A substance more addictive than nicotine and morphine combined?

How I survived a week in the wild plains of yesteryear.

Recently I was temporarily consigned to a world without social interaction, a world without any joy whatsoever, a world devoid of entertainment and stimulation. No not Sligo somewhere far, far worse. For an entire seven days I resided in my dwellings without one of life's main essentials. I had running water, electricity and a bed to sleep in but at one point or another I would have gladly traded any of these (except electricity as you'll soon discover) for the one thing that I could not live without. I am of course talking about the internet. Moving house brings with it much upheaval and distress but lugging furniture up two flights of stairs pales in comparison to being essentially cut off from humanity. When you couple this trauma with the loss of television to boot you may begin to wonder how I even lived to tell the tale. But although there was some hairy moments I somehow managed to survive this torturous ordeal and in my opinion I'm a better man because of it.

During my hiatus in the twilight zone I relied heavily upon the oldest form of wireless communication, the radio. And it was with a wry smile that I listened to a story about how addiction to the internet is affecting the lives of the nation. Everything from the breakdown of marriages to the filing for bankruptcies can apparently be attributed to overuse of the internet and whereas at one time the blame could be solely aimed at males browsing 'specialist' sites it now seems that the women are just as bad. Endless hours spent tending virtual farms, and in the process presumably neglecting their real life equivalent ie; the homestead, has left the nation's husbands in a state of quandary as they attempt to iron their own shirts and, shock horror, cook their own dinners. It was never supposed to be like this, what happened to the idyllic picture on the box of that shiny new laptop which depicted a happy family browsing the web as one and having a jolly good time in the process? Instead that laptop has been swiftly joined by another due to 'Daddy hogging it' and now both Mammy and Daddy can be found hovering over a glowing screen till the small hours while their feral children rummage through the cupboards in the hope of finding even the smallest morsel of food to keep them from starving to death.

So while I chortled my way through this radio report and scoffed at the idea of feuding families seeking counsel to resolve their web warfare I noted with some satisfaction that I'd gone an entire 6 hours without any online usage and far from displaying the first signs of an addict deprived of his drug I was in fact thriving! There's nothing to this I thought as I reconnected with radio djs I hadn't listened to in years, cleared the backlog on my UPC box and read books at a voracious rate not seen since my childhood. So this is what my life was like before I spent every waking hour discussing inane conspiracy theories with complete strangers, discovering what happened to random celebrities from my youth and watching videos which by all rights should have horrified me but left me unfazed and apathetic. For the first time in years I felt liberated as I worried not about whether my several incisive yet scathing comments had received any responses on a football forum or whether my tweet telling Michael Owen to “just become a jockey if he loves horses so much” had roused a reaction and instead I went about my day with a head clear of such trifling matters safe in the knowledge that my presence amidst the world wide web would not be missed.

That was after the first day. By day two, a Saturday, I began to notice with no little distress that my daily routine had become disrupted due to this change in my circumstances. I sat down with my morning paper and regaled in the pleasures of sorting out the various sections in anticipation of an epic day gorging upon the work of the Guardian's finest. Within twenty minutes of finishing the sports section and moving onto the main paper I found myself becoming restless. I thought I felt a slight twitching in my left eye but ignored it and continued my perusal of places to visit in North Wales. The twitch became more pronounced and with it came an irrepressible urge to wiggle my fingers incessantly, what the hell was this? Was I turning into a werewolf? I again continued unabashed and resisted the urge to call my GP with these worrying symptoms. If only I could google them I thought absent mindedly to myself. The word Google struck me like a thunderbolt and with it the realisation that I wasn't morphing into something from a Wes Craven film but was in actual fact displaying the first signs of internet withdrawal symptoms. I needed a fix and I needed it bad but instead I found myself cut off from society reading the bloody paper and listening to Sile Seoige bang on about her childhood and how she...blah, blah, blah, blah.......fuck off Sile you insufferable bore!

What had happened? Within the space of 24 hours I'd gone from being at ease in a world without any online activities to someone who had begun to daydream about that lovely little red notification circle on facebook and the joys contained therein. Enough I said, stop being so weak you can do this . Had my twenty odd years on this earth before the advent of the internet been for nought. Was I now a slave to the whims of those who preyed upon impressionable souls like myself and insisted we live our entire lives online? Before my time in this abyss began I had vowed not to crumble by visiting an internet cafe and with a phone that I steadfastly refused to pay extra to use surfing the web I was left bereft and bereaved with no possible chance of redemption for the foreseeable future. I anxiously paced the floors of my flat and wondered what inanities were being discussed by those I knew only by their online monikers, I self indulgently wondered if anyone missed me pondering that if I died would those whom I only ever spoke to online ever become aware of my demise. In spite of myself it appeared that I was undergoing the first stages of withdrawal and in much the same way as those weaning themselves off heroin or alcohol experienced I was turning into a sweating, convulsing wreck with each passing moment. But unlike those attempting to eliminate poisonous toxins from their body I sought refuge in the knowledge that my addiction would soon be catered for as reconnection to the mainframe was only days away.

So having carefully overcome this slight bump in the road and regaining a sense of normality I recommenced my life of spartan frugality. And, football related news aside, I found that my initial comfort in existing on a steady diet of the wireless, printed word and the occasional dvd was not the result of a deceptive mind but in actual fact a highly enjoyable alternative lifestyle. Indeed after a couple of days I could honestly say that I never gave the internet and it's bountiful delights a moments thought as I readjusted to a way of living that only a few years ago was the norm. I could come over all schmaltzy and say that not interacting with people online meant that I rediscovered the joys of talking to people face to face and not hiding behind the safety of my keyboard all the time but that would be nonsense. Whether I was an internet addict or not was still up for debate but I vehemently denied any allegations that my online dalliances had altered my ability to interact with real life society in any way, shape or form. But was all of this just an illusory state of inner peace brought about by the mollifying fact that despite my relative comfort in an interactive free zone I would be back up and running in a couple of days and those books would be left gathering dust just as they were before?

So as UPC finally sorted their act out and set about installing my broadband / TV combination I sat pensively in the corner offering an air of insouciance whilst secretly urging them to 'hurry on so I can get back online'. With the door barely closed behind them the laptop was booted into life and my mind was taken to that place where time seems to lose relevance as minutes become hours, hours become aeons and before you know it it's time for bed. I hopped from facebook to my emails and back to facebook again, briefly perusing twitter on my way, posted countless inane comments on various forums and opened links that simply couldn't be ignored, and at the end of it all my mind had been reduced to pulp due to the continuous stream of disposable information that had been absorbed, processed and dispensed with little or no afterthought. It appeared I had learned nothing and my time in purgatory was to be nothing more than a brief interval in a life otherwise dominated by the power of the internet. But to my surprise I found that although the world wide web was invariably my first port of call upon settling down for the evening some of the things I'd sampled during my time away began to jostle for position in my life also. No longer was the radio something I only turned to in times in trouble as I made the musings of George Hook part of my daily routine. Sadly my saved programmes quickly began to stack up again on my UPC box and more than one unfinished book lay neglected on the coffee table but although these may have been signs of a rampant addiction I knew that if it came to it I could happily survive in a world sans internet and for that alone I was grateful.

The internet is a vital tool for each and every one of us in the 21^st century, it's become such a crucial part of our lives that we've got to the stage where we simply can't live without it. But how many times have you sat down to do some serious work online only to find yourself led astray by the temptations of your favourite social networking sites? Unlike the feeling of completion that you experience upon turning the last page of a book, or even watching the credits roll at the end of a film, the internet is never ending and offers no tangible reward for the hours we frequently spend at its altar. Humans by our very nature are incessantly curious beings and it's this which make the web such an alluring prospect for us, rather than be restricted by the confines of books or television we can dictate how we wish to be entertained and if something doesn't keep us rapt for more than a couple of minutes then it's summarily dismissed and on we go. It's this kind of web usage which is at the root of any potential addiction and it could even be argued that the behavioural pattern displayed by these kind of users isn't too dissimilar to that of a strung out junkie chasing their new fix or a quivering alcoholic frantically searching the cupboards for that half empty bottle of Pernod. Melodramatic? Perhaps so. But if you too chortle at the idea of someone being addicted to something as trivial as the internet just try and live without it for a week and see how you fare.   

Last Minute Shopping Rush Boosts UK Economy

Transfer Deadline Day and it could be your club........



The camera pans slowly on to the face of the maniacal white haired Scotsman. This looks serious, it could be a biggie. We pry our eyes away from the omnipresent yellow ticker for just one second and give the odious Jim White our full attention. He's played possum with us on many an occasion before but this time it'll be different. A British transfer record perhaps? Wesley Sneijder at Manchester Airport? What could it be? In the manner of a president solemnly addressing his citizens White carefully ruffles his sheets of paper, clears his throat, takes a deep breath and announces the news we've all been waiting for....”Reports just in.....our sources are telling us that........Burnley, yes Burnley.......have made a bid for Watford utitlity man....” his voice drifts away in the background as our hearts sink and we rebuke ourselves for being fooled again. How could we have been so gullible? This is a man who'd call a press conference for the opening of a pack of Hob Nobs and here we are in thrall to his every word on a bright Wednesday afternoon at the tail end of another disappointing summer. But it's transfer deadline day and even if there was a street party involving high kicking, high living samba dancers with liberal attitudes to clothing going on outside you still couldn't drag yourself away from the screen and that blasted yellow ticker.

Believe it or not there was a time when the wonder that is transfer deadline day didn't actually exist. Clubs were free to sign players all year round and did so at their leisure whether it was August 31^st or a murky winter's evening slapbang in the middle of the season. But as ever the powers that be decided that this perfectly functioning state of affairs just wouldn't do and so in their infinite wisdom they did what they always do and tampered with it. The summer transfer window and it's cousin the shorter, but no less dramatic, winter transfer window were brought into effect at the turn of the century much to the bemusement of all involved in the game and with it came the advent of what we now know as transfer deadline day or TDD for short (how have Sky not adopted that acronym? It just rolls off the tongue!). At first managers tentatively utilised the window unsure of its mechanics not wishing to break any unforeseen, obscure rule or regulation. They did their utmost to ensure that all business was finalised well in advance of the closing date leaving only the moronic, the desperate and Harry Redknapp frantically scrambling for players at the very last. Oh how they laughed at the idea that this new fangled restriction would hamper their chances of success, “I've got a squad full to the brim with talent and by jove they'll last me all season you just wait and see”.

Fast forward a couple of months and an ashen faced Premier League manager stalks off the training ground having seen his inexperienced but precocious left back left in a crumpled heap by that lumbering ape of a centre forward who in all honesty should have retired at least two years ago. The gaffer storms into his office silently beckoning his first team coach inside as he does so. “Young Robinson has just done his metatarsal in training, do you know what that means?” The first team coach knows this is a rhetorical question but answers it just to fill the deadening silence filling the room. “We've got no fit left backs at the club Boss”. His superior barely hears him however as he is in the process of making a phone call, a desperate plea for help as it turns out. “Hello is this the FA?”..........”Can I speak to the chairman please?”...............”Well can I leave a message then?”...............”Ok, could you just ask if there's any possibility, any whatsover, that I could perhaps be given clemency to sign a player outside of the transfer window?”...........”Yes, yes I know all that but just ask him...please?”...................................”Why not?”....................”What the hell would you know you're just a secretary!!!”................”NO I WILL NOT LOWER MY VOICE, DO YOU REALISE I'VE GOT NO FIT LEFT BACKS AT MY CLUB, WELL? DO YOU?!?!?!.....And so it begins.

Once the dawning realisation that the squads they were equipped with come the end of each respective window were the ones they'd be left to face battle with for the duration the managers promptly changed tack. Like a bunch of guilt ridden husbands who'd forgotten their wives birthdays they hastily snapped up any old item from the shelves not even stopping to check it's sell by date or whether it had been previously mishandled. All rational was lost as players were bought, traded and loaned with abandon and some of us were even moved to feel a slight tinge of sympathy for these pampered millionaires whose futures were being toyed with before our very eyes. Whilst the managers, players and most importantly the paymasters were desperately unhappy with this new state of affairs for everyone else it was an absolute hoot. Us supporters got more drama condensed into these manic few days than many of us would witness over the forthcoming season. Print journalists merrrily spun ever more fanciful tales with little possibility of reproach, a strike rate of one accurate story out of twenty was considered informed reporting during this fevered time. Those in the Sky Sports News studios had an absolute ball and the scramble to see the roster for the closing week of August saw Vicky Gomarsall almost trampled to death by the over eager Mike Wedderburn. But as is the case in most walks of life the ones who benefited most were those who deserved it the least.

To be a football agent during the closing days of a transfer window must be like entering a nightclub, surveying the scene, and realising that you're the only bloke amongst scores of 'up for it' women, everyone wants a piece of you. Most Premier League managers will tell you that agents are the scourge of the game and most view them as a necessary evil which must be negotiated when procuring the services of a player. But come TDD these footballing pariahs are in high demand, no longer are their dubious activities questioned by a single soul as even the very top bosses bite their tongue and dial the number filed under 'meddling tosser' in their phones. Of course agents lap this up and take great pleasure in playing clubs off against each other in the hope of acquiring even more unwarranted cash for they and their client. But it's not just the agents who play hard ball, club chairmen wholeheartedly get in on the sordid act and hike prices up to ridiculous levels in the hope of ensnaring a manager at the end of his tether after several dozen rebuttals. Instead of tying up all their business in the early months of summer and heading off to sun themselves in foreign lands managers choose to play a dangerous game of russian roulette leaving themselves open to the possibility of waking up on September 1^st with nothing more than a dead phone battery and a second rate Venezualan winger that they don't even remember signing.

But the question asked more than any other during this time is why leave it till the last day? Yes we know there's the possibility of last minute bargains aplenty, the chance that stubbornly hard headed chairmen might suddenly relent and that wantaway stars may have an unexpected change of heart and committ their future to the club, but really would it not just save a lot of hassle if everyone was a bit more up front with each other. Take the recently closed transfer window for example. It was clear to any follower of the game that Luka Modric wanted out of White Hart Lane but because he's quite a respectable little chap he didn't want to cause too much of a fuss in doing so. Now the decent thing to do for the Croatian would have been to say 'Ok Chelsea you can have him but only if you give us £40million up front, right now'. Reports suggest that at the very death a fee rumoured to be similar to that was tabled by Abramovich but by then it was far too late to put together a deal of such magnitude. So instead Spurs are left with a clearly unhappy player who will most likely be off next summer for a price guaranteed to be less than that offered this time around, Chelsea having been unable to procure their number one target have ended up with the enigmatic Raul Merieles, and in the process dented Liverpool's squad with insufficient time to get a replacement, and the only ones coming out of with any real satisfaction are yes you've guessed it, the agents. Oh and Jim White of course.

Love it or loathe it the current system of transfer windows look set to stay for the forseeable future. We will continue to spend entire summers listening to ongoing sagas and being duped into believing that come the end of August all will be okay. Even those who don't foresee any actitivy for their club will still wake up on TDD and secretly think that yes today's the day, that bid for Messi is finally going to happen and by midnight tonight he will be ours. It makes no economic sense whatsoever to have a deadline for clubs to finalise all their business but since when did anything about football make any sense? What it does do is make dreamers of us all and keep us hoping against all hope, throughout each and every window, that our beloved team will be the ones in the centre of the maelstrom come the final minutes. As long as there is TDD there will be hundreds of thousands of football fans glued to the screens more in hope than belief, but really is that much different to the experience of watching an actual game? Delusion is part of every football supporters armoury and for that reason alone we enjoy this crazed skirmish. Maybe one day transfer windows will be abolished and we'll look back on those frenzied last days with a hint of nostalgia but no matter how misty eyed we get about transfer deadlines past none of us will ever get quite so emotional as Jim White who, annoying as he may be, is the undisputed King of TDD and will in all likelihood end up being the first man to spontaneously combust live on air some time in the not too distant future.

The more things change the more they stay the same

Premier League Preview 2011/12...

Talk of fate and destiny is all too commonplace in the world of sport but there was a certain irony in Manchester City finally ending their thirty odd year wait for a trophy within hours of their more illustrious neighbours securing a record breaking nineteenth league title. Having had this barren period continually rammed down their throats by United fans it was almost inevitable that their celebrations at finally capturing a major trophy were somewhat tempered by the record breaking exploits of United. But in many ways it has always been thus. Although City were for certain spells before the war perceived as the 'bigger club' of Manchester the arrival of Matt Busby and his revolutionising of United cast a long shadow over the blue half of the city. Busby's holy grail as United manager was of course the European Champions Cup and upon finally reaching his summit and leading his side to glory he secured their place in the annals of history as the first English club to win the biggest prize in club football. But once again City's feats found themselves overlooked as despite becoming English League Champions for the first time in over thirty years their achievement paled in comparison to that of their local rivals.

But now over forty years later with City having endured year after painful year in the background as United swept all before them it seems that thanks to the dollars, pounds and roubles of some mysterious benevolent Arabs the noisy neighbours may finally be ready to step out of the shadows. Thanks to a level of investment scarcely seen before in the English game Manchester City find themselves installed as third favourites for the ultimate prize behind United and another team not shy of splashing some unearned cash Chelsea. Much is expected of Mancini's men having had a bedding in period which yielded the prize of a place amongst Europe's elite in the Champions League, but for those behind the scenes at Eastlands this is what they believe to be just the beginning of a period of glory unprecedented in the club's history. With a squad starting to look like a cohesive unit of athletes rather than an assorted bunch of misfits, mercenaries and morons they seem well placed to make a concerted tilt at toppling United from the top of the pile.

However just as all seemed rosy at City so a spanner is thrown in the works. Although their talismanic captain Carlos Tevez is still officially a City player and a replacement in Sergio Aguero has been procured it's difficult to surmise how much of an impact the inevitable departure of the want away Argentine will have. A City side which, up until now, has performed in a manner best described as perfunctory may find that they suddenly have to express themselves and go out and win games rather than simply play to avoid defeat. This is particularly true of their approach to games against the traditional big four where City will have to learn that self preservation is simply not enough and that victories in these games are crucial towards league success. So with the blues of Manchester seemingly ready to break into the elite what of the other sides that have made the top four spots their own in recent years.

In securing United's nineteenth league title Sir Alex Ferguson finally made good on his claim of knocking Liverpool off their fucking perch but where to next for a man about to enter his eighth decade on this earth. Following their humbling at the hands of Barcelona in the Champions League final Fergie could have been forgiven for thinking that his most imperative task was assembling a side capable of toppling the Catalan maestros but he would do well to take heed of the growing threat from his 'noisy neighbours'. In the aftermath of that Wembley humiliation and the subsequent retirement of Paul Scholes it was clear to even the most narrow sighted United fan that one area of the team in particular needed immediate surgery. That we now sit here on eve of a new season and United have thus far failed to embellish their midfield options may be down to a multitude of reasons but if Ferguson wishes to fend off the challenges on the domestic front and overcome the obstacles he faces in Europe then it's imperative he land Wesley Sneijder or a similarly capable midfield general.

Aside from his midfield dilemma Sir Alex has spent wisely with the only question mark hovering over new goalkeeper David de Gea following a less than steady debut against City in the Community Shield. However Ferguson's relative problems pale into comparison when put up against some of his contemporaries. Over the last trophy-less 6 years Arsene Wenger has gradually begun to resemble a man slowly but quite steadily heading towards severe dementia. Having seen his young team capitulate on more occasions than a child taking it's first steps, culminating in an embarrassing Carling Cup Final defeat to relegated Birmingham, Wenger has spent this summer fending off the inevitable interest in not only his captain, Cesc Fabregas, but also the gifted young Frenchman Samir Nasri. With the likelihood being that he will eventually lose both of these crucially important players before the transfer window closes pressure will be at an all time high for a manager second only to Ferguson in Premier League longevity. For some time now it has seemed almost disingenuous to suggest that Wenger could ever be sacked but depending on the state of his squad come the 1^st of September and the early displays of a team shorn

Across London Chelsea have never been shy in tearing up the script and starting all over again and their latest change in management sees Portuguese rookie (sound familiar?) Andre Villas Boas take the helm. At just 33 Villas Boas becomes the youngest boss in the league, rather ironic when you consider that the team he inherits is one that has been gradually aging together for some time now. After a stirring start to the season the West Londoners ended their campaign rather tamely bowing to United in both Europe and at home. For many it seemed like the end of an era as long standing lynch pins Terry, Lampard and Drogba seemed to be playing only from memory such was their inability to affect things in the manner we'd become accustomed to seeing. All of this pointed to a busy summer at Stamford Bridge with some wondering whether a complete overhaul was required if Roman Abramovich was ever to fulfil his dream of winning the Champions League. But save for a couple of low key signings and their continual, fruitless pursuit of Luka Modric Chelsea appear content to stay with what they have and rely on their new young manager to wring one last season out of those declining legs.

Having welcomed back their very own messiah in January of this year Liverpool embarked on a run that saw them shoot up the table and qualify for Europe when at one point relegation had been mentioned in dispatches. A large part of this strong finish to the season was the form of recently acquired Uruguayan Luis Suarez who has proved something of a revelation and is already looking a bargain at the price of £22 million. This summer Dalglish has chosen to stay closer to home with his signings and although Stewart Downing, Jordan Henderson and Charlie Adam are not the kind of names to striker fear into Europe's elite the Merseysiders have every right to believe that a return to the Champions League is a realistic target for the season. Having excelled in their first taste with Europe's elite Harry Redknapp's Tottenham found the dual tasks of competing with the very best in midweek and maintaining a challenge on the domestic front too much to handle and ended up having to settle for a place in the Europa League by finishing fifth. Redknapp, usually so active in the transfer market, has bullishly rejected Chelsea's advances towards Modric but with time running out and neither club willing to budge he will be braced for ever more desperate measures as Chelsea aim to bolster their squad. Redknapp being Redknapp will surely have contingency plans in place should he lose the vivacious Croatian and if there's one place to be on the eve of August 31^st then it's surely White Hart Lane.

Of the clubs hoping to threaten the supremacy of the coterie quickly becoming known as the Big Six only Sunderland have shown any real ambition in improving on last year's performances. The loss of Darren Bent saw Steve Bruce's men go into freefall having at one point looked odds on to secure a European spot and with Danny Welbeck returning to his parent club, Manchester United, it was up to Bruce to begin something of an overhaul at the Wearside club. Having brought in enough players to field an entire new starting eleven his main challenge will be ensuring harmony and unity in the dressing room. Everton who have so often relied upon David Moyes to work the oracle with little or no resources are once again entering a new season without any notable new recruits and you have to wonder just how long Moyes can continue to deliver this level of consistency under such trying circumstances. Aston Villa, so often the League's underachievers, looked like a team heading in the right direction towards the tail end of last season. In Darren Bent they had one of the League's most reliable goalscorers and a promising young squad looked ready to blossom together once the right man could be found to lead them. It's fair to say that most Villa fans didn't consider Alex McCleish to be that man but when have the fan's opinions ever been considered? The sales of wingers Ashley Young and Stewart Downing did little to appease the grumbling masses but the astute snaring of Charles N'Zogbia and Shay Given means that already Villa look to be in a position where manager and support can pull in the same direction.

Every Premier League season has a crisis club and this year that unwanted title looks like heading to the North East and Newcastle in particular. With home favourite, Andy Carroll, long departed and the funds for that transfer seemingly vanished the Geordie's must have thought things couldn't have gotten any worse. Wrong. The sale of captain Kevin Nolan to Championship side West Ham United was galling enough but as Luis Enrique and Joey Barton look set to follow him out the door it's hard to imagine anything other than a relegation battle for the Tynesiders. Alongside them are likely to be the usual suspects with both Wigan and Wolves preparing themselves for another hard year of scrapping tooth and nail for every available point. Ordinarily the promoted clubs are predicted to have a brief stay in the top flight but this season QPR will hope to buck that trend given the way they swept all before them in the Championship. Holding on to Adel Taarabt will be crucial to any success the one time founder members of the Premier League will have but most fans will be glad to see the return of one of English football's most atmospheric grounds, Loftus Road, if nothing else. Joining them from the Championship are Norwich City, another Premier League founder member, and first timers Swansea City. With squads consisting of players largely untried at this level it could be a long hard season for two clubs who pride themselves on playing the game in the right way, they would do well to take heed of Blackpool's example who also boasted such purist beliefs.

And what of the rest? The clubs who may occasionally flirt will relegation throughout the season and at their most giddy moments believe Europe is a certainty. Fulham will continue to be the League's most inoffensive team and more than likely blitz the opposition at home while meekly surrendering on their travels. West Brom look poised to do the unthinkable and establish themselves as a Premier League club following years of occasional visits, with a manager well versed in controlling mid size teams and a forward line looking increasingly menacing following Shane Long's arrival things are looking rosy at the Hawthorns. Stoke are the antithesis of Fulham in that barely a week goes by without someone complaining about the over eagerness of Tony Pulis' men, this is unlikely to change this season and The Brittania will continue to be a visit endured rather than enjoyed. Bolton Wanderers, under Owen Coyle, have undergone something of a transformation in recent years and now exhibit the kind of football implausible under Big Sam's reign. The big fear for Wanderers at this moment in time must be holding onto a manager whose stock has risen immeasurably over the past twelve months. Blackburn Rovers have reverted to type following a spell when bids for the likes of Ronaldinho had us all guffawing in disbelief and signings more in keeping with a club of their stature should ensure another season of mid table security for the Lancashire side.

So there you have it a season which promises much and one that Sky will have you believe will be the bestest most exciting one ever is almost upon us. Despite proclaiming throughout the summer that I for one wasn't really looking forward to it all that much and I could take it or leave it, I now have that giddy feeling in the pit of my stomach which can only mean one thing, the roller coaster is about to start all over again. Whatever does happen I can assure you that when I read back on this article come the middle of May I will have a wry smile as each and every prediction contained within will in all likelihood have proven way wide of the mark. But when all's said and done isn't that why we love the game?

My Premier League table for 2011/12

1. Manchester United

2. Manchester City

3. Chelsea

4. Liverpool

5. Arsenal 

6. Tottenham

7. Sunderland

8. West Bromich Albion

9. Stoke City

10. Aston Villa

11. Bolton

12. Blackburn Rovers

13. Queens Park Rangers

14. Everton

15. Fulham

16. Norwich City

17. Wolves

18. Newcastle United

19. Swansea City

20. Wigan Athletic

We don't need another hero

Oooh he's setting a terrible example there...

“So are we going to the match today then or not Dad”, “It depends Son, it depends”. “Depends on what?! Kick off is less than a hour away!!”, Got to see the starting eleven first lad and if 'he's' playing then you know your Mam won't let you go”. The matriarch of the household appears from the living room with the news this football mad child dreads, “Just heard that the filthy, rotten sex addict is going to start so I'm afraid your Dad is going to have to go to the match alone today Jimmy”. The distraught boy runs to the refuge of his room and once he's certain that no change of heart is forthcoming he carefully procures the signed picture of his icon, the only picture he's got left after all his others were torched on that fateful Sunday afternoon, looks Ryan Giggs in the eye and says “I don't care what they say Giggsy you're still the greatest no matter what”.

To suggest that the off field exploits of Giggs have forced concerned parents into such extreme actions is perhaps facetious but with media intrusion at an all time high it's inevitable that those elevated to the post of 'perfect role model' for children will have that unwanted mantle snatched away from them by those ever hungry for salacious gossip. However when deciding who and who isn't suitable role model material for our poor, delicate offspring there is certain criteria that must be filled. Obviously the said individual must have a certain degree of talent otherwise what child in their right mind is going to take even half an interest in such a wastrel. But the other more defining factors are the ones that must always be adhered to no matter what degree of ability they may possess. Behaviour in public is the biggie, the hopeful candidate must always conduct themselves in manner liable to make the elderly coo softly to themselves in approval whilst ensuring that a certain level of charisma, but not arrogance, is displayed in the process. This criterion is quite often beyond the reach of many of the planet's most famous denizens as they mumble and stutter their way through public appearances or worse still launch into self absorbed soliloquies about just how great they are. Tutting parents hastily turn the volume down and thank the Lord they sent Junior to bed a little early tonight.

In those all too rare occasions when a person is 'taken to the nation's hearts' through a combination of excellency in their field and a personality brimming with humility and deference they must from that point forth be expected to forgo further examination before they can even think of progressing to the level of 'national treasure'. Family life, past and present, must be publicly palatable or this love in will come to a crashing conclusion before it's even begun. A working class background is preferable but not essential and the proud parents must find themselves in a long and lasting union or else the jive's up. Siblings and the family at large had better not have any skeletons clanking around their closets, if so they run the risk of curtailing our heroes chances completely. Any hint of a wrong un' in the gene pool will have the public at large questioning whether that 'dear little boy' may end up corrupted beyond repair.

So having proved themselves to be paragons of virtue it's left to these superior beings to ensure they keep their collective noses clean and not find front page scandals dedicated to their extra curricular activities. With the News of the World now sadly departed many misbehaving celebs breathed a heavy sigh of relief and resumed their drug fuelled sado masochism sessions safe in the knowledge that pictures of them bound and gagged wouldn't be beamed around the world the next day. But for many it was a case of the horse bolting after the gate was locked. The NOTW took it upon themselves to 'expose' as many celebrities as they saw fit. The fact that most of their revelations were brought about through entrapment or that the average man in the street didn't give a toss about [insert random celeb's name here] DRUG SHAME!!! mattered not as they revelled in increasingly tawdry tales until the whole thing came crashing around them much to the delight of anyone with a modicum of sense.

But amidst all this talk of 'setting an example to the children' and 'being a role model to millions' there seems to be one group of people who have as of yet not been consulted. No not The Scientologists, the children themselves. When I was a kid growing up the level of media intrusion was nothing like what it is today but even then the people I chose to base my childhood dreams upon were not without controversy. Anyone that supported Manchester United during the 1980's will be well aware of the club's reputation as a veritable drinking club during that time. Paul McGrath and Norman Whiteside will be forever remembered as footballer's who bore the wrath of Sir Alex and in the process found themselves heading towards the first exit door due to an apparent lack of discipline. But what history doesn't tell you is that amongst all the hardcore semi alcoholic footballer's at the club during that time one man reigned supreme. That that man also reigned supreme on the football pitch no matter how much he'd imbibed was his saving grace however and to an eight year old boy Bryan Robson could do no wrong.

United's number seven and right up until his death in 2009 he would have been considered someone whom children would be well advised to steer clear of. Michael Jackson's life was shrouded with intrigue and discord from almost the very start but events only took a sinister turn in the early 1990's when sordid stories regarding his personal life begun to circulate in the media. If ever there was an example of a squeaky clean pop star suddenly 'turning bad' this was it and I'm sure many horrified parents took drastic measures to ensure their children weren't influenced by the music of this monster. But again from a child's perspective I was largely oblivious to these scurrilous rumours surrounding the King of Pop. The only way Jackson had ever influenced me was by scaring the bejesus out of me with his Thriller video and prompting many a night of failed moonwalk attempts.

So do children really care all that much about the private lives of those they aspire to be? At a young age they are more likely to be solely fixated on the public image served up to them and will pick and choose their favourites in the whimsical nature expected of them. Indeed on many an occasion a child will take it upon themselves to select the more unsavoury characters as those they look up to. Wayne Rooney has courted his fair share of tabloid scandals over the years and has been labelled everything from a thug to a granny shagging sex fiend. Definitely not role model material as decreed by the British media but as someone who gives his utmost every time he walks onto the pitch he already has a head start on most of those deemed more suitable for a place in our children's affections. What it comes down to is that kids, despite being seen as impressionable morons incapable of forming their own opinion, have a remarkable ability to separate the wheat from the chaff and decide for themselves who's worthy of their utmost affection. When cameras close in on the histrionics of Cristiano Ronaldo or foul mouthed rants of Ashley Cole we're immediately treated to the well worn line of how they're setting a terrible example to the children as if they plan on immediately heading outside to recreate the scenes they're witnessing. Not only is this is an insult to the children of today but it also casts aspersion on the ability of their parents to tell their offspring what's right or wrong.

As a child progresses through life and treks down the road to becoming a well rounded adult the chances are that those who heavily influenced their pre-pubescent life will become nothing more than a distant memory. Sure they'll still have their sporting, musical, political heroes but with growing maturity comes the realisation that the real role models aren't those that perform their feats to millions of adoring fans. The nurse who maintains an air of cheery stoicism despite being surrounded by those with horrific ailments,, the local shop owner who has had his premises broken into on numerous occasions but refuses to bow to the mindless thugs, the man who steps in when no one else does to stop a group of bullies taunting an elderly woman and perhaps even those that brought them into this world and cared for them every step of the way Because whether they realise it or not their real heroes are those whose lives seem painfully ordinary and mundane but whose exploits are no less spectacular than anyone you care to mention. Not every parent will provide the kind of positive influence that a child needs in their life but many will try their utmost, regardless of the sacrifices involved, and in the process become the most unwittingly effective role model a child could ever have.

Memoirs of a Misspent Childhood

Part 3: Over the Hills and Far Away

'C'mon lads I'm sick of hanging round here all day let's go off up the fields or something'! And so another adventure in the lives of your average group of pre pubescent boys circa 1990 begins. Before sex offenders lurked around every corner and daily traffic amounted to a handful of cars children roamed the country with abandon. After school you were expected home for your dinner but once you'd grimaced your way through the bacon and cabbage the evening was yours. But this was nothing compared to the joy of school holidays and in particular summer holidays. Eight weeks of the type of exploration and adventuring that the likes of Bear Grylls could only dream of, and even though you never strayed far enough to cause alarm at times it felt like the world was your oyster and in a way it kinda was.

Upon awaking to a beautifully sunny morning you bolted down your Rice Krispies, whilst reading the back of the cereal box for the millionth time, and headed out onto the estate to see who was around. The fact that it was only nine thirty in the morning mattered not as already a small smattering of children had begun to gather in various pockets of this most hostile environ. Like the plains of the Serengeti differing species steer well clear of each other for fear of conflict with young toddlers eyeing the slightly older kids with all the mistrust of a prey that feared imminent attack from a hunter. But negotiating this wildlife scene was second nature to a world weary eleven year old and having done so you took station amongst your brethren to discuss what the day would bring.

The usual suggestions of a game of football, some random vandalisation or goading the local pet life into fighting each other are brushed aside wearily as the need for something new and exciting is required to enliven this promising Summer's morning. It's then that someone pipes up with the suggestion of an excursion of sorts, a sortie into foreign lands perhaps? Some immediately attempt to shout down this idea knowing full well that leaving the confines of the estate is not something readily agreed upon by their parental units. However all of those with an alcoholic father and a mother too depressed to care about the well being of her children commit themselves to the jaunt with abandon. Others nervously scurry inside to plead permission to go on this covert mission in the hope that their beloved will buy the story about 'just going over the road to play football and I'll be back in an hour, promise!!'. Once the weaklings have been weeded out and those that have chosen to oppose the wishes of those in command have joined the fray it's time for the journey to begin, already the excitement is palpable.

As this merry tribe of miscreants set off into the mid morning sun the possibilities are endless. The horizon consists of nothing but greenery and those of an ambitious dent ponder what it would be like to gallop through that faraway field which on this day seems only a stroll away. But the first priority must be to escape the prying eyes of those likely to act as informant should any of the days activities be the kind that are likely to frowned upon. So having stocked up on a suitable amount of Mr. Freezes and leaving humanity as we know it behind the tomfoolery can commence. In this heightened state of liberation anything and everything are fair game and it's not long before derelict houses are being giddily trashed, rusty bicycles are being lobbed into rivers and those unfortunate enough to be driving on this road on this day are met with the sight of half a dozen pale derrieres. A dog has also attached himself to the group of intrepid travellers and having being christened 'Pajo' he is now as much a part of the team as another.

The frivolity of reigning terror on these deserted terrains is quickly realised however and it's not long before greater challenges are sought out. Thankfully something interesting is always only just around the corner and like River Phoenix and his companions the mother lode for this group comes in the form of a carcass. Although the object in question turns out to be only a cat, or perhaps a fox it's kind of hard to tell, it's no less dramatic a find. They gather round with a mixture of fascination and disgust as the bravest amongst them pokes the deceased with a stick revealing gaping sores and puss ridden wounds sending the hitherto brave warriors scattering like a group of terrified hyenas. Once composure has been regained those who fled quickest mollify themselves with claims that 'they only ran because you ran' or 'I thought it was still alive', but they know the truth and more importantly the others know the truth aswell, they bottled it and in the process failed the first test of the day. Redemption is soon at hand however as what at first just appeared to be an innocuous barn reveals itself to be housing golden barrels of joy. A cursory check to ensure there isn't an irate farmer skulking on the premises is undergone before bodies are flailing through the air with glee and abandon as this all too rare treat is savoured to the fullest. The once neatly assembled hay bales now resemble the remnants of a two year old's lego

The first incandescent roar brings proceedings to an abrupt halt as the straw strewn scamps stare at each other in stricken fear. The sight of the red faced bellowing beast and his instructions to 'Get outta there ye little bastards' is all the encouragement they need however as adrenaline overrides the fear resulting in several land speed records being broken by all in sundry. The chase is now on but this isn't like the chases of before where the pursuer is known to them and the worst that could happen is a kick up the arse or a clip round the ear. This farmer is an unknown quantity and as far as the fleeing mob are concerned is capable of anything up to murder and beyond. The desire for freedom is gauged by the lengths taken to aid escape, some leap unabashed over ditches and gates into territories unknown whilst others plaintively cry 'Will we stop lads he won't say anything to us'. Stopping is clearly not an option as in the background their pursuer has taken the quite unfair step of manning his jeep and continuing the chase by road. Any thoughts of unity and togetherness are dismissed by this sight and inevitably it's the weak and slow who are left behind to become the sacrificial lambs.

Watching the scene unfold from behind the relative safety of the nearby foliage it at first appears that our boys are going to take a hell of a beating. But other than a good shaking and a warning that future transgressions will be met with fire and brimstone they appear to get off unscathed. As the ashen faced quarry is let free into the wild the farmer departs with one last calling shot 'And the rest of ye can just consider yeerselves lucky I didn't catch ye aswell'. Yeah right they say to themselves, we're far too cunning and clever for the likes of that fucker, he never stood a chance. Once the coast is clear the group reconvenes and the war stories commence. The escapees slap each other on the back and seek praise for their fleet footed feats whilst those who faced the full blooded wrath of Khan take solace in the fact that they faced the devil himself and lived to tell the tale. It's decreed that perhaps enough excitement has been had for one day and the road home stretches out ahead, the thought lost forever Pajo suddenly emerges from amidst a corn field to great whoops and cheers and the drama of before is at once forgotten.

Before returning to face the music a detour to the swing, their swing, is in order, what better way to wind down and relax than a hour or two spent lazily drifting through the sky. Having risked life and limb to create this swing there is a justifiable pride in it and any opportunity to sample it's delights is a cause for excitement. Offering a death defying journey over a hill top surely born for just that purpose and a view of the vicious river beneath as you did so it rivalled anything DisneyWorld had to offer and was the best swing in the country as far as they were concerned. With claims and counterclaims as to who'll go first ringing through the air they approach their swing with reckless disregard and for the second time that day are left stunned and aghast by the presence of interlopers. There on 'their' swing are a group of heathens desecrating the very thing which they toiled over for hours on end and doing so in a manner that was likely to render it beyond repair before long. A feeling of dizzy nausea descends upon the group, a feeling which would only be matched by seeing future girlfriends ride into the distance on the back of motorbikes belonging to bearded buffoons with access to alcohol. A quick headcount reveals them to be not only outnumbered but also outranked as the rival group clearly hold the upper hand given their longer years. Defeat is inevitable and all that remains is to decide the manner of it. Discretion becomes the better part of valour as the lads meekly turn on their heels and walk away with lumps in their throats and insults in their ears. The memories of creating and manning that beautiful swing quickly forgotten as it becomes tarnished for evermore in their sundered hearts.

The day is now unquestionably over and as home springs into view the first voyagers return to base. Goodbyes are summarily dished out with no arrangements for later or tomorrow required. Mothers greet them at the door with 'Where the fuck have you been?' and not surprisingly the response of 'Out' is insufficient to prevent the cursory blows which hurt about as much as the threats to withhold pocket money. What do I need pocket money for it's the Summer Holidays you silly woman. As you retire early for the night you think of your mates and how you'll always be friends, unaware that those seemingly unbreakable ties will be severed by the emergence of the shapely young harlot in number 53. Little do you know it at the time but in a way this is as good as life will get and as free and happy as you'll ever be. Not for this young mind the stresses and worries of the adult world, as he drifts into sleep his only concern is whether the boys will be up for another jaunt tomorrow.

Summer Time and the living is easy

And it burns, burns, buurns...

It begins with snippets of gossip which are summarily dismissed, you overhear excited murmurings in the post office “......giving it lovely for tomorrow......” and receive texts with tentative plans for outdoor activities but still you refuse to believe. This so called 'heatwave', ie anything upwards of 17 degrees Celsius, is most likely just an elaborate hoax started by an ice cream van man tired of playing his jingle to a series of empty avenues. Despite your best intentions you chance upon a weather report that evening and it appears Jean Byrne is in on this whole ruse as she cheerily informs us to get the suncream out and avoid UV Rays between the hours of 10 and 4. The first quiver of excitement coarses through your veins and you curse yourself for being so foolish. Better to just banish all hopeful thoughts from your mind you think as you retire for the night certain that upon waking you will be met with the usual drab dismal morning you've become accustomed to.

Irish people are built not physically nor mentally for warm weather climes. A skin tone best described as being slightly south of pale and a approach to life which rests somewhere between sombre resignation and joyless melancholy means that a climate of intermittent rain and drab grey skies suits us just fine. Our relationship with our weather is one built upon trust, it remains thoroughly predictable and in return we don't complain too much about it. Those that aren't happy about it can sod off to another country and deal with hurricanes, tsunamis and the like, everybody else is content to moan incessantly and occasionally threaten to 'head off to the sun'. But for all our acceptance of endlessly overcast days turning into weeks and months we all secretly yearn for guaranteed balmy summers and each and every year without fail we get our hopes up only for them to be dashed time and time again.

So when all of this is taken into account is it any wonder the entire country goes stir crazy at the first sight of that giant behemoth in the sky? Ancient folklore tells of men driven wild by the sight of a full moon but nowhere in the history books does it mention the crazed antics of the Irish once the rarely spotted Sun comes out to play. We take to the streets like stupefied zombies, unsure as to what to do but knowing that we have to be there, attired in all manner of clothing depending on how prepared we were for this momentous time. Straight away you can see those that have been somewhat prepared and those that haven't. You have the types that lie in wait for the summer like stealth ninjas who are dressed like something straight off Bondi Beach determined to not only blister in the heat but look good whilst doing so. Then there's the ones who are moderately equipped and manage to rifle through their wardrobes producing an ensemble that although not exactly 'chic' is passable enough under the circumstances. Then there's everybody else.

Like the result of a fashion parade for the mentally unwell many Irish bask in the heat with little or no self awareness and in some cases little or no items of clothing. You have your stereotypical young white males wearing nothing but a pair of GAA shorts and a well worn pair of Reebok classics, this character will generally only be spotted on the first day of nice weather as he will spend at least a fortnight tending to excruciating wounds caused by first degree burns. Then there's the mix and match brigade, totally taken aback by this sudden increase in temperature they get into a mindless panic throwing on whatever items of clothing they can find before rushing out into the sun without so much as a glance in the mirror. I can only presume that they don't take the time to peruse their appearance before heading out as some of the ensembles witnessed can only be worn by those short of sight or indeed completely blind. Bermuda shorts coupled with tshirts urging you to be part of 'Jackie's army' are casually draped on to bodies which haven't seen the light of day since a sweaty coalescence on Christmas Night. Sunglasses ordinarily worn by pop stars in some futile attempt at irony are brandished without shame and Fedora hats are jauntily perched atop the heads of those that should really know better.

Accompanying this carnival of insanity is of course the ubiquitous 'drink'. Beer gardens which had hitherto played host to nothing but hardy smokers are now bristling cauldrons of drunken reverie as afternoon beverages turn into days on the lash, all fuelled by the blazing sun. But this self contained environment is just the tip of the iceberg, all around the country local parks, fields, avenues, estates, beaches and open spaces of any shape, size or form are awash with topless youths (and some not so youthful) hosting impromptu outdoor shindigs with not a care in the world. Music is provided by whatever means necessary and for once the neighbours aren't compelled to bring complaint such is the feeling of togetherness brought about by the tropical temperature. Untold criminal offences are committed in broad daylight but passing police officers choose to look kindly upon the young ne'er do wells seeing as it's 'a nice day and all'. Fights break out, vomit is spewed, cherries are popped, tears are shed and everyone has splendid fun until it's time to limp home for a night of restless writhing beneath blankets that are far too warm under the circumstances.

avengeance.

Suddenly you can't move for whinging people. Not just the elderly and the goths either, everybody is complaining about the heat and how they can't cope with it anymore. The bonhomie of the previous few days is forgotten as we seek solace by any means possible, grown men hold ridiculous miniature fans to their faces and any outdoor space offering a modicum of shade is snapped up vigorously. We're now content to enjoy the sun but only from afar thank you very much. The government issuing warnings over reservoir levels is the final straw for some, they now have a justified reason to want that odious ball of fire to scuttle off to wherever it came from and aren't afraid to voice their concerns. It doesn't take long before we become a nation on red alert. Scenes of scorched earth with nothing but dying crops are aired on the news as a tearful farmer lambasts the Gods and their cursed weather. Supermarkets tell of record spring water sales as waterworks become increasingly unpredictable in households all around the country not helping the already less than fragrant ambience of many abodes. Where will it end we think, damn you global warming and your devious ways we never asked for this!!

Then just as quickly as it arrived it's gone. You wake up one morning and instead of pitter pattering around the house in a state of undress you notice a slight chill in the air and rush to put on a tshirt. You look out the window and there's these strange yet slightly familiar fluffy objects in the sky obstructing the source of all this commotion just like they're supposed to. You reach into a sock drawer that hasn't seen the light of day for aeons and pull on a lovely woolen pair with relish as your flip flops lie neglected in the corner. It's all over, we've had our fun now things can return to normality. We had a lovely time we really did and look at how brown we all are, I did get roasted at first but sure it was worth it in the end. That was some session we had that Friday, great craic, can't beat slugging a few flagons on a sunny afternoon, ah the memories. Wouldn't want it to get that hot again though, feckin scorching it was how did we manage at all. Thank God for the nice predictable Irish weather and it's cuddly little clouds and cooling minor showers, we wouldn't change it for the world.

A week or so passes, it's the middle of August and the weather is typically Irish, grey, occasionally warm but thoroughly depressing. As you enter your local post office you hear someone speaking to the teller “This weather is a bloody joke isn't it, are we going to get a summer at all this year”.

What is it good for?

Mankind's insatiable desire to obliterate himself and all those around him...

In the aftermath of Osama Bin Laden's slaying and the barely concealed triumphalism displayed by our American cousins the only surprise was that the severed head of the tyrannical despot wasn't paraded around Times Square. Scenes of jubilation and reverie as a nation rejoiced were par for the course as after almost ten years the U.S gained revenge for one of it's darkest days. It was the ultimate trophy killing and brought a sense of closure for all those directly affected by the assault on the Twin Towers. But as evil as the supposed leader of Al-Qaeda was the sight of thousands of people outwardly celebrating the expiration of another human being was somewhat unsettling and from an objective point of view bordering on sickening.

There is no doubt that Bin Laden will take his rightful place somewhere near the top when the list of the world's most nefarious people is compiled sometime in the distant future. We will never know for sure just how instrumental he was in the 9/11 attacks but history will depict him as the main perpetrator and compare his repugnant feats to other deranged types like Hitler, Pol Pot and Saddam Hussein. The thing all of these oppressors had in common was their lack of respect for human life, killing someone meant as much to them as the absent minded swatting of a fly does to your average person. Sadly rather than be shocked and appalled by the deeds of the aforementioned it seems that as time progresses we are gradually lowering ourselves to their level whether we realise it or not.

For as long as man has existed he has chosen to resolve the majority of his conflicts through force, deadly or otherwise. Quibbles over land, money, women, honour and of course national pride have entered the annals of history and with them the names of the great men who fought in them. We look back at skirmishes between the Greeks and the Persians, the French and the English and the Americans and themselves in awe and encourage our children to do likewise as we teach them of the daring feats of Nelson, Custer and the indomitable Spartans. That countless people died horrible, unnecessary deaths is overlooked as the cause and end result somehow justify the means. How many times have phrases along the lines of 'If it wasn't for us you'd all be speaking German' been heard spewing out of the mouth of an indignant patriot? So what if we had been speaking German? What if Hitler had 'won' the war? There would have been more wars, more deaths and more unwitting heroes regardless of the outcome of that or any other war. As long as warfare is our only means of resolving conflict then humanity will continue to create 'monsters'. Not only that but previously unaffected souls will return from the field mere shadows of the people that went out there.

The turn of the twentieth century is considered a high point for mankind as technology, science and inventions progressed at a rate previously unseen. Up until this point wars had been raged on a mass scale over land and sea but although the casualties had been high the sense of devastation felt was nothing compared to what lay ahead. World War 1 saw the death of 9 million people over a four year period. Pause and consider that figure for just one moment. Then think of all those affected by the deaths, the mothers who lost their sons, the wives their husbands and the children their fathers. Those who survived this most hellish of experiences recounted tales so horrific as to be beyond comprehension to those not involved. And yet who amongst can say with any authority exactly what World War I was fought for. We may have vague notions about the allies repelling the dastardly German forces but in truth only those with a vested interest could attempt to justify and explain why young men barely in their teens perished in the mud of the Somme. WW1 is sometimes referred to as the Great War, presumably by those who sat in their ivory towers and relayed orders safe in the knowledge that no harm would ever come to them. Great were the losses and great was the grief but for those who sit in silent vigil at the various monuments of the Somme knowing that the remains of their ancestors were never recovered from deep in that muddy battlefield the idea of a Great War seems laughable.

At this point in time it was still deemed acceptable to forsake your life for your nation's pride. Grieving loved ones were somewhat consoled by a piece of metal and the assertion that 'he died fighting for his country'. There was bad people on this earth and every now and then a war was needed to address the balance and rid us of those that wished to harm our children. No one questioned this on either side of the divide and the trust in our leaders was absolute. Those that thought there may have been another way to resolve the issue and avoid the deaths of an entire generation kept their mouths shut for fear of reprisal. Of course worse was to follow for those still scarred by what they'd just lived through. Like something from a the mind of a particularly sadistic novelist Adolf Hitler went beyond the boundaries of anything seen before and attempted to take over the world, presumably laughing maniacally as he went along. Even someone with a pragmatic point of view like myself could see how the ordinary man in the street was stirred into action by Hitler's deeds but you only have to look at the nascent opposition to the draft system to see that the tide was turning and no longer was dying for your country an honourable feat.

By the time the US chose to intervene in the Vietnamese quarrel society as a whole had begun to question the motives of those that sent innocent young men to die. Not only were those at home in opposition to the war but those that fought did so under duress thanks to a draft which enlisted men to fight whether they liked it or not. One GI famously summed up the mood of US troops when saying 'We are the unwilling, led by the unqualified, doing the unnecessary for the ungrateful'. Suddenly it was not simply a matter of the good ol' boys helping the poor underprivileged yellow men from themselves. People were becoming socially conscious thanks to the power of television as images like these helpless children running from the aftermath of an American aerial assault were beamed into the living rooms of horrified audiences. Finally it seemed that the world as a whole had come to the realisation that a call to arms need not be the only solution to conflict and that there were other means of resolving disputes. But arguably more importantly everyone was beginning to understand that in truth we weren't all that different, the Vietnamese father of two who set off early to work each morning shared similar travails to the labourer from Queens who after a hard twelve hour shift at the factory liked nothing more than to relax in his easy chair with a can of Bud lite.

If the opposition to the Vietnam war and the subsequent withdrawal of troops is considered a watershed for humanity then what on earth must those who lobbied and marched for peace think of society's outlook on war today. Despite being more educated than ever and countless cultural advances it could be argued that ignorance and hate are more prevalent than ever. Worryingly it appears that most of those that spew incoherent bile are the educated ones and they have used their learnings to promote fascist beliefs to all who will listen. Of course much of this could be down to our collective fascination which all things warfare related. Ask any man from the age of sixteen to sixty to name his top ten films and chances are you will find one of many war epics in there somewhere. Even though the majority of books, films, drama series etc make no attempt to glamourise the events depicted we are still unerringly drawn to them as we see men just like us endure experiences beyond our belief. This morbid curiosity seems to stem from a desire to feel their pain, to almost get in the trenches with them and savour the full force of a shellacking whilst under heavy fire all from the comfort of our armchairs, vicarious living at it's best. Of course there's absolutely nothing wrong with a bit of escapism from time to time and those involved in works like Platoon, Band of Brothers and Chickenhawk should be commended for their unflinching portrayal of events.

Has this consistent exposure to the horrors of war somehow blurred the lines of reality. Films, and to a certain extent video games, are so authentic nowadays that it's almost impossible to discern what's real and what's not. The debate as to whether violence on television and other forms of media pollutes the minds of our youth is a discussion for another day but what can't be disputed is that the impact of real life events has been lessened by the entertainment industry. Occasionally we will see destitute families fleeing their homelands and feel true sympathy for them but for the most part the events unfolding on our screens take on an almost otherworldly feel. Even something as dramatic as the attack on the Twin Towers in 2001 became nothing more than a television event as we all frantically texted our friends to ensure they were watching the drama as it happened. Only later on when we watched documentaries such as The Falling Man did we begin to truly appreciate what those people went through. As members of the 'free world' we were almost willed to feel outraged by the events of 9/11, almost immediately there were reports of revenge attacks on innocent Muslims in the United States as incensed locals lashed out at what they believed to be viable targets. If the same thing happened to Americans every time their country decimated another nation there would be a countless stream of confused and bruised yanks nursing their wounds and wondering 'what the hell did I do?'.

So like the song asks what it is good for? Justice for those who died on that balmy September morning was finally gained but at what cost? If given the choice would those who perished in New York have chosen for thousands more lives on both sides to be sacrificed just so Bin Laden could get what he deserved? Sure the US was a nation in outcry and almost to a man it's inhabitants sought revenge for what happened to their citizens. But why must every single action result in a retaliatory reaction? It's a never ending cycle of death and misery which will continue unabated unless the powers that be can have the common sense to put an end to it. Like a gaggle of boozed up lads at chucking out time they lock horns with little or no thought to the consequences when all it would take is for one to simply walk away and say 'no more'. Maybe the fear of being labelled a coward or a weak leader causes those who govern us simple souls to act in this manner, the more cynical would say that self preservation or financial gain is the real reason. Whatever it is that motivates those in charge to make these decisions it's highly unlikely that they consider the ripple effect of their actions. As they sign their papers and commission their generals those who will ultimately pay the full price go about their day oblivious to the horrors that await them. It makes you wonder if we won't be fully content until we have completely destroyed not only each other but also the world we inhabit. Absolutely nothing indeed.