Every 14 Days...(35)

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