Writers' bloc

Friends, editors, translators lend me your ears.

Today sees the launch a new writing adventure – the brainchild of myself and fellow dreamer, entrepreneur and translator Luke Spear. If the last six months have taught me one fundamental thing it is that in business, as in life, it is useful to have lots of partners. Whilst there are a myriad of benefits to being self-employed (not least having complete control over your professional life) plodding a lone furrow also leaves you somewhat disadvantaged when compared to a big company.

Happily I am not alone in this, as many of my friends and professional associates are in the same situation. We’ve all suffered the fallow days when no work of any substance has dropped into your inbox and after a tenth cup of coffee you decide to write off the rest of the day and retire to the local pub with the Guardian crossword. Part of the problem with working alone is your relative marketing potential and as you are only one person you are only able to work on a certain number of projects at a time. You are also limited by your linguistic range. How many times has an amazing project come up, but you are unable to take the work on because you do not speak German? Or Finnish? Or Swahili?

Up until now, being the generous soul that I am, I have passed on such jobs to someone who can do the work. Whilst some benevolent folks save the whales, or shake a charity tin, I do my piece for humanity by passing interesting work onto others. But then one day came the Eureka moment; the flashing light bulb. If we pooled our resources, then we could make a bigger dent in what is a pretty huge marketplace. In a world of monoglots and poor quality writing, a business or an association who can wow their clients with the quality of their literature is already one step of the competition.

This is where we come in.



And so it is with great pleasure that I announce the launch of World to Writers - a one stop collective of diligent, dynamic writers, editors and translators. All our members are proverbial scarecrows – outstanding in their fields - and with extensive experience or being published. By working together so we can chase bigger projects and do what so few graduates can claim that they do in the call-centre lobotomy of the global economy – actually use those skills that we picked up at University and feed ourselves doing what we actually enjoy doing.




It is an audacious and bold step that we are taking, but one that has already caught the imagination of a number of high quality writing professionals in our social and professional networks. So if you are interested why not join the revolution?

Comrades. Writers of the world unite!

Me fail English? That's unpossible!

It has not been a good few weeks for the English language. First Countdown was plunged into crisis and then a lecturer at New Bucks University suggested that common spelling mistakes be allowed as variants. This really annoys me.

Yes some people have problems with spelling, but if general literacy standards at schools and universities are slipping then they ought to be addressed, not just accommodated. Do these people just have to text ‘dgree’ to be accepted on a course?

Sadly such tolerance of laziness and ‘dumbing down’ is symptomatic of a wider malaise across many sections of society. Why let historical fact get in the way of a Hollywood adaptation? Why learn another language, because others are sure to speak English? Why vote, because ‘they are all the same’? It makes my blood boil.

What is particularly annoying about this state of affairs is that, more than ever before, the solution to many answers is only a Google search or a spell-check away. It is pure laziness and ignorance. Of course language, like civilisation or democracy, is a living entity. Language evolves, mutates and changes over time as new words enter our daily vocabulary. Yet that does not mean that we ought to tolerate sloppiness. To do so degrades our linguistic traditions and the role that language plays in our lives.

I suspect that I will be called an intellectual snob (though hopefully spelt with two l’s) for having such views, but I am not…

Dumbing down jst rlly irit8s me.

A La Recherche des Temps Perdus

Ahead of my return to Paris, I thought I would publish extracts from the diary that I kept during my first two weeks…

23.20 – Tuesday 10th June.

As I mentioned in a post not so long ago, I wasn’t quite sure how I would feel to come back to Paris. When I left, after three years of living there, it seemed to happen so quickly that I felt that I had not fully tied up many emotional ends. My sense of trepidation was furthered by my friend Rhidian ringing me at the airport and warning ominously, “its not the same as it used to be”.

Walking up Rue de Rivoli it all seemed to come back to me. The smells, the shops, the gruff Parisian nonchalance – it felt like I had never been away. Of course I am older now, perhaps even slightly wiser (or at least I can grow a beard these days), but walking through the streets I still felt the same frissons of excitement that I did back then. My sense of nostalgia was only heightened by where I was staying – only fifty metres away from my old flat, where I spent fourteen months living a life affirming existence – a time of burglary, stress, finals, water leaks, dodgy Polish landlords, falling in love – probably the most defining year of my life on many levels. Looking across to that flat little has changed, save the graffiti tag outside the window has been cleaned off. The shops and the ambiance are exactly how I remembered them and I am sure that the beggar outside Champion flashed me a booze-addled look of recognition.

Such nostalgia flowing through my person, I decided to conduct an experiment. In High Fidelity, Nick Hornby’s protagonist takes it on himself to track down and speak to all his ex-girlfriends in the hope of getting some closure. By analogy, on my first night back in the city, I decided to do this with Paris. I was quite scared about how this would make me feel: it could have really fucked with my head, but in the interests of good journalism and curiosity I spent a few hours self-consciously revisiting the places where I left the most emotional baggage and memories. Bustling through Les Halles, zigzagging through Le Marais and meandering over to St Michel I encountered hundreds of the ghosts that had tormented me over the past few years. Meeting them head on, I felt that, one by one, they were exorcised.

More importantly I realised that I had changed. It is testament to this that I am writing this sitting on the same spot (coincidently) in the same bar where I met someone who was to become a huge part of my life and ultimately broke my heart. I don’t feel mournful or sad, it hasn’t messed with my head, in fact it all seems so far removed from today and so I feel really Zen about it all. If I hadn’t had my Paris experiences then I wouldn’t be who I am today, and now I have closure I am left with just cherished memories and funny anecdotes.

Future psychiatrists: feel free to post comments.

Chris

Illiteration

With perfect timing, I am leaving the UK just as the latest series of Big Brother gets underway. I cannot abide this trite excuse for programming, and I am delighted that I will be able to avoid the vacuous media coverage that accompanies this annual event.

I have, however, coined a phrase for the way in which the British tabloids describe proceedings...

I have named it 'Illiteration' and hereby define it as 'a succession of words beginning with the same letter, employed by the tabloid newspaper journalist to draw the attention of the uncouth and uneducated to pointless reality TV 'goss'.

Example:

Busty BB babe's boozy bonks with boy band beau.

Roll on Paris

Postcards from Northern Britain

Clearing some memory on my camera-phone I came across a selection of photos taken at various locations in the North East of England between January and May 2008...

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Newcastle United - Stoke City, Jan 2008. The night the messiah returned.

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A sunny March day on the Newcastle Quayside.

Garden

(My) English Country Garden, May 2008

Chris

A portrait of the young (photo-shopped) man, Jan 2008

I always wondered how I would feel if I saw you again...

It is now almost exactly six years since I left Paris, after three memorable, often crazy years - where I, along with a combination of like-minded individuals, deluded romantics and idiot-geniuses contrived to have as much fun as possible on £3000 of British Student Loan.

So much has changed since then, but I still feel a pervading sense of nostalgia for a place I once called home.

When I finally left Paris in 2002, it felt that it was the right time to go, but ever since i have wondered how I would feel to return. I have so many memories tied up in places, people and music from my time there, that I am somewhat caught between excitement and fear at my impending return.

I should get some good writing out of it.

Next week i'm back there for a few weeks, doing some editing work for this erstwhile magazine.

If you're around and want to catch up then give me a bell.

I hear The Bowler still does a good pub quiz.

Chris

Yet More Shameless Self Promotion/ Call for Help

Senna

In the next couple of weeks I will start writing my first book. A biography of Ayrton Senna. Now, I have collected a lot of archive footage and material over the years, but am conscious of maybe having overlooked some great events/memories.

I was 13 when he died, so remember watching him race from about 1988 onwards, however I am also looking for more footage of his earlier career at Lotus (1985-87), Toleman (1984) and his F3 career. Do you have special memories of Senna that you would like to share with me? If so please post them as comments? Where were you when you he died?

Cheers

Chris

Photo Quan Nuygen/Flickr

The Masters of Euphemism

You would think that by your mid-20s, you would have had enough life experience to both manage and/or end relationships without resorting to euphemism or cliché.

The top five euphemisms that have been used on me are…

“Its not you its me” (well, obviously)

“I need to discover myself” (That wont take long. You are quite dull.)

“I need stability in my life” (So you are wrecking the one bit of stability you have?).

“You are really special to me”(So special, in fact, that you are doing this to me in public?).

“I think we should see other people” (I am…)

I think the worst part of breaking up is that it usually happens when you least expect it to. You meet for a drink, she is nice to you, normally complements on your hair or clothes and then BAMM moves in for the kill. There follows an awkward silence and then the inevitable moment when she cries. This is not for your benefit. It is a carefully stage-managed thing that women do to dispel any rumours that she is being a heartless cow. Then you sit, make small talk and you bumble on about nothing.

Some men choose to storm out in a theatrical manner. Some men chat up the barmaid or text their pretty female friends for hugs and sympathy (‘cos you know that’ll piss her off). Me? I choose the dignified option: introspection and Brown Ale. The worst possible time to be broken up with is just after a trip to the bar, because you have to sit and mull over all of the pain together until you have drunk up and can go your separate ways…

An Ipod is a useful weapon at this point. When she heads to the bathroom for tissues you can delve back into your favourite albums to offset the tears. Unless of course you were listening to The Smiths on your way to this rendezvous only to pick things up halfway through Morrissey crooning “I Know It’s Over”. You feel a salty taste in the back of your mouth and so hastily head to the bar.

You go through a myriad of emotions over the subsequent hours. Pain, hurt, anger, depression. You question how it has got to this stage? Is it something I said? Was it something I cooked? Is there someone else involved?

Until you finally reach acceptance, attempt to be positive and delve into the World of literature…

The concluding part of The Dolls House would be so much better if instead of falling to his knees and begging Nora to stay Torvald went, “actually…fuck her. Now I can watch Match of the Day in peace and put a dartboard in the spare room”. Ibsen was missing a trick there. The final act could end with him posting an advert on Gumtree,

“WANTED. Nubile flatmate. Preferably in blonde. No tarantella dancers please”.

Chris

Hate to say I told you so...

The British Government are under pressure over the 10p tax rate and are currently backtracking as it makes the poorest in society poorer...

If only they had heeded my warnings.

Doing some site maintenance I read back over some articles that I wrote last summer. Funnily enough this extract from my 'Open Letter to Gordon Brown' caught my eye...

''Elsewhere the abolition of the 10p tax allowance (despite the 2p cut in the higher band) announced in your most recent budget means that those on the lowest income are now worse off, and this coupled with tax breaks for Private Equity firms belies a sickening inequality. Yes we should promote economic growth, but this should not be to the detriment of the very poorest in society. Oxfam statistics suggest that nearly 13 million people live in poverty in Britain (including, disgracefully, some 4m children). Despite your need to appeal to the Middle Class vote, it is still right that a Labour PM should not forget those at the foot of the economical ladder. '' Chris Yeomans June 21st 2007.

If only they listened.

The Village Green Preservation Society

Kinks

I was listening to the Kinks and editing an article when an news story made me smile.

On Merseyside a Grandmother was faced with plans to demolish her home to make way for, amongst other things, a new Tesco. In a wonderful retaliation this lady applied for planning permission to demolish the mansion belonging to Tesco chief executive Sir Terry Leahy.

Tesco is a bugbear of mine. In my hometown, in rural Northumberland, they moved in a few years ago and, in my opinion have changed the place for the worse. They frustrate and destroy local businesses and purge towns of what makes them great.

This lady, Dot Reid, is sure to fail in her gallant conquest but hats off to her for standing up to the evil corporation.

At the end of the day;

Every Little Helps

  • For people expecting a Prague diary, this will be online soon, but paid writing jobs have been a burden on my time.

Prague

pilsner

As some readers might already know by now, I am off to Prague on Wednesday evening to take part in the latest Europe on The Ground project. In line with previous trips I intend to chronicle my adventures in a diary, so make sure to check back for updates

Chris

Photo Hey-Gen/Flickr

Shameless Self Promotion

Manifesto

I am now officially a professional writer.

I am open to interesting offers of writing work as well as translation (English, French, Spanish), proof reading and copy editing. As people closer to me will know this is a decision that I have been wrestling with for a short while, and is a big step into the unknown. However making a living out of what I love doing is a tantalising prospect!

If all else fails, I should get a decent book out of it!

Provisional title: Memoirs of a Pauper

So if you are interested in working with me, please email me here and we can discuss it further. My rates are negotiable and will vary from project to project. As I am making a living out of this I have to assess proposals on a cost/benefit basis however I will give every offer my due consideration.

Cheers

Chris

Still Ill

In recent times, dear reader, I have been suffering from a serious, life-afflicting condition. It has lingered inside of me, seemingly dormant, for a period of time before rearing its ugly head and bringing with it a general sense of malaise. I am not the only sufferer of this condition - indeed many millions are struck down by it every year. High risk groups include disillusioned graduates, young professionals and those who simply wish for more out of life.

I speak of course of aspirazione decutare, more commonly known as Middle Class Disease.

I have been a sufferer of said condition for far too long. Whereas all art with any zeal or urgency is shrouded in the more proletarian of pleasures, I feel like I have become part of the peripheral group who buys into it off ITunes. I realised once and for all that I was part of this benign group, when after having been aggressed on the street, rather than rolling up my sleeves and fighting for honour, I crossed the road, went home and wrote a strongly worded letter to the local paper.

Writing is what I love more than anything else. From my very first weeks in Paris, sketching thought and feelings over a coffee made me feel good inside. But in more recent times, the tick-box monotonous reality of my job has filled me with writer's block and left me devoid of inspiration.

I desperately need to get my demon back.

That's the problem with Middle Class Disease. You are made to feel that you have to forego your dreams for white-collar security. You sell out your principles and join a club where the only things that are socially acceptable to aspire to are the material and the conventional. A bigger house, a faster car and a life of lobotomised misery. The Location Location Location generation. The people who went from being idealistic and revolutionaries in their younger days who now read The Telegraph and worry about Interest Rates.

I had an epiphany the other day. I sat down and tried to write and I was unable to articulate more than a couple of lines. It terrified me. I relayed this concern to a friend who concluded that I was suffering from a kind of existential crisis. That too concerned about climbing the greasy pole that accompanies my condition, I was forgetting what it was I loved doing in life.

Besides, he noted, "you could get knocked down waiting for a bus tomorrow night".

Of course being Middle Class, I could probabaly stretch to a taxi.

Chris

When The Past Catches Up...

As requested by a number of readers, another extract from the diary I kept whilst in the USA...

December 26th 2007, 12pm

A couple of months back I wrote an entry about whether or not it is possible to stay friends with an ex. Filled with bravado I scoffed that it came down to a question "of intelligence and maturity". Yet writing this nursing a beer whilst my girlfriend catches up with her ex, I fear my earlier words may come back to haunt me...

Not that I feel like I have anything to worry about per se. I trust her implicitly and furthermore I am pleased that she does not feel the need to go behind my back (or at least I hope so!) for fear of pissing me off. I know couples who have to make furtive phone calls to purely platonic friends for fear of offending/upsetting their other half. But men, myself included, are insecure egomaniacs and therefore no matter how much trust is there, we still feel tension in our shoulders at times like these an itchy feeling of jealousy up our spines and a certain sense of foreboding...

I call it my inner John Donne.

I think that what makes these situations so hard is that the 'modern man' (and complete with new Ipod I consider myself one of these :) ) is placed in a no-win situation. If you tell your partner they cannot meet their ex, you are (rightly) pigeonholed as a selfish, mysogynistic bastard. What's more, if you labour the point in the days and hours leading up to their reunion you risk making things an awful lot worse. To paraphrase an famous Friends quote, "you turned him on and sent him off to see a stripper?!". You piss her off before she goes to meet him at your peril...

A good friend of mine fell foul of this (and for comic timing it was on Valentine's Day). He took his girlfriend out and wined and dined her. They got a taxi back to his and being the generous soul he is, offered to lend her a suitcase for her trip to London the next day. More fool him as she opened up said luggage to be confronted by an item of his ex-girlfriend's underwear. Recounting this story to us in the pub the next day, we thought it was hillarious, but she stormed off to London and their relationship went down hill from that point.

Shortly after he came to live on my sofa and was rehabilitated back into society with a mix of Playstation and tequilla, as was the style at the time.

Nursing another beer, I start to feel pathetic for harbouring such jealousy. I mean, I have met up with Ex's before for a drink. In fact if you haven't experienced the awkwardness of someone handing your spare toothbrush back in a crowded restaurant then you haven't lived! But the thing was these meetings were when we were still at the 'you're a complete bastard stage'. As as time goes on the hurt and anger people may feel at the time of a break-up can dissipate and what has gone before gets viewed with rose-tinted glasses.

That is where my insecurity is rooted.

I guess this sort of situation is inevitable whenever you return to your home town. We all have so much history there, and no matter how much we change as people there is so many relics of the past just waiting to pop out of the shadows and fuck you up. Like when you take a girl to meet your parents and they get out the baby photos. Every bar reminds you of a date, every park-bench a furtive kiss - a halcyon day forever frozen in time. These are the very things that inform who you are now. The swings that you hung around on after a house-party, the spot where you shared a coat and a surreptitious cigarette. The memories that...in years to come you will baulk at the thought of your own kids ever experiencing.

Such is the consequence of life.

I Can't Believe its Not Religion!

Church Just a couple of hours after arriving in Colorado, caught between insommnia and exhaustion, I find myself flicking through TV channels, and interestingly the local religious networks. A lot is assumed about religion in the US by Europeans, and admittedly we only ever hear of the extremes. Furthermore our generalisations are not helped by Bush and his blinkered outlook on the World. The TV Pastors I watch strike a surreal balance between preacher and car salesman - urging donations (it takes pennies to get into heaven) to assure salvation. The next day driving through the streets, the number of churches almost seems to bely a market-led logic to faith as a number of variations on an ideological theme each promise to get your soul cleaner than any of their competitors.

Much is made of the role of faith in politics. It certainly did Bush no harm in getting to the top. Whereas in Britain at times it worked against Blair who faced accusations of his faith clouding his political judgement. Perhaps Europeans are simply more cynical to religion in their leaders?

Maybe once Blair has sorted out the Middle East (ahem) he can get his own cable show in the US to help supplement his lecture income. He can urge his viewers to smite the heathens and to donate to his just and righteous cause.

I can imagine his sales-pitch now...

'Come join me on the path the salvation. It is the right thing to do.'

'Every tenth caller gets a free knighthood.'

Photo: Hallock35/Flickr

Departures

East Coast

10am, London Train

Leaving home in the early light of a drab North Eastern morning and sleepwalking into a commuter filled Metro, Colorado seems a very long way away. My journey will call at London and Chicago en-route and I will not arrive at my destination for at least another thirty six hours (assuming all goes to plan). Watching commuters slouch, yawn and grumble through the concourse at Central Station, I count a number of faces that wear the pale, gaunt expression of wanting to be anywhere else. Many of these ghoulish types are young and belie the look of tired resignation that comes with wanting more from life. People who thought that a University education would allow them to escape the monotony of the nine-to-five, and who have a whole five days of drudgery between now and blotting out reality on a Friday evening. These are our binge drinkers, our recreational drug users. These are the by-product of New Labour - a generation who dared to believe only to have their aspirations and dreams student-loaned into the ether.

Nursing a coffee, I allow myself to reflect on this and recall that only this time last year, I was one of these suit-clad zombies watching their 'temporary' position sliding towards a modicum of permanence. Thinking back to the dark days of winter 2006 still makes my shoulders slouch. One year ago I was doing a monotonous job that I was stupidly over-qualified for, for a cause I didn't care about and for a boss who was a bona fide fool. To cap it all I was single. I still recall the crushing depression I felt clocking in at the start of every week, where my only escape was tilting my computer screen out of the view of my colleagues and sending long, detailed treatises to friends in which I plotted my escape. I got to the point where I needed so much more from life and the day that I left that gulag of mediocrity was the day I began to live again.

I am sure there is a lesson there somewhere.

So much has changed in my life since then, and nigh on everything for the better. I feel challenged and am looking to the future. Sitting here travelling with my girlfriend I feel genuinely happy - although to paraphrase Harold Wilson, 'thirty-six hours in a confined space is a long time in a relationship!'

But no matter how much changes, some things are always the same. Writing this somewhere south of York, the train carriage heating is not working (not a bad return for 96GBP!). The franchise might change, the livery alter, but the fact remains that the British train network is an absolute fucking shambles and in itself a metaphor for modern Britain: overpriced, below standard and constantly making excuses for itself.

Roll on London.

USA Diary

USA

Erstwhile readers of this blog may recall that back in July I published a diary of my trip to Estonia - where I stumbled blearily around the environs of Tallinn in dire need of sleep. This Christmas, I am going rather further afield to spend two weeks in the USA. Starting out on my journey I am filled with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. By keeping a journal of my experiences I hope I might be able to convey some sense of my voyage into the unknown.

Keep checking back for updates...

Photo Matoov/Flickr

The Lunatics Talk About Asylum...

It seems that you cannot pick up a newspaper or watch the news without encountering an item on immigration. If the proclamations of doom springing from the pages of the Daily Mail are to be believed the The British Isles, so overburdened by the weight of illegal immigrants, will soon flip on its axis and capsize - leaving millions of Brits clinging to bits of garden furniture and desperately trying to make it to the safe haven of France.

That's assuming that the French let them in of course...

Reflecting on this over a quiet pint in my local pub, my attention was drawn by a rather plump, obnoxious woman in (possibly) her late 30s. From the way she was dressed I would assume she would be on a reasonable income, but the idiotic things she was coming out with just go to prove that intelligence and financial security are not inextricably linked. I was so amazed by her rant, I took it upon myself to transcribe it for posterity.

"I don't think these immigrants should be allowed to come over here. I mean many of them do not speak no good English. They come over here, take our jobs. This is our country, this is our language and they should be prepared for that. And I don't care if they are escaping torture, they were born there and should stay where they are. I pay my taxes to help British people, not scrounging asylum seekers"

A few minutes later she piped up again. By now the conversation had turned to buying property in Spain (yes it wouldn't be Britain without talking about house prices). "I'd like to live there" proffered our portly commentator, "but they would have to speak English because I wouldn't want to have to learn Spanish".

Thankfully they were so engaged in conversation, they didn't notice the smug-looking man in the corner writing all this down and smirking into his Guinness.

A Bit of Romance

Romeo and Juliet When they met again, her heart had turned to stone.

I sometimes wonder if we over-romanticise relationships.

Perhaps Romeo and Juliet got it right. End it whilst you are still wrapped up in the other person, still in the throes of passion, when you genuinely believe that it is the two of you against the world. If they hadn’t ended it then, they would have more than likely have faded into history: another statistic, an irrelevant anecdote and an awkward moment when they bumped into one another with new partners.

Deciding not to sacrifice themselves and build a future together, they had the decisive and inevitable talk.

Romeo: I think I love you

Juliet: I think I love you too. Romeo, I was thinking...



Romeo: Aha...

Juliet: Well, I was thinking that living in separate courts is a logistic nightmare.



Romeo: And so difficult these days for young professionals in Verona to get on the housing ladder."

Juliet: I know, the prices have been shooting up since the Renaissance.

Juliet: (Seizing her chance) Well, why don't we pool our resources?

And from that innocuous exchange, they move in together and things soon begin to change. They still have fun, but instead of long weekend mornings in bed, spontaneous adventures and mini-breaks they start to spend an inordinate amount of time arguing about whose parents they will spend Christmas at (ooh, the irony). Romeo will get annoyed that he cannot go to the tavern for a few flagons with his mates without getting several messengers (my Shakespearian take on texting) interrupting him and asking to go to the supermarket on his way home. As time goes on they will both stop putting the effort into the relationship and their end will not only be tragic but benignly protracted. What’s more all the happy times they shared together will be conveniently forgotten amid a myriad of bitterness and conjecture.

This week I have been pondering a difficult question, that every man has probably considered at one time or another and a conundrum that has fleshed out many an issue of Cosmopolitan.

Is it possible to be friends with an Ex?

The straw poll that I have done of friends has returned conclusive findings. No way. But I am not so sure. I know people who I have had the most fleeting, random acquaintance with and we have gone on to become friends. Others, where our relationship has bordered on fondness, have disappeared into the ether. I bumped into an example of this a few weeks back (in a lift at Uni to add to the awkwardness) and she fixed me with the sort of venomous stare that one usually reserves for child killers.

What was it that I did wrong, I hear you ask. Did I promise to call and then didn’t? No. Did I run off with her flatmate? No. My only failing was having the honesty to tell her that I didn’t want a relationship. At the time I was enjoying the novelty of being single and the thought of reaching my mid-20s cash rich, selfish and morally ambiguous held a certain allure. I would have quite happily maintained a platonic friendship, but any such thought was deemed an anathema.

Perhaps being able to stay friends, like much in life, comes down to a question of intelligence and maturity.

So if you are out drinking tonight and notice two people looking frostily at each other across the club, remember that they could have been the next Romeo and Juliet if only the monotony of reality hadn’t got in the way.

Lewis: Mistreated

Hamilton CC Well England were denied in the Rugby, but in a few hours we will see whether Britain's Lewis Hamilton can clinch the title in the Brazilian GP. Given how much the Hamilton fairytale has reinvigorated F1 after some of the dross of previous seasons, it was suprising to read the following revelations in Saturday's Guardian,

Lewis Hamilton has been warned by motor sport's governing body to curb his celebrations if he wins the championship in the Brazilian grand prix....It emerged yesterday (Friday) that before the Chinese grand prix a fortnight ago...his team were told by the FIA that he should not dance or hug his father in the aftermath of victory

Apparently this is due to the 'hypersensitive' situation between Hamilton and his teammate Fernando Alonso, but if these allegations are true it all seems ridiculously over zealous. Part of the attraction to events like World Championships is such moments, and it seems ludicrous that the FIA would seek to put such restrictions on their largest commercial asset and pasteurise the human element of the sport.

As is often the case, little is straight forward in the political theatre that is F1

Photo courtesy of Flickr/bayonetscott

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