Back In The Brown Stuff

"The ego has (crash) landed"

Phil Brown’s Hull City have finally managed to win a game, squeezing past their fellow Northern strugglers Bolton Wanderers by one goal to nil. Big deal, but this was only their second victory in twenty-five matches. Hey, Mr. Tangerine Man, play a song for me.

You might think that one win would be no reason for bursting into song, but by the same token you would have not expected the perma-tanned buffoon to grab the mike last May to celebrate the narrowest of escapes from relegation by “serenading” the crowd. The Hull manager’s cringeworthy performance was as off-key as his team’s had been during the last few months of the season, but Brown’s lack of embarrassment knew no bounds. His “Delia Smith” moment only came about because Newcastle and Middlesbrough were even worse than Hull, who only won once in the new year, gaining just eight points in the second half of last season. Never mind – let’s celebrate as if we had won the league, cup and lottery.

"Escaped relegation by the skin of his teeth"

Hull actually started last season very well, but it’s not as if they were the first promoted team to catch others with their guard down in their initial campaign. However, the early success went straight to Brown’s head and his mismanagement of the club over the second half of the season will go down in history as a textbook example of a man believing his own publicity. Hull were perfect “half season wonders” and the manager was no longer “Golden Brown” – except for the David Dickinson complexion, which made you think he’d been soaked in wood stain overnight.

It was obvious that Hull would need to reinforce their squad over the summer, so Brown has spent the last few weeks frantically looking for new faces. This was his top priority - once he had completed months of media work in a vain (pun intended) attempt to boost his profile, including a useless ego trip to China, so that his team could take part in the extremely important Barclays Asia Trophy.

However, it seems like nobody wants to come to Hull, as they have been turned down by (deep breath) Michael Owen, Fraizer Campbell, Marc-Antoine Fortuné, Bobby Zamora, Darren Bent, Daryl Murphy and Alvaro Negredo. To date, they have only managed to pick up non-entities like Jozy Altidore, Seyi Olofinjana and Kamel Ghilas plus the want-away Reading workhorse, Stephen Hunt. Even the Altidore deal was almost screwed up by Brown in a pointless argument with US Soccer, as he complained about the delay caused by the small matter of the USA’s World Cup qualifying match against Mexico.

"Rare example of Phil Brown not showing his face"

How bad a salesman must Phil Brown be? Negredo actually made the trip from Madrid to Humberside, but the deal collapsed once he met Brown face-to-face. I don’t know whether Brown’s reputation had preceded him to Spain, but there is not one footballer in the UK that could fail to be put off by the infamous dressing down Brown handed out to his players on the pitch at Manchester City. The Hull boss acted like a madman that day: a managerial novice who thought he had mastered professional football management to the extent that he could do or say whatever he wanted to his players, including humiliating them in public, and yet still count on their unreserved loyalty and respect.

Brown’s transfer dealings might also stand more chance of success if he would only keep his big mouth shut about his intended targets. He is the only Premier League manager who seems to conduct all of his transfer business via Sky Sports News. He cannot resist the lure of the camera and has given us a blow-by-blow account of each and every transfer dealing that he has attempted: which players he is interested in, whether he has had talks with them, how the talks went, the size of the transfer fee, the wages the player was requesting, what colour suit he was wearing, whether he dunked his biscuit in his cup of tea, etc, etc.

Does he not consider for one moment that his total lack of discretion might actually deter players from signing for Hull? Certainly Michael Owen took a thinly veiled swipe at Hull after signing for Manchester United, “There are some clubs who like to come out and say they want to sign you. It gives the fans a lift that they are going for a player like Michael Owen, but I could have gone to a number of other clubs who were going about things quietly.”

Despite his limited success in the transfer market, Brown informed the world that “we’re by far a stronger team and better equipped”. That boast came before his side’s opening day defeat against Chelsea, after which he blundered his way in front of a microphone (what’s new?) and immediately slaughtered his signings, “We had three or four new players on show who are learning all about Phil Brown and what it is like to play for Hull City”.

"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away"

Next up were perennial under-achievers Tottenham, who thrashed Hull 5-1 at the KC Stadium. Once again it was all the fault of the players, according to tactical genius, Phil Brown, “There is no excuse for not working hard enough and not working towards the game plan and one or two didn't. We certainly need better players. We need players that are going to do the job for Hull City to the best of their ability and are going to listen to instructions I give before we go out there.” Right, now I understand: if only the players had followed Big Phil’s brilliant coaching, then they would not have been humped. Unless they were better players of course …

You know what you should have done, Phil? You should have marched your players out of the dressing room, so that you could give them a real bollocking in front of the fans. Oh, hang on …

We’ve been here before. Any problems are down to the players and in no way attributable to the Sun (bed) King. Even when apparently owning up to mistakes, Brown somehow manages to deflect the blame towards his squad, “Of course I made mistakes. I think we all did. Maybe the fact that I trusted everyone the same on Christmas Day; hence the reason why we got such a disappointing performance on Boxing Day.”

In the defeat against Spurs, we witnessed a classic Phil Brown “look at me” moment when he substituted his striker, Daniel Cousin, after only twenty minutes. Brown may have thought that this move was somehow reminiscent of the mercurial genius of Brian Clough, but that only brings to mind a memorable exchange during the 1988 United States vice-presidential debate, when Lloyd Bentsen beautifully deflated Dan Quayle with the put-down, “I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you’re no Jack Kennedy”. And you Phil Brown are not fit to lace Brian Clough’s boots.

Although Brown is apparently the co-owner of a racehorse called “Gifted Leader”, any evidence of inspirational management appears to have disappeared, which is hardly surprising when you consider that he managed to lose the entire dressing room. When it comes to motivational skills, he is more David Brent than Mr. Motivator – and not just because of the absurd goatee that he occasionally sports. Last week Brown replaced a scheduled training session with a walk to Hull’s derelict old Boothferry Park ground, for once finding the right sound bite for his pals in the media, “The players probably thought I was mental”. Well you said it, big boy. Still, at least the players turned up for this team bonding event, which was more than they did last season after Brent organised a similar touchy-feely session at the races, when most decided that it would be a waste of time.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire"

To be fair, there is one group that Brown appears able to motivate amazingly well: opposing teams. The first example of Tango Man’s words putting unnecessary pressure on his players came in the Championship, when he started talking of “psychological” victories in their tussle with Stoke to secure automatic promotion. All this succeeded in doing was to motivate the Stoke team to secure the result they required. The popular de-motivational speaker (and occasional manager) then let it be known that Sunderland had wasted a huge amount of money on transfers, kindly writing Sunderland manager Ricky Sbragia’s team talk for him: “Motivation-wise it wasn’t a problem, because we just put the stuff on the walls what Phil Brown said about Sunderland Football Club”.

You have to wonder when Brown finds time to coach his team, given that his grinning mug can be seen on television every time you turn on Sky Sports News, whose correspondent must have his own office at the KC. Brown’s love of the television studio has not gone unnoticed by his fellow managers either with Roy Keane comparing their reactions to a good result against Arsenal: “I won’t be on television programmes going on about it like some other managers have been”. Poor results have not stopped Brown giving us the benefit of his views on every TV programme around, culminating in a vomit-inducing appearance on last week’s “Goals on Sunday”, when he sported a pink sweater casually draped over his shoulders like a refugee from The Style Council.

"Shout to the top!"

In his case, the long hot summer has obviously not passed him by, as his tan is now so dark that it looks like we might soon have only the second black manager in the Premier League following Paul Ince’s brief tenure at Blackburn. Brown even made Chris Kamara look pale. Certainly, few men have ever been blessed with such an apt surname. Brown’s transformation into a black man is like watching Michael Jackson’s life in reverse. Hey, Phil, don’t stop ‘til you get enough (tan). Don’t blame me for the cheap gags – he made his (sun) bed, now he’s got to lie in it.

Most managers who had escaped relegation by the skin of their teeth would step out of the limelight and concentrate on managing the team, but not if you have the gigantic ego of the orange one. The players at Hull must feel that they are in fact only bit players in The Phil Brown Show. You get the feeling that if Brown were an ice cream, he would lick himself to death. As a manager, he has not really achieved anything of great note, so he should really shut his big mouth and get on with his job.

Most managers who bring unfashionable clubs into the Premier League and experience a degree of success are usually quite popular with neutrals, but this is simply not the case for Hull City, almost entirely due to their detested manager. The arrogance, the lack of dignity, the Madonna microphone, the ostentatious pitch-side gestures, the perma tan, the references to himself in the third person and the eagerness to talk to every media outlet possible – all of these have put us off.

"You're so vain, you probably think this blog is about you"

It may be that top flight football has simply gone to Brown’s head, as his playing career went no further than Hartlepool, Halifax Town, Bolton Wanderers (where he first came under the ample wing of Fat Sam) and Blackpool. But that cannot be the answer if you consider that many top managers had very limited playing experience, Arsene Wenger and Arrigo Sacchi to name just two. Brown just cannot help placing himself in the same bracket as great managers. In the run-up to last season’s crucial match against Manchester United, he incessantly referred to “Sir Alex”, as if the two were near equals, only separated by the odd trophy or ten. He recently claimed that Hull would soon be playing in Europe: “A European place would be the ultimate aim, either through winning a trophy or by way of standing in the Premier League. How long that would take, I've got my personal ambitions. All I can say is that it will be in the near future”.

At times, I almost feel sorry for Phil Brown, as he appears to be losing his grip on reality. Managing in the Premier League is a very stressful job, so the best advice I could give him would be to take time off and seek medical treatment. Failing that, how about a little humility, some tact and a bit of praise for your players? On the other hand, why not stay exactly as you are, because for a blogger, you really are the gift that keeps on giving.

Highland Fun And Games

"If you judge a book by the cover"

Terrorism is probably not the first subject that most people would want to base a comedy book around, especially if your timing is so unfortunate that you publish such a story in 2001, the year of 9/11, but that is what Christopher Brookmyre did with the brilliant A Big Boy Did It And Ran Away.

The first editions carried the back-cover come-on, “Terrorism – it’s the new rock ’n’ roll”, which made perfect sense in the context of the book, but was a bit too close to the bone at the time. Obviously Brookmyre had no idea of the events that would unfold when writing the book earlier that year, but his message is possibly even more potent after that terrible tragedy, as he attempts to debunk the mystique surrounding terrorists, painting them as arrogant, self-obsessed egomaniacs, sublimating their craving for mass acclaim into violence.

Big Boy is a dark comedic novel that is enormously funny, but is never flippant when it comes to the real issues. The author undermines the attention-seeking terrorists with scathing humour, which makes the story a joy to read. Brookmyre himself described the book as “High Fidelity with machine guns”, as it deals with male obsessions and obsessiveness.

Christopher Brookmyre is a Scottish novelist who has published thirteen books. You are always guaranteed lashings of caustic wit mixed with biting social comment set against a background of crime thrillers, action adventures and political intrigues. His books are redolent with arch Scottish cynicism and laced with strong observational humour. Brookmyre writes with real attitude, demonstrating exhilarating linguistic fluency and an irreverent, subversive intelligence. Most of all, he is hilariously funny with his characters possessing an enviable razor-sharp wit.

"Watch out for the Glasgow Kiss"

Brookmyre is not afraid to write what he thinks with his characters often expressing outrageous opinions that are likely to provoke an extreme reaction one way or the other. Although the writing can be quite graphic as well as being controversial, it is never gratuitously offensive. There’s always a rationale or a point being made by the humour, even if it’s a fairly challenging one. Brookmyre summed up his attitude when he told his wife that his headstone should read, “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke”. His characters may be larger than life and the body count of his books may be high, but the narrative is always rendered with total plausibility. In fact, despite appearances, his novels are actually quite moralistic with the good guys winning in the end. As Brookmyre himself says, “there’s a difference between morality and judgementalism”.

Brookmyre’s memorable characters and snappy dialogue make you think of the famous American satirist Carl Hiaasen, while Colin Bateman would also be a kindred Celtic spirit. His style has been labeled “Tartan Noir” in tribute to his darkly comic worldview that features a cast of disrespectful, sharp and achingly funny characters. There is a real Scottish-ness to the narrative, which may remind you of Trainspotting, though Brookmyre’s work rarely has the desperation of an Irvine Welsh tale.

Glasgow slang is used a lot, which not only adds richness to the story, but also encapsulates a street-wise attitude that is indigenous to that city. Glaswegians don’t much go for subtly hinting at their beliefs and opinions. As P.G. Wodehouse said, “it’s seldom difficult to distinguish between a ray of sunshine and a Scotsman with a grievance”. The Glaswegian dialect is also liberally peppered with expletives and the conversations are indeed extremely sweary. For example, when one character wants to start using foreign terms, he talks about the “raison fucking d’etre”.

"The Ayes have it"

Brookmyre’s books have been described as comedy-thrillers, but they are more complex than that. Yes, at times the story will be a straightforward comedy, at other times a psychological thriller, but it will also be a vicious satire and much more besides in a multi-layered narrative. The key point is that the different elements enhance each other instead of distracting the reader. The reality is that Brookmyre belongs to no single genre. Take the plot for A Big Boy Did It And Ran Away, which is a wonderful mix of Scottish everyday life and global violence with Brookmyre skewering parenthood, amateur rock bands, on-line gaming and international terrorism (amongst other things).

At its heart, it’s about two friends, the hopes and dreams they had when they were students, and how they reconcile that to what their lives have actually become. When they were young, they thought their future would be paved with gold discs, gigs and groupies. Simon Darcourt has actually achieved success in rock star terms: massive financial rewards, global travel, adrenalin rushes and even fame (or at least notoriety). The only trouble is that his route has been that of serial killing, mass slaughter and professional assassination. More hits than The Beatles – a performer guaranteed to blow you away.

On the other hand, his former band mate, Raymond Ash, is an English teacher weighed down with the responsibilities of fatherhood, so it’s little wonder that he takes refuge in the virtual reality of on-line gaming. Thus, he assumes that he is seeing things when he glimpses Simon walking through Glasgow airport, given that Darcourt was killed in a plane crash three years ago. There follows a band reunion of sorts, even though theirs was not exactly an amicable split, as Darcourt decides to settle the old score by incorporating his old mucker into his latest terrorist plot, which Raymond bravely attempts to foil with the help of feisty policewoman Angelique de Xavia.

"The Black Spirit?"

Simon Darcourt, the “Black Spirit”, is obviously a monster, but he’s superbly well written. At first, his scything observations are quite seductive, and you might find yourself quietly sympathising with his point of view, but Brookmyre gradually cranks up Darcourt’s depravity until you see him for the vile creature he really is. Even though he notches up countless victims and does the most inappropriate things, Brookmyre’s humour is so good that we can laugh without worrying about the growing pile of corpses. However, you might have to confront a few prejudices …

Our heroine is Angelique de Xavia (rhymes with saviour), a diminutive but deadly police officer, who has to confront some discrimination herself. As a black, Ugandan-Asian, not to mention Rangers supporter, she is subjected to constant teasing about her height, sex and race, even though you would think that her martial arts expertise may give her colleagues pause for thought. This lady cop is a fantastic Lara Croft style character, combining language and combat skills, and features in future Brookmyre books The Sacred Art Of Stealing and A Snowball In Hell.

Raymond Ash is an unlikely hero, which is a feature of Brookmyre’s novels. All his heroes are relatively normal, who tend to find themselves in Die Hard situations. Brookmyre has said that he likes to set up a massive scale concept and then throw a very ordinary character into the mix, as readers have more fun imagining how either themselves or people they know would react in such a bizarre situation. In the same way that the villains are strangely likeable, the heroes are normally slightly untrustworthy or at least have an edge to them.

The best known is Jack Parlabane, the investigative journalist, whose unorthodox methods and anti-authoritarian attitude have featured in many of Brookmyre’s novels. Named after a Robertson Davies character, Parlabane is a guy who gets to say all the smartarse comments that you wish you could think of – and have the balls to make (l’esprit d’escalier, as the French would say). The hero is a vital element of Brookmyre’s approach, namely to take the classic action thriller and make it more human: “guns and toys” for the boys without the vigilantism and simplistic morality.

"The Hay of Pigs"

Brookmyre is a former journalist and his books often betray a near-despair of the modern media and its increasing tendency to report itself rather than the news, describing the coverage of the death of Princess Diana as “two weeks where all sanity was suspended”. Hence his characters’ frequent musings on modern life via flashbacks or inner monologues.

Similar to Ben Elton, the narrative is often aggressive stand-up with riffs on oil money, rock music and room service, but the diversions are so funny that they never get in the way of the narrative. As an example, this book opens with this magnificent rant on road rage:

There was one up his arse right then, flashing the headlights on his MX3, the bloke’s eyes widening and nostrils flaring in time with the admonitory illuminations. An absolute fanny. Risking his life in an attempt to overtake before the crawler lane ends, so that he'll be one car - one car - up the queue when he reaches the traffic lights. And what does that tell you about the life he was risking? Exactly. 

Suburban Sad Cunts. This was the real reason for road rage. It wasn't a symptom of growing traffic congestion (though it shared the single car-usage factor), it was that this was the closest they got to defiance, the last ghostly remnant of the will to assert some identity. It was the only time they got to express any sense of self: when they were behind that wheel, on their own, jostling for position with the rest of the faceless. Overtake the guy in the bigger, newer, shinier car and it made you forget all the other ways in which he was leaving you behind to eat his dust.

His observations on Aberdeen are also first class, though it is doubtful whether the local tourist board will be quoting them any time in the near future:

The self-conferred nickname “Silver City” was another over-reaching feat of turd-polishing euphemism. It was grey. Everything was grey. There was just no getting away from it. The buildings were all – all – made of granite and the sky was covered in a thick layer of permacloud. It. Was. Grey. If Aberdeen was silver, then shite wasn’t brown, it was coppertone. It was grey, as in dull, as in dreary, as in chromatically challenged. It was grey, grey, grey. And the only thing greyer than the city itself was the fucking natives.

There is also much fun to be had in picking up his Tarantino-esque references, firmly based in his student experiences in the 80s, particularly football (“fitba”), music and gaming. Brookmyre himself is a St. Mirren supporter and his devotion to Paisley's football club is matched only by the contempt he heaps upon fans of Glasgow's Old Firm and their sectarian baggage inherited from centuries of Irish conflict.

When Simon Darcourt puts a plan together, he gives code names to all his accomplices, always using the names of rock stars. In his concluding mission, he splits the team into three units of four: the first is named after The Clash; the second after the original members of the Sex Pistols; and then to ratchet up the humour a further notch, the last group is named after the four members of Queen.

The characters from his time at university are instantly recognisable, as is the banter between Lexy and Wee Murph, two pupils from Raymond’s school who accidentally get caught up in the scheme. Brookmyre’s ear for everyday conversation is highlighted by the titles for his books, which are almost always common phrases that apply perfectly to the stories. My personal favourite is All Fun And Games Until Somebody Loses An Eye, as spoken by many a harassed mother.

So, if you have yet to discover Christopher Brookmyre’s intelligent and hilarious world of hapless gangsters, vile politicians, reluctant action heroes, grudge-bearing hacks, rock-star terrorists and enraged mums with guns, then do yourself a massive favour and get stuck in.

That's Entertainment

If you are in my age range, then you’ll probably know how important The Jam were. They created the blueprint for just about every decent guitar band over the next twenty-five years, though few have managed to produce music quite so incisive and meaningful with a lyricism veering from anger to love and back again. They laid the foundations for Britpop, inspiring both Oasis and Blur. Oasis front-man, Noel Gallagher, bows down to no man, but even he doffs his cap to Paul Weller, the man that he wittily dubbed the Modfather.

The Jam exploded onto the punk scene in 1977, delivering their ferocious mission statement, In The City, a musical tribute to London over three minutes of aggressive urgency. The Jam were a formidable three-piece unit, led by Paul Weller, a young sharp-suited mod, and backed-up by the powerful rhythm section of Bruce Foxton (bass) and Rick Buckler (drums). Although The Jam were never really part of the hip London elite, they were clearly guided by the anti-star aspect of the punk scene, though ironically they inspired passionate loyalty from their fans. They never lost the faith of that hardcore audience, charting a very true course through rock music’s murky waters, even as they progressed musically. Originally seen as the leader of the mod revival, Weller was far too clever a songwriter to stick to the limitations of any one genre, guiding the band through many musical adventures as his tastes developed.

Tagged as the spokesman for a generation, Paul Weller identified with and rallied the disaffected suburban youth with a set of songs that contained a potent blend of anger, enthusiasm and sensitivity, all wrapped up in keenly observed social commentary. Weller’s observations were never as vicious as the Sex Pistols or The Clash, but seethed with indignation about the pains of existence, as he tried to understand life’s inherent unfairness. He successfully encapsulated life in the grim late 1970s, perfectly defining the mixture of worry, confusion and fear of those years. The cult of The Jam was an immovable part of Britain’s cultural map, providing the soundtrack to the youth of the time, as they sang directly to and about their audience. However, although their music certainly captured a moment in time, the youthful perspective and impassioned delivery could just as easily speak to any generation of young people.

"When You're Young"

The Jam’s golden period began with All Mod Cons, their third album, which is considered by many to be their finest achievement. It stands as one of the pivotal works of the new wave movement, full of belief, power and well-crafted songs, defining for the first time The Jam’s distinctive sound. Following a poor critical response to the second album, This Is The Modern World, it was viewed as a make-or-break record for the band. The pressure was further ramped up when the initial batch of songs, largely Foxton compositions, were rejected by the producers in the hope that Weller would again find inspiration. They were right to do so, for Weller proved his genius, coming back from the brink with a career-saving, and career-defining, masterpiece.

The album was a perfect reflection of the times, based firmly in 1978, that enthused the press with that barometer of critical opinion, the NME, hailing it as “fresher and newer than anything else this year”. All Mod Cons is the definitive Jam LP, the moment when the band really started to fulfill the potential they had shown with their early singles. It was the first time that they begun to work with the recording studio, as opposed to against it, demonstrating a better understanding of dynamics and pacing. The record was a brave attempt to broaden their musical and lyrical scope without losing too much of their power and anger, resulting in a classic. The album’s title has been taken as a playful reference to the band’s association with the mod resurgence, but can also be considered as a bitter comment on the modern, desirable features coveted by many, given that the album’s cover features the band in a near empty room.

The album marked a great leap in songwriting maturity and sense of purpose, representing a transition from the relatively straightforward mod/punk music that dominated the first two albums. The angry young man In the City was well on his way to becoming the worldly Boy About Town. The 60s influences are obvious, but Weller chose his heroes well, borrowing from them in order to create his own modern (world) style. For the first time, Weller built, rather than fell back, upon his inspirations, carving out a distinct and distinguished voice all his own. Q magazine reckoned that, “the past met the present on All Mod Cons and the sparks flew in a white-hot Rickenbacker fusion of punk, pop, psychedelia and R&B”.

"We are the mods, we are the mods, etc"

Weller is clearly no stranger to The Kinks’ back catalogue with the debt made evident in a scorching cover of “David Watts”, but The Jam were not so much imitators as upholders of a great British tradition of literate songcraft. While they were not really innovators, they were certainly great songwriters. Sure this album has its influences, but it’s Weller’s biting opinions that really cut through. More interested in social comment than political confrontation, The Jam breathed a sophistication that others lacked in the punk movement, marking them out from their peers.

It was on this quintessentially English album where Weller’s compositional talent came into its own, where his leavening of punk aggression with both sensitivity and a keen sense of place made The Jam unique. He employed a story-style narrative with invented characters and vivid imagery to make incisive social commentary - all in a musically irresistible package. Some of the lyrics sound like something that Philip Larkin could have written. Whoever his literary influences were, Weller did incredible things with the English language in the context of a three-minute pop song. Cynical and sneering, but never overly abrasive, Weller was tough enough to break down his own defences and secure enough to make himself vulnerable in his songs.

Reflecting some of Weller’s disillusionment with the music business at the time, the album opens with the punchy title track, "All Mod Cons", a short but searing attack on the fickle hangers-on who disappear at the first sign of tougher times, “I’ll tell you what/I got you sussed/You’ll waste my time/When my time comes”. The attack on fame and celebrity culture continues with the next track, the powerful yet poignant, “To Be Someone (Didn’t We Have A Nice Time)”, which almost implies that the band had lost its way. It feels like Weller is throwing off others’ expectations in a strong statement of intent before he returns to his musical roots, “I realise I should have stuck to my guns/Instead shit out to be one of the bastard sons/And lose myself - I know it was wrong - but its cost me a lot”.

"You might as well jump"

If the album’s opening is strong, the finale leaves you gasping in appreciation of its aggressive assault on your senses. The abrupt, punky “A Bomb In Wardour Street” is one of The Jam’s hardest and most intense songs. Clipped guitar chords trade blows with the metronomic drum beat, as Weller angrily bemoans the violent thugs that plague the punk scene, “And they tell me that you’re still a free man/If this is freedom, I don’t understand”. Scary stuff, but nothing compared to the last track, the colossal, “Down In The Tube Station At Midnight”, which brilliantly continues the theme of inner city violence with an exceptionally detailed account of an unprovoked attack in commuter land. This atmospheric and disturbing song was perhaps the best example of their ability to combine their newly found lyrical skill with the aggression and sense of injustice from their earlier work. It’s a virtuoso display packed with unexpected transitions and clever, spooky vocals as the victim edges towards his brutal mugging, “I first felt a fist, and then a kick/I could now smell their breath/They smelt of pubs and Wormwood Scrubs/And too many right wing meetings”. Anyone still keen on Going Underground?

Mind you, the rest of the record is not exactly pulling any punches either, especially the coruscating “Mr. Clean”. The sly, seductive melody belies the bitterness of the lyrics with Weller’s hatred of the class divide prompting the tirade against the 9 to 5 existence of a successful businessman, “Cause I hate you and your wife/And if I get the chance, I'll fuck up your life”. The incredibly catchy “Billy Hunt” is a return to the punk-based guitar sound that made their name in a humorous glance at one man’s frustrations with his treatment at work and life in general, as he imagines himself emulating his superheroes and fighting back, “No one pushes Billy Hunt around/Well they do, but not for long/Cause when I get fit and grow bionic arms/The whole world's gonna wish it weren't born”.

"Baby, you can light my fire"

Equally bouncy is the cover of The Kinks’ classic tale of schoolboy jealousy “David Watts”, where Weller and Foxton trade lead vocals throughout in another song apparently dedicated to dreams and aspirations, though you cannot miss the irony and disdain when Weller spits out the line, “I wish I could have all he has got”. Slashing power chords also abound in “The Place I Love”, though the song’s message is surprisingly sensitive, “I'm making a stand against the world/There's those who would hurt us if they heard/And that's always in the back of my mind”.

The deceptively upbeat “In The Crowd” is a stark anthem, speaking out in favour of the individual’s sense of self and identity, “when I'm in the crowd, I don't see anything”. This was another departure from the band’s traditional sound with its cloying arrangement, culminating in a psychedelic jam (sorry) and an acid rock name-check of an earlier song, “Away From The Numbers” which dealt with a similar theme. There’s a Beatles element here, which can also be detected on “It’s Too Bad”.

Most surprisingly, Weller gave us an early taste of the future artistic direction of his solo career by including not one, but two, ballads, which was a courageous step when all around were still pushing anarchy and nihilism in their songs. The sentimental “English Rose” is a gentle, lilting acoustic track that highlights Weller’s ability with natural imagery and emphasises the sheer Englishness of his songs, “No matter where I roam/I will return to my English Rose/For no bonds can ever keep me from she”. The delicate “The Fly” is another ravishing piece of lyrical romanticism, deeply soulful and resonant. This was an album where the beautiful and whimsical could comfortably sit next to the harsh realities of life.

"We're jamming"

Although this record was a personal triumph for Paul Weller, it was also a collective success for The Jam, with the band displaying empathy and vitality throughout and showcasing the talents of all three members. Even though Weller would later almost casually refer to “any guitar and any bass drum” in the single “When You’re Young”, rarely has a band sounded so much in tune with itself. Foxton’s slippery bass lines, under-pinned by Buckler’s clinical drumming, served as the perfect soundscape for Weller’s trade-mark Rickenbacker guitar chords, not to mention his gruff, yet expressive vocals. Songs are short, tight and relevant with the vocal interplay of the two singers never bettered.

Four short years later, while their punk contemporaries faded away, The Jam went out at the very top, playing their final gig to a packed, tearful Brighton Centre. Announcing their own Beat Surrender, Weller said that, “I’d hate us to end up old and embarrassing like so many other groups”. All Mod Cons contained an eerie premonition of this moment when Weller sang, “it's too bad that we had to break up”, but more relevantly in “To Be Someone” he asked, “Didn’t we have a nice time?/Oh wasn’t it such a fine time?” It sure was.

Bend It Like Bentley

"Where did it all go wrong?"

David Bentley had to issue a groveling apology today, surprisingly not to Tottenham Hotspur fans for his abysmal displays on the football pitch last season, but for being charged with drink driving after colliding with a lamp-post in the early hours of the morning. It’s obviously not the first time that Bentley has hit the post in his football career, but he usually has the decency to wait until he has a ball at his feet. In a statement released (and obviously written) by the club, Bentley whined:

I should like to apologise to my club and the supporters for my actions, which led to my car accident and my subsequent charge. It was wholly unacceptable and I fully appreciate that as a professional footballer I have a duty to behave in a reputable and responsible manner. I am thankful that nobody was injured in the accident. This has been a wake-up call for me both personally and professionally.

Although he describes the crash as a “wake-up call”, you have to wonder how many similar actions Bentley requires before he genuinely opens his eyes. After all the player has twice been banned for speeding in the past. In 2005 Bentley was banned for 56 days for speeding at 102mph, even though he had only just finished a 48-day ban for speeding at 120mph. In 2007 he was heavily criticised for telling MTV, "I live my life on the edge. I like driving too fast in my Ferrari." Well I suppose that it makes a change from parking his Porsche in a disabled bay. The only real shock about the latest example of appalling behaviour from a “professional” footballer is that a player as self-absorbed as Bentley drives a Porsche – and not a Bentley.

"Have it!"

I suppose that the car crash is a suitable metaphor for his football career, which appears to have come to a grinding halt, as he has only started two of his club’s games since the turn of the year. His international career has also stalled with no caps since last August. Bentley’s arrest came just three days before Spurs’ first game of the season. He wasn’t exactly flavour of the month before this incident, but now he’s probably fallen behind Aaron Lennon, the kit man and Sandra Redknapp in the pecking order. Following Ledley King’s arrest last season for an alleged assault outside a Soho nightclub, manager Harry Redknapp vowed to stop his players drinking, "Footballers should dedicate their lives to playing. Footballers should not drink. You shouldn't put diesel in a Ferrari.” Despite the unfortunate analogy, “Readies” is unlikely to be best pleased by his player’s latest escapade and Bentley’s realisation of his responsibilities may well have dawned too late to save his Tottenham career.

Bentley has hardly enamoured himself to Spurs’ long-suffering supporters, who must be wondering what on earth he was thinking when he was out boozing at 3am. Perhaps he was drowning his sorrows, as he is nowhere near an England team that might just win the World Cup (just ask John Terry), but it’s certainly not a smart thing to do, when he should be knuckling down and trying to win his first team place back. Any dedication and determination appears to have been lost at the bottom of a bottle of lager. As a self-confessed Spurs fan, you would expect that Bentley would be idolised by their support, but the least they expect in return is a bit of graft. Instead, what they get is a total lack of responsibility, evidenced on a smaller scale only last week when Bentley’s reaction to being substituted in a pre-season friendly was to stroppily jog down the tunnel.

We have been here before. Bentley’s response to Spurs’ awful start to last season was to give an interview where he declared:

It’s been shocking. It’s been a bit shit. It’s been a difficult start, especially for me. I wasn’t enjoying it. It’s been difficult out on the pitch. We’ve not been together. We didn’t know where people were running, what people were doing.

Apart from the obvious retort that Bentley was part of that sequence of shameful under-performance, this interview was never going to endear him to his team mates or his manager. He might has well have urged the crowd to chant “you don’t know what you’re doing” to Juande Ramos, the manager at the time. To the surprise of no-one, except maybe David Bentley and his rampant ego, Ramos axed him from the 18 man squad for the next match. Spurs fans would be entitled to ask exactly what Bentley has been doing since he arrived at the club last summer. Apart from one sensational goal, he has achieved virtually nothing, except for exhibiting a series of increasingly stupid hairstyles. Ironically, one of these resembled the Action Man toy, even though he has spent months doing little more than warm the bench.

"Up, up and away"

Unfortunately this is a player who clearly believes his own hype a little too much. After his single moment of glory last season, when he volleyed a great goal against Arsenal in the North London derby, he declared, “I feel like superman. I could fly home” in a post-match interview of stunning triumphalism. Given that his team was still rock-bottom of the Premier League, many felt that Bentley should learn to walk before boasting of his ability to fly. The appropriate response would have been a small nod of satisfaction with the resolve to build on that sublime moment. That way he might have added to his goal tally; instead of scoring precisely zero more goals in the season.

Once hailed as the “new Beckham”, the former Arsenal trainee cuts a miserable figure at White Hart Lane these days. In a bid to emulate his hero (or maybe just to emphasise his apparent similarities to Becks), he embossed his boots with a DB7 slogan, though he is now even struggling for an opportunity to kick the ball. Indeed, the old David Beckham is still being picked for England, as Signor Capello has clearly decided that Bentley is all mouth. Bentley's explanation for slipping behind Beckham, Theo Walcott and Shaun Wright-Phillips had the familiar ring of a victim of circumstances beyond his control. It was all the fault of doomed Spurs manager Juande Ramos, who kept playing him out of position.

Nothing to do with Bentley being a bit of a tit? When on loan to Norwich, he decided that it would be great fun to emulate the Peter Kay ad by hoofing the ball into the air, shouting “Have it!” The manager was not amused at his training session being disrupted and promptly dropped him. Bentley evidently loves television, aping Soccer AM’s dance-off in a ridiculously camp dancing contest with then Blackburn team-mate, David Dunn, in the classy Squires nightclub in Preston. There he was again, acting like the village idiot, jumping up and down and gurning behind a Sky Sports reporter doing a live piece to camera. Given these performances, you have to laugh at Bentley’s response when his wife was asked to appear on a WAGs reality show, “My missus was asked to do it and I was like 'you ain't doing that'. It makes you, like, stupid, doesn't it?" Well, you would know, David.

"What time's University Challenge?"

Bentley’s most memorable moment last year came not on the football pitch, but on the roof of Red Bull’s London headquarters of all places. For some strange reason, his agent bet him that he could not kick a ball into a skip on the other side of Charing Cross Road. He had so little faith in his client’s ability that he wagered £15,000 on him missing, but Bentley launched the ball straight into the skip, which must have been all of 70 yards away. Apart from the size of the bet being another sickening example of footballers’ obscene wealth at a time when many people are struggling to pay their mortgages, it does make you wonder how the very same player could not hit the target when missing a penalty from all of 12 yards in the Carling Cup final.

Maybe the pressure got to him, having been saddled with a ludicrously over-inflated transfer fee of £15 million when he moved to Tottenham from Blackburn, though I suppose that it’s not his fault that English players seem to attract a large transfer premium. It would be hilarious, if it wasn’t so depressingly stupid. However, I suspect that few would complain at the pressures that come with a weekly salary of £50,000. Bentley is the embodiment of much that is wrong with many modern footballers – too much money and no class.

"You don't have to be mad to work here ... but it helps"

As for Arsenal, Bentley has done nothing but stick the knife into the club that developed him since he left. You’d think that he would be grateful to the club that provided the footballing education that allowed him to ply his trade so lucratively, albeit first at mid-table cloggers Blackburn and then at perennial under-achievers Tottenham, but apparently not. He eagerly told people that being at Blackburn had rekindled his love for the game, being a “great environment to work in, a great laugh every day”, whereas:

At Arsenal, it was all about statistics. I don't want a cross to be a statistic. Everything football should be wasn't happening at Arsenal. There was no banter. I lost my love for the game.

Oh, god … banter. Shut the fuck up about your precious “banter”, you rat-faced chav. Like his kindred spirit and fellow waster, Jermaine Pennant, he never tired of complaining about the foreign influence at Arsenal. There is an apocryphal tale that he turned up at training one day, wearing a special pair of boots that said “English and proud” on one and “So I’m never picked” on the other. Maybe his non-selection was more to do with the personal problems that he would later divulge, including a serious gambling addiction:

I was 14 when I first started going to a betting shop. I got carried away with it. As I started earning more money I really started getting heavily into it. You just get addicted. I was on everything, the horses, the dogs, online with poker, betting on bingo, all sorts ... I'd wake up in the morning and the first thing I thought was to have a bet, anything from 50 to 100 bets a day.

This lack of commitment was highlighted to the nation, when he dropped out of the England Under-21 squad at the last minute before the European Championships in 2007, due to “fatigue”. His withdrawal was so late that manager Stuart Pearce was not allowed to replace him. It’s truly ironic that he decided not to play for the Under 21s, as he was really, really tired and was saving himself for future matches, given that he has spent half a season doing bugger all. Bentley said that it was hugely important for him to play for England, but Pearce drily replied, “It means everything to play for England – when it suits”. Bentley also had previous here with the former manager, Peter Taylor, dropping him from the squad for disciplinary reasons. Yet again Bentley was forgiven when Fabio Capello selected him for his first full England squad, but he was plainly less than convinced by the player’s level of commitment, as he has been conspicuous by his absence ever since.

"Yeah, I like a bet"

This has not been a great time for David Bentley. A few weeks ago he was punched in the face by a stranger as he ate in a restaurant with his fiancée. His agent said that, “a guy walked over and started talking gibberish to him, then he just took a swing and punched him”. Gibberish? Bentley must be used to that, playing under Harry Redknapp. In fact, I wonder whether police have ascertained Redknapp’s whereabouts on the night in question, given that he has been trying to get rid of Bentley ever since he arrived at the club.

Part of me almost feels sorry for David Bentley, following his dramatic fall from grace, but then I remember the huge wage he is picking up for doing little more than sitting on a bench - and wrapping his Porsche around lamp-posts. Then I think that his charge sheet should not be restricted to driving under the influence, but should maybe also cover the charge of being a gigantic twat.