First off, I completely agree with the BBC's reckoning that last night's El Clasico was about as clasico as it gets. English clubs beware - with the sort of short-passing and movement displayed by both teams, the likes of Messi, Xavi, Ronaldo, Kaká et al could be running rings round most of the Prem's central midfield duos come the Champs League latter stages.
Secondly allow me to air a massive gripe with the writing fraternity. I really want to write a book. I've got ideas I don't think are completely crap and will enjoy spending the coming months planning and penning something I'll be proud of with any luck. Yet I'm certainly no literature buff, and when I read some Guardian column about fiction I gulp so hard my nuts hurt. 'Polemics' this; 'stratified approach' that: what's wrong with writing a bloody good book?
If, in the extremely unlikely event someone fiddles around in their spare change pile to publish my rot, I'm stuck with some po-faced hack from some under-selling broadsheet, what do I say? Do I play out some semantic epic? 'This book was an unenviable juxtaposition of the pedanticisms of the witterydoodah poolambulative corpolationistics....' Or do I just tell the truth? 'To be honest the biggest factors hampering my writing were alcohol, work and Pro Evo.'?
Surely there's a place for punk in literature nowadays? Are the days of Kerouac, Burroughs et al lost forever? I bloody hope not. Now do I play Messi on a blue or Bojan on a red...
No comments:
Post a Comment