quickly becomes repetitive. Which is why many writers attempt to add some colour to proceedings and tell the "story" of their festival.

Of course, that has its own unique set of pitfalls too. Some people will tell you every detail - from getting on a train to travel to the festival to walking back through their front door once it's all over - but don't have any aptitude for making the mundane fascinating. As an example:

"Woke up hungover. Ate bacon sandwich(es). Contemplated going swimming. Went swimming/did not feel up to swimming. Felt pretty certain there was no way I'd be able to drink. Cracked open a beer at around four in the afternoon and got on with it anyway. Continued drinking until it was time to sleep. Both the craic and the bands were great."

The above neatly summarises my Saturday and Sunday at Jeff Mangum's All Tomorrow's Parties, but fails to say anything interesting whatsoever. Plus I only used 61 words. Imagine reading that stretched out to essay length. Hell, you don't need to imagine it: you can find plenty of examples across the internet.

Still, better that than the over-earnest souls who make out their festival experience to be life changing. Music can, on occasion, have such a profound effect upon a person, as can music performed live. But a music festival? I'm not convinced. There are too many factors at play, far too many variables to worry about. Too much time spent hungover, too much time spent drinking through it, or, if you're not consuming industrial quantities of alcohol, too much time spent in close proximity to people who are. Too many uptight people, too many people who could do with toning it down a little, too many people who by the third day are clinging on for dear life. Festivals are communal experiences, not transcendental ones, more about the fun of spending a weekend intoxicated amongst friends and other somewhat likeminded individuals than specific artists and performances.

This holds true even when the artist is as seminal as Jeff Mangum. Few albums mean as much to me as In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, and when All Tomorrow's Parties announced that he would be curating one of its two December 2011 events, tickets were immediately purchased as excitement struggled to contain itself. Unfortunately, for reasons that still have not been adequately explained, the festival was postponed until March 2012. No problem: it just meant there was more time for the anticipation to build.

He played two shows over the course of his ATP weekend. The first was early Friday evening, and it was good - and given the quality of the songs, most likely even great - but it wasn't incredible, and in the aftermath came the search for reason. Was it some failing on my part, an inability to truly appreciate a performance I'd wanted to see for so long? Was it the audience: were they somehow not up for it, into it, enjoying it enough? Maybe it was the venue? Was it the timing of the show, the fact that is was on relatively early, when everyone had spent the day travelling to get there and hadn't quite shaken the exhaustion associated with their journeys nor drunk enough to disguise it? Was it Jeff's choice of "Two Headed Boy Pt. Two" to open proceedings, a song so full of a sense of finality - both in its thematic/lyrical content and in the fact that it closes the second and final Neutral Milk Hotel album - that to start with it just didn't seem right? Or was his decision to tour solo rather than with a full band to blame?

One friend offered up the possibility that it was Jeff himself, arguing that maybe he just doesn't care about the songs enough anymore to truly do them justice on stage; that for him, the music of Neutral Milk Hotel is part of his past, no matter how much a part of the present and future it may be for his devotees. The post-mortem didn't produce any definite answers, so we chose to revel in the fact that we'd seen him play (something we never thought would happen) and convinced ourselves that the Sunday show would be better.

And it was. Much better, in fact: far closer to the experience I'd longed for than Friday's set, more inspired and emotional on Jeff's part, played to an audience who seemed more appreciative second time around. However, it didn't entirely dispel the notion that maybe he was wrong to return to performing altogether. Even now, I wonder if his story had more value as that of a man who decided to turn his back on music after recording his masterpiece, rather than that of a man who has put his reclusiveness/reluctance to perform to one side in order to play his songs to a generation of people who never had the chance to see them live. I wouldn't have missed him for the world, but in truth those people who chose not to see him didn't miss too much. It didn't change my life, but then it didn't need to. Seeing incredible songs performed well by one of my heroes was more than enough for one weekend.

Despite defeat, Pearce may still be the best man to lead England forward

I was about halfway through writing a glowing testimonial to Stuart Pearce's handling of his role as England caretaker manager Wednesday afternoon when I realised that were his side to lose to Holland, any such piece would instantaneously be rendered null and void. When Ashley Young equalised late on, I celebrated in the belief that my endeavours had not gone to waste. Arjen Robben had other ideas, however, destroying my carefully crafted words with his heavily deflected goal. So it goes.

Football is a results game, and if no-one was clamouring for Pearce to take over before Holland came to Wembley, the 3-2 defeat may well have damaged his case irreparably. Yet there were plenty of positives to be taken from the performance. Scott Parker excelled as captain, leading from the front rather than simply resorting to pointing often and shouting loudly, the template for many of those who followed before him. Daniel Sturridge had little over half the game to make his mark, and did so impressively, furthering not just his case for inclusion in the European Championship squad but as one of the first names on the teamsheet. None of the younger players looked overawed by the occasion. And a major plus point in favour of Pearce was the fact that the changes he made after England went two goals down had a positive enough effect that England were able to draw level, albeit briefly. Putting things into perspective, defeat against a Holland side that finished runners-up at the last World Cup is nothing to be ashamed of, and should not lead to panic.

Let's consider the man who is most likely to land the role. Harry Redknapp has naturally been the subject of a fair amount of discussion as far as his tactical nous - or lack thereof - is concerned, with some proclaiming him to be naive in that area whilst others insist that he only pretends to be. Whichever stance you take, his stock wasn't helped by Tottenham's 5-2 defeat at Arsenal. Ignoring the scoreline, it was the manner of the performance that was worrying, with his side somehow taking a 2-0 lead before capitulating, making the much maligned likes of Theo Walcott and Tomas Rosicky look like world beaters in the process. Redknapp's attempts to influence the game - such as his introduction of Sandro and van der Vaart at half-time - had a negative impact, and the defensive ineptness shown by Tottenham's back four (all regular starters) was more profound than any of England's failings on Wednesday night.

The success of tactically astute ex-players such as Josep Guardiola and Antonio Conte is evidence of a sea change in the priorities of coaches, of a shift to an approach that is less focused on motivating and more focused on tactics, and formations, and the ability to read the game well enough to make adjustments on the fly. No-one is claiming that Pearce is on the level of Guardiola or Conte, but he does have the advantage of being extremely familiar with England's younger players, having coached most of them at U21 level. The mistakes against Holland appeared to be the temporary aberrations of an unfamiliar and inexperienced back four playing together for the first time, rather than any kind of failing on Pearce's part; the type of errors one would assume a few weeks of training together would eliminate. It seems reasonable to assume that a man who has spent the last five years as part of the England set-up has a better chance of pulling things together at this late stage than a man parachuted into the position at the last minute.

Pearce's own suggestion that he could coach the national side at Euro 2012 but not beyond the tournament is patently ridiculous; either he's capable of doing the job or he's not. The Football Association have clearly been grooming him to eventually lead the senior side since he first joined the England set-up back in 2007, as evidenced by the increased responsibilities they have bestowed upon him. Much like this country's younger generation of players, he both needs and deserves his opportunity sooner rather than later.

Looking at it another way, were Pearce to bomb at the European Championships, would that really be a disaster? If we're honest, England are in the midst of a transitional phase, and cannot be considered serious contenders. Even in the short term, appointing someone new could do more damage than good. If, for example, Redknapp were to get the job, what happens if England fail to make it past the group stages? Could he really claim to be the right man to lead the side forward? If Pearce fails, on the other hand, then it would be reasonable to dismiss him from his duties as both caretaker and U21 manager - thus getting rid of the last person associated with the Fabio Cappello era - and the FA could search for the right man without the need to rush the decision. In other words, with Pearce in charge there would be positives to take from even the worst case scenario.

And the best case scenario? That Pearce fulfils the promise many people see in him, and coaches a young England side to at least the quarter-finals, delivering as much as any of his predecessors and marking the nation out as one that may well be capable of challenging for major honours come 2012. Sound fanciful? Perhaps. But we'll never have a better chance to find out where the truth lies than Poland and Ukraine this summer.

A Few Thoughts on The Artist

Predictably, another awards ceremony was dominated by The Artist on Sunday evening. Its success at the Oscars didn't quite match its achievements at the BAFTAs, but it still took home a good proportion of the most important awards. Best Director for Michael Hazanavicius. Best Actor for Jean Dujardin as George Valentin. And Best Picture. A final victory lap for a film that has earned outpourings of critical love and devotion from almost everyone who has encountered it. And yet I can't be the only one wondering if the tributes to this film - one that so unashamedly wallows in the past - have gotten out of hand.

Firstly, lets cast aside the underdog narrative that some are trying to attach to it. The Artist has been a clear Oscar favourite for months, it had the weight of Harvey Weinstein behind it, and it was perfectly pitched at Old Hollywood. Given that approximately 86% of the near 6,000 Academy voters are over the age of 50, they were always going to appreciate a film like The Artist; even if few were old enough to actually experience the silent era firsthand, it no doubt played a significant role in their cultural upbringing. Hazanvicius was preaching to the choir from the off.

So, taking the film on its critical merits, what are its themes? What are its ambitions? What does it set out to achieve? It spends so much of its time carefully homaging (and occasionally pastiching) silent films that it largely lacks a unique identity of its own, one separate from its inspirations. Its two main themes could be summed up as 'you can't stand in the way of progress' (which I suppose is a somewhat subversive point for a film largely dealing in reductive nostalgia to make, although both the ending and the entire premise of The Artist arguably contradict said theme anyway) and 'love conquers all' (although the love story is really more of a background element than a key driver of the plot, and plays out more as admiration than heartfelt passion). When you add in the fact that many of its biggest laughs come from either ridiculous slapstick or the Animal's Do The Funniest Things-level antics of Uggie the dog, it doesn't seem unfair to say that The Artist is a film of limited ambition, an interesting novelty that the average viewer will forget about almost as soon as it is over. Beyond a post-film discussion over a pint, I had no cause to dwell upon The Artist until it became omnipresent on the cultural landscape. I thought that it effectively and faithfully mimicked a bygone era, raised a few laughs, warmed the heart a little, and achieved nothing else besides.

(it also has at least a couple of major problems, the most pronounced of which is that the reason for Valentin's opposition to the introduction of sound only becomes clear at the end of the film, and as a result his motivations are only given meaning retroactively. This just about works, but it still leaves Valentin looking like a stubborn, foolish man for the best part of 100 minutes, and it requires a fair bit of suspension of disbelief to accept that no-one in the film would've called him on his attitude at any point. There is also one key scene toward the end of the film that felt like an artificial, overly melodramatic way of extending its running time.)

In terms of the acting, Dujardin and Berenice Bejo are winning, to be sure, but their performances aren't exceptional. The film's very premise hamstrings the pair, who resort to what could at times be described as overacting (or, less generously, mugging for camera) in order to convey emotion. The silent medium isn't made for great performances, and it was the rare talent who overcame the inherent limitations it imposed. For me, Dujardian and Bejo did enough to carry the film, but never quite approached greatness.

Even acknowledging that no-one particularly holds up the Oscars as a barometer of quality, The Artist can best be described as the beneficiary of a groundswell of short-term fascination and sentiment that will not translate into any kind of enduring appeal. History, I fear, will not be kind to it, and that is at least partly because so many have done so much to elevate it above its standing, from the interesting curiosity it is to the object of rapturous critical acclaim it has become.

Andres Villas-Boas: living on borrowed time

Roman Abramovich is developing a trigger-happy reputation on a par with some of his Spanish and Italian counterparts, having shown a willingness to dispose of a manager as soon as they don't quite meet his exacting standards. Just look at his form: Claudio Ranieri was the boss Abramovich inherited, and despite steering Chelsea to second place he was sacked as though he were an afterthought; like him or loathe him, Jose Mourinho is a great manager, and would have brought continued success to the club; Avram Grant had cause to feel hard done by after leading Chelsea to their only Champions League final to date (a match they would have won but for John Terry's slip); and Carlo Ancelotti won the club its first league title in four years. In relative terms, these men were successful in their roles. In Abramovich's mind, they weren't quite up to the job.

Which is why Andres Villas-Boas's position looks dangerous. Mourinho, Grant, and Ancelotti were fired for flaws and failings much lesser than those that have afflicted Villas-Boas's first year in charge. The club currently reside in fifth, behind Arsenal on goal difference; given Tottenham's 10 point advantage in third, it looks likely that Chelsea will record their lowest ever finish under Abramovich. However, that only tells part of the story.

To trot out the old cliché about Villas-Boas having lost the dressing room would be a tad hyperbolic, but his man management skills have rightly been called into question on a number of occasions, with this week's report of a training ground row between him and his playing staff just the latest in a string of incidents that have marred his tenure. Although he has shown absolute loyalty to John Terry following Anton Ferdinand’s accusation, he has managed to upset a number of senior players whose importance to the club’s success and history far exceed his own. His attempts to phase out some of the older hands have at times been exceptionally clumsy, and his handling of the transfer requests handed in by Alex and Nicolas Anelka was the most damning of his failures, highlighting a vindictiveness and petulance that won him few admirers both within and outside of the club.

What’s worse is that these issues appear to have been reflected on the pitch, with Chelsea turning in a number of abject performances, the spineless defeat at the hands of Everton just the latest. A return of four wins in the last 10 league games suggests that the manager is struggling to impose his ideology. Teams no longer show quite the same fear when faced with Chelsea mainstays such as Frank Lampard and Didier Drogba, and one wonders if Villas-Boas's attempts to downplay their importance has handed a psychological advantage to opponents. Meanwhile, David Luiz and Fernando Torres have continued to struggle, and Gary Cahill has made a grand total of one appearance since joining in the middle of January. There haven't been too many positives to take from the current campaign.

No-one would reasonably suggest that Villas-Boas deserves to lose his job. However, past form suggests that Abramovich is not always a reasonable man when it comes to such matters, and it seems unlikely that he'll keep the faith if his manager fails to deliver Champions League football for 2012-13.

For those of you who may be wondering what, football posts aside, I've been working on in recent weeks:

- My first unsigned bands piece was in the December/January edition of Manchester Chimp magazine. You might still be able to find copies in the shops; if not, it's available online from their website. The next issue is due out soon, with the featured bands including biederbeck, The Gentrymen, and G R E A T W A V E S.

- The first post charting my year in reading is up over at Onward, Manchester, featuring Moneyball by Michael Lewis, Misery by Stephen King, and Everything's Fine by Socrates Adams.

- On the same blog, my coverage of X-Men Regenesis is in progress (part 1) (part 2). It's moving at something of a glacial pace, but that's okay; whilst I'm happy to recommend comicbooks to people, I couldn't in good faith recommend that they buy single issues. Hell, the only reason I don't wait for the trades is that I'm a holdover from before the collected edition took hold, programmed to turn up at a shop each Thursday and peruse what's on offer.

- I'm preparing something that could loosely be described as "proper journalism" about Manchester's Metrolink service and its place in the city, primarily as a reaction to MP Graham Stringer's assertion that the network is "damaging the city's reputation and economy."

- I also started work on a novel in January, with the vague aim of getting much of it written within the year. A resolution of sorts, if you will, or at least an attempt to spur myself to write more fiction, which so far has proven somewhat successful.

An Ignominious End for Fabio Capello?

When I previously wrote about the John Terry situation, I suggested that the FA had four options:

1) Terry is stripped of the captaincy but allowed to play for England.
2) Terry is stripped of the captaincy and banned from selection until the conclusion of the trial.
3) Terry is allowed to play, given that he is innocent until proven guilty.
4) Terry is dropped altogether for "footballing reasons."

Whilst realistically 4) is a bit of a stretch, I'm sure we can all agree that 1) is the least sensible option on the above list, and unsurprisingly that's exactly what the FA opted for. Or so we thought until Wednesday, when it became apparent that the FA had instead selected 5): Terry is stripped of the captaincy against England manager Fabio Capello's wishes but remains available for selection, and "oh, look, we don't have a manager anymore. How about that?"

Having mooted (but not, admittedly, wholeheartedly embraced) the idea that keeping Terry as captain was the right thing to do (in that removing him implies that he has done something wrong, when nothing of the sort has yet been established), I'm going to follow another unpopular path and suggest that the way the affair was handled (and mishandled) left Capello with no choice but to quit. He was clearly right to claim, in the aftermath of his resignation, that the FA damaged his authority, and that taking the Terry decision out of his hands (or not properly discussing the issue with him, at the very least) critically undermined his leadership, which in turn made his position untenable.

He did what any good manager did and fought for his player, defending Terry against those who seem intent to cast him as a guilty party before a verdict has been rendered. In a sense, his loyalty was admirable, and it would be harsh to condemn him for it, as some seem ready to. Would it have been so hard for the FA to stage a proper meeting to discuss the issue, listening fully to Capello's arguments as to why Terry should remain as captain before amicably overruling him and asking him to support the decision? Perhaps such an approach would have prevented his departure.

It's also worth remembering that Capello's win percentage as England manager is better than any of his predecessors. Better than Ramsey, Greenwood, Robson, Venables, and Eriksson, yet in terms of available talent I'd argue that he's had less to work with than most of the managers before him, and that he inherited England's recognised world class players (Ferdinand, Terry, Ashley Cole, Lampard, Gerrard, Beckham) at a point when most of them were in the midst of their inevitable decline.

At the same time, however, it goes without saying that Capello was his own worst enemy, and that choosing to express his displeasure to the media once the decision had been made was arrogant (and unnecessary) folly. The disastrous 2010 World Cup campaign rests largely on his shoulders, and since taking over he's struggled to win over the press and the public. If his principles can be admired, his decision-making skills when under pressure have been exposed as questionable at best; if we applaud his loyalty, we must also ask how much of his stance was born out of stubbornness; and if we acknowledge that progress has been made since the South Africa debacle, we must also admit that none of it has occurred on a stage that truly matters. At this point, a parting of the ways was probably the best for both parties.

The Plight of John Terry

Being a figure of hate is nothing new for John Terry. The entire nation seemingly ground to a halt following the January 2010 revelations concerning his supposed affair with the ex-girlfriend of ex-teammate Wayne Bridge. The newspapers and the public in general were obsessed with the story, calling for his resignation as England captain and all but calling for his head, all while greedily devouring every bit of information or mis-information that was printed about him for months on end. Few people were interested when later that same year both the Mail on Sunday and the News of the World offered apologies to Vanessa Peroncell, for breaching her privacy and for printing a story that was untrue.

That furore temporarily cost him the England captaincy, but Rio Ferdinand's injury problems and general decline meant that within little over 12 months Terry was reinstated. The clash with Anton Ferdinand followed a few months later, however, and with it a whole new controversy.

Unlike his previous form the current situation is no minor frivolity. The accusation is serious; serious enough that the Crown Prosecution Service saw fit to charge him with using racist language. The Suarez incident was contained within the confines of football; Terry will be dealt with by the courts.

Wednesday's decision to delay the trial until July 9 was a curious one, seemingly made so as not to disrupt Chelsea's season, and indeed England's European Championship campaign. Not that the affair hasn't already caused ample disruption. Terry has been on the receiving end of plenty of unpleasant chanting, and here we are in February and the debate about his suitability to represent his country is already raging, with the tabloid newspapers once again leading a crusade. To delay the trial seems at best incredibly shortsighted, at worst a deplorable concession to the demands of a game that is apparently more important than justice being delivered in a timely fashion.

Mentioned in passing in a previous paragraph, the shadow of Rio Ferdinand looms large over the whole affair, and not just because he and Anton are brothers. Jason Roberts and many others have cited the 2003 incident that saw Rio left out of an England squad pending the investigation into his failure to attend a drug test, claiming that it should be held up as some kind of precedent. How exactly the two cases are related remains a mystery, given that said investigation was to determine whether or not his reason for missing the test (which was, quite simply, that he forgot about it) was an acceptable justification; in other words, Rio was guilty of the offense he was accused of, and the only question that remained was whether his explanation mitigated his guilt (the answer, unsurprisingly, was a resounding "no").

Roberts also mentions the situation involving Jonathan Woodgate and Lee Bowyer, both of whom the FA banned from international selection until the court case relating to the pair's alleged assault of an Asian student was concluded. As far as precedents go, that would appear to be a rather important one, although one suspects that if the FA were going to impose a similar restriction this time around, it would have done so already.

In the meantime, where does that leave the humble football fan, the men and women who just want to cheer on England in the European Championships? No-one is going to feel comfortable cheering on a team captained by a man who may or may not have used racist language in a hurtful manner; then again, is anyone going to feel better about cheering on a team only starring said man, rather than led by him? To wit: if Terry can't captain England, surely he can't play for England in any capacity? To strip him of the captaincy and still name him in the squad would be a frankly ludicrous decision, a declaration that we're against the sort of behaviour John Terry is accused of, but only up to a point.

Another question worth considering is to what extent should Fabio Capello and the FA be expected to pander to public sentiment? In this country, our entire justice system is predicated upon the fact that an individual is innocent until proven guilty beyond reasonable doubt. Any sanction against Terry would be a punishment, and to punish a man who has not yet been found guilty of anything would be an injustice, a bizarre acceptance of "there's no smoke without fire" as a binding legal argument. In many respects, keeping him as captain is the right decision, even though it certainly wouldn't be a popular one

Finally, we must ask whether or not Terry's recent form has been so great, so magnificent, so reminiscent of past glories that simply leaving him out of the squad is a possibility not worth considering. Great player though he remains, he's clearly lost a step or two in recent years; Fabio Capello could choose to be bold, selecting four younger defenders (Cahill, Richards, Jones, and Smalling, for example) and passing it off as an attempt to give valuable tournament experience to players who may prove to be the future of the national team. Such a line would fool no-one, of course, but it would put a contentious issue to bed swiftly and effectively. Whatever happens, any solution to the current situation will more than likely carry an air of uncomfortable compromise about it.

The National Anthem

On Sunday evening, Channel 4 screened Charlie Brooker's The National Anthem. I'm glad they did; the quality of the network's programming has eroded to such an extent that it should be applauded for taking risks. However, I didn't enjoy the show, and the outpourings of critical praise that have been lavished upon it baffle me. To my mind, it was both a bold endeavour and an absolute failure.

Naturally (and in keeping with the show's premise) I took to Twitter to air my opinion. In response to one of my more biting critiques, an individual responded by claiming that "it was a great commentary about the power of social media and how much more powerful it becomes when it concerns one person," a statement I entirely disagree with. Certainly, that's what the show set out to be, but in practise it was nothing of the sort, simply because the social media angle was never fully developed. Which is a pretty big oversight considering the denouement was premised upon the fictional public influencing events from their computers.

Unfortunately, rather than exploring how Twitter et al affect the way individuals interact with the world and impact upon current events, The National Anthem expected us to take it as read. That's fine, to an extent, as I'm sure we can all agree that social media has a massive impact on modern communication. But if your finale is a facsimile David Cameron fucking a pig, then the buildup to that moment needs to convince the viewer that such an outcome is believable. Having political advisors mumble something about public opinion shifting is not enough.

What it boils down to, for me, is suspension of disbelief. I'll go along with any narrative you put in front of me, no matter how ridiculous it may seem, as long as the execution is strong. It's up to the writer to convince the audience that the world they have created is plausible, that the situations presented could conceivably happen within that world, and that cause and effect is consistent within the parameters the writer has established.

The National Anthem portrayed the Great British public as slack-jawed morons staring at their telly boxes, eagerly anticipating a spot of bestiality featuring the prime minister. That's entirely believable - damn near everyone would watch such a spectacle, or at the very least try to before turning away in disgust. But then, by the internal logic the programme has embraced, wouldn't those same people be just as enthralled by the death of a princess? If the answer is "no," then the narrative needs to explain why that is the case. Once again, vague mutterings about "public sympathy" do not suffice.

Compounding this problem is the lip service paid to why the PM absolutely must go through with the act. Following a shift in public opinion, one of his advisors suggests that were the princess to die, his own safety and that of his family could not be guaranteed. On what grounds? What exactly are the social media-obsessed masses likely to do, other than tweet their condolences and create Facebook groups? Wouldn't these people just vent their anger impotently for a week or so, and then move onto the next big news story? Couldn't the likes of Facebook and Twitter be manipulated so as to get the public back on the prime minister's side? Surely The National Anthem should have answered these questions; instead, it was far too enamoured with its half-baked political satire to explore them.

It would be easier to forgive these flaws had it been a riotously entertaining hour of television, but following a strong start it tailed off badly, and completely fell apart in the final act. Once it became obvious that the tale was only going to end one way, it made for uncomfortable viewing. Which is fine in theory, as long as the discomfort is aligned to something else. But it wasn't. In the end, The National Anthem wasn't a though-provoking discourse on social media, it wasn't a blow struck to the political establishment, and it wasn't even particularly funny. It was nothing more than a one-note joke dressed up as social commentary, and the only insight gleaned was that Brooker might be losing his touch.