World Cinema: Why I Love It

Despite writing for a ‘world cinema’ website, I actually really dislike the label. As far as I’m concerned, cinema is cinema regardless of which country or language it was produced in. It’s a shame that many wonderful films receive little coverage or limited releases in the United Kingdom, but I’m not sure that it’s attributable to their ‘foreign’ origins. Equally, there are numerous amazing films made at home which only ever show in art house cinemas or on limited runs. In that sense, I’m not sure that there’s a great deal of difference between Paddy Considine’s Tyrannosaur and Baran Bo Odar’s The Silence.

I love good, well-made films which challenge my conceptions, teach me something new, surprise or delight me. It seems obvious to me that movies from other continents and countries will often meet those criteria. But I don’t see ‘world cinema’ is an alternative to English language productions – it’s a supplement and a companion. I wouldn’t want to eat roast beef for every meal – but, equally, I’d get sick of paella if it was on the menu every day.

I’d love to see more people picking something different from the menu, choosing something which isn’t obvious. Often, that might be the product of another country or culture. Often it isn’t. But I’m not sure it’s anyone’s place to dictate what people ought to consume. If masses of people enjoyed Transformers or Monsters vs Aliens that’s their prerogative – and their fault. I’d rather sit in a comfortable cinema enjoying a silent Italian movie about goat-herding with a few likeminded people than endure the unbearable stench of buckets of polystyrene popcorn. But I’m perfectly happy to acknowledge that I’m in a minority – a minority I’m absolutely delighted to belong to.


First World Cinema Experience

I have absolutely no idea what the first foreign-language film I watched was. But I can pinpoint the first to have a huge effect on me: Man Bites Dog. It’s a Belgian mockumentary with a microscopic budget and a thoroughly homemade aesthetic. As a pre-digital, pre-Blair Witch production, it was one of the first times I’d ever seen fiction presented as fact – and the horrific blurring of the two was a thoroughly jarring and discomfiting experience.

The film follows a publicity-hungry serial killer as he hones his craft in front of a pair of documentary makers. The hand-held camera (and the visible presence of the crew) lends an authenticity to the gruesome proceedings which might be too much to bear but for the large injections of darkly black humour which runs throughout the film. Benoît Poelvoorde is charismatic, hilarious and frightening in the lead role, and provides numerous sound bites and quotes with which we peppered our smart-arsed student conversation as film students. We never came close to emulating it in our pathetic attempts at making our own movies – and I don’t suppose we ever will.


What’s Missing For World Cinema?

Is anything missing? I assume if you’re reading this you’re already a fan of world cinema. There are no shortage of films for you to enjoy – there’s a whole world out there producing interesting cinema for you to watch. There are websites like this one, blogs and magazines catering to your tastes. There are increasing numbers of international film festivals, you can watch movies online, download or purchase them from across the globe. The world, indeed, is your oyster.

But those outlets are preaching to the converted. What about those unaware of the delights lurking beyond their local multiplexes and rental stores? Some of them might feel that reading subtitles is hard work (it’s not), that foreign films are ‘weird’ (they often are), or maybe they just don’t know about these films (they probably don’t). So tell them.

Show them a subtitled film so they can see how easy it is to read and watch simultaneously. Educate them about how many of the ‘mainstream’ films they watch are remakes of ‘weird’ foreign flicks. Show them where and when they can see films which will never reach their local Cineworld. How many times have you recommended music, restaurants, TV shows or any number of things to your friends? Why should foreign films be any different?


What’s On Offer For World Cinema Fans?

I consider myself extremely fortunate to live in Leeds, home of the Hyde Park Picture House. It’s 100 years old, extremely comfortable, sells reasonably priced hot beverages and has an amazing programme of interesting films from across the world. I’ve attended talks with Paddy Considine and Mark Kermode recently and watched some truly brilliant films which would never have made it to my local Vue! It’s also a venue for the estimable Leeds International Film Festival – a citywide showcase of the best of international cinema which has been running for twenty-five glorious years and gets bigger and better when it takes place every November.


Favourite World Cinema Genre

I’m a sucker for a documentary and nothing has delighted me more than the recent renaissance which has taken place in the genre. Spurred by digital technology, documentary makers the world over have been able to produce a superb body of work which is inspirational and educational in equal measure. Superb productions, such as Michael Madsen’s atmospherically apocalyptic Into Eternity, Cambodian Khmer Rouge expose Enemies Of The People, and the uplifting musical tale of Staff Benda Bilili have been just a few of the highlights of the last year or so. Check them out!


Favourite World Cinema Director

If Guillermo del Toro is involved, I’m there. Whether he’s directing, producing or ‘presenting’ (whatever that means), you can be sure his name will only be associated with quality. His name on a movie poster is practically a guarantee of genuinely creepy, gothic drama which will enthral and delight – from The Devil’s Backbone to The Orphanage to the utterly amazing Pan’s Labyrinth, the Mexican rarely disappoints when he works outside of the English language – although he seems to be on less sure footing when he goes ‘Hollywood’!


Top-5 World Cinema Films

These made the top five today. Tomorrow it might be Pan’s Labyrinth, Let The Right One In, City Of God, Y Tu Mama Tambien and La Quatro Volte. It’s too hard to choose.

Amelie (France/Germany, 2001)

I could just have easily picked Delicatessen – there’s not much to choose between Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s masterpieces: the two share much of the same cast and a very similar quirky aesthetic. But whilst Delicatessen could be seen as slightly grim, Amelie is wholly heart-warming. There are not many ‘feelgood films’ which can genuinely make a misanthrope like me feel good – but this is one of them. From the sumptuous cinematography to the Yann Tiersen’s magical score, Audrey Tatou’s beguiling performance to the charming narrative, everything about this movie just feels right. As an introduction to world cinema, Amelie is absolutely perfect.

The Motorcycle Diaries (Argentina, 2004)

All heterosexual men are allowed one man crush and Gael Garcia Bernal is mine (and he actually makes a pretty attractive woman when he drags up in Pedro Almodovar’s Bad Education). The Motorcycle Diaries is arguably his finest performance – he’s completely convincing as the young Che Guevara. I first saw it in a thoroughly deserted cinema and was delighted there was nobody there to distract me from the engaging, hilarious and touching narrative. It’s a wonderful film about friendship – although the central relationship is almost overshadowed by the magnificent motorbike of the title!

The Bothersome Man (Norway/Iceland, 2006)

The first time I ever received a proper press pass I wrote a review of this film. It opens with arguably the most disgusting screen kiss of all time, features a horrific attempted suicide, and is about a dystopian society where even steaming mugs of hot chocolate have no taste at all. It’s uncomfortable viewing, at times, but a nuanced comic performance from Trond Fausa Aurvaag in the lead role lends just enough warmth and hope to proceedings to ensure the darkness isn’t too dark! Scandinavia produces loads of these quirky, original comedies – it’s only a matter of time before Hollywood realises and starts reproducing them (badly).

Battle Royale (Japan, 2000)

I work in education, so seeing a class full of children massacring each other with knives, guns and dustbin lids is a thoroughly cathartic experience. Need I say more?

The First Movie (UK/Canada, 2009)

Film is a hugely powerful medium and this is the best way I can think to illustrate the point. Filmmaker Mark Cousins travelled to Iraq to a community who had never even seen a movie and showed them classic films projected onto a bedsheet before giving them digital cameras and asking them to make their own. It’s wonderful and the films they produce are brilliant – Cousins’ soothing voiceover adds poetry and beauty to proceedings. I run a film club in my school and can only hope to have a fraction of the effect Cousins did on his little corner of Iraq. A beautiful, inspiring film.

Being Shit At Football

I love football. I love watching the game, talking about it and even writing about it. Above all else, I love playing it. Which is somewhat ironic given that I’m definitely worse at kicking a ball around than I am at any of the other things listed.

I was a latecomer to the sport. I only really got interested in the game because my friend Sean Bonnett was an avid Manchester United fan – at the age of eleven this seemed as good as a reason as any to start supporting them. But despite acquiring the full set of United’s Pro Set Collector Cards, it was not shiny pictures of Clayton Blackmore and Mike Phelan which caused me to truly fall in love with the sport.

Having been persuaded by friends to go to my school’s football practice I struck a perfect left foot volley. It was an acrobatic scissor kick which smashed into the back of the net. I beamed with joy. The PE teacher, Mr Kirkwood, told me I was ‘a natural’. I wasn’t.

Nobody takes up football at the age of eleven and goes on to be a great player. Too many of the basic tools are missing. And this is why my primary school football career consisted of one abortive game in goal (my next- door neighbour scored a very soft hat-trick past me), an appearance in the second XI which we won 7-1 and a few turn-outs for the first team when they were particularly desperate. But I didn’t care. I was now a footballer.

Secondary school was a far less enjoyable affair. I was thoroughly committed to turning out every game but out year group was, quite frankly, fucking useless. I developed into a left –sided forward who flitted in and out of games and scored an occasional goal. We always lost. Heavily. In one extremely one-sided defeat I caught the ball on my own goal line. I’d simply given up. I wanted to get sent off but the referee merely awarded a penalty – he felt pity on me. The shame.

Far more enjoyable were the endless nights spent playing small sided games, World Cup or knockouts at school. As soon as the bell went for the end of the academic day we’d rush to the pitch and belt a ball around. I was fairly good in goal thanks largely to a flagrant disregard for my own clothes. I’d throw myself at anything, caring not one jot how much mud I ended up caked in. My mother was less enthusiastic. But even when playing outfield I ended up filthy. I modelled myself on Mark Hughes – determined to spank overhead kicks, diving headers and flying volleys into the onion bag. It was the aspect of the game I understood most.

Sadly, it’s also the reason I never turned into a very good eleven-a-side player. The majority of our games were played into one goal on a tiny pitch. I never learned to make space for myself, appreciate the game, read the play. The focus was always on charging towards goal. It’s hugely enjoyable, but it’s never gonna turn you into Xavi.

Despite this I was usually one of the better players in games at school. I was also bright and well behaved. And as such I became captain of the school team. I got to choose the line-up – a move which guaranteed me a place up front whether I deserved it or not. But bright moments were few and far between. I once celebrated a thirty yard strike by piggybacking a teammate back to the halfway line only to realise that it never went in – one of our strikers actually scored the goal when the ball broke back off the crossbar.

Our most infamous incident occurred in a cup-tie. Two or three goals down at half-time, the gigantic defender who had marked me out of the game remarked that we ‘were easy’. I responded with a classic retort: ‘like your mum’. Sadly, it transpired that his mum had died very recently. I spent the second period leaping out of scything challenges and running away from a furious beast of centre half. Realising that I was too quick/cowardly to be caught, he instead launched a potentially leg-breaking challenge at a teammate making his return from a pinned ankle. A 21 man brawl ensued (our keeper bottled it). Our fixtures were cancelled for the rest of the season.

Realising that the school football team was always destined to be dogshit, I searched for a new place to play – and found it in the Driffield & District Football League. A few of my mates played for Forester’s Athletic and soon I did too. I was never likely to be talent spotted, but I had my moments.

In the world of park football, multiple pitches are crammed together in close proximity. During one pre-season game, a bunch of my friends were playing on the pitch behind ours. Having had two perfectly legitimate goals ruled out for spurious offsides, I intercepted a slack backpass. With only the keeper to beat, I nonchalantly bent the ball into the bottom corner with the outside of my left foot. My buddies on the opposite pitch were waiting for a corner to be pinged into their box and were all facing our goal at just the right time: I bowed straight at them rather than celebrating with my own team.

That was probably the highlight of my career at Forester’s. Lowlights included getting struck directly in the testicles after charging down a clearance. And scoring a goal with my nose. I don’t remember that strike fondly: it was a deflection which cracked me in the face and plopped over the line.

And so on to university. There was never any chance of me showing sufficient dedication to play for a decent uni team. Instead I threw myself into a very amateur form of football as a way of making friends. Tragically, my first game resulted in a rocket being launched at my groin from approximately three yards. I bled from my penis. For days. I’m pleased to announce there was no long term damage.

Nowadays a play five-a-side twice a week. On Mondays I’m definitely one of the weaker performers. It’s clear that some of the guys play regularly and to a decent level. They push short passes around, seeking space and bossing each other around the pitch. I do as I’m told, work pretty hard and occasionally impress even myself with a piece of skill or a fine pass. On Fridays I play with colleagues. Some of them are knocking on for sixty and the vast majority are older than me. Even at 31. I’m the quickest, the most skilful and I score the most goals: I’ve found my perfect pitch.

Trial by Medicine

It was an inauspicious start to the week.

In order to prove my identity I needed something with a photograph on it. As an avowed non-driver, the only thing which would pass muster was my passport. Which I didn’t have.

I wasn’t at home and had only an hour until my screening appointment, so having made some explanatory phone calls I jumped on a pair of buses and went home to retrieve it. Except it wasn’t there.

I always keep my passport in the same place. Why had I made an exception this time? Starting to panic I pulled boxes from shelves, went through the pockets of my jackets and jeans, my man-bags. It simply wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

I called them back, explaining that I couldn’t find my passport anywhere. A voice from the landing piped up authoritatively, “You won’t find it”. Of course I wouldn’t – I’d posted it to my previous employers as proof of identity for a claim on an old pension I used to pay into. Dammit.

I made my fourth phone call of the day (already a record for me) to explain that my passport was elsewhere and there was nothing I could do about it. I had been foiled. There was nothing anyone could do to verify that I was, indeed, John Robert Ward Jr – despite the fact that I had attended a screening appointment just two weeks previously during which they’d photocopied the all-important document. I had a photocopy of my own. I had other forms of photo ID. But they were not enough.

I was furious. I’d previously failed a screening due to my blood being too sugary (or some such triviality) and had been due to take part in a trial which had been cancelled at the last moment. My efforts at donating my body to science were being thwarted at every turn.

Except just when I was about to explode in an apoplectic rage, the phone rang and a calming Geordie accent explained that they would make an exception on the basis of my previous efforts to help and the last-minute circumstances under which I’d volunteered. Hurrah.

Of course, my determination to participate in a clinical trial had absolutely nothing to do with altruism and everything to do with the fact that I would be paid £800 (tax free) for sitting in bed reading books and taking pills. In my badly paid profession, this kind of renumeration would enable to finish my summer-holidays in style.

Like Neo from The Matrix i was plugged in to an ECG machine, had vials of blood and urine forcibly extracted, my groin prodded by a doctor and numerous questions asked of my medical history and recreational activities. And then I was in.

Unfortunately I had two hours to fill in until the other candidates arrived. It wasn’t worth going home and coming back, so I was deposited in a comfortable television room with a glass of water. And there I remained. By this point my stomach was beginning to devour itself – I’d been fasting since the previous evening. And as anyone who’s spent time with me when I’m hungry can attest, this is not a state I like to be in.

Thankfully it eventually ticked around to 1pm and I was taken upstairs for a briefing, another barrage of questions and – hopefully – some food. A delightfully matronly nurse asked me some questions which were remarkably similar to those I’d been asked earlier and I told her that:

Yes, I’d had a small glass of wine over the weekend.
No, I hadn’t consumed any grapefruit juice or Seville oranges.
Yes, I’d had some ibuprofen on Thursday to cure a headache.
No, I haven’t donated any blood in the last three months.

I then went and deposited yet more urine in a plastic bottle and waited for the doctor running the trial to come and ask me exactly the same questions again. In the meantime, a lovely young man explained the procedure: we’d be on a strict timetable of when we could eat; we must eat everything we were given; we must keep every drop of our piss; we must not refrigerate said piss; we could be fined for misbehaviour; we might not get on the trial.

Hang on. What was that? We might not get on the trial? The five volunteers in the room looked bemusedly at one another. It transpired that they only needed three volunteers at this stage and that two of us were just back up. This was news to everyone. The pill was sweetened only slightly by the news that the two not selected would stay in the unit for just two nights and would receive £200 for their trouble. Not ideal, but better than a sweet FA. But my disgruntlement was growing.

Feeling like I’d not been told the whole truth, my mood was quite surly when the doctor arrived to interrogate me for the third time that day. He asked me exactly the same questions I’d been asked twice before, only this time his reaction was different. He was perturbed by my having taken ibuprofen. He was a bit snappy with me. I was monosyllabic in response. He left the room. Rejection felt inevitable.

I was gearing myself up to leave. Upon his return he explained that I was not allowed to take any form of medication in the two weeks up to the trial. His tone was accusatory – like I’d been wasting his time. Au contraire, mon frère. I was the one having my fucking time wasted.

I’d taken the painkillers on Thursday. I’d then received a call the next day asking me to participate at short notice in the trial. I was asked to come in for a screening immediately after the weekend. I acquiesced and followed all their instructions. At no point did anyone ask me if I’d partaken of any pills, potions, lotions or otherwise. I’d have told them if I had.

So through no fault of my own I’d been sat inside a soulless hospital for over five hours. I’d had my genitals felt by a man, blood sucked from my arm, piss piped from my penis and question after question asked of me. I’d made seven or eight phone calls, caught buses from one side of the city to the other. I’d had my bags searched and my underwear rummaged around in. I’d fasted for fuck all. I’d not made any plans for the week (a full week of my summer holiday). Mentally, I’d spent the money. And now I was being told that because a couple of people had made oversights in asking about or reporting my use of contraband ibuprofen I had never been eligible to take part at all.

I was not happy. I made my feelings clear, explaining my position firmly and calmly – but ensuring there was enough of a ‘don’t fuck with me’ edge to voice for them not to attempt to mollify me. I demanded that the company remove all records of me from their files, remove me from all mailing or contact lists. I managed not to swear, although I did refer to the company as ‘a joke’ in full view of plenty of people. I’d packed by bag and was leaving before the doctor had chance to respond.

A very polite member of staff accompanied me out of the building apologizing all the way. I felt sorry for him having been put in such a position. But then he rubbed me up entirely the wrong way: he told me at least I’d get a £15 for attending the screening. You can imagine what solace I took from that.

Sadly, I’m not allowed to reveal the name of the company in question. I signed confidentiality agreements, you see. But I can say this: it’s a large, famous company which conducts clinical trials in Leeds. Perhaps you’ll be better at putting the evidence together than they are.

Bingo!!

Growing up in a Bridlington (a seaside town that they forgot to close down) ensured that weekend and holiday jobs were abundantly available. Even to children who were barely old enough to tie their own shoelaces. My first gainful employment was at Joby’s Bingo where, for the princely sum of £1.50 per hour, I was subjected to abuse, saw old women piss themselves and developed an early aversion to Nescafe coffee.

Joby’s was located within a dingy seafront amusement arcade. It seated around forty customers who paid 10p per card and were awarded with prize vouchers worth approximately £1. In order to make break even we required ten cards to be lit up. Any more than that enabled the endeavour to run at a profit. Prizes were located in glass cabinets to which I held the keys. The more wins a customer racked up, the better the prize they could claim. It was my duty to administer winning tokens and swap them for the appropriate prizes whilst also keeping the ‘contestants’ topped up with extraordinarily cheap tea and tar-like coffee – each dispensed from large thermos devices.

As my innate charm became more apparent (largely through my flirtatious nature with players’ bored granddaughters) I was given increasingly important jobs to do. This rapid ascension through ranks soon saw me become Brid’s youngest ever bingo caller – a skill I learned at the knee of an elderly cock-er-nee name Richard.

Richard was a proper east London charmer. Bespectacled, balding and round-bellied, he nonetheless believed himself to be the most attractive man on the Esplanade. His confidence was legendary – he would chat-up absolutely anyone. Nobody was safe from his silver tongue – the old dears visibly wilted at his attention. On the rare occasions that he wasn’t bantering with the blue-rinsed brigade he was crooning into the microphone or belting out music-hall standards.

Despite all this, I was not overly fond of the man. He was slightly creepy and far too keen to pair me off with young girls whose mothers he fancied. And sharing a mic with him was not an enjoyable experience – his sour breath lingered on the sponge cover and was utterly inescapable. My only respite from Richard occurred when the Big Boss Barry was in town to give him an occasional day off.

I much preferred Barry. He referred to me as a ‘Mongolian cheese rat’ for reasons I have never fathomed, but was a lovely man. I think Joby had maybe been his father and he clearly loved the bingo and arcade he’d inherited. Sadly, as a trip to the seaside became a less popular day-trip for us Brits, Barry decided to cut his losses on the arcade and left. Under new management I felt uncomfortable and bowed out too.

I soon resurfaced in the arcade next door. There, my first job was to dive headlong underneath the ten pin bowling to rectify any problems. The bowling alley, you see, was an old fashioned one where the skittles were lowered into place by pieces of rope. These ropes stayed attached even once they skittles had been knocked down and this, very often, led to tangles and knots which I was charged with untangling and unknotting.

My skills were wasted in bowling, however, and my new employers soon realised that my confidence in front of an audience would serve them better as a Grand National commentator. I was promoted to the glorified donkey derby where my job was to generate and sustain interest in the dullest seaside pastime imaginable – rolling balls into holes in order to make mechanical horses jerk along an enamelled racetrack. The prizes (as at Joby’s) were the traditional tat associated with such games and in similar style to the bingo a minimum number of players were required to make the game viable.

My mentor here was Harry: slightly goofy man with walnut skin and hair too long for a man of his age. I would later realise that he was shagging the proprietor, that he came from a travelling background and had lost Bridlington’s prime real estate on the toss of a coin. But at the time I just thought he was a flash bastard who wore Hugo Boss jeans to work in an amusement arcade.

From Harry I learned the clichéd language of horse racing. I had a whole armoury of phrases, quips and put-downs with which I would embroider my commentary. I even made up some of my own. But ultimately it was a repetitive affair which offered little opportunity for self-expression – except when it was quiet...

During slack times it was my job to encourage people into my domain. This was both difficult and dull. But it did enable me to develop a few jokes, a deadpan persona and a line in self-deprecating humour which did not endear me to management. And I became even less popular when I took to stealing a basketball from one of the arcade games, taking it outside with me and juggling it like a football whilst half-heartedly trying to entice people inside on the radio-mic. I got sacked. But not before I’d stolen one of each Loony Toons soft-toys from the grabber machines for my siblings.

From there I made a move to Harrison Leisure - a fruitful partnership which would last over ten years. After an extremely informal interview with Moomin-like proprietor Michael, I was assigned to duties in Indiana Jones’ Trail and The Crystal Maze.

The Trail was an enormous adventure playground which I had frequented as a child. Filled with slides, rope bridges and bouncy castles, it was a youngster’s dream. It was a teenager’s nightmare. I dealt with snapped wrists, banged heads, pissed pants and crying kids. Parents loved leaving their offspring for as long as humanly possible – not least because there was no time-limit on how long you could play. As almost every mother, father, uncle, grandparent or family friend dropped off their progeny they would loudly proclaim, ‘see you next a week’. It’s a joke that wasn’t funny the first time I heard it - and never got any more amusing.

Respite from smelly feet and irritating infants came when I was occasionally posted on The Crystal Maze. This was (predictably) a hall of mirrors and glass maze. The work here was simple – collect people’s tickets and then wait for them to emerge from the other side. The only variation to this routine occurred when a small child smashed his face into a glass panel and required rescuing. I could negotiate that invisible maze at phenomenal speed, wiping smeared blood from the glass as I whizzed through.

I went on to work for Harrison Leisure for years, eventually managing the play area, operating fairground rides, supervising their swanky new bar, making ice-cream sundaes and DJing. I also spent my gap year labouring for them in the most badly paid job i’ve ever had. But that’s for another blog...

On The Buses

Her eyes bulge as she sucks nicotine deep into her peroxide skull. Around her, two children run amok, their voices cutting through the cold morning air like nails on a blackboard. Thankfully after pushing their way onto the bus they usually disappear into the anonymity of the top deck, neither seen nor heard again until they resurface in town.

The jockeying for the back seat has been less intense this week. The rear of the bus is the place to be on cold days as the heat from the engine leaks through the upholstery and into our buttocks. But lately a challenge has been issued to our back seat seniority. A mormon upstart arrives absurbdly early at the bus shelter and rushes straight to the back, occasionally joined by a bespectacled interloper. Although we have no divine right to our perch of choice we quietly fume whenever we are forced to sit elsewhere. Thankfully we have had a free run at the back row this week. Perhaps God has got the mormon doing later shifts.

As we wind through the residential Brackenwood streets we are joined by a familiar cast of characters. A young student gets on at the same point each day. Her hangdog expression never changes as she sadly climbs the stairs to the upper tier. I always hope that her day gets better.

The most metrosexual man in the world also boards the bus. Eyebrows plucked sharper than his razor cheekbones, he is immaculately groomed. He seems not to realise, however, that sucking his face into a permanent Blue Steel mask gives him the appearance of a homosexual waxwork. I suspect he's middle management, obsessed with making a visual impact as his career flounders beneath a glass ceiling.

Joining him shortly, the territorial Robert Smith. Her corkscrew hair and smear of red lipstick are uncannily like The Cure frontman's. Recently she's given up on her ubiquitous Harvey Nichols carrier-bag. For months she'd clutched it posessively to her chest. It was used so often that the writing had worn off and the plastic thinned. Today it was replaced by a sturdier, brighter bag: maybe Sainsbury's? She sits in the same place every day. It's hard to tell if she's as annoyed as Richard and i when someone else sits in 'her' seat - her face always looks like she's sucking a citrus fruit regardless of where she parks herself.

The other cast of characters are no less predictable, but slightly less interesting. Of course, the two most predictable characters of all are myself and Richard. We rarely speak at that time of day other than to pass barbed comments about the other commuters or whinge about the weather. But we're always there, judgmental bearded gargoyles, creatures of habit deriding others for being just like us.

20 Years of Ryan Giggs

I've been a football fan for about twenty years: for the whole of Ryan Giggs' career.

I remember him in his mop-topped, spindly limbed early career - up against the likes of Ray Wilkins and Neville Southall. I remember the middle-phase of his time at Old Trafford as he helped inspire United to treble glory in arguably the finest midfield English football has ever seen alongside Paul Scholes, Roy Keane and David Beckham. And of course, i remember his latest incarnation as the most admired footballer in the land - a man who has extended his career by reinventing himself as a player, adapting his game and living an exemplary lifestyle.

For as long as long as i've watched the game i've watched Ryan Giggs: the man who's made more appearances for Manchester United than any other, the man who's scored in every season of the Premier League and the man who's won more league championships than anyone else in English footballing history.

It had always been my intention to write such a piece when the Welshman brought down the curtain on his playing career. But with no end in sight and one day short of twenty years since he made his debut in a defeat to Everton here are my top three Ryan Giggs moments:

1. A perfectly executed sliding tackle robs Henning Berg of possession out on the left wing. Immediately leaping to his feet Giggs sweeps in a superb cross which Eric Cantona heads into the roof of Tim Flowers' net. A vital goal in a title run-in which perfectly illustrates the combination of tenacity and skill which has characterised Giggsy's game for so long.

2. THAT goal against Arsenal in the FA Cup semi-final of 1999. Picking off a stray pass from Patrick Viera he ran at the Gunners backline, twisting his body this way and that before arrowing a shot past David Seaman. And then unveiled his magnificently hairy chest.

3. If you thought his yoga DVD was embarrassing have a gander around youTube for footage of Giggs' Quorn adverts. Looking thoroughly unconvinced he stares blankly into the camera as he tries to persuade the watching world that Quorn truly is 'a tasty alternative to meat'. The mind boggles.

My Great Great-Grandparents

The old adage says that you should ‘write what you know’. I’ve long struggled with formulating original ideas but, by the same token, there’s not a lot of interesting stuff in my own life that’s worth committing to paper. I’ve been mulling over a semi-autobiographical novel for a while, but having written the first chapter I’ve realised that it’s neither dramatic nor interesting to anyone other than a few of the people who were involved in that period of my life. So with that project permanently on the back-burner I’ve decided to raid my memory for material which is both true and interesting. It might be a struggle – and this might be the one and only instalment...

I was lucky enough to meet two of my great-grandparents. Not only to have met them, but to have known them. They were obviously old and I was clearly very young. But I have some amazingly vivid memories of them – memories which have probably been embellished and exaggerated by the passage of time – but which I’m going to write down anyway (and wait for my mum to correct the factual inconsistencies and outright lies).

They lived in an East Yorkshire village called Wold Newton, a tiny place with barely 300 residents. Their house was a lovely whitewashed building with a crooked porch and a low walled garden at the front (which nobody ever used) and a cracked driveway up the side of the house which led into the brilliant back garden via a tangled gooseberry bush.

A small courtyard and garage provided parking room for visitor’s cars and my great-granddad’s van. To the left was a huge coal-shed and a side entrance to their home, to the right a greenhouse, ferret hutches and every kind of fruit or vegetable imaginable growing in the garden. The whole lot was surrounded by a field of bullocks which extended around their property and in which we occasionally went foraging for mushrooms – or maybe we jus went looking for puffballs to kick?

I remember very little about the house itself – largely because I was a kid desperate to play out rather than lurk inside. What I can recall is a kitchen in which my great-grandma resided. I’m not sure I ever saw her anywhere else. She may well have slept in that kitchen. She sat at one end, flanked by her blue budgerigar (which may or may not have been capable of speech) and her pantry. I assume everyone else sat at the opposite end as I can’t remember any other perspective of the room other than me gazing down its length at this fiercely matriarchal but beautiful old lady.

Before you got to her kitchen you entered the house through a thin little passageway and a low door. Turn right and you entered my great-grandma’s domain. A left turn took you into my great-granddad’s territory. For a small boy, this was arguably the greatest place in the known universe. By the door there stood a barrel of guns. Real guns. Guns that fired actual bullets. Fire-sticks capable of decapitating, maiming and killing. In a bloody barrel. Next to the back door.

Next to the guns was a cabinet – maybe you’d call it a tall-boy? It was filled with boxes of bullets. In case you’re a little confused by what you’ve just read, I’ll reiterate it in simple terms. My great-granddad had a barrel of shotguns in his passageway and it was next to a cupboard full of bullets.

To the best of my knowledge, I never saw any of those guns fired. I don’t think either myself or my brother (for we were the only Ward offspring at the time) ever played with the guns – although I’m sure we had a little surreptitious touch of the cold gun-metal from time-to-time. We knew they were dangerous and we knew we shouldn’t mess around with them. I assume we were warned early on and allowed common-sense to keep our meddling digits away from triggers, barrels and ballistics. Of course, nowadays an interfering neighbour would report such carelessness to the appropriate authorities. Myself and my brother would immediately be whisked into foster care, my great-grandfather vilified and The Daily Mail outraged. But there really was nothing to worry about. We were responsible and mature – qualities which kids nowadays seem seldom to be credited with.

The politically correct brigade of interfering busybodies would have had even further cause for concern had they seen what lived at the end of the hallway. Or rather, what used to live there. For at the end of the passage was the aforementioned coal-shed. At the time it felt like an aircraft hanger. I’m sure it wasn’t nearly that big – but I was very small. At one end was a wall of coal akin to a blackened Mount Everest. It reached right to the high ceiling and we just knew not to go near it. The last thing we wanted was to be coated in coal dust or – worse still – to cause an avalanche. This was not because we feared for our safety but rather because we knew that being covered in black powder would provide incontrovertible proof of our guilt.

Along the wooden beams in the roof of the shed hung various dead bodies. These were usually hares or rabbits, but occasionally a clutch of pheasants swung limply above our heads. They were the fruits of my great-granddad’s labours – creatures he’d either culled himself or which he’d received in payment for his services as rat-catcher, mole-killer or pest-controller.

My great-granddad was a lovely, lovely man. Known as Sunny (presumably for his cheerful disposition) he was a flat-cap wearing, shotgun toting character with a cheeky twinkle in his eye which belied his status as a local murderer. The murders he committed, of course, were not those of people. Instead, he helped local landowners rid themselves of problem pests. My dad recently told me of accompanying Sunny on a rat-killing mission, but my memories are of his mole-murdering.

As well as coal and corpses, the shed also housed a large bucket of rat-poison. This was used for many genocidal purposes, but the one which is lodged in my mind is the ingenious way it was used for managing the local mole population. My great-granddad would collect a bunch of wriggling earthworms, chuck them into the bucket of rat-poison, allow them to coat themselves in the toxic dust and then transport them into the fields. There, he would dig up a mole-hill, drop the wrigglers into the tunnel, wait until the moles chomped down their free lunch and then send down the ferrets to drag out their little furry corpses.

The part with the ferrets might not be true. They might have served some other purpose. But I do know that they must’ve been kept for a reason. Because nobody in their right mind would keep such a stinky collection of animals unless they served a purpose. Although the exact make-up of the group might have changed over the years, my memories of the ferrets sees a mixed trio – one albino and two brown streaks of vicious fur in a large hutch halfway down the enormous back garden.

It was, in fact, more like a large allotment or a very small farm. I guess nowadays a generation of Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall fans would refer to it as a smallholding. Although exact details of the layout remain elusive I remember it being partitioned by thin grassy walkways. These led through different patches, sheds and greenhouses and were great fun for two small children to race around. The real fun, however, lay in doing some work.

There were some crops which I distinctly remember harvesting. Potatoes were great fun – a combination of forking, pulling, shaking and collecting which left an amazingly earthy smell in the nostrils. It seems strange that I can remember the smell so vividly when it’s such a common one – even now when I’m doing my own gardening a nostril-full of that scent can take me back to Wold Newton.

Another vegetable which made for particularly enjoyable work was collecting, shelling and eating peas. I’ve never been great at growing them myself, but my great-grandparents’ garden produced bucketfuls – even after we’d stuffed our faces with them. It’s worth having a go at planting some yourself even if it’s just for that amazing feeling of popping the pods and stripping the fresh peas from their case. It’s such a satisfying feeling on your fingertips – and they taste bloody great too.

At the time, gooseberries were a fruit I didn’t understand. They grew in abundance but I’m not sure what happened to the ones we picked. They were hard, hairy and really bloody sour. I assume they were turned into jams, chutneys or fools which we children had little interest in. Similarly a greenhouse full of tomato plants was warm and fun but ultimately pointless – at that age there was no way I was ever going to put a tomato anywhere near my tastebuds.

The front garden was another world altogether. Although not quite abandoned it was certainly more ramshackle than the well-maintained vegetable plots out back. It was circled by a dry-stone wall and this, it transpired, was probably the reason for the lack of maintenance. My great-grandma, rather surprisingly, was petrified of frogs. I have no idea why. She certainly didn’t seem like a woman prone to fear about anything much. But for some reason, frogs frightened her. On many occasions my brother and I would be provided with a screw-top jam-jar each and sent on a dangerous frog-finding mission in the front garden. Should we find any lurking in the cracks of the wall we were to take them down to the village pond and let them loose there.

I don’t think we ever captured a single amphibian despite many hours of fruitless searching. What we did find, more often than not, was a large baker’s van. It would pull up outside the house, inviting residents inside to but bread, cakes and other more essential items. I can remember exactly how the yeasty, bready smell would signal the arrival of a treat for us – often a fat oozing vanilla slice or a heavily nutmegged egg custard.

On the rare occasions that we ventured further than the house or garden we would play by the village pond. There was a small stream which fed it and across it a large metal pipe which we would climb across. I’m sure some healthy and safety pedant has probably cordoned it off by now, but back then that pipe was the source of great amusement. We would occasionally cross paths with a couple of other kids, one of whom was a small blonde girl. We would play with each other, grateful for seeing non-adult faces in the tiny village. With the passing of time it has occurred to me that this girl was almost certainly Gemma Davison – a former resident of Wold Newton and the finest neurotic Grey’s Anatomy fan I have ever met.

Of course, my great-grandparents have passed away now. Someone else will be growing potatoes in their back garden and collecting coal from their shed. Chances are their guns will be under lock and key, too. And most of what I’ve written here is based on half-forgotten, romanticised memories and an element of wishful thinking. But the sentiment is true and I’ve been as honest as I can be. I doubt many children ever get to meet their parents’ grandparents. But I did and I’m extremely thankful for it.

On The Dole aka Losing The Will To Live

Unemployment is like a vice slowly squeezing the spirit out of me. I feel like my soul has been ripped from my chest, hurled at the floor and stamped on until nothing remains but a bloodstain. The crushing tedium of applying for jobs which I suspect don’t even exist in the first place is suffocating. The response rate (approximately one application in ten garners a reply) is heartbreaking. Each rejection is a kick in the face.

I am intelligent, educated, erudite and adaptable. I communicate well. I look the part. I’m confident I could learn just about any new role quickly and efficiently. I can multi-task and manage people. I lead by example and work quickly. I understand things and can explain complicated theories in simple terms. I can use most Microsoft programs ably. I read faster than Johnny Five and still manage to retain the information. My academic achievements are a rival for anyone. My CV looks great (if I do say so myself). I get things done. Yet nobody is interested in me.

The recession/downturn/whatever-the-appropriate-term-for-it-is-this-week has bitten harder in West Yorkshire than anywhere else. Dockside flats become ever cheaper, building on the new city-centre shopping centre has ground to a halt and the queues at the job centre grow longer than the dark shadows which loom over Leeds.

Surely the light at the tunnel should be that I want to work? It’s cruel to stereotype people, but the majority of people in the Job Centre look like they’re incapable of tying their own shoelaces and have as much will-to-work as a three-toed sloth with a glue habit. Every other Monday I’m asked what I’ve been doing to search for employment and on each occasion my 'interviewer' has looked at me agog – they’re amazed that I’ve done anything at all. They slide the appropriate form across the desk which I sign before they grunt that they’ll see me in two weeks – offering not a hint of advice without a modicum of interest. If that’s all it takes to earn the princely sum of £64.30 a week it’s little wonder that people can’t be arsed to find a job.

I’ve never been famed for my jolly outlook and joie de vivre, but my cynicism has never been more acute. My outlook has never been so downbeat. I wake up at 8am every day and try to instil some routine into my life. I try to eat healthily on my meagre income. I try to enjoy the things that have always made me happy and I’ve been lucky to benefit from a credit line which was extended to me prior to my redundancy. But living for the weekend when your week is so empty feels both ridiculous and pointless. And the credit cards and overdrafts won’t last forever...

Bill Clinton:
I do not believe we can repair the basic fabric of society until people who are willing to work have work. Work organizes life. It gives structure and discipline to life.