Two Weeks

Two weeks since I've gone and I feel like the tramp, picking dustbins in the alley.

"I want... uh... I want... that one! The shiny one, with the lid."

"Excellent choice, sir."

Two weeks is too long a gap between blog posts. But I've been getting my affairs in order. I've tried to be serious for the whole time, but have slipped occasionally. I did a funny dance a few days ago. I felt bad about it. It was really funny.

Since my last post, Lucy and I have painted a door and a ceiling, seen a heron, stopped watching two films because they were rubbish, and purchased three packets of gnocchi on a buy-two-get-the-third-bag-of-gnocchi-free deal at a popular orange supermarket.

I've also finished Catch-22, which I somehow managed to avoid reading until now. I don't really know what I think about it. It was initially quite funny, then quite wearying for a few hundred pages, but eventually worked its way back into my brain. I liked the serious bits best, because horrific war injuries are better than a relentless barrage of Abbot and Costello-style banter. All in all, it was pretty good. But maybe too long or something.

Speaking of maybe too long or something, I also finished watching season four of Arrested Development. I loved it. In the end.

It was a lot like Catch-22, structurewise, with a lot of repetition and revisiting events from various perspectives. It started off slow, but became really impressive. It's unusual for a programme's "reboot" to be so different and ambitious. It is to be commended, even if it's not always 100% successful. I'm going to watch it again to see all the stuff I missed.

But you're not interested in that. You want to know my opinion on the issue of the day.

And the issue of the day is Tomato & Basil.

It's a complicated debate. Both sides have their merits and... oh. "Soup." "Of the day."

I get it. Very funny.

Not as funny as the dance, but dot dot dot fullstop line break

***

Next season's Southampton Football Club kit was announced this morning. There has been a lot of talk on social networking and building sites about the new shirt.

In a break from tradition, we are no longer wearing stripes. Just like the many times in the past we have also broken with tradition. Breaking with tradition is something of a tradition at Southampton Football Club. Can we afford to forego our heritage by failing to break with tradition next season?

And what about the shorts?

I'm fairly indifferent about the kit. But I can see why it has caused some controversy:

As you can see, in addition to the stripe issue, the shirt (left) has abandoned the customary "sleeves and trunk" element, and has instead adopted some kind of new "holster" design. Sports scientists have claimed that this will increase mobility and will allow the children of the players to breathe.

The shorts (right), have been tweaked slightly, so that the previous - and quite popular - double leg-hole has been amalgamated into a single sealed sheath.

The club's crest has also been altered.

I think making a fuss about these changes is both futile and misguided. A football club's kit goes through many changes. We used to wear blue shorts, after all. Just because something is seen as "traditional", it doesn't mean that it can't be changed. New traditions are created every day. And broken with twice as often.

If we are to move forward as a successful club, to attract top players and pursue a European place in the next few years, we need to modernise. Also, green is a much more marketable colour in the lucrative Leprechaun community.

A Change

I have problems. I just decided that I HATED someone on Twitter because they drink wine.

That's not a good sign, as far as mental well-being is concerned. The hatred, not the wine.

I'm retreating into my shell. And receding into it. I'm not going to google that phrase, but I think it's one of those.

I'm in my shell, anyway. And it's getting thicker. As my shell gets thicker, my skin gets thinner. 

I'm becoming both more hermit-like and more crabby. I just tried to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming, and I drew blood.

***

I wrote some of that yesterday. And some of it today. I feel pretty much the same, but I thought I'd punch it up a little bit. You should have seen it before. Pretty dull and maudlin, it was.

I'm off comedy.

I trying to remove anyone from my Twitter feed who makes jokes or even light-hearted remarks. I don't like thinking about comedy. I don't write it anymore. I don't come up with any "material". I'm going to become one of those serious people.

Serious people are much more dignified. It's impossible to be dignified and smile. It's impossible to be dignified and tell a joke.

Dignity is the way forward. It's not a choice between dignity and happiness. Happiness is off the table regardless. I could lighten the tone of this paragraph with a self-deprecating joke, but I won't. I'm off comedy, as I said. 

I'm also off self-deprecation. It's impossible to be dignified and self-deprecating. Dignity comes from an honest assessment of your own qualities. I'm a very handsome man. If you've ever seen a picture of me, you know that that isn't a joke. It's serious. I'm serious now.

It's like that episode of Seinfeld:



I'm not posting that clip because I find it funny. As I said, I'm off comedy. It's just that it illustrates what I'm trying to do.

Of course, the difference is that I was never funny. I was just trying to be. It was embarrassing.

I'm not going to write any more stand-up. I might write a gloomy novel instead. Novels don't have to be funny. In fact, they're more likely to be successful if they're as dark as possible.

I've wasted a lot of time.

I really have.

Everything I've accomplished as a writer - and I don't hesitate to call myself that - has been so frivolous. I always puncture my serious prose with a joke. It's a form of self-preservation. I don't want to be judged on my own merit. If you're a clown, people will go easy on you.

It's time to put away my safety blanket; to deflate my arm-bands.

I am here. I am me. I'm being honest. My mouth is as straight as a razor.

I don't want you to laugh. I don't want you to smile. I want you to recognise something.

Unless you're funny.

If you're funny, I want you to find me alienating.

This isn't a joke.

!!~~POST #800 - GARGANTUAN WATERSHED FIESTA~~!!

The year is 1909. The place is a small European village. Bread is being baked. The baker is a man called Loïc.

Though he bakes bread, he does not think about bread. It's automatic now. Yeast never crosses his mind. He cannot spell the word "crust", either in English or his own language. He doesn't care for flour. He forgets about his oven.

He bakes, but he is not aware of it.

His mind is not on bread. It is on a dream.

This dream has visited him every night for seven weeks. It is always the same. It is as clear as day. It is so vivid that Loïc can still feel it on his skin when he awakens. The dream is more real than his waking life. The dream's smells waft through the room, eclipsing breadsmell and bunsmell alike.

Loïc lives for the dream.

He lives alone. He has never married. His parents are dead. His only brother is abroad somewhere dark and unreachable.

Loïc bakes and sells enough bread to keep himself alive. He doesn't need any more than that. All he desires is enough food to feed himself, enough water to quench himself, a roof over his head, and a comfortable bed.

He needs no luxuries.

He simply requires adequate conditions for sleep.

With the sleep comes the dream. And with the dream comes reality.

After the bread has been baked, Loïc removes it from the oven. He doesn't realise that he is doing this. It is auxiliary. Everything is auxiliary.

Time passes at a steady pace. Loïc knows not to be over-eager. He must not sleep before 8pm, or the dream will not come.

Loïc is not impatient. He is serene. He is content. He is, in his own way, enlightened. He has found a route to happiness, and a route to fulfilment. The route is under the eiderdown. The portal is a single hard pillow.

He turns out his oil lamp, and waits to be illuminated.

And it comes again. It will always come. He is not afraid. It will always come.

Even when death comes, the dream will still be there. When the mortal world is gone, the dream will be everything.

Outside his window, the people of the village laugh and drink and fret and argue and love. They are living what they assume are lives. They think about bread. They think about it every morning. And they think about the baker.

But the baker does not think about the bread. The baker does not think about the people of the village. The baker does not even think about the baker.

The baker thinks about the dream.

And the dream is this:

a small glowing window

beneath the window, a row of buttons, like those of a typewriter - one for every letter

through the window, a strange series of images

images of words, appearing as if by magic

there is colour in the window, and symbols, and sometimes pictures

sometimes the pictures are like photographs, but vivid and strange

photographs of a bearded man, adorned with colour

somehow the man and the writing are connected

the writing does not make sense

it seems like it will, and sometimes it edges close to meaning, but it falls short

the words make reference to places and people and coffee and being bored and not knowing what to write about

sometimes, there are items that have the form of jokes or humorous remarks, but they lack humour, they are not jokes

or maybe the humour is too obscure to fathom

one word recurs and seems to be important

the word is 'blog'

the dream is 'blog'

and so is the world

the world is blog

The baker wakes up from his dream at the same point every morning. He smiles. He revels in the afterglow.

A hum of contentment follows his morning routine, as he bathes and dresses.

There is bread to be made. And it will be made.

But the baker will not think of it.

He has seen through another world's window.

The dough will rise. But it will never rise as high as the baker.

***

Blog anniversary time!

This is Post #800. That's a lot of writing. It's a shame no-one reads it, but at least it means that no-one will feel short-changed when the book comes out.

On my hundredth post, I set a stupid precedent that I continue to follow. The opening picture is part of it. As is the linking to my previous milestone entries:

Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500
Post #600
Post #700

As is a conversation with myself in the past.

In Post #700, I wrote:

So... Post #800 Paul... is the brown shirt still in your wardrobe circulation? Also, is Jeremy Hunt still Secretary for Imagining His Own Deeds?

I would say that the brown shirt is on gardening leave. It's still in the wardrobe, and still makes the occasional jaunt out (if there's a laundry emergency for example; or if I have to go to a costume party, the theme of which is "formal turds"). But it's not part of the regular rotation any more. I think it's on its last legs.

Jeremy Hunt, you'll be delighted to know, has moved away from the vital area of culture, and is now the much more trivial Health Secretary.

All we have to worry about now is the fact that he's dismantling the NHS, probably this country's greatest achievement. Hunt is killing poor people, though in a less direct way than he'd probably like.

This isn't like the halcyon days of Post #700. Things are really miserable.

But, on the bright side: ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

But enough about me. Post #900 Paul! How's it going, man? Did you manage to plant some flowers in your window boxes?

Also, have you done any good tweets lately, or is that whole deal over with now?

***

In my last anniversary post, I wrote and recorded a WHOLE NEW SONG specifically for the occasion, and made a VIDEO MONTAGE. Imagine!

I haven't put as much work into this one. In fact, I haven't put any work into it. Possibly because I resented the fact that my song and video attracted no comment whatsoever. What's the point?

Ironically, the song itself was about my lack of comments, so it was probably a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It seems a shame to be so monomedia in this entry though. Maybe I could just do something quick.

That'll do.

I know your attention span is too short to listen to something long, like - I dunno - an AMAZING SONG.

But seriously, you're all great.

And very attractive.

I wonder who the most attractive reader of this blog is... (Excluding me, for several reasons)

If you think you're the most attractive reader of this blog, send a short description of yourself, on a stamped, addressed envelope to the following address:

Headscissors

8212 Scrupulous Drive

Waxahachie, TX

Please note: DO NOT SEND A PHOTOGRAPH. Only a verbal description will be accepted. And, even then, only if it's pretty vague.

***

There's a wrestler that I like called Daniel Bryan.

He's also a wrestler that everyone else likes. He's become really popular, even though he's quite small for a wrestler, and has a big beard, and is a vegan.

He has a strange intensity that makes him fun to watch.

We saw him live, years ago in Coventry (when he was called Bryan Danielson), and he got booed because he stopped his entrance music before everyone could sing along. His music was 'The Final Countdown'. "Only Americans get to hear The Final Countdown!" he said.

That's what you call being a heel.

Wrestling - or more accurately, WWE wrestling - is often full of bad writing and bad decisions. But sometimes, someone like Bryan will come along and take everyone by surprise. I hope he does well.

I don't know why I'm talking about this. Perhaps I just wanted to include some photos in this entry.

If you don't care about wrestling, come back! I'll talk about something everyone likes!

***

Isn't it fun when you put stuff between your toes? Yeah, it is! Like the toes of the other foot. Especially between the third and fourth toes.

It's really satisfying.

Different toes don't have different names like the fingers do. There's the big toe. And the...

Hang on.

Have I talked about this before?

Because I started this as a deliberately lame bit of universal writing. But if I've written it before, in earnest, I'll have egg all over my toes.

I'll search for toe content.

...

It's now several hours later.

I don't think I've ever covered this specific topic, but I certainly have written a lot about toes.

I need to change the subject. I should probably put some socks on.

***

This is enough. I will have lost people at every stage of this entry, and I can't imagine who might be left.

You must be really bored, Sarah. You really must.

Between you and me (and maybe the other Sarah if she's reading), I think you need to have a good hard look at yourself. If you're living a life where you have the time, the patience, or the temperament to read the whole of a post like this, there's something wrong.

You too, Dave.

It's embarrassing.

Don't come down to my level. It's horrible down here.

This has been a lot of fun.

I'd like to finish on a motto that has helped me in some of my darkest moments:

"I'd like to finish on a motto that has helped me in some of my darkest moments"

MAkes yOU think, mm?!

It's All Good

This Onion story reminded me of me:

http://www.theonion.com/articles/man-on-cusp-of-having-fun-remembers-every-single-o,32632/

Yeah. That's pretty much how it goes.

We went to see Daniel Kitson last night. I don't really have anything to say about it. We laughed. We got a Chinese takeaway on the way back. We ate it. We went to sleep. We slept it. We woke up. We wept it. We floored. We swept it. We found. We kept it. We discovered the truth, but would never accept it.

It's a strange time to be alive. 13:40. What is that - lunchtime? Mid-afternoon? It doesn't make sense. Nothing does.

I thought I had a stockpile of interesting blog topics. But I can't remember what any of them were. The Onion article was one thing. And the Game of Thrones/Mad Men discussion, but I've already done that below. Was there something else?

Have I been thinking about anything? Surely I have. Surely.

I'll get some coffee. That will remind me. It will be like an interrogation. Whenever a suspect is threatened with a pot of scalding coffee, they always remember where they hid the diamonds.

Caffeine is a beautiful black aide-mémoire. It clears away the cobwebs and dilates the pupils. The blind shall see. The forgetful will remember. The tired will walk. The lame will flinch.

Coffee.

I should work in advertising. I wish I didn't have to keep telling people that, but I still don't work in advertising. What's a guy got to do?

***

There. Coffee. No more tears. And a Twix. 

Eugh. Some tears now. I had "stuff" to do, and let a third of my coffee go cold. I drank it anyway, because I spent my soft-earned money on it. Eugh. Cold coffee isn't as nice as cold other things. Eugh.

Speaking of eugh, we saw The Hobbit on Blu-ray at the weekend. It is a bad film. Eugh. Bad. It made me realise how good the LOTR films were. Bad film. Bad Peter Jackson! Bad! Eugh.

But enough of my cutting-edge cultural analysis. I'm not a film critic. I don't have any stars or thumbs to offer.

What I really want to talk about is...

No. That didn't work. I thought if I took myself by surprise, something might happen.

What I really want to talk about is oars.

Yep. Oars.

Lion rowers often have good roarsmanship.

!!

SHUT UP. SHUT UP. I'M JUST TRYING SOMETHING NEW.

Of course, this isn't new. I've been doing it for years. Literally years.

I've got this song in my head, and have done for a while.



It's about a girl who's good.

Though it sounds like the singer (Jermaine?) is trying to convince himself.

She's good, she's good, she's good to me. 

Nice one, Jermaine. There's nothing women like more than qualifying statements. The subtitle of this song should be 'Your Mileage May Very'.

She's good, she's good. I mean, she's... good. Yeah. Good. 

Not amazing or anything. 

But good. Really, definitely, totally, pretty good.

Decent.

She's fine.

As far as I'm concerned.

She's... well... I mean what does 'good' mean anyway? It's all subjective.

She's not bad, anyway. I can say that with confidence.

She's definitely not bad.

To me, at least.

She might be bad to you. I'm not your keeper. Who knows how you'll react to her?

But, as far as I'm concerned, she's definitely largely good.

Oh, I'm talkin' about that girl. Just in case there was any confusion.

Let's just agree to disagree. You say tomatoes are bad. I say they're good.

They're good.

They're good.

They're good, if ripe.

***

That was an adventure. If you didn't listen to the song, you won't have got the most out of that. If you didn't listen to the song, maybe you should go back and listen to it now. It's fairly short.

Of course, you might not have any speakers or headphones. Or you might be reading this on a mobile device in the silent carriage of a library train. That's OK. You probably got 40% of what I was talking about. That's a decent percentage. You don't have to beat yourself up about it.

Tune in next time for a celebration. Bring your party hats and your party scarves, because it's going to be off the hook and chain. Did someone say EIGHT HUNDRED?

Someone did.

Nourishment

Two humans in a discussion in a room in a building.

Nicola: What makes you think I care what you think?

Olivia: That does.

Nicola: What?

Olivia: You. Asking the question. That very question makes me think you care what I think. Otherwise why would you ask it?

Nicola: No. No, no, no. I didn't ask what you were thinking though, did I? Just what makes you think it.

Olivia: Oh. I see.

Nicola: I don't care what you're thinking. I don't have the slightest interest in what you're thinking. I just want to know why you're thinking it.

Olivia: Oh.

A waiter brings over steak knives, and takes away the empty bread basket. The building seems to be a restaurant.

Nicola: Well?

Olivia: Err...

Nicola: What makes you think I care what you think?

Olivia: Ummmmmm... neurons?

Nicola: *smiles, nods* Yes. That's probably it.

Waiter: Parmesan?

Nicola: For steak?

Waiter: Oh, I'm terribly sorry. This is my first day.

***

Wasn't that fun?

I'm going to expand that scene into a slightly longer scene where one of the characters goes off to the toilet for a few minutes.

Until then: here is some writing on a topic.

I've been watching some television series that everyone else has already seen. I didn't want to be missing out on any global phenomena, so I bought the first seasons of Mad Men and Game of Thrones on Blu-ray.

I always seem to buy new TV shows in twos. I did the same thing with Girls and Enlightened. Though I like being able to alternate, it means that I end up comparing two programmes that don't really have any relation to each other. Beyond arriving in the same Amazon ethical alternative online shop parcel.

With both pairs, I've liked one and not-particularly-liked the other.

I like Mad Men and Enlightened.

I don't particularly like Girls or Game of Thrones.

I think this would happen with any two purchases. The strengths of one cast the weakness of the other in sharper relief.

The things that I like most about Mad Men are the things I find lacking in Game of Thrones. Interesting characters, for example. Or typewriters.

I won't talk too much about Enlightened and Girls. The former is moving, beautiful and complicated. The latter didn't make me laugh much, or like the characters, and I didn't find any of the stories very interesting.

Having said that, I don't think Girls is a bad show. It's clearly a work of individual vision, and has its own tone and point of view. If you're going to make good, unique television (as a lot of these HBO, and HBO-like, shows are), you're not going to appeal to everyone. Appealing to everyone is what network shows are like. Or what I imagine they're like. I don't watch them, because I don't like to associate myself with everyone. Or anyone.

The conditions that created Girls are the same as the conditions that created Enlightened. This fertile soil has nourished the modern golden age of... flowers... television... sunflowers... golden... I've lost control of another metaphor.

What I'm trying to say is: if you want the beauty of Enlightened, you have to put up with shit like Girls. Just like if you want free speech, you have to put up with Jeremy Clarkson.

Which brings us onto Mad Men and Game of Thrones.

Game of Thrones is not shit. I can see why people would like it. It looks great. It has a nice, rich fictional world to get lost in. It has lots of topless women. There are swords and stuff. People like swords. It's an impressive piece of craft. The show, not the swords. Though they are too.

But it seems to me to be one of those shows that's basically just a load of stuff happening.

The main appeal of GoT (that abbreviation will save me time) is that events will occur. And you watch to see what will happen. There isn't much time for ideas.

It's a big soap opera with wolves. And again, I can totally see why people would like it. It's fun to see exciting stuff happen. You get to know characters, and you want to know what happens to them. It's like your university friends - they mean nothing to you, but you still read their Facebook status messages.

But that's not enough for me. It might be because I didn't find any of the characters that interesting (with the obvious exception of Tyrion Lannister). They all fit into predictable roles. There are the noble ones, dealing with harsh realities. There are the villainous ones. There are the ones that are like sissy Klingons.

Maybe it's a strength of economical writing, but you know how each character is going to react to a situation. It's a bit boring, really.

The performances are fine. The dialogue is fine. It's not a bad show. It's certainly not like some other hugely popular television events (*cough*Lost*cough), that are actively terrible.

But I don't really fancy watching any more.

At the end of the season, I realised that I could well have just read the episode synopses on Wikipedia, and I wouldn't really have missed anything. With no characters to root for, there isn't much point in watching a programme that's all about events.

One other drawback to the programme is a bit similar to one in The Walking Dead (which, by the way, is much worse and more boring than GoT). In a world that's all harsh justice, torture, beheadings, despots, barbarians, war and suffering, there isn't much jeopardy. If every day is a struggle to survive, when a character dies, it just seems like a commonplace thing.

After a zombie apocalypse, the gap between death and survival is pretty small and covered in maggots. In the world of GoT, there's not going to be a super happy ending where things turn out OK. People are going to continue to suffer atrocities. And constant atrocities are pretty vanilla.

I'm not surprised that Game of Thrones is popular. But I don't have the emotional investment to keep watching a show with no depth.

Which brings us to Mad Men.

In contrast to the weak and watery gruel of Game of Thrones (presented though it is in a beautifully-carved earthenware bowl), Mad Men is a really meaty stew.

There's a lot going on there. Beyond the performances and the dialogue, which are both great, there's a lot of stuff under the surface.

It seems like a weird thing to appreciate. Nobody likes their favourite shows because of themes or subtext. But you notice when it's not there.

The characters in Mad Men are strange and unpredictable. They have intricate inner lives. They generally don't correspond to archetypes. You're not sure if they'll make the right choices. They're motivated by things that characters on television aren't usually motivated by.

Throughout the first season (and that's as far as I've got, so it might become Suddenly Susan after that for all I know), there are lots of juicy undercurrents. It's the kind of show where you sit silently through the credits, trying to digest what everything means.

It's a period drama where the period isn't the driving force. You forget when it is set after a few episodes. It just becomes a story about interesting, recognisable, yet totally unique, people.

If you just sat down and read the Wikipedia synopses of Mad Men episodes, they'd hardly tell you anything.

Game of Thrones is about, like, thrones and that.

Mad Men isn't about advertising. It's about... well... what's life about? It's about that.

I've probably been to harsh in my GoT criticisms, and too lavish with my MM (why didn't I think of this abbrev. before?!?) praise.

That's why you shouldn't buy two television series at the same time. In fact, you should have your mind wiped after consuming any piece of art. You need your palate cleansed. Find some brain sorbet, or your objectivity is compromised.

There. I've been wanting to write about that for ages. Now I have to go back and italicise all of the programme titles. I bet I'll miss some.

I can't wait until my next Amazon ethical alternative online shop order arrives. I've got the Complete Works of Shakespeare and the Complete Box-Set of Jim Davidson's Big Break arriving in the same package.

Bloody comparable, I'd imagine.

Deep Cross

At the end of the Brazil-England match yesterday, the referee crossed himself Catholic-style, and Lucy disapproved.

I asked her what the problem was. I wondered if it had something to do with him compromising his neutrality. A referee should show no signs of bias. But what is an overt, public, religious gesture if not a statement of affiliation? Referees should be on the fence. Catholics aren't on the fence.

He's being partisan in a couple of ways. Firstly, in the case of yesterday's game, he was suggesting a preference for the more Catholic of the two countries. That's Brazil. They've even got a massive Jesus. The English, on the other hand, are heathens. Or - at best - mixed. Any Catholic worth his salt would be rooting for his fellow believers. He might have given Brazil a key penalty, as a way to placate their mutual God. He didn't, but he might have.

The second way that the referee was partisan was in favouring Catholicism over all of the other religions. Neutrality doesn't just apply to the teams playing on the day. It also applies to everything else. If he wanted to make a Catholic gesture, he should also have made the gestures of the other major religions: Islam (praying towards Mecca), Judaism (shrugging), Sikhism (thumbs up), Scientology (sofa-jumping), Paganism (blood sacrifice), and Hinduism (venerating cows).

If he can't do all of those things, he should be an atheist. All referees should be atheists. Rationality and objectivity are valuable attributes in an official. You don't want a referee ruling on a tricky handball decision based on superstition. You don't want a linesman refusing to adjudicate a borderline offside because it's the sabbath.

Of course, the requirements to make only evidence-based decisions would require the introduction of video replay technology. And some might argue that the scientific assessment of truth would make the game sterile, halting and lacking in unpredictability. Much like the ruthless logic of atheism makes human existence become lacking in nuance, passion, and female circumcision.

It's an interesting parallel. I suppose there's a middle ground. Goal line technology is going to be introduced, but not - or at least not yet - video replays for everything.

Similarly, atheism can play some role in regulating the idiocy of religion, but that doesn't mean we have to burn down all synagogues to make room for supercolliders.

Yes, it's an interesting parallel. Luckily, my argument has been well thought-through, and not at all meandering and contradictory. I could adapt this for the New Humanist, or FourFourTwo magazine. For money.

Also, referees should be impartial on non-religious matters, like the Coke-Pepsi debate, or whether people should tuck in their shirts. (They are allowed to have an opinion on whether Family Guy is better than The Simpsons however - we don't want them to be IDIOTS.)

This all stems from the referee's simple gesture.

But Lucy said no, it's not that. Maybe you should have let me finish before launching into that whole thing.

And I said sorry.

And she said should we be using quotation marks?

And I said no.

And she said it's not an issue of neutrality. It's one of authority.

By making the sign of the cross, the referee has tacitly implied that there is a higher power. In this case, it's some form of Christian deity. That is something a referee should never do.

If you want to officiate a football match, the buck stops with you. If a player senses that you're not entirely in control, they'll show dissent, they won't retreat the full ten yards at free kicks, and the game will descend into anarchy.

The referee - Wilmar Roldán is his name - has, by that one single gesture, abdicated responsibility. Why should we listen to him? Why should the players obey his commands? He's simply a middle man. If God is so powerful, why doesn't he referee the game? God's been around for ages. He must have refereed before. I bet he's got all the badges.

He's omnipresent too, which would mean that goal line technology would be unnecessary. You wouldn't need linesmen either. Though if you wanted to maintain the pleasant symmetry of the flags, you could enlist the Son and the Holy Ghost (the team of officials are usually all from the same country).

Roldán isn't even a priest, as far as I know.

The reasons discussed are probably why he saved his gesture for the end of the game. If he'd done it at the start - and he might have; I didn't check - all hell would have broken lose.

You'd never see an English referee doing anything so stupid. English referees are aware that, even after the final whistle, their conduct is under the microscope. To be fair, Graham Poll did once do the pretending-to-pull-off-your-own-thumb illusion. But on that occasion, both teams were composed of wizards.

Hand gestures may seem insignificant, but look how long this blog post has been.

I hope Wilmar Roldán never referees another professional football match.

After this rant, Lucy paused and took a drink of water. She was quite worked up.

Or it might have been me. It's difficult to remember these little details. In fact, it might not have been the sign of the cross that the referee did; he might have been signalling for someone to collect the corner flags.

But the point remains