Sticking two fingers up at my carbon footprint

*****The following took place between 4am on Thursday the 5th and 4am, Friday the 6th November*****

4am - The alarm clock goes off. As I turn my phone to silent and step out of bed I am hit by the familiar pang of dread that accompanies every morning of a day in which I'm required to board a plane.

After a shower and dressing in half darkness I gulp down some tea and leave Fe sleeping. It's cold outside and dark. I contemplate never coming back. The headlines in the newspapers that a plane carrying 300 Fulham fans has crashed. It's pathetic really. I've flown 43 times in the last three years. You'd think it would either get easier or that I would grow some.

5am - I pass two drunken couples on the walk down Lavender Hill to Clapham Junction. After getting my ticket I find myself in familiar territory. i.e. waiting for a train to Gatwick that is showing no signs of arriving. It's delayed and for a few worrying minutes I am transported back to February and my failure to get to Jamaica.

6am - No need for additional stress as the train arrives late but well within time. I meet up with Dave and Fergus (a fellow Fulham fan) by the designated help desk. Me and Dave get our boarding passes and match tickets and the Spanish lady behind the counter calls Fergus, Fergoose. A nickname is born.

With our plane scheduled for a 7.30am take off there's enough time for Dave and Fergoose to grab coffee and breakfast. I opt for a double vodka and lemonade.

7am - The flight is memorable only for the fact that for once I go without valium. I don't want my day to be clouded or my emotions held in check. It's only a 2hour flight after all. Dave tells me I should look out the window when I fly as it provides a constant reminder of the reality of the situation. It's a good point.

8am - Still flying. Still not looking out the window much.

10am (Italian time) - I arrive with a bang. Several of them. I'm starting to suspect that those who fly charter planes aren't quite at the top of the piloting calibre tree. What do they do during the week when they're not flying football fans across Europe? Is there such thing as a part-time pilot? A freelancer?

Does this particular pilot dream of the day he can stop stacking shelves at Tesco? Does he imagine the moment he tells the night shift supervisor where to stick that last packet of Nutty Corn Shreds before storming out to work for a reputable airline with a proper uniform that commands respect and where he doesn't have to foot the dry-cleaning bill.

Judging by the crunching landing and the way the plane bounces to halt our pilot could do with more flying time or a reality check.

Disembarking I survey my 23rd country and immediately experience the crazy Italian driver stereotype. The bus driver taking us to customs seems to be having a running battle with a guy carrying another plane's luggage.

Meanwhile a bloke behind with sunglasses and a cigarette on the go drives his vehicle with both hands off the steering wheel. Somehow he conveys an attitude of nonchalent aggression. He looks like he could be the older brother of Paolo Di Canio.

11am - Armed police in all manner of pretty uniforms are lined up waiting for us. Without moving, speaking or breaking off from looking ever so slightly camp, they direct us to our coaches.

Before the journey I had been warned about two things to keep an eye on. Italian fans and Italian police. The first will stab you in the bottom. The second will hit you over the head with a truncheon.

Safety had been entrusted to the baton wielders. The convoy of five coaches was thus led into the heart of Rome by two cop cars that wouldn't have looked out of place in an Inspector Clouseau movie. If Clouseau had been Italian and not French, of course.



12am - Dropped of in the middle of Villa Borghese gardens. I know this because I just looked it up. The jobsworth on the coach warns me and Dave that if we return any later than half past three the coaches will leave and we will have to brave the journey to the ground without anyone preventing the natives from stabbing us in the bottom.

1pm - With camera in hand and stab-proof pants on, me, Dave and Fergoose walk towards the river Tiber. I also know this because I looked it up. We walk past a Piazza and down a couple of random streets before we find ourselves a 'local' restaurant far from the beaten track. Bottom stabbing aside we are all keen to immerse ourselves inthe local culture for a few short hours.



2pm - Three pizzas and six beers heavier we depart seventy five euros lighter. Stung by the exchange rate and a waiter who sussed us the minute we walked into the joint.

3pm - I get within two streets of the Vatican before the thought of missing the 3.30pm deadline forces us all to beat a hasty retreat back to the coach. En route we stop off to buy pancetta, Italian wine and a couple more beers. I deliver a passionate and rousing five minute account of the journey on talkSPORT.

4pm - I am told by the jobsworth that the reason why the coaches didn't actually depart at 3.30pm is because the police are waiting to undertake body searches on everyone. Although from my vantage point they seem far more interested in smoking cigarettes than they do conducting pat downs.





5pm - Dusk is falling by the time we leave. We are driven through town to the Stadio Olympico. Pleasure is derived from the fact that a) all traffic is halted to allow us uninterrupted passage to the ground b) the Roma fans that we pass swear at us c) we are safe and can laugh at them rather than fearing for our lives and our bottoms.

And before you know it we arrive.





6pm - An hour til kick off. A chance to go through the FFC songbook. Clear the lungs. Test the acoustics. Make our presence known. For once we actually manage to outsing our opponents.



6.10pm - Could really do with a beer now. The football hooligan of the 80's has a lot to answer for. No alcohol allowed on the flight, the coach and now the ground. Even some of the bars in town had shut up shop. Didn't they know Fulham fans are the best behaved in the Premier League?



7pm - The first half passes with Fulham well on top. A goal to the good and looking comfortable. As long as the ludicrous decision to give Haangeland a yellow card is the only decision the referee gets wrong we might even get more than the point we were hoping for.

The only other downside is an altercation with an inbred Fulham fan located right in front of us. After being asked to sit down so as to not block the view he refused

"It's Europe, not Craven Cottage" he blustered. As though being in Europe somehow made him invisible thus allowing those unfortunate enough to have to sit behind his stinking, yellow toothed form clear view of the action. "Everyone's standing up!" He cried. Forcing everyone in the vicinity to slowly look around to try and locate another person standing.

Momentarily unsure of himself he then repeated his "It's Europe!" line of argument as though we hadn't heard him the first time, no doubt hoping that after the fifth or sixth airing my brother would turn to me and remark "Oh, I get it, he's saying that it's Europe, and not Craven Cottage. Therefore we should either all be standing or just put up with him blocking our view. Because that's what happens when you watch football in Europe."

But this didn't happen. Instead Dave just told him off in much the same manner a primary school assistant would admonish a slightly backward child who had just coloured in his own face with crayons.

We moved along one seat for an unobstructed view and the buffoon's 'friends' looked a bit shame faced and gave off a 'here we go again' air of resignation.

8pm - The decision not to allow alcohol pays off and the destruction of the Stadio Olympico is averted following one of the most bent displays of refereeing ever witnessed. The pain of dropping two points at home in the last minute of the game against the same opponents is revisited. Two men sent off, a deflected shot that levelled things up and we are faced with a very long journey home with nothing to show for it.

9pm - But first we have a nice hours wait in the cold to get through. At least the moron in front chose to sit down for that second half. Although at times I could have done with something to hide behind. It's a sad end to a day that hasn't finished yet. Another two hour flight beckons. Oh, lucky me. Time to put a brave face on things.



10pm - The hour drive back to the airport flashes by. The warmth of the coach and the extra layers I've put on leave me feeling drowsy. I sleep most of the way. Upon reaching our destination I realise I will have to leave behind the wine bought earlier in the day. Then as we pass through customs the last of the duty free shops shuts for the night.

11pm - An unexpected delay at the airport. I ask the guy selling drinks for wine. His supervisor tells him not to sell it to me.

12pm - Dave and I drop 5MG of valium. As we slouch on our chairs and Dave eats M&M's (which the supervisor was happy to sell to us) big drops of rain start to splatter against the windows. It's dark, it's wet and outside it's cold. It's time to go home.

1am - Finally take off. An hour later than planned. With lights dimmed and the valium taking hold I let my head rest on Dave's shoulder. Hopeful of sleep. But any chance of this is rudely ended as the plane suddenly drops and lurches to the side. Startled, my eyes immediately flick open and I instinctively reach for my brother. His eyes are now also wide open.

Turbulence strikes. Repeatedly. And not just any old turbulence either - the worst I've ever experienced. The plane shudders and rocks and an audible groan rings out from the passengers after one particularly bad jolt makes the plane shudder and dip alarmingly.

The stewardesses are caught out. Everyone has been. The head steward grabs the intercom will all stewardesses get back to their seats now!!!!! But half way through barking this order the plane is broadsided by another burst. It overbalances him and the surprise in his voice is broadcast to us all 'will all stewardesses get back to their seats noooooooow!!!!!'

Panicking Stewardesses do nothing for my state of mind. With one hand grabbing my brothers knee and the other the seat in front all I could think of was Jesus Christ Fulham , haven't you put us through enough today?!

2am - Thankfully (and by thankfully, I mean, thank you god, I am down on my knees praying to you here) after ten minutes the turbulence subsides. I look back on the moment before my flight when I opted to take valium as one of the greatest decisions I've ever made. The part time pilot speaks to us over the tannoy to apologise for not warning us about the impending storm we were about to fly into. It was down to the delay at the airport. Apparently we missed the worst of it.

2am (UK time) - We fail to miss the worst of him, however. Another bumpy landing followed by a skid or two signals the fact that our plane has landed. For a minute I feared the turbulence had returned. *Note to pilot* If your journey is delayed. Recheck the f*cking weather forecast in the area you are about to fly into. That is all.

3am - Without any baggage in the hold Dave, Fergoose and I waltz through customs and head straight for the carpark. Fergoose kindly drops us both off at our houses.

Despite the hour and the fact I have work in the morning I pour myself a small glass of Angostura 1824, switch on the computer and read The Guardian, The Independent and BBC Sport's
version of events. I've always like the Beeb.

4am - Valium + physical/mental exhaustion + shot of the finest Angostura 1824Rum Trinidadian dollars can buy = deep, sweet sleep.

When time becomes a loop

It takes something a bit special to get me out in Brixton after dark on a school night. The evenings comprising of dodgy deals on Coldharbour Lane & tops off acid-techno action at Club 414 are of a decade long gone. While even the more respectable memories of late nights at The Dog Starr and Mass are starting to dim from memory.

These days the only reason I have to be in the area is my weekly game of 5 a-side football and on the much rarer occasion a band is playing at The Academy that I like. And last week, for the first time in over a year, it happened, as Orbital came back to town.

I’ve never really been at the forefront of the music scene, nor any scene for that matter. The only time in my life when I felt part of whatever was going on was during the grunge years 1992-1994. It was a fleeting love affair. Then as university beckoned, I left most of my mates as they moved onto the dub trip, and moved into electronic music and hands in the air clubbing.

It’s a genre guaranteed to end a conversation in a pub. A few months back I was chatting with some workmates about our top five albums of all time. The obvious bands cropped up for people of our age and sensibilities i.e. The Smiths, Stone Roses & The Beatles. All of which provoked debate and sparked memories that we could all relate to despite growing up in different parts of the country.

But when I mentioned two of my choices, silence reigned. They had nothing to say. Because if you’ve never listened to electronic music how can you help me answer whether Aphex Twin’s ‘Selected Ambient Works 1985-1992’ made more of an impression on my life than Underworld’s ‘Dubnobasswithmyheadman’.

What wasn’t an argument was the choice of the number one electronic album to make my list. Orbital’s Brown Album was on constant loop throughout my first and second years at university. Hearing certain parts of that album still transports me back to 1994, lazily lying down on my bed, daylight streaming through the windows, a book or comic in hand, and a lecture going on somewhere without me.

Since those halcyon days I’ve seen the band seven times in total. Including what was supposed to be their final gig at Brixton Academy in 2004. That evening had been a bit of a disappointment and failed to stand up alongside the epic evenings at Glastonbury in ’99 & 00. While listening to ‘Chime’ on the stroke of midnight to welcome in 1997 is a memory I’ll try hard never to forget. And now a year after my other favourite band, Smashing Pumpkins were resurrected, Orbital were back.



Tickets had been purchased months in advance and I met up with two old friends who had also spurned the majority and opted for dance over dancehall. I met up with Jamo and Dicky at a bar in Coldharbour Lane before we made our way to the gig. Walking briskly past the throngs we snaked our way in and were standing at the bar with minutes to go before the band came on.

It was great to be back at the Academy. I saw my second ever gig there back in 1989 when Transvision Vamp were headlining. Throughout the 90’s I spent the evening before my A-Level English exam watching The The, got trampled in a mosh pit before Rage Against The Machine had even started singing, got hooked on The Verve when they were supporting The Pumpkins and seen Orbital numerous times.

And now we were back. And though it might have just been because we hadn’t been to a gig for a while, but both Jamo and I noticed differences straight away. He had earlier remarked that his walk to the pub was notable for its serenity. For once it would have once been a ‘take your life in your own hands’ journey. But now the rude boys on the street weren’t quite so prevalent.

Similarly, inside the Academy the atmosphere was less edgy than in the past. Where were the hordes of punks fighting in a pile like they did during Faith No More back in 1993? This time, Jamo noted with a degree of regret, when you bumped into someone they immediately apologized rather than try and lamp you one.

It was all summed up rather neatly by an exchange I heard whilst waiting for the bar. Squeezed next to two chaps in their late 20’s I couldn’t help but overhear this depressing conversation.

Man 1: I’ve got a bit of an earache to be honest
Man 2: So what do you want to get then?
Man 1: Just get me a water.
Man 2: Okay
Man 1: Actually, I’ll just share yours if you’re getting one.
Man 2: Do they sell bottled water?
Man 1: Not sure
Man 2: Well if they do I’ll get one as well.
Man 1: Okay. Ooh, maybe I can get a single Martell on ice.
Me: (To myself) *Good grief*.
Man 2: Don’t think I’m going to stand too close to the stage. Feel pretty knackered.
Girl behind bar: What are you after?
Man 2: Two waters please.
Man 1: Oh, if you were getting one, I would have just had some of yours.
Man 2: Oh well.
Man 1: Do they sell earplugs?
Man 2: Do you sell earplugs?
Girl at bar: Yep.
Man 2: I’ll have two pairs please.
Bloke behind bar: (to guy standing to the right of me) What do you want mate?
Man 3: Nine pints of lager.
Me: Now that’s a round
Man 3: Yep.

To be fair I did then go on to buy myself a glass of red wine. But before I had a chance to group myself in the same bracket as those I’d spent five minutes silently slating, Orbital arrived.



It might have been the red wine speaking but it turned out to be the most enjoyable Orbital gig I've ever been to. The first half an hour featured some absolute classics. And Brixton has sorted out its sound system so the place was literally vibrating. My nose included. We had a great spot close to the stage but with enough space to drink and dance around.

Indeed the positioning was so perfect Jamo had no trouble finding us after popping off to the loo and Dicky was able to get another round in without spilling it over half the crowd on the walk back. With the band playing a blinder it was a turning into a top night.





Two hours later and with only one technical breakdown leading to a loss of sound, apology from a Hartnoll brother and the scratching of a roadies head, the night drew to a close. And despite an early start for us all we went to another bar round the back of Coldharbour Lane.

We were all in good spirits. And joy of joys it turned out that this place had a pool table. Has anyone else noticed the lack of pool tables in pubs these days? Dicky and Jamo had a quick game, then I took on Dicky, it would be unfair of me to mention that I 7-balled him. I’m far bigger than that. I then beat a chap who turned up and was giving it the big 'I am', before taking on a friend of his.

By this time quite a group of his friends had turned up and as they could see me winning took it in turns to try and put me off. I was taking it all quite good naturedly although the following day Jamo told me he was getting ready to fight them all.

It all went down to the black and to one of those shots that would normally have a part time pool player sweating. The black ball was positioned near the centre of the D, the white ball too close to the cushion at the other end for comfort. The balls too straight on to each other and I had a baying crowd in my eyeline. With chirping in my ear and Jamo behind me rolling his sleeves up I was thankful for those red wine confidence boosters as I smashed it in, drained my drink, walked off to pats on the shoulder from the vanquished and smiles from the gallery.

Dealing with swine flu; the NHS way

I found myself walking around the corridors of the legendary St.George’s Hospital in Tooting, South London this week. It’s the scene of some of the greatest births to have ever occurred in this country i.e. my sister and also my friends newly born son, Luca. And before I got myself hopelessly lost I stumbled upon this sign by the main reception.



Nicely done NHS. At least we don’t pay for it I suppose. Is it possible to feel robbed when you haven’t lost any money? The whole thing reminds me of an old Muppet Show sketch. Statler and Waldorf are complaining about the show.

Statler: Well we certainly got what we paid for tonight.
Waldorf: But we paid nothing.
Statler: And that’s what we got!

However, if this method of healthcare proves successful and swine flu cases begin to drop the NHS might actually start implementing the same procedures for all forms of illness. Got a pain in the abdomen? Bugger off home! Got a dislocated shoulder? Put a plaster on it. Cancer? That’ll teach you for smoking.