Fare thee well, google blogger.

Hello again friendly old google blogger blog. You're like going home after a semester at uni. I'm not sure I prefer you but you are a familiar surrounding, and I feel slightly guilty about neglecting you when I'm away.



So I'm just abusing this blog now. It's effectively a fossil, and I've advanced in the world. To wordpress. It's neater, shinier and more modern.

Here, then, is the link to said new shiny blog.  It's busier, brighter, cleaner, easier to read and to navigate, and, I hope, a lot more readable.

http://djwilliams1990.wordpress.com/


Enjoy it. 

I will now be using this to dump uni work and possibly Spotify playlists on.  If these things interest you, keep following.  If not, head over to the wordpress site and get on the RSS feed.  Or something like that.

Oh, and did I mention...?

Yes, it's a bit late in coming.  Yes, even I expected to be straight on here posting about it the very minute it did happen.


But happened it has.


Wales are finally free of the shackles of the ageing dinosaur that is Toshack Out.


Oh, sorry, that's John Toshack.  I apologise, that's instinct from the last 6 years kicking in.


Yes, we may have Brian Flynn in temporary charge.


Yes, we may have lost all hope of qualifying for Euro 2012 with 0 points and 1 goal in three games.


Yes, we may still be as poor as ever.


Yes, our captain may rather play for the Bluebirds than the Dragons (or maybe not).


But the one shining beacon of hope for the future of the men's national football team of Wales is that Toshack Out is no longer at the helm.


Now, if only we could ship out the rest of the old codgers at the FAW while we're at it.


I don't care if we're rubbish - we're Welsh.  I'd give anything to pop over to Ireland for the Celtic nations tournament next spring.




And the best news of the lot is Aaron Ramsey's back in training with Arsenal.

Expanding my horizons

A decent covering of England and Wales, but not as much as I'd like.  Setting foot in Scotland and Ireland would be a start.

This map is a recent update of where, in these fair isles, I have graced with my presence.

As you can see, it's fairly central to the M4 corridor, south Wales and the spine of England.  I'd still like to visit Scotland, Plymouth, Anglesey, Norwich, Liverpool, Hull and Lincoln, and then I'll be able to say I've truly spanned the country.

Well that's all for now.  I'll update this as I go along. 

Musical overtones

For a blog this hasn't half been a personal diary lately, and I'm going to stay on the same track for just a little longer.


And speaking of tracks, I'd like to chat a little about music.


See, I'm often asked "What sort of music are you into?" and "What's your favourite band?" but in fairness, I've never been able to obliquely answer those questions.


I generally think I have an incredibly broad musical taste.  I'm a fan of various wide ranging genres, rock, to pop, to spoken word, to classical, but we all know music delves deeper than that - sometimes a lot deeper.


Alright, so my newly developed taste for a bit of dubstep can sometimes delve deep inside your ear canal, but I'm not really talking about that.  As a young child, I was quite the fan of classical music.  I almost always listened to Classic FM before going to bed and had a very, very limited knowledge of modern music, up until I listened to the Foo Fighters on Radio One on a rainy Sunday evening.  My memory isn't that good, but I think the song was "Learn to Fly", and I do remember it putting a smile on my face and actually making me want to get up from lying on the bedroom floor doing nothing.  Course, there's more to that particular strand of my musical story coming up later.


As I said, as a child I enjoyed listening to classical music, and I was never ashamed to admit it.  Once, a teacher in our junior school put on some classical music during a lesson - I knew what the song was immediately but me being me I just smiled and wrote away.  I also remember getting fairly emotional once, sometime before my grandfather died, at one piece of music but again, I just can't remember what it was; I'm sure if I heard it again I'd know.  My grandfather was one of the main people who influenced my musical taste back then, and I can remember being sat in his room, most weekends, listening to music such as Verdi's Anvil Chorus and talking about football and all other things under the sun. That suited me, I love wasting my time talking to people.  It's perhaps a vague link from my childhood to the stirring desire within me to become a journalist.


In fact, thinking about it there's probably more to that link than I first thought, as I can also remember, when listening to classical music, picking up on the tone and the tempo and writing stories in my mind to fit what I thought it sounded like.  It probably explains why that one emotional piece of music affected me so much and why I was such a better writer then.  Of course, it didn't help that there was a television show which set it's sketches to Boccherini's Minuet that I watched every day after school, which probably infected my mind and allowed me to make some good associations with music and being happy (the generic post-day-at-school happiness everyone got in those days). 
Nowadays, I find classical music to be a effective relaxant, and sadly in my life it's most often used to get me to revise or study or sleep.  It's also interesting that the appreciation for classical music I had as a child has come back to help me somewhat as I now know people who are and were interested in it, not to the same degree but it always helps to have a conversation piece, doesn't it?


So that's the basis of my musical knowledge as a young child, and only towards the very end of the 90's did I even dip my toes in to modern popular music, borrowing my brother's "Now That's What I Call Music" albums.  Suffice to say I didn't call it music. 


I can't really pinpoint the moment when my taste in music became broad.   As I said, I took to listening to the chart show on Radio One on a rainy Sunday afternoon, and that probably contributed to it because you're subjected to a very general, 'poppy' style of music when you do that. 


I have various friends who have more musical talent than me - although I'd say everyone I know has more musical talent than me - and their interest in the subject kept me locked on when I was in school.  I had little other choice - learn to like music or suffer in silence while everyone talked about these strange bands like Iron Maiden and Metallica, which were alien to me for a very long time.  So I took an interest in various bands during my education, borrowed CDs from friends and progressed from there.  My liking for Iron Maiden has flourished to the point of seeing them play live at Twickenham, which is an experience for a whole other blog entry again.


My first live gig was at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff (where else would it have been for me of all people?!) and it was a something of an all-day event, called  Noise and Confusion.  The Millennium Stadium never fails to enthrall me, but this was the first time I'd seen it without turf, so it sticks in my mind even more.  That I went with the girl who remains to this day the best female friend I've ever had also helped considerably.  If I hadn't been with her, I would've been uncomfortable to no end.  The smallest of things, like the lasers that were aimed at the closed roof and being able to see Dave Grohl's breath materialising on the big screen in the "f**king cold stadium" as he so delicately put it are specifics that I remember so well from the event.  Of course, the more powerful memories will always be from the music itself:  45000 singing along to "Golden Touch" with Razorlight's Jonny Borrell topless and leading them all the way, the sheer adrenaline that accompanied the Foo Fighter's "In Your Honor", and walking down Westgate Street singing "Don't Look Back in Anger" with various strangers doing the same.  It was pretty powerful stuff for a lad of 15 going to his first ever live music performance.


And that was that really.  From then on I bought Oasis's Morning Glory, and progressed from there.  Nowadays, my album collection features Kasabian, Bob Dylan, Guns n Roses, Kaiser Chiefs, Santana, Stereophonics, Johnny Cash, AC/DC, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Goldie Lookin Chain, Futureheads, Queen, Kooks, Bob Marley, Marina and the Diamonds, Little Boots, Manic Street Preachers, and a good few others.

Right now I'm listening to Dream Brother by Jeff Buckley, which you can hear on this Youtube video and whose music you can discover more of and purchase on the official website for Jeff Buckley which can be found by clicking this link.  If this doesn't demonstrate how widespread my musical taste has become then nothing will.  We have to thank my old media studies teacher for my discovering of Buckley's work - whoever said media studies was a pointless subject?!



Dan le Sac (left) and Scroobius Pip.  Thanks to Last.fm

 The biggest musical influence on my life to date though, has been two chaps from Stanford-le-Hope in deepest, darkest Essex.  They're commonly referred to as a hip hop duo because of their song "Fixed", which contains the lyrics "Hip hop is art/Don't make a fuckin' pop hit/Be smart".  In fairness though, there's a lot less to it than that - Scroobius himself (aka David Meads, the man with the most famous beard in British music) said the pair came together completely by accident in an interview with the Independent. 

Dan Stephens was formerly a DJ, whilst Meads worked in HMV for 5 years before recording a self-financed spoken word album - only 1000 copies were ever produced of "No Commercial Breaks", which eventually proved the backbone for the pair's debut album Angles.

The reason this pair of Essex gentlemen have had such an influence on me is down to their wonderfully "right" musical chemistry - and the fact that they will happily dish out meaningful and serious lyrics by the ladle-full, though not at all afraid to laugh or sing and dance as well. 

As I've doubtless said, growing up in Bridgend meant suicides were a fact of life, but when you're in the midst of it all, the Magician's Assistant, a song about the selfishness of suicide and self harm, really comes to life and it was literally like walking into a wall when I saw them perform this live.  It was like being in a bubble, because I doubt many people there that night shared the experiences I have and so - as all music does - it affects different people in different ways.
That is probably the reason I'm so bored of "pop" music these days:  "Most of these kids can get their guns out and kill me/ But how many have got the skills to inspire and thrill me?"

Good question Mr Mead.  The answer?  None from the world of pop thus far in my life.  That's only 20 years in yet though - with any hope there's a fair way to go yet, and I'll get to the age where Dan and Scroobius are less 'cool' than Cliff Richard is now.  You can't buy taste mind!

A fateful evening stroll...

It was one of those "where were you?" moments.

David Marshall's strong outstretched right arm smacking away Richie Wellens' penalty sealed Cardiff City's place in the play off final at Wembley, and where was I?  Well, somewhere near Kelham Island in Sheffield, that's where I was.

You see, as I've been reiterating for what seems to be several years now, nothing is ever easy at Cardiff City FC.  And so last night just had to encapsulate that in 120 minutes and more of an utterly incredible second leg semi final tie, didn't it?!  My nerves, my hair and my heart have all been tested greatly recently, and last night I just gave up.  1-2 down at half time and staring penalties in the face, I rather angrily posted a facebook status explaining that I was "off on a brisk walk" and would return in a hour or so.  As it was, we were 1-3 down and out of the playoffs altogether when I finally left.

From the delight as Chopra slid the first goal under Chris Weale, to the inevitability of Fryatt's equaliser, to the sheer anger at Hudson's own goal, we'd already experienced more emotion than a man can take in half an hour.  Incidentally, this turned out to be more true than we'd thought as one man was taken il after Chopra's goal and is believed to have died of a heart attack.  RIP, and of course the utmost condolences go out to all who were close to him.

So with a heavy heart I left the house, called in at the local - shop - to buy myself  bar of Galaxy (other chocolate is available), safe in the knowledge that "my lot" were dead set on ruining the night, the week, probably the next few months, yet again.  And walk I did, through the town centre, contemplating stopping for a whisky (God knows I could've done with one) but never quite stepping over the line and getting one - on down to the train station, through there and along Park Hill flats, down to Kelham Island and back up through town past some of the disused factories and Uni buildings.

I did get a glance at a television when I strolled past one of the city centre public houses, only to see Leicester's score stand at "2" and because, in my mind, I'd been out for at least 20 minutes, I thought the final whistle couldn't have been much further away.  So I continued to walk, weaving my way through the streets of the Steel City wondering why on earth I'd bothered attending games at Barnsley, Middesbrough and Newcastle amongst others only for the players to do this to us.

When I finally made my way home, I made myself a cup of tea and wandered upstairs to switch on my laptop, awaiting the inevitable mockery that would come from fellow football fans via the medium of Facebook.  My mobile remained switched off.  But the mockery never arrived.  Instead, Cardiff supporting friend's statuses read of penalties and disbelief.  But I refused to believe we'd gone through, instead firmly believing a dubious late penalty had extinguished our hopes for good.

Only when I summoned the BBC Sport website to confirm my despair that the disbelief truly hit me.  It appeared we'd somehow scored a penalty in the second half, seeing us lose the game but draw the tie and then our tired band of players fought their way through half an hour of extra time to maintain that equilibrium.  I'd been walking for longer than I thought!

Cardiff City progressed on penalties, mainly thanks to goalkeeper David Marshall and Leicester's Yann Kermorgant who tried an audacious chip with his penalty.  A foolish decision in such a big game.  But not more foolish than Dave Jones' decision to sell Steven Thompson.  That one cost us the biggest game of our history.

Still, bring on next season's torture instead.

Football v Rugby. I'll try not to be biased, I promise!

With the impending German victory over England in the World Cup set to take place in South Africa this summer, I look at two sports the host country, and Britain, know only too well.

Being a Welshman, I've not been allowed to forget that there's a World Cup on this summer. Yes, that's another we haven't qualified for. No thanks to Mr Toshack, but that's a discussion for another day. This time, though, I'll be watching with more interest than just hoping to laugh at the English again. South Africa - the Rainbow Nation - the country with three languages in its national anthem; where else better to host a global festival of sport?

Indeed, they've managed it before, 15 years ago, only it was a different code, but if the football equivalent of that event does anything to match up to rugby union's 1995 equivalent, I'll be very, very impressed. Because '95 was the Nelson Mandela final. You know, the one that spawned the iconic image of mandela in his #6 jersey and Springbok cap handing the white Francois Pienaar the cup. You don't? Okay, well it's this one:

 
 
 
And that's why that World Cup will be remembered, not least because the South African team defeated the mighty All Blacks, Jonah Lomu and all, in the final.
 
The problem is, more often than not, these massive sporting events are remembered for things other than the sport itself - the football world cup in 2006, for example, will always be remembered for Zidane's incredible headbutt on Italian defenders Marco Materazzi.  How many people think of the Jules Rimet trophy being found by a dog during the 1966 world cup when they think of that tournament?  I know I do.

So if these sporting events are judged by off-pitch events as well, which comes out on top between rugby union and association football?

You might refer to the well worn phrase "Rugby is a hooligans game played by gentlemen" but I can tell you now that's not entirely true.  To take a few examples from my own country, I mention the names Gavin Henson, Andy Powell, and, indeed, a good section of the Wales squads of recent years who have often been in hot water for consuming a tad too much alcohol and making fools of themselves, which for some reason is magnified when they've lost a game - now that's a Welsh mentality if ever there was one.  Henson damaged a train, but bizarrely enough didn't go down for criminal damage... I'd wager I would've at least been charged for the same thing but he was let off with a "Good, now don't do it again".

And it's not just Welsh rugby players - Irishman Trevor Brennan was banned for life from playing rugby after assaulting an Ulster supporter in the stands at his Toulouse side's Stade Ernst Wallon.
What of the supporters at rugby union matches then?  They sure as hell don't sing, so what are they doing?  Well, generally, drinking.  I can make that sweeping generalisation without any fear of reprimand because it's true.  But there have been incidences of crowd trouble at rugby union matches - just this spring, Natal Sharks fans threw missiles onto the pitch at their game against Waikato Chiefs in February.

Pitch invasions, the flavour of the month in football, are not alien to rugby union either.  Back in the 1970's they occurred with relative frequency in international matches in South Africa, as a protest against apartheid, and, in 1981, a tie between the Springboks and the All Blacks was cancelled because around 350 people pushed down a fence to protest on the pitch.
And I haven't even mentioned Bloodgate yet.


So rugby union is by no means the innocent party.  But then, for every Trevor Brennan, football has it's own Eric Cantona judo kick.  For every Gavin Henson, football has it's Steven Gerrards, assaulting night club DJs because they wouldn't put his favourite song on.  For every bit of crowd trouble in rugby, football probably has twice as much - need I mention Wembley 1977, with Scotland's army invading the pitch and bringing down the goalposts?  As I say though, pitch invasions are flavour of the month with football fans at the moment, and, since Millwall and West Ham did the inevitable in their league cup tie, such incidents have been on the rise ever since - I personally have now seen two wheelchair bound men take part in these pitch invasions; one at Hillsborough and one in the last ever game at Chesterfield's Saltergate.

If it's a safe, clean environment you want to watch your sport in, then live rugby and football are probably not for you.  Then again, neither is ice hockey, rugby league, boxing or motor racing, the like of which we've all seen in South Wales in the last decade.

You have two options then:  Get thee to the Swalec Stadium to witness the Glamorgan v Somerset Twenty/20 cricket match and enjoy a curry and a drink for £22 (it's a fantastic deal, I plan on taking it up myself) or, just stay at home and be one of those plastic Manchester United fans that people are slowly but surely beginning to realise are utterly pathetic and cannot be labelled football fans.

Either way, enjoy your summer!

Concorde: Gone but never forgotten

A dream that started as a discussion between a group of French and Britons, and ended next to a golf course near Bristol almost 35 years later, Concorde was never described as boring in her lifetime.


And rightly so, for she was, and still is, revolutionary. The only passenger aircraft – unless you count the space shuttle - to break the sound barrier, the only one that could make the seven hour journey across the Atlantic a three hour hop across the pond, the first passenger aircraft that truly caused “the world to shrink”.

There are many such quotes that have been used to try and describe the essence of Concorde, and she was marketed well enough:

“To put the matter quite simply, supersonic travel is better travel. It will cost more, but for those passengers whose time means money, it will be better value. Nor does one need to apologise for the fact that, at first, supersonic service will be an elitist form of travel. Middle-aged people today have seen the subsonic airliner develop from a transport vehicle for the privileged few into an essential component of the mass-market package-tour holiday.”


The airline industry, however, has never been one for sympathy, or spending money for the sake of it. And so only British Airways and Air France, out of the 15 airline companies that placed orders or options for the aircraft, were the ones to put her into commercial use. If you lived anywhere along the M4 corridor after 1977, you knew about it, as your day would tend to be interrupted twice as the unmistakeable white dart grumbled her way across the sky above you. The noise factor, despite being one of the more appealing aspects of the aircraft in the eyes of many young boys, was one that stopped many companies following up their interest in the aircraft, and stopped many airports allowing Concorde onto their runways.

Another was the fuel consumption levels. Nowadays, in our world of “carbon offsetting” and the Toyota Prius, the 17 miles to the gallon per person would be looked at with disgust, and it also meant Concorde simply couldn’t last the distance between Europe and, say, Australia or Japan, as the slower Boeing 747 could.

So Concorde was destined to life as a showpiece, a novelty for the two airlines that were privileged and dedicated enough to own her. Being a “she”, Concorde was expensive to maintain as well – British Airways themselves claim they spent over £1bn keeping their fleet in action, whilst Airbus maintained that they could not, and would not, assist in her maintenance beyond 2003.

And then the unthinkable happened. On the 25th July 2000, one of Air France’s fleet suffered a ruptured fuel tank on takeoff at Paris Charles de Gaulle and crashed into a nearby hotel, killing all 109 people on board and 4 on the ground. The fleet was grounded; people worldwide wondered whether we’d seen the last of the delta-winged bird. However, the cause was discovered, fuel tank linings installed, and she flew again – but not for long.

Most of Concorde’s passengers by this time were businessmen – the ability to fly out of Europe, attend a meeting in the States and be back home before midnight was much appreciated, even at £6,000 per return flight. It has been said that much of Concorde’s regular clientele died in New York on September 11th 2001.

It’s not certain which of the two was truly the beginning of the end for Concorde, but when it was announced that she was to be retired, bookings for flights escalated and her popularity with the public and the media increased at a surprising rate. The television coverage surrounding the final flights of British airways’ aircraft have certainly never been seen for any other aircraft type, and the fleet performed a farewell tour of UK airports.

Now, all the Concorde aircraft have their own resting places around the world. One can be found sheltering from the sun in Barbados, one alongside the USS Intrepid in New York, one at East Fortune in Scotland, one remains at Heathrow and one – the final Concorde ever to be made and ever to fly, landed at its birthplace, Bristol Filton airfield at 12:45 on 26th November 2003. And that was that. Gone forever.

But not quite. Because, to an unsuspecting 7 year-old boy perched at the end of the runway at Cardiff Airport, Concorde was not just a passenger aircraft that could fly a bit faster and cost a bit more to go on than the others. It was, at that particular moment, noise, heat and flame as her four Rolls Royce Olympus engines fired up and sent her out towards the Bay of Biscay with 38,000lbs of thrust helping her to what would eventually be Mach 2.04 – just over twice the speed of sound.
   Those specifics, for a passenger aircraft, have never been bettered. Can it really be argued that we’re seeing technological advances?  Whilst Airbus’ “Whalejet” is a phenomenal piece of engineering, it will never generate the same passion and enthusiasm as Concorde did.  By its very design, the Airbus A380 is flying for the masses, whereas the whole idea of Concorde was that she was a privilege to see fly, let alone be inside when she did so.  Perhaps Concorde could have been that flying for the masses, but perhaps she was too much of a good thing.



I still want to be a Concorde pilot when I grow up though.

The very best of luck to Aaron Ramsey.

Having seen this young lad play football since we were both 16, the events of last Saturday left me feeling physically sick and upset.

For those of you who don't know, Wales' talismanic 19 year old midfielder suffered a broken tibia and fibula in a game against Stoke City which his club, Arsenal, won 1-3.

I'd like to clarify right now that I don't blame Ryan Shawcross.  It was a poor challenge, absolutely, but in no way did it appear to be malicious, and Ryan's reaction - walking off the pitch after being red carded, some time after the incident, in tears - tells me everything about the young defender and rumoured Manchester United target. 
Tony Pulis is a manager I admire and trust, and I'd like to thank him for his kind words and sheer decency and solemnity following the game.  Glenn Whelan also deserves plaudits for his role in comforting Aaron as he lay on the ground in what must have been agony.

Arsene Wenger's post match comments are understandable as well - this is the third time it's happened to a young player of his now, he and his medical staff must think they are cursed.  I'm sure a man of his intelligence would have realised by now that the challenge didn't warrant such an outburst.

As for Aaron?  Well he had an operation shortly after the tackle, and is said to be in "surprisingly good spirits" according to Wales manager (yes, still!) John Toshack.  Just another example of why I admire Aaron so much.  I'd be nothing short of devastated right now - in fact, I am.

I'm also thankful to the Arsenal fans, who appear to recognise just what a talent Aaron has and have already organised for a banner to be made.


The very best of luck to you Aaron.  In my opinion you are the best British player this side of 20, and you have the potential to be a truly global superstar, better than Rooney, Giggs or even the greatest of them all, John Charles. 

There is only one Aaron Ramsey.

Get out of our club?

So, Cardiff City FC are fine and dandy. 


We're facing another potential cup run, with a winnable 4th round tie against Leicester City at home on Saturday.
We've been promised three new players to come in during this transfer window.
We've got three groups of potential investors hovering around the club.
And we're 5th in the league.



Or perhaps this is more accurate?


All is not well at Cardiff City FC.
We could be out of the Cup on Saturday, after having played another 90 minutes we need not have done on Tuesday night against Bristol City, seeing Gavin Rae injured in the first leg as well.
We're under a transfer embargo until the taxes are paid, as per the league regulations.
The investors are nowhere to be seen, the Malaysians are holding back, the Americans may not exist and the chap from Guernsey allegedly only has £40m, not enough to get us up and in the clear.
And we're sinking down the league, on a poor run of form, not having won since Middlesbrough away on 13th December.



You see, we can all put spin on the facts, one way or another, but essentially, Cardiff City FC remains highly unsettled.  The fans are torn.  Some are calling for the manager's head because he's tactically useless (which is a very accurate assessment), others think he's the best we've ever had (which remains an undeniable fact).  Some want the chairman out.  Some want him to stay until the end of the month then fall on his own proverbial sword.



Why all the chaos and calls for people to go then?



Well let's look at Dave Jones, the manager.  He has been labelled as the root cause for our team's variety of results - ie. defeat to Plymouth at home on Boxing Day, a 4-4 draw a Peterborough after being 0-4 up at half time but 1-2 victories away to West Bromwich Albion, and 0-1 wins at Middlesbrough.



He has, however, led us to the highest league position in the last 30 years.  But it could have been so much more last season and everyone knows it.  And we all fear the same this year. 
However, this time around, nobody thinks our squad is quite as good. 
Central defence is abysmal, suffering from a severe lack of pace, whilst Roger Johnson looks like a challenger for a World Cup spot for England and Glenn Loovens is happy in Scotland, with a Dutch squad place to boot. 
Peter Whittingham is the league's top scorer, and transformed from the pathetic excuse for a player that he was last year.  However, our central midfield is non-existant.  McPhail, another who was a changed man at the start of the season, was diagnosed with lymphoma and won't be back for a fair while.  Ledley, who hasn't played well since Wembley 2008, has two weeks left before he needs an operation on both hips which will put him out for the rest of the season. Gavin Rae can't tackle, and Riccy Scimeca has retired.
Up front, we rely on the over-diving prima donna that is Jay Bothroyd, because Chopra and McCormack can't play together (vis. Barnsley away this season).  Warren Feeney is a League One striker, while young Josh Magennis, the other "big striker" broke his leg against Blackpool so he'll be out for most of the season.



And with resources like that, what do we expect Dave Jones to do?  I'm not entirely sure.  I, for one, will take the league table as it is now thanks (though I'd rather Forest and West Brom take the automatic places away from the Geordies.)



And Ridsdale?  Well where do I start?  I'm sure I don't need to tap into his history, but suffice to say when he came here, amidst warnings from Leeds and Barnsley fans, no other club would touch him.



When Peter Ridsdale met with fans at the Municipal Bar in Merthyr Tydfil he expressly said "the tax bill has been satisfied".  Since when does satisfied not mean paid?



When Peter Ridsdale asked the fans to buy season tickets before Christmas 2009 he said it was a "THANK YOU "



When Peter Ridsdale got our money from season ticket sales he told us "it will go towards team strengthening "



Alas, those last three points are all, now, proven to be untrue.
 
There have been various rumours of unpaid bills, including electricity, toilet roll, coaches, training ground, and of course the underfloor heating fiasco.



I hesitated on posting this for the last few days, but now it seems as though the protest against Ridsdale remaining in charge of Cardiff City FC will occur after the game on January 30th against Doncaster Rovers.



This is good news and I only hope making it a post-game protest will ensure it doesn't affect the players.  They deserve better than Ridsdale.  The fans deserve better than Ridsdale. 



Ridsdale Out.

Taking the advice of Dan le Sac and Scroobius Pip

It's about time I made up on those promises I made in the summer of non-football related blogs.  So here's your first.

Towards the end of last year, it became obvious to me and a journalistic friend of mine at University that our creative writing ability had degenerated quite considerably over the last two years.
 We wholeheartedly associated this with the over-consumption of alcohol that comes as a direct result of spending two years at University.

It worries me that I could have gone from "Dan, you're one of the best creative writers in this school" to "Erm, I'm not entirely sure what the right word is, but you get my point, don't you?".

So, this year, I'm "Getting Better" as Mr Scroobius would have it.

Not only am I looking to reduce my alcohol consumption (not that that's too big a worry as I'm not a big drinker, I just drink strong stuff when I do so), I'm also trying to get rid of the distinct bulge that's formed under my t-shirts.  I'm going to buy a bike, take it to University with me, invest in some mudguards, headlights and a sturdy bike lock.  I'm going to take my big rucksack, a flask, some waterproofs and walking boots and hopefully venture up into the Pennines to explore the more natural side of South Yorkshire.

I'm also aiming to travel further.  So far I've got a fairly decent spread of England and Wales covered - From Pembroke, Aberystwyth and Bangor in the West to Bristol, London, Southampton and Bournemouth in the South, Middlesbrough, York and Leeds in the North and Birmingham, Nottingham and Derby in the Midlands.
   However, I looked at a map just last week and realised that there's so much further to go.  I've never been anywhere farther north than Middlesbrough, farther west in England than Yeovil, farther East than Northampton or farther South than Bournemouth.
I've also neglected the North-West, namely Manchester, Liverpool, Blackpool, Barrow and Carlisle.  I'd love to visit the National Football Museum in Preston as well.
In doing all of this I aim to treat as wide a spread as possible of these fair Isles to my underwhelming presence.  This is because, being a football fan, geography matters.  It's all well and good me saying "Barnsley is a dump" but then I've never been to Hull, Liverpool or Doncaster.

Elsewhere I'm trying to improve my mental health by reading again.  This as opposed to staying up until stupid o'clock in the morning watching tedious television or on the internet doing a whole load of nothing.  I already have a list of recommended books from friends via the ever useful Facebook;

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon
The Meaning of Night by Michael Cox
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
Alexander by Valerio Massimo Manfredi
Omerta by Mario Puzo
Only Forward by Michael Marshall Smith
The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler
Odd Thomas by Dean Koontz
The Dirt by Motley Crue
A Fraction of the Whole by Steve Toltz
The Phantom by Gaston Laroux
The Seventh Scroll by Wilbur Smith

Great Plains by Ian Frazier
"I.F. Stone: A Portrait"
"Scandals, Scamps, and Scoundrels: The Casebook of an Investigative Reporter" by James Phelan
George Seldes's "Lords of the Press"
Rene J. Cappon's "The Associated Press Guide to News Writing"
"The Media Relations Department of Hizbollah Wishes you a Happy Birthday: Unexpected Encounters in the Changing Middle East" by Neil Macfarquhar
"Out of His Skin: The John Barnes Phenomenon" by Dave Hill
Ghost Wars by Steve Coll
Hacks by Christopher Wren
Scoop by Evelyn Waugh
The Truth by Terry Pratchett

"The Last Party: Blair, Britpop and the Demise of English Rock" by John Harris
Andrew Rawnsley's "Servants of the People"
Robert Harris's "The Good and Faithful Servant "
Boris by Andrew Gimson
John O'Farrell's "Things Can Only Get Better"

Finn McCool’s Football Club by Stephen Rea
The Sports Writing Handbook by Thomas Fensch
Ingerland: Travels with a Football Nation by Mark Perryman
The Meaning of Sport by Simon Barnes
What Sport Tells Us About Life by Ed Smith
Power Play: Sport, the Media and Popular Culture by Raymond Boyle
The Beautiful Game?: Searching the Soul of Football by David Conn
Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby
Among the Thugs by Bill Bruford


I think that should suffice for now.

If anyone's reading and you have any recommendations on any of the above don't hesitate to leave a comment, the portal to which should lie to the bottom of this full stop.