Recently by Paul Flower

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.

A lot of people of my generation revered the late John Peel as a kind of deity. His genuine, unparalleled enthusiasm for new music was indeed a wonder to behold and his personal charisma and laid-back style inspired legions of fans and bands over many decades.

We miss him for those reasons, and I think we also miss him because we no longer know who to go to for musical advice. There were always scores of pretenders and imitators (some might say I was one myself), but with John there was rarely any b.s. If he said he liked something, he liked it - not because it was what his programme controller, head of music or station manager wanted to hear.

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.

To the victor the spoils, I think that's how it goes. If in this case the spoils are a self-satisfied-smug-grin then I won. We won - we took control of the Christmas number one. In truth we always had control; we always had the choice (to an extent) of what singles we bought but we lacked the motivation and the organisation to give a damn. This year, something changed.

Perhaps it was about social media, the galvanising effect of noticing that others think in the same way and were prepared to take action. Few people want to take a stand on their own, none of us wants to stand and piss into the wind - which is what this campaign would've looked like without Facebook.

Ignoring the faceless corporation behind both the RATM single and Joe McElderry's effort, because it's covered elsewhere and is irrelevant, this was a victory for those of us who were tired of being force-fed this diet of pop-pap. It was a reaction to the tyranny of televised karaoke, the monopoly of one TV programme over the charts.

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.

Barely a week goes by without another prophecy of how the music business is going to die a tragic and horrible death, probably alone in a room with Vera Lynn spinning at 78rpm on the gramophone player with feral cats on stand-by to feast on its rotting carcass.

In all fairness I've even written some of this stuff myself, and I continue to struggle with the absurdity that there is no universal, worldwide solution to the problem of illegal downloading/file-sharing. It beggars belief that the industry as a whole can't even standardise the streaming market. Countless competitors continue to fight it out in the States while those of us with a free Spotify account rejoice that we are the 'chosen ones', until the artists start to revolt of course.

The fact may be that the recorded music industry is on its deathbed, but there is still one sure-fire way to guarantee selling product in the UK: get on X Factor.

Few people speak ill of the dead, it seems that simply by dying you can absolve the bulk of your mortal sins - or perhaps only the memory of your minor faults. Is this the one thing to look forward to from death? These are not the questions I'm about to answer, I'll simply post them and walk away leaving them to be discussed by greater philosophers (of which there must be many).

It seems also to be true that some people only achieve the recognition they deserve in their obituaries. I'm saddened to think that we can only herald someone's achievements after they've gone. I noted this with the passing last week of one of my former bosses, the legendary promoter Maurice Jones.

Maurice - remembered here and here, was one of the originals, one of the people who built the UK live music industry. He was around as it moved from the clubs to the theatres, from the theatres to the arenas and from the arenas to the stadia and beyond.