Recently in Life’s like that Category

The goalkeeper quit. Again. Last season he left for a month or so, because he thought he might like to play rugby instead. We were suitably enraged, having put time into nurturing and encouraging him and even picking him up to drive him to certain games. In the end we allowed him to come back as he appeared suitably contrite, and he's a good keeper after all. This time there's no going back.

By now you'll have worked out that I'm not talking about professionals, this is much more challenging - the heady and competitive world of under-11's football. Or should that be the petulant and irritating world of under-11s?

Sarcasm: often referred to as the lowest form of wit, but those of us who use it would counter that it is the highest form of intelligence. Of course we were probably being sarcastic.

The problem with sarcasm, like its sister irony, is that a lot of people don't appreciate it. They probably don't understand it and subsequently consider it rude. Naturally it was possibly intended that way, though I confess to being a fan of lighter, inclusive sarcasm myself.

In the written form it can be harder to perceive, tone is a tricky trick to master and I am frequently surprised when people read sarcasm in my words when I was intending to be sincere. Possibly it's all in the way we're perceived as individuals; maybe you would expect me to be sarcastic even when I'm not. As a huge believer and ardent supporter of ambiguity in language I wouldn't want it any other way - even thought it has caused me a few problems in my business correspondence.

Ikea, one small Scandinavian word guaranteed to strike fear into the hearts of most men. There's a risk of gender-stereotyping here but my wife used to really look forward to our Ikea trips. She used to plan her visit, looking through the catalogue, making notes long before we'd set off to Wednesbury.

Inevitably we'd buy far more than we needed, or could capably transport home, and have to book some overpriced delivery. On one occasion we even hired a van specifically to go there.

Then a rumour started that Ikea were going to open a Coventry store. Only my bank manager could possibly have been more worried than I was. Around two years after the rumour started it was confirmed, Ikea were about to open their first city centre store. In some respects this was a blessed relief, no more would I have to trek to Junction 9 and my wife could even go there without me.

I am listless, but it is not for a lack of lists.

It is that time of year, a time when newspapers and all associated media are clogged with a catalogue of pointless point-scoring, usually notated in a point by point rating such as the top ten most pointless points I've already made this year at various points but insist upon doing so again, and you will love me for it, pointedly.

I'm possibly somewhat jealous, never having been organised enough to keep adequate notes that could form the basis of such a list. Now, of course, my memory cannot be trusted with such things. It was probably always this way. Once upon a time I was often asked my opinion about the best albums and singles of the year; I could barely remember them at the time. Now I'm no longer asked - partly because I'm not relevant enough, partly because I probably didn't do a good job of it in the past and partly because I no longer listen to enough music to make an educated stab at it.

This is the second episode of the Prague chronicles, in which our 'heroes' endeavour to have a cultural experience, or two, whilst also enjoying a beer, or twelve. All of these things took place, but possibly not in this order.

Friday, Prague: I'm up with the larks - presuming that Czech larks rise at 10am in order to look at a disappointing continental breakfast. This is the last time that the breakfast room will 'enjoy' the presence of my travelling companion Shane who insists upon trying one of the congealed mini-fried-eggs. I will suffer for this later.

Having been in Prague twice before we had a rough idea of our bearings, we also had an indestructible map and a plan. The plan was to head toward the castle to find a funicular railway and an observation tower - two attractions which we'd conspired to miss on previous visits, despite once walking straight past both of them.

On the face of it Prague is perfect. Magnificent architecture, historical relevance, favourable exchange rate (none of that Euro nonsense, yet), only two hours flying time from Birmingham, more bars than you can count, great beers, generally friendly people with a good grasp of English; it seems to be the consummate eastern-European city.

The problem depends on who you go with. Shane is a long-term friend, former near-neighbour, school & team mate, fellow Baggies season ticket holder, frequent travelling partner and regular drinking buddy. Therein lies the issue - with Shane in tow it was practically impossible to pass more than three attractive bars before we were magnetically drawn towards another beer. Naturally he would say the same of me.

Technology's a trial. Naturally we take it for granted. Massive technological advancements that weren't available to our parent's generation, we treat them as our birthright and become indignant when they fail.

I'm trying to adopt this Zen-like approach as I battle through my ninth day without broadband. It hasn't been easy. The first challenge, when your ADSL signal dies, is to actually contact your Internet Service Provider. Naturally your significant dealings with them are conducted via their web-site or by e-mail, neither of which are available when you lose access on a Sunday as I did.

So, it's already day 2 by the time they know there's a problem. You fill in a complicated form which explains how you've already jumped through the hoops of testing the line with alternate routers/modems and line-splitters. All of which you had to retrieve from the loft of course because you'd assumed you no longer needed them, which was actually true. You fill in the forms and then you wait.

The last day of the school summer holidays. Tradition in our household dictates a visit to Drayton Manor, even though the weather was suggesting that this may not be my best idea. Since what once used to be a surprise trip has since become an expected obligation off we went.

There is always logic to the decision, it marks the end of the break with an event and as some schools have already gone back it means that the park should be quieter. I have my own theme park tolerance formula: if the duration of queuing time is greater than the sum of the length of ride multiplied by the number of thrills then it's not worthwhile. Obviously I've never properly calculated this, but you tend to get a general idea.

This year I asked the children to eachbring a friend, to solve the problem of them arguing between themselves over which rides to go on. I had no doubt that they'd find something else to argue about, and doubling the number of kids under my control may also have been unwise but I could address those issues as they arose.

Drayton Manor is like an old friend, slightly dishevelled around the edges and having seen better days - but you're always pleased to see them. We have grown up with the park, and it's always had a range of rides that pretty much suited everyone. Although, after this year I fear we may have to upgrade to the older thrills of Alton Towers.

Having established last week that I didn't make a great job of it, you'll hereafter appreciate that this fact doesn't prevent me from sharing my opinions on the subject of music artist management. Sounding semi-educated without testing that ability is the role of every commentator, skilled, experienced or otherwise.

So, you want to manage talent? Frankly it's a tough gig, and probably getting tougher. Breaking a band these days is harder than ever - there are more routes to 'market' or to the audience in general, but finding the right one and 'exploiting' it successfully is extremely difficult.

The future is a difficult territory to map. A manager needs to be aware of trends and understand the elements which will favour his or her act best. Some of this can be gleaned from looking at history and the career path of similar acts. This will be despite the fact that your act might like to think that they're one of a kind.

In the past the aspiration of every artist was relatively simple, they all wanted to get a record contract, a deal with a label, in order to get their music released into the world. Success could be measured by the size of your contract, how many labels were fighting over you and what the winning company were prepared to put behind you.

People can now sit in their bedrooms and get music into worldwide circulation, getting people to notice and appreciate it is a different matter though. Getting people to pay for it is harder still.

It's my birthday. A fact I'm reminded of every few minutes as most of my 218 'friends' on Facebook wish me a happy one, usually with some associated abuse. I'm trying to forget about it; consequently I'm regretting ever joining bloody Facebook. I'm probably too old for social networking anyway, or is that just how everyone else makes me feel?

Naturally my 'colleagues' see fit to present me with a birthday card with references to bus passes, pensions and even 'granddad'. Were it not for the fact that I'm self-employed I'd consider complaining to HR.

When recently ridiculing a younger, more flamboyant, client, he quipped that 'it probably wasn't like this in my day'. In my day?! Which day did he think that was, some other century? Well, yes I guess it was. I could've pointed out that I hung out at the same clubs as Martin Degville, Boy George and the pioneers of new romantic, the first time around, the original electronica. Obviously that would've aged me as well.