Friday 28 August 2009

Louts vs. The Law: Prosecute the Football Hooligans

This will be my first blog on a political theme, on a current affair, if you will.
During the week, English football fans should have enjoyed a major midweek League Cup interlude, a welcome opportunity to rotate squads and partake in knock-out action in a competition that on average yields a greater goals-per-game ratio than any other. Instead, we contended with the gritty reality of a menace that stalks not only the beautiful game in this country, but ultimately exists as a societal ill as well.
In the 1970's and 1980's, football hooliganism was rife. Matches were regularly interrupted by fighting on the terraces, spilling onto the pitches, as so-called fans took local, regional and occasionally national grievances to the sporting arena. Hooliganism is nothing new, but it reared its ugly head on Tuesday evening in East London, as West Ham United took on bitter rivals Millwall at Upton Park. Even those who know little about football will, I am sure, be aware of the history of this fixture, and indeed the reputations of a certain minority of supporters of both teams.
Their first match-up since 2005, for some this was a game less about progression to the next round, and more about local bragging rights, a throw-back to those earlier decades when football took second seat to the ignorance of generally over-angered, under-worked, boozed-up louts, whose anger-management problems no doubt stemmed (and still do) from a multitude of socio-political problems in towns and cities across the UK, left fermenting until a spark, a boiling-point, a confrontation.
The authorities in the United Kingdom, particularly in England, have done a generally good job in the past fifteen years curbing some of the yobbish excesses of our national sport, to the extent that we now stand as an example for the rest of Europe of how to tackle the problem. But this is more prevention than cure, and the talk from West Ham, Millwall, and the FA this week strikes me, as it did Henry Winter in The Daily Telegraph on Wednesday, as being criminally naive and underwhelming. Lifetime bans are all well and good, but less effective when hooligans openly brag on internet forums about breaching prior travel restrictions and banning orders in order to fight outside the ground. That's before we even come on to the trouble inside the turnstiles.
Lifetime bans are needed, of-course. Yet an opportunity exists here to go further, to open up the justice system to come down hard on those who seek to destroy one of the last remaining cultural phenomenons of our nation. Football has, in many ways, become a national religion. It certainly is already a major business industry, and it seems to me that in no other industry would such behaviour be met with such a wimp response. Banking reform followed the credit crunch (or will follow it, eventually). Why is there no talk of custodial reform following the discredit crunch in the East End? Banking firms are being taxed and investigated. Why is The Firm not being arrested and handed over to the full might of the English legal system? Bans are short-term fixes, like sticking a plaster on an arm that bleeds from more than one cut. The yobs, the louts, the huddled masses of idiocy, need to not just be prevented from visiting certain geographic locations at set times, or barred from buying tickets to matches and entering stadiums. They need to be fined and, in the most severe ringleading cases, imprisoned.
CCTV footage, coupled with information from the ISPs hosting sites where the hooligan's dastardly deeds are planned in advance, can help pinpoint specific individuals at the heart of the troubles. Start with them, make an example, and send out a message. With a World Cup bid on the horizon for the 2018 competition, we cannot afford leniency.
Nor is this simply a question of boosting our bid chances, or keeping investors in English football. There is, undoubtedly, a moral imperative to make sure hooligans are suitable charged and punished. I adore going to football. Playing it, watching it, talking it - it's a passion of mine and I am proud to be a fan of Tottenham Hotspur, the England national side, and competitive football in this country in general. I travel across the nation watching and playing in matches, pay my TV subscriptions in order to watch all the televised action, sing my team's songs and learn the statistics of fanhood. I am a decent, law-abiding citizen. Hell, I'm a decent, law-abiding lawyer. There are millions more like me. (Well, maybe not millions of lawyers, but millions of decent football fans anyway.) Every weekend, families go to support their local side, Dads taking young children to see their team, their family history and local community. What a shame that on Tuesday night in East London, at a football club so steeped in wonderful traditions, such an alarming level of sheer, puerile, pathetic, menace could subsist.
West Ham United, and I say this as a Spurs fan, are a fantastic football club. They try, and always have done, to play football the right way. This is the home of the Academy Of Football, the playground of World Cup legends like Geoff Hurst and Bobby Moore, of class acts like Trevor Brooking and Teddy Sheringham, of genuinely impressive modern-day role-models like Jack Collison, who not only played in the Millwall game just 48-hours after his Dad was killed in a motorcycle accident on his way to see his son against Spurs on Sunday, but who also took a leading role in imploring supporters to leave the playing area after the pitch invasions and return to their seats. The vast majority of Hammers fans, and Millwall fans for that matter, attended the game looking forward to an exciting cup match under the Bolyen Ground floodlights.
However, as well as a need to deal with the offenders through the English legal system, questions must be put to those in an organisational capacity at Upton Park. Why were there not enough stewards? And why did those who were stewarding seem so poorly trained and equipped to deal with the problem? Why did West Ham refuse to pay for more police officers (all clubs pay for a police presence)? At the West Ham v Spurs game last Sunday, I felt the stewarding of the away supporters section was inadequate. I go to West Ham v Spurs every year, and in the past have been impressed with how we have been managed. In 2007, after the outrageously amazing 4-3 win for Spurs, the police presence was stepped up almost out of nowhere. Subtle it was not, but it got the message home to anybody thinking about causing trouble, and thus this most angering of matches for a Hammers fan passed without criminal incident. On Sunday, however, I felt there were not enough stewards or police around. Spurs fans pushed forwards, out of their seats, as the game wore on, with no response from the men in fluorescent jackets facing us. Once upon a tragic time this could have spelt serious disaster, but the fences in football have gone now. When I heard about, and then watched, what happened just two days later, I cannot say I was overly surprised.
Now is the time for the police to step in and send a clear message. Arrest people, don't just ban them. Demonstrate that hooliganism is a hallmark of the late twentieth century, not the twenty-first. Help the families who want to go to football matches free from the fear of violence.
The psychology of hooliganism also deserves attention. As President Bartlet says in The West Wing: "They weren't born wanting to do this." Loutish yobs, high on drink, low on ambition, operate in gangs in similar ways to city estates are run and defended. Ultimately, poor education and high unemployment in major urban areas contribute. People need hope: something to strive for, to work for, to become. A lack of this for so many, practically from birth, does not excuse their actions, but can help us understand the endemic nature of the mob mentality.
Urban regeneration, investment in schools, better workfare projects: these civic schemes should be coupled with actual prosecutions of current offenders, so that the next generation of football fan will never be part of, and will never have to watch, scenes like those on Queen's Street, Green Street, and inside the Boleyn, ever again.
People need something to fight for. Otherwise they just fight.
LINKS:

Friday 21 August 2009

One Way Ticket To Hull...And Back!

Let's start by raising a glass to the glam-rock band of those halcyon 2003/2004/2005/2006 years: The Darkness. Not just because they released singles like I Believe In A Thing Called Love and Love Is Only A Feeling to great acclaim, but because the name of their ill-fated second album offered an excellent paraphrasing opportunity for me when coming up with a title for this latest blog.
Of-course, Justin Hawkins et al called it '...Hell', whereas I've gone with that industrial estuary town on the North Sea coast - Hull. This is a funny old place, with striking modern architecture fusing with the usual run-down mundaneness of northern English worker towns - glass buildings weirdly shaped sitting alongside rows of terraced houses, eventually banking on the sides of the River Humber itself, by this point flowing inexorably into the coldness of the North Sea with less of the gentle ripple of a river, and more the unavoidable might of a tidal basin.
Why did I go to Hull? Well, being slightly mentally unhinged, I decided to travel up to watch my beloved Tottenham Hotspur play Hull City in a midweek Premier League football match. Usually such decisions are laughed off by my friends and family, and the Spurs team offer up an ensuing derisory performance, as if to say, "Look, mate, honestly, don't come to an away game in the middle of the week in the north of England. We will lose this game."
Fortunately, Spurs won. In fact, this wasn't just a collection of three-points played out in usual stressful style, but in fact a classy performance, full of attacking vim and vigour, that completely dismantled whatever game-plan Hull had, erm, planned, and catapulted Spurs to the giddy heights of the very top, the summit, of the Barclays FA Premier League. The four-hour coach journey home, inexplicably sticking to the A1 from Leeds down to Essex (a county that is very important to me, but we'll go through that another time), was obviously more bearable because of the success of the preceding 90 minutes. Still, I have to question the intelligence of these TomTom gadgets. The M1 would have been faster, more direct, affording better service station stop-offs, and would have taken us through Nottingham, which has a nostalgic appeal to me that Peterborough, for example along the A1, simply does not. (Although I recall a trip towards Peterborough up the A1 with my school for a football match, I believe at Oundle School, which was particularly amusing. That game finished 2-2 by the way.)
The journey up to Hull, on the other hand, was plain sailing. The M1 was used on this occasion, proving that TomToms have selective memories. I don't need a TomTom. I am very much my father's son, and have an encyclopedic knowledge of the UK's main thoroughfares instinctively imprinted in my mind. Anyway, the M1 journey up north was fine and the geek in me was able to enjoy some key icons along the way. If you are doing a similar journey, be sure to enjoy the UK Telecommunications Centre near to Milton Keynes. You can't miss it - it's that weird thing on the left of the north-bound carriageway that looks like a scene from Independence Day, with dozens of bizarre-looking structures protruding upwards. Actually they help all of our mobile phones work, and allow for WiFi internet access in many locations. It is an integral part of our communications systems, and there it sits, like a solitary gym sock on a shower head, on the side of the M1 somewhere between Newport Pagnell and Northampton.
Further up, around my favourite junctions of 24A and 25, is the standard 'welcome to Nottingham' image of 6 gigantic cooling towers at the nearby power-station of Ratcliffe-on-Soar. As you whizz past East Midlands Airport, you can't miss them, spouting their sooty, smokey condensation across the region, ominously positioning itself close to the Brian Clough Way, the A52 itself, as it winds its way from Derby into my old haunt, the ancient city of Nottingham. My cousin recently had a look round Nottingham University (she got her AS-level results yesterday - exciting times for her indeed) and told me she loved it. I'm not sure if she was being polite or not, but the campus at Nottingham University is beautiful, and the town is actually rather pleasant if you know where you are going. Of-course, if you get mixed up on the city centre one-way system you may end up in the suburb of St. Anne's, in which case you are well and truly Robin Hooded. Round there, they'll steal from the rich or poor, and, well, just keep it.
The power-station cooling towers used to mark the end of my journey up to University from home. As I saw them coming over the horizon, I'd know I was nearly back. Sometimes I'd be a bit down about that, as I do love my home very much also, but mostly, and particularly as my time in Nottingham went on, it was a feeling of genuine excitement as to what the next few weeks may bring. That's why I'm particularly jealous of my younger cousin (but of-course very excited for, and proud of, her as well), as she goes through these fairly momentous, life-changing decisions and issues over the next few months, working out what course she wants to do and at what University. Those of us that have graduated, that are working or are in the job market, will know that in reality it feels like a monumental, almost incalculable, decision to make, but in reality tends to work its natural path and ends up being far less stressful than it should have been. I say, embrace the excitement, the possibilities, the intrigue of it all. It's a time in my life that I would dearly love to relive. I think about all these things whenever I'm on the M1 heading north. Odd, I know.
The observant amongst you will notice that I have digressed from my discussion of a trip up to Hull in order to bring in extra thematic ideas. Let's just pretend that the trip is an allegory for, well, my musings. Which leads me on to the arrival into Hull itself. I particularly enjoyed this part of the journey because we travelled along the banks of the Humber, and eventually underneath the giant steel girders of the Humber Suspension Bridge, which my Dad tells me is the largest single-span suspension bridge in Europe. It is fairly spectacular, as it juts out across what is by this point a very wide river. The most interesting point about the Humber Bridge is the fact that the two tips of each girder, at either side of the bridge, are an inch or so wider at the top than at the bottom, and the reason for this helps illustrate its scale. It is, friends, because of the curvature of the earth. How awesome is that?!
The river is populated by heavy industry by the time it gets to the Humber Bridge, with trawlers, and carrier-boats dominating its little shipping ports along the banks and heading out to sea. It has a bustle to it that must have been similar to the Thames when ships sailed right into the Port of London. These days they stop further out near Tilbury and rarely go past the Thames Barrier. There's almost something (probably patronisingly so, I apologise) romantic about the business of Hull's waterway: industrial, mechanical, purposeful.
I like how a simple journey such as that can illicit so many different trains of thought. It bodes well for my planned American road-trip later this year. I'm not sure how many songs by The Darkness will feature on my road-trip playlist, but I have managed to find a nuance to their work, entirely of my own affecting and not theirs, that back when I was my cousin's age, and busy trying to get in to University, I perhaps glossed over.
Sometimes it is difficult to grasp what is, and what isn't important. My good friend Tommy recently tried to offer some perspective to his younger brother, coming up with this rather profound statement: "Life is about how we deal with these small issues that feel huge."
I don't know whether he is right or wrong, but I suppose it's in the finding out that makes it all interesting.
This has been about journeys, and travelling, both literal and metaphorical. It works as a nice segway into one my favourite poems by Robert Frost, entitled The Road Not Taken. I hope you like it:


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


Links:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Road_Not_Taken_(poem)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=50EALZU4D6A
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6Nv8CEG6VE&feature=PlayList&p=74D89CE61C51BF34&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=28
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G8rTUxtSMRo&feature=related
http://www.humberbridge.co.uk/
http://www.eon-uk.com/generation/ratcliffe.aspx
http://www.nottingham.ac.uk/

Monday 17 August 2009

Edinburgh, Football and Perfect Weather

I spent last week in the wonderful city of Edinburgh, in bonny Scotland. I am lucky enough to have lived in Edinburgh for four of the best summers of my life, performing at the Edinburgh Festival in some really rather awesome shows. Yes, I am biased, but what the hell.


Edinburgh is truly spectacular, from its changing architecture (Gothic to Georgian to ultra-modern - i.e. the Scottish parliament), to its cobbled streets climbing up hills and inclines, valleys and dips, where history, art, culture, and extremely expensive lattes combine to impressive effect. The Festival, in particular the Pleasance Courtyard, is one of my favourite events, and favourite places, in the whole wide world. I could live permanently in this city if they could but pick the whole thing up and placed it a bit further South, so that I could remain in some semblance of easy distance to my family and friends.


I saw a number of my friends performing in shows, all of which were great, although the pride in seeing them perform, I'll admit, was tinged by a slight pang of jealousy that I was not performing alongside them, as I have done many times before. Nevertheless, if you are heading up to Edinburgh before the end of the month, check out Monsieur Montpelier and Tomorrow's Leaders at the Pleasance, Art at C Central, and Graceless at the Assembly Rooms - all good friends of mine, all worth a gander.


I made a promise to myself on the train journey back to London that I will return to Edinburgh again, not simply as a punter, but as somebody with something riding on the events of the festival, on the reviews, the gossip, the chit-chat. Still, it is always good to be in a city, even if just as a tourist, and know exactly where you are going. A bit of George Street here, a stroll down the Royal Mile there, a nip into Bristo Square later, and a tipple down York Place to round off the evening. You name it, I know the way. It feels as much as my city as parts of London do. It was with a mixture of satisfaction, nostalgia and burning ambitions that I returned home.


Yesterday, Sunday, was one of those rare days when things go right. For starters, I awoke at a fairly ungodly hour for a weekend morning to go and play football for my Sunday league side in a pre-season friendly. I had to race around the M25 (anticlockwise in the direction of Heathrow Airport) to Brunel University, where our home pitch will be for the forthcoming season, in order to aid my team's 6-0 annihilation of our admittedly feebler opponents.


This, of-course, was what I like to call a good thing. Especially pleasing were the two goals I contributed to the scoreline. It's always nice to find the net in any game, but two goals in one pre-season game help lay down a marker for the competitive action to come.


Afterwards, it was home for a quick shower, before emerging, sweat-free and positive, in my SAMUELSON 1O adorned Spurs shirt, ready for the journey east across North London to postcode N17 - world famous home of Tottenham Hotspur.


What followed was a genuinely well deserved victory over a Liverpool side lacking any sense of creative purpose and direction, not that this criticism is designed to take anything away from a committed, fast-paced and impressive Spurs display.


There are few better feelings than driving back through the boroughs of Bounds Green, Southgate, Whetstone and beyond, knowing that Match Of The Day 2 will be pleasurable viewing later on in the evening, smugly replaying the snapshots of glory from the ninety minutes before. The only thing that would have improved the afternoon would have been the BBC Radio Five Live music for Sports Report, a staccato riff of mind-numbingly romantic proportions that should really be the national anthem, booming out of the car radio, but, alas, this was a Sunday afternoon fixture, and this staple of nostalgic, traditional British sports broadcasting is solely the reserve of a Saturday afternoon.


Spurs fans do this. We accentuate the positive when there are such positives to be accentuated, but mark my words, when we inevitably fail to live up to expectations during a tricky away match practically anywhere in the north of England, most likely starting this Wednesday in Hull (a game I have decided, in my infinite idiocy, to travel up for), the knives will be out, the recriminations will begin, and all of a sudden predictions of a top four finish will be replaced by the altogether more realistic expectation of 'top 6'.


Meanwhile, the weather today is close to perfection; not too hot that it is unbearable, but warm enough to feel like August in London. Certainly warm enough to take a break from the work assignment I have currently been given (more on that tomorrow - it deserves a blog in its own right because it is, if I say so myself, really cool) to go and post a letter to my future law firm which, sadly, contains various forms relating to tax and pay as you earn claim-backs. Tax doesn't have to be taxing, folks, but it generally tends to be anyway.


I was recently involved in a conversation with my lawyer cousin about which season is the best. I automatically plumped for 2006/2007 - a campaign that means a lot to me for lots of reasons beyond football. He meant the seasons of the year, of-course. When the weather is as it is today, it is hard to go for any answer other than summer, but actually, and as with many areas requiring me to make a decision, it is not so clear-cut, and deserves further consideration. I love summer for its long days, its magic hour shadows, its opportunities for pushing my generally dark complexion towards (and a free pint from me if you can guess who I am paraphrasing) the hope of a better tan. Yet autumn is my birthday season, and comes free with that feeling of excitement, of newness, that F. Scott Fitzgerald stated can only be synonymous with the 'two changes of the year'. Orange leaves, the first frost, The X Factor battling it out against Strictly...


Still, let's not neglect winter, for those crisp blue-sky days following a bitter night; of condensation-filled breath and long coats buttoned up, cosy warmth juxtaposing against the harsh exterior conditions that only such a time as winter can provide...in England anyway. I have experienced a little bit of winter in Chicago (and will do again soon actually), and that's a whole other ball game. It's not called the Windy City for nothing.


(Actually, it's got nothing to do with the wind, and everything to do with corrupt Chicago municipal politicians spouting hot air every time they discussed and debated the city's bid to host the world's Great Exhibition in the early twentieth century. Yes, that's right, I studied History at University.)


Finally there's Spring time. 'That pretty little ring time when girls do sing', so sayeth some olde worlde English ditty. When I think of spring, I think of my school, and the smell of a cut grass - an odour that could only mean that the beautiful grounds that my school was set in were open to students to use as an enlarged playground, where Boys' School and Girls' School pupils at Habs would meet by the notorious black gates, throw frisbees, exchange glances, and discover feelings...That's why I both hated and loved the spring term in equal measure.


The sun went in behind a cloud as I wrote that last paragraph, and that means I should get back to my actual work.


Links:






Saturday 15 August 2009

This Is...my first post.

I'll be brief.

Partly because I am not entirely familiar with how this works yet, and partly because brevity and I are not the best of friends. You will come to realise this.

So to start with, I'd like to introduce myself to you, my discerning reader, the internet at large, the world wide whatever wherever whoever.

My name is Robert Samuelson. Everybody calls me Sammy and I was born and bred in Hertfordshire, North London, in a small town called Radlett. I have a job, as a trainee solicitor, but it does not commence until March 2010. Until then I just exist.

I really enjoyed school and make no apologies for that. I am an unashamed Habs Boy.

I also really enjoyed university, studying History at Nottingham. I worked as a radio presenter when I was there. I'd like to do that again one day.

There are a lot of topics I'd like to discuss, from music to politics, film to geography, food to thought. I hope you like them.

Let's start a dialogue and see where it takes us.

Oh, and I really like The West Wing.

Links:

http://www.HabsBoys.org.uk
http://www.nottingham.ac.uk
http://www.facebook.com/RobertSammySamuelson
http://www.myspace.com/SammyMusicUK
http://www.twitter.com/ThisIsSammy
http://www.urn1350.net
http://www.TottenhamHotspur.com