FIFA poppycock

I’ve never been a fan of a phenomenon that has emerged in recent years – the collective baring of the soul or mourning by society. The first time I remember being particularly uncomfortable with it was back in 1997, when Diana (no surname needed) died. Of course, it was a tragic event, but the prolonged national reaction seemed to me to be well, frankly, a bit over the top. In fact, I found aspects of it as obscene as the hounding of Diana by sections of the national media when she was alive. As is often the case in current affairs, Private Eye summed matters up best with a front cover that earned the magazine harsh criticism and high praise in equal measure.

Since then, like lemmings, the public has fixated on a succession of tragedies involving famous people, in a way that I think is out of proportion with the incidents (awful though they clearly are for the individuals and families directly involved). I wonder why this is the case and although I’m sure that there is no definitive answer, theories spring to mind. Maybe it’s because, in an increasingly secular society, the lack of genuine faith in God has to be replaced by some sort of congregation. Or perhaps the proliferation of media channels, social networks and the ever increasing availability of enormous amounts of content about famous people, means that Joe and Joanne Public now (mistakenly) believe that they actually have a real connection to celebrities. Whatever the cause, I don’t like the effect.

This group behaviour extends beyond moments of grief and mourning. Like lynch mobs, we the public fixate on emotive issues and vent our collective spleen with great virtual force. It’s so easy to do these days – the technology at our disposal almost demands it. So we respond to an incident or call to action and a wave of fury and indignation spreads across the web like an inelegant take on a murmuration of starlings. No-one quite knows why, but we feel compelled do it anyway, on a range of disparate topics. It’s really quite bizarre and can be very unpleasant.

It’s for the reasons above that I started questioning myself earlier this week, when I found that I was in a rage about FIFA’s response to the English FA’s request for players to be allowed to wear poppies on their shirts during this weekend’s friendly match against Spain. I buy and wear a poppy every year, yet I frown on those who display them too early and I wholly disapprove of the recent trend that has seen publicity hungry celebrities pinning ever more elaborate red tributes to themselves (most obviously displayed during the last couple of years on the drivel that is X Factor).

I certainly don’t object to people donating a fortune to the cause, but using the poppy as a charity fashion statement is not very clever. At the same time, if people choose not to wear poppies, I respect their right to make that decision (even if I don’t agree with it), and I do get annoyed when people aggressively preach about the subject on social networks. In short, I think my views and behaviour are balanced, respectful and suitably restrained.

Yet, despite that, there I was ranting about FIFA to family, friends and colleagues, and expressing my disgust and disdain for the organisation on Twitter and Facebook. I have just about calmed down now. In truth, the reason for my anger was not so much rooted in the basic decision by FIFA (crass and misguided though I think that was), it was more due to the way in which football’s world governing body articulated it. I read FIFA’s various official pronouncements on the matter with increasing fury. To me, two aspects were evident.

First, FIFA demonstrated absolutely no sensitivity to the history of the poppy and showed no awareness of what the symbol means to so many millions of people. The poppy is not pinned to our metaphorical hearts to nail our political colours to any mast (yes, English Defence League, please go away), it simply represents our gratitude to those men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice on behalf of our country. The poppy makes no judgement on whether a conflict was just or not – it says ‘thank you’ and ‘we will remember you’, and the money raised by the Royal British Legion by selling poppies is channelled to the right places. FIFA’s bland, corporate statements on the subject made no mention of this crucial point. Surely, even in refusing the FA’s request, the individuals who run the game could have found a way to acknowledge that.

The second aspect that I detected in FIFA’s handling of this matter was that the organisation relished being able to tell the FA where to go. Someone, somewhere up the ample food chain at FIFA was taking great delight in refusing the request. I say ‘someone’, but suspect there were several people revelling in their moment.

Perhaps I should relax. After all, this incident has given the poppy extra oxygen that has fuelled even more publicity than usual and every camera will make a point of picking out those black armbands with poppies at the weekend. They will appear in every newspaper and on every TV channel. That’s great – maybe it will even help us to educate a new generation about what the wearing of the poppy is all about. As the two world wars recede further into the past and there are now very few people who can directly pass on their rich memories to young people, we need to take every opportunity to remind them of the debt we still owe today.

So, yes, some good can come out of this fiasco. Nevertheless, FIFA has still plunged further down in my estimation than ever before, which is something that I didn’t think was possible.

Now I’ve got that off my chest, I’ll take a deep breath, clear my mind of that annoying organisation and fill it with appropriate thoughts of remembrance. I’ll do it quietly and the only visible sign will be one modest red poppy.

Music and (mainly mis-heard) Lyrics

We're hurtling towards the crowning of the Christmas number one. In recent years, it's not been quite the event that it used to be, thanks to the dominance of the X Factor singles. In my humble opinion, X Factor is doing a grand job of ruining popular music by ripping out any vestige of soul from it and replacing that with nicely packaged absolute dross. We're all responsible for this, by letting ourselves get carried along by it and not doing enough to counter it (though I wonder what it is that can be done to combat the Simon Cowell juggernaut).

Of course, a bit of extra interest has been injected this year, through the social media campaign to get Rage Against The Machine's 1992 track, Killing In The Name Of, to the top spot. For no reason other than my dislike for all that the X Factor represents, I'm backing RATM (yes, I know that both tracks are on the Sony label, but I believe that RATM sales will be contributing to homeless charity Shelter, which is a very worthwhile cause at this time of year). I'd be delighted, if surprised, if RATM gave Joe McElderry a potty-mouthed, sage and onion, Christmas stuffing!

I was at university when Killing In The Name Of was first released as a single and I used to listen to the top 40 singles countdown on BBC Radio One. I can still clearly recall DJ Bruno Brookes introducing the single as a new entry and then playing the entire, uncensored track. Oh, how I laughed, though I'm not sure Bruno was as amused by the complaints that then flooded in to the BBC.

Talking of lyrics, I’ve always believed that however eloquent/profound/entertaining the words, it is the melody that defines a song. Basically, come up with a decent tune (preferably a musical combination of verses and a chorus) and the job is essentially done. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the recorded work of a fine wordsmith, but if the music doesn’t get to me, then the words never really will.

However, there are many lyrics that do stick in the memory.

There are the sublime:
"And I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time"
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly"
"Teenage kicks, so hard to beat".

There are the ridiculous:
“Dancing at the disco, bumper to bumper, wait a minute...where’s me jumper”
“I don’t want to see a ghost, It’s a sight that I fear most. I’d rather have a piece of toast andwatch the evening news.”

And then there are the downright strange:
“I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand, walking through the streets of Soho in the rain.”
“I was lying in a burned out basement, with the full moon in my eye. I was hoping for replacement when the sun burst through the sky.”

I’m a big fan of mis-heard lyrics. Having followed REM for over 20 years, that’s no great surprise. Legend has it that Michael Stipe recorded the vocals for the band’s first album, Murmur, in a cupboard under the stairs. Not only that, but when listening, he appears to be mumbling a series of barely connected half-words. It’s still one of the greatest debut albums.

Elsewhere, there are many examples of mis-heard lyrics that have entered popular culture in their own right, and some of them are very funny.

Did Steve Winwood really sing “Bring me an iron lung” or was he looking for love?

Was Neil Diamond really paying tribute to the “Reverend Blue Jeans”?

Did Hendrix genuinely want us to excuse him while he “kissed this guy”?

Was Diana Ross expecting a rugby league inspired chain reaction when she sang “tell Eddie Waring there’s no salvation”? (The rumour mongers among us might wonder whether there was something going on between Diana and Eddie. The former did once perform at the opening ceremony of the Rugby League World Cup, at Wembley in 1995. Did the latter entice her to appear?)

And was Van Morrison really lifted up by the Lord like a “fool’s foreskin”?

There are so many more - these are just some that stick in my mind.

But having stated everything above, there are some lyrics that for me are as good as the music they are attached to. Dylan, Young (Neil), Jagger, Lennon/McCartney, Wyatt, Martyn, Morrissey and the rest, fair play to you all, but make way for the masters - Young, Young and Scott. For Touch Too Much, the fourth track on AC/DC’s sixth album, Highway to Hell, the three rock ’n roll maestros combined to write what for me are perfect lyrics. Okay, they are more than a little ‘dinosaur’ in attitude (!). They’re downright dirty (even offensive to some people I imagine), with barely disguised innuendo, and I’m not sure that they’ll appear in many poetry anthologies of the future. However, I think that they’re the perfect match for the music and the group in question and they make me smile every time I hear them, especially the first three lines of the second verse. Genius.

"It was one of those nights,
When you turned out the lights
And everything comes into view.
She was taking her time,
I was losing my mind,
There was nothing that she wouldn't do.
It wasn't the first,
It wasn't the last,
She knew we was making love.
I was so satisfied,
Deep down inside,
Like a hand in a velvet glove.

CHORUS:
Seems like a touch, a touch too much,
Seems like a touch, a touch too much.
Too much for my body, too much for my brain,
This damn woman's gonna drive me insane.
She's got a touch, a touch too much.

She had the face of an angel,
Smiling with sin,
The body of Venus with arms.
Dealing with danger,
Stroking my skin
Like a thunder and light-e-ning storm.
It wasn't the first,
It wasn't the last,
It wasn't that she didn't care.
She wanted it hard
And wanted it fast,
She liked it done medium rare."

For more classic mis-heard lyrics, it’s worth having a look at the KissThisGuy website.

I'd love to hear other gems from the music world - please add your favourites as comments.