Alan Coleman

This is a fantastic picture, and one of my favourite images of the last few years. Even if you’ve been living in Mongolia since the turn of the century and don’t recognise them, they look like the sort of people you’d like know, right?

Look at Joe Calzaghe, with his humble stance and cool as thumbs up. When he answered his critics by teaching Jeff Lacy how to box in Mach 2006 I honestly thought that it was a defining point in my life. Still unbeaten after 45 fights, he is quite literally, a great bloke. Victoria Pendleton’s shy smile hides a personality that ignored her coach when he insisted that she was too small for track cycling. She went on to dominate her sport as the undisputed champion of the world with far too many titles and gold medals to list here. Lewis Hamilton’s friendly hands in pockets confidence is the epitome of cool. He ignored the racist slurs and backstabbing that accompany his chosen sport to rise as a true champion in unbelievable style.

I have no doubt whatever that any one of the above would stop and help you in the street if need be.

As a simple picture, it’s the embodiment of personal achievement, good nature and everything that is great about our country. Stuff The Daily Mail, the Royal family, the BNP and waving plastic flags at Last night of the proms. These people are what Great Britain is all about.

I usually stop just outside Blackfriars to survey the days papers, a quick glance across the multicoloured collage of sex, hate and economic meltdown. As predictable as it is amusing, especially last week when I spotted a story about the Saindi family from Afghanistan who’d apparently been housed in a seven bedroom house in Ealing, West London. I don’t know what I found more amusing, the finger wagging fury or the comments Mrs Saindi made about the house being too big to clean, funny as!

It used to be Rock and Roll bands and young people that upset the Tory media, now the papers put their songs on the Sunday edition as a polite freebie. It’s says a lot about the awful state of music in this country when we have to rely on immigrants to upset the status quo.

The thought of Mrs Saindi showing journalists her new plasma screen doesn’t make me feel jealous or envious or even angry, as there’s always something more important to worry about than who’s getting what for free.

That said, when the papers started talking of scroungers and handouts at the weekend, I couldn’t help but think of how a family like the Windsor’s have managed to get away with what they have for so many years. Because when you look at it, the loan of a house and a Nintendo is fairly insignificant when compared to generations of favour, opulence and greed that we have afforded the Royal family. And the Royal family are immigrants after all.

It is they that are the real parasites, standing by with glum indifference as the media celebrate their obscenity, their foolish offspring, and their want. They can’t believe their luck, millions queuing up to cheer their mere existence as someone else bares the misguided anger of those same ignorant subjects.

You make your bed, you lie in it.

I can’t help but pick up on the latest tabloid hysteria, what with millions of examples left strewn across London on a daily basis. It is rubbish, which probably says a lot more about the people who read the stuff and cast it aside for someone else to pick up, before and after work.

Anyway, this entry isn’t about free papers and rubbish, it’s about one particular episode that quite literally screamed up from the gutter about a month ago. You may remember, apparently a soldier had been turned away from a Hotel in Surrey because it was the establishments policy not rent rooms to servicemen.

Oh how the hysteria caught hold! From Talk Sport to Radio 4 and from the Metro to the Sun. Shock horror, the death of respect and the end of decency! What have we come to? Why oh why?! You could just see Jeremy Clarkson spitting with fury over his stupid fucking walnut dashboard. My Brother even rang me up to ask me why, like I had the answer.

The rhetoric still continues to this day, most if it aimed at how servicemen are treated in the USA, the cheap travel and the whooping high fives in the shopping mall. This isn’t the States though, and young working class men in Great Britain join the military to serve in one of the finest armed forces in the history of warfare itself, not to pick up the odd free Chai Latte at Starbucks. There’s more at stake in the military than the trivialities of daily civilian life.

The thing is, there must have been some reason in the past why this decision was made at the Hotel in question. Someone just didn’t pipe up at a meeting on Monday morning and suggest a blanket ban on servicemen based on short hair and a slightly awkward appearance. No, more likely it was a decision based on a culmination of events probably involving alcohol, violence and the Police. Anyone reading this who has served amongst the ordinary ranks will have a good idea of what went on, and are probably smiling at the thought of it. In short, they didn’t behave themselves.

And as any soldier will tell you, not having to behave properly is one of the more enjoyable aspects of service life. But you can’t have it both ways. And it’s precisely the reason that these people are barred from these kinds of places that makes them so successful in their chosen profession. No?

And what of the outraged Daily Mail readers with their rose tinted idea of soldiers as the last great hope of British decency and service? Are they going to throw open the doors of those cherished little B&Bs down in the Cotswolds? Or how about allowing a Platoon from 3 Para to have their Christmas party in the local Crouch End Gastro “Boozer”?

Don’t fancy it? No.

Tabloid newspapers: You lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.

I was accused of being a glory hunter at work today because I follow Manchester City. I use the word follow because I’m not a real fan, I don’t go to matches and I’m not from Manchester. The accusation did come from a Spurs supporter, so you have to understand that there’s going to be a little bit of sour grapes what with them being crap for the foreseable future.

I’ve been to see City play once, at the Emirates stadium, I sat behind a bunch of apathetic Russian women in complete silence, literally. The only noise to be heard that day was that from the few thousand City supporters at the other end, singing and taunting despite Arsenal running rings round them. I’ve even been to the City of Manchester stadium once, but by the state of me I could well have been watching Oasis from the Barside at Layer Road.

I Also like City because they’re not Man United. Alex Ferguson with his petulance, chewing gum and old man gait. It’s just Man Yoo isn’t it? The ever greasy Christiano Ronaldo, Old Trafford and Rio Ferdinand with his Simpsons style plasticine mouth. Mick Hucknall supports Man Yoo, he would do wouldn’t he? And who’d want to be associated with anything to do with that fucking twat? It’s no wonder that Liam Gallagher punched him in the face for being, “An insult to Manchunians”. Mick Hucknall. Why in the name of Jesus H. Corbett would you you support the same football team as Mick Hucknall?

United fans are finding it hard to disguise their jealousy, especially after being saddled with millions of pounds worth of debt by an American that openly admits that he doesn’t like them. Liverpool fans too are whining with envy, in their case the debt that they ended up with came from an American that didn’t even realise that there we’re two teams in Manchester, duh! Even Mandy knows that.

Anyway, you have to support a football team don’t you? So it may as well be a proper one, not one whose entire fan base has a Hackney carriage plate, a crash pad in Fulham or a bicycle rental business in Phukhet. And if you don’t support a football team then what’s the point of watching Match of the Day? Or Shite of the Day as Mandy calls it.

But after all that, I follow City because I felt sorry for them when they where shit. I liked Maine Road, Kevin Keegan, Stuart Pearce. I liked the way that the City fans respected the 50th anniversary of the Munich air disaster, and the way Mike Summerbee conducted himself in front of booing Man Yoo fans at Wembley. Talking of Mike Summerbee, he starred alongside Sylvester Stallone and Pelé in Escape to Victory with another City player, Kazimierz Deyna. Escape to Victory, no Manchester United players were involved with the film.

We, yes we, are loaded. Deal with it. Money doesn’t buy silverware? Oh yes it does.

I look forward to an Indian meal more than I do Saturday, Christmas and the start of the football season combined. The wind up to it starts at about 1pm on Saturday afternoon after I get back from the shops and tell Mandy that I’m having a starter, probably Sheek kebab. Then I spend the rest of the afternoon deciding whether I’m going to have a Vindaloo or not, which I rarely do because I’ll change my mind at the precise moment the waiter looks up from his pad, Biro poised.

At around 5pm I’m pacing around the flat urging Mand to hurry with the makeup. During the football season this part of the day is even better because the results are on the TV and I’m walking around with a can of lager pretending to be a Man City fan. Great.

As we walk towards East Dulwich I can see the restaurant sign shining through the trees from a quarter of a mile away. Mirash Tandoori, in red an blue neon. Finally, at last, like Clark Griswald reaching Wally World, I’m actually there. But not quite, to prolong the experience a bit longer we’ll go for a few drinks in The Black Cherry where they serve cocktails and Austrian lager.

And so to the Mirash, greeted at the door like a friend, seated, the wine glasses removed without asking. And as the pints of chilled Cobra are placed on the stiff white tablecloth, Mand looks at me over the menu, smiles and looks back down again. “Am I allowed a starter?”

I’m learning how to play guitar, Mandy brought me one as a present for my birthday and I’m properly getting in to it. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do as it’s been my favourite sound for as long as I can remember.

I used to play the Saxophone, grade 8, although that means nothing really as I was never actually any good. It was enjoyable from a technical perspective, playing in a band and keeping the thing in tune and playing the notes in the right place. It’s just that I’m not a natural musician so was only going to go far. Also I was playing in an Army Band, and in that environment unless you’re exceptional at your chosen instrument you’re treated like something scraped off the shoe. Men can be very bitchy.

Who wants to play the Sax anyway? As an instrument it’s always going to be associated with greasy pony tails rather than Stan Getz and John Coltrane. Anything on the sax post 1970 will always sound smug.

A guitar on the other hand is the embodiment of Rock ‘n Roll music. It’s what it’s all about, from 1950s America to the Mersey and from Zappa to Sonic Youth. Stuff marching around in a red uniform, that was a waste of everybody’s time.

I used to play guitar when I was younger, at primary school. The head teacher, Mr Atkins, would spend the best part of Friday afternoon teaching chords and songs to anyone that came along with a guitar. I used to ask myself why anyone would want to sit in a classroom learning arithmetic when you could be sat in the sunshine learning E minor, G and D7. The shoving parents of today would have had none of it. My child, the targets, push to the front. Judging children by sneering at league tables in grubby Sunday newspapers. Nice.

Mr Atkins was notable for another reason, he had a strange infatuation with the Parachute Regiment. If any child dared break rules the resulting lecture would probably involve a comparison with one of the British Army’s finest fighting units. “Do you think that’s acceptable behaviour do you? Eh?! Wouldn’t get away with that in the Parachute Regiment would you? No!! So why in Gods name do you think it’s okay to forget your sports kit here then?!!” There’s nothing more comical than an unintentionally funny person.

Mr Atkins, guitar player, great bloke and comic genius.

He’ll probably get off the train at Cannon Street or London Bridge. Along with his important AACCA documentation, his work clothes and sensible shoes will be tucked inside a cheap Fitness First day bag strapped to his back.

On alighting the train he will go about unpacking his Brompton folding bike, tugging and screwing at the various parts with his elbows and backside banging into other commuters struggling to get past. The whole procedure will have about it an earnest importance that comes with the lower ranks of middle management, that quiet and serious demeanour of corporate life by which the bored justify their bored existence. The concentration, blank look and scruffy sweatshirt at the weekend (Nottingham University).

Now he’s queuing to get through the gate, bobbing from side to side with impatience as he makes last minute adjustments to the Brompton folding bike, sturdy and traditional. He’ll be wearing a bright yellow rain resistant cycling top that will probably smell of stale sweat, that’ll be accompanied by a pair of lycra shorts that will be stretched to capacity by his ever expanding bottom. The legs will be unshaved and as anyone with any knowledge of the sport will tell you, that is a big NO if you’re going to wear Lycra. The side pocket of the cheap rucksack from the gym he never goes to will have a copy of the Metro stuffed in the side, it’s free after all. The full effect will be topped off by a garish helmet of metallic blue and red that he’ll drop when he gets his travelcard from the outer pocket of the backpack. You think he looks stupid now, wait until he gets on the Brompton folding bike.

Overweight blokes on bikes are all about momentum. Once they get going they can’t stop, and the city accountant on the folding bike is no exception to the rule. He’ll thunder along the streets balanced precariously over those tiny little wheels, panting heavily as his huge thighs pound and wobble a low gear. Like his company’s corporate policy, it’s definitely a case of no pain no gain, which is why he’ll be sweating like a pig by the time he gets to Ludgate Circus.

Don’t get in his way because a pair of utterly ridiculous wrap around blue mirror shades will render this 20mph unstoppable lump completely blind. Don’t bother shouting either, because he’ll be listening to Massive Attack album on his iPod (White earphones).

Utterly, ridiculous.

What is it about London cyclists? In the space of about six months they’ve morphed from a few people commuting to work into a whole army of renegade road users battling for survival. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good for air quality and general congestion, but does it really have to be quite so aggressive?

I’m sure it used to be about people getting to work, now it seems to be about fat Steve from accounts indulging in some kind of alternative lifestyle for forty minutes a day. The wrap around shades, the shouting at pedestrians as the lights are jumped. Yes Steve, you’re one insane motherfucker, you don’t work in an office at all do you? No, you’re a professional base jumper/surfer/ hitman and member of 3 Para aren’t you? I’m surprised you’ve got time to be in London at all what with your commitments to the 2008 Extreme Sport Expo. You’ll be under a bus next week, then of course it’ll all be someone else’s fault.

Cyclists have very quickly become regarded as London’s worst road users. And that’s not worst as in ‘Down with the kids’ or ‘Bad ass’, but worst in terms of road using ability and basic two wheeled skill. The misguided faux aggression and lack of substance is London personified, in fact the London cyclist is everything you need to know about this city.

But despite identifying with some kind of new radical movement against boring people like me, the urban cyclist is just another thirty something fad for people that think Radiohead is alternative music.

So the next time you see the devil glaring at you from behind the insane sunglasses, smog mask and day glow Lycra, remember it’s just another office bod, like you and me.

FA Cup Final, Saturday 17th May 2008. Portsmouth Vs Cardiff.

The day starts with a journey down to Portsmouth on the South West Trains’ superb service out of Waterloo. Great station, quiet new trains with spacious carriages, £30 return. You can’t argue with that. People who moan about trains in this country usually listen to bands like Coldplay, drink Magners Cider and pretend they like Jeremy Clarkson. Go away.

The Final itself coincided with Ian’s Stag night, which was handy for getting refused entry to most pubs in Southsea, “Nothing personal guys, but no groups of blokes”. What do you expect? It’s the FA Cup Final, not fucking Valentines Day. You can stuff it anyway, who needs student pubs with stab vests, chalk boards and fake sawdust? Not when some of the finest pubs in Portsmouth are open for anyone, The 5th Hants Volunteer, The Devonshire Arms, proper boozers with Vinyl padding and dog hair. Pints in pint glasses and a dartboard without the irony. Urban pubs for industry, a dying and underrated breed.

A proper football club in a proper city. Women wearing football tops out drinking with their blokes. Humour, cigarettes, the buzz of victory and self respect. Great stuff, great day.

The news is on, BBC. I haven’t seen it in ages and now I know why.

A completely unrelated story focuses on a man with an England tattoo on his forearm. He’s done nothing wrong other than to offer some first hand evidence. Yet that evidence has already been doubted by the production crew, the BBC, the self importance of Television.

The crime of ink stained skin being a point of focus before he’s even opened his mouth.

It doesn’t matter what you have to say, what you’ve done, where you’ve been, what battle you’ve served in or what college you’ve been to. If you’ve dared to decorate yourself then you’re a potential point of interest for the revolting chattering classes.

I don’t know what upsets me most about the pointing with knowledge, and the sneering smiles of contempt. It could be the blatant snobbery of it all, but it’s probably that all important knowing of middle class smug.

One things for sure, news has never been more blatant with its condescension towards anyone that dares anything other than to aspire to the tedium of Graduate normality.

On the contrary, you people with cameras and clip boards make me fucking sick.