Modern Game, Archaic Attitudes

Modern Game, Archaic Attitudes

 

Last week the Daily Mail, a publication not renowned for high class output, once again confirmed its status as a small minded rag, pouring out the worst of society’s views. The target this time was Cristiano Ronaldo of Real Madrid; a man many believe is the greatest player on Earth. The article didn’t centre on any of his on-field activities, instead it speculated what he enjoyed doing in private – with other men.
The Daily Mail wrote: Real Madrid star Cristiano Ronaldo is in a gay relationship with a Moroccan kickboxer, it has been sensationally claimed.
Proving that in the world where low-end papers exist, it’s always the 1970s. It doesn’t matter if Ronaldo is homosexual or not. It shouldn’t be newsworthy.
The real problem is how a paper known for its xenophobia is using the rumour as some sort of slight against the Portuguese player.
It’s indicative of a fault well rooted in football’s primitive attitudes. In a sport that can change with the times when it comes to generating income, it still hasn’t learnt one thing since the days of Justin Fashanu.
He was the first £1m black footballer and the first professional player to come out as gay in England. The high fee was paid by Brian Clough who took him to Nottingham Forest. The legendary manager admitted in his autobiography one of his biggest regrets was his poor handling of Fashanu.
This came with the benefit of hindsight, coloured by the eventual suicide of the once promising talent. At the time Clough lacked the understanding and knowledge surrounding the issue. Like many back then, he was ignorant when it came to the subject of homosexuality.
Instead of being the father figure he later wished he’d been, when he first found out about Justin’s lifestyle he barred him from training with the first team. Then he hauled Justin into his office and broached the rumour in the manner recalled here, as written in Clough’s autobiography:
“‘Where do you go if you want a loaf of bread?’ I asked him.
‘A baker’s, I suppose.’
‘Where do you go if you want a leg of lamb?’
‘A butcher’s.’
‘So why do you keep going to that bloody poofs’ club?’”
It must have worn Justin down over the years, and by the time he was accused of sexual assault after an incident in America, he feared his colour and sexual orientation would make his case impossible to win.
Watching the many struggles he endured, it’s not hard to understand why only one other player has openly come out since. The fact it was Robbie Rodgers, a free agent at the time and hardly a household name in this country now, proves no top flight players believe it’s worth the risk.
More recently Sol Campbell became the centre of nothing more than gossip. A rumour spread that he left during Arsenal’s halftime interval with West Ham in 2006, a game The Gunners lost 3-2, because his agent had informed him a national newspaper was going to run a story about his sexual preferences.
Pink News printed comments made by Sol Campbell explaining how the racist and homophobic remarks were hard to deal with, he said, “There were moments when it became too much. West Ham at home with Arsenal I couldn’t come out in the second half. It was a chipping effect over the years. I suddenly couldn’t face it.”
The irony is, Campbell is one of the most outspoken players of his generation, had the rumours been true he would have been one of the first to come out and stand tall. But the tabloid press wasn’t going to let the truth get in the way of a story, even if it meant the well-being of a top England international was going to be damaged.
In the end they did run a story, omitting all names, only referencing the person in question as a current Arsenal and England defender. This led to Ashley Cole taking the heat. Something he put to bed when he married Cheryl Tweedy.
It was another example of sexuality being used as a negative. There shouldn’t have been a story to print. It isn’t in the public’s interest and doesn’t affect how a player performs for his club. How it’s used as a shaming tactic is disgusting in this supposedly enlightened age.
It was only a few months ago the Daily Mail (them again) reported that before the start of next season two Premier League players would come out as gay. Once more, an absolute no-news story, reported for the shock and shame value. Of course any player in the closet will expect some chants from rival fans but most of this will be more like pantomime and banter than anything close to hatred. It’s only papers such as the Daily Mailthat try and spread that.
Players should also have zero concerns about teammates making life difficult. They are protected by laws and men in other male dominated sports, such as British-born NBA basketballer John Amaechi, and Welsh Rugby star Gareth Thomas, have had no trouble since coming out.
The Ronaldo article shouldn’t have asked if he was gay, but simply: Who cares what he does in private with a consenting adult.

Bond is back with more than just a Spectre

Bond is back with more than just a Spectre

Daniel Craig returns for his fourth outing as secret agent James Bond in Spectre. After garnering public and critical praise for Skyfall, the returning leading man and director Sam Mendes had made the task of impressing the audiences more difficult. The way they have succeeded in moving Bond forward is by taking a leap back.The overall story arc in Spectre is one of the past shaping the future. From an artistic stance this is what the writers and director have done for the movie. 2006’s Casino Royale‘s narrative and techniques didn’t tell a classic James Bond story.

He was stripped down to a raw double-O recruit, facing realistic fight scenes and more believability in plot. There were no secret underground lairs or futuristic technology aiding Bond. It was a Jason Bourne style action movie with a hint of that British Secret Service that defines Bond from other heroes.

Following Casino Royale was Quantum of Solace which demonstrated that for the first time in his history, Bond would be episodic. There was a larger story at play and the two films continued plot points laid out in the reboot. Skyfalldidn’t collect these directly but it was another act in what was clearly a saga.

Enter Spectre, both as movie title and secret organisation. With it we get the inevitable end game of all reboots. They can tease and hint for as long as they want. They can drop the gimmicks and add realism. But no amount of intelligent modernisation can delay the end to foreplay.

Christopher Nolan placed his version of Batman in the real world but he still had to give us a cape and cowl before adding a face-painted Joker. With Bond it’s exotic locations, improbable survival after deliberately getting caught, tough voiceless henchmen he shouldn’t be able to out-muscle, love interests and gadgets. Yes, the nostalgic toys have returned, albeit on a subtle scale.

Eventually you have to apply the first rule of show business: Give the people what they want.

After three movies of hinting it can be Bond, Sam Mendes, in his second stint at the helm, decided to tick-off a check-list from the pre-Craig era. We see a train scene, an alp sequence, multiple car chases, gratuitous sex scenes, a real baddie’s secret liar, Q in the field, a gadget to help Bond in a time of peril, a car with an ejector seat. It feels like a classic Bond shot with current actors.

The story isn’t without fault. How 007 gets the initial lead can be described best as: a plot hole. But when it becomes apparent we’re heading into retro-Bond territory it becomes less of an issue. In another life he ended up space, so we can ignore small errors here.

The idea of governments having too much surveillance and how organisations can be infiltrated is a hot-topic. It could be cruelly said that it borrows some ideas from Captain America: Winter Soldier, but it does so with a more sophisticated edge. Although Skyfall can’t be forgiven for stealing ideas from The Dark Knight and Home Alone.

The film is aided by a strong supporting cast. Ralph Fiennes once again proves what a solid actor he is and gives the Secret Service a soul. Ben Whishaw’s Q and Naomie Harris as Miss Moneypenny provide the perfect support, quite literally, it feels like Bond’s team is his family. Léa Seydoux is more than just a simple love interest; she adds genuine emotion to a film that could have easily turned out cold. Those that saw Andrew Scott in the BBC’s Sherlock already know his talent and Christoph Waltz is . . . well, you won’t be disappointed.

The new Bond has now become the fully-formed agent we saw in his previous incarnations. In doing so the universe he occupies has stepped away from reality and rests somewhere between the old and new versions. This isn’t a bad thing. Without embracing Bond’s past he would have just become a Bourne imitator. Now all bets are off. The stakes can be set as high as any writer’s imagination, any famous villain reborn.

In order to continue the episodic nature there’s also another certainty: there’s a painful future ahead for Her Majesty’s finest.

 

Aside From Writing Prompt: "The Pretend Truth"

Aside From Writing Prompt: "The Pretend Truth"

Okay, so I know it’s not Sunday or August, and yet this post is for a writing prompt from the August Bank Holiday. Even with my poor sense of timing it’d be hard to be nineteen days late. The reason I’m doing it now is I’m on the eve of challenge two in this year’s NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge and it’s been a few weeks since I’ve done any creative writing.

So a big thank you to Mel Cusick-Jones for the prompts provided via the Aside From Writing Sunday Write-Up website. It’s been a great help for blowing the cobwebs away before I embark on a weekend of squeezing a story into a thousand words.

The prompts provided were: idea; why; stupid; handsome; hello.

I would also like to point out that, generally, I’m a happy and carefree person. But put a laptop in front of me, ask me to type and it all gets a little dark.

Enjoy.

The Pretend Truth

The guilt will come later, for now he wants one more time, decent thoughts can fill the sleepless nights in his future. Sweat and shame start to mingle in a fatigued mess. James is breathless from the effects of drink and its burgeoning hangover. The nameless woman beneath him is aware his condition merely is a simulation of passion.

Any genuine connection they felt last night passed as alcohol left their respective systems and the sun rose on a field of sensible thoughts. Before it is glaring, making the awkwardness of the situation obvious, they continue to engage in this communion that sees acquiescence replace their former lust.
James notes her lack of performance, something she had no problem ramping up to over-the-top levels in the early hours, is indicative that their giddy secret is now an uncomfortable lie. The deceit to James’s partner, Chloe, nearly matched by the one stating they are still enjoying this. Together they writhe muted. Both devoid of reason or respect.
Their faces close together is a personal touch James can abide no longer. He turns her over. As in agreement she moves as if they are performing a well rehearsed dance move. Strangers they may be but there is a choreography between them which displays how easy it was to connect.
Faces that have been spared the sight of one other now share the same view. It is a wall littered with photos of James and his partner. Chloe’s innocent smiles emerge from simple frames while her lover performs their sacred act on the bed they usually share.
It should be enough to take James out of his stride. But he has come this far, he can continue until he arrives at his destination. As he does – his callousness meant it was never in doubt – he feels the body of the nameless woman go limp. Not with the exhaustion of ecstasy from their original sins, it is from relief. For her this necessary but fallacious act is now over.
James doesn’t waste time giving her a kiss or any small talk. The previous ten minutes have demonstrated such pleasantries are no longer required. He’s confident that she got what she came for. Her drunken confidence is mistaken by James to mean she’s a fully liberated woman. That such forwardness makes her the female equivalent to his view on sex.
It never occurs to James she is looking for companionship or could be vulnerable.
He thinks admitting to her in a bar that he has a girlfriend means she understands it can only be about sex. For being so open he awards himself a figurative pat on the back. It’s important – he believes – to be honest whenever possible. There’s no way, now as she lies motionless, she can accuse James of pulling the wool over her eyes, of being deceitful. He saves these conditions for the woman he’s promised to marry.
“I’ll drive you home,” James says. His voice is flat now. The need for false bravado has also passed. She is now viewed as a great inconvenience by becoming the human embodiment of an overflowing dustbin that needs emptying.
These things always seem a good idea at the time. He reasons that Chloe will never find out, so there’s no harm. It’s only in the aftermath he remembers the hassle of having to speak to the women the following day, of making sure they get home okay, not to mention the deep clean of the bedroom. He’s confident his face will never leave a trace of what he’s been up to, that his voice will remain strong, but a stray hair can ruin everything. An immovable stain doesn’t bear thinking about.
“Thank you,” she replies after a short delay.
James considers asking where she lives but leaves it. Her face is buried in the pillow and he wonders if she requires a few minutes alone to compose herself.
“I’ll leave a towel out for you in the bathroom,” he says softly.
“Thank you,” she repeats like a broken toy.
This delay, while making the ensuing journey a tad more frantic, allows James to locate his special towel from the garage. A former guest to his late night extra-curricular activities once had the misfortune of ruining an expensive towel because it unexpectedly became “that time of the month.” He’d made a lame excuse about spilling wine to Chloe and explained he had thrown it straight in the garbage. James knows too many poor excuses – especially of a similar nature – would be apt to raise suspicion.
Taking pause for a few more seconds to admire how firm and supple the darker toned skin on the nameless stranger is, he recalls her mentioning studies. This now brings immediate shame. His university days were wasted doing this. Now over a decade later he is passing the baton on.
Finally walking away he makes a mental note that he should use protection when mingling with those that are sexually active in the university pool. Just in case.
Sweat drips from his forehead for the second time today in the bedroom. The bed sheets have been stripped off and now sit curled up in a grumpy pile. The vacuum cleaner is whining as James squeezes the nozzle into every nook and cranny around the bed and its furniture. He treats the area like the crime scene it is.
The noise from the vacuum on the floor becomes shrill. For a few seconds he ignores it – there’s little time left to be bothered by annoying sounds. If James tidied every day, and not just on these forensic clean-ups, he’d recognise the cry for help from the suction device as an explanation its end is blocked. But James is only an expert in ensuring his end can always operate freely.
“Hello, handsome,” Chloe purrs from the door.
James feels the heart in his chest for the first time. Each beat threatens to make him pass out. His fraudulence exists on many levels. He is neither good looking or well behaved. The man Chloe thinks is sharing her life doesn’t exist.
Love has blinded her to the superficial downfalls the rest of the world can see, just as it has prevented her from feeling the gaps in his character that should be tangible. Yet, they are not. She has become senseless with love. At least this is something they have in common. James has mastered the art of masking his pitfalls but he wonders when Chloe will begin to notice how his deficiencies make them less than whole.
“Do I get a kiss?” she asks.
The pleasant humour in her voice is a catalyst for his guilt. The combed back fair hair framing a fairer face.
“Of course,” he replies.
Instinctively he pulls the vacuum cleaner free from the rear of the bed and goes to kill the power.
Before he gets to the plug the cause of the blockage blanks out everything in the room apart from Chloe’s face.
The nameless woman – either accidentally or for some act of inverted decency – had left her bra behind the headboard. Now it sits in the middle of bed. James produces a few quick explanations in his mind. But his lips don’t move. A missing towel is barely noticed, a stranger’s bra on their bed during an impromptu cleaning session is more than an elephant in the room.
It’s a vast wilderness and they have both just stepped into it without a guide.
“Why?” she asks, fighting with all she has to make sure the solitary tear on her cheek remains the only emotion James robs from her today.
James is muted, again for the second time on the bed today, and sweats heavier.
“I only came back as a surprise,” she says absently. “I’m so stupid.”
“I guess you got the surprise,” James replies. Even now he finds it easier to produce an offhand remark rather than an apology.
“How long’s it been going on?” she asks.
He pauses for thought, then answers: “For quite some time now.”
It’s another half-truth. The numerous women, added up, have been a regular fixture for some time. He understands the implication: How long have you been seeing this woman. Chloe can only consider an affair – he knows this – not a one night stand.
He begins to feel a little more positive, this has allowed him to add some degree of honesty. It may give him a chance to fix the situation. With a half-truth they can move forward.
James plans to save their relationship with a half-lie. It should work, too. Chloe has been very happy living one for years.