Damon Hill

Formula One racing briefly held my attention in the mid 90s, but while everyone else talked about Michael Schumacher's controversial collision with Damon Hill, I kept my eye on how the Ferrari duo of Gerhard Berger and Jean Alesi were doing. The bright red Ferraris were easier to spot and seemed so much more exciting than the dull blue Williams cars. Gerhard and Jean never seemed to win, but that the fact that they had the best look was good enough for me. 

  Damon's car and the fact that he seemed to pay no attention to his hair meant that I had no sympathy for him when the Drivers' Championship was denied him in 1994 and by the time he eventually claimed the drivers' crown in 1996 I had realised that watching cars go round and round in circles barely ever overtaking each other is actually pretty sleep-inducing. Now, the background sound of a Grand Prix merely grates on my eardrums and prompts me to do the irksome Sunday afternoon task of cleaning out the rabbit's hutch.

  Hill however, whose name heads this entry, lives on and as the years go by he seems to have moved from skinny bloke who might try to talk to me about car engines to shaggy haired bloke who rocks out to cool tunes. Since leaving the steering wheel behind Hill has played guitar with George Harrison and featured on Def Leppard's album Euphoria. Hill has that enviable quality of, like wine, getting better with age. While Schumacher continues to soldier around the track he must occasionally glance enviously at Hill's greying locks.

Davids (An Ode to England Internationals Called David in the Last Twenty Years)

Ten tournaments of hopeless hoping

all defined by moments involving men named David.

Glorious moments of cloudburst joy and 

moments where we had to swallow our apples whole.

We'd stumble-tripped into a sweaty night in Bologna.

Gazza lofted our expectations into a rectangular cauldron

and there stood David, his eye on the falling orb, 

a sweet moment of pinpoint precision and suddenly we all believed.

But belief was brief as we entered Graham's regime.

A solitary goal in Sweden from that same right foot.

And then Ronald dragged our David and our dreams into the dust 

and Diana was closer to scoring than David in the US of A.

As football floated along the Thames and to Wembley's door

a caterpillar crawled across the face of our new favourite David.

His kaleidoscope shirt was blinding at just twelve yards.

His begloved sprawling hand kept our nightmares at bay for a few extra days.

Golden David's time had come as we sailed the Channel,

but he was stung by a nettle of frustration and rage

and he bit back with a ballerina's flick and left

less-exciting David to scuff the final kick.

Moustachio and Glamourboy were the Davids of a new dawn.

In Charleroi David grasped at grey clouds, but couldn't catch the dying sun

and two years on the fist-pumping revenge of the ballerina

didn't make up for slippery fingers selling our dreams cheaply.

The gloves were handed on to another David

A smiler, a joker, but not a calamitous choker?

He stood face to face with his opposite number

And one minus one proved to be zero for us.

Davids had succeeded but ultimately failed and the inevitability

of tears before bedtime in Gelsenkirchen

and tears before tournament-time back at home

have become the familiar tale of the international David.

The joker remains, probably the last David for years,

the last time such a man will carry our bold fearful boasts

to another shore to see whether he can be the 

second David to grasp the Jules Rimet in his paws. 

Driving

Sucking on a tangy seat-belt 

buckle for as long as my tongue 

can handle. Are we nearly there 

yet? Just seven real minutes pass,

but a whole lifetime of longing 

has passed for seven year old me.

Excited and eager, I squirm 

for my freedom, but time stands still

but time speeds on just above the

speed limit and I convince my

self I'm car sick and stare out of the 

window in an attempt to force 

the spider in my gut to sit 

still and Mum asks, What's a baby

swan called? And we never know

the answer and time just stands still

but it crashes on and on and 

now I reflect on reflections

of C.S. Lewis and realise

that I can find my joys and my 

despair within ancient songs and 

Dad glances over and is it 

just retrospect or did we both 

think that this was the last time and

that this was the first time that it

was me at the wheel, calluses

eroding on the sand-paper

surface. As I take a corner 

at just above the speed limit 

a millipede dances on Dad's 

heart and then rests as we squeal to 

a halt. We gasp, breathe and laugh and...          time trundles on.

Dawson

A somewhat self-centred request some might say, but a request it was and honour it I shall, so here goes with Stephen Dawson's request for me to discuss his own surname. Meanings seem a sensible place to start and unfortunately Dawson doesn't have the most exciting of origins, meaning son of David whether it is a first name or a surname. Dawe used to be a nickname for David in the 12th century and by the 14th century had become a surname. Some anti-Dave campaigners claim that this is rubbish and that Dawson is a corruption of the French surname D'Ossone which originates from Ossone in Normandy, but this theory seems to be scorned by those in the surname know. 

  Dawson as a first name has never been particularly popular in England, but since the first airing of that painful vomit-inducing programme Dawson's Creek, it has risen up the American baby-name charts rapidly. The show started in 1998 and the following year Dawson leapt from 734th to 175th before hitting an all-time high at 136th in 2000. It's been on a steady decline ever since, but still sits at 285th. Amongst those surveyed 69% of Dawsons like their name and 57% would advise prospective parents to consider it for their child. A quarter of Dawsons are occasionally bullied because of their name while 7% claim to receive constant name-related jibes, the most popular being, "Hey Dawson, where's your creek?", but the majority of Dawsons seem to be able to avoid this cruelty unlike Dicks, 96% of whom are victims of harsh tongues. While checking out these stats I wondered what effect my own choice of child names would have on my children: 70% of Jarvises love their name and 39% are teased because of it while 44% of Neds love their name and a whopping 79% are teased... hmm.

  Returning to Dawson, I shall conclude with the twenty-five Dawsons who held the most prominence in the Google hierarchy:

1. Michael Dawson: Tottenham Hotspurs centre-back called up to Fabio Capello's 30-man England squad for this summer's World Cup.

2. Dawson Leery: protagonist of American drama Dawson's Creek played by James Van Der Beek.

3. Shane Dawson: Youtube comedian and actor whose online channel is the third most subscribed of all time.

4. Jill Dawson: novelist, poet and journalist.

5. Alexander Dawson: owner of an estate agents in the West Midlands.

6. Rosario Dawson: Hollywood actress whose most famous role was in Sin City.

7. Trevor Dawson: commercial property consultant in the North West.

8. Lynne Dawson: classical singer who features on the soundtrack of The Queen (that film with Helen Mirren).

9. Andrew Dawson: another estate agent; this one's in Cheadle.

10. Stef Dawson: a bloke who has a website dedicated to random things and proclaims himself a "weirdo". 

11. Ben Dawson: a manufacturer of specialist furniture for offices.

12. Dr Angus Dawson: senior lecturer at Keele University who lectures on Medical Ethics and Law.

13. James Dawson: a technological bloke who specialises in hoses for the commercial diesel engine market.

14. Les Dawson (pictured): comedian who presented Blankety Blank and was able to screw his face up into peculiar shapes.

15. Lucy Dawson: author of books that I don't think I'll ever read.

16. John Dawson: a researcher into the innovation of retailing.

17. Graham Dawson: a solicitor.

18. Robert Dawson: an ex-headteacher turned children's author; he's fond of writing about gypsies.

19. Donna Dawson: a psychologist specialising in personality and behaviour.

20. Andrew Dawson: hand model.

21. Ian Dawson: artist who makes piles of colourful paper look nice.

22. Paul Dawson: wedding photographer.

23. Barry Dawson: also a wedding photographer.

24. Jacklyn Dawson: another solicitor.

25. Stan Dawson: reclaimer of timber and steel.

I was hoping that my friend Stephen Dawson would appear somewhere but, alas, like former rugby player, Strictly Come Dancing contestant and Question of Sport captain Matt Dawson, he was not to be found.

Dali, Salvador

Fourteen years ago I went to collect my GCSE grades. Amongst them stood my rewards for creating a cardboard box replica of Brighton and Hove Albion's former home, The Goldstone Ground. The examiner saw fit to give me an E and both the ground and my handiwork were destroyed soon after. 

  My attention to the art world has been minimal ever since, although it has been one of those things that, for a while, I've wanted to know more about. The BBC series Modern Masters has enabled me to do that. Week one was about Andy Warhol, showing how he reinvented what could be considered art and predicted our current obsession with celebrity. Week two was about Henri Matisse and how his experimentation with colour has influenced fashion and advertising as well as the art world.

  Pablo Picasso and Salvador Dali remain and this morning on a visit to the library with my twins, while they bum-shuffled their way around pulling books from shelves, I took the time out to flick through a book of Dali's work. His Swans Reflecting Elephants (pictured) leaped out at me. I found it beautiful and mesmerising, finding it impossible to spot the difference between the swans and their reverse elephant images reflected in the pool below. At this point Ned had clambered onto my lap and was growing impatient that I wasn't turning the pages quickly enough and we had a brief page-turning battle so that I could further examine the painting. I don't know if Dali was trying to say anything about the world or if the similar shapes of swan and elephant head just struck him, but it made me think about the nature of reality and how truth is not necessarily what we perceive it to be. If the truth of our lives were reflected in a pool, then I imagine they would take on surprising shapes also. I guess I am veering towards my own faith in spiritual realities which is perhaps part of the reason why this painting appealed to me, or perhaps I just appreciated the oddness of it. 

  Like Warhol and Matisse, Dali was a character that influenced places beyond the art world. Sesame Street are one of many to parody his work; he designed the Chupa Chups logo; Noel Fielding cites him as inspiration for his own surrealist brand of comedy; he had a carefully waxed and extravagant moustache and he walked an anteater around Paris on a lead. Why wasn't any of this discussed during my Art GCSE?

  He wasn't a man lacking in confidence, speaking about himself, as boxers often do, in the third person: "Every morning, upon awakening, I experience a supreme pleasure: that of being Salvador Dali, and I ask myself, wonderstruck, what prodigious thing will he do today, this Salvador Dali." I look forward to seeing what Alastair Sooke makes of him a week Sunday.   

Decagon

"I do not love prestige, I do not love

titles, I do not love ceremony,

I do not love the flashes or tabloid

splashes and now you see the ashes. What

will emerge from the gashes of twenty-

one million slashes as Nicholas 

sashays towards David's gaze and we all

watch and wait and wonder about our fate...?

I loved the job for its potential to 

make this country I love fairer, squarer." 

David Dickinson

"Aren't genetics peculiar?" mused David Dickinson as he thought back to his grandfather's life walking the streets of Manchester. A century ago Hrant Gulessarian travelled to England from Armenia to take advantage of the trading links between Manchester and the Ottoman Empire. As a teenager, before a three-year spell in prison for fraud, Dickinson traded on those same streets with no knowledge of his grandfather's previous wheeling and dealing.

  David was adopted as a baby, a private agreement between Eugene Gulessarian and her hairdresser Joyce Dickinson. After an affair with a married man, Eugene had fallen pregnant. The public image of the family was important to Hrant in 1941 and he demanded that nothing bring the family shame and so baby David was handed over to the Dickinsons. 

  David attributes his flair for finding a bargain to his grandfather and it is striking that he followed his footsteps unknowingly but so closely. He finally met his mother in his early twenties where he found out the truth about his family tree. Genetics are indeed peculiar; people I've known who seem to have a natural skill in one area have found out that that skill is one that features in their ancestors also. I wonder if Hrant had a cheeky wink and a penchant for cheesy catchphrases too. 

Doofus

In a search for socially acceptable insults, sausage-brain, banana-face and badger-kisser are my personal favourites. The combination of loosely connected words lightens the mood and helps to quell my anger although I worry sometimes that these insults are more suited to someone a quarter of my age.

  William Shakespeare was the master of the insult: "Your brain is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage (As You Like It);"Thou appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours" (Hamlet); "Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass in it" (Troilus and Cressida). It would be great to be able to draw upon such a vast array of insults to suit any situation. Thoughtful insults would surely make the world a better place. Whilst perhaps the ideal would be an insult-free world, there is surely occasion to shout, "Your utterances make less sense than an dalmation's cock-a-doodle-doo" when someone claims something absurd.

  Insults fads come and go - I was particularly fond of 'spanner' as a teenager - and one that bore a brief prominence in my life in the early noughties was doofus. I'm not sure I ever shouted the word in anger myself, but it certainly invaded my ears on occasional occurrences. It is reckoned by wordy types that the word comes from the Scottish insult doof meaning fool and goofus (goof) which comes from the French word goffe meaning stupid. Combining insults to create new words is perhaps the way forward: dumbecile, looncompoop, dundertwerp, twitnoramous are all potential additions to the dictionary of the future. Treating people the way you would like to be treated yourself is a pretty fine principle for life and I would be happy to be called any of these names when I do something particularly foolish although I wouldn't like any of them to become my actual name as was the fate from birth of Ducktales' star Doofus Drake.   

Debate

David Cameron, Nick Clegg and Lord Pearson stood waiting for the much-anticipated pre-election debate on the eve of the big day, but where was Gordon? No one knew. The polls were in and only 9% of the population were voting for Labour and now the PM couldn't even manage to turn up on time. 

  Cameron stood calm and tieless in an attempt to appear approachable. Clegg had a slick pin-striped suit and a tasty yellow tie. The Lord appeared somewhat unkempt with a black shirt hanging loosely below the waistline accompanied by a thin grey tie, but Brown remained invisible. Word finally reached the restless audience that incredibly, with the tide of the public seemingly against him, Brown had stood down. Peter Mandelson was willing to take up the prickly baton, but his Maths teacher was refusing to let him leave. With Labour in disarray, an elderly gentlemen in a yellow flowery shirt clambered out of the crowd and stood in the position of reigning Prime Minister even if would only be for a day.

  If my school were the nation, this would have been the farcical Election Eve happenings. I stood as Gordon and it was a rather odd experience. I tried as much as I could to take on the role and the policies of Gordo rather than using the opportunity to put myself in the position of political guru. As I stood talking about his policies to the meagre lunchtime throng I realised that sometimes I agree with him and sometimes I don't and I walked away slightly befuzzled, but still pretty clear in my head where my cross will be going tomorrow. Politics is complicated stuff and I'm never going to agree wholeheartedly with any one party, but I guess you have to come to a conclusion about who you agree with the most and that's what I've tried to do although tactic plays a small role too. Tomorrow will tell whether I won any voters in this miniature version of the real thing, but I doubt I made any meaningful difference as only 2% of the voters were present. 

Deranged Ducks

This blog is starting to consume my brain. Wherever I go I am keeping an eye out for things beginning with 'D' that might provide potential inspiration. If I'm with a group of people, I pay most attention to the person whose name begins with 'D'. I go to bed with the 'D' requests floating around my head wondering which direction I should take them. 

  Last night with the knowledge that I was visiting a farm today I wondered whether the request to discuss deranged ducks might present itself. So I stood there at the edge of the duck-pond holding one of my seventeen-month old twins - Ned - in my arms watching carefully for any sign of derangement, but all was peaceful and calm.

  Then, suddenly a flurry of frantic wings landed in a heap in front of us. A hen (female duck) was first to emerge but was quickly bitten on the head by a drake (male duck). The drake was halfway through mounting the hen when a second drake got involved and started dragging the first drake away by the head. Now three ducks heads were attached to each other by clamped shut beaks. I was close to intervening, but I thought that this was probably natural mating season behaviour. It turns out that drakes often get left out - I guess because there must be more of them - when its time to get fruity. These drakes don't take this well and wait for an opportunity when a hen is isolated from the other ducks and take advantage. Ned and I must have witnessed two desperate ducks this morning. 

  The story ended as the hen wriggled free and flew away and the drakes carried on head-biting before pursuing her. I'm hoping her mate came to her rescue from these lonely, but somewhat nasty deranged ducks.  

David Hirst

David Hirst is a cult hero in one half of Sheffield, a player who scored 149 times for the Owls and who still holds the record for the fastest ever shot in the Premiership - a 114mph half-volley that slammed against the Arsenal bar at Highbury. 

  That shot seems to epitomise his career though: whilst unquestionably brilliant, it was millimetres away from actually grabbing the headlines. Instead another striker, Ian Wright, scored a hat-trick and his broad grin filled the back pages the following morning. 

  This afternoon it took me a while to recognise a portly Hirst sitting in the Match of the Day studio lamenting the relegation to League One of the team he played for and loved: Sheffield Wednesday. Their 2-2 draw with Crystal Palace meant that the Eagles sent the Owls in this battle of the birds.

  In the 90s Wednesday were a far better side and even attracted the support of school-children who had never even visited Sheffield. They boasted the likes of England internationals Chris Woods, Des Walker and Chris Waddle in their side and under the management of Ron Atkinson won the League Cup in 1991. Hirst was the figurehead of this team, the bustling number nine whose eye for goal meant that the Owls were an established Premier League outfit at its formation in 1992. 

  At the same time England manager Graham Taylor was on the lookout for a new striker to take on Gary Lineker's mantle with the big-eared goal-getter close to retirement and Hirst's chance came in a friendly against France. It was Hirst's third cap and his opportunity to lay his claim to the coveted centre-forward spot for years to come. He was partnered in attack by another chancer hoping that this wouldn't be his only England cap: Alan Shearer. As half-time approached and with Lineker champing at the bit on the sideline, things were looking good for Hirst. He looked the part and Shearer was having little impact on the game, but with the whistle perched on the referee's lips the ball fell to Shearer and he did was he does best. Hirst was replaced by Lineker at half-time and never wore an England shirt again. Had the ball fallen to Hirst, perhaps he would have become the England legend that Shearer did, but it was not to be. Instead he was listed at 45th by The Daily Mail in the '50 Worst Players to Play for England' list. That's pretty harsh for a player who scored one goal in 135 minutes football for his country. That's actually a better return than both Shearer and Lineker if you'll accept that manipulation of the figures.

  Hirst had another opportunity to write himself into footballing history rather than just Sheffield Wednesday's history when Alex Ferguson came looking for a striker who would revitalise a United team that hadn't won the league in a quarter of a century. Six times Fergie put in an offer for Hirst and six times Wednesday denied him. He finally gave up and bought Eric Cantona instead. Manchester United finally landed the League title with Cantona in the team and have been doing so ever since.

  To label Hirst as a 'nearly man' is unfair though. He was a wonderfully complete striker who could score goals from distance, was a natural poacher and great in the air. He had skill, but also strength and determination. He is adored by Wednesday fans and whilst a Shearer misfire and less-determined Sheffield Wednesday board could have altered his career in an incredible way, he was a Yorkshire lad who scored goals for a Yorkshire team and was loved by Yorkshire people. What boy kicking a football around in a park wouldn't take that?

Duffy, Gillian

"Gordo, let's go to Rochdale to get us some votes," said somebody*,

"To the home of Gracie Fields, Anna Friel and Bill Oddie."

He hoped to meet the lovable, excitable badger-cuddler Bill,

But on arrival he found angry Old Labour Grandma Gill**.

"All these Eastern Europeans what are coming in," she grumbled,

"Where are they coming from?***" At this Gordo stumbled.

His temper was rising and curdling within,

But he delivered his answers wearing the politician's grin.

Bigot alert had gone off in Brown's brain,

But he didn't utter this word, he managed to refrain

Until back in the car and in a foul mood

He let his tongue free and from it this spewed:

"She's just a sort of bigoted woman" were the words he did choose

Little did he know that he was speaking into the mic of Sky News.

His gaffe was revealed to him by Jeremy Vine on Radio 2.

Brown was worried that his rash words would turn the air blue.

Back on the road, straight to Duffy's door

Where he said, "Sorry, my choice of words were poor."

And Cameron and Cleggy both had a smile on their face

They jointly claimed, "This is now a two-horse race".

But that moment of brutal honesty held some truth and some compassion.

I prefer his anger than the current political fashion

Of refusing to say what you really think

In case it causes your chances of governing to sink.

I was feeling yellow, but now those words that were probably not clever

Have left me, like Gordo's temper, redder than ever.

* perhaps Sue

** Grandma Gill deserves respect for refusing to sell her story to The Sun

*** surely this question demanded the answer: "Eastern Europe"

This poem came after teaching a Year 7 class about the election. When writing their own political speeches, one of the boys wrote: "Don't vote for Gordon Brown. He called your nan a bigot". That's a great opening line, but it made me realise that this little storm in a Rochdale teacup had come to define the Labour Party in his eyes.