From The Centrifuge

It’s Local Election Day in Cardiff, and on my way out with the dog, I am greeted by the smiling faces of the Liberal Democrats’ Plasnewydd Focus Team. I had naively believed that I might go one day without being harassed by the Liberal Democrats, but obviously today was not going to be that day. Nonetheless, it was the final straw for me and my paper-thin patience. A little history, and some contemporaneous comment, would be useful right about now I think. The Lib Dems have led the council in Cardiff since 2004. My sources in the Welsh Conservative Party have indicated that they are about to take a complete pasting in today’s local election, with Labour way out in front, likely to come close to the 50 members they had back in 1999. In my opinion, this is a justified spanking. And yet I am unable to justify this on a political level. According to some of the bombastic nonsense that comes through my door unbidden every single day of the week and often on weekends too, ...

I was excited to have remembered my own 4th wedding anniversary this past week, especially as I have a habit of forgetting such things (sorry mum). That said, I barely made it in time with a celebratory laurel tree, thanks to a very lovely lady at Covent Garden Flowers , for my gorgeous and under appreciated wife. She, on the other hand remembered well in advance and got me what she thought was the most appropriate gift imaginable.  At this point I should probably reference Wikipedia's anniversaries page , at which I found out that I was in the the correct customary area in my choice of gifts. Year 4 in the UK is traditionally fruit and flowers, and my laurel tree was in flower - see the handily appended table below. Year U.S. U.K. 1 st Paper 2 nd Cotton 3 rd Leather 4 th Linen, silk Fruit and flowers However, she on the other hand had missed her mark.  "One is paper," she said authoritatively, "whereas two is something like cloth, or crinoline, and ...

I noticed something today, something that I had previously ignored, on locking up my practical (in every sense except cost-effective) bicycle this morning in the bike shed provided by my place of work. When I entered the enclosure (see diagram 1 below), I realised that nearly every other bike hoop had been taken, so I started thinking about which space it would be most proper to appropriate for myself. Normally, at 8.15am this is a mere formality, as I park in a nearly empty bike shed at the far end, directly underneath the security camera. Today, I'd dropped off le petit monstre at his nursery (that is not an euphemism for anything before you begin) and so was a few minutes later than is usual, hence the rather replete shed.  What am I doing? I thought to myself, this is not a toilet, just take the first space available. Diagram 1. Our shed has a nifty half-pipe style roof.  Great for  nearly keeping the weather out, bad for  bashing  helmets...

It’s all a little bit exciting, if you’re me, which I am, to have revived something so Hanoverian as a literary feud! Such a back and forth brings to mind the savaging of John Rae by Charles Dickens post Franklin expedition (including the publication of Rae’s rejoinder in Household Words ), or the attacks by William Hazlitt on, well everyone. I only wish I had the intellectual vigour of a Hazlitt or indeed any of the great correspondents of the past, to be able to maintain a contiguous train of thought for longer than a lunch time, and to not to be interrupted and thus de-railed by something so mundane as a game of football. Still, to be galvanised at all in this age of short attention spans and antipathy to anything other than apathy is a miracle, and it is to football that, my wife’s scorn notwithstanding, I can give credit on this occasion. Swipe I set myself up for a pretty meaty swipe in retaliation for my retaliation previously . I sort-of lost the plot a little bit in places,...

You know, I almost did a very stupid thing, and copied all of my most interesting tweets from Twitter into a blog post. I didn't. Not because it was a senselessly narcissistic thing to do, but rather it would show up what a completely dull twit I am. Outward gaze, latent writer, outward gaze...

I feel the need to raise the ugly spectre of my footballing allegiance this sunny Tuesday morning in response to some not unfounded criticism from an  understandably long-suffering Jack , now into the fourth (or fifth?) day of waiting for the delivery of a little Jack, and also a Swansea City fan of some years. I say not unfounded but playing to an anti “Plastic Scouser”* crowd is just going for cheap laughs if you ask me. So, a rebuttal it is. In no particular order, let’s start with punditry. Like all those in the harsh media spot light, the best football pundits are the ones who are unequivocal about their opinions. It doesn’t matter if they’re right or wrong, as long as they invite comment and argument, otherwise what would be the point? An expert opinion is useful if one has to make a decision on something, but when the decision is out of your hands in the first place, the only use it serves is to make a prediction that can be debated endlessly for fun or to infuria...

A rare foray outside my comfort zone today, with an entry which attempts to convey my experience of the Rugby World Cup in New Zealand, or lack thereof, despite much marketing on the BBC website, from Guinness and from a NZ wine company that used that irritating piano-led diddly diddly dee song by an American named after a Vauxhall saloon. I managed to miss about 40 days worth of rugby due to commitments such as work, sleep and a beautiful baby boy, and frankly, didn’t feel left out or unduly upset by missing such entertaining contests as South Africa 87 - 0 Namibia or New Zealand 83 - 7 Japan . What Namibia can take from such a series of beatings is beyond me, and even if Japan can manage a creditable draw with a below par Canada they surely won’t be chucking up rugby union stadia with the same demented fervour that they prepared the country for their football World Cup bow. Nonetheless, infected by the rabid jingoism of friends, co-workers (both current and erstwhile) and random ...