Sir Alex Ferguson: A dreamer at heart

Why did he bring on Macheda?

Pouring over everything written about Ferguson in the past 48 hours one thing is clear: the man’s astonishing. Yet amongst his greatness and his triumphs there is one moment I keep coming back to, one question I can’t stop asking:

What made him bring on Macheda?

There are bigger moments in Ferguson and United’s history. In a sea of success this is, after all, a pretty small wave. It’s not signing Cantona, it’s not Keane’s header in Turin and it’s not a wonderful run by Giggs. It’s a small moment. But therein lies the key to Sir Alex Ferguson’s success. Ferguson, you see, has always known that life is only ever about the small things. Lots and lots and lots of small things. Details. Remembering names, making time for people, attending weddings and funerals – these are the small things that, when added up, mean the big things. This is life - and I learnt it from Sir Alex Ferguson.

So why did he bring on Macheda? 2-1 down, a back four decimated by injuries, a title challenge falling apart at the seams, why did he think giving a 17 year old Italian his debut would help?

For that matter why switch Giggs to left back against West Ham 2011? Why play Welbeck over Rooney against Madrid and why bring on Giggs in the 100^th minute of the last ever semi final replay? Why did he sign Ronaldo? Why Solskjaer over any other striker in Europe? Why, why, why?

The answer is rooted in the small, seemingly insignificant moments that happen behind the scenes. Macheda was brimming with confidence and had all the arrogance of a 17 year old who’d just scored a hat-trick in the reserves. Why did he score that hat-trick? Because a certain manager told him that if he scored against Newcastle he could be on the bench against Villa – for the first team. Ferguson knew how to press this kid’s buttons. He inspired him. He lay the foundation for Kiko’s miraculous moment with that one comment. It’s a stretch to say it was all planned. But it was definitely all planned for. You can’t win the lottery if you don’t buy a ticket. And Ferguson spent 26.5 years buying tickets to every lottery going.

Ferguson’s success is rooted in traditional values of loyalty, commitment and hard work. But this combined with his Govan roots and early career at St Mirren and Aberdeen, often see him painted as a growling industrialist. A British icon with a shipyard background who flogged his players to death and scared them into succeeding. This is wrong. This is myth. The planning, the preparation, the work ethic – these were the foundations for something bigger, something out of this world. Because the unspoken truth about Ferguson is this: he’s a dreamer. A romantic. He believes in the impossible.

He used to say stupid things about Manchester United Football Club being the biggest and best in the world – in 1986. People laughed – and with good reason. (For comparison imagine the new manager of Everton saying that today.) But Ferguson didn’t laugh. He smiled. He worked, he dreamed and he believed.

Sir Bobby Charlton tells of the time he and Ferguson visited Camp Nou in the early 90s and how they stood on the pitch ogling at the stadium. “This is what we need”, Fergie said. And he didn’t just stare jealously while thinking about what to have for tea. He flew home and drove the chairman mad to increase the capacity of Old Trafford. 45,000 was not enough. 55,000 not enough. 70,000 no, 85,000 no. Nothing would satisfy him. His vision was for the biggest, best stadium for the best football club in the entire world. That was his dream.

And it manifested itself in a team that could make grown men cry. The courage they showed (I remember my dad shedding tears home to Spurs ’99. He couldn’t get over the sheer guts Keane, Beckham et al had shown to get over the line) combined with the style of play brought us more and more success. This is not a coincidence. Style and substance: to a fantasist like Ferguson you can’t have one without the other. He believes in players enjoying themselves, doing wonderful things and “expressing themselves.” He believes in that because he believes that’s what winners do. And he loves it.

Winning in style is so often misunderstood. It’s not just about playing beautiful football. It’s about performing under pressure, or winning when the odds are stacked against you. It’s about going to enemy territory, taking everything they throw at you and coming out on top. Character. That’s what winning in style is about. And that is the fabric of our club. The Busby Babes were a group of young, adventurous men playing with such abandon and expression they changed British football forever. And they were winners. Then out of the ashes of Munich came the swinging 60s lit up by Best, Law and Charlton. When we won the European Cup in ’68 Busby serenaded the after-party with Louis Armstrong’s ‘Wonderful World’.

I see trees of green / red roses too
I see them bloom / for me and for you
And I think to myself...what a wonderful world.

It’s about the small things. And Ferguson, like Busby before him, understood that each small step could one day lead to a magnificent journey. And it did.

Ferguson was an attacking manager. His first great team introduced the world to Giggs, Cantona and Hughes. That team saw this country out of the dark ages and, thanks to a unique brand of counter attacking football, we were champions for the first time in 26 years. This wasn’t a coincidence. There’d been planning from 86-92. From 92 came the adventure.

This was the start of it all. A cycle bookended perfectly by two players: Cantona and Van Persie. Players with exceptional touch, vision and grace, they were/ are, above all winners, scorers of big goals, seemingly born to grace the Old Trafford stage. These two are more than just footballers – they are talismen. Of course, in between Keane, Ronaldo, Scholes, Giggs, Becks (I’ll stop there as the list is ridiculously long) played just as big a role, but these two are the players Ferguson dreamt of when he closed his eyes at night. They were fantasy players with substance. They were United players. They were Ferguson players.

They could make something out of nothing. And that’s what Ferguson was about. Magic. The late goals were not a coincidence. Only a dreamer could have believed we’d win at home to Wednesday, in Turin, in Barcelona and all over for all those years. He believed we could win games we should never have won and that belief permeated through the club. Beckham turned to Gary Neville, 2-0 down in Turin and said, “these have gone, we’ll win this.” Excuse me? Where did that come from? Where do you think?

Ferguson believed we’d win more European Cups. Two is not a disappointment in the modern era but he was left distraught many times. That’s why Madrid (this season) is important. It was unfair. It was injustice. That was Ferguson at his absolute best. Choking Alonso, freeing Nani, shackling Ronaldo and birthing Welbeck - the planning had been immaculate, the magic was imminent. But it wasn’t to be. He deserved better. To say we couldn’t have won the European Cup this season is wrong - and I’ll tell you why. When United reach the quarters of any tournament I think we’re going to win it. I’m not always right (clearly) but I know I’m not alone.

That night in March was the grand statement of a new United side. It was the cutting of the ribbon ahead of a big opening. It was a bright, bold, “Hello Europe, we’re back.” And it was taken from us. So he was distraught. Not only was this his last goodbye in Europe, his dream had been shattered. He was heart-broken. Unfortunately, for romantics, it happens. To quote Tennyson:

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Sir Alex Ferguson has played a huge part in all our lives. Why and how has been well articulated elsewhere (Daniel Harris especially). He was our manager of our club. I have hung on his every word for most of my life and to the day I die I will never tire of hearing about the great man. I’m so happy he’s gone out on a high – a privilege granted to only a special few. Not only does he deserve it but, selfishly, it makes it all a little easier. It was time.

He is one of the most influential people in my life and I’ve never even met him. So for now I’m going to forget about the future and spend the next few weeks looking back over the last 26.5 years. And while I’ll miss him I appreciate how lucky I was to be there for so much of it. The Oldham semis 1990, the Palace final, Blackburn 93, Wembley 94, 96, Spurs home 99, Barca 99, white hart lane 2001, Anfield 07, villa park 96, 99 & 2004, Stamford bridge 2011, Chelsea home 2011, QPR 2013 and so many, many, many more. They are more than memories. They are my life. And while I’m grateful beyond words for how Ferguson has enriched my life on so many occasions, I also need to say how overwhelmed with sadness I am. Never again will I see a Ferguson side, 2-1 down, having just pulled a goal back with 20 minutes to play, chasing a game and scaring the life out of the opposition. It’s coming, they know it’s coming, but they can’t do anything stop it. Why? Quite simply, they’re trapped in Fergie’s dream.

THE STONE ROSES: What the world is waiting for?

DISCLAIMER: This isn’t a review. It’s some thoughts, questions and conjecture on behalf of a generation of Roses fans who are new to all this…

Is this the one?

It was everything I’d hoped it would be. They were everything I’d hoped they’d be. Even Heaton Park was magically transformed into a field of love. It exceeded expectations. But one question remains: ‘what now’?

This band is too good for a nostalgia trip, for a walk down memory lane. When they split, the frustration was not just that it signaled the end of an era (and a descent into the hideous Britpop farce), but that they had barely begun to scratch the surface. Such creative forces surely had more to offer.

And now they’ve reformed, what now? Surely this must be more than an arena tour that gives the dads in their early 40s a one-night-only chance to revisit their youth.

Immerse me in your splendour.

The fear of The Stone Roses reforming is that they become just another band. Touring, talk shows, twitter – uch. It doesn’t even bear thinking about. As good as they are (and they are the best) it would kill me to see them turn into an alternative U2. Please don’t become just another band. Immerse me in your splendour.

I wasn’t at Spike Island.

At 30 I am too young to have been there first time around. I was 8 years old when they played at Spike Island. I was 14 when they split. I got into Oasis before I got into The Stone Roses. I got into The Beatles before I got into The Stone Roses. Unlike the elder generation, not everyone at school was into acid house, going to the Hacienda at weekends. We arrived too late for that jazz. We were at Maine Road and Knebworth but we weren’t crawling round the M25 looking for raves. Nor were we at Glasgow Green, Blackpool or Spike Island watching the Roses. As with so much our generation was late to the party, and too late to be part of something special (the digital age doesn’t count). Their impact on Manchester was tangible; we felt their presence everywhere – even if they were no longer around.

Chasing a ghost.

We spent our late teens and twenties chasing the holy spirit of the Stone Roses. We were living on scraps. There were precious few clips (YouTube helped but there’s only so many times you can watch that Brown/ Squire ‘Morecambe and Wise’ interview), no new songs (Pearl Bastard was a significant event in my life), no new stories and very few public appearances.

But we never gave up. At 14 I went to T in the Park to see the Seahorses. I was that desperate to catch Squire on stage. A few of us went to every Brown tour, we saw Primal Scream several times just to groove to Mani. Reni was like a ghost. We used to wax lyrical about him, listening to whatever snippets we could find, re-reading the same anecdote about Pete Townsend being blown away by a young Alan Wren. They were like Gods. Not just because we worshipped them; but because we never saw them. They existed through faith and love alone.

“A love for each other will bring the fighting to an end.”

They were part of the baggy generation – but they weren’t defined by it. Not in a way that the Happy Mondays were. Not like New Order will be forever inextricably linked to the Hacienda. They are as timeless as The Beatles. Before cocaine ruined it, Brown and Squire wrote huge volume of work – ala Lennon and McCartney. And, like the Beatles, they were friends as kids, from the same world, who loved each other.

At the heart of the band is the Squire and Brown relationship. John said it himself at the press conference: “In some ways, it's a friendship that defines us both - and it needed fixing.” Beautiful. And true. The greatest bands (and teams) are always the sum of the parts. That’s what makes them special. It’s not just songs and instruments – it’s chemistry. It’s four guys that come together to make music that no other four guys could.

As soon as Squire and Brown forgave each other, the band was back together. It was that simple. And watching them on stage you could see the love. We all have relationships in our lives that define us. We regret what we did and didn’t say. But the love never goes. And watching four boys from South Manchester back on stage, sharing the love was nothing short of inspiring.

“Won’t you help me sing...”

The collective thousands that sang along with Browny in Heaton Park were happy with life. After all we’ve been begging for just one chance to see the Roses play for years. Now it’s been and gone, the question lingers…what happens now?

Piece I did for the guys at the YCC

“I don’t want to be a product of my environment. I want my environment to be a product of me.” Francis Costello, The Departed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=QG-oyi5KfWk

Quoting a fictional mobster and mass murderer may seem odd, but I know what he means.

I would hate to be defined by my job. Nothing depresses more than being defined by a career. ‘What do you do?’ Why do people ask that question? It’s the second question after ‘what’s your name?’ Why? Would you respect me more I tell you I’m a lawyer? If I were a banker would you turn your nose up at me? If I were a footballer would you want to be my friend?

It’s bollocks - I’m being slightly facetious - but it’s still bollocks.

I want to be defined by what I created. What I did with my life. I want to tell a story about who I am, what I believe and what the world needs to know about me. I want to be a hero. I want to be like my heroes. To inspire and be inspired.

Or as this man says 

“To learn how to love and to be loved.” Conor Oberst

But how?

There’s a few ways. You can be like Mozart. A genius. A god-given child genius who plucked music out of the air like snowflakes. For whom inspiration was like water – free, easy and on tap. If you like music, you like Mozart. I don’t care who you are. The melodies are as incredible today as they were 400 years ago. Listen to this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QG-oyi5KfWk&feature=player_embedded

When I first heard that piece I was in shock. I didn’t know music could be that good.

Genius exists. It’s to be treasured but never replicated. Not even by the possessor of that genius. People have moments of genius – but that doesn’t make them a genius. Bob Dylan wrote songs in the 60s that he couldn’t write now. Why? Because that inspirational creative tension that feeds your material doesn’t last forever. Age wins eventually. But when it’s there take advantage of it.

Cinderella, she seems so easy
“It takes one to know one,” she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning
“You Belong to Me I Believe”
And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place my friend
You better leave”
And the only sound that’s left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Bob Dylan, Desolation Row.

Gold.

Then there’s the story-tellers. Like Paul Simon.

He sets the scene:

The Mississippi delta is shining like a national guitar (Graceland)

He tells jokes:

My father was a fisherman, my mother was a fisherman’s friend (Duncan)

He creates characters like the unnamed protagonist in One Trick Pony:

He makes it look so easy
He looks so clean
He moves like god's
Immaculate machine
He makes me think about
All of these extra movements I make…

And he fills us with evocative settings and the endings we crave:

A man walks down the street
It's a street in a strange world
Maybe it's the third world
Maybe it's his first time around
Doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the
Sound, sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says Amen! and Hallelujah!

You can call me Al

Magic. Reading those lyrics back now, I can remember where I was when I listened to Graceland for the first time. Nowhere special, at home, driving around during uni holidays. But I can remember what I was reading, what I was feeling at the time, and where I wanted to be. True inspiration.

But there’s more to life than lyrics, than stories.

There’s everyday, grit and determination. There’s the inspirational leadership qualities that this week’s passing Major Dick Winters (Band of Brothers fans out there will know what I’m referring to) got me thinking about.

This man remains the best source of inspiration for digging deep inside yourself and succeeding. I use this man as an inspiration every single day.

This man is Roy Keane. An ex-footballer he may be but that isn’t important. Forget the partisanship of club football and think about this: I watched this man put his heart and soul on the line every single week for his team. For his team-mates. He was a winner. He was a brilliant player but more than that – if you had Roy Keane on your team you would be confident of winning. And that makes him an inspiration. I look at how he achieved that. Talent of course is vital. But his desire, his determination to never give up a lost cause, to lead by example and – most importantly, to put his neck on the line, made him what he was.

Nelson Mandela told Sir Ian Botham never to underestimate the positive effect sport can have on whole societies.. Sport brings people together and brings the best out of those involved. And he’s right. The heroic qualities that Roy Keane possessed in abundance transcend sport. Because there is no doubt that if Roy Keane was pitching on behalf of your ad agency you’d win that business (as long as he didn’t attempt to break the client’s leg if during feedback). Or if you needed a man in the trenches, he’d be the first one to volunteer. That’s inspirational.

But what inspires me changes with time. I don’t apologise for that. It’s my right as a living, sentient being to be as fickle as I damn well please. My mood changes daily (hourly if you ask those that work with me). One day I want to escape from my life and I’ll convince myself I should be somewhere else. I’ll blast Bruce into my eardrums and scream inside:

“Tramps like us, baby we were born to run”.

The next day brings new ideas, new thoughts and new longings. Maybe an insatiable desire to watch an old film, to feel melancholic or to revisit old emotions. I could watch this scene from Magnolia all day.

Music in films get it right and you can’t go wrong. I can only apologise for the crappy link. Watch the film itself.

--

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82_bhD0_Trw

An inspirational story as old as time, told as well as ever.

--

The power of this clip does not fade with time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pyBB7y8fDU

When winter’s coming I put Elliott Smith on the iPod and plod to work in rain. It’s an annual ritual and I remain as moved by the intimacy of his music now as I was when I first heard his masterpiece album, XO.

It’s a picture perfect evening and I’m staring down the sun

Fully loaded deaf and dumb and done

Waiting for sedation to disconnect my head

Or any situation where I’m better off than dead.

Sweet Adeline, Elliott Smith

I could go on. Murakami’s novels, the prolific nature of Shakespeare’s works, the stories of everyday heroes told and untold – inspiration is everywhere and its contributors are too numerous to be named and referenced here.

But to be inspired and to create are – though linked – different. I could watch the Sopranos all day. But I couldn’t write all day. I couldn’t play the piano all day. Those moments come every once in a while, triggered by someone else’s heroism.

And that’s what inspires me. The chance to create, not just sit back and watch. To take in what I see and add my own tuppence to the debate. To do it my way - through music, words or simply my everyday actions and relationships.

One day I want to be Ian Brown, the next I want to write like Aaron Sorkin. But whether or not either happens, the chance to define who I am by what I do, is inspiration enough. For now.

You can find link to original article and more here:

http://youngcreativecouncil.wordpress.com/

SO LONG 2010. You'll be remembered. Or will you?

So 2010 is over. Gone. Dead and buried. Caput. Finito.

Will you miss it? Will you look back at 2010 as the year where great things happened? Or will it be one of those years that flew by and morphed into all the others in the depths of your mind? You know, like 1998. Nothing happened in ’98. I mean, of course things happened, but nothing that makes me pine for 1998. The release of Armageddon starring Bruce Willis doesn’t do it, nor did France winning the world cup. In fact, that was really annoying.

What happened in 2010 that will stick in the memory? The formation of a UK coalition government springs to mind. Clegg and Cameron walking hand in hand into number 10 was a remarkable sight. Rumours that they shared a passionate embrace behind closed doors have proven to be completely unfounded. But I bet they did. 

                                                                                                     Getting ready for the big kiss

On a global level, we’ve been fire fighting. Literally in the case of Israel, while the world has had to watch as Haiti, Pakistan and others suffered terrible environmental tragedies. Such is their frequency, that there's a danger that international disasters will define our years for generations to come.

I’m no environmentalist but the earth is beginning to feel the strain that mankind has placed on it and changing climates are affecting poorer countries more and more. Perhaps the weather will be the key thing we take from 2010. I personally have spent the past 6 weeks bemoaning the weather here in the UK. How dare it snow! What about my hectic social life? And how dare you mess with the football season. Damn you superior worldly being who is clearly punishing us for the wrong doings of previous generations. And yes, I’m talking to you Mr Bank.

Because really 2010 has been a year of WTF. As in 'what the fuck just happened'? We’re coming to terms slowly with a changed world. We’re peeking our heads over the rocks we’ve been cowering behind (AKA 2008 and 2009) and slowly adjusting to new conditions. There’s less money, there’s changing industries, there’s a lack of certainty in the housing market (a previous rock of the western world) and there’s pessimism and ambiguity round every corner. In short, we’ve been stung and we’re making sure we don’t get stung again.

Government cuts, American mid-terms, interest rate holds, businesses and countries teetering on the brink of administration, global disasters and emerging superpowers – it’s uncertain to say the least. And that affects our psychology. It affects our confidence. Because the real truth is that no one knows just yet what 2010 was all about. Was it the year of the student riots? The birth of an angry generation? Or merely just another year of humanitarian disasters and political chaos? Was it the year when everything started getting better? Or the year we realised that things would never get better? Was 2010 the start of a paradigm shift, or merely just another year when lots happened, but nothing really mattered?

A bit like 1998 really. At least it’s not Armageddon I suppose.

So happy new year all and I leave you with my utterly subjective and meaningless 2010 awards:

Most enduring image:

Cameron and Clegg entering Downing St for the start of a new era of British politics.

Most unlikely world-affecting event: 

                                                            Eyjafjallajökull 

Best film: in a year littered with sequels and other meaningless films, Social Network just pips Un Prophete. Inception in 3^rd for effort alone.

New stars?

Always. But how Janelle Monae isn’t much bigger in Europe than she is currently is beyond me. ArchAndroid is the best album of 2010 by a distance. In terms of new albums, honourable mentions to Arcade Fire, Big Boi, Deerhunter, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes and as much as it pains me, Kanye. Oh god I’ve been unfaithful to myself.

Best song:

Utterly futile as I change my mind every two seconds but right now I’m in party mood and Only Girl in the World by Rihanna is just brilliant pop. The Villagers Becoming a Jackal is utterly fantastic for all sorts of different reasons.

Sportsperson of 2010

In a year when football has proven to be even more fickle and money orientated than even its biggest critics imagined, other sports have stepped up to the mark. None more so than cricket, and our national side in particular. Andrew Strauss has led the team with distinction, dignity and class while being a very fine batsman. He deserves all the accolades coming his way.

Oh for the love of c*ntext

Something hit me the other night. I realised I was a cultural sheep. Or rather, I realised I was unable to form an opinion on my own. Sort of.

Let me explain. I was watching Cloverfield – I’d never seen it before – and I enjoyed it. I hadn’t expected to be, but I was gripped. I didn’t care that it’s plot centred on a group of whiny young Americans, and offered absolutely no explanation as to how a giant Godzilla-type creature found its way to Manhattan – an hour in I realised that I was genuinely enjoying this film.

Then I realised, I was enjoying it mainly because I hadn’t expected to.

Which is ridiculous on so many levels. How can you expect not to enjoy something? How can you then be objective when you actually do see it? How is it ok to have an opinion of something without even seeing it? Is that your fault? Is there a way round this… and so on down the rabbit hole.

Stop whining - it's a good film. I think.

The really farcical thing is that because my expectations were so low, my opinion of the film is now basically null and void. I enjoyed it because I thought it was going to be shit and it surprised me ever-so-much by kindly not being completely shit. What a backhanded compliment. It’s like fancying a girl because your mate described her as being disgusting – barely better looking than a slug and you meet her and she’s ok. She’s actually got legs and everything. That doesn’t make her good looking.

Or does it?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder after all. So me being the beholder, it doesn’t matter what conditions have been set – if I find that girl, that film, that song beautiful then sobeit. I almost convinced myself then.

Make love to me Roc?

Errrr pass?

I genuinely expected Cloverfield to be the worst film ever. Why? A couple of reasons:

1)    It’s gimmicky viral marketing campaign made me assume that the film was all style and no substance. A sort of the-lady-doth-portest-too-much sort of thing. LOOK AT ME I’M A NEW TYPE OF FILM WITH A HAND HELD CAMERA AND EVERYTHING. Not all that what it’s cracked up to be. (You know like a rapper who tells you how he’s raped loads of women and killed loads of other gangstas – you haven’t mate. You’d be in jail if you did. Even if you hadn’t been caught you’ve basically just confessed so you’re obviously lying unless it’s the most genius bluff of all time. Anyway I’m massively digressing.) Point is too much gimmicky marketing tends to lead to a huge disappointment in the actual film.

2)    All the critics that I respect (and they do exist) pointed to a 6/10 film. And I have no time for 6/10 films. So I steered clear.

And therein lies a huge problem. I basically followed the words of others and came to a conclusion before I’d seen the film. Now listening to critics (pros or not) is a fair way to judge if you’re going to spend your hard earned cash at the cinema. But allowing those opinions to cloud your judgement if and when you actually do see it is really very silly.

So now I think Cloverfield is a good film. And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it is rubbish. Maybe it’s completely average  - but I’m really not the person to ask.

I am a victim of my own mentality, but also of a pressured cultural society. The fine line between art and garbage means we tread as carefully as a bird on the wire, making sure we fall on the right side of the line.

What makes art (and I’m loosely including Cloverfield in this genre – I liked it after all) so appealing is its objectivity. If I had a penny for every time I had the conversation and someone says ‘but it’s myyyyyyyyyy opionion. That’s what I think, it can’t be wrong’ I’d be a gazillionaire. But sometimes don’t we need a guiding hand ? What if I never read a paper or watched TV again? Would I still be able to distinguish between the good and the bad?

I read a book once (Peace Like A River by Leif Enger) that I’d never heard of (author included) and loved it. Then I panicked. What if I was wrong? What if this was an awful book but I’d just been caught in a certain frame of mind and enjoyed it? If I read it again, would I still enjoy it?

So I lent the book to a friend (hello Debs) and fortunately she loved it. Now we’ll skip over the fact that she also loves Heat magazine and America’s Next Top Model (ANTM to you and me), the fact she enjoyed the book was enough for me. It gave it gravitas. It was a real book as confirmed by someone other than me. Phew.

So I recommend reading Peace Like A River and watching Cloverfield – but don’t take my word for it. I’m an unreliable source.

Inspiration is all around us....and in the past

Last night I went to this:

http://youngcreativecouncil.com/

A fantastic event with various speakers talking about the things that inspired them and made them who they were. As I strolled through town afterwards I racked my brains thinking of what would have made my list. Everything from the mundane to the grand; the world changing to the pointless and the vast to the tiny ran through my head. I was seeking inspiration to work out my inspiration. Oh irony.

Inspiration is everywhere around us and nowhere in between. It’s that feeling that makes all the hairs stand up, that transcends you from the tube, the train, the cinema, the couch to a place where you realise what being human is all about.

I’d hate to label it. To say that it’s quantifiable  - that I could find inspiration if I just looked for it. That would be mundane. You can’t set yourself up to inspired. Well you can but it’s not the same. The moment you first heard that song, saw that film, met that girl – that ecstasy cannot be recreated.  You can’t say ‘I’m going to Paris to be inspired’ – it’s too contrived.  It defeats the object.

But you can remember being inspired. And you can remember what inspired you. What moved you in a way you’ll never, ever forget. That’s the difference between nostalgia and memories. Nostalgia (and I should be quoting another source for this but I can’t for the life of remember where I heard it) literally means pain from an old wound. When we talk about nostalgia (oh I’ve remembered it’s from Mad Men – cheers Don) it’s referring to the wound in the heart created by that memory. Re-visiting it is re-opening that emotional wound.

So inspiration can come from memories. But the nostalgia is what happens when the inspiration fades and is perhaps most powerful emotion of all. So while I can’t say that I know what will inspire me in the future, I know what inspired me in the past – because the wounds will stay open forever (or until I become a hardened old bitter man – close race).

So things that inspired me in the past, that moved me? That made stop think, change my life, the way I think, fall in love? Too many to mention – almost:

Por La Cabeza.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAKjXHctkGw

Famous for its appearance in Schindler’s List, this piece of music is stunningly moving, captivating, charming, alluring and sexy. It moves all over the place in a short space of time, wandering along filled with passion and intensity.

Interestingly, it seems sampling began in the 1930s, this melody borrowing heavily from Mozart’s Rondo to great effect (take note Eminem – I heard your sampling of Hathaway - it’s pathetic. What happened to you?).

Por La Cabeza is a song about the story of guy with a horse racing addiction entwined with women troubles (it never rains…). I’ve no idea when I first heard it but a little digging online tells me that its 2 composers died side-by-side in a plane crash in 1935 – adding even greater poignancy to the drama.

Tezcatlipoca

Twitter’s great. Don’t care what anyone says. My friend at work tweeted this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7a8hmoOsx0

One man animated and produced this, marrying animation with classical music ala Fantasia (in this case Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake). Watch in awe. It’s a beautiful story, with a soundtrack to match. I’m responsible for about 100 of its YouTube hits. Engrossing does not do it justice.

American Gods by Neil Gaiman

I read this book a year ago and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. It’s not Tolstoy but it’s a wonderful, evocative story about human gods and an anti-hero caught up in a universal conspiracy. As an aside I haven’t spent much time in the States but this book made me yearn for places I’d never been. It’s romantic, wistful and brilliant.

Hampstead Heath

Vast, vast acres of woodland, hills, lakes and paths in north-west London. It’s incongruous to its surroundings but its mystery and intrigue is incomparable. Running through it as the sun rises or sets is as cathartic a process as you’ll find in this town.