| Nirvana |
[May. 23rd, 2012|05:11 am] |
A strange, insidious longing for Nirvana tonight. Unplugged in New York. The dim lighting, Kurt's surreal voice, Dave and Krist unobtrusively in the background... The Man Who Sold the World, Come As You Are.. and Kurt's face, as always, so very... unreadable, but unbearable. La tristesse durera toujours, even?
And with that, of course, rushing memories of tiffin boxes and wooden benches, blackboards and recess bells, blazers and belts, puppy love and secret crushes, football with sweaters for goalposts in the hot autumn sun...
Surely this isn't Shakespeare's Seventh Age already?
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| Football |
[May. 20th, 2012|01:12 pm] |
I wonder, is it something about football that makes a college common room transcend national and cultural boundaries? So far, I had watched the occasional football game this year in the rarefied atmosphere of the Uni Club, where the maximum that there had been in terms of spectator entertainment was a severely intoxicated Arsenal fan during the 5 - 2 against Spurs. Last night, I was all set to miss my first European final since 2005 (when the parental embargo on non-Arsenal late night games still existed), working in Balliol Library. Extra Time, however, was too much to bear. I followed the trail of the yelling, and came upon the Balliol JCR Common Room.
It was quite surreal how familiar everything seemed. The anatomy of a general common room during a big football game seems to be this: sitting closest to the TV are - broadly - two kinds of people. First, hardcore ultra-esque fans of the clubs involved in the match, living and dying with every ball into the box; and secondly, the "experts", who analyse every move, criticise every stray pass, frequently call the managers idiots and wonder why they're failing to make patently obvious substitutions (I should know, having been part of both groups frequently!). A little way off are the general fans of other clubs, gathered as much for the football occasion as to revel in the admittedly entertaining reactions of the ultras (the reaction to Robben's penalty miss last night was bizarre); some of them have nailed their colours to a temporary mast, and are indeed identifiable as such only from the fact that their reactions don't square with their distance from the screen (if you're an ultra, you will arrive an hour in advance to occupy the best seats). Scattered around the common room are also the football players, who may or may not be overly devoted to a particular team, but are always at least slightly supercilious about the over-the-top reactions of the non-playing-fans. And lastly, standing at the very back (because they couldn't be bothered to come in time to get a seat) are the mildly interested, hoping-for-some-red-cards-and-some-handbags-and-a-penalty-shoot-out group - who may have developed a mild allegiance before or during the game, but who are really only there for the football drama.
I was never out of the first two groups back in college. But yesterday, I walked in during ET, and watched the last half an hour of the game quietly, standing at the back, with the Balliol captain and vice-captain, who were almost equally quiet. Creeping age, I hope not. |
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| BCL |
[May. 18th, 2012|01:10 am] |
I guess you know you've had more than enough when you begin to think of resurrecting the Number-of-hours-to-end-of-exams timetable inspired by Jennings' Diary, that was a standard feature of pre-college days. It stands at about a 1000 hours right now until the morning of June 27.
Dear BCL, you've been quite awesome, but won't you please hurry up and get over now? I'm beginning to dream of Inverness and the Scottish Highlands, and hearing the Skye Boat Song in my sleep... |
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| Simon Blackburn at Balliol |
[May. 15th, 2012|05:42 am] |
Add another to the rapidly stacking-up list of moments of pure rapture in the Oxford year.
An evening at Balliol LR XXIII listening to Simon Blackburn speak about the Sorites Paradox, trolley problems and truth.
I'm not a philosopher, and I don't think I ever will be. But gosh, for an hour and a half, how I wished with every nerve and fibre of my being that I was, or could be. |
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| Goodbye Pat |
[May. 15th, 2012|03:21 am] |
I suppose all Arsenal fans have their own personal favourite Pat Rice moment. Mine is from more than ten years ago. Deep into the title race with the Mancs, a Highbury game against Spurs locked at 1 - 1, an 87th minute penalty, a scuffed effort by Lauren that wrong-footed the keeper and took an eternity to trickle into the goal... and then the reaction. Clenched fists from Arsene, and the look on Pat's face. Incredible.
I've searched the internet briefly for a photograph or a video, but there doesn't seem to be any. Not that I need it. It's as clear and sharp in my mind's eye as anything ever could be. One of the moments that you, as a football fan, live and die for - and Pat, with his 44-year association with Arsenal that ended two days ago, probably lived and died more intensely than any of us.
Goodbye, Pat Rice.
And on a related note. What a climax to the league season. If ever there was a time to be in the common room... |
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| Oxford |
[May. 8th, 2012|04:07 am] |
I think, you know, that when JRRT wrote those diamond-hard, heartbreaking lines about Eowyn, what he really had in mind was this:
So fair... so cold... like a midnight walk in the rain, down Merton Street, past Corpus Christi's spires, under the watchful gaze of Magdalen tower...
If I blaspheme, forgive me. :) |
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| Football |
[May. 5th, 2012|08:07 pm] |
There is a rather delightful irony in the fact that for the first time in eleven seasons, I have spent a significant amount of money on Arsenal FC (70 pounds for a game at the Emirates + 50 pounds for an Henry-12 jersey + 10 pounds for a cap + 8 for tube fare = 138) - only to be served up with this record-breaking shower of disgusting and spineless nonsense.
I should be foaming at the mouth right now, but all that's left is a weary smile of resignation. |
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| ... |
[May. 3rd, 2012|06:07 am] |
Walking back alone from Balliol College to Hollywell Manor at 1 30 AM, getting drenched by the cold English rain, singing Noel Harrison to the looming doric pillars of the Sheldonian, and to the dark, deserted and silent streets of night-time Oxford.
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind...
Magic.
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| Guardiola |
[Apr. 27th, 2012|05:26 pm] |
Notwithstanding the Messi mauling of 2009, about which we can have no complaints; and notwithstanding RVP's red card in 2010, about which we certainly can;
For football in its purest and most sublime form, at a level I've never seen before, and never thought was possible;
For creating a philosophy and sticking to it at all times, in triumph and disaster;
For proving that art, beauty and skill can win the biggest prize, something particularly poignant for an Arsenal fan through years of disappointment;
For beating Mourinho 5 - 0 at the Bernebeu;
But above else, for massacring Man U in two CL finals, and sending the common room into a sullen, grudging silence, rare moments of football sweetness in five years;
Goodbye, Pep. It was brilliant while it lasted. |
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| Reading |
[Apr. 27th, 2012|05:34 am] |
I'd like to flag two astounding books that I have had the good fortune to read in recent days. The first was read on the bus from Oxford to London, and the second on the bus back from London to Oxford!
Humphrey Carpenter, The Inklings: Imagine C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien being brought to life. Not shadowy figures behind books that were a constitutive part of childhood and adolescence respectively, but human beings. In a way that is impossible to describe, it is profoundly moving. Lewis was my introduction to fantasy, and Tolkien changed my life. Flesh and blood and dreams and hopes and desires and ambitions and yes, petty quarrels and enmities, where earlier there were only words. This is a beautifully written book generally, and a very personal book for me. I will come back to this anon, after my exams.
Adolfo Bioy Casares, The Invention of Morel: There is very little I can say about this book, because to say anything is to give away a part of its wildly brilliant, madly, crazily inventive plot. All I'll say is that Borges called it the perfect novel - and praise from Borges is praise indeed. It's that kind of a book that when you finish it, you aren't entirely sure what's just happened. And then you begin to think. And the more you think, the more there is to think, the more disturbing the implications of what you've just thought, and then even more to think. Part science-fiction, part-fantasy, part-philosophy, hints of Philp K. Dick and James Blish (although it precedes them both) on the one hand, and more than a hint of Borges on the other, it's a book that's going to keep you awake for at least a few nights after you've read it, wondering to yourself in the dark, thinking, in the words of Charles Williams, Oh, what a strange world it is. For that alone, highly recommended.*
*In particular - Sharma Ji, take a break from the Feynman Lectures and read this book. And oh, while you're at it, read some Borges too. Try The Library of Babel and The Garden of Forking Paths.
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