J'accuse

Watched Match of the Day with the kids this morning. And, for all the immense pleasure and gratifying schadenfreude at watching Wayne Bridge's Man C demolish John Terry's Chelsea 2:4 thanks to four mistakes by the hapless latter and, believe me, the pleasure was immense and the schadenfreude gratifying, I wish to talk about something else - Aaron Ramsey's injury.

So, to all you Premiership managers I have a simple question. When preparing your team to play Arsenal at home, in winter, north of the A406, did you say to your players anything like: "You know Arsenal, they play nice, but they're soft. Football is a physical game. A men's game. So, go ahead, show them how it's done. Play them off the field"?

Now, Aaron Ramsey is no Dreyfus and I am, most definitely, not Émile Zola. But, I will say this, to any Premiership manager who said anything of the sort, and I imagine it is most of them, I blame you. I blame you for Eduardo's broken leg cutting through the skin of his calf and into the turf. I blame you for Ramsey's foot dangling from his shin. I blame you for all those near-misses when a player escaped with a mere 2-months on the sidelines.

Football is a men's game. Men who honour each other and their profession. Men who play for the love of the game and the joy of the fans. Not men who hurt each other so badly that children - like MBBS - should not be allowed to watch MOTD for fear of being traumatised.

And for you MGF N - 190km, or 19% done. 27.40km ahead of schedule.

The Roundhouse

It was MGF G's birthday yesterday. For those of you who don't know him, he is the world record holder for work/life balancing. His LW (Lovely Wife) V got us all tickets to the Roundhouse to see the NOISEttes in their first major London concert. I do apologise for the excessive use of capital letters. For those of you wondering, MGF S, apparently it is to ensure we understand they are more about noise than hazelnuts.

Now, I don't know about you, but I, myself, am old. Last time I was in a proper gig of a young group was 1983 when the Smiths burst onto the scene. For those of you, MBH, who are quite strict about the use of poetic licences and would remind me that back then I was 15, in Jerusalem and couldn't point Manchester on the map: that's not the point. Apologies for the rant. Anyway, it was a while back. I was young and honestly believed I was hip. I wasn't.

So, going to a proper, standing-only gig was a bit daunting. In my ripe old age I realise I am not hip. And still, there is a limit to how much I would like everyone else to realise that. And yes, this thought does imply that there is still a long way to go in terms of self awareness; as if anyone else would notice me; they didn't.

It was great. The moment Shingai Shoniwa - the lead singer - appeared above our heads and sang a smooth R&B piece as if especially for MGF G was magic. Somehow, I didn't feel my age. In a way, it made me feel younger.

J

PS And for those of you who are interested in statistics, Nick P, 180km, or 18% done. This means that I am 21.10km (or 2.11%) ahead of schedule assuming an average of 2.74km per day over the year.

Wedding bells

MGFs S&A got married today!

Been a while since I last heard "know not of any lawful impediment".
A lump-in-my-throat moment hearing S&A make their vows. At our age you know they mean them in a way they never could have if they were 25 (and, for the record, for all I know S is not a day older than 25). I think they both feel lucky to have found each other. I know I feel grateful having them as MGFs.

Helped MFBD build a model of a WWII Spitfire the other day. As we were painting it I was considering adding notches to mark the number of enemy planes the pilot shot down. Got me thinking about my wedding band. Should we not have notches on the wedding band? An x for every child, a v for every 10 years of marriage. Would have 4 notches on my band on that count.

Shared this - admittedly extremely deep - idea with a colleague who had a 9th wedding anniversary the other day. He said: "you're right, we can no longer add notches to our bed-post"! Never had a bed-post myself, but still. Anyway, I guess we'd all like to think we are still as attractive as we were 20 years ago. In reality, being married merely protects us from the realisation of how unappealing we probably are. The notches on the wedding band are the only ones we can honestly hope for.

So S&A, congratulations on this very happy day. Lots of notches to come.

J

Constructive criticism

As you are most likely aware, I am a foreigner here. Have been in the UK for 13 years now, but still. Don't think I ever will be a true Brit. You see, I come from Israel and, as surprising as it may be, there appear to be some cultural differences between the two nations.

Now, you must be thinking I am going down the stand-up-comedian national stereotyping route for a few cheap laughs. In all honesty, I probably would, if only I were funny enough. No, I am facing a genuine cultural conundrum. You see, I seem to be on a collision path with a PA (Professional Acquaintance). In Israel, these sort of situations are handled swiftly and effectively through constructive criticism. I'd come over to my PA tell them they are complete idiots and that if they don't get their act together I'd send a hit squad after them. And, by "tell" I mean yell. And by "yell" I mean I'd be standing 2" from their face, my spit leaving craters in their cheekbones.

In the UK constructive criticism is what in Israel would be termed 'compliments'. "I believe we can get to 100% if we make a final effort", which in Israel would mean "you must be a genius" would be taken in the UK as grave criticism for not giving 110%. And, did you notice the "we". It is never "your fault". In the UK we share the blame even if we had nothing to do with it. Or perhaps, we are at fault for not ensuring that "we" didn't fail.

So, taking all of the above into account, I spent my run today thinking about how I can administer criticism that will actually be deemed constructive. Went for the coaching approach, clearly stating my intentions are genuine. Have no idea how it will go down. In all likelihood my PA will never speak to me again. Will keep you posted.

J

Glorious Bastard

Just finished watching Inglorious Bastards - Quentin Tarantino's latest. Knowing that it would be past midnight when it's over, I prepared two alternative reviews during my evening run. One in case it was good the other in case it wasn't. You know, like a journalist covering a late night sports event, for example the Champions' League final. One story in case Barcelona wins another in case it is Man U. For Barca, he will have a pre-canned eulogy of Messi, and a bit about how Henry who could not win it with Arsenal. For Man U, the speculation as to whether Fergie would finally retire at the peak of his career.

You see, deep in my heart I was hoping the movie would be great and I could say about Tarantion: " the glorious bastard is back"!

So which one is it? The good review or the other? Unfortunately, neither. On the one hand, Tarantino clearly knows his trade. The first chapter - which reminded me of the famous scene from The Good the Bad and the Ugly in which Angel Eyes treats himself to his future victim's chilli - is a master-stroke of tension building cinema. On the other, the climatic mass killing in the cinema in the scene before last is (and I know I am predictable) a real anti-climax; it is grotesque rather than gruesome.

So, yes, it is probably Tarantino's best film for a while and hence worthwhile watching. At the same time, feels like he still needs to relax a bit. It seems like Tarantino is making too much of an effort to prove himself as true to his own legacy. And that, rather like this sentence (to quote A. A. Milne) is a bit tiring.

Good night.

What if?

EuroMillions fever has found its way to the Tikochinsky household. Whenever the prize rolls over to more than £50m MBH must, positively must, give it a go.

Now as we all know, the likelihood of winning is pretty much nil, zero, nada, zilch. Moreover, I genuinely don't know what the practical difference is between winning £30m and £70m. Unless you want to buy L'Homme Qui Marche, Giacometti's bronze sculpture that sold last week in auction for £58m + £7m for the auctioneer, making it the 3rd most expensive artwork ever.

And yet, I did find myself asking myself tonight: what if I won? What would I do differently? Probably the biggest difference would be not having to worry about money. Now I know that talking about money is not really a British thing. But I bet that even the poshest of Brits does, in a weak moment, think about money. Especially if they don't have much of it.

So, what would I do differently? First, I'd buy any song that comes to mind on iTunes! Sorry, but I cannot bring myself to actually pay 99p for 'Come on Eileen'. However, I will gladly give £1 to anyone who can honestly say that 'Come on Eileen' is not playing in their head as they read this sentence. Second, I'd plan a 6-weeks holiday world for the kids' summer break. I am thinking the far east - Thailand & Japan. The key question I asked myself, however, was: how long will it take before I resign from work? Now I know you are all saying to yourself "not more than 5 seconds!!!" I thought I would too. But the truth is (and I genuinely don't believe any of my bosses is reading this, so I am not writing this under duress) I'd probably stick around for a while. Having spent so long working I guess all of us feel a commitment to doing the right thing at work. To doing the "professional" thing. Dropping everything from one second to the next just doesn't feel right. And, in a way, I find this thought comforting. It somehow suggests that even in the most impersonal working environment, we still feel a connection to our fellow men and the moral obligation to do the right thing by them. And for bringing me to this conclusion alone I am grateful to EuroMillions. Obviously, £56m would also be nice.

11 & 12

Went out with MGF S&M (yes, I am finding it hard to resist, but I will) last night to see the new Peter Brook play 11 &12. If you are wondering what it was like, then in one word: slow. In two words: very slow. Which is OK for you or me to say, but is a completely unacceptable criticism from MGF M.

You see, M is a man who enjoys watching paint dry. And, not any paint at that. We are talking about paint applied to his Napoleon-era led soldiers! And yes, for those of you who were wondering, I will not reveal his identity. Water-boarding will not help Mr Cheney

So, yes 11 & 12 it slow. Veeeeerrrrryyyyy slooooowwwww. But that's not its biggest fault. Two bigger ones come to mind.

The first has to do with the emotional narrative of the play. Basically, in the first 2/3 of the play we follow the story thru the eyes of Amadou, with whom we form an emotional bond. In the last 1/3 the story continues, but our lead character recedes to the background and we lose the emotional attachment. Now I know, emotional narrative is not necessarily what Brook is gunning for, but if that's the case, why build the audience's emotional attachment in the first place?

The second is the moral perspective which, I am afraid, can only be described as that of an apologetic Guardian reader. Now, don't get me wrong, I am a dedicated Guardian reader, however, of the un-apologetic type. So, the French are evil and not too clever. The Muslims are wise and gentle. Every fable is told as if it holds the key to all the secrets of the universe. And, by God, I am certain it doesn't.

Obviously, it's not all bad. It's beautifully done and the actors do know their trade. Let's give it a 3-star then? Not sure S&M would be that charitable. M slept throughout. S would have too but for her very British sense of "proper". Next time it's their turn to choose; Legally Blonde, here I come.

J

Europe? Kaput?!

MGF D is a man of the world. Over the last 15 years he lived in 3 continents.
More specifically, 3 of the world's great cities. Every move anticipating the decline of the part of the world he is leaving and the rise of the one he's moving to. D foresaw Cool Britannia before Blair had dinner at Granita and realised it wasn't gonna be cool for long when Blair was still kissing babies. Most endearingly, D is extremely passionate about the place he is going to and utterly convinced of the demise of the one he is leaving.

So, when D said upon leaving London: "Europe? It's the old world. Believe me, it's kaput!" I took notice. Within 3 weeks, we sold the house, converted the £s (all 3 of them) to $HK, took the kids out of school and started home schooling then in Mandarin.

And yet, whilst the £ crashed and the economy shrunk, Europe's demise was not apparent. The sun shined on the Tuscan hills, Paris remained as romantic as ever and nothing in the world tasted as refined as pata negra. So, we bought back the house (prices fell by 40%), converted the $HK back to £s (which crashed by 40%) and sent the kids back to school - we could almost afford it with all these capital gains. Thanks D (as I said, a genuine MGF).

But now things look different. Whilst I can imagine the sun is still shining in Tuscany, Europe genuinely looks fragile. In Copenhagen the US and China struck a deal on climate change without even inviting the Europeans (they were busy drinking espresso, so why bother?). Obama politely declined the invitation to the next EU summit (I guess he is too skinny to have 4 official dinners with the 4 different EU presidents as required by protocol). And now, the Euro is at risk because the rich European countries don't want to pay for the perceived frivolity of the poor ones yet, if they don't pay, the Euro will crash making the rich countries a lot poorer. The G7, which turned to G8 and then G20 is moving to a G2 order in which Europe has no say.

The question going through my head running today was: "what's wrong with that?"
Does a diminished political role for Europe on the Global stage mean that Europe is Kaput? Or, does it relieve Europe from its delusions of grandeur and allows it to focus on what it's really good at: culture, art, food, design, democracy, human rights, engineering?

Dark. Quiet.

Just back from running.

Dark. Streets are empty. Not a single pedestrian. No more than a handful of cars. All the shops are closed. Quiet. The Northern, arctic wind the only sound.

Cold. Frost gradually forming on car roofs. Hands still cold after 5km on the road. Dry. Can almost hear my lips cracking.

Winter. As it should be.

The A406

Crossed the A406 today. Just so you appreciate the significance of the event, MBBS (My Best Beloved Son) asked "are we going to the airport?" For us foreigners living in the UK there really is no good reason to leave London and still stay in the UK. Every time I'd suggest to MBH that we go on holiday in the UK, e.g. Bath, we end up having the same discussion:

MBH: "How long does it take to get there?"
Me: "About 3 hours."
MBH: "It only takes 2 1/2 hours to go to Paris. And, BTW, how much would the hotel cost?"
Me: "About £150 a night."
MBH: "The hotel we stay in in Paris is cheaper. And, BTW, are there any nice restaurants around?"
Me: "There is this great pub, the Red Goose".
MBH: "Is it as good as L'Epi Dupin? And, BTW . . . . ."

Guess what. We end up going to Paris.

And yet, today, we crossed the Rubicon which is the North Circular to visit MGFs T&M. Foreigners like us, they made the brave move to the English countryside. It's been 5 months since they moved out and, still, we were the first non-English friends to pay them a visit.

I have to say, there may be cons to leaving London, but boy, there are pros! (noticed the exclamation mark?). First, and I am afraid you are about to witness an outburst of materialism, it appears that property prices in London are slightly higher than . . . . . anywhere else. Now, I know that I am sometimes prone to exaggeration but, honestly, this is not the case; their old place could easily fit in their kids new play house. Second, and here's an attempt at bringing a more spiritual note to the discussion, living in the countryside means that you quite easily find yourself in, well, the countryside. Rather serene I must say.

So, you must be asking yourself: bottom line, do the pros outweigh the cons? Is there a future outside the A406? Not an easy one. I guess the biggest downside as a foreigner is that in the countryside you are, well (and I know I used this trick in the previous paragraph, but it is after all 00:21am), a foreigner. In London everyone is. A foreigner, that is. English people move to London in their 20s and usually leave by their mid-30s. English people who grew up in London do not define themselves as English but as Londoners.

For me, then, London is still it. At the same time, now that T&M have established an outpost in the countryside, it creates an opening for the rest of us. By definition, we can no longer be the only foreigners north of the North Circular. And for that, and their wonderfull hospitality, I thank them from the bottom of my heart.

The misty Heath

It was a cold, misty, February morning. Smiley was walking slowly through the narrow paths of the Heath. He was looking for a mark. A chalk mark on a tree trunk or a rock. It was Moscow rules. From time to time he turned around making sure he was not being followed. He was wearing a dark overcoat that blended in with the shade of trees and bushes providing him perfect camouflage.

Then, suddenly, he stopped and leaned forward. On a dark rock under a bush he found what he was looking for - a chalk mark. Smiley turned into an old path that was barely visible in the thick mist. Thorny branches grew onto the path almost blocking the way through. But Smiley was moving faster, his feet shuffling. He felt he was getting closer. The adrenaline was pumping through his veins and his haste disclosed excitement. To his surprise he noticed spot of fresh blood. Then another. Smiley hurried down the path, the thickening branches leaving scratches on his face and hands. Suddenly Smiley stopped. Hanging from a tree, as if thrown on to it by an enormous animal, was a body of an elderly man. Smiley recognised him at once. His head bowed down he took off his thick glasses and rubbed his eyes as if to hold back tears.

Quietly, I took the pistol out of my jacket pocket. He was about 50 yards from me. One shot and Smiley collapsed, flat on his face into a bush. I put the pistol quickly back into my pocket - it was still hot - an ran into the misty Heath.

Breaking the code

You may have heard of the John Terry affair; the England football captain now stripped of the captaincy because he had an affair with the ex-girl-friend of a team mate. The question going through my head running today was: "what's the big deal?"

With all due respect, we are talking about a small group of filthy rich, physically supreme, socially idolised yet not so well educated guys who are known more for getting pissed on Crystal and shagging page 3 "models" than for kicking a football. With all due respect, did anyone really expect anything else?

And here's the thing. The answer is yes. Let me explain.

Remember the Osborne v Mandelson affair? The shadow chancellor and a leading government figure spent a holiday together on a Greek island as the guests of a billionaire hedgefunder and / or a Russian oligarch. Sitting on a yacht, they drank untold number of bottles of Dom Perignon and dished out the dirt about their party colleagues. Obviously nothing wrong with that I guess. The Osbourne affair had nothing to do with accepting gifts from people who may want a payback if one ever came to office. The affair began when Osborne leaked Mandelson's comments to the press. His actions were deemed so unacceptable that the said billionaire wrote an open letter to the Times threatening Osborne into retracting his statement.

The reason for the reaction to both Terry's and Osborne's indiscretions is not, dare I say, the immorality of their actions. It was the fact that they broke the strict social codes of their respective groups. You can cheat on your wife six ways from Sunday, but not with your team-mate's ex. You can accept inappropriate hospitality as long as you don't disclose what was said by the other guests.

Footballers, like politicians, are special. The code of their respective privileged groups is above the morality we mere mortals live by. When they break these codes, they are duly punished. And if this, I say, is what it takes to unite the thug from Barking common and the lad from the lush grounds of Eaton, so be it.