Nicky Morgan Has a Point

Based on my education, you could call me an ‘arts’ student through and through, and I wouldn’t complain. I said goodbye to all STEM subjects at the first opportunity possible and followed the path that is generally sneered at by politicians quizzed on the matter. It’s not that I was bad at STEM subjects – I did as well as I could have in my GCSEs – I was just better at humanities subjects and found them more fulfilling. 

When Education Secretary, Nicky Morgan recently suggested that the arts aren’t a great breeding ground for the buds of a career, I wasn’t surprised to see many of my university friends (mostly arts students) piping up to condemn her. Heck, I wanted to do it myself. But, having thought about it, I’ve realised that it isn’t the worst advice ever. 

I have some fantastic memories from studying a degree in English Literature but one that has stuck with me from my final year is sitting in a lecture theatre thinking: “How will Allen Ginsberg help me in two months’ time when I’m unemployed?”

As things played out, I actually started working for a publishing house just five days after my final university exam – but I attribute a lot of that to the work experience I organised for myself in the five years between doing my GCSEs and leaving higher education. My academic studies helped develop my writing and analytical skills, but they wouldn’t have stood up on their own in an interview.  

That’s not to say that people shouldn’t choose to study the arts. Five years of intense reading, whether it was literary theory, human history or drama, taught me huge amounts about the way we interact with one another as members of a functioning society. Thinking about it, studying existentialism probably put entering the chaos and uncertainty of the job market into context. But it was also worth keeping in mind that the hi-tech library that allowed me to reserve a book, read it digitally and use it as part of a bound dissertation was a result of science, technology, engineering and mathematics.

In the grand scheme of things, studying the arts is a huge game of chance. Many of my class became teachers – some because they wanted to and others because they weren't sure what else to do. Please note, I am not slagging off teaching as a profession! Others are doing things that they wouldn't want to shout about. When you strip everything back, the arts are a luxury. But they are also essential. Go back to the basics of society, and the first valuable thing a human can do is provide food and shelter. Engineering.

In the modern age, we have banking systems, skyscrapers and road networks,  all being monitored for efficiencies. Science, technology, engineering and mathematics. 

But, of course, Neanderthal had cave paintings. Ancient Greece had mythology. For as long as society has existed, we have needed storytellers and interpreters. But those roles within society are limited and not everyone gets to the podium to speak. 

So, perhaps Nicky Morgan is right. If you want wider options when entering the world of work, STEM subjects are for you. If you aren’t afraid to fail, be realistic and back your own ability, then choose the arts. Just don’t complain when you have no idea how to troubleshoot your car breaking down. 

I dare say that Nicky Morgan does value the arts. Her words were unfortunate but not unexpected at an event launching a campaign to encourage teenagers to opt for STEM subjects. If I had been faced with tuition fees of £9k a year when choosing my future, I would have given STEM subjects more thought.

However, to think that someone would choose that path ahead of their desire to study the arts is saddening, particularly in a day and age when the vast majority have become socially mobile enough that they can pursue their ambitions in life, whatever they may be. So, with that in mind, I’ll conclude with a quote from the narrator of Dickens’ Hard Times. It would be worthwhile for politicians to give it a read before they discredit the arts so readily:

“It is known, to the force of a single pound weight, what the engine will do; but not all the calculators of the National debt can tell me the capacity for good or evil, for love or hatred, for patriotism or discontent, for the decomposition of virtue into vice, or the reverse.”

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Life Lessons For 24 and Beyond

This week, I celebrated the fact that I’ve been in existence on this planet for a full 24 years. To some readers, that might not seem a lot. But, to me, it is. In fact, it’s 8766 days. Or 210,000 hours. And while there’s not a huge deal of hulabaloo about turning 24, it’s a good excuse to take stock and evaluate.

For me, birthdays are a time not only to look back at what you’ve achieved but, more importantly, to outline what you want from the time ahead of you. Goals are important but simply having them doesn’t mean you’re pursuing them. I have my own goals (which I won’t share here) and I hope I’ll be able to say I’ve achieved some of them by my 25^th birthday. But, to give myself the best chance of achieving those goals, I have to use the things I’ve learnt over the last 24 years. So, in a relatively concise BuzzFeed-meets-Baz Luhrmann way, here are my cultural learnings for life at 24:

Make Time for Others
If you’re lucky, family will always be there for you. If they aren’t, then hopefully your friends will. But it is a ‘give and take’ relationship. Now is the time to take care of those who cared for you when you were younger, and to find time to see them when other things might seem more pressing. These are the people who keep you grounded and give you a point of reference in this otherwise existentialist pandemonium.

Look After Your Body
Exercise. Despite what that tube of Pringles says, it is really good for you. Body image, health, endorphins. Use them all to make yourself a more confident and happier person. But remember that your health is yours. Do not compare yourself to those around you, otherwise you will lose sight of why you are doing it. You are only in competition with yourself.

Listen More Than You Talk
It is extremely difficult to learn anything whilst you are talking. Listen to what is being said around you and contribute when you think you have something worth adding to conversation. Bluster and self-importance are not attractive traits. Wisdom is a positive by-product of experience, and the more observant you try to be, the more of every experience you will absorb.

Trust Your Judgement
Being observational also improves your judgement. Know to trust your instinct because, most of the time, it will be right. When you are conflicted or unsure, consult those whose judgement you trust. Chances are, they’ll confirm what you were already thinking.

Don’t Use the Fear of Failure as a Reason Not to Do Something
So often, people choose unhappiness or stability simply because it is safe. To fall short of a goal is not a failure. To not try when nothing but fear stands in the way is. Ask the universe for what you want, otherwise you won’t receive it.

Love Honestly
Tell those that matter to you that they do. If they don’t, then don’t lie to them. People will respect you more for being honest with them, even if it is more difficult for you. Again, ask the universe (or those you love, for that matter) for what you want.

 
Sleep
This one is probably counter-intuitive to making time for others but… make time to sleep. Going to bed early doesn’t make you old – in fact, if you remember arguing about your childhood bedtime, staying up late is for old people. Stay vibrant.

Fill Your Time
If there’s anything to learn from The Shawshank Redemption (other than that it takes roughly 20 years to tunnel out of a prison) it’s that you should ‘get busy living or get busy dying’. Once you’ve had the sleep you need, enjoy life. Do things you enjoy and share it with others who do too. When work and money allow, see and do the things you’d regret not doing.

Celebrate Others
As with exercise, you are only in competition with yourself. Promotions, holidays and luck are things to share in. Someone in life will always have more than you, whether that be finance or fortune. Life isn’t fair, so make the most of what comes your way.

 

Never Stop Developing
Whether you’re doing well or feel that you’re pushing water uphill, never stop developing yourself. Considering yourself a complete article breeds complacency. If you’re down on the mat, gather your strength and go again. Bettering yourself is the one constant in life in which you should try to be selfish. Keep designing projects – large and small – and feel the satisfaction of completing them. Your biggest project in life should be how you feel about yourself.

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A Sense Of Pride

It’s rare that I feel the desire to applaud when the credits roll at the cinema. In 2014, that sort of over-indulgent behaviour seems to be reserved solely for the theatre and flying with Ryanair. Other than social custom holding me back, that’s exactly the urge I felt after watching Pride. Most reviews of the film have labelled it a British ‘feelgood’ film – which is completely fair – but there’s far greater depth to it than to suggest it is simply feelgood fodder.

I won’t rattle on about the plot, the soundtrack or the political climate of the eighties (you can read that in any newspaper or online article) but I will say that my pride stemmed from the British acting industry. Every once in while, a film comes along (usually produced by BBC Films or Film 4) and it reminds you of the quality and uniqueness of our productions. I’m talking about the likes of Billy Elliott (the obvious comparison), East is East, and Calendar Girls. They might not be blockbusters, but they are incredibly honest portrayals about real people that most of us can associate with. Love Actually did spring to mind but then when would the Prime Minister ever turn up at Martine McCutcheon’s house?

The evening I saw Pride, I had intended to visit Manchester’s Royal Exchange to see Maxine Peak tackle Hamlet. Peake is just one of our current acting greats who would have slotted seamlessly into Pride. My personal highlight of Peake’s screen career is her depiction of Moors murderer, Myra Hindley, in the 2006 Granada production of See No Evil – a subject way before my time but nonetheless inescapable.

I found it fitting then that Pride showcases another actor I remember for their portrayal of a serial killer: Dominic West. Although West is arguably most famous for playing Jimmy McNulty in The Wire, it’s his portrayal of Fred West in 2011’s Appropriate Adult (another of ITV’s trilogy on notorious murderers) which first brought West to my attention. West also featured on stage during my uni years, appearing at The Crucible in Othello. Looking back, to think I missed the opportunity to interview him whilst editing my student union’s arts mag is a bit of a kicker! From Peake to West though, it highlights that our acting industry is alive and well, and that many of our national treasures (no, not you, Cheryl Cole/Fernandez-Versini/Tweedy) have the ability to transition between roles.

Imelda Staunton, deservedly, has received a lot of praise for her role in Pride, as the hugely lovable but steely Hefina. Like West though, this might be considered a relative trough in the trajectory of her career. Most will remember her for Harry Potter or Vera Drake, but I also remember catching her in an accomplished stint as Mrs. Lovett in a brief West End run of Sweeney Todd with Michael Ball, who I won’t share my opinion on.

Then you have Bill Nighy and a whole string of younger starlets like Jessie Cave (like Nighy, Cave took up a part in Harry Potter, as Lavender Brown). Pride also carries with it the scent of This Is England, with its eighties setting, subversive subject matter and, of course, Joe Gilgun (Woody). Not far from that is Fresh Meat’s Faye Marsey, who I immediately mistook for someone from the Inbetweeners Movie (blame the Joe Thomas link) with her character’s Smell-esque appearance.

Add Paddy Considine to that, who links to This Is England through Shane Meadows’ Dead Man’s Shoes, and you have a cast of brilliant headline, established and developing talent.

I began this week by watching a documentary on the late Richard Attenborough; tireless supporter of BAFTA and arguably the great saviour of British cinema. How appropriate to end it watching a film that showcases a blossoming industry.

The miners’ wives singing 'Bread and Roses' may make you well up for the struggles of gay rights, miners and unionism but there’s a lot more to be proud of in this film.

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The World is Wonderfully Frightening

The last few weeks have been quiet for me, with camping trips being cancelled, crappy weather and general pre-holiday hermiting taking over from the usual ribs, records and rum. But it hasn’t been a quiet time for world affairs – and it’s got me thinking how weird, wonderful and terrifying planet Earth really is.

We’ve seen conflict in Ukraine, Gaza and Iraq all increase and further tangle a set of webs which are unlikely to ever unravel (score one for humanity’s tribal tendencies). We’ve also mourned the death of Robin Williams with BuzzFeed articles and genie quotes, as it was revealed that one of the brighter sparks on this great ball of rock actually found it a difficult place to live. There are race tensions in Missouri, health scares over Ebola, and Julian Assange pissing journalists’ time up the wall.

All pretty hectic considering the summer is supposed to be a time for relaxing. But, while the world is busy arguing over land, viruses, and generally throwing crap at one another, it’s been left to the usually less tactful medium of television to impart the wisdom that puts it all into perspective.

For this month was the month in which the Discovery Channel celebrated its infamous Shark Week. And head of the programmes which piqued my interest was the mockumentary “Megalodon: The New Evidence.” Obviously a spoof mega-shark story suggesting that megalodon still lives but also a reminder of just how mental our planet is. While megalodon is extinct now, a 60ft species once swam the waters of this world and dined out on whales. That takes some pretty vast, deap oceans.




Also in the news this week is the warning to airlines of seismic activity under a volcano in Iceland, which could cause disruption in Europe along the lines of the 2010 ash cloud. That’s nature doing its thing and causing havoc with the aviation technology we’ve done so brilliantly to develop (not sarcasm).

A little less colossal but equally relevant is the news story of a man being killed by a 15ft salt water croc while fishing in Australia (I saw it on the BBC not the Mail Online, before you ask). Is that not a little crazy? We’re busy squabbling over ancient divides while a creature that predates humanity gives us a reminder of what’s out there on this Earth; whether that be in the deepest depths of the ocean, or in remote untouched tribes.

Sat in my air conditioned office, I’m feeling a little dwarfed.

And it’s not just our geography that is awesome. While it might be our inherent tribalism that means we as a race are constantly at odds with another, the differences between humans across the planet is equally alienating and inspiring at the same time.

Bear with me here, because things are going to get a bit ‘out there’. Having watched Dolly Parton live earlier this summer (yes, I’m making a Dolly Parton analogy), I decided I’d find out a little more about her by watching one of BBC Four’s documentary series on country music. To see the basic lifestyle on the farm on which she was raised in the Great Smoky Mountains, and to think that life existed in western society less than 70 years ago, baffles me. Out there in the world there are tribes living in the Amazon (along with giant snakes), there are Iraqis residing in temporary shelters on the side of a mountain, and there are tiny creatures foraging around in the dark beneath the ground.

The News at Ten might be a daily reminder about how crappy we are as a human race. And the Deputy Prime Minister of Russia tweeting this might be slightly terrifying:

But Earth is a pretty amazing place to exist, and we shouldn’t forget to celebrate it. I’ll end with a horribly cheesy Robin Williams quote (it only seems right) lifted straight from one of my all-time favourite films, Hook:

“To live would be an awfully big adventure.”

Amongst all the conflict that happens on this temporary celestial object, we shouldn’t forget that.

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Hometown Football Is Bleak

Local pride is a terrible thing. Local pride clouds the best judgements of very sensible people. But pride in your small town football club is a far greater affliction - it makes grown men foam at the mouth and weep like babies where, in all other walks of life, they would walk away. I'm talking mostly from the experience of supporting my hometown club, Stockport County, for the last 16 years.

My first game was in the late summer of '98, when County were at a glorious peak of stringing 'Roy of the Rovers' cup runs together with unsustainable joy somewhere in the middle of the old Division One. My grandad took me to see an Atillio Lombardo-led Crystal Palace visit God's Little Acre, Edgeley Park, to escape with a point and the bruises to show for it.

A decade and a half later and it's now me, once a season, who watches out for my grandad as he crosses the cobbles of the 'Little Siberia' estate he grew up on, a stone's throw from County's turnstiles. For County have fallen further than most clubs could contemplate. Despite moments of glory throughout the noughties - a trip to Wembley and John Hardiker scoring two last-gasp goals  to turn over Manchester City spring to mind - Stockport's fans have had to endure countless failed managers, administrations, seasonal squad overhauls and relegation after relegation. The club is now a non-league, semi-pro side and is only recognisable by the songs the fans sing and the empty shell of a stadium they play in.

It's a club we still follow but, after being a fan for almost 80 years from the days when he used to sneak in via a broken fence behind the Railway End, even my grandad doesn't have the heart to go and watch the football on display.

Still though, more than a thousand fans regularly turn up on a Saturday and buy the new shirt each season - probably more so for what it represents than the players on the pitch, who no longer get their names on the back on the basis that they'll probably earn more working in Greggs than going to training.

In fact, nearly 3,000 (myself and my grandad included) turned out to watch a recent pre-season testimonial for the clubs long-serving captain, Mike Flynn, who led County during their Division One glory days to places like Ewood Park and White Hart Lane. Swelled by the less faithful fans, hearing 'The Scarf My Father Wore' echoing from the stands as if it was Anfield on a European night took me back to watching County put greater reputations to the sword.

It is also reminded me of seeing grown men so angered by the plummet that the club would undergo that they tore up their season tickets and threw them onto the pitch. It reminded me of grown men who saw County as their escape from a dreary, former-hatting town, who could sink a few and watch the boys in blue take on all comers. That's all fallen away now - and most of the supporters with it. But there is still a hardcore faithful who travel home and away to keep the heart of the club beating.

No existing club in England has fallen as far as Stockport County, and yet people dream of it rising again. I'm not sure what depresses me more.

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Gigging With Parents

There comes a time in every young person's life - usually coinciding with living independently for the first time - that you begin to appreciate your parents. Hell, you might even want to start spending more time with them. Unfortunately, not everything is designed to be shared with Generation X and the baby boomers. Afternoon tea, yes. Awkward anecdotes about their courtship, just about. How those anecdotes concluded, definitely not.

One of the things that you might consider sharing is gigging. After all, there's a good chance you might have inherited some of your parents' taste in music - assuming they didn't subject you to Cliff Richard or Mud during your formative years. But, next time your shared love for a band that dates back to their record-spinning days manifests itself in a farewell tour, remember these reasons to let your parents head out for over-priced beer and memorabilia t-shirts.

Gigs/Theatre = Not The Same
A gig is one of the last places you'd expect to be eyeballed for making noise. If you're going to a gig with Gen X, be on your best behaviour. Loud and crass conversation is deemed an evening-spoiler and is likely to be scoffed at. Unfortunately, your friend won't be able to tell you about their latest Tinder car crash because middle-aged couples have exhausted all conversation over the past 30 years and are compelled to sit in silence pre-show.

Make A Stand
 I'm putting the blame on the organisers here for necessitating that the 'experienced' demographic all sit down whilst listening to music. Rock music makes you want to move - why strap everyone to their chairs so fearful of blocking the view of those behind? Everyone ends up standing for the final numbers anyway. Why not let those who want to cram their way to the front?

Hot, Hot, Heat
Most memorable gigs usually end up with a sweat-drenched t-shirt clung to your chest, having been squeezed up against another equally smelly fan who's decided bruising, mild claustrophobic anxiety and showers of urine are worth getting close to the band for. Sit everyone down and the stage lighting is barely enough to keep you from wearing a jacket and scarf.

Bye, Bye Bar
All-seater gigs mean that getting up for a much-desired pint/pint-induced toilet break requires disturbing the peace of everyone on your row. Heaven forbid there's a spillage after stumbling on a handbag on the way back as well.

Dad Dancing
If you're lucky enough that you are allowed to display some form of motion, you'll mostly likely see some very awkward designated driver, dressed in his best check shirt, formally swaying side to side with a slight twisting motion. He'll be getting a bi-annual treat later though, so he's happy.

Technophobes
Like their children, Gen X all own smartphones. Unfortunately, not all are quite as adept as their offspring with a touchscreen. Videos and Instagramming are part and parcel of gigs these days, but when the guy in front of you can't work out how to switch off his phone's torch, you're in for a long night.

Panto Clapping
We've already mentioned that there'll be little to no dancing, so why not clap along to each and every tune? It's what the sexagenarians on stage would have envisaged during their drug-fueled heyday. Aladdin was on in the same venue last night, and the audience never left.

Dodgy Plumbing
Ok, so the toilets of a gig aren't the nicest place to spend a penny but at least you don't have to wait for the privilege to do so. Urinary retention is a terrible thing and will get us all one day, but it's hard to find the patience when you're four pints in and have broken the seal.

Ever one for a balanced argument (damn you government curriculum) there are some upshots to gigging with your parents and their friends. There's no 16-year-old girl throwing up in her shoes. No one thinks it acceptable to take their top off and, if you're there, there's a good chance everyone around you has a great taste in music. So, remember your jacket, keep it down, sit back and try to enjoy yourself!

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Football Ads: Who's The Greatest?

The World Cup starts this week and, while most of the year I refrain from posting about football, it would be impossible to get through the next month without a fix. As a pessimistic English fan full of disappointment, my memories of World Cups mainly consist of a sleepless night after that Beckham kick on Diego Simeone in 1998, David Seaman's ponytail, and the teenage tears that accompanied losing to the Portuguese on penalties in 2006.

England aside, one of the main things to get excited about during a World Cup year is the string of football-inspired TV commercials/adverts which hit our screens, usually resulting in the delirium which can only be tempered by slow, heat-affected international football. Nike (sounds like 'spiky' if you read the news) are the undisputed kings of football endorsement and have this year gone with a 'Winner Stays On' campaign, bringing in the ever-popular first person player motif to show off Ronaldo, Zlatan and... erm, Tim Howard.

 

Normally, you would have Adidas as Nike's main competitor but they rarely reach the heights Nike do when it comes to football commercials. In fact, it is actually an entry out of the stands, Beats By Dre, who have rushed the barrier and ended up on the pitch to be this year's main opposition.

 

If Ronaldo is Europe's poster boy, then Beats By Dre have trumped that and gone with the darling of the home nation, Brazil's Neymar. The five-minute advert is essentially a grandiose music video with more celebrity appearances than Perez Hilton's news feed (a Perez Hilton reference in a football piece? Get outta here!) In all seriousness though, what do Lil' Wayne and Serena Williams' acrylics have to do with the World Cup?

Also cameoing in the Beats By Dre campaign is Thierry Henry, who could potentially lay claim to the individual crown for Services to the TV football Ad Industry. Henry was number one for Nike in the mid-noughties and was the star of one of the most enduring commercials from a non-World Cup year, in the 'Home Game' campaign.

Adidas have tried something similar ahead of this World Cup, pitting 'galacticos' Zidane and Beckham in a game at Beckingham Palace against Lucas Moura and a player unlikely to ever grace the World Cup, Gareth Bale. Smooth work, Adidas...

Heading back to Nike though, and their track record only gets stronger the further you head back towards the nineties. The 1998 World Cup was all about the original Ronaldo, and he featured heavily in the beautifully made 'Airport' advert which saw the eventual runners up, Brazil, take advantage of pre-9/11 airport security to board the plane for France 1998 while displaying some samba flair.

With Adidas-sponsored France winning in 1998, Nike were a lot happier four years later when Brazil got their hands on the trophy, beating Germany in Japan. And their ad for the year was one most will remember as one of the best of all time. Not just content with Ronaldo and Henry, Nike shelled out to put 24 of the world's greatest (Figo, Ronaldinho, Totti etc.) into a secret offshore tournament, directed by Monty Python actor, Terry Gilliam.

What made this campaign special was that that there were so many different cuts of it and, at a time when the Internet was becoming more accessible, Nike hosted the various edits online. But what places this amongst the pantheon of all-time great football ads is the presence of the King, Eric Cantona, as the referee or, more appropriately, Godfather. If you want to create a great football-related ad, Cantona is the ingredient which makes everything taste sweeter. As this Kronenbourg advert - which was fittingly banned by the Advertising Standards Authority - will attest.

While World Cup years are generally the golden moments for football ads, it's somewhat ironic that the screen's biggest star never actually appeared in a World Cup - blame France's ineptitude in the early nineties and the emergence of Zinedine Zidane thereafter. And, befitting the advert's star, the greatest ever football ad was not a actually a World Cup one. No, that spot goes to King Eric and Nike's 'Good vs. Evil' campaign.

 

Disagree with my picks? Why not post your favourites below? 'Au revoir'.

P.S. If you've not had enough yet, check out this awful advert for Danish bacon, featuring a suitably embarrassed Peter Schmeichel. Even the greats have their price...

 

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Do What You Love, Love What You Do

In my last post, I mentioned that I'd been blogging for roughly a year. Curious as ever,  I went back and checked, and it turns out (give or take a day) it has been exactly that. My first post was all about growing up as a straight male who enjoyed the not-so-hetero art of musical theatre.

It seems fitting then that I should want to write this post now, a year after taking up theatre as a hobby again. A few weeks ago, I was lucky enough to be on a pro stage for six nights with a brilliantly talent group of people. The best group of amateur actors I've ever performed with, in fact. My own biased opinion aside - I'd be the first to cringe at gushy Facebook statuses about 'awe-inspiring' amateur productions - it was so good to be part of something that genuinely made pro theatre staff question the quality of the touring production going on at the same time.

I put off writing this post until I'd had my fill of post-show blues (which you can read more about here), and had a clearer head, because I wanted to be sure about the direction I wanted this post to take. And this is it, in a nutshell: Do what you love, love what you do.

For fear of ruining someone's life, please don't leave your job, up sticks and try to save the turtles. The turtles are fine. They won't save you when you're homeless outside Starbucks. And that girl has moved on. If you turn up at her wedding, chances are you'll have ruined the best day of her life.

Cynicism aside, doing what you love in life is very important. And it becomes more important as you get older. I'm 23 - the phrase 'imparted wisdom' is not one I regularly associate with - but I know what's important to me. In the last year, this blog has helped me fix memories that I might not have had I not taken the time to look around and smell the roses. It's also encouraged me to do things I might have only ever discussed before, if only to write about them. The main point is that I'm doing what I love, and it makes my life more enjoyable. It turns out other people love doing what I do as well, which makes it all the more fun. There's even been the odd bit of recognition along the way as well. And if it all ended tomorrow, I know I'd be proud of what I've done in the last year.
 
Hopefully, in 12 months' time, you'll still find me doing what I love, loving what I'm doing.

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Mourning The Streak

Sunday night saw the end of one of the WWE's greatest ever in-ring performers, and possibly it's most enduring character. Monday morning was characterised by cries of animal pain when a lot of UK fans realised that the Undertaker's 21-match undefeated streak at Wrestlemania had been brought to an unexpected and anti-climactic end at Wrestlemania 30 by Bu-rooooock Lesnar. Since then, the sudden death of the newly-inducted Hall of Famer, The Ultimate Warrior, has seen some of the anger directed towards WWE's scriptwriters tempered.

Three days down the line though, and the decision to end what was considered an immortal streak is beginning to make sense. In fact, it was a night that revealed why nothing should be considered immortal. The opening to Wrestlemania 30 saw the host, the 'immortal' Hulk Hogan deliver a doddery and disappointing promo, calling the Superdome the Silverdome. Behind his outdated sunglasses and hair extensions, Hogan has been delivering limp, disconnected promos for weeks in the run-up to Wrestlemania and needed Stone Cold and The Rock to save his blushes in what would have been a dire opening without the stars from the Attitude Era. Immortality getting its ass kicked, take one.

The first televised fight of the night was Daniel Bryan vs. Triple H, and there was only ever going to be one winner here to allow, as predicted, Daniel Bryan to go on to win the Triple Threat championship match and see 75,000 fans chanting 'Yes!' amid a storm of ticker tape. A surprise here would have seen the whole event fall flat on its face and, other than an unlikely CM Punk return, the customary surprise pop that makes Wrestlemania infamous had to come from somewhere else. Other than the new Andre The Giant Battle Royale match, where else would you find that shock factor that keeps wrestling fans coming back? The rest of the card all looked like foregone conclusions, including Lesnar vs. The Streak.

And that's where the danger lies. Every year up until this point, you gave the challenger a sporting chance of beating The Dead Man. This year, Lesnar's challenge was credible but didn't carry the weight of a Triple H or a Shawn Michaels. For someone to beat The Streak, they sure had to be one of the immortals themselves. Brock Lesnar may well become a Hall of Famer one day, but he is not an immortal.

The Streak also had to end cleanly. Imagine the outcry had an interference ended the Undertaker's legacy. Ending it clean meant that we could all move on - no one got screwed and the Undertaker was shown to be what he is: a 49-year-old wrestler who had had his day and wanted to call it a day. The match itself was extremely dull, lacking in intensity and proved that Taker needs pacier opponents to help him through matches. Much the same can be said for Kane, and his star waned long ago on the basis that he is still performing regularly.

The end of the streak also does wonders for Lesnar and, to an even further extent, Paul Heyman. Heyman's work with CM Punk and Lesnar has been one of the main reasons to tune into Raw over the last two years, and carrying the client that beat The Streak re-enthuses his character. We know Paul Heyman puts over the bad guy, but now he has enough weight behind him to continue doing so with other big names once Lesnar leaves.

The other point is that, as well casting Lesnar's heel status in iron, who else could beat The Streak and live with themselves after it? Lesnar has no link to the fanbase; he's an irregular performer written to be a prizefighter. Shawn Michaels had to be asked in-ring by Ric Flair to end the Nature Boy's career - the Undertaker character meant that it had to be an unwilling end, and that could only be done by a mercenary with no plans to be anything otherwise. Lesnar, based on his UFC credentials, is also probably the guy you would least like to fight in real life. Him beating the ageing Phenom on any other stage but Wrestlemania doesn't seem so unbelievable.

The hollowness that followed that much was surreal. It was like that gasp of air a warrior takes after being stabbed. No one expected the loss. Every time the Undertaker kicked out of an F5, you saw it coming - the fun was seeing how late he could leave it. As predictable as wrestling can be, no one should be unbeatable, and that's what The Undertaker had become. All the best wrestling plots come from out of nowhere.

The end of The Streak may have felt like the lights coming on at a party, but all parties have to end, and there'll be others. Thank you, Taker.

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Honey, I Bastardised The History Channel

It's rare that I get hooked on trash TV. Ok, that's a lie. So far in 2014, my televisual diet has mostly consisted of Benefits Street and the resurgent Celebrity Big Brother. And as far as trash TV goes, those two shows are pretty good examples of the channels (C4 and Five) you'd naturally go to if you wanted to give your brain cells a hearty flogging.

But where do you turn for your trash TV when there's no one with breasts as big as your head on the box? Casey Batchelor, not White Dee, if you must ask.

My answer, weirdly, is the History Channel, or History as it's now known.

Hitler, star of new reality series, Adi and Eva Take Poland.

Once upon a time, the History Channel meant watching The Nazis: A Warning From History and David Starkey banging on about crumbling monasteries. Fast forward to 2014 though, and the focus is still history, except it's now the history of rednecks and generally unfortunate American stereotypes. In fact, when the channel re-branded under Disney and ABC in 2008, it might have been more appropriate to rename it the Civil War channel. Now, I'm not saying Disney was a fascist, but doesn't it seem convenient that his legacy is responsible for the disappearance of A Warning From History from our TV screens?

Who am I to judge though, because I didn't tune into pre-Disney History on a daily basis, as I do now. I'm hooked on shows like Storage Wars - don't try and fob me off with knockoffs like Storage Hunters on ITV3 - and their eccentric, scripted characters, like Barry Weiss. Excavating early Roman settlements? No thanks, I'd rather watch a rich old man stage the sale of a custom Harley the producers placed in a storage locker for him.

And if that's not on, there's always the American Pickers, Mike and Frank, 'freestyling' across the South, asking toothless hicks whether they can help fund their moonshine production by buying their old Coca Cola signs from them. It's a shame that the places they find are actually all pre-arranged. Imagine if they weren't: I'm picturing Mike walking away from an old barn, Gaffa tape still stuck to his boot, saying "Zed's dead, baby". Oh, and their pal Danielle, who has weird Cheetarah tattoos on her chest and burlesques on the side.

Of course, I'm not always in the mood for negotiating pickers. Every once in a while I just like to see alligators getting shot in the head. That's right, History has a programme about Louisiana alligator hunters. Essentially the format is: hick sets alligator fishing line, hick finds hooked gator, hick debates the size of the gator, hick shoots gator in the head at point-blank range. It's really top notch broadcasting.

It's not all so rural though. There's also the glamour of the historic city of Las Vegas. There was a battle there once... I think. It's also the home of World Famous Gold & Silver Pawn Shop and Rick Harrison's family pawn business. Generally, Pawn Stars is a show about members of the public bringing in Americana (like Abe Lincoln's gum shield), asking over the odds for it and then haggling with Rick; almost always meeting half way. Luckily, if that's a little too historic, Rick's 'old man' is a crank from North Carolina and is part of a cast also involving CM Punk lookalike and all round waster, Chumlee.
 
To borrow a quote my favourite film: "You've gotta put the past behind you before you can move on." Maybe this is society's way of forgetting what happened in the last couple of centuries. I just hope to God it's not what my children end up studying at school.

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The Boot Room

Whether it's a kid playing junior football or an old, beer-bellied dad still hanging onto his Sunday League dreams, boys will forever be excited about new football boots. Whether you like a flashy orange pair, or a more traditional and understated black, there's nothing like slipping on fresh-smelling leather before trying to re-enact your Premier League heroes on a battered old park green covered in used needles and dog muck.

Given that my trusty Adidas Questras (a thrifty £19 purchase deep into my student overdraft) have finally given up on me after four years' service, it's time for a new pair - which got me thinking about my favourite ever boots. Here are the candidates:

Nike R9

Now, I'm not talking about the sock-like R9's on offer these days. I mean the original R9s worn by 'fat Ronaldo' in his prime. These are probably the design origin of most of the flimsier boots worn in the Premier League these days and looked super slick with their 'wave' pattern. While Ronaldo was busy bagging for Brazil and Inter Milan in these, I was attempting to do the same in the Cub Scout football leagues.

Mizuno Wave Cup

Rivaldo's Mizuno Wave Cups are a really strong contender for my favourite boots ever. Though I've never owned a pair, they were the boots I always wanted as a young kid. Unfortunately, I only ever saw them for sale by postal order in the back of Match magazine (alongside the Harchester United shirt from Dream Team) and convincing your dad to buy boots out of a magazine is pretty difficult when your 10.

Nike Air Zoom Total 90

One of the early noughties' most popular boots, my overriding memory of this early version of the Total 90 is a marauding Mikael Silvestre... glamorous, I know. A 'flashy' choice in their time, I still own a pair in black and white that are in great condition despite good use. For longevity, these have to be on my list.

 Adidas Supernova

My last pair of grass boots, Adidas Supernovas were a great alternative to the mainstream dominance of the Predator. I can remember my teenage teammates turning up for the first game of each season with the newly-released Predator updates but these withstood the test of time and still look now.

Puma King Pro

 

Somewhat of a referee's boot these days, the Puma King Pro is one for the purist. I owned a pair of these whilst juggling playing both rugby and football at the weekends - posey boots aren't welcome on the rugby field. The traditional Puma embodies the phrase 'tough as old boots' and is a great all-rounder.

Adidas World Cup

Another boot out of the traditionalist's handbook, the Adidas World Cup/Copa Mundial has withstood the test of time since the 1982 World Cup to prove that you don't need all singing, all dancing boots to look good on the pitch. Classic and sophisticated, this is the 'gentleman' of football boots.

And The Winner Is...
None of the above. The Supernovas and Mizunos ran it close, but my all-time favourite boot is actually, unsurprisingly, my very first pair of boots (at least that I can remember). They were a very traditionally-designed pair of Umbros with the twist of being entirely gold. I owned my golden wonders long before I was even old enough to play competitive sport and used to run around on the sidelines in them while my dad watched my brothers play junior football. It's a shame nothing gold can stay.

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In Defence Of Male Emotion

If this isn't the first post you've ever read on my blog, you'll know that I generally try to keep things nice and light-hearted on here. BBQ sauce, records and places of interest - that kind of thing. But this week I saw something a little more important that I felt the need to write about. It was a video.

When I first toyed with the idea of creating a blog, a couple of female friends - who write their own blogs and read countless others - said that the main reason they would read it was because they were interested to see what goes through the mind of a guy. That thought came to mind when I was deciding whether writing about the video was something I wanted to put out on the internet. Because the video has everything to do with the mind of a guy.

The clip I saw was the trailer for a new documentary film being released this year by the Representation Project, entitled The Mask You Live In. If you'd like to see it before reading on, you can watch it here. It's essentially a film designed to question the way society raises men... or more importantly, 'men'. It's worth me mentioning at this point that I expect the film to be equally as heavy-handed and sensationalist as the Representation Project's first production, MissRepresentation, which explores the affect that the media's portrayal of women has on the way young girls view themselves. However, when you put the high school drama class techniques (see trailer) aside and focus on the unofficial strapline that, emotionally, there's something wrong with what we do to boys before they become men, there's a huge amount I agree with. And I don't think a lot of men would be comfortable saying that.

From my experience, for a boy, showing emotion has always been considered a sign of weakness. When you get beyond a certain age, roughly eight or nine year's old, displaying your emotion is seized upon by other boys, and some girls. So boys, and later men, learn to hide what they are feeling. And, most importantly, they don't discuss it with other men.

Men and women go through a lot of the same trials in life, but how many times have you seen a man cry at work or at school? Men are human. They feel pain. They feel loneliness. They can have their heart's broken and they can feel afraid. But we ask them not to show it because it's uncomfortable and unattractive to say we're not in control of our emotions. We're supposed to be dominant. If we're lucky enough, we'll meet a woman who can drag it out of us.

Throughout puberty, as boys go through the emotional uncertainties of establishing relationships with the opposite sex - enough to put anyone off-balance -  they realise that the safest approach is to group together around the idea of being macho and, generally, emotionless. Those that aren't are, to an extent, ostracised, which only goes to reinforce the feeling within the collective not to discuss our emotions.

But as boys slowly become men, the lines of communication open up as they find out who their lasting friends in life are. They might be able to engage in quiet one-to-one conversations about things such as stress, women or bereavement. Unfortunately, an air of awkwardness always hangs over the first question. Am I safe to admit that I want to talk? Will you be uncomfortable if I do?

I count myself lucky enough to have close male friends who I know won't be uncomfortable. There's a lot to be said for people with emotional intelligence and they are the people I respect most. Without trying to open up another debate, it's interesting that my friends with the highest emotional intelligence are generally gay, which, I think, goes back to the idea of pubescent boys gathering around the concept of being macho. 'Men' are sociologically taught to be in check of our emotions, to appear attractive to women. Remove women from the equation and, well... Stephen Fry is a very intelligent man, isn't he?

Fry is also a man of the theatre. In my opinion, everyone should see at least one gritty play or film a year. Something that gets to you. I rediscovered acting last year and I've learned to recognise the impact it has on my understanding and engagement with how I feel. Which is why it doesn't surprise me that a lot of people within the theatre community are gay. Within male circles, as boys find their place in the world, theatre is not the hobby most go for. Football's universally encouraged. Theatre isn't so much. Like 'emotion', it's a bit of a dirty word for men in general. Is it because theatre is about accessing and portraying emotion? Probably.

I don't expect The Mask You Live In to break down socially-engrained practices, or to present the argument in the right manner. But I do hope that it becomes a starting point for men to discuss and feel ok about their emotions. I first saw MissRepresentation at a networking event designed to help women support one another within their profession. Right now, I can't imagine an event like that for men where every one in the room would feel comfortable. I'm open enough to say that that makes me feel sad. I'd like to think that other men would be happy to say that too.

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It Was a Very Good Year...

It seems a little odd to me that people measure their life based on a calendar year - 2013's been what I would describe as 'good year' but I won't be resetting any lifestyle clocks come midnight on NYE. But with 2014 less than 24 hours away, the unavoidable mass of statuses proclaiming 'Good riddance 2013' or 'Wow! What a year XOXO' has dragged me out of my blog-hibernation. So, in the tradition of reflecting on the year just gone  by consigning the chaotic events of life to the 365-day timeframe in which they occurred,  forgive me while I indulge myself.

The first 16 weeks of the year were all focused towards one thing, running my first marathon. Rather than completely destroy my social life, in January, I did manage to go on my first skiing holiday. A trip to Bulgaria's Borovets resort ensured I'm now fully converted to winter sports holidays and 90p pints of beer - those Bulgarians know how to get your attention.

April saw the culmination of four months of training when my brother and I ran the Manchester marathon. I managed to get round in a very respectable 3 hours 44 mins before throwing up and doing my best attempt to catch pneumonia in the runners' village. Lessons learned in 2013: I'm capable of turning blue and getting sunburn at the same time.

The end of May saw the very first post on this here blog. My first Tales of Timler post, entitled Growing Pains, coincided with me taking up musical theatre as a hobby again. For 2014, I've booked myself up with three shows up until August, including a musical revue, Our House at Manchester's Lowry Theatre and a production of Elegies for Angels, Punks & Raging Queens as part of Manchester Pride.

In June, I started visiting car boot sales and collecting vinyl records before buying my first record player in July. July was also the month I rounded a few friends up for a heatwave-enhanced weekend camping at Shell Island. Shell Island was just the start of my summer travels - August saw a short city break in Berlin before a week on the Portuguese coast, grilling piri-piri chicken and kayaking around Lagos.

After months of searching, September was the month in which I finally moved out of my parents' house and into my first non-student house - putting a stop to all the aforementioned revelry. September was also the first time I'd performed on stage for three years, in a one night only variety show for charity, followed quickly by a week in October at the Royal Northern College of Music portraying a vaguely acceptable, mildy racist Chinaman in a production of Thoroughly Modern Millie. I should mention that in rehearsal I learned enough Mandarin and Cantonese to woo an impressionable western girl. Make of that what you will...




And finally, in November and December, I spent time recuperating after all that activity. Mostly by eating burgers and buying more records. So, if we're going to place the eggs of my life into a neat, 365-day basket, I'd say it's been a pretty good year... Thank you to everyone who made it one to remember XOXO.

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