Listening to Sinatra

Last night, as I was on the train back from London and feeling slightly exhausted (it was difficult getting through a thought-provoking article after a hectic weekend in England's capital), I decided to turn my iPod on and listened to a few songs by Buddy Holly, whose music I've come to appreciate of late. Somehow, my housemate Emily's recent keyboard practices of Frank Sinatra songs gave me the urge to change my playlist to that of Ol' Blue Eyes. Listening to 'Strangers in the Night' made me realise how long it had been since I properly listened to Sinatra's music. The song's familiarity took me back to the time when Dad used to sing it on the karaoke system and how he would tell me about what a big hit it was in his younger days. Sinatra's haunting baritone also took me back to a time when I was a dreamer, someone who clung to fantastic ideals and a relatively rose-tinted view of the world we live in. Someone who wanted to live for others, who wanted to love others. By the end of the song, I was left realising how much had changed since, that somewhere along the way, this dreamer had surreptitiously sneaked away. Listening to Sinatra made me miss Dad. It also made me miss me.  

Escape to Edirne

‘And why do you go to Edirne?’ Yavuz, our Istanbul hostel receptionist, asked us in bewilderment. ‘There is nothing in Edirne. There is one mosque and nothing else.’ He recommended that we travel to Cappadocia instead, enthusiastically promoting the area’s beauty and the wealth of sight-seeing activity it offered. Whilst planning for the trip, Brendan and I had agreed to take a short trip out of Istanbul, and other places like Gallipoli and Ephesus were considered. Edirne, however, was a relatively convenient (and short) trip from the heartland of Turkish tourism and the fact that it was the Ottoman capital prior to the conquest of Constantinople made a visit to it – to me, at least – quite appealing. Most, if not all, other tourists we met during our time in Istanbul were unaware of Edirne’s existence. A few would nod in acknowledgement when I referred to Edirne using its former name, ‘Adrianople’. Having spent an academic year studying Ottoman history, I was a little surprised at the former Ottoman capital’s relative obscurity. We decided to stick to our original plan in the end, hopping onto a bus at the bus station (‘otogar’) and taking a two-and-a-half hour ride to Edirne, located west of Istanbul, very close to both Bulgarian and Greek borders.



Selimiye Mosque

We were taken aback at the heat and dryness of the place as we alighted in Edirne. The lack of tourists on our bus and at the Edirne otogar foreshadowed our experience in the city itself. We did not come across a single Chinese-looking tourist in our two days there and if there were other tourists (it is difficult to tell with the racial makeup of Turkey’s population), their presence was far from obvious to us. Even the guests in our hotel seemed to be Turkish! We were certainly aware that Edirne was not the number one tourist spot in Turkey but the both of us were utterly surprised that the historical sites and proximity to Istanbul were not successful in attracting more foreigners to visit the place. As I footed the bill at a particular kebap shop, Brendan told me that a waiter flipped through my Lonely Planet guide and when he saw my bookmark at the ‘Edirne’ page, he shrugged his shoulders, as if wondering why we would visit a place like this. Walking along the streets, it was common for locals to aim curious stares at us. A few would fix their gazes on us for a lengthy period of time. Brendan noticed an elderly lady in a mosque’s courtyard whose eyes constantly followed us, her head turning in any direction we walked. As I waited to enter the Selimiye Mosque in Edirne, a local photographer, also waiting for the prayers to conclude, asked if he could take a picture of me. On the bus back to Istanbul, two children were seated across the aisle and when they first noticed us, looked at us in wide-eyed curiosity, as if we were newly-introduced animals in a zoo enclosure. We couldn’t help but feel that Edirne was welcoming two rare visitors from the Orient! In retrospect, this lack of familiarity and linguistic comfort were to make my visit to Edirne more special and pleasurable.

Fried Chicken Liver

Accompanying this was a contrasting dearth of ‘slimy-ness’, the pleasing absence of a mercenary atmosphere which we had become quite accustomed to during our time in Istanbul. It was indubitably a favourable change of atmosphere for us. I may go so far to say that while in Edirne, we were foreigners, aliens perhaps, but not tourists. No one attempted to sell us anything we didn’t want and there was no pressure to enter any particular lokanta, the Turkish version of a canteen, or ciğerci, which served the local speciality: deep-fried chicken liver eaten with dried chillies. The friendliness we received as foreigners was consistent and because of that, always appeared genuine. A Kurdic man we passed on the way back from the Bayezid mosque complex even invited us to have tea with him in his abode. After Istanbul, it was strange to not hear a word of English during our stay in Edirne and my very limited Turkish came into good use. Almost everyone we interacted with, be it shopkeepers, waiters, or even passers-by we approached for directions, seemed to appreciate attempts to communicate with them in their local language. Sometimes, they would beam upon hearing you say something in Turkish and immediately proceed to speak to you as if you were actually fluent. Most of the time, the locals we approached for directions were always willing to help (after initially being somewhat astonished by our presence) and although we were to experience a very palpable linguistic barrier between us and the local people, I’d say that touring the former Ottoman capital was a comfortable enough experience, and a very rewarding one indeed.



Sultan Bayezid Mosque Complex

Edirne’s not one of the most obvious tourist destinations in Turkey and if I hadn’t studied Ottoman history, we would definitely not have considered visiting it. Not wanting to go into too much detail, the main attractions offered include the Selimiye Mosque, the Eski Cami (‘Old Mosque’) as well as the Three-Balcony Mosque. The Selimiye Mosque was built by Mimar Sinan, undeniably the Ottoman Empire’s most famous architect, and was considered by the architect himself to be his finest work. The Eski Cami expectedly predates any mosque in Istanbul (with the exception of the Aya Sofya, which has stood for almost 1500 years but was only converted into a mosque in 1453) and it is possible to appreciate an amalgam of Ottoman and Seljuk influences on its architecture. A walk in a northward direction from the city centre will take you to Sarayici, the former hunting ground and palace of the Ottoman sultans, as well as to the stadium where Edirne’s annual oil-wrestling matches are held.

Oil Wrestlers

Nearby the Sarayici is the Sultan Bayezid (II) Mosque Complex, built for one of the, in my opinion, more underrated Ottoman sultans who had the slight misfortune of being sandwiched between the more famous Fatih Mehmed Sultan (better known as ‘Mehmed the Conqueror’) and Selim I who was responsible for the conquest of Mecca and Medina. A less scenic walk south of the city centre takes one to Turca Bridge. Across the bridge and around the area, there are several nice riverside cafes serving Turkish cuisine and one can savour a nice cup of tea (‘ςay’) or a glass of beer while watching the sunset.





Inside the Old Mosque

On hindsight, our decision to resist the trip to Cappadocia was a right one and the two days we set aside to tour Edirne were very well-spent. My dear travel buddy, Brendan, initially claimed that, unlike me, he liked the presence of hordes of tourists, and this may have seemed to preclude Edirne as a favourable destination for him. I was, of course, pleased to see him eventually retract his statement and credit must be given to him on two levels. Firstly, he had graciously agreed to my proposal of Edirne as our out-of-Istanbul destination. Secondly, his assertion that ‘if he (Yavuz) says that nobody goes to Edirne, we must go there’ helped to make resisting Cappadocia much easier. It was pleasing to know that he did not regret our sojourn in Edirne. I certainly did not!

Ataturk Statue in Edirne

The Beautiful Game That's Football - Part One

F.C. Barcelona and its free-flowing, passing football. Brazilians doing the samba with a ball at their feet. These may come to mind when one encounters the description of football as a ‘beautiful’ game.

A relatively late convert to this ‘beautiful’ game, I had rejected its appeal all my primary school years, even as I observed my classmates exchange stickers with profiles of footballers and enlarge their collection of Corinthian figurines. I couldn’t quite comprehend why it was the most popular sport in the world; Pat Rafter and tennis were my obsessions. ‘Twenty-two people (some may argue that it’s actually twenty excluding the goalkeepers) chasing one ball on a rectangular field. Where’s the sense in that?’ I still come across this line frequently and in all honesty, I was once a subscriber, too. I couldn’t understand how several of my classmates would spend lengthy durations talking about the weekend’s games and how they could possibly invest so much emotional energy in supporting football clubs stationed thousands of miles away. The game’s tremendous popularity was beyond me. Some may argue that it is not in spite of, but rather, because of its relative simplicity, compared to the likes of rugby and cricket, that football possesses a strong, global following. One only needs to compare the number of viewers of the 2010 World Cup to other sporting events to get a sense of the game’s popularity. For my part, I will not compare it to other sports and assess their comparative aesthetical values (one may find little point in doing this) but rather, try to explain how I came to appreciate football and the impact it’s had on my life thus far.

Most football fans in Singapore support the likes of Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal, and Chelsea. In December 2001, I entered my parents’ bedroom where my father was watching Leeds United vs NewcastleUnited. Dad was a football enthusiast – he captained his school team during his younger days – and would spend hours every week watching English Premier League games on cable TV but I had never summoned enough curiosity to accompany him and to find out why football was such an important part of his life. For some reason that I cannot recall, I decided to, for once, attempt to watch the game with him. In retrospect, my decision to remain was a curious one as when I began watching, Newcastle were already 3-1 down and were playing away from home against a formidable Leeds team. Possessing little football knowledge and interest in the game, I would normally have walked away, especially after I had seen the score-line. Fate, however, ensured that I stayed put and watched the rest of the match. This made sure that my life would never be the same again. The Magpies, the nickname by which Newcastle is known, under the guidance of the great Sir Bobby Robson, soon pegged back from being two goals down and drew level with their opponents. In the dying minutes of the game, Nobby Solano squeezed a shot in from a tight angle and the contrast between Sir Bobby’s and David O’Leary’s reactions could not have been starker. Nobby’s winner made my blood turn black-and-white. In all honesty, I had no idea that its 4-3 win sent the Newcastle team to the summit of the Premier League table and the fact that the team had not won a domestic title since the 1950s – and have not since – precludes the possibility of me being labeled a ‘glory-hunter’. The spirit they displayed in that match against Leeds was what gave them my allegiance.

With Terence and Vinod at St James Park

Many, cognizant of the fact that I’m a Newcastle fan, often think that my support for the club was the reason for my decision to select Durham University to undertake my undergraduate studies. This is an impression which I need to correct. Durham’s a reputable university in its own right and its History department was ranked 2^nd (behind Cambridge) when I applied to study there. I also liked the fact that Durham was far away from London and provided a different living environment from the hustle-and-bustle of city life that I’d grown up with. On a personal level, supporting Newcastle added to the university’s appeal, and played an important part in making Durham the University of my Dreams.

With Bill at the Sir John Hall Stand

Studying in England has afforded me a more intimate perspective on the ‘beautiful’ game. The reasons for the love many English football fans have for the clubs they support go beyond the trophies they win, and beyond their adoration for particular football players. Attachments to football clubs are often formed because of location, family history, religious affiliations and even certain ideas represented by the clubs. I had the chance to meet friends in university who support the likes of Coventry, Preston and Portsmouth (which is in the danger of being liquidated as I pen this). And of course, in Durham, you get a significant proportion of football fans following Sunderland F. C. (in Singapore, you hardly see someone in red-and-white apart from during National Day celebrations) in addition to ardent ‘magpies’ like me. Perhaps, the strength of regional and local identities in England can be gauged during the support seen during derby games, where teams located in close proximity play each other, and even when clubs from the South compete against those in the North. For many, football is almost a religion, and I know of people who will go so far as to say that a victory or defeat for their team during a weekend match could determine their mood for the upcoming week! Bill, a long-suffering Newcastle fan whom I sat beside during several matches, told me how he kept recordings of the 5-0 victory against Manchester United and the 5-1 derby demolition of Sunderland and that he would watch them whenever he was feeling down. David, seated two seats from me, has held a season ticket at the same seat for more than a decade. When I asked him if he was retaining his seat for next season, he replied, ‘Definitely. It’s like a drug.’

With Hughie and Fast at the Woodman Inn

Knowing a little about English football helps a foreigner like me in my interactions with locals here. Often, you meet someone new and apart from the usual introductory exchanges, find yourself struggling to come up with a common topic for discussion. Although one should not overestimate the broadness of the football support base in England, I find myself surreptitiously heaving a sigh of relief, not just because there’s something to break the awkward silence but also because I enjoy finding out more about the different football clubs, the areas they are in and the culture behind their existence. At times, the topic provides the first foundation stone upon which a friendship may be forged. On the 31^st of October last year, I decided to catch a Monday night football game: Newcastle vs. Stoke City. The Woodman Inn is a century-old, local pub situated some five minutes away from my house in Durham and having passed it quite a few times on the way to lectures, I decided to catch the game there. Of course, I had to first verify if it was a safe place for Newcastle fans to be in. The owner, Gary, told me that it was a Newcastle pub (I was to realise that the Woodman was frequented by BOTH Newcastle and Sunderland fans) and that I will be safe there. I popped in an hour later, some ten minutes before the game, quite eager to interact with anyone who would care for a chat. I took a seat at the bar counter and quickly began conversing with those seated around me. They were mostly Durham locals and I warmed up to them with relative comfort. A few were naturally curious about how I’d come to support the Magpies and I genuinely enjoyed listening to their opinions on certain players – those they rated and those they hated. The team defeated Stoke City that evening and it was great fun celebrating with the others. A few weeks later, when the satellite reception was temporarily lost while we were watching another game, Michael, one of the guys I met the other night, offered to take me along with a few others to another pub. He gave us a ride to Belmont, a few miles from the Woodman, where we continued to watch the game at The Sportsman. They even bought me drinks! I have since become quite a regular at the Woodman and though I’m usually the only Asian there (Michael refers to me as the ‘Asian Contingent’), I always enjoy the company and the atmosphere there. I even had the opportunity to make friends with Hughie, a die-hard Sunderland fan who constantly offers to take me to the Stadium of Light and divert me to the ‘straight and narrow path’. That aside, with reference to the game of football (and this may apply equally to many other sports), I find it wonderful that people from such vastly different backgrounds can come to share something common that is so close to their hearts, to revel in the joyous moments and to commiserate with one another when things aren’t as rosy. Football can really draw people together and can even form the basis on which friendships can be built across racial and cultural lines. I am truly grateful for this part of my Durham experience as it helps to make the experience of studying overseas all the more complete.  

With Jeff, our beloved college porter

Comments are welcome.

The Lady: Daw Aung San Suu Kyi

I am neither an expert on Burmese history nor one on human rights, but having watched Daw Aung San Suu Kyi's Nobel Peace Prize speech, delivered two decades after she received the award, I felt compelled to pen a few thoughts. I visited Yangon two years ago and spent a meaningful and somewhat enlightening five days in the Burmese capital. Daw Aung San Suu Kyi Under the sweltering Burmese heat, we toured parts of the city and were fortunate enough to have had the chance to interact with locals. I distinctly recall two incidents which have been vividly etched in my memory. The first was when we spoke to a middle-aged man who left us by telling us how he was desperately keeping his fingers crossed that Daw Aung San would be released and that democracy would one day reach the Burmese people. Another was when we left a temple to find ourselves surrounded by people attempting to sell us old Burmese currency. Our taxi driver had been patiently waiting at the entrance and I asked if the image on the old notes belonged to General Bogyoke Aung San. To my surprise, he frantically looked at the guard outside the temple and immediately placed a finger on his lips, telling me in a hushed tone that I should never mentioned that name in public. I was surprised as Yangon's famous central market was named Bogyoke Aung San and it had not been a problem referring to it as such. These two incidents illustrate the political situation in Myanmar during our visit but things have changed since although people will inevitably disagree on the significance of these changes. I cannot help but side with those who believe that the recent efforts to 'democratise' Myanmar's political process carry a palpable, positive significance, if more symbolic than real. The fact that she is now able to travel thousands of miles to Norway in order to address the global community speaks volumes. This was the lady who rejected the opportunity to see her dying husband while under house arrest, knowing that she'd never be allowed to return home to continue her cause.  

My friend Kelvin told me about his takeaways from the speech. He wrote to me about his admiration for Daw Aung San and how in spite of the many years of house arrest, she appears to be without a modicum of bitterness and retains an inexplicable vigour for the cause she has fought and suffered so much for. Having watched it, I couldn't disagree with Kelvin. Perhaps Daw Aung San knows that her adversity had not been in vain and not only have her efforts been globally recognised and praised (they have been for a while now), those in power in Myanmar are beginning to acknowledge that oppression is an increasingly outmoded tool. As we all know though, and as Daw Aung San has made clear in her speech, the Nobel Prize is only one means towards an end. She didn't begin her political career with an ultimate aim of winning the prize but of alleviating the suffering placed on the shoulders of many who had been, and remain to this day, victims of an oppressive regime. Implementing democratic ideals in Myanmar will indubitably remain an immensely difficult task, considering the country's make-up and history, but up to this stage, one cannot be faulted for being optimistic, having witnessed what can be accurately described as a 'triumph of the will'.

Several months ago, a friend and I were having a discussion on what 'greatness' really is. He contended that no one is truly 'great' which, to a large degree, challenged my prevailing perspective on the many individuals I had studied and had come to admire as a student of history. After a lengthy conversation, we came to a compromise: no one can be considered 'great' per se, but it is not unfair to label someone as 'great' in a particular field. Watching Aung San Suu Kyi's speech, this inevitably sprang up in my thoughts and I began to re-assess our compromise. In this case, to call Daw Aung San a 'great human rights advocate' or a 'great political leader' does more to obscure than to clarify, and does little to help us gain a comprehensive understanding of her person and the events which shaped her. I'd like to believe that once in a while, history provides us with people whom we can only describe as embodying a certain 'greatness', people whose efforts mesmerise us and whose character leaves us aspiring to be better than we are.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUPfkNXpZvQ

Bumping into Roy Hodgson - the New England Manager

It was ten in the morning on the 1st of October last year. I had made plans to catch a football game at League One side Hartlepool United and was on my way to the Durham Bus Station. Walking down Claypath, I noticed a familiar-looking man cross the road in front of me. He was smartly dressed with a pair of shades and it took me three seconds to register that it was Roy Hodgson - current West Brom manager and England manager-elect - and another five to pluck up the courage to approach him. 'Mr Hodgson! May I have your autograph, please?' Thankfully, I had neglected to remove my lecture pad from my sling-bag. 'Sure,' he replied cordially, 'What's your name?' I remember how utterly nervous I was, still in disbelief at having bumped into the man who saved Fulham from relegation and took them to the Europa League Final. As I passed him my pad, I casually asked what he was doing in Durham. He told me that his side were playing against Sunderland that afternoon. 'I hope you beat them!' I responded, and told him that I was a Newcastle fan. He chuckled and said that he hoped so too. I've been a huge admirer of his and closely followed his unfancied Fulham side's defeats of the likes of Juventus and Hamburg as the team reached the final where they narrowly lost to Athletico Madrid. 'I'm a big admirer.' ' You're very kind,' he smiled. At that moment, I realised that I had brought my camera out for the day trip at the Pools and asked if I could take a photograph with him. Thankfully, there was a lady crossing over and she duly agreed to help us snap a picture. I didn't realise that while I was searching for my camera, poor Roy had to bend over and sign with the pad supported by his left thigh. As we posed for the photograph, my legs were trembling. I found it tremendously difficult to stay calm, having been presented with this unexpected privilege. As we parted ways, he fondly shook my hand and wished me well. Yes, I must have taken some five minutes of his precious time but he never looked, for one moment, impatient.

Having been unveiled as the man to lead England for the next four years, I can't help but feel happy for Roy. However, I was hoping that he would turn the job down and continue his good work at West Brom. Harry Redknapp had been the odds-on favourite of the English media and of many England supporters and Roy has signed up for an arduous journey ahead as he tackles Harry's ghost on top of having to bring success to the English national team. Having said this, I'm not positing that Harry would do a better job. Roy's, in my opinion (and I'm sure many will agree), an infinitely more likable character and has vast experience managing out of England, experiencing considerable success in his previous assignments. I'm just saying that the media and fans would have been more patient with Harry and he would not have had to begin on square one in terms of having to win the players and the media over. I sincerely hope that the nation gets behind Roy and gives him a chance to show why he's one of the most respected gaffers around. It's my turn to wish him the very best.

Trip to The Hawthorns

More than a year ago, my old friend Bryan took the trip north from Nottingham and accompanied me to watch Newcastle United entertain Arsenal at St James Park. It turned out to be a history-making match where the Toon came back from 4 goals down to draw level with the Gunners. I can still remember how Bryan kindly refused my offer of sweets during half-time but after Newcastle's third goal, nervously requested for one. I'm not sure if the 'trauma' of seeing his team capitulate so dramatically converted him, but I was pleasantly surprised to receive his email three months back telling me that West Bromwich Albion were his new favourites and inviting me to watch his team against mine. The 'Baggies', as West Brom are affectionately referred as, happen to be my second favourite team in the league. I had the privilege of bumping into Roy Hodgson, their well-respected manager, last October near my house in Durham, and appreciated the good five minutes he gave to me signing an autograph and graciously agreeing to pose for a photo with me. There aren't many teams in the top tier which are as honest as the Baggies and on their day, the team is capable of troubling the top English sides. My favourite footballing personality, the late Sir Bobby Robson, captained the team for a couple of seasons in the early 1960s. Accepting Bryan's offer was easy. However, there was a tricky part to it: sitting among the home fans watching my favourite team play against theirs.

It was nice seeing Bryan again after a year and after a sumptuous Malaysian lunch in Birmingham's Chinatown, we boarded a train from Birmingham Moor Street to The Hawthorns. It was Sunday and trains to the ground arrived less frequently than usual. We were packed like sardines in our carriage and reactions of commuters ranged from jocularity to sheer displeasure. You could hear women screaming at their plights and a girl nearby began crying. It's something you'll commonly experience at peak hour in Singapore's trains but it was apparent that to many in this part of the world, this was a startling aberration. It was a great relief when most alighted after three stops at The Hawthorns.

The warm weather made the spectacle a comfortable one though the four o'clock sun was in our eyes for most of the game. Bryan and I had good seats and were close enough to the pitch, and individual players could even hear solitary shouts directed at them from the crowd! If you've watched a game with me, you'd know how excitable I can get and it was going to be a challenge keeping my emotions in check. I'd have to put my limited acting skills into practice or risk getting mobbed by the home fans. Relatively early goals from Cisse and Hatem Ben Arfa elicited shouts of jubilation from the away fans and I couldn't help but wish I had the ability to teleport into their section. Cisse scored a second after good work by Ben Arfa, who terrorised the Baggies throughout the game, and there was a palpable sense of disbelief and frustration among the home fans. I felt for Bryan who must have been as shell-shocked as I was with the home side's lacklustre first-half performance. Shane Long pulled a goal back shortly after the break and memories of the final game of last season, when we went 3-0 up against the Baggies only to draw 3-3, began to haunt me (and I'm sure many in the away section shared such fears). Fortunately for me, I was spared going through what Bryan did at St James and the scoreline remained 3-1 at the final whistle.

I apologised to Bryan as I may have appeared to have become some sort of jinx to him and I hope that he'll continue to watch games with me. He did actually say we'd watch a game together again but it must not involve West Brom or Arsenal. He was later persuaded that his decision to buy a match programme was the real reason for the Baggies unexpected defeat as he recalled that in previous times when he bought programmes, the team also ended up losing. Phew!

After the game, we proceeded to wait outside the away players' exit, hoping for autographs. We duly got several players to sign on my annual and his programme. I was delighted to obtain Shola Ameobi's as he's the only player (besides Steve Harper who rarely features these days) remaining from the time I first supported the club some ten years ago. Bryan told me that the Liverpool players, after playing at The Hawthorns, didn't bother to give autographs after the game, and this made me prouder to be a Newcastle supporter. I felt that it was only fair for players to acknowledge fans who travel miles and spend significant amounts of money to watch them play. The players' performance and kind gestures made me feel that the time I spent travelling to and from the Midlands (9 hours in total) and the money I paid for the trains and ticket were well-spent.

On my way back to Durham, I began to reflect on how a mere three years ago, watching Newcastle live was a dream. Travelling to the U.K. would have been costly and even then, I would only be able to catch one, at most, two games as a tourist. To be able to spend three years here studying was something which never crossed my mind till a year before I actually arrived in England. Having watched them live numerous times now, I realise that I began to take the privilege for granted. Today, having been this close to the players, and after getting Shola's autograph (I know all this may sound trivial to non-football fans), I began thinking again about how I've been blessed with this tremendous opportunity to study here in the U.K. It's not just the experience of watching my beloved football team play that I'm grateful for, but I'm also thankful for the friends I've made and the education (studying two subjects: history and life) I've been able to receive thus far. All this would not have been possible without God's provision.

Tyne-Wear Derby

One of the most acrimonious derby games in English football (some would firmly place it at number one), it was one Newcastle simply couldn't lose, having embarrassed the Mackems (Sunderland FC) at the Stadium of Light in August 2011. Having spent most of my life in Singapore as a Newcastle supporter, I'd always wanted the team to beat the Manchester Uniteds and the Liverpools. Spending one and a half years in the Northeast of England has altered my expectations tremendously. As my friend John (a Newcastle fan who's had a season ticket for some three decades) accurately put it, 'it gets into your skin and mind'. He was referring to the appreciation of the Tyne-Wear rivalry and its significance in this part of the British Isles. There exists a long history of enmity between the Geordies and Mackems - I'm willing to share the myths and historical reality with anyone interested - and even today, this is manifested in the football derby between both sides. Being in Durham affords me the luxury of both worlds, and support for both teams is split right in the middle. As a Newcastle fan, it's important that I enter the correct pub (I'm thankful to have found a reliable Geordie pub some 100m from home) and wearing a team scarf around Durham puts you at the risk of assenting cheers or expressions of bewilderment. Having been acquainted with several Sunderland fans (my barber, my church friend, evangelistic Mackems at the Woodman Inn, etc) makes the derby a more meaningful and exciting one for me, and especially 'un-lose-able'. Every Newcastle fan would rather beat Sunderland than Manchester United (another team that is tremendously disliked over here) and the thought of losing to the Mackems can drive any supporter to consuming countless bottles of 'broon' (Newcastle Brown Ale). I think I finally, albeit in a relatively limited capacity such is my status as a foreigner, comprehend the term 'bragging rights', especially in a local context.

We didn't beat the Mackems this time round, but Shola Ameobi - the only player remaining from the team I first supported in 2001 - spared our blushes with an injury-time equaliser which sent the Newcastle faithful into raptures. We had been trailing for about an hour of game time and that defeated feeling threatened to inundate me (and many other supporters), especially after Demba Ba's missed penalty. The rippling of the net did so much to release all the pent-up emotion from almost 50,000 spectators and I couldn't help but hug everyone seated around me. There would be no bragging rights for the team from Wearside and I could head back to Durham proud of the team effort. Recalling my first Tyne-Wear derby last year when I was merely Newcastle supporter in love with the Toon Army, playing the passionate spectator in a cauldron of a stadium, I realise how 'far' I've come during my experience in the Northeast thus far. I feel that I've now been accorded the curious privilege of being part of what Newcastle United really is all about, which is not as much about the 11 men on the field but the 12th man off it.

Remembering a footballing giant

While most of my friends here in England tuned in to catch the friendly between England and Holland, England's first game after Capello's resignation and serving as a test for many of England's younger players, England's neighbour Wales witnessed their national team take Costa Rica on. The latter game in my opinion, was a more important spectacle, as although it was a friendly match, it was one commemorating the late Gary Speed who passed away more than two months ago. I didn't watch the game but read the match report and saw the many photos taken from an emotional evening. It was great to see the amount of tribute paid to the late Wales manager and I hope that this served to comfort his loved ones with the knowledge that Speedo had such an indelible impact in British football. He oversaw considerable success as manager of his national team but I for one remember him as a commanding midfielder at Newcastle who always gave 100% in every game he played in. His experience and influence proved vital in the Magpies' revival under Sir Bobby. A model professional who did his talking on the pitch and who looked after himself, it comes as little surprise to see him ranked among the very top when it comes to clocking Premiership appearances. I always found it amusing that he wasn't the quickest of players (he was already about 30 when I began following the game) but he more than made up for this with his great passing and heading ability, and contributed with his fair share of goals. I was personally devastated by his loss. In today's world of football where money and glamour speaks louder than ever, his demise is even more palpable. He will be sorely missed and I know that all Geordies will always remember Speedo with great fondness. R.I.P.

The Artist

I'm certainly more of a film lover than an expert movie critic, and I know many friends who would never watch half of my favourite motion pictures. I couldn't help but feel strongly enough about Michel Hazanavicius's (needed to look his last name up for its spelling) The Artist to want to pen a few words about it.

It was a Saturday evening and I took a short walk downhill to our only cinema in Durham City to catch the movie with Yan and Georgina. My friend Deborah first alerted me to its existence and I immediately went on YouTube to watch its trailer. The fact that it was an attempt to produce a black-and-white silent film set in one of my favourite American periods heightened its appeal to me. After reading about how well the movie did at the Globes (winning Best Musical/Comedy and Best Actor for Jean Dujardin), I gained affirmation that it was a film I had to watch at all cost. If anything drove my desire to watch it, it was certainly my curiosity. I've seen numerous black-and-white films - Casablanca, Sunset Boulevard, The Hustler and Double Indemnity feature in my all-time favourites list - but I recall having watched just about five silent ones. In an age where colour and actual dialogue are essential criteria in assessing a film's 'watch-ability', I have to admit that movies like Battleship Potemkim and Chaplin's The Gold Rush were not easy to get through on my first viewings. I can assure everyone that it does get easier the more you watch and desire to appreciate these works, to assess them for what they are and according to their own terms. Chaplin's City Lights and Modern Times were thoroughly enjoyable and the lack of colour and dialogue didn't make these films less beautifully-made or any less moving. I may appear to diverge here but I'd like to ask everyone to give The Artist a chance and not be repulsed by its stylistic aberrations from modern film productions. Yes, it is classified as a silent movie but the film's brilliant score serves to support the splendid performances and to evoke audiences' emotions just as capably as the spoken word does. To me, there wasn't a single dull moment in the film and although the plot was simple enough, the film's strengths lie in other areas. Dujardin and Bejo were excellent in their portrayals of movie stars from the Depression era and we appreciate their efforts more when we consider how they had to bring their characters across convincing without any real dialogue. There were several thoughtfully executed scenes (Valentin's descent down the staircase as he converged with others on their way was symbolic and memorable) and the pace of the movie was just right. Unlike the aforementioned silent films I've seen however, The Artist was indubitably made with the modern-day film audience in mind. For those who feel that it may be too 'arty' for them, I cannot help but posit that the film is not actually 'arty'. It was, in a few words, a stylishly-made yet simple film. I urge everyone who have considered watching silent/black-and-white films of the past but have always felt repulsed by the differences they have when compared to the films we're used to to give The Artist a chance. Doing so not only does justice to the clear artistic achievements of the film but may perhaps, move us one level away from our apprehensions and become open to watching films made many decades back. Many of the best films were made before the introduction of colour to film-making and we stand to miss out on so much if we don't move beyond what we're used to. Giving The Artist a chance may be the starting point of a very rewarding journey in film appreciation.

First Public Blog Post

Blogs have been around for way too long now (it was difficult finding a name for this blog which was not used by someone else) and I've succumbed to the temptation of starting one. I am one to pen the occasional journal entry but have never, with the exception of a few travel blogs, subjected these to public scrutiny. I was in the shower and thought that blogging may provide me with a channel where I can effectively share my thoughts with anyone who's interested and at the same time, use it as a two-way passage where learning through exchanges with others (on my part, that is) can take place. I considered Twitter for a while but although I acknowledge its usefulness in sharing ideas, etc, in bite-sized posts, I know that I'm too prolix to be comfortable and effective with such a tool. Moreover, as a future educator, I feel that writing at length on a regular basis plays an important part in helping us express ourselves more coherently and confidently. There will be the inevitable tendency to write about subjects which I love: movies, history, politics, football and travelling. Accompanying these will be thoughts on aspects of everyday life, about being in the arena where we find ourselves in a constant battle to live the good life. Not many things in life bring me more than joy to discuss the aforementioned subjects with others. I hope that this blog will prove to be as helpful to others as it will be to me.

As for the title of the blog, it's origins lie in an excerpt from Theodore Roosevelt's 1910 speech which I came across reading Richard Nixon's autobiography In The Arena. It has had an indelible impact on me since and I'd like to share this short excerpt:

'It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.'