Dude Looks Like A Lady

"Man ! I feel like a woman"

Last night South African runner Caster Semenya won the women’s world 800 meters title at the Athletics World Championships in Berlin in the fastest time this year. That was the easy part, but now she must prove to the IAAF (and the rest of the world) that she’s a women and not a man. If there were whispers before, they’ve turned into shouts now, as Semenya thoroughly dominated the field, breasting (or not) the tape at least 25 metres ahead of the next runner.

Standing in lane four alongside Britain's diminutive Jenny Meadows – whose bronze medal was inevitably overshadowed by the hysteria – Semenya's notably developed frame was further exaggerated. Elisa Cusma, the Italian runner who finished sixth, complained, “For me, she is not a woman”.

Despite the embarrassment caused by talk that her lunch-box was as big as Linford Chrsitie's, the teenager’s coach told the media, “We understand that people will ask questions, because she looks like a man”. You can say that again:

• Stubble – check
• Manly chest, i.e. no tits – check
• Masculine hairstyle – check
• Deep voice – check
• Muscular arms, torso, legs – check
• Large shorts that might hide the meat and two veg – check

"Bollocks, these shorts are tight"

Of course, physical attributes alone cannot be conclusive proof. If she is being judged by appearance, then there are loads of other female athletes that should also be questioned, including almost all of the competitors in the field events. The only interest in the women’s shot putt event came during the medal ceremony when there was a real possibility that the podium might collapse. As Steve Cram put it ever so diplomatically when describing 800m world record holder, Czechoslovakian Jarmila Kratochvilova: “She was a distinctive athlete in many ways, not least in physical appearance".

Last month, when Semenya stopped at a petrol station in Cape Town, the attendants prevented her from entering the ladies’ toilets, because they were convinced that she was a man. “Caster just laughed and asked if they would like her to take off her pants to show them she was a woman,” said her coach Michael Seme.

Nobody in the athletics world was laughing last night, when the IAAF admitted that it had started a gender verification process of 18-year old Semenya, the fifth youngest winner in the championships’ history. The IAAF were criticised for being callous in the timing of the announcement, which came just four hours before the most important race of Semenya’s life and meant that a young woman was confronted with serious allegations in front of a worldwide audience of millions.

"It's a man's world"

However, to be fair to the IAAF, the tragic cock-up (sic) for the girl occurred, because Athletics South Africa refused to perform a full gender check before entering her for the championships, even though doubts were expressed last year when her times significantly improved. Given the lack of sophistication demonstrated by her coach, this is hardly surprising, “I can give you the number of her room-mates in Berlin. They have already seen her in the shower”.

But Dr. Ross Tucker, a sports scientist, said yesterday: “Private parts do not answer the question. This is a rudimentary distinction, but does not acknowledge a range of developmental conditions that can cause male characteristics to develop without there needing to be male reproductive organs, so the absence of male organs is not proof of anything.”

Thus, the gender verification test is a little more complex than just pulling down her shorts, and actually involves a gynaecologist, psychologist, geneticist and endocrinologist (er, what?). Apparently, it will take months before they can declare whether Semenya is really seeing a “Man in the Mirror” - with my apologies to Michael Jackson, another whose appearance was often ridiculed.

However, surely there’s no need to employ this raft of specialists to decide whether or not she’s a woman. I could give her some simple tests, which would conclusively resolve the debate by asking her to:

• Throw a ball
• Read a map
• Wire a plug
• Parallel park a car
• Open the lid on a jar of pickled onions
• Walk past a series of shoe shops without entering

If she can successfully complete all of the above tasks, then she is definitely a man.

Or simplest of all (and a test that can take place immediately after a race is finished), just tell her that her bum looks big in her shorts. If she throws a strop, then she is without question a woman.

Alternatively, instead of worrying about her times on the running track, take her to the nearest shopping mall, ask her to buy a pair of jeans and time her:

It’s not the first time that female athletes have faced such gossip. There was a lot of innuendo about fellow African athlete Maria Mutola when she first appeared on the scene, which turned out to be rubbish. Yes, there have been a few athletes who failed gender tests or conveniently retired when they were first introduced, but there are many other athletes who have been accused simply because of their muscular appearance. If that were the critical factor, then Britain’s very own Fatima Whitbread (and Madonna) must also be in the half of the population that leaves the toilet seat up.

And if Semenya were actually a man, then wouldn’t he try to do more to look like a woman? I mean even Tootsie put on a dress and made some effort with his hair and make-up. Speaking of which, am I the only one that cringes at those Eastern European munters who try to disguise their manly features with lashings of make-up? In their case, maybe it’s really to cover-up their acne, which is the inevitable result of steroids – a far bigger problem for athletics than the odd hermaphrodite here and there. As President Obama himself said, “you can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig”.

"Boy meets girl"

Of course, some feminists have already complained that the suspicions over Semenya are little more than sexism, as one of the reasons for the doubts is that she is so much faster than the other women. They might argue that women should be competing with men anyway. After all, according to Harriet Harman, women are supposed to be equal to, if not better than, men.

It looks like it will be a while before the IAAF pronounces on Semenya, and we can only hope that the findings are clear-cut, as a hung verdict would leave lingering doubts. Having said that, I suppose that a well-hung verdict might be considered worse. Either way, Semenya has to be applauded, as she’s clearly got some balls just to run in the final with all the controversy surrounding her.

Highland Fun And Games

"If you judge a book by the cover"

Terrorism is probably not the first subject that most people would want to base a comedy book around, especially if your timing is so unfortunate that you publish such a story in 2001, the year of 9/11, but that is what Christopher Brookmyre did with the brilliant A Big Boy Did It And Ran Away.

The first editions carried the back-cover come-on, “Terrorism – it’s the new rock ’n’ roll”, which made perfect sense in the context of the book, but was a bit too close to the bone at the time. Obviously Brookmyre had no idea of the events that would unfold when writing the book earlier that year, but his message is possibly even more potent after that terrible tragedy, as he attempts to debunk the mystique surrounding terrorists, painting them as arrogant, self-obsessed egomaniacs, sublimating their craving for mass acclaim into violence.

Big Boy is a dark comedic novel that is enormously funny, but is never flippant when it comes to the real issues. The author undermines the attention-seeking terrorists with scathing humour, which makes the story a joy to read. Brookmyre himself described the book as “High Fidelity with machine guns”, as it deals with male obsessions and obsessiveness.

Christopher Brookmyre is a Scottish novelist who has published thirteen books. You are always guaranteed lashings of caustic wit mixed with biting social comment set against a background of crime thrillers, action adventures and political intrigues. His books are redolent with arch Scottish cynicism and laced with strong observational humour. Brookmyre writes with real attitude, demonstrating exhilarating linguistic fluency and an irreverent, subversive intelligence. Most of all, he is hilariously funny with his characters possessing an enviable razor-sharp wit.

"Watch out for the Glasgow Kiss"

Brookmyre is not afraid to write what he thinks with his characters often expressing outrageous opinions that are likely to provoke an extreme reaction one way or the other. Although the writing can be quite graphic as well as being controversial, it is never gratuitously offensive. There’s always a rationale or a point being made by the humour, even if it’s a fairly challenging one. Brookmyre summed up his attitude when he told his wife that his headstone should read, “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke”. His characters may be larger than life and the body count of his books may be high, but the narrative is always rendered with total plausibility. In fact, despite appearances, his novels are actually quite moralistic with the good guys winning in the end. As Brookmyre himself says, “there’s a difference between morality and judgementalism”.

Brookmyre’s memorable characters and snappy dialogue make you think of the famous American satirist Carl Hiaasen, while Colin Bateman would also be a kindred Celtic spirit. His style has been labeled “Tartan Noir” in tribute to his darkly comic worldview that features a cast of disrespectful, sharp and achingly funny characters. There is a real Scottish-ness to the narrative, which may remind you of Trainspotting, though Brookmyre’s work rarely has the desperation of an Irvine Welsh tale.

Glasgow slang is used a lot, which not only adds richness to the story, but also encapsulates a street-wise attitude that is indigenous to that city. Glaswegians don’t much go for subtly hinting at their beliefs and opinions. As P.G. Wodehouse said, “it’s seldom difficult to distinguish between a ray of sunshine and a Scotsman with a grievance”. The Glaswegian dialect is also liberally peppered with expletives and the conversations are indeed extremely sweary. For example, when one character wants to start using foreign terms, he talks about the “raison fucking d’etre”.

"The Ayes have it"

Brookmyre’s books have been described as comedy-thrillers, but they are more complex than that. Yes, at times the story will be a straightforward comedy, at other times a psychological thriller, but it will also be a vicious satire and much more besides in a multi-layered narrative. The key point is that the different elements enhance each other instead of distracting the reader. The reality is that Brookmyre belongs to no single genre. Take the plot for A Big Boy Did It And Ran Away, which is a wonderful mix of Scottish everyday life and global violence with Brookmyre skewering parenthood, amateur rock bands, on-line gaming and international terrorism (amongst other things).

At its heart, it’s about two friends, the hopes and dreams they had when they were students, and how they reconcile that to what their lives have actually become. When they were young, they thought their future would be paved with gold discs, gigs and groupies. Simon Darcourt has actually achieved success in rock star terms: massive financial rewards, global travel, adrenalin rushes and even fame (or at least notoriety). The only trouble is that his route has been that of serial killing, mass slaughter and professional assassination. More hits than The Beatles – a performer guaranteed to blow you away.

On the other hand, his former band mate, Raymond Ash, is an English teacher weighed down with the responsibilities of fatherhood, so it’s little wonder that he takes refuge in the virtual reality of on-line gaming. Thus, he assumes that he is seeing things when he glimpses Simon walking through Glasgow airport, given that Darcourt was killed in a plane crash three years ago. There follows a band reunion of sorts, even though theirs was not exactly an amicable split, as Darcourt decides to settle the old score by incorporating his old mucker into his latest terrorist plot, which Raymond bravely attempts to foil with the help of feisty policewoman Angelique de Xavia.

"The Black Spirit?"

Simon Darcourt, the “Black Spirit”, is obviously a monster, but he’s superbly well written. At first, his scything observations are quite seductive, and you might find yourself quietly sympathising with his point of view, but Brookmyre gradually cranks up Darcourt’s depravity until you see him for the vile creature he really is. Even though he notches up countless victims and does the most inappropriate things, Brookmyre’s humour is so good that we can laugh without worrying about the growing pile of corpses. However, you might have to confront a few prejudices …

Our heroine is Angelique de Xavia (rhymes with saviour), a diminutive but deadly police officer, who has to confront some discrimination herself. As a black, Ugandan-Asian, not to mention Rangers supporter, she is subjected to constant teasing about her height, sex and race, even though you would think that her martial arts expertise may give her colleagues pause for thought. This lady cop is a fantastic Lara Croft style character, combining language and combat skills, and features in future Brookmyre books The Sacred Art Of Stealing and A Snowball In Hell.

Raymond Ash is an unlikely hero, which is a feature of Brookmyre’s novels. All his heroes are relatively normal, who tend to find themselves in Die Hard situations. Brookmyre has said that he likes to set up a massive scale concept and then throw a very ordinary character into the mix, as readers have more fun imagining how either themselves or people they know would react in such a bizarre situation. In the same way that the villains are strangely likeable, the heroes are normally slightly untrustworthy or at least have an edge to them.

The best known is Jack Parlabane, the investigative journalist, whose unorthodox methods and anti-authoritarian attitude have featured in many of Brookmyre’s novels. Named after a Robertson Davies character, Parlabane is a guy who gets to say all the smartarse comments that you wish you could think of – and have the balls to make (l’esprit d’escalier, as the French would say). The hero is a vital element of Brookmyre’s approach, namely to take the classic action thriller and make it more human: “guns and toys” for the boys without the vigilantism and simplistic morality.

"The Hay of Pigs"

Brookmyre is a former journalist and his books often betray a near-despair of the modern media and its increasing tendency to report itself rather than the news, describing the coverage of the death of Princess Diana as “two weeks where all sanity was suspended”. Hence his characters’ frequent musings on modern life via flashbacks or inner monologues.

Similar to Ben Elton, the narrative is often aggressive stand-up with riffs on oil money, rock music and room service, but the diversions are so funny that they never get in the way of the narrative. As an example, this book opens with this magnificent rant on road rage:

There was one up his arse right then, flashing the headlights on his MX3, the bloke’s eyes widening and nostrils flaring in time with the admonitory illuminations. An absolute fanny. Risking his life in an attempt to overtake before the crawler lane ends, so that he'll be one car - one car - up the queue when he reaches the traffic lights. And what does that tell you about the life he was risking? Exactly. 

Suburban Sad Cunts. This was the real reason for road rage. It wasn't a symptom of growing traffic congestion (though it shared the single car-usage factor), it was that this was the closest they got to defiance, the last ghostly remnant of the will to assert some identity. It was the only time they got to express any sense of self: when they were behind that wheel, on their own, jostling for position with the rest of the faceless. Overtake the guy in the bigger, newer, shinier car and it made you forget all the other ways in which he was leaving you behind to eat his dust.

His observations on Aberdeen are also first class, though it is doubtful whether the local tourist board will be quoting them any time in the near future:

The self-conferred nickname “Silver City” was another over-reaching feat of turd-polishing euphemism. It was grey. Everything was grey. There was just no getting away from it. The buildings were all – all – made of granite and the sky was covered in a thick layer of permacloud. It. Was. Grey. If Aberdeen was silver, then shite wasn’t brown, it was coppertone. It was grey, as in dull, as in dreary, as in chromatically challenged. It was grey, grey, grey. And the only thing greyer than the city itself was the fucking natives.

There is also much fun to be had in picking up his Tarantino-esque references, firmly based in his student experiences in the 80s, particularly football (“fitba”), music and gaming. Brookmyre himself is a St. Mirren supporter and his devotion to Paisley's football club is matched only by the contempt he heaps upon fans of Glasgow's Old Firm and their sectarian baggage inherited from centuries of Irish conflict.

When Simon Darcourt puts a plan together, he gives code names to all his accomplices, always using the names of rock stars. In his concluding mission, he splits the team into three units of four: the first is named after The Clash; the second after the original members of the Sex Pistols; and then to ratchet up the humour a further notch, the last group is named after the four members of Queen.

The characters from his time at university are instantly recognisable, as is the banter between Lexy and Wee Murph, two pupils from Raymond’s school who accidentally get caught up in the scheme. Brookmyre’s ear for everyday conversation is highlighted by the titles for his books, which are almost always common phrases that apply perfectly to the stories. My personal favourite is All Fun And Games Until Somebody Loses An Eye, as spoken by many a harassed mother.

So, if you have yet to discover Christopher Brookmyre’s intelligent and hilarious world of hapless gangsters, vile politicians, reluctant action heroes, grudge-bearing hacks, rock-star terrorists and enraged mums with guns, then do yourself a massive favour and get stuck in.

That's Entertainment

If you are in my age range, then you’ll probably know how important The Jam were. They created the blueprint for just about every decent guitar band over the next twenty-five years, though few have managed to produce music quite so incisive and meaningful with a lyricism veering from anger to love and back again. They laid the foundations for Britpop, inspiring both Oasis and Blur. Oasis front-man, Noel Gallagher, bows down to no man, but even he doffs his cap to Paul Weller, the man that he wittily dubbed the Modfather.

The Jam exploded onto the punk scene in 1977, delivering their ferocious mission statement, In The City, a musical tribute to London over three minutes of aggressive urgency. The Jam were a formidable three-piece unit, led by Paul Weller, a young sharp-suited mod, and backed-up by the powerful rhythm section of Bruce Foxton (bass) and Rick Buckler (drums). Although The Jam were never really part of the hip London elite, they were clearly guided by the anti-star aspect of the punk scene, though ironically they inspired passionate loyalty from their fans. They never lost the faith of that hardcore audience, charting a very true course through rock music’s murky waters, even as they progressed musically. Originally seen as the leader of the mod revival, Weller was far too clever a songwriter to stick to the limitations of any one genre, guiding the band through many musical adventures as his tastes developed.

Tagged as the spokesman for a generation, Paul Weller identified with and rallied the disaffected suburban youth with a set of songs that contained a potent blend of anger, enthusiasm and sensitivity, all wrapped up in keenly observed social commentary. Weller’s observations were never as vicious as the Sex Pistols or The Clash, but seethed with indignation about the pains of existence, as he tried to understand life’s inherent unfairness. He successfully encapsulated life in the grim late 1970s, perfectly defining the mixture of worry, confusion and fear of those years. The cult of The Jam was an immovable part of Britain’s cultural map, providing the soundtrack to the youth of the time, as they sang directly to and about their audience. However, although their music certainly captured a moment in time, the youthful perspective and impassioned delivery could just as easily speak to any generation of young people.

"When You're Young"

The Jam’s golden period began with All Mod Cons, their third album, which is considered by many to be their finest achievement. It stands as one of the pivotal works of the new wave movement, full of belief, power and well-crafted songs, defining for the first time The Jam’s distinctive sound. Following a poor critical response to the second album, This Is The Modern World, it was viewed as a make-or-break record for the band. The pressure was further ramped up when the initial batch of songs, largely Foxton compositions, were rejected by the producers in the hope that Weller would again find inspiration. They were right to do so, for Weller proved his genius, coming back from the brink with a career-saving, and career-defining, masterpiece.

The album was a perfect reflection of the times, based firmly in 1978, that enthused the press with that barometer of critical opinion, the NME, hailing it as “fresher and newer than anything else this year”. All Mod Cons is the definitive Jam LP, the moment when the band really started to fulfill the potential they had shown with their early singles. It was the first time that they begun to work with the recording studio, as opposed to against it, demonstrating a better understanding of dynamics and pacing. The record was a brave attempt to broaden their musical and lyrical scope without losing too much of their power and anger, resulting in a classic. The album’s title has been taken as a playful reference to the band’s association with the mod resurgence, but can also be considered as a bitter comment on the modern, desirable features coveted by many, given that the album’s cover features the band in a near empty room.

The album marked a great leap in songwriting maturity and sense of purpose, representing a transition from the relatively straightforward mod/punk music that dominated the first two albums. The angry young man In the City was well on his way to becoming the worldly Boy About Town. The 60s influences are obvious, but Weller chose his heroes well, borrowing from them in order to create his own modern (world) style. For the first time, Weller built, rather than fell back, upon his inspirations, carving out a distinct and distinguished voice all his own. Q magazine reckoned that, “the past met the present on All Mod Cons and the sparks flew in a white-hot Rickenbacker fusion of punk, pop, psychedelia and R&B”.

"We are the mods, we are the mods, etc"

Weller is clearly no stranger to The Kinks’ back catalogue with the debt made evident in a scorching cover of “David Watts”, but The Jam were not so much imitators as upholders of a great British tradition of literate songcraft. While they were not really innovators, they were certainly great songwriters. Sure this album has its influences, but it’s Weller’s biting opinions that really cut through. More interested in social comment than political confrontation, The Jam breathed a sophistication that others lacked in the punk movement, marking them out from their peers.

It was on this quintessentially English album where Weller’s compositional talent came into its own, where his leavening of punk aggression with both sensitivity and a keen sense of place made The Jam unique. He employed a story-style narrative with invented characters and vivid imagery to make incisive social commentary - all in a musically irresistible package. Some of the lyrics sound like something that Philip Larkin could have written. Whoever his literary influences were, Weller did incredible things with the English language in the context of a three-minute pop song. Cynical and sneering, but never overly abrasive, Weller was tough enough to break down his own defences and secure enough to make himself vulnerable in his songs.

Reflecting some of Weller’s disillusionment with the music business at the time, the album opens with the punchy title track, "All Mod Cons", a short but searing attack on the fickle hangers-on who disappear at the first sign of tougher times, “I’ll tell you what/I got you sussed/You’ll waste my time/When my time comes”. The attack on fame and celebrity culture continues with the next track, the powerful yet poignant, “To Be Someone (Didn’t We Have A Nice Time)”, which almost implies that the band had lost its way. It feels like Weller is throwing off others’ expectations in a strong statement of intent before he returns to his musical roots, “I realise I should have stuck to my guns/Instead shit out to be one of the bastard sons/And lose myself - I know it was wrong - but its cost me a lot”.

"You might as well jump"

If the album’s opening is strong, the finale leaves you gasping in appreciation of its aggressive assault on your senses. The abrupt, punky “A Bomb In Wardour Street” is one of The Jam’s hardest and most intense songs. Clipped guitar chords trade blows with the metronomic drum beat, as Weller angrily bemoans the violent thugs that plague the punk scene, “And they tell me that you’re still a free man/If this is freedom, I don’t understand”. Scary stuff, but nothing compared to the last track, the colossal, “Down In The Tube Station At Midnight”, which brilliantly continues the theme of inner city violence with an exceptionally detailed account of an unprovoked attack in commuter land. This atmospheric and disturbing song was perhaps the best example of their ability to combine their newly found lyrical skill with the aggression and sense of injustice from their earlier work. It’s a virtuoso display packed with unexpected transitions and clever, spooky vocals as the victim edges towards his brutal mugging, “I first felt a fist, and then a kick/I could now smell their breath/They smelt of pubs and Wormwood Scrubs/And too many right wing meetings”. Anyone still keen on Going Underground?

Mind you, the rest of the record is not exactly pulling any punches either, especially the coruscating “Mr. Clean”. The sly, seductive melody belies the bitterness of the lyrics with Weller’s hatred of the class divide prompting the tirade against the 9 to 5 existence of a successful businessman, “Cause I hate you and your wife/And if I get the chance, I'll fuck up your life”. The incredibly catchy “Billy Hunt” is a return to the punk-based guitar sound that made their name in a humorous glance at one man’s frustrations with his treatment at work and life in general, as he imagines himself emulating his superheroes and fighting back, “No one pushes Billy Hunt around/Well they do, but not for long/Cause when I get fit and grow bionic arms/The whole world's gonna wish it weren't born”.

"Baby, you can light my fire"

Equally bouncy is the cover of The Kinks’ classic tale of schoolboy jealousy “David Watts”, where Weller and Foxton trade lead vocals throughout in another song apparently dedicated to dreams and aspirations, though you cannot miss the irony and disdain when Weller spits out the line, “I wish I could have all he has got”. Slashing power chords also abound in “The Place I Love”, though the song’s message is surprisingly sensitive, “I'm making a stand against the world/There's those who would hurt us if they heard/And that's always in the back of my mind”.

The deceptively upbeat “In The Crowd” is a stark anthem, speaking out in favour of the individual’s sense of self and identity, “when I'm in the crowd, I don't see anything”. This was another departure from the band’s traditional sound with its cloying arrangement, culminating in a psychedelic jam (sorry) and an acid rock name-check of an earlier song, “Away From The Numbers” which dealt with a similar theme. There’s a Beatles element here, which can also be detected on “It’s Too Bad”.

Most surprisingly, Weller gave us an early taste of the future artistic direction of his solo career by including not one, but two, ballads, which was a courageous step when all around were still pushing anarchy and nihilism in their songs. The sentimental “English Rose” is a gentle, lilting acoustic track that highlights Weller’s ability with natural imagery and emphasises the sheer Englishness of his songs, “No matter where I roam/I will return to my English Rose/For no bonds can ever keep me from she”. The delicate “The Fly” is another ravishing piece of lyrical romanticism, deeply soulful and resonant. This was an album where the beautiful and whimsical could comfortably sit next to the harsh realities of life.

"We're jamming"

Although this record was a personal triumph for Paul Weller, it was also a collective success for The Jam, with the band displaying empathy and vitality throughout and showcasing the talents of all three members. Even though Weller would later almost casually refer to “any guitar and any bass drum” in the single “When You’re Young”, rarely has a band sounded so much in tune with itself. Foxton’s slippery bass lines, under-pinned by Buckler’s clinical drumming, served as the perfect soundscape for Weller’s trade-mark Rickenbacker guitar chords, not to mention his gruff, yet expressive vocals. Songs are short, tight and relevant with the vocal interplay of the two singers never bettered.

Four short years later, while their punk contemporaries faded away, The Jam went out at the very top, playing their final gig to a packed, tearful Brighton Centre. Announcing their own Beat Surrender, Weller said that, “I’d hate us to end up old and embarrassing like so many other groups”. All Mod Cons contained an eerie premonition of this moment when Weller sang, “it's too bad that we had to break up”, but more relevantly in “To Be Someone” he asked, “Didn’t we have a nice time?/Oh wasn’t it such a fine time?” It sure was.

Bend It Like Bentley

"Where did it all go wrong?"

David Bentley had to issue a groveling apology today, surprisingly not to Tottenham Hotspur fans for his abysmal displays on the football pitch last season, but for being charged with drink driving after colliding with a lamp-post in the early hours of the morning. It’s obviously not the first time that Bentley has hit the post in his football career, but he usually has the decency to wait until he has a ball at his feet. In a statement released (and obviously written) by the club, Bentley whined:

I should like to apologise to my club and the supporters for my actions, which led to my car accident and my subsequent charge. It was wholly unacceptable and I fully appreciate that as a professional footballer I have a duty to behave in a reputable and responsible manner. I am thankful that nobody was injured in the accident. This has been a wake-up call for me both personally and professionally.

Although he describes the crash as a “wake-up call”, you have to wonder how many similar actions Bentley requires before he genuinely opens his eyes. After all the player has twice been banned for speeding in the past. In 2005 Bentley was banned for 56 days for speeding at 102mph, even though he had only just finished a 48-day ban for speeding at 120mph. In 2007 he was heavily criticised for telling MTV, "I live my life on the edge. I like driving too fast in my Ferrari." Well I suppose that it makes a change from parking his Porsche in a disabled bay. The only real shock about the latest example of appalling behaviour from a “professional” footballer is that a player as self-absorbed as Bentley drives a Porsche – and not a Bentley.

"Have it!"

I suppose that the car crash is a suitable metaphor for his football career, which appears to have come to a grinding halt, as he has only started two of his club’s games since the turn of the year. His international career has also stalled with no caps since last August. Bentley’s arrest came just three days before Spurs’ first game of the season. He wasn’t exactly flavour of the month before this incident, but now he’s probably fallen behind Aaron Lennon, the kit man and Sandra Redknapp in the pecking order. Following Ledley King’s arrest last season for an alleged assault outside a Soho nightclub, manager Harry Redknapp vowed to stop his players drinking, "Footballers should dedicate their lives to playing. Footballers should not drink. You shouldn't put diesel in a Ferrari.” Despite the unfortunate analogy, “Readies” is unlikely to be best pleased by his player’s latest escapade and Bentley’s realisation of his responsibilities may well have dawned too late to save his Tottenham career.

Bentley has hardly enamoured himself to Spurs’ long-suffering supporters, who must be wondering what on earth he was thinking when he was out boozing at 3am. Perhaps he was drowning his sorrows, as he is nowhere near an England team that might just win the World Cup (just ask John Terry), but it’s certainly not a smart thing to do, when he should be knuckling down and trying to win his first team place back. Any dedication and determination appears to have been lost at the bottom of a bottle of lager. As a self-confessed Spurs fan, you would expect that Bentley would be idolised by their support, but the least they expect in return is a bit of graft. Instead, what they get is a total lack of responsibility, evidenced on a smaller scale only last week when Bentley’s reaction to being substituted in a pre-season friendly was to stroppily jog down the tunnel.

We have been here before. Bentley’s response to Spurs’ awful start to last season was to give an interview where he declared:

It’s been shocking. It’s been a bit shit. It’s been a difficult start, especially for me. I wasn’t enjoying it. It’s been difficult out on the pitch. We’ve not been together. We didn’t know where people were running, what people were doing.

Apart from the obvious retort that Bentley was part of that sequence of shameful under-performance, this interview was never going to endear him to his team mates or his manager. He might has well have urged the crowd to chant “you don’t know what you’re doing” to Juande Ramos, the manager at the time. To the surprise of no-one, except maybe David Bentley and his rampant ego, Ramos axed him from the 18 man squad for the next match. Spurs fans would be entitled to ask exactly what Bentley has been doing since he arrived at the club last summer. Apart from one sensational goal, he has achieved virtually nothing, except for exhibiting a series of increasingly stupid hairstyles. Ironically, one of these resembled the Action Man toy, even though he has spent months doing little more than warm the bench.

"Up, up and away"

Unfortunately this is a player who clearly believes his own hype a little too much. After his single moment of glory last season, when he volleyed a great goal against Arsenal in the North London derby, he declared, “I feel like superman. I could fly home” in a post-match interview of stunning triumphalism. Given that his team was still rock-bottom of the Premier League, many felt that Bentley should learn to walk before boasting of his ability to fly. The appropriate response would have been a small nod of satisfaction with the resolve to build on that sublime moment. That way he might have added to his goal tally; instead of scoring precisely zero more goals in the season.

Once hailed as the “new Beckham”, the former Arsenal trainee cuts a miserable figure at White Hart Lane these days. In a bid to emulate his hero (or maybe just to emphasise his apparent similarities to Becks), he embossed his boots with a DB7 slogan, though he is now even struggling for an opportunity to kick the ball. Indeed, the old David Beckham is still being picked for England, as Signor Capello has clearly decided that Bentley is all mouth. Bentley's explanation for slipping behind Beckham, Theo Walcott and Shaun Wright-Phillips had the familiar ring of a victim of circumstances beyond his control. It was all the fault of doomed Spurs manager Juande Ramos, who kept playing him out of position.

Nothing to do with Bentley being a bit of a tit? When on loan to Norwich, he decided that it would be great fun to emulate the Peter Kay ad by hoofing the ball into the air, shouting “Have it!” The manager was not amused at his training session being disrupted and promptly dropped him. Bentley evidently loves television, aping Soccer AM’s dance-off in a ridiculously camp dancing contest with then Blackburn team-mate, David Dunn, in the classy Squires nightclub in Preston. There he was again, acting like the village idiot, jumping up and down and gurning behind a Sky Sports reporter doing a live piece to camera. Given these performances, you have to laugh at Bentley’s response when his wife was asked to appear on a WAGs reality show, “My missus was asked to do it and I was like 'you ain't doing that'. It makes you, like, stupid, doesn't it?" Well, you would know, David.

"What time's University Challenge?"

Bentley’s most memorable moment last year came not on the football pitch, but on the roof of Red Bull’s London headquarters of all places. For some strange reason, his agent bet him that he could not kick a ball into a skip on the other side of Charing Cross Road. He had so little faith in his client’s ability that he wagered £15,000 on him missing, but Bentley launched the ball straight into the skip, which must have been all of 70 yards away. Apart from the size of the bet being another sickening example of footballers’ obscene wealth at a time when many people are struggling to pay their mortgages, it does make you wonder how the very same player could not hit the target when missing a penalty from all of 12 yards in the Carling Cup final.

Maybe the pressure got to him, having been saddled with a ludicrously over-inflated transfer fee of £15 million when he moved to Tottenham from Blackburn, though I suppose that it’s not his fault that English players seem to attract a large transfer premium. It would be hilarious, if it wasn’t so depressingly stupid. However, I suspect that few would complain at the pressures that come with a weekly salary of £50,000. Bentley is the embodiment of much that is wrong with many modern footballers – too much money and no class.

"You don't have to be mad to work here ... but it helps"

As for Arsenal, Bentley has done nothing but stick the knife into the club that developed him since he left. You’d think that he would be grateful to the club that provided the footballing education that allowed him to ply his trade so lucratively, albeit first at mid-table cloggers Blackburn and then at perennial under-achievers Tottenham, but apparently not. He eagerly told people that being at Blackburn had rekindled his love for the game, being a “great environment to work in, a great laugh every day”, whereas:

At Arsenal, it was all about statistics. I don't want a cross to be a statistic. Everything football should be wasn't happening at Arsenal. There was no banter. I lost my love for the game.

Oh, god … banter. Shut the fuck up about your precious “banter”, you rat-faced chav. Like his kindred spirit and fellow waster, Jermaine Pennant, he never tired of complaining about the foreign influence at Arsenal. There is an apocryphal tale that he turned up at training one day, wearing a special pair of boots that said “English and proud” on one and “So I’m never picked” on the other. Maybe his non-selection was more to do with the personal problems that he would later divulge, including a serious gambling addiction:

I was 14 when I first started going to a betting shop. I got carried away with it. As I started earning more money I really started getting heavily into it. You just get addicted. I was on everything, the horses, the dogs, online with poker, betting on bingo, all sorts ... I'd wake up in the morning and the first thing I thought was to have a bet, anything from 50 to 100 bets a day.

This lack of commitment was highlighted to the nation, when he dropped out of the England Under-21 squad at the last minute before the European Championships in 2007, due to “fatigue”. His withdrawal was so late that manager Stuart Pearce was not allowed to replace him. It’s truly ironic that he decided not to play for the Under 21s, as he was really, really tired and was saving himself for future matches, given that he has spent half a season doing bugger all. Bentley said that it was hugely important for him to play for England, but Pearce drily replied, “It means everything to play for England – when it suits”. Bentley also had previous here with the former manager, Peter Taylor, dropping him from the squad for disciplinary reasons. Yet again Bentley was forgiven when Fabio Capello selected him for his first full England squad, but he was plainly less than convinced by the player’s level of commitment, as he has been conspicuous by his absence ever since.

"Yeah, I like a bet"

This has not been a great time for David Bentley. A few weeks ago he was punched in the face by a stranger as he ate in a restaurant with his fiancée. His agent said that, “a guy walked over and started talking gibberish to him, then he just took a swing and punched him”. Gibberish? Bentley must be used to that, playing under Harry Redknapp. In fact, I wonder whether police have ascertained Redknapp’s whereabouts on the night in question, given that he has been trying to get rid of Bentley ever since he arrived at the club.

Part of me almost feels sorry for David Bentley, following his dramatic fall from grace, but then I remember the huge wage he is picking up for doing little more than sitting on a bench - and wrapping his Porsche around lamp-posts. Then I think that his charge sheet should not be restricted to driving under the influence, but should maybe also cover the charge of being a gigantic twat.

I'm Only Human

Cult movie Blade Runner was last week named the best sci-fi film of all time by an on-line poll, which is a timely reminder of a prophetic and emotional tale that stands out as one of the most original and intelligent science fiction films ever made. Directed by Ridley Scott and starring Harrison Ford and Rutger Hauer, Blade Runner successfully combines and transcends the sci-fi and detective genres to forge a serious drama that is complex, thought provoking and sophisticated. Although over twenty-five years old, the movie has aged exceptionally well, thanks to the most remarkable, brilliantly imagined and visualised panorama. Yet while the depiction of a futuristic, neon-lit Los Angeles is still breathtaking, the film is backed-up by a real sense of sadness, fear and longing, thus retaining its awe-inspiring power. It is arguably the most influential science fiction film ever made and these days it is almost impossible to find a gritty sci-fi motion picture that does not owe at least a small debt to Blade Runner’s visual style.

The irony, of course, is that the film was a box office failure when it was first released in 1982, receiving negative reviews from critics who called it muddled and baffling. Made in the shadow of Star Wars, Star Trek and E.T., Ridley Scott’s dark vision was apparently too dreary for the average moviegoer of the time, despite his previous success at the helm of Alien. It was probably not helped by Harrison Ford disparagingly quipping that, “It’s a film about whether you can have a relationship with your toaster.” Notwithstanding its financial failure, the film has since become a cult classic, its reputation further enhanced by the release of a Director’s Cut in 1992.

"In the city, there's a thousand things I want to say to you"

The film depicts a dystopian Los Angeles in 2019 where genetically engineered beings known as replicants have been created as slave labour on Earth’s off-world colonies. The replicants are androids of great strength and intelligence, virtually indistinguishable from humans except for certain emotional responses, but are given a life span of only four years as a safety precaution. Following several uprisings, the “skin jobs” are forbidden on Earth and specialist police called blade runners are employed to “retire” any escaped replicants.

The plot focuses on a cunning and brutal group of rebel replicants, lead by Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer), who have returned to Earth in an attempt to prolong their “natural” life. A semi-retired blade runner, Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford), reluctantly agrees to take on one final assignment to hunt down the escapees. In the course of his pursuit, Deckard meets and falls in love with Rachael (Sean Young), a new kind of replicant that is so nearly perfect that not even Deckard can distinguish her from a human at first. The film climaxes in an unforgettable showdown between Deckard and his nemesis Batty.

The movie is loosely based on the novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick, whose work was also the source for other sci-fi blockbusters like Total Recall and Minority Report. Although Dick criticised an early version of the script, after an initial screening he enthused that the world created for the film looked exactly as he had imagined it: “I recognised it immediately. It was my own interior world. They caught it perfectly.” Indeed, the look of the film has arguably become Blade Runner’s principal legacy.

"Have you got something to sell?"

Breathtaking visual effects, such as the opening, fire-belching cityscape, highlight the most richly detailed future ever seen on screen. It looks fabulous, even though it is set in malevolent darkness and almost constant rain, and is in direct contrast to the antiseptic appearance of Star Wars. Unimaginably tall skyscrapers tower over horrendously crowded streets. At ground level the city looks like Hong Kong on a bad day, an enormous third world bazaar. This is just one of the contrasts painted by the incredible production. Like Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, or even H.G. Wells’ Time Machine, the wealthy literally live above the desperately poor, as gleaming technological wonders exist side by side with the horrendous squalor of a decaying, old city. Gigantic neon advertisements loom large through the acid rain, the smog and the flying traffic with promises of a better life (clean air, blue waters and green grass) on the off-world colonies, while the diverse billions left behind squeeze through the dangerous, polluted remains of planet Earth. The atmospheric score by Vangelis complements the mood beautifully, while the pre-CGI special effects seem so much warmer than the rather sterile efforts prevailing today and refuse to look dated even now.

However, it would be wrong to focus on the aesthetics alone, as this might suggest that the film is all style and no substance, which could not be further from the truth, as Blade Runner contains acting as stunning as the impressive visuals.

"Pistols at dawn"

Harrison Ford gives one of his better performances as the reluctant, taciturn Deckard, a dark and noir-ish twist on his heroic everyman exploits as Indiana Jones and Han Solo. Coming off his success in Star Wars, he could have been forgiven for reprising the action hero role, but instead his deeds here are far from gallant.

Sushi. That’s what my wife called me – cold fish.

Christ, Deckard. You look almost as bad as that skin job you left on the sidewalk.

Although the four replicants he pursues are all “terminated”, the two that he kills himself are unarmed women that he shoots in the back; one is killed by someone else just as he is about to finish off Deckard; and one dies of his own accord, having just saved Deckard’s life. Hardly very heroic, but all the more realistic for that. Deckard is ultimately forced to confront painful questions concerning his own identity, namely whether he is actually a replicant too. Ridley Scott has since confirmed that in his vision, Deckard is indeed a replicant, but the controversy remains ongoing, not least because Harrison Ford himself does not buy it. Ultimately, the viewer must make his own mind up, which is always the best way.

Ford’s love interest, Rachael (played by Sean Young), is not so successful. Although she manages to project a certain humanity by portraying innocence and vulnerability, the love story just does not work, as Young’s icily cool demeanour fails to infuse the relationship with the necessary human dimension. This may not be surprising, given that she is a replicant, but with her implanted memories she is meant to believe herself to be human. In any case, there are few sparks flying between Ford and Young.

On the other hand, Rutger Hauer is triumphant as the powerful, charismatic leader of the replicants, Roy Batty. Although highly dangerous and prone to extreme violence, his thoughtful performance as a tragic replicant fighting against the ebbing of his life almost makes you prefer him to Ford’s more stolid hero. Philip K. Dick regarded Hauer as “the perfect Batty – cold, Aryan, flawless”. He convincingly portrays Batty’s desperation, while captivating us with some memorable, lyrical lines:

Tyrell: Would you ... like to be upgraded?

Batty: I had in mind something a little more radical.

Tyrell: What ... what seems to be the problem?

Batty: Death.

Batty manages to radiate danger, while maintaining a philosophical, almost child-like, air, making his character very alive. As his creator exclaims, “The light that burns twice as bright burns for half as long - and you have burned so very, very brightly, Roy”. Batty’s last moments encapsulate his existence: first, he plays cat and mouse with the outclassed Deckard, then saves his life before delivering a swan song that is perhaps the most touching in movie history, as he recalls the wonders he has seen in his lifetime.

"She's got Bette Davis eyes"

Although the female replicants come to a violent end, these are tough women along the lines of Ripley in Alien and could easily serve as the inspiration for Thelma and Louise. Played by Daryl Hannah, Pris is a basic pleasure model, but this is no “tart with a heart”. Joanna Cassidy plays Zhora, a trained assassin working in a strip club. As a police captain says, “Talk about Beauty and the Beast – she’s both”. When Zhora is finally gunned down by Deckard and sent flying through multiple plate-glass windows wearing little more than a PVC mackintosh, Scott fills his sex and violence quota in just one scene.

Although on the surface appearing to be an action movie, Blade Runner is a multi-layered film that speaks to a number of weighty issues. Technology has given mankind access to the stars, but there are bigger issues here on Earth.

"You better get it up, or I'm gonna have to kill you"

The central theme is an examination of humanity and what truly makes us human, exploring the notions of identity, memory, thoughts, feelings and mortality. As Pris says to the geneticist, “I think, Sebastian, therefore I am”. With all the humans in the film so flawed and downright unpleasant (“man’s inhumanity to machine”), the question is what is the difference between them and the replicants? Maybe just a few more years on Earth. Blade runners use an empathy test, including the emotional response to treatment of animals, as the basic indicator of someone’s humanity, but this does not really address the question of whether the replicants are “alive”. The androids are almost perfect replicas of human beings, but do they have souls? This is the nagging question that has led to Deckard’s burn-out, as he anguishes over whether he is merely consigning machines to the trash or actually killing. Even though they are artificial, are they any less human? In fact, Batty ends up behaving in a more noble and “human” way than Deckard, when he saves his life, even though he has every reason to let him die. Maybe he just does not want to die alone. Either way, his final actions, more than any other, argue for the “humanity” of the replicants.

Deckard: [narrating] I don't know why he saved my life. Maybe in those last moments he loved life more than he ever had before. Not just his life - anybody's life, my life. All he'd wanted were the same answers the rest of us want. Where did I come from? Where am I going? How long have I got?

If humanity is at the heart of the movie, it should come as no great surprise that religion is also a recurring theme with biblical references and images just about anywhere you care to look. As Batty nears death, he gains a few more minutes of life by sticking a nail through his hand, before releasing a dove as he dies. It’s impossible to ignore the symbolism here, nor when Batty meets the mogul behind the manufacture of the replicants:

Tyrell: I'm surprised you didn't come here sooner.

Batty: It's not an easy thing to meet your maker.

Later, Batty speaks to Tyrrell in an almost confessional tone, “I’ve done … questionable things”, as Tyrell welcomes home “the prodigal son”. Even Zhora performs on stage with “the serpent that once corrupted man”. Fortunately, Blade Runner is grand enough in scale to carry its holy imagery, while never feeling heavy or pretentious.

"This is what it sounds like when doves cry"

How could it be so, when at its core the film is little more than a film noir? In its soul, it’s a detective story complete with an alienated hero of questionable morality, a femme fatale, dark cinematography and a down-beat voice-over. Thematically, I suppose that you could also argue that it’s similar to the western High Noon with its story of a lone Marshall facing four outlaws.

It clearly draws on other literary sources such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which many centuries earlier had pondered the ethical question of what life is, and told the story of man creating in his own (flawed) image. There are also hints of George Orwell’s 1984, as a high level of paranoia exists in the manifestation of corporate power, omnipresent police, probing lights and the state’s power over the individual.

Incredibly, seven different versions of Blade Runner have been released, but the fact is that this movie is great in any version with every viewing bringing new discoveries. The original film was burdened by numerous studio impositions, including a happier ending and Harrison Ford’s voice-over. The tacked-on ending looked as if it came from another movie, mainly because it did with Warner Bros borrowing an aerial shot from The Shining, while both Ford and Scott never wanted the narrative. The Director’s Cut restored the film’s original bleaker vision by providing a more ambiguous ending and dropping the controversial voice-over. It also enriched the love affair between Deckard and Rachael, while adding more implications about Deckard’s past. At the same time, the Director restored some scenes of savagery from the replicants, which form an important counter-balance to the contemplative final scene.

All in all, these changes have turned this already great film into a genuine masterpiece. It is one of the most extraordinary films ever made. Not only is it a tough, idiosyncratic and highly original vision of a future that seems continually more real, but it also asks meaningful questions about life and humanity, ending with perhaps the most profound death scene of any film:

Batty: I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.