Cherrypicked stories

Subverting themes of catwalk church, We haul around heroic weights, A monument to lifetime crates Knocked back in life-and-death research: The butt...

Post-natal depression

An estranged father awaits his sons execution

To the broken and the lonely.

Thoughts and observations in a supermarket car park

"Bring buns," says Lita, chuckling into the phone. "Buns for Lita," she trills. I know that buns for Lita are not ordinary buns, three for a quid at...

England was ecstatic. Millions planned to take sickies to watch the big match. The whole country wanted to see if their team could improve on their lacklustre draw with Sweden. Arch rivals, Argentina, awaited. The Falklands was nothing. THIS would be war! I did not care. I was having a day off. My own little sickie. I had about forty-eight hours to move out of London and too much to occupy my mind and my time to worry about football. First, there were the Romanians. Leaving a country involves a lot of small jobs, house clearing by no means the smallest. My partner, Deb and I had a complete collection of household items with no house to hold them. It was time to put something back. For a year, I had spent my Saturdays shuffling between charity shops, searching for bargains so easily found. Even now, I sit in a Marks &;amp; Spencer spencer. Not bought from M&;amp;S itself, heaven forbid, but from the Romanian's store that I so loved. Mostly, because it enabled me to achieve my dream of buying a second hand dinner suit which I have since worn with pride to many a fine function. Of all the local options, Deb and I had selected the Romanians as the worthiest the recipients of all our rubbish. By now, all those orphans must have grown up and made more. Things must be out of control! We made multiple trips lugging great bags of guff to two grateful old ladies who sat sharing a puff. They tore through the bags and positioned our shared life about on their shelves. I hoped that our lives would enrich someone else's. Or at least help a few orphans of orphans. A Union Jack caught my eye. It was one of many postcards I had bought, but never sent (sorry Mum!). They had been scattered around the store in unabashed pride. I thought of the match. I felt I really should watch it and squeeze in a report. I could surely make time. There was one hour until kick off, but still an important job remained. On my back, I was carrying about twenty kilos in coins. A year's worth of any man's emptied pockets (and one hell of successful poker game). I needed to unload. There was a bank just nearby, but it had a terribly slow moving queue. Someone was probably trying to open an account and the staff were preoccupied with the necessary fingerprinting, interrogating and beatings out back. There can be no institution that resists being given money as much as an England bank. The pre-requisites to opening an account are so arduous that I have heard some thirty percent of the population never bother and just go without and account. Can you imagine that? Never dealing with a bank! Lucky bastards. Standing outside the bank, I was inspired to watch the match in the financial district of London. 'The City', as it is known. I was curious to see how the suited ones appreciated the game and there would of course be plenty of banks in which to deposit my change. As if reading my mind, a bum approached. "Got any spare change?" "No" I instinctively lied, almost struggling to stand. I may not have been pin striped, but I could definitely cut it in the City, I thought assessing my meanness as I jangled away. I made it to the tube, luckily via a bank which lightened both my mood and my load. I stood at Tottenham Court Road tube station thirteen minutes before kick off. A tube was due in two minutes. It would take seven minutes to reach Bank, the City's main tube station, giving me exactly four minutes to find a pub before kick off. No problem. After seeing Ireland's late goal against Germany, I did not doubt what could be achieved in a matter of seconds. With two hundred and forty up my sleeve, I should make it with still some to spare. I sprung from the labyrinth that is Bank tube station and streamed down Cheapside like a racehorse without weight. I bolted into an office staffed (or 'manned' as they prefer to say in the City) by a super helpful secretary. On her advice, I flew to the 'City Tap', a smallish bar with a good group of suits huddled around a television, no bigger than the one that sat in my home. (The one I should have been out trying to sell at that very moment.) I made it for kick off. Four for four so far. My pint of 'Kroenenberg' did not make my hand quite in time, but the City is not Dublin, so what to expect? The game started and the scent of competition hung strong in the air, rising above the Armani and Versace and, I hoped, sweaty me. These guys wanted to win. Not just football, but every damned thing in their lives. I reflected on shameful memories of kicking over chessboards in games against my brother, only slightly my junior. Perhaps I could fit in here. Then, someone spotted me writing. "What's this? A university project?" Misplaced in my surrounds due to Romanian mothballs. The match seemed a little quiet, so I studied the room. I noticed the 'shot of the month' was 'Liquid Cocaine' which seemed to have about as much point as powdered pints at a Beer Fest. For thirty-six pounds, one could buy a jug of 'Chambull': a bottle of bubbly, three shots of vodka, two red bulls and a slice of orange. In a jug. If only I still had my coins. Then an explosion! A near goal bounced off the post. Exuberant shouts followed by now seemingly universal hands placed on heads. Although, something did not seem quite right. Claps from above? I had not been upstairs. Could there be Argentineans about? I went up to hunt around. If they were in there, they melded into the masses watching two smaller sets. Pin stripped camouflage. The match progressed and very late in the second half England's captain dished out a bloody nose with no recompense. The room shared a laugh. Stories were exchanged of bloodied noses given or received after big nights out (on the Chambull no doubt.) Almost immediately afterwards, someone hit the deck and England was awarded a penalty. England's captain, centre screen again, took the penalty and scored! Double fists in the air! (From yours truly as well. I could not help it I'm afraid.) England's captain now a champion on two counts for the game. First he scored a blood nose and now a goal from a penalty. The irony was completely lost on the crowd. But who cares? A goal is a goal and the crowd celebrated it with vigour? "We love England, we do, We love England, we do." Half time. Time for my run. I wanted to suck on a slice of orange instead, but everyone knows oranges go with Chambull, so I decided to pass. I mis-followed some directions past 'Fuego', a tapas bar which had expanded its interests beyond inflating its prices and deflating its serving sizes to football. It was full of flat punters and there was still time to run, so it was run that I did. I ducked into a street, promisingly named Brewers Garden Hill, and emerged to find 'the Globe'. I squeezed in to discover not just the 'suits' I had expected, but rather a mix of all sorts. Next door, 'the John Keats' was a touch more up market. It proudly displayed a framed 'Pledge to maintain high standards of cleanliness on these premises'. A pledge kept, I expect, by sweeping the filth through the door into the adjoining Globe. Ridiculous, the way such venues are so artificially divided and even more so the way we abide such divisions. I stayed with the suits for a pint of 'Carling' (of all things) to await the second half. England came out firing to miss some close shots at goal. The crowd clapped and smiled. The joy I had found in the City Tap had not been lost on the lot in John Keats. As the game moved along, the television seemed to stall. It jumped and jerked concealing the result of a fine England attack. The room's breath was bated, the outcome only revealed by the "ohs" of the viewers of the working televisions in the Globe next door. Yet not a soul moved. The suits stood in their place, preferring to risk missing the match than mixing with scum. I, on the other hand, mix very well with scum and so moseyed into the Globe to investigate. My entrance was welcomed with a chant: "Eng-a-land, Eng-a-land, Eng-a-land..." Cheers lads! Wrong country for me, but thanks all the same. The game progressed very well for Ol' Blighty. Everyone was feeling good. Feeling jolly. Feeling victorious (though not there quite yet)! The vibe in the room seemed to transgress the thousands of miles to Sapporo where England were performing fantastically well. Their attacks were bold. Their defence was defiant. We all felt the game would be theirs. Five minutes left and the chants grew louder. With two minutes to go, the room bounced on its toes. They smiled nervously. Hands rubbed heads to sooth away stress. Oh God let them have it! Such expectation must surely be met. And then, at last, the final whistle! England had done it! They had beaten the great Argentina! Their Cup hopes alive! I wore a kiss on my head and bounced around joining in the group hugs. The emotion, it seethed. Tears welled all around. More from relief than from joy, or so it seemed to me. While the draw in Ireland gave me more noise, this result, the first victory I have seen, gave me my most emotional response thus far. There may not be another people for whom the World Cup is so dear. On the street, the rain drizzled down while the cars honked on past. I trotted back to Bank tube station, passing smiles all the way. It felt a shame to be leaving London now, though I may soon be back. Who knows? Could 1966 come back to this land that has so longed for its return? I cannot help but hope so. Not to get ahead of myself. Back to dehoming my home and then on to continue the plan. Belgium awaits...

In Poole Harbour no one can hear you scream

a woman's apathy for her husband and child