Golazo! (Andreas Campomar)
No, not the title music from Channel 4's 1990s 'Football Italia' -
well, maybe - but the story of football in Latin America (it's was £3.99 and I
needed a book to read). Andreas Campomar is a man, supposedly the
great-grand-nephew of Enrique
Buero, the Uruguayan who convinced Jules Rimet to hold the first World Cup
there so they could win it.
Starting from
the points of origin in the Nineteenth Century, it goes on to chart the rise of
The Beautiful in each of the South America's nations, and Mexico, and how each
adopted it in their own way, right up to the point when Messi couldn't look
more disappointed to win the Golden Ball in Brazil.
This is
pretty standard stuff. From reading this rather long book, you will learn a
fair few results of early South American football matches; how some Scottish
and Hungarian men had some influences in the development of the game; and that
Campomar doesn't particularly care for the English game (i.e. the English and
how they play football - Oi!).
This has its
moments, but overall, it's a little long and repetitive, a bit like the last
few World Cup finals.
Days to read: 25
Days per book: 15.1
Nomad (Alan Partridge*)
'This certainly is a book that has
been written...' ('Homes Under the Hammer' House-valuiser, Dion Dublin)
I, Alan Partridge, am a fraud. Over close to three decades, I have made
a concerted, and indeed correct, effort to present myself, Alan Partridge, as a
pillar of this modern-day society. By carefully constructing my outward persona
as a Daily Mail-reading, un-show-offy-priced-superior-car-driving, sports
casual-wearing man you can trust, I have established an above-average career in
media broadcasting, free from any questioning by local authorities.
But this, I can now confirm, is hodgepotch! For I, Alan Partridge, am a
rouge, a maverick...a nomad.
Having recently de-cluttered some loft space to make room for my
Bodymax B2 Indoor Cycle Exercise Bike with LCD monitor, I unearthed a treasure
map made by my father. Quickly discovering that any treasure associated with
this map was metaphorical, I realised that this was indeed a plotting of my
father's route from my childhood home to his failed job interview at Dungeness
Nuclear Power Station. Recalling this as a brave and pivotal moment in my
father's life, my 'nomad' side felt compelled to recreate his journey.
But no, not in the automotive mode of transport my old-fashioned father
took. I, Alan Partridge, choose to use my automated feet, not so much following
in the footsteps of my father, but rather treading on his tread marks, with
nothing more than what FedEx can courier to the next B'n'B on my route.
What follows is a whirlwind tour from the Carphone Warehouse, Norwich
(site of my childhood home) to the Romney Marsh of Kent. There are moments,
revelations, and countless opportunities for format ideas, the likes of which Noel
Edmonds can only dream of, as I embark on a once in a lifetime journey.
'As a person known for having
such low standards, I was mildly impressed!' (Keren 'Bananarama' Woodward)
*Once
again, I wish to pledge that, contrary to controversial e-rumours on the world
wide website, Steve Coogan, Rob Gibbons and Neil Gibbons (whoever they are!)
wrote not a jot of this mini-masterpiece. Every ruddy word was written by me,
Alan Partridge.
Days to read: 12
Days per book: 15.1
The Door (Magda
Szabó)
This book is
a bit of a reverse shit sandwich, in that it starts a bit shit, it then gets
better, but then goes back to being a bit shit again by the end.
A young
writer, seemingly an autobiographical version of Szabó herself, moves into a
new flat in Budapest with her academic husband. The residency is managed by the
elderly Emerence, a bit of a twat-bitch in all fairness. It's fair to say the
trio don't really get along when Emerence takes on the additional role of
looking after the young couple's flat for them as well. Over time, the two
females grow accustomed to each other and accept each other's idiosyncrasies, however
much they still appear to despise each other.
To start,
this all feels a bit sentimental and 'tragic lives' and I was none too
impressed. But, sticking with it, things improved as the two grow to learn
about each other's lives in more detail, trying to understand the other's perspective.
However, the building-to-the-inevitable end is a little annoying, as the pair
fail to fully understand each other, as you fail to understand either of them
at all.
The two lead
characters are poor, neither in the slightest bit likeable, even for a person
from Watford. Putting the two one side for a moment though, the dynamic between
them developing as each comes to terms with the other is worthy of some merit. Though
by the end, you suddenly remember that you have no time for either character: the
young writer a spoilt brat that would fail to wipe her own arse with something
she had written; and the elderly woman one to stubborn, cold and
set-in-her-ways (with pride) to have any interest in trying to form any sort of
meaningful interest in.
Maybe I'm
being an old-fashioned, bigoted man, too set-in-my-ways to understand either
character fully. But for a character-driven piece, what could have been decent
is ultimately let down by personalities that, well, just leave a bit of a taste
of shit in your mouth.
Days to read:
14 (woohoo!)
Days per
book: 15.1
