Rest In Peace?

Watching Sky Sports News this morning, the reporter started talking.

'WWE Wrestler Chris Benoit has been found..'

This isn't good, I thought. Sky Sports News never reports on wrestlers unless it's something serious. So what could it be?

In Breach of contract? In possession of drugs?

'...dead in his Atlanta home with the bodies of his wife and seven year old son, Daniel'.

Damn.

I've watched him perform for years, and I've never seen him deliver a bad match. From those who know him, he was the consummate professional, always giving his all in the ring and around the arenas he graced, worldwide. This entry was going to be about how I'm not sure I can see him in the same light now that it's come out that he, allegedly, killed his wife on saturday, his son sunday and himself yesterday after taking several days off to deal with a 'family emergency'. Now, however, I read that they can't rule out murder and haven't confirmed anything yet.

So, I don't want to pass judgement on someone whose risked his body and life entertaining me for so many years.

R.I.P. Chris Benoit, 1967 - 2007.

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I wrote the preceding text yesterday, after I'd just heard the news about the Benoit deaths on TV and the events hadn't been confirmed and, as I wrote, didn't want to conclude and judge what'd happened before the fuller story began to emerge.

So, the man is a murderer. A lot of my own, and millions of other people's memories of the man's professional life, as a performer and entertainer, have been tarnished almost certainly beyond repair. It's almost a shame.

I wish I could say the following about Chris Benoit, too, but I can't bring myself to do it.

R.I.P. Nancy and Daniel Benoit.

Note to Self: Don't do that again.

'We're having a movie night!' said Dave, a couple of evenings ago. He was having some friends round and they were watching Gay Films - one called Camp, and another called Another Gay Movie. Me and Frances were invited, he said, and there would be plenty of alcohol and snacks. So I decided to join them.

Well, Camp, from what I can remember, is a great film. Very funny! And everyone laughed. I just can't remember much of it, because by then i'd finished off half a bottle of Bacardi I had lying around, had a glass of rosé - my first ever - and Rich had come round and suggested we go to the pub. So, we went to The Castle, our local. It was a Friday night, and so pretty busy. I've discovered that I, with the addition of either Bacardi or wine, or both, become the leeriest man in Aberystwyth. I was too shy to actually talk to anybody female, but I deemed everyone in the pub and everyone who walked through the door a potential candidate for evaluation. Me and Rich also talked about a lot of shit, and we had a deep conversation about hair styling products and which is the best out of gum, paste, and wax. Somebody save me.

I had four Jack Daniel's. Or that could be five, I don't entirely remember. When I got back, the second film was half - way through, but nobody was paying it that much attention, because of the amount of Pringles and sweets being passed around the room and the oodles of gossip and insults being slung. 'Want some vodka, Mike?' Dave asked as I stumbled back into the room.

'Yes! Yes I do!'

And so he offered me a can of coke to go with it. I hasten to add, at this point, that if i'm going to technically classify my next drink, it should be called Coke with Vodka, rather than the more traditional, and usual, classification. I drunk that, ate some more pringles. We then had some shots of Nordic Berry vodka, that's blue and very nice, then I had a glass of squash with more vodka in. We decided that drawing would be a good idea, and I think I drew a penis. And some boobies. I'm sure the Tate Modern would be interested.

The night drew to a close then: Dave's friend got upset, and they all went home, and everyone (even the upset friend) agreed it was a great night. Dave also let me have his big mug that was very full of more Coke and Vodka, which I drunk as I went on the computer. Sometime around here I decided that to stay up all night playing Burnout and chatting on MSN would be a good plan, and so that's exactly what I did.

Burnout is fantastic. It's a racing game that's stupidly, eye-bleedingly quick, and rewards you for skillfull driving that pushes you to the very startling edge of your abilities, but will punish you the second you overstep the boundary and disintegrate your multi-million pound supercar between a bus and a 18-wheel lorry. Sometimes it even rewards driving into cars and creating havoc. I found that i'm much better at the game when i'm very, very drunk, unusually.

By 6am, an hour that I hadn't seen for literally months, it was getting light. It was amazing how quickly it did get light. By half six, it was daylight, but Aberystwyth still slept. By 10am, when I went for a shower, it was obvious that I was still hammered. I barely noticed when I collided with a doorframe on the way, but I did notice the bruise later. By eleven, my hangover had kicked in, together with the crippling tiredness after not sleeping. I was reading magazines and not registering a word, and having to squint through one eye to see what people were typing on the computer. I napped, for about half an hour.

By now, the realisation had come to me: I was, apparently, both drunk and hungover at the same time. My body was utterly depleted from energy due to lack of sleep, and the fact that I hadn't eaten a hot meal since being at home the previous weekend. My hands were shaking, I felt cold, and my eyes were coated with stinging, hot resistance to my attempts to keep them open. I knew there was football on, and I phoned Chris, who was upstairs, to see if he wanted to go watch, so I could gulp down coke and eat food and try and recoup as much energy as possible. When he came into the room to collect me, he just burst out laughing at my slumped-over self.

The food revived me. Sugar seeped into every vein, and I felt marginally better. I still, however, was pretty out of it. I have pretty standard, pretty hazy memories for the drunk portion of the.. I can't really say night because it went on longer than that.. the episode . I remember wobbling my way out of the flat and struggling down the snooker hall like a paraplegic who had a wheelchair with one wheel removed. I slumped to eat my food, barely aware of the football, reading the weekend papers but not taking anything in. I thought, in my drunken stupidity, that by harnessing the powers of alcohol and the semi-conscious state of sleep deprivity, I would zoom myself in a zone of unbridled and unrestricted creativity where prize-winning literature would flow from my fingers like wine from Jesus' water jug.

I was a vegetable.

So, I don't think I'll be doing that again. By ten last night, I was getting into bed, and I settled down for a totally uninterrupted eleven hours, which was absolute bliss. I woke up, a new day, totally and utterly refreshed, and it was sunday. On TV that morning, they made Chocolate Brownie with Marshmallow sauce. Me and Chris are going to make that next, because it looked like the peak of human confectionary: sweet food's concorde moment. We watched the Carling Cup final and played pool, I actually beat him! And we just went to the pub to watch Top Gear, which was fantastic - one of the better episode i've seen, which is quite a feat as they're normally so good.

And here I am. This entry was going to lead into a review of 2 new cd's i've recently bought - Fall Out Boy's Infinity On High and Mika's Life in Cartoon Motion, but that blatantly hasn't happened, so I'll just say that Mika's record is consistently great, all the way through: happy optomisto-pop. Fall Out Boy's is longer but patchier: moments of greatness mixed (in this case by Neil Avron and Babyface) with spots of mediocre, anonymous emo. Fourth song I'm a Lawyer With the Way... has boyband backing vocals that N*Sync, in their heyday, wouldn't have turned down. It is longer than Mika, most definately listenable. Both albums are, most definately, great. I'll let you all get on now!

The Theatre of Dreams

That's what they call Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams. Previously, I thought it a slightly corny, cheesy, hopeful title.

Until 9:07 on Saturday night.

That's when Brynjar Gunnarsson, Icelandic Midfielder, rose above the massed Manchester United team and powered a header against the bar from 15 yards, watching it richochet off the woodwork into the net. 5,000 Readings fans exploded in euphoric relief: an equaliser.

Dad got given a ticket to the game, arguably one of the biggest in Reading Football Club's history, by a season ticket holder who couldn't go. A week later, another season ticket holder offered my grandad two tickets. He gave them to my dad, who decided that me and my brother were ideal recipients. So, as you can imagine, we were all over the moon. Delighted. Astounded. Every good adjective.

The last time Reading and Manchester United played in the FA Cup was in 1996, January, at Reading's old ground, Elm Park. Dad had taken me to that - my brother had been too young - and I had been in the front row of the old, loud, thundering South Bank to watch the superstars of United - Cantona, Keane, Giggs - beat Reading three nil. I was so cold that I cried all the way home. The result didn't matter: we'd played Man United.

I got the train up to Manchester and met my Dad, waving at me on the platform. Excitement was building as we neared Manchester: at every station, new groups of fans, for both sides, climbed aboard, laughing and joking. There was no hostile atmosphere that you'd have associated with British football 5 or 10 years ago. A lesson that could be learned by Lille after last night's events in the Champions League.

We got in the car to go find somewhere to park, and we still had almost two hours before kickoff. Mum had packed us huge amounts of food, typical of her maternal streak: bags of crisps, sandwiches, tubes of biscuits, bottles of drink. The glove compartment was lined with sweets - pear drops, toffees. We were all stupidly excited, and we found a parking spot at a College nearby that opens it's gates to football traffic. There was people everywhere. Every chippy was flooding out people, happy, every pub had queues outside, every road was covered with Man United and the occasional Reading shirt. You turn a corner, and there it is: The East Stand, the famous roof, the famous windows, the famous 'Manchester United' in red letters across the top.

We bought programmes: one for home, one for me, one for each of my cousins who support Reading. Then we walked, with the flood of people, towards the Megastore. It's huge. There are 6 queues outside, full of people. They opened the gates and let us all stream in, and inside you can hardly move. They have sixteen tills, yet the queue snakes down the megastore and back up again. They sell everything you could possibly want in a Manchester United branding - dog bowls, sweets, socks. We decided to come back after the match for our souvenirs. Instead, we took a walk around the stadium, taking in the fantastic atmosphere.

Like on the train, there was no intimidation. It was a unique, special mood that surrounded Old Trafford. Everyone was there to enjoy an occasion. Eventually, we went inside. Our level was quite high up and we had to go up several flights of stares, before emerging onto a concourse, full of TV screens showing MUTV, snack bars and program sellers. And there, tantalising between the legs of Reading fans, red seats across the field of dreams. Dad left us to go to his section, the next one along, and me and my brother went to find our seats.

It's the great leveller among football stadiums: pacing up the stairs that let you into the main arena; the first glimpse.

Old Trafford's is spectacular. Red seats surround the pitch, verdant and green (with a few muddy patches). The buzz of an oncoming match. We sat in awe. Eventually, the Reading Goalkeepers came out to warm up, followed by the Man United team, and the rest of the Reading players, as the stadium slowly filled up. Eventually, it was time to kick off. 70,000 people were in their seats, and we rose to greet the teams as the strode out on to the turf. Truly a historic site: the Royal blue hoops of Reading walking out alongside the historic red of Manchester United.

The first half was a pretty level affair. We couldn't hear much of the United fans' chanting: Reading's resilience and competitiveness had silenced their resolve, and the team couldn't find a way through the Reading defence. We didn't make too many chances, but they couldn't break us down. The team, whilst not as technically gifted as Man United's players, work fantastically together as a team. The wingers, however, weren't breaking through at all. Ulises de la Cruz, playing at right back, was playing fantastically, as was Andre Bikey, at centre back. Much had been made before the game of manager Steve Coppell's team selection: some fringe players, who don't play as much in the league, were starting. Many people will tell you that modern football is a Squad game, and I agree: it's just a shame that the manager got so much abuse when he decided to use his full squad. Any critics would have been answered by Reading's performance.

Michael Carrick scored, for Man United, with literally the last kick of the first half. It was a well taken goal, and there was nothing that Adam Federici could have done about it - he had a brilliant game otherwise, especially tipping a Henrik Larsson effort around the post towards the end of the second half. We saw it from our end of the ground - we had a great view of the whole game - and it really was a phenomenal save. There was about 3 seconds of stunned silence from the Reading fans when United scored, but immediately afterwards the Reading fans started shouting and chanting support for our team. Traditionally, the Reading fans have been given Squad Number 13 in recognition of their role in a match: we really showed it at Old Trafford, I believe.

I said to my Dad and Brother at half time that if there's one team that wouldn't lie down, and would fight back against a Man United one goal lead, it was Reading. We got a drink at half time, and a pie. We normally don't at football, but it's a tradition, so we did. We were glad, too: nice pies. The second half kicked off and Reading weren't getting into the game as much. Eventually, however, we began to make ground again. They were playing towards us in this half, and every time they even touched the ball, we were shouting. A crescendo was reached with every attack, and beaten by another every time we got a corner. We were standing, chanting, singing, and the team were playing better, slowly forcing United into their area and onto the back foot.

United had all 11 of their players in the box when Gunnarsson rose and headed an equaliser. We sung and dance all the way to the final whistle, and all the way out of the ground. We're taking United back to the Madejski Stadium, in Reading, for a replay a week Tuesday. The atmosphere at Old Trafford was unique, and special. My voice was hoarse afterwords. I can only compare it to two matches i've attended before: the 1994/1995 playoff final against Wolverhampton at the Old Wembley Stadium - before we lost the match, of course - and on September 11th, 2001, when Reading played West Ham at home in the League Cup. We took them all the way through extra time and penalties that night. But I think this topped it.

It's one of those things that happens to you in your life, one that you'll never forget. It felt so odd; the players that I usually watch on a TV Screen in the Snooker Hall were there, in front of me, on the pitch. It still doesn't seem real, and i'll never forget the rumble of anticipation and worry in equal measure when Cristiano Ronaldo - the best player in the world, at the moment - picked up the ball. Some of the things he can do with a football beggar belief.

So, like I said, we sung our way out of the stadium and back to the car. It took us 45 minutes to get out of Manchester, but we didn't mind. We had Radio 5 on, and everyone was phoning in to talk about the game and how well Reading had done, and to show their support for Steve Coppell and the players. We stopped at a service station on the way home, and Match of the Day was on, showing the highlights. There was a coachload of Reading fans there, and we all got a Burger King. We arrived home at around half twelve.

I'm sure there's a few details I've forgotten. I bought a keyring, socks and a 'theatre of dreams' mug. It was, really, an experience. Staggering.

I went home for the rest of the weekend, and had a good time with the family. I came back, via a terrible and disrupted train journey, a couple of nights ago. And the weather's been pretty mediocre today. Cloudy and not at all exciting.

My weekend, however, was unbelievable. An unforgettable experience: that's about as well as I can talk about it. Especially since I used all the adjectives up earlier.

Snow Day!

So, Chris hammered on my door at 8:56 yesterday morning, and I trudged out of bed and drew back the curtains.

The beach was totally covered in snow, at least until where the waves were hitting it. The road was covered in snow, and every car had a blankt over it. I could see the mountain across the bay from the marina, and that was white. I went into the kitchen, to look at the view I get from the back of our house: the rest of Aberystwyth. Every surface that snow could have latched itself onto was glistening white.

Chris got back from his lecture at 10ish, and came into my room. I was already dressed, so we shared mutual excitement about the late arrival of winter, with the girls, who were too scared of getting cold to come outside for a snowball fight. So we put on big coats and gloves and headed out. Snow was still falling pretty hard, and it was wonderful. We phoned Rich and told him to get his ass over, and he arrived soon after. In the intervening period, we were encamped on a side of the road each, preparing snowballs out of site for his arrival: his car was going to pay when he drove past. So, of course, he stopped way before, so we had to run up to the car and pelt him from there. And then it begun: snowball fight.

We switched teams quite regularly, moving up and down the street, scooping the snow off of cars and any surface we could, throwing and abusing each other. We turned off of our street and up Castle Road, and saw a larger group of people up the road having a snowball fight. We slowly moved up the street, fighting, throwing snow at passing trucks and cars. Then, a truck moved: behind it was Feathers, barman in our local, and new number one target. He quickly dived in his car, which recieved a thorough covering. Then we moved on up the street and took on this other group of people, and there were about 6 or 7 of them. It was awesome. We had a side of the street each, and snowballs were raining down, cannoning off walls and lamposts, thudding on windows and doors, occasionally making contact. We were ducking behind cars and making quick runs to new positions in open ground: it was like being in a war, in the middle of a battle. I suppose in some ways we were. This all ended when Chris hit a red Sierra, driven by a pretty camp guy, who instantly slammed on his breaks and reversed back to shout at us in his slightly funny voice. Chris responded to this with another snowball, and we ran away.

Deciding to head up to the Castle and see what was happening up there, we called a cease-fire to allow a mother with 2 young children (4 and 6ish) to pass and go into their house. And then, walking past the back gate of this house on the way to the castle: snowballs. Flying over the fence. A clear declaration of war. So, we had a play snowball-fight with these little kids, which was a laugh; they were obviously having a good time. The eldest, a boy, kept coming out and throwing the snowballs at us, and the girl would throw smaller ones and call us 'smelly'. Then she came out from nowhere with a chuck of snow bigger than her head: we know when we're beaten.

There was a group of chavvy kids up at the castle who started throwing snow at us, so retaliation was the only option. The Castle is possibly the best place for a snowball fight, ever. Who knows if people were doing the same thing in the same places hundreds of years before, on a snowy winter morning? So we ducked and dived among the towers and turrets for a while. After that, we decided to retire to Varsity for lunch. I had a driving lesson then, which was good: I only stalled a couple of times, and didn't have too many problems with icy or slippery roads. Also of note is the fact that when I came back to the house I parked, first time, better than Rich or Chris had done with their three cars combined. I'm going to rub that in at every opportunity.

After the lesson, Rich had the idea of a drive up into the mountains, to Nant-y-Moch resevoir, to see more snow. However, up there, it was minus several degrees and the snow was several feet deep: pretty impassable. So after a slow journey back, Rich and Chris decided to go back in the Landrover. So, of course, we didn't hear from them for hours.

As it turns out, they got stuck in a snowdrift, and spent an hour and a half trying to dig themselves out. Which didn't work. So they walked a mile to a farmhouse to use their phone - no mobile signal all the way out there - and called Mountain Rescue. Who, despite rescuing people from mountains being their jobs, referred them to the Police. Who then told Rich that the weather was too hazardous for them to come out, which I find an absolutely appalling attitude to have, but oh well. They called Kayleigh, who came and rescued them. They had to walk 3 miles to the nearest main road, in that cold, in that snow. We were all really worried at home and contemplating calling the Police or Mountain Rescue, but then, by luck, I managed to get a call through to Rich. As if the Police would have done anything anyway.

So, when they got back, we retired to The Castle - our local - which was almost empty, only with regulars who we know, and Feathers, the barman who we'd snowballed earlier, where we proceeded to watch the World Rally Championship highlights with Feathers and have tipsy conversations with his housemate, who was on the double vodkas. And then, bed.

Today, snow was still sticking around a little, and it snowed pretty heavily for most of the day. However, it wasn't sticking around. So that's that for another year.