iPhone Woes

So, I’ve been looking to get an iPhone 4 since it’s been out but it has been almost impossible for me to get one from Apple. Aside from venturing into their shop and annoying them every other day with ‘Have you got the 16gb iPhone 4 in stock?’ To which their eyes tell me, ‘c’mon you know they sell out as soon as they come in’, but they politely tell me, ‘that they’d just run out of stock but I should keep trying’.

So yesterday, I did. I gave them a call.

Me: ‘ Morning, by any chance do you have the 16gb iPhone 4 in stock?’

Nice lady: ‘You know, we just got a small batch in this morning.’

Silence

At this point I realise it’s a race against time knowing that Apple do not hold products back for customers and that I was now in a race with more determined iPhone shoppers who had rung up at the crack of dawn, or in fact installed a webcam in the shop to check when delivery had arrived. Then there were the nonchalant shoppers ambling past the Apple store, wondering on the off chance if they had the iPhone in stock.

Me: “Excellent, I’ll be down in about 10 minutes, do you reckon they’d be sold out by then?”

Nice lady: “Well, I don’t think so but if we get a sudden surge of peeps then it could happen”

Me: “Ok, thanks. I’m on my way.”

And so I did, I grabbed my car keys and zoomed off. I parked as close as I could and got out jogging to the shop with thoughts of finally being able to install an ‘app’ and actually using a touch screen for the first time.

As a came around the corner I spied someone walking out of the Apple store with what looked like two iPhone boxes inside the near translucent bag. I bit my lip thinking, surely, he didn’t just walk out with the last two phones?.

I caught the attention of the first employee I could see and quickly spewed out that I called and was told that there are some 16gb iPhones in stock.

Worker: “Sorry man, we just sold out of the 16gb.”

I thought back to the guy who walked out with what seemed to be two iPhone boxes.

Me: “Pants.”

I was about to tell him how quickly I got down here, and how long I’ve been waiting to get one, but unfortunately he couldn’t help me even if he wanted to, so I held back.

Worker: “We’ve got the 32gb in stock though.”

Me: “I can’t afford it, thanks anyway.”

And I turned around and walked out iPhoneless and with a blister on my left foot.

I drove onto work and on my lunch break I decided to order one directly from Apple online as I just couldn’t be bothered to go through all that again. Only problem, it’s estimated time of delivery is 15 September. A new model will be out by then!

In other news, a Paddington’s Shadow production, presented by Tales of Epoch gives you another episode of Alfalfa’s Premiership Show.

Crossroads

Every once in a while I’m confronted with a decision to choose something over another. Akin to me standing in a Tescos Express for two minutes debating whether I want a Snickers or a Mars, I stared at the computer screen thinking should I take this opportunity or stick with what I know.

I hate these types of decisions, because everything has ramifications and as a result even not doing anything means I would be doing something. So whilst sipping some green tea I began writing down what could possibly happen if I took up this opportunity. It seemed that not much would change other than my financial situation and my stress levels, which potentially could be tolerable or would send me into some morbid state where all my hair drops off and my eyes grow bags bigger than an Asda bag for life (which is surprisingly large).

I still did not know what to do, so I sought advice from a few people. Each piece of advice was good but it was conflicting, one would say I should take the opportunity, whilst another felt it was best to let this ship sail, while another thought of combining the two. All three were clearly succinct and persuasive which meant I was stuck, because I felt no nearer as to whether I should do something about it or not.

And then I remembered, maybe I should just ask myself, and see how I feel about the opportunity inside. My initial reaction was that it didn’t feel right. Was it just nerves, and that’s why it didn’t feel right? This was plausible but that wasn’t the reason, there was just this feeling that it wasn’t correct for me, and that’s what I decided, to go with my instincts and stop playing about in my head about the ‘what ifs’ or the ‘why nots’ because it was eating away at me.

And so after two weeks, I let the opportunity float by and almost immediately I felt better and lighter. In fact it has made me more motivated for some reason, I don’t know entirely why but I’m not going to try and stifle it because I have been finding a lot of energy of late, rather than just relying in coffee to keep my energy levels up.

Yet, something tells me if I had heard this earlier, everything would have fallen into place sooner. 

And here’s also another episode of Alfalfa’s Premiership Show.

 

Things I've Been Meaning To Do

Sitting here exhausted after a day’s work and after playing football at lunch time, I feel guilty about the things that have been filed in the back of my mind. Mainly because I can’t do them tonight, I wasn’t able to do them last night, or last week, or even last month, some even stretch back as far back as six months ago.

So now my mind is beginning to get cluttered with the things I want to do but haven’t quite got around to doing, because of work, rest or play. My mind works by thinking of something I want to do, assessing whether it is something that can be done easily or not. If easily, I tend to do it that week. If not, I attach a time scale on it, usually it’s the end of the month, or if it’s big then a couple of months. What tends to happen however, is when I come to do something, I have a momentarily struggle with my mood, if I’m not feeling it, I just cannot get my head round to doing it. This may not be a very strong argument because people can say that no one wants to go to work but yet we still do. 

However, when I like doing something at work, I tend to flourish, like come in early, consider all the aspects of it and then sprinkle some Paddington’s  Shadow love dust so that it at least shows effort was made.

To help get these things off my chest and perhaps embarrass me into doing them after I read this post again in a couple of days, I’ll list them below.

1)     Reading, On Writing by Stephen King

I have been meaning to read this ever since Coldbrain mentioned it to me over a few Tuborgs way back in February of this year. Yet, after buying it on Amazon it’s still sitting on my bookshelf, leaning against my dictionary. So what’s stopping me reading it? Well, even though I walk past it every night, I just need to feel in the right mood to read it, to fully appreciate what has been written. I could just stare at the pages but I wouldn’t fully enjoy them.

2)     Going to  London

I have been meaning to go to London for months now, it’s not too far away and easily accessible as I live about 10 minutes away from the station and if I get the Pendalino I’ll be standing outside UpperCrust in Euston in about 35 minutes. I’ve got people I can see, places to visit, I haven’t been down to the national gallery in ages now, or gone down some pubs around Camden and bars in Leicester Square. So what’s stopping me? Although I want to go, although it’s easy to get there, I can’t be bothered to arrange the day off, look at the train times, arrange a time to meet and make sure I’m back before the last train. Still, this is a shame because I know, one visit to the Big Smoke and I’ll come back full of ideas and beans.

3)     Finish watching the West Wing
I love the West Wing, it’s fast becoming my favourite ever television series, although Twin Peaks is still ahead. It’s so finely polished, well up to season 3 anyway, and the characters are really good, I come away from each episode having learned something. But what’s stopping me picking up the DVD and putting it in the player? Again, it’s down to mood, although I want to watch more episodes, at this moment I’m thinking I wouldn’t really appreciate it. I’d probably get bored and frustrated.

4)     Buy a new shaver

My Gillette Mac 4 has done well over the last couple of years, but due to wear and tear it’s time to replace it. However, I keep forgetting to, and every other morning when I pick up the shaver I think to myself, I need to replace this, and then carry on. When I’m shopping I never remember and so the cycle continues. Why don’t I get a new one? Pure laziness is the answer. I should make a note to take next time I go shopping; in fact I’m going to do it now.

Although these are some of the things I’ve been meaning  to do but haven’t, I have managed to do one thing and that’s to combine my love of football and general chatting of utter nonsense, so I present to you, particularly Premiership football fans, Alfalfa’s Premiership Show.

Final scribblings of 2008

I totally forgot I had these.

The end

The Comfort Zone

So Kenny Loggins may have sung about the Danger Zone in the 80’s but I’d like to discuss a less warbled zone, the comfort zone. For me, the comfort zone is where I flourish, where I strut around with the same sort of conviction as Danny Ocean has when strolling through the Bellagio. A lot of my confidence derives from the comfort zone, mostly because in it I know how things work. Therefore I can exude some level of confidence in knowing what I’m talking about.

So when the opportunity came up on a course I’m doing to either go, A: A face-to-face residential school for four days, or, B: An online alternative for 3 weeks, my comfort zone squealed out for me not to go to the face-to-face residential school. The trepidation crawled all around me and the fear seeped in as visions of being exposed as some buffoon and sent home in disgrace seemed all too realistic. The thought everyone getting along with each other accept me, who instead had to spend my lunch time staring at the wall contemplating whether I’d be able to get up and get some pudding without tripping over. Or the feeling that the tutor would just ask me questions and not be satisfied with my answer until I became a nervous wreck. It was easily outside my comfort zone.

Instead I wanted to do the 3 week online alternative, where I could see everyone’s posts, reflect on what was written and then spend about fifteen minutes writing my response. It may take absolutely ages and actually be quite boring but it would be in my comfort zone, and therefore I’d feel safe, away from making a fool of myself, or being targeted to answer really difficult questions. And so I went to sleep that evening feeling all relaxed and comfortable that the online version (although convoluted and not as rewarding) would be more comfortable.

Something didn’t feel right though. Comfort zone or not, I’d be missing out on a great opportunity to meet fellow students. I held firm however, and refused myself to explore the idea of actually going there in person. It still itched though, and people noticed. One in particular wanted to get into Paddington’s Shadow’s head. The change came when that person said to me, ‘You should go, because it’ll be good to take you out of your comfort zone, and that is always interesting’.  I felt exposed, was it that obvious that I had been coasting and not really testing myself of late?

And so in the end I opted for the face-to-face and never looked back from the moment I pulled up outside Whittlebury Hall. Apart from a fantastically run residential school, all you can eat buffet, it was the people that made it. It was a fantastic mix of randoms, who all felt that same fear of trepidation. It was great to share fears and realisations that we are all actually feeling the same thing.

I never would have got this had I stayed in my comfort zone. Sure I’d still be feeling safe and prancing about like I owned the place. But there is not much to prance about if the comfort zone is nothing more than box 5cm in height and width. I would completely have missed out and that’s something I’m so glad I didn’t do, because it’s probably given me the momentum required to finish the course now. Perhaps more importantly it’s made me realise that I should come out of this comfort zone a lot more, even if the experiences are not as great, at least I’d have experienced them.

Thoughts of World Cup 2010

When I first began writing this entry I had done so with a vision on commenting on all 64 matches. However, after an hour of writing and only scratching on Germany vs. Australia, I knew it would be too much. Still, I wanted to note down something, particularly because it has happily taken up so much of my time in the last 30 days.

In a nutshell, the lesser teams were organised and determined, the better team hadn’t improved that much, but still it enthralled me. It began with a bang, and with a goal that seemed to typify that anything can happen, when Tshabalala smashed the ball into the top right hand corner. Celebrations akin to the Macerena from the players made me think this was the cup of the underdogs. Marquez’s equaliser ensured it was not to be the romantic cup when he equalised for the Mexicans and deprived the South Africans a victory.

My work days consisted of me listening to 5Live or watching the games on the BBC iPlayer or the ITV’s (virtually inaccessible) equivalent. I had to reduce the size of the webpage and discreetly nestle it into the corner of the screen. Then, when I heard excitement in the commentator’s voice I’d quickly switch to the screen only to see the ball go out for a goal kick.

What was a big disappointment was the performance of the England team. It still irks me to this day, whilst eating my oatflakes bleary eyed or drinking Bulmers on a summery evening lamenting with another football enthusiast on what could have been. If only Green hadn’t spilt it, if only the team turned up against Algeria. If only... The reality was, England severely underperformed, James, Terry, Ferdinand, Gerrard, Lampard, Wright-Phillips, Heskey have more than likely played their last World Cup. A limp way to finish your international career which perhaps, in hindsight, peaked when England went 1-0 up against Brazil, some eight years ago in Shizuoka. That was England’s best team of that alleged ‘Golden Generation’, well, apart from Danny Mills.

Germany destroyed England with a counter execution which left ol’ blighty in tatters. Capello almost lost his job and a few million people were left gormless staring at the television screen wondering what was going on. In fact Germany turned out to be one of the success of the tournament, with a coach who seems to be dressed by TopMan and players who only played a handful of times for their country before the tournament. Their destruction of Argentina brutally exposed the South American’s lack of tactical nous. Everyone knew how they would play, and so Germany just waited and waited and smashed them on the break.

In fact, the South American heavy weights did not really deliver in the tournament after every all South American teams qualified from their groups. Brazil was supposed to win it but they fell apart after a ropey attempt to punch the ball from Julio Cesar, ended up with it in their net. After that, a European orange heavy weight out-foxed them like a 10 year old tricking a 4 year old into giving them their sweets, leaving the 4 year old stamping their feet in frustration upon realising what had happened. And so did Brazil who became divas instead of competitors after the Dutch scored a second.

It was an unfancied Latin country which was my team of the tournament. Uruguay punched well above their weight, but there seemed to be some belief that oozed amongst them as they all worked together. Oscar Tabarez had his men well organised and in Diego Forlan they had a deadly striker who could score past any defence. He knocked out Liverpool in the Europa cup last season and also broke Fulham’s heart in their great journey in that competition. With that form he rattled in five and deservedly won the best player award. His strike partner, however, probably shouldn’t be booking a holiday to Accra anytime soon. His handball is probably one of the most notable moments of this world cup. I don’t blame him, although it did annoy me when he went from crying to celebrating like he had just one the thing when Gyan hit the crossbar. In context, I think many players would do the same, not all, but a lot would do what he had done.

Some of the European bigger teams crashed at the first hurdle with France being in the press more for their off the field antics than for their prowess on it. It was comical to see it unravel and many believed that they shouldn’t have even been there due to Henry’s handball against the Irish. Karma? The Italians stumbled in their first game against a dogged Paraguay and never managed to get momentum until the last thirty seconds against the Slovakians, a little too late. As a consequence they finished bottom of their group and outrage sprawled through the country like it has here.

The Asian teams had a good World Cup, and their astute attention to detail meant they were machine like in their play. South Korea was unfortunate to be knocked out by Uruguay and the Blue Samurai were able to mix that pragmatic organised approach with a sprinkle of flamboyancy in their star player, Honda. His free kick and subsequent set up for Japan’s victory over Denmark were amazing bits of skill. Gaining qualification to the tournament meant that the North Koreans had taken a step in the right direction (in terms of football I mean), and being able to hold Brazil for 55 minutes was mightily impressive. So was their (supposed) fans who all seemed to be waving their little flags in unison, it all seemed too staged for me.

New Zealand played gallantly and actually did not lose a game in the whole tournament. They held off the Italian onslaught and can consider their World Cup a success. The Australians probably will be kicking themselves at an opportunity lost with the last hurrah of their best ever players in Tim Cahill and Harry (injury prone) Kwell. It was unfortunate that they never played a match together and in the end only missed out in qualification on goal difference. A penalty should have been awarded to the Aussies against Serbia which never was and the game ended with them all screaming at the ref.

The final itself was entertaining, and whilst I did want the Dutch to win, the way they played changed my mind. It was never going to be an enthralling match considering what was at stake but the Spanish wanted to play football whilst Holland’s more combinative players just smashed the Spaniards about. De Jong’s karate kick in Alsono’s chest summed up the lengths they were willing to take in ensure the fluidity of the Spanish play was stopped.

I thought the Spanish goal was really well worked and worthy of a World Cup winning goal, the ball from Fabregas to Iniesta was superb and as it bounced up, everyone had time to wait and watch it come down, waiting for a Dutch defender to come launching in, or the keeper to come flying out, but no one came, and Iniesta composed himself to lash the ball into the bottom right. Game and tournament, over.

This World Cup was as expected great to watch but the lasting image that will stick in my mind for a long time was Arch Bishop Desmond Tutu donning a SA woolly hat and bopping to The Black Eyed Peas. He truly was relishing in the moment of having the continent’s first World Cup being held in his home country.

Right, so when’s the first game for Brazil 2014 kick off? Peru to win? 

More scribblings from 2008

Cleaning the bookshelf

When the moon lines up in front of Jupiter and the temperature drops to -2 degrees at exactly 2:02am on the seventeenth day of the sixth month, it is time to dust my bookshelf. So the following the day I knew this moment had arrived so picked up the dusting cloth and proceeded to wipe, dab and rub.


After a couple of minutes I concluded to myself that the bookshelf contains the things that represent who I am, both in trait and possession. The mobile phone bills and SpecSaver contact lens’ boxes demonstrate just how disorganised I am with all things postal. Electronically, everything is filled in folders with logical pathways, but everything I get in the post either gets chucked away or finds itself shoved on the bookshelf. This may be acceptable for a few letters but not a year’s worth. So I sighed and proceeded to pull out all these letters regarding banking statements, insurances of all sorts and put them all in a large ring binder where they will stay until the day I realise that no one will actually ever ask to see my May bank statement of 2003.

Amongst all this envelope shrubbery is of course all my books. I looked at each one as I dusted their spines thinking about the last time I read that particular book. There were some I hadn’t even read yet so pulled these out and decided to make a ‘haven’t read yet’ section at the bottom of my shelf. Amongst all my fiction I also noticed tomes of yester year like, ‘How to use Macromedia Dreamweaver’ and, ‘An introduction to Marcomedia Flash’. Was I really into this stuff? I thought to myself. You bet I was, I loved it, that was until I realised I didn’t like to be in front of a computer all day (something I still haven’t managed to sort out) and because, quite frankly I never had the heart to fully embrace code.

Littered along the shelves are my random bits that I own but just don’t know where they should live, so they all have banded together and live anywhere there is space. These random bits include hundreds of friendship bands/bracelets that I just can’t throw away. In fact I collected them all up and put them all on and they almost come up to my elbow! There’s also a small globe broken but I’m still unable to chuck it away, keys that I am not sure what they open or lock, and about three sets of headphones which rest on top of my books with the wires draping all over the place. There’s also a lot of rubbish that I collect, particularly receipts.

But what I enjoy most about my bookshelf, especially when I actually pay attention on what is there, are the surprises. In between my Collins Thesaurus and Of Mice and Men was a little black note book which I took notes in when I was on holiday a few years ago. Below is what I wrote, well some of it as there’s too much to upload onto one entry.

Mighty Mourinho

I remember getting ready to go out on a Friday night in 2003; I was trying to iron my shirt but failing miserably. Glancing at the television I saw Porto had just scored against Celtic in the UEFA Cup Final. I didn’t think much of it, believing Martin O’Neil knew what he was doing, and of course they had Henrik Larsson, so continued trying to avoid creasing my lapels.

Finally holding the ironed shirt aloft in triumph, the taxi beeped. I looked up once more at the television to see Derlei smash the ball, which Artur Boruc could only partially stop as it flew into the net. Porto won 3-2.

How could this be? I thought getting into the cab, Celtic were a solid unit with a great strong striker in Larsson, not to mention having one of the most respected, competitive best British managers of recent times in O’Neil. It was because of someone called Mourinho.

The thought didn’t really stay in my mind that long, it was a Friday night, after all, but this name was to crop up again. This time it was a rainy 9 March and I was listening to Man Utd playing Porto in the 2004 Champions League last 16 second leg. I was only partially paying attention as I expected United to advance after going 1-0 up. It all seemed formulaic, a mighty club, bursting with more profit than the Tesco quarterly declaration, crushing one of the small teams (albeit one soaked in history).

Then United gave away a foul in the 89^th minute, my eyebrow raised. McCarthy smacked it and then Tim Howard did something that perhaps changed the course of English football for the next three years, he parried the ball when it should have been caught. Costinho was there to gobble up the rebound and score.

I quickly turned on the television to catch Mourinho hurtling down the Old Trafford touchline, dressed in black like a thief in the night, running away with a game stolen from Ferguson, he did this with arms wide open as he approached his celebrating players by the corner flag. The hammer blow had come down; Old Trafford was silenced, shocked by the late equaliser and riled by Mourhino’s celebratory antics. I knew of the name then and after defeating Monaco in the Champions League Final, we all knew who he was. Winning that competition was quite extraordinary, and something I think was his greatest ever achievement as a manager.

FC Porto is not a big club compared to the financial clout that Man Utd, AC Milan, Bayern Munich or Real Madrid posses. They had no superstar players at the time and had to negotiate around a group which contained Real and also Marseille. Subsequently Mourinho masterminded victories over Lyon, Deportivo La Coruna and beat Monaco 3-0, leaving him with an offer from Chelsea that he could not refuse.

‘Again, please don't call me arrogant, because what I’m saying is true, I'm European champion, so I’m not one of the bottle, I think I'm a special one,’ was his declaration at a Chelsea press conference. The journalists must have been rubbing their hands in glee (at the presumed naivety) that someone could think they could enter the Premiership battlefield, where Ferguson had won the lion’s share, and with Wenger taking whatever was left. And do so with such swagger. Surely, this ‘Special One’ was in for a rude awakening.

Not so, by the beginning of the 2005 year he was top of the league and had just defeated Liverpool in the Carling Cup, Chelsea’s first silverware since 1997 (CFC fans correct me if I’m wrong, as I’m not 100%). There was more to come as he delivered what every Blues fan wanted, the Premiership title. Although, he had access to more resources than Ferguson, Wenger and Benitez, it did not guarantee success, just look what happened to Claudio Ranieri the season before.

Yet 2005 was also the year in which a bloody nose was served in the Champions League semi-final, here, he was matched by a tactically astute Benitez who set up a team buoyed by the Anfield crowd which won 1-0. Even Mourinho was bereft of ideas in the closing stages, sending Robert Huth to play up front to no avail. Still, Gudjohnsen had a chance to win it late, but Garcia’s early strike which crossed the line until Gallas cleared the ball, sent Liverpool through. The ‘ghost goal’ had defeated him.

By the time he left Chelsea he had won another league title, another Carling Cup and the F.A. Cup. The cracks in the relationship between himself and Abramovich appeared when the owner bought Andriy Shevchenko for no apparent reason, other than he was his pal. This was against Mourinho’s wishes and as a result Shevchenko hardly played, and without the faith of his coach was only an average player in the Premiership whereas he was a colossus in the San Siro.

The cracks widened to become rifts, as media reports suggested that Abramovich was now listening to suggestions made by Frank Arnesen (Director of Football at Chelsea) on who to buy and not the list that Mourinho had. The main reason was allegedly that Roman did not like the defensive style of play, and wanted something similar to Barcelona’s.

Yet it was this style of play which broke Man Utd’s and Arsenal’s reign as Premier League top dogs and had titles wrapped up with weeks left within the season. It had all became a bit boring for the general Premier League enthusiast, but it wasn’t for his Chelsea players. Terry, Carvalho, Essien, Drogba and Lampard were all Mourinho’s men and he gave them what they all wanted, titles and cups. They executed his instructions with aplomb and it typified the loyalty they had for him. 

The day he was sacked by Chelsea, I remember seeing a tearful Garth Crooks hugging Mourinho as he said goodbye. I thought to myself, why was Garth Crooks almost crying because ‘The Special One’ was leaving? The truth was, Mourinho had made the media’s jobs so much more enjoyable with his ‘eggs and omelettes’ metaphors, and how he felt more pressure from the bird flu outbreak rather than the Premier League. Or, of course, the time when his dog fled to Portugal before being quarantined.

And just like that he was gone.

When Sky Sport News broke that he had joined Inter Milan 11 months after leaving Chelsea, I remember seeing him at the press conference addressing everyone in Italian. I was eating my Wheatabix, thinking, Wow, this guy can speak 3 languages. He later revealed that he learnt Italian in just 3 weeks of tuition; to this day I cannot believe this is true.

He successfully led the Nerazzurri to its third consecutive championship, but it was the Champions League which, owner Massimo Moratti really wanted. They found themselves pitted against Man Utd in the last 16, but this time there was no Porto repeat with the thief in black running down the touchline. Instead Ferguson gained some retribution (if he was looking for it) and convincingly beat Inter 2-0 in the 2^nd leg. That is not to say that Inter didn’t have chances after a 0-0 draw at the San Siro. Unfortunately all of their genuine chances fell to Ibrahimovic, how as, Johan Cruyff put it, he’s either got a great touch for a bad player, or a really bad touch for a good player. The chances went by and Inter were ditched.

This only left Mourinho defiant, albeit also slightly gracious admitting that Man Utd was currently the best team in the world. Still, he insisted that this was a team he inherited and did not have all the players that he wanted. He wanted to be judged 12 months later when he was able to acquire new personnel.

And so during that summer  I read about the best bit of football business since Tottenham had managed to sell Dimitar Berbatov to Utd for £30 million. Ibrahimovic would be going to Barcelona for Samuel Eto’o, one of the world’s most potent strikers and a player who does not got hiding on the highest club stage. This was not just a straight swap deal, Barca also paid 20 million Euros for Ibrahimovic too.

So now Mourinho had Eto’o, he had Milito, Motta and Snejider. He was ready to fulfil Moratti’s dreams or be sacked by Inter’s inability of progressing beyond the final 16. Inter were pitted in quite a difficult group with Barca, Dynamo Kyviv, and Rubin Kazan. Having lost to Barca away and gaining a draw against them. The results against the two remaining clubs were crucial and at one stage they looked like crashing out of the competition in the group stages, but they managed to go through in 2^nd place.

The league itself was not as clear cut as some had first thought; their lead was cut down by Roma, who eventually overtook them with only 5 games to play. His relationship with the Italian media was bad, and deteriorated even more so as the season progressed, even having a go at one of the pundit’s on an Italian football show and then walking off. I guess, this would be the equivalent of him dressing down Mark Lawrenson on Football Focus before dropping his mike and walking away from Manish Bhasin.

Roma lost momentum and eventually Inter won the league on the last game of the season, defeating Siena 1-0 away. They also defeated Roma in the Coppa Italia, a 1-0 victory courtesy of Gabriel Milito again. It was the Champions League which Inter had to prove themselves  however, and after being drawn against Chelsea, it all added the extra spice to the already bubbling prospect of Mourinho returning to Stamford Bridge.

However, this Inter were his players and his formation. It was evident as they took on Chelsea at the San Siro with the focussed determination that was once embodied of the boys in blue. The 1^st leg score of 2-1 was just about justified, although Kalou was unfortunate not to have been given a penalty from the blatant hack made by Walter Samuel.

At the return leg at Stamford Bridge, Chelsea were again unfortunate not to have been given two penalties, but this could not hide that even at home they were losing control of the game. And in Sneijder they had a player like Joe Cole (but perhaps more mature on the field), who could unlock defences   and so he did as he sent Eto’o free to scamper towards goal. And where Ibrahimovic might have missed, this striker does not, and with ten minutes remaining slammed the ball into the back of the net.

The Inter bench blew up in excitement in scoring but the former Chelsea boss, although initially unable to hide his delight, eventually composed himself by pumping his fist. He had managed to end Abramovich’s eternal quest to achieve Champions League glory and also break the Inter jinx of not getting past the last 16. 

CSKA Moscow was no match and was duly dispatched, but what came up next was an intriguing tie. Barcelona, the club every football fan appreciates as playing the most free-flowing football in the world, and who are unique in paying Unicef to allow them to have it’s logo on their shirts, were against Inter. An ugly, determined side built on an unbreakable defence which was compounded with belief in each other, and more importantly, in the manager.

Somehow, and I don’t know how, they beat Barca 3-1 at the San Siro. This was also after going 1-0 down to them in the first half. Still, everyone thought they would throw out Inter in the 2^nd leg, like I do with the rubbish on a Tuesday morning.

‘Where people say we parked the bus, but it’s not true, we parked the plane. Not the bus, the plane,’ was his response after the match. It was a game where 90,000 people willed Barca to score, but the defensive unit which was playing for time as little as two minutes into the game, stood strong. Julio Cesar produced a magnificent save and Thiago Motta even got himself sent off, but this somehow made Inter stronger, like an oyster shell protecting its pearl, they closed around the goal and refused to let Barca unpick or force a hole. Only in the 84 minute did they score, but for the team, Guardiola and the fans – it was too late.

The final whistle blew and Mourinho marched onto the pitch in a Franco like manner, right into the beating heart of Catalonia, to celebrate. Victor Valdes saw this and tried to rough him up, but he was stopped by stewards. Somehow, the best attacking team in the world had been blunted by the Mourinho machine.

The 2010 Champions League final was a bit of a bore compared to what happened at the Camp Nou, well it was in my opinion. It was framed as the protégé taking on the master, akin to Luke Skywalker facing Obi Wan Kenobi, but so much time had passed that the paths of these two managers had gone in separate directions. Van Gaal peaked when managing Barca, but he was now building his reputation again as a great coach after being sacked by them. Whereas Mourinho had one championships in 3 different countries and had been a success at all of his last three clubs. Inter won 2-0 and also broke Italian history winning the treble for the first time. Etched into folklore, the Nerazzuri have become, but what of the manager?

The next project is perhaps his most difficult of all, taking charge of the great but highly temperamental Real Madrid. It has an ego to match, if not bigger than his and they expect to win everything, but win it in style. They have no qualms of  either sacking a manager after a couple of bad results, or even indicate that the manager will be sacked at the end of the season, no matter how many trophies they win. Victor Del Bosque, the current Spanish coach, was the last Real manager to win them the Champions League but it was not enough for Real, and he did not have his contract renewed.

Such a controlling coach may find himself clashing with the President Florentino Perez or their director of institutional relations (whatever that is) Emilio Butragueno over transfer policy or even team selection. Real personnel are renowned for their interfering so it may not be surprising if Mourinho comes out fighting within a few weeks of the start of the season over who selects the team. He would have to show considerable mettle too, if he were to drop their ultimo galactico in Cristiano Ronaldo, as Ronaldo would not take kindly at being shunned, whilst Florentino could feel that shirt sales may suffer if the striker is perceived undermined by being on the bench.

Managing Real has its perks though, they tend to get who they want regardless of how much they pay, and Mourinho has had his sights on Gerrard since he arrived at Chelsea. Now entering his twilight playing years, Gerrard who once resisted the overtures of the ‘The Special One’ at the eleventh hour, may not do so as Liverpool have failed to reach the Champions League and the club is in unfortunate debt.

Seven years on from the 2003 Uefa Cup Final, my ironing of shirts has still not improved as I keep creasing my lapels, but for Mourinho his managerial prowess threatens to make him one of football’s greats. 

Sleep x 8 = Knowledge

So after reading this, I pondered for a bit on my approach to work tasks, duties and clutter. If anything, it made me realise how much I value my own productivity. I am in awe and a bit envious of those who can work during the day, then go home and do what they want to do until the early hours of the morning. Then wake up feeling refreshed and without that red faced, messy hair look I’m pretty good at managing.

I accepted years ago that I’m not that kind of person, and that 8 hours of sleep would ensure that following day I could imbibe knowledge like a three year old drinking Coca-Cola for the first time. So even though I am aware of this, I haven’t bothered trying to alter my sleeping patterns whatsoever to help optimise myself. I do stuff until I’m tired.  

If I manage to sleep for 8 hours, I’m exceptionally efficient in a natural way where I take everything in my stride. Over time this has been really hard to achieve, I have become mindful that I need more sleep but my body doesn’t automatically wind down at 10pm. Unfortunately, my mind is buzzing around this time and if I don’t start thinking about resting, I can quite easily go to bed at 12:30 after watching a film, reading a book or listening to a radio programme. It then takes me another half an hour to sleep. So in a bid to try and find a way to sleep better and at a decent time I tried a few different approaches over the last 3 weeks and weighed up what were effective and what were not.

Cold Turkey

I made sure I was in bed for 10pm for a couple of nights, regardless of how I was feeling. The idea was that being in bed would entice sleep within the hour.

Verdict: Didn’t work at all and I became a restless and bored.

Au Natural

For these days I just let myself fall asleep when I wanted to. The first night was around 12 and the second 1am. My natural clock is set to wake up at 7am, but because I wanted to get the full 8 hours I went back to sleep until 8 and 9, respectively.  

Verdict: The 8 hours was much appreciated but the day tends to start off on a bad foot if I get in just before 10am. Also, I tend to stay late as a result and basically shift my day along a few hours.

Preparation time

Around 9:30 I’d make sure I’m not doing anything active, i.e. watching a film, being sociable or actually thinking about stuff. Then at 10:30pm I go to bed listening to the radio at a very low volume and then I’m asleep by 11pm.

Verdict: Easily the most effective but in order to get the sleep at a decent time I’m going to have to stop engaging with everything, I don’t know how I feel about that. Not that good, actually.  

Alcohol approach

Some red wine or Scotch with ice are great ways to sedate me, and after two glasses of vino I do tend to feel ‘chilled’. Sleeping is a bit easier although it can leave me with a heavy head.

Verdict: It’ll be quite expensive after a while and probably not the best way to tackle the issue.

Having tried all these methods to sleep 8 hours and within a reasonable time I can conclude that preparing to sleep at around 9:30 is the most effective by far. Yet, as mentioned earlier, it comes at a cost. I have to be disciplined and will also have to sacrifice anything that goes on after these hours, which is the best time, in my opinion. So I guess I find myself in the same position as to when I started this blog entry, I am aware of what is required to help me develop and perform tasks quicker, but I am not willing to sacrifice ‘my time’, in order to achieve this.

In other news, I was telling someone how much I loved this song. They unfortunately hadn’t heard of it but as I sat down on Tuesday night, it appeared as the title music to Luther on BBC. I’m now a major fan of the Luther production team. Good programme too. 

13 And Out

So this election business seems to be quite interesting, of late. No more so than watching Campbell antagonise Boulton . So now that Gordon Brown has resigned, it is the end of his front line political career but also the end of ‘that agreement’. 

I don’t believe that the pact that both Brown and Blair made in 1994 would survive until May 2010. It was supposed to be a deal that would get Labour into power but it has done more than that. Through the creation of New Labour they created some sort of uber-party which won 3 of the last 4 elections. I can’t believe Tony, rubbing his chin anxiously as he inches towards the subject of who was going to stand as leader, knew what would be in store. Or Brown, as he winced in trepidation at being asked to step aside, could have comprehended that between them they would rule the country for 13 years.

Ten of those years were Blair’s with Brown holding the second most powerful role that a politician can have. They were instrumental in introducing minimum wage which has been a good thing, equally the hazy reasons for declaring war on Iraq and subsequently Afghanistan leaves a lot of people unclear, confused and ultimately disappointed about such a decision. When Blair left in 2007, he completely resigned from politics but Brown still carried on.

The three years of his tenure were odd. It seemed that he was going to try and hold off an election until the last possible moment as the Conservatives were going to smash the party like they had been floored in 1997. So, in a way, it seemed that everyone was waiting for him to do his business and then let the election take place so that Labour could get the battering. But then the recession hit, and Brown excelled, leading the charge in helping out the banks. No one liked the fact that the banks were using reckless practices and no more so than Brown. And for the first time, perhaps the public saw this side of him. He became open and honest in appraising himself, and not always in a good light. He fought well in the television debates against far superior orators and in the end ensured that Labour did not get obliterated, as was expected towards the end of last year, and in fact deprived the Tories of the majority they wanted so much.

His time was up though and as he walked outside of Number 10 to announce he was done, the first thing I thought was about ‘that agreement’, and how such pacts or arrangements can develop into something far bigger than anyone can ever expect.

So as David Cameron steps up to be one of the youngest Prime Ministers ever, I wonder if another pact will be made between two brothers on who should become the next Labour leader.