Alan Coleman

Sat on the Piccadilly line this evening as usual, I rub the oily sweat from my grubby face whilst looking round for something to focus on.

Opposite, an overweight bloke reading Nuts magazine at arms length sweats profusely and grins as Nikki from Big Brother ‘Bares all’. He slouches in his seat and periodically tucks a greasy lock of hair behind his left ear. Sat next to him is Sam from Eastenders, alias Kim Medcalf from real life, reading the metro from back to front and looking as though she has her own air-con unit up above.

Never has the phrase ‘Chalk and cheese’ been quite so apparent.

At Barons Court she looks sideways at Mr Nuts magazine in disgust, sighs, and moves two seats away.

Suddenly I’m trying not to laugh as outrageous thoughts rush into my head.

“So! Will we be seeing your lovely self within the folds of Nuts magazine any time soon Sam?… I mean Kim!….. No? Oh well, I hear the amateur scene can be quite lucrative.”

That, of course, would be both unkind and unnecessary. One of those situations when the thought of doing something is funny enough. Anyway, the last time I sat next to her on the tube I ear wigged her conversation with her friend and she sounded entirely down to earth.

Ear wigging on the tube, is this not stalking? Oh well, so be it.

At Victoria I buy the Evening Standard for my weekly dose of self righteous and reactionary right wing rage. I’m interested by a column on page 7 entitled, Priority for state pupils at Oxford is immoral says head.

Basically Martin Stephen, headmaster of a public school in Barnes is quoted as saying, “…..we are time and time again asking universities to compensate for failures in secondary education…The absolute travesty would be if Oxford turned down candidates who had done well, That makes a complete travesty of moral and social justice.”

He is of course wrong on both his interpretation of justice, as well as his moral and social high ground.

A moral travesty is a deeply unfair system in which opportunity is afforded only to those from a privileged background. What is a social travesty is that we have created a two tier educational system that celebrates the class and wealth divide from which it derives its exclusivity. That a headmaster from a public school feels it necessary to criticise those trying to readdress that imbalance, demonstrates not only my point, but also lays bare his ignorant contempt for everything the comprehensive system has to offer.

Further, judging by the revolting quartet of landed Oxford students on Gordon Ramsey’s F Word this evening, we definitely need more failures from secondary education at top universities, not less.

You have been told!

I had a peak at the Telegraph yesterday while nobody was looking, why I find it necessary to upset myself I don’t know, but that’s just the way it is. It’s a bit like being completely unable to stop staring at the hardest looking bloke in the pub – basic intrigue.

So what possesses the Telegraph to print pictures of the royal family on its front page twice in three days? I mean it’s not as if we’re in the middle of a World Cup campaign for instance, or presiding over the collapse of another country with outrageously over stretched armed forces. Talking of which, the irony that is pictures of the Commanders in Chief sitting in splendour on page 10, opposite those of soldiers being stoned in the heat and dust on page 11 is almost definitely lost on the papers readers.

Tuesday’s Telegraph pictures two royal daughters, unfortunate enough to inherit their fathers looks, dressed up like Violet Beauregarde and Veruca Salt in distastefully expensive clothing. Apparently they are attending a service that installs their father and uncle as Royal Knights of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

What the hell is one of those? Maybe that’s the point here, the more obscure and elitist the ceremony the less likely others are to criticise – if only through not having the faintest idea what it’s all about. Which explains why footballers wives attract far more vitriol than say, Freemasonry.

Anyone a little more cynical would claim that one of those suited sycophants at the palace pulled this honour from a particularly erotic royal wet dream. Moreover, what the hell are Andrew and Edward supposed to do as Royal Knights of the Most Noble Order of the Garter? Put it on the CV underneath the Duke of Edinburgh’s award?

Which poses the simple question, now what? It’s not like they’ve worked on the buses in Tamworth for 40 years and have been invited to the palace for a cup of tea and an afternoons patronisation. Only to be featured in the Daily Mail wearing a cheap suit as normal people recognised for a lifetimes dedication to slavery.

The sight of the queen bestowing honours onto her own family is little different from that of Saddam Hussein pinning medals on the chest of his sons. Just like queen unveiling a statue of herself in Windsor park, it is an almost humorously bizarre mix of pythonesque self promotion and camp theatre.

Unveiling a statue of yourself, a little like attending ones own funeral. Did that strike anyone else as slightly weird?

This is the ultimate accolade for any discerning royal, achievable only through birth it requires nothing other than simple existence. Just like those awards given to inane celebrities, its purpose is little more than an advertisement that underpins what is the greatest swindle the world has ever seen. Another chapter in the sneering annuals of self preservation and greed.

Who are these people?

Driving past billboard adverts for Pacha and Space was as close as we got to clubbing in Ibiza last week. Not that it’s beneath us or anything like that, far from it, the fact is that we wouldn’t have been up to it even if we wanted too. The Island of Ibiza is world famous for that whole scene and I don’t think it’s for the feint hearted. In other words, Mandy would have been okay but it’s not for Muppets like me.

So instead we took it easy for a week, hired a car and explored the various parts of what is essentially a beautiful Island. The heat put us off visiting the two main towns of San Antonio and Ibiza town, instead we opted for discovering beaches and the many little coves dotted around the coast. There is wildlife everywhere, that, clear blue seas, rugged coastlines and white beaches. I’d heard all this on a couple of occasions last year but of course it didn’t hit me until we arrived.

The quieter beaches weren’t far away from our resort of Es Cana, and in fact the beach there was as good as any and proved to be the best place for families to watch the World Cup with sand between the toes. And to think that I was worried about not seeing the matches before we went.

Going away like we did is something I’d definitely do again during a football competition, the location definitely took the edge of England’s lacklustre performances and in a way made me feel like a part of the travelling contingent. Watching the games where families from all over the country, kids in Rooney shirts, parents in Terry’s and grandmas in sequined England bikinis. All, like myself, equipped with the highest punditry qualifications courtesy of countless international competitions. Nothing finer after a match than to sit back with jugs of Sangria and discuss the minute details of the 4-5-1, knowing full well that whoever you’re talking to will never realise that you are in fact, full of shit.

It was in quite a smart beach bar during these matches that we got to know Andrew and Susan, a down to earth and self made couple from Halifax who had their own place in Es Cana. Their company, insight and humour turned out to be one of the highlights of our week, with evenings spent discussing anything from Surprise Surprise to the war in Iraq. It’s always great to meet people indifferent to the trivial concerns of daily living, and who instead focus on the wider and more important picture of how life should be.

I’ve found myself inspired to look at my life in a more positive manner since meeting them and discovering Ibiza. Cheers guys!