the world's greatest drama

At approximately 9:40pm on Tuesday night, my phone experienced an earthquake.

This was no disaster, however. It was a seismic rush of uncalculated expression charging through an array of group chat feeds. WhatsApp, Twitter and iMessage notifications cascaded into eachother. Unfamiliar vowels and consonants came face to face for the first time. Everything was in capitals. Nothing was spelt right. No-one cared. Football was on stage, and it just hit the top note.

In the stalls, anarchy ensued. Drops of lager sprayed the dried memories of the summer. Tribal divides were broken. Jaws dropped. Neanderthal semantics rose from extinction. From the ashes of genius-induced defeat in Barcelona, Liverpool's phoenix was soaring into the Champions League final.

"Did you see the game last night?" The question reverberated around work spaces, classrooms, playgrounds, lecture halls, kitchens, everywhere. Every football fan wore a glint in their eye, one that showed the pride of witnessing something special. Marvelling at Trent Alexander-Arnold's genius, smirking at Divock Origi's heroics, admiring the Kop's noise. As relentlessly as tribal forces contracted, it was difficult to hide a smile at Liverpool's achievement.

twenty18

“For last year's words belong to last year's language 

And next year's words await another voice.” - T.S. Elliot

As the calendar year prepares itself for a software update, the world pauses to take a poignant glance over its shoulder. On life's treadmill, we are relentlessly instructed to look forwards whilst seconds, minutes and hours rush by under our feet. The turn of the year presents us with a rare opportunity to slow down and reflect on the produce of the last 365 days. We revisit the good, the bad, and the ugly of 2018, and evaluate how iOS19 will patch the shortcomings of its predecessor.

So, what does 2018 look like? Whilst 2017, 2016, 2015 and co. await the arrival of the history book's latest member, who is preparing to walk through the door? The answer is undoubtedly subjective. 

For some, 2018 is a brash, regressive and condescending, with thinning yellow hair and a sickly orange glow. For others, a panicked, uninspiring figure, unable to give a concrete answer to those that rely on it. Maybe it doesn't walk through the door, but instead rides in topless, on a horse. When the power players of global politics represent the cast of a bad seventies sitcom, media scramble to caricature them into the face of their annual review, but do we really want to remember 2018 as the year of Trump, Brexit and Vlad?

home

"Our country has been through difficult experiences in terms of unity. Sport — football in particular — has the power to help that. It is a special feeling." - Gareth Southgate

On 27th June 2016, English football was clouded with the ash of an Icelandic boom. As eleven players collapsed onto the pitch in Nice, fury raced its way from Lands End to John O'Groats. In its wake, the rage left shards of victimised pint glasses in puddles of beer-drenched tears. Football wasn't coming home, England were. The nation's disconnect with the squad had never been worse.

Fast forward 145 days, and words of disconnect continue to pollute the country's papers. Teresa May's frail Brexit proposal has left the country hanging from a tightrope, with her own teammates scything away at the rope one resignation at a time. With the country in need of a hero, English football’s candidature is no more than low-hanging fruit for satire. Right?

Flip to the back pages and fall into a utopian parallel. On Sunday afternoon, England beat Croatia to qualify for the UEFA Nations League finals in Portugal next June. The national stadium finally became a cauldron of passion, representing a euphoric microcosm that banished the fear and uncertainty of the outside world. 

The victory at Wembley topped off an incredible year of transformation for the national team, who became arguably the first people ever to stick to the concept of 'new year, new me'. Kittens became lions, and it becamse, dare i say it, ‘cool’ to support England again.

superclásico

'For a century, one duel has halved Buenos Aires. The God of one half is the Devil of the other"

- Eduardo Galeano

Occasionally in life, the stars align. Shining specks in the night sky meet, forming patterns that are romanticised from the safety of planet Earth. Get a little closer - approximately 4.24 light-years closer - and a star bares its teeth. Face a ball of furiously burning gases, and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star suddenly loses a touch of its charm.

Back down to Earth, in Buenos Aires, Argentina, two more combustible entities are set to collide. The constellation of the Copa Libertadores, South America's top club competition, has guided bitter rivals Boca Juniors and River Plate towards a stellar collision that will dwarf the magnitude of cosmic activity.

It's been 58 years since the inauguration of the Copa Libertadores, yet the first that has graced a final between Boca Juniors and River Plate. If fate wasn't clear enough, this year's final is the last that will be played over two-legs at each team's home ground, meaning that both Boca and River will take their turn to welcome their arch nemesis to their own, spitting cauldron.

The derby, the superclásico, is widely considered to be the greatest in world football, and is regularly dubbed the holy grail of the sport's 'bucket list'; attend a superclásico and you've done it all. Take a stroll through Buenos Aires and the presence of the two teams is unavoidable. Whether it be the ragged replica shirts, the branded shop fronts or the murals of Riquelme and Aimar, the city breathes from two lungs, one blue and yellow, the other red and white.

david silva

"He's a player that often looks like the only grown-up on the pitch" - Barney Ronay on David Silva

When I sat down to binge-watch the new Amazon Prime documentary All or Nothing, I was drowning in pre-conceptions. The behind-the-scenes look into Manchester City's title-winning 2017/18 season has triggered the first seismic shift in the tectonic plates of this fledgling Premier League, as fans and professionals agitate towards their respective standpoints. Fascinating, cringy, classless and compulsory viewing are just some of the jury's verdicts so far, and I don't think I need to tell you which came courtesy of their Portuguese rival.

Personally, I loved it. As a football fan, there's no better elixir to quench our thirst than taking a glance into the extra dimensions of the game. Multiple times a week we fixate on 90 minutes of football, but there's no denying that we are only engaging in the sport at its most superficial form. We focus on the feet of our heroes, and villains, whilst their psyche is speculated upon but rarely confirmed. Our insight into the minds of players and managers often come through a post-match interview diluted with PR spiel and then we re left to spend another week debating over who's annoyed and who's not.

It was the documentary's breaking of these lines that really caught my imagination. Being the fly-on-the-wall finally became a reality, and our wings took flight into Pep Guardiola team-talks, the City dressing room, and the personal lives of their squad. One particular personal life tapped into an emotion that I never thought a football documentary would, and that was David Silva.

Gringo Survival Guide

  Once more, I write this blog in a state of unholy fragility. I've spent the whole day lying around like a mess, in and out of consciousness and feeling like the world is, finally, coming to an end. When you go to a BBQ at 2pm on a Saturday afternoon, there is often little evidence to precede such a hangover but, alas, it's happened again. I suspect this may be karma for spending my Friday night laughing at Tottenham Hotspur for a similar sentiment; whatever lessons that past failures have engrained in you, sometimes it's just destined to happen again.

'Bald-head pecking' levels of friendship
can be achieved HERE

  What I want to write about today is life as a solo 'gringo' in a foreign country and city. When I arrived in Brazil - after my two friends had left - I knew nobody. The same can be said about Argentina. I was a young English bloke with no pre-determined platform, just trying to make some mates and have a good time. It's been 300 days since I arrived in Buenos Aires back in July, at which point I was without family, friends and belongings (Air Canada ladies and gentlemen...), but I feel like I've done okay. Many new friends have been made from all corners of the globe and of all social groups and ages.

  Along the way though, I think it's fair to say that I've had to take myself out of my comfort zone. I've had to do some weird stuff, and expand my personality out to lengths that it previously hasn't required or experienced. Before this vague description starts to create mis-leading images in your heads, I'm going to go through a few things that I've been through to give a a taste of life as a gringo in a foreign land.

Flares, Paint and Ayrton Senna: My Brazilian Easter

  I was stood on the the streets of central São Paulo staring up at a sporting icon. It was the middle of the afternoon, yet I was a number of beers down and grasping at a bottle of catuaba (a.k.a. liquid gold). I knew I was feeling a bit tipsy, yet I started to question just how much so when I realised that I was listening to a Brazilian questioning why this sporting icon was so important. A Brazilian questioning the greatness of Ayrton Senna? Maybe I'd missed the hallucinations warning on the side of this bottle. The motoring legend stared at us, judgingly, from a vibrantly coloured mural that covered the side of a nearby building. What he was witnessing was a group 50+ charity workers wetting the head of another successful project. It was an authentically Good Friday, just as Jesus intended... minus the beer.

  When I was made aware of the upcoming bank holiday - Easter is not naturally engrained in my mental calendar - I envisaged a day of sleep, Netflix and maybe, at a push, a cheeky shower. Oh how wrong I was. Waking up to the sight of 11:00am on my phone quickly morphed into standing, awake, on the metro platform at 6:30am. I gave myself a slap but it was reality alright. Now why the f**k was I awake at such an hour on a bank holiday Friday? Not even a Monday, a FRIDAY. Well, it turns out the spirit of Easter is contagious. Not giving up anything for lent and claiming to be an atheist at any mentioning of religion is not enough to avoid the big man's powers, apparently.

Work Hard, Play Hard(er)

  So when I last left this blog, I was giving it all that about how the fun is over, I was buckling down and that work was the new focus of my life. Technically I wasn't lying... I've worked my shifts, done some decent work and am settling into becoming a productive member of the team. As any one that works a standard weekly job knows, you've got to use your time off well. If you stare at computer screens, documents and emails for too long your mind will slowly wipe itself of any hope. This blog has never claimed to be scientific, but in this case the science of common sense prevails. Anyway, the last week has been the epitome of using my free time to the max, with the aid of some good friends of mine: Neymar and The Weeknd.

  The weekend (the two days at the end of the week, not the singer) began with a spontaneous night out. That Friday ecstasy was rolling and I met some friends for a few homemade caipirinhas as the sun set over the highrise in front of us. We headed to my favourite neighbourhood in São Paulo, Vila Madalena, and to my even more favourite burger bar which loudly promotes its 'Cold Fucking Beer' on the hilly, cobbly streets of the bohemian area. We got some burgers - served on fancy wooden trays so tables aren't needed - and some of the local beers which were suggested by a waiter that had taken an interest in our foreignness on a previous trip and even reads this blog (shoutout Victor!).

  The beauty of Vila Madalena is that every bar offers something different, from live music, unique beers, quirky decoration and just generally positive vibes. The night carried us to a couple more bars, via a mini photo shoot of us four gringos drinking a bar's speciality beer, and led us onto the streets where a group of old geezers were playing some samba. By this point, we were pretty wasted and did not hold back in joining the maturer local audience in dancing along to the samba beats that created a mini Carnival bloco. Unsurprisingly, four foreigners dancing to some local music with some beers on a warm Friday night went down well and we were popular with the crowd of people around us.

  Fast forward 24 hours. The scene was different, the people were different, but the essence was identical. I was at a house party that I had been invited to by a guy at work. Me and fellow intern Tom, from Wales, were making the caipirinhas for the Brazilians (how that works I will never know) and once again we were causing a nice stir. As has tended to be throughout this year so far, natives immediately take a shine to you if you oblige with their request to say a word or do a dance move from their cultures. It's an easy way to make some quick mates and it worked a treat at this particular party. A night that I thought was going to be a few chilled beers turned into a 10 hour party, yet I got back home at 6:30am with my real plans still ahead of me.

São Paulo: The Guide of a New Paulista

  So I'm back. It's been a while since I've written one of these and I'm sure the absence of my blog has left a deep, deep void of sadness in your lives. A couple of weeks have passed and the sarcasm has increased, but I'm back on the grind now and here to give you an idea about my new home. São Paulo is widely regarded to as the grey jungle of Brazil. The tourism agencies tend to gloss their promo videos with panoramic shots of Rio de Janeiro, the Amazon and the range of paradise beaches that are plentiful in this eyelash fluttering country. To compound this further, most Brazilians from outside the state of São Paulo will goad the place and probably even mock you personally for even wanting to visit. So initially, the idea of spending three months in the third biggest city in the world did not strike me with any sense of fortune.

  The reason I left the glamorous shores of Copacabana in Rio de Janeiro for the stone high-rise of São Paulo? Work. What else would it be? The party times are over - from Monday 8am to Friday 2pm at least - and the time has come to stop pretending like the world is merely here to be enjoyed and to get a job. I actually got this job from my university bedroom in November 2015, as I scrawled through the internet for Brazilian work placements for English students. As I previously mentioned, the idea of Carnival had put me in a daze of green and gold, and I was determined to cross the Atlantic for a few caipirinhas and a bit of samba on the streets of Rio de Janeiro. I was lucky and found an internship at a translation company called Global Translations.BR, based in São Paulo.

  It was put to one side, with Argentina and a bit of time in Rio de Janeiro to come up beforehand, and so my 2nd March start date crept up on me somewhat. The fact this was one day after arriving in São Paulo, after Carnival, made it trickier to get myself into 'work-mode'. However we're nearly three weeks down the line and I'm heavily set into my new routine. I work an 8am-2pm shift from Monday to Friday so it's fairly chilled out, and the work is fresh and a good learning experience. I'm not here to talk about my new job though. Who wants to know about that? I'm here to talk about São Paulo and how I've found this 'ugly', 'boring' and 'solely work-driven' city.

Livin' La Vida Carioca

  From doing this blog I've realised that it's impossible to do everything in the same style. Before starting it, I thought it would be like a simple equation: I do something or visit somewhere, I write about it, I post it. A very review-orientated travel blog. Yet then came South America and it's numerous imperfections, sparks and quirks. Not a day goes by here where I don't see or hear something bizarre or experience something that just wouldn't happen at home. These things don't merit their own article like an Iguazu Falls or Boca Juniors match (the show-offs), yet they combine to offer their own unique kinks to this Year Abroad armour.

What a nice weekend this looks so far...

  Occasionally enough of these weird or amusing things occur in a short period of time and I just can't help myself. This weekend was exactly one of these honeypots of material. There were highs and lows (more of the latter) and it was a bit of a rollercoaster. Come the end of Sunday, I stopped and had a little think to myself. I was still broken from a monster hangover, slightly embarrassed from some goings-on and, inevitably, tipsy once more. The Brazilians are re-knowned for their natural gravitation towards chaos - and this weekend I got a taste of the action.

  It all started on Thursday, where every good weekend starts right? I'd finished my classes for the day and I was feeling daring. Well, not daring enough for where I was going to be a thing of impulse, but daring enough to take the plunge. I got myself onto the metro and headed from Copacabana to Ipanema. I got off the metro to scorching 37+C heat, and set off en-route to my destination. Like every single damn time I've gone in search of a place in South America, it took longer than anticipated due to awkward street organisation, but finally I found King 7 Tattoos tucked away at the back of a building. I paused, contemplated my imminent life decision, and walked in.

Football Unites For Chapecoense

  I remember watching the Joga Bonito Nike adverts as a kid. Roberto Carlos, Ronaldo, Adriano and headliner Ronaldinho toying with a ball in a dressing room like a group of mates on a street corner. They oozed something we didn't have - and still don't - in England. A playful, cheeky and very likeable arrogance. The ball was their toy and they were only interested in entertaining. The Harlem Globetrotters of football. This Brazilian culture has always acted on the cherry on top of the football cake, as they paint the beautiful game with their own attitude to life. We're here to enjoy life so let's have fun and do it with a smile.

  Any true football fan has a soft spot for the Brazilians. Whether we grew up with Pelé, Zico, Romario, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Kaka or Neymar, they winked at us as we mesmerised at their creative flair. It's always been a dream to see the Seleção play in their home country. I remember seeing them play a friendly against Scotland at the Emirates Stadium in 2011, and the vibrant yellow and green support was a joy to behold. The bellowing, passionate support throughout both the World Cup (until their 7-1 spanking) and the Olympics strengthened this respect further. I wanted to be a part of it.

  With this in mind, I was hot on the case when I saw tickets still available for a friendly between Brazil v Colombia. The match was a tribute match for those that tragically lost their lives a matter of weeks ago in the Chapecoense disaster in Colombia. 71 people died in the crash, including all-but-3 of the playing squad. It's not something thats magnitude will decline over time, and is one of the saddest incidents that the sporting world has ever seen. It brought football together as one, united body and the nature of this friendly highlighted that with all proceeds going to the families of those that lost their lives. My ticket only cost £11, but it was an honour to be part of the supporting fund.

The Interview

  As my time here comes to a close, I saw it fit to attempt (key word) to try and initiate some sort of cultural exchange. I wanted to try and share some of what I've experienced with the Argentinean people here with people back at home. Now I could've put some serious effort into this and initially ideas were booming...

•  Organising and link with my old secondary school and the school I'm currently working at. 

•   Doing a spread of interviews with a range of different people that I've met here of all ages and sizes. 

•   Getting in touch with local English press. 

  Stardom was on the horizon...

  But, in reality, I just got tired listing those things let alone putting them into place; so subsequently it was traded for a Facebook post and getting five teenagers at school come and talk to me for 20 minutes in a break time. An equal substitution if you ask me. Also I thought putting something on Facebook would get a quality, sophisticated response. After all, I'd seen everyone's opinions and political analysis on Brexit and Donald Trump. Well...

 Looked like we were going for more of a James Franco to Kim Jong-Un approach to this 'cutting edge' interview. Either way, you've got to give the people what they want so I wrote up a list of questions including a mix of my own and my friends' inquisitions. Inevitably, on the day, I left the list at home so I pressed record with a blank page and just my own mind to carry me by. Always dangerous. 

  Luckily I was joined by some great kids, and their enthusiasm fused the interview and made it somewhat publishable! My guests for the day were (left to right) Diana, Ana, Mile Camila and Facundo - five of the school's 3rd grade of secondary (Year 10 equivalent I think). I allowed them to do the interview to be done in Spanish (semi-bribery on my part) and subsequently everything you're about to read has been translated and para-phrased (like my very own dictatorship...) but I've made sure to keep it as close to the original answers as possible. So here we go, enjoy! 

Becoming an Ultra - Step Two

  When I stepped onto the pitch of La Bombonera back in August it made such an impression that I wrote an article about it (doesn't take much to do that I know), but it was only just a taste. It was just a small canapé of one of the most famous institutions in world football. From that moment, I wanted the full dish. I wanted to live one of my biggest footballing dreams and watch Boca Juniors play at La Bombonera.

  I have spent the last three months sniffing out every possible avenue that would lead me to the cancha. Getting Boca Juniors tickets is no easy feat I must add. Due to extreme popularity, only socios (members/season ticket holders) can get tickets for matches. There is no online or in-person box office and you get in via your contacts - however authentic or, more likely, dodgy they may be.  

Waiting For The Call Up

  I looked at extortionately-priced tour packages - aimed at tourists that had no other route into the stadium but via a chunk in their wallets - but couldn't bring myself to pay £130+ for a football match that wasn't against River Plate (the renowned Superclásico). I spoke to Boca fans and even some socios trying to weasel my way into a ticket offer. I even got a few but in a more casual 'I'll take you to see Boca before you leave' sort of way. None of them quite came to the fore. 

  So chances were looking bleak. Could I really forgive myself if I'd come to Argentina, and spent a huge amount of time in Buenos Aires, without seeing Boca Juniors play? Hm, unlikely. Luckily a power above acknowledged my dilemma and sent me a contact through a friend. A contact with the golden ticket. My Willy Wonka was called Christian and was a socio and all-round Boca fanatic. He even used to play for the youth teams and had a cousin in the system at the moment. I was put in touch and I quickly agreed to buy two tickets for a match against Rosario Central - I was in and the dream was very much alive. 

Becoming An Ultra - Step One

  At every camp I counsel at, at most classes at school, with almost every social occasion I've been in here I've been asked the same question by Argentineans...

"¿De cual equipo sos en Argentina? ¿Sos de Boca? ¿Sos de River?"

As a football fan myself, I understand the essentiality of this question, which makes it all the more embarrassing when I'm forced to become the person I hate. 

"Erm, I don't really have one..." 

  Oh no, I'm part of that brigade now. The type of person that would say they support England if asked what team they support back at home. As football is such a religion over here, it's even less acceptable to be a fence-sitter, and your credentials as a football fan are limited without pledging your allegiance. At camps I have half-heartedly claimed to be a fan of Boca Juniors, Independiente or Estudiantes de La Plata, yet without feeling a true sense of belonging or dedication to either. The situation was getting desperate and something had to be done. 

La Bombonera - The Beating Heart of La Boca

  As I read footballing magazine FourFourTwo a few months before I departed for Argentina, my excitement to travel to one of the Mecca's of the Beautiful Game grew only stronger. In a list of the World's best stadiums, I read through the impressive list enriched with sporting history, poetry and glamour. Camp Nou. El Estadio Azteca. Wembley Stadium. Yet these iconic arenas only acted as the supports acts for the main event, voted #1 football stadium in the World - La Bombonera, home of Club Atlético Boca Juniors. The rock star of South American football.

Photos taken by host Mum but
I can assure you I was there...

   From this moment it became an immediate goal of mine to visit this famous stage. I wanted to see Iguazu, Patagonia and the variety of natural wonders that Argentina possesses, but they all came second to La Bombonera. It may seem odd that a football stadium would surpass these other natural miracles but it was a personal thing. I've always had a passion for visiting stadiums and on my prior travels it's always been on the itinerary. The Bird's Nest in Beijing, Stadium Australia in Sydney and Yankee Stadium in New York have all been prior trips that have left a positive impression. Where they regarded as the best football stadium in the world though? No.

  That was La Bombonera.

Flags, Pizza and The Mafia - A Trip to Rosario

  As a football fan, the mentioning of Argentina produces an instinctual reaction of one name to come to mind - Messi. The Greatest of All Time represents something of a religious figure for fans of the beautiful game, and subsequently a pilgrimage to his home-city of Rosario was an essential on my Argentinean itinerary. In addition to Messi, Rosario also boasts the title of the birthplace of the hipster's favourite revolutionist Che Guevara - that makes up quite the fantasy tea party if you ask me. To top it all off, Rosario is known as the most dangerous city in Argentina, rife with the trafficking of both narcotics and human beings...

  If that doesn't scream tourism honeypot I don't know what does.