The cast was a thing to behold in itself, Stallone, Willis, Schwarzenegger, Rourke, Lundgren, hick kicking Jet Li, the latest wrestling movie convert ‘Stone Cold’ Steve Austin, and Jason Statham who comes over as a knife throwing challenge to Stallone’s shooting prowess in the ‘gang’ of Expendables. Arnie has the good sense to bale out early after an appalling few lines of verbal diarrhoea with Sly and Willis, the latter also steering clear of the action.

So what of the plot then, well that kicks off in the aforesaid engagement between Sly and Willis (playing a CIA instigator) who wants a dictator and his cohorts on the island of Vilena removed from power. Eric Roberts plays the drugs chief James Munroe, who is driving the General (played by David Zayas) into oppressing the people of Vilena, but they have set up some opposition by way of the General’s daughter Sandra (Giselle Itie). Stallone and Statham visit the island in the first instance to perform a recce and see if the job is worth taking, and after seemingly wiping out the entire army between them they just about escape and leave a reluctant Sandra behind - who is soon captured. At this point we get some pitiful effort at self-searching for leaving Sandra by Stallone and some mumbled hokum and sniffling from Rourke (who does at least come out of it with some credibility) about soul saving, result…..Stallone is going back to rescue her all by himself….but guess what, the gang is all going too. Hell the macho camaraderie almost snuffs out the stink of testosterone. Cue everything being blown up, body parts and claret everywhere, and just when you think there can be no more baddies to fight, out they come to perform their gyrations as they are kicked, punched, slashed, stabbed, hewn, and rent asunder……I’m pretty sure some more than once.

What happened here is a pretty straightforward; Stallone wanted a kind of super-macho war extravaganza, with explosions and gore in an action packed glorious tribute to the old movies of the genre. Unfortunately it does not quite succeed; instead it comes out as a series of ever more brutal affronts on the enemy with no depth or charisma and so many explosions you almost feel fatigued by it all. The forced humour (such as it is) and the attempts to make the gang come across as super pals is almost the ruin of the film in itself, and it only stays afloat at all because of the nostalgic qualities and I guess the action. I am still puzzled as to Stallone’s almost fatherly hand off of action sequences to Statham, who has the greater chunk of screen time whilst others such as Jet Li were underused.

4.0/10 A surprisingly poor outing given the cast, though you have to expect that a Stallone film with action figures is not going to win any Oscars, even so it needed something more than explosions to fill the void. There was a chance for this to be perhaps a little more humorous or irreverent, but it takes itself way too seriously and loses its appeal as a result. Oddly I just heard Stallone is planning a sequel, given their ages by the time it will be made ‘The Extosterones’ perhaps?

Omar (Riz Ahmed) plays the more intelligent of the Doncaster jihadist’s attempts to school Waj (Kayvan Novak), Faisal (Adeel Akhtar), Hassan (Arsher Ali) plus a white fanatic and convert Barry (Nigel Lindsay) towards a fate that will see them in paradise. Unfortunately, the group are bumbling idiots, and the majority of the time you see them as incapable wanabees who have a distorted ideological view of their cause and of themselves as tough talking vessels of terror rather than the ‘Allo Allo’ Germans I likened them to.

What follows in the farce is Morris’s take on the terrorist position, which he views as absurd rather than threatening and satirises with glee to brilliant effect. Omar is summoned to Pakistan along with his ‘Bro’ Waj, who fail to impress and return disgraced after shooting up the wrong target with a rocket launcher, to find that Barry has recruited Hassan – a rap artist who disrupts a public meeting by pretending to be a bomber. With a quantity of ‘explosive’ procured via nefarious means, they then try to define a target that will be meaningful, with Barry suggesting home turf would see a rise of Muslims in a dog versus dog fight and Omar ridiculing him but being subdued by an accidental death forcing him to reconsider the position. They then set off to hit their target at a London marathon run, suited and booted with fancy dress to disguise their payload, it soon becomes apparent that they are both confused and uncertain of their conviction and a comedy (or tragedy) of errors ensues.

What is striking about this tale is the superb observation by Morris, who depicts a normal and happy life for Omar with his son and wife, she loving and fun-filled but taking no steps to try and dissuade him from the horrific course he is set on, whilst he tells his son expanded tales of Simba that have meaning set in the actions he is resolute in taking. It feels a little scary because it also feels real and claustrophobic. What Morris does very well however is keep the comedy sharp, acerbic with a relentless tirade against the absurdity of the bombers and their views. He does not aim for Muslims and in fact the police and officials all come off badly as he turns his sights on them as the film takes its course, with police marksmen taking out a Wookie instead of a Honey Monster in one scene with the verbal argument that follows. You do in fact feel for the main characters as the final scenes unfold, and that I guess is a good measure of just how well the film has drawn the viewer to the characters.

8.5/10 A real treat and one I suspect will reveal more laughs and depth with repeat viewing, you have to listen to the characters to get the most out of it, for the most part it is not a visual caper but that medium does have its moments too. Some excellent performances, especially from Riz Ahmed, and well worthy of its screen time.

Whilst the cast was pretty anonymous to me, knowing only Liev Schreiber apart from Jolie, they had for the most part only fleeting screen time and therefore hardly of consequence, which says something about the character building and any attention to their motivation as portrayed in between the action scenes

The tale starts with Jolie’s character Evelyn Salt having to debrief a Russian defector, which turns into her very own nightmare as she is singled out as one of a number of highly trained ‘sleepers’ or moles who are programmed to instigate acts against the USA on command. Salt goes on the run, attempting top pit her wits (I said wits) against both the US covert forces, and the Russians who are written in as the usual merciless bad asses. The resulting action sequences are well scripted but totally overdone, with manic leaping between wagons etc from an admittedly fit but still human spy. There are also the questionable disguises donned by our heroine during the various scenes where she infiltrates secure environments….I actually giggled once as I was reminded of Peter Sellers in the ‘Pink Panther’ series of movies. Still the movie fair zips along between explosions and stunts, and Jolie makes it very clear with her ninja-like prowess that she is not to be taken lightly.

6.5/10 Not the greatest of action films, but certainly not as bad as I had feared, the lack of character building leaves the viewer cold about the fates of those dispatched by Salt, and largely unimpressed by the antics of the secret service stooges. Jolie may be an all action lead but even her star quality just about carries this off, whilst I think a lesser figure would have failed. Jason Bourne certainly has no fear for his crown just yet.

 Blackburn Rovers away on New Year’s Day saw a 1-0 defeat for the Boro, and the next day I was making the long trip back to the Orient. I was soon easing myself back into the Taipei routine of working and socializing.

 The first weekend of the New Year saw the 3^rd round of the FA Cup and Boro were dumped out by Chelsea, 1-0 at Stamford Bridge. With an early exit in the League Cup at the hands of Ipswich, there were no cup runs to add the odd slice of spicy meat to the bread and butter of the league, and the team stumbled onwards in its customary inconsistent way, drawing 2-2 at home with Southampton then winning 1-0 at Fulham before receiving yet another dismantling at home at the hands of Aston Bloody Villa. This time the score was 5-2. They seemed to enjoy coming to the Riverside.

 Into February then, and with the bad weather and FA Cup weekends, Boro played only two league games that month. There was a creditable 1-1 draw at Anfield, thanks to another goal by Geremi, followed by an impressive 3-1 win at Sunderland, with goals by new recruits Chris Riggott and Malcolm Christie. The scheduled home game against Newcastle was postponed the day before kick-off because of supposed safety concerns following some heavy snowfall. Some cynical Geordies questioned the real reason for the postponement, pointing out that Boro had a long list of injuries and were just looking to avoid the inevitable drubbing. Silly Billies.

 February was thus a quiet month for football, but proved to be anything but quiet in terms of my own personal life. By the middle of the month I had all but decided that I would have to return to the UK for good. I had formulated a plan which meant that I would spend another six months in Taiwan and then go home, and even had discussions with my boss to this effect. My wife, in the meantime, was busy arranging a trip to Taiwan in March or April. She would be coming for just a week, on her own. Our 2-year-old son would stay with the grandparents, to save the multiple inherent stresses of two long plane journeys within a week.

 Any doubt left in my mind about going home was vanquished completely in late February. I was sat in an Irish bar enjoying a few stout drinks after work with my friends when my mobile phone rang. It was my wife, and as soon as I answered I could hear in her voice that it was bad news. A deep personal loss had been suffered; let’s just leave it at that.

 I could trot out the trite references to perspective, but they don’t need saying here. Suffice to say that the silly game of football and all its trials and tribulations do really pale into meaningless irrelevance at times like this. The highs and lows of real life can often defy rational description, and it must have been ten or a hundred times worse for my wife. The biggest feeling I had that night was one of wretched guilt. I was 8,000 miles away and could do nothing at all. I blamed myself completely and utterly.  

 My friends tried to help me the only way they knew how by plying me with more alcohol. They insisted that I needed company. I tolerated their sympathy and cajoling for a couple of hours, but on hearing Coldplay’s song “The Scientist” being played in a bar – “…coming to meet you, to tell you I’m sorry….” - I just couldn’t take any more and went to find a taxi to take me back to my echoing, empty apartment. The next day I handed my notice in and told the management that I wanted to go home as soon as possible. I could and probably should have gone home right there and then, but agreed to stay in Taipei until they could get a replacement for me. I knew that my wife was by then surrounded by close family, and she was due to come out to visit me within a matter of weeks. Looking back with a wiser, older head, I think I should have gone back anyway, even just for a few days. My wife’s visit a few weeks later was an emotional affair, naturally.

 My company took a frankly obscene amount of time in finding a replacement for me, and in fact it was someone I had recommended to them who eventually came in to Taiwan mid-May. I was obliged to stay another few weeks for the handover. Some kind of misplaced loyalty and a half-arsed promise of a job in the UK kept me from just telling my company to get fucked at that point. Handover of what, I’m still not entirely sure. My working time was spent doing nothing more than translating a few letters from Engrish into English and entertaining the Japanese client with my frequent rants at misbehaving office equipment. These are easy skills to pick up, the imparting of which didn’t really need 4 weeks.

 I think Boro finished 11^th that season. I didn’t really pay much attention beyond February. I went to see one or two televised games in bars, including a 2-0 home defeat to Arsenal, surrounded by Chinese people in Arsenal shirts and accompanied by an annoying Millwall-supporting colleague who was lucky to keep his teeth, and I do remember logging on to the internet at work one morning and finding out the result of the controversially rescheduled fixture against Newcastle, which was won 1-0 thanks to a Geremi header. The sweetest part of it was how it only served to increase Geordie annoyance about the game’s postponement.

I eventually got home to my wife and son in mid-June. In the last month or two of my tenure there had been the Asia-wide SARS outbreak, which threatened to trap me there for months on end, and which meant we all had to have our temperatures taken as we entered the office. All the locals went around wearing surgeon’s masks, and I spotted one man on the street pulling his mask down to take a good long drag on his cigarette. In my last week there were even two minor earthquakes just to add to my already febrile state of mind – one when I was at work in the 12^th floor office and one when I was in bed in my apartment. I remember being woken by the jolt at the start of the quake then walking into the living room and watching the light fittings swinging side to side. I was mightily relieved to get on the plane and head back west, despite my colleagues’ best attempts to get me too drunk to walk the night before the flight.

 Almost 24 hours after setting off I arrived into York railway station. My wife and son were waiting for me there on the platform, and my little boy’s first word on seeing me was a joy-tinged, “Daddy!” accompanied by a big grin and outstretched, chubby little arms. At least he still remembered who I was. As we made our way to the car park, I felt happier than I had for a long time. The last 6 months had been difficult, but there were definitely brighter times ahead.

 Life? Nobody said it was easy.

Part 1

 2002 was, in hindsight, a bit like coming up for air in a small stretch of relatively calmer waters in the rapidly-flowing stream of history. We took stock of what had happened, but knew there was likely to be more turbulence and trouble further downstream. The notable news stories of the year – the USA government naming seven countries on their “Axis of Evil” naughty list and the passing of UN Security Council resolution 1441 – were just setting the scene for what was to come.

 In an otherwise quiet year for major news stories, the Queen Mum (Gord bless ‘er) passed away just a few months before her daughter celebrated her Golden Jubilee. This was also the year that saw Euro notes enter circulation in a handful of EU countries.

 The film world was all about fantasy sequels in 2002, with the second installment of Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings coming out along with a new Harry Potter, Spider Man, Star Wars Episode II and Men in Black II.

 The music of the year was a veritable mixed bag, with the likes of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Kylie Minogue, Coldplay, Badly Drawn Boy and Shakira receiving ample airplay.

 In non-Boro sport we saw Brazil win the World Cup again in Japan, beating the Germans 2-0 in the final. Lennox Lewis showed Frank Bruno how to beat Mike Tyson, Michael Schumacer drove faster than everyone else in Formula 1 and the Commonwealth Games came to Manchester.

 For me, 2002 was also a quiet year in the main (until October, at least). I was comfortably caught in the net of routine, working in an uninspiring job in York and getting used to the idea of being a father, husband and primary bread winner. My life was mapped out. I sometimes looked through the gaps in the net to the wider world outside and sometimes imagined alternative worlds, but consoled myself with the prospect of a package holiday every summer, an occasional night out with friends and the odd football game, if I had a spare 20 quid in my pocket. I wasn’t struggling too much to escape from my nice, safe net.

 As for Boro themselves, they had ended the previous season in something of a state of transition. The new boss, Steve McClaren, still had work to do if he wanted to stamp his own identity and brand on the team. Highly-paid, ageing stars from the Robson era (I’m looking at you, Alen Boksic) were still around. Gibson showed that he still had big ambitions by funding the club record £8 million signing of a young Italian called Massimo Maccarone who had shone in an U21 match against England. He was joined by Cameroon international Geremi, who joined on a year-long loan from Real Madrid.

 But these signings were just sideshows to the main event – the return to Teesside of Juninho from Athletico Madrid. This time it was a permanent move, and the Boro fans were delighted to have The Little Fella back. Would it turn out to be third time lucky?

The season began on 17^th August with a 0-0 draw at Southampton. A better start than last season, at least. Maccarone then gave us a teasing flash of his potential with a brace against Fulham at the Riverside, but Boro contrived to let them get 2 late goals and snatch a draw. August was completed with a 1-0 home win against Blackburn, courtesy of a Job goal.

 Into September we went and a controversial penalty awarded for the slightest contact on Ruud Van Nistelrooy saw Manchester United secure a 1-0 win over the Boro on a Tuesday night at old Trafford. Next up, on the following Tuesday night, it was Sunderland at home, and the strike-force of Nemeth and Maccarone delivered a comfortable 3-0 home win. On the Saturday a visit to Goodison Park resulted in a 2-1 defeat before French Frank once again showed his eye for goal to give us a 1-0 home win over Birmingham City.

 The final fixture of September was against Spurs at White Hart Lane. Without Hamilton Ricard on the scene, I’m sure the Londoners were quite optimistic, but Boro produced one of the most memorable away performances in recent years to sweep them aside. Maccarone, Geremi and Job all scored in a 3-0 win that had the Boro faithful buzzing. The messageboards were bursting with glowing reports from Boro’s travelling support. That harlot named hope was displaying her wicked wares once again.

 October arrived, and the planets, stars and chocolate bars aligned themselves to send my life down a completely unexpected path. Quite out of the blue, a man from a consultancy company rang me from London to ask if I was interested in working in Taiwan on a prestigious project. It caught me off guard, alright, but with the way my career had been stagnating, I felt ready for a new challenge. It would mean being away from the family for long periods, of course, but opportunities like this were few and far between, so I attended an interview in London and set the wheels in motion.

 In the meantime, Boro started the month with a 2-0 win over Bolton at home, thank to goals from Ehiogu and Geremi. Talk of a challenge for a Champion League place started, but fate just couldn’t resist the temptation and delivered a nice, cold dose of reality with a 1-0 defeat away to Charlton Athletic.

 On Saturday 26^th October, as Boro battled to a 2-2 draw with Leeds at the Riverside, I once again found myself leaving the green and pleasant land of my home country and embarked on the arduous journey towards Taiwan. The first leg of the journey was a ten-hour flight to Hong Kong on a jumbo jet, which I spent with my knees pressed into the seat in front of me and a playful refrain drifting through my mind: What the f*ck am I doing?

 I arrived the following evening at Chiang Kai Shek International airport in Taipei, thousands of miles from home, but what felt like a million miles from the safe, familiar surroundings of home, family, football and decent bloody food. I know: My life; my choice.

 It took me a few weeks to get into the groove of life in the Far East, finding my feet at work and moving from the hotel into my own apartment, so I don’t really remember how Boro did during that time. Having the benefit of recorded history to hand, I can now see that Boro spent November losing then winning then losing. The five league matches of the month went LWLWL. As ever the warm fuzzy feelings of a great win against Liverpool gave way to the bitter chill of a feckless reverse to West Brom.

 I felt a bit cut off to begin with, but at least the company I worked for were helpful and the other British people I worked with were friendly, and helped me to console myself with alcohol. I soon found out that there was decent internet coverage, which helped me stay in touch with home, and a big bonus was finding out that English Premiership games were screened regularly in this part of the world on an English-speaking channel. In fact, there were probably more games on TV here than there were in the UK, and they helpfully flashed up goals from other matches and went through all the results at the end. It was rare for a Boro match to be the featured game, so I would often have to sit through Man United, Liverpool or Arsenal doing their stuff, surrounded by locals who had never even been to England wearing Man U replica kits. Grr.

 With the time differences being as they were, weekend afternoon games could kick off as late as 11pm local time, and midweek games could kick off at 4am. I had to endure that unique feeling that (sensible, I’m not staying up until that hour in midweek) expat football fans are all familiar with, especially those residing east of the UK: having to wait until the morning to check the result on the internet. Until then, all possible results exist in some weird state of quantum flux…from the glorious 4-0 win, to the mind-numbing 0-0 draw, to the shameful 6-0 hammering, to the cancellation of the game because aliens abducted the referee from the A66 between Urlay Nook and Eaglescliffe.

 It’s all a bit like that dastardly experiment hypothesized by Schrodinger, involving a cat locked in a box with poisonous gas and some random radiation-emitting substance that could release the gas at any time. The cat could be alive or dead, but until the box is opened, no-one knows, so both states exist at the same time. As Terry Pratchett asked: did they consider the third possible state – very, very angry cat?

 I was soon into the routine of having late nights on Saturdays, sometimes even Sundays if Boro were playing. Between the internet and the TV I managed to keep track of the Boro’s progress, and watched on from a third of a way round the planet as the early season promise once more dissipated into the ether and the familiar pattern of mediocre inconsistency asserted itself. December started with a 2-2 home draw against West Ham, with Ehiogu and Nemeth scoring the goals. The next home game, against Chelsea, was the first game I was able to watch live. I sat in a bar called Saints and Sinners with my Boro shirt on, outnumbered by Chelsea fans, but was able to cheer a superb free-kick goal by Geremi and a creditable 1-1 scoreline at the end.

 For the third game against opponents from that London (a 2-0 defeat away to Arsenal), I was once more on an aeroplane; on my way home for Christmas. I had to endure one of the bumpiest and scariest flights I have ever been on between Taipei and Hong Kong, at the end of which I had to have my hands surgically removed from the armrests. The Cathay Pacific Airbus A340 that took me from Hong Kong to London spent nearly 14 hours in the air, and I had even less leg-room than on the first flight. It was worth it in the end. Christmas at home is just not to be missed.

 The fact that I developed some kind of gastric flu over Christmas did little to spoil the occasion. It meant I was able to stay home over New Year as well. I was also delighted to witness the Boxing Day spanking of the Red Devils of Manchester on TV. These results are like unexpected shags (i.e. those you haven’t had to pay or beg for) and live long in the memory. Boksic’s strike towards the end of the first half raised an eyebrow, but then the way Nemeth cut through the United defence for the second…just orgasmic. Joseph Job put the finishing touches to a glorious 3-1 win, and I went to get some tissues.

 The defeat in the final game of 2002 – 1-0 away to Villa - was inevitable, of course. Would we really have it any other way?

 2002 started with a New Year’s Day fixture at home against Everton. Folk hero Gianluca Festa scored the only goal in a 1-0 win. Then it was time for the FA Cup 3^rd round. Boro weren’t to get an easy ride in this competition, drawing Wimbledon away, but managed a 0-0 draw to set up a replay at home. Old Leeds boy Noel Whelan started his best run of form for the club, adding to a Cunningham own goal to earn a 2-0 win and a 4^th round tie with McClaren’s former employers, Manchester United.

 Consistently inconsistent as ever, Boro lost 2-1 at the Al-Fayed funded new boys Fulham in the next league game, before drawing 1-1 at home to Bolton. Whelan was on the score-sheet once again.

 The following weekend saw the visit of Manchester United in the cup. The game was on TV, and everyone expected a full house, but the fans took a stand against the pricing for the game, and only 17,000 turned up to watch. Many regretted their decision later, because Boro managed to pull of something of an upset, repelling the Man U attack and scoring two late goals. Noel Whelan’s goal – latching onto a mistake by Laurent Blanc – was followed by a Leeds salute towards the joyous (but half-empty) North Stand. His feelings towards the red half of Manchester were plain to see.

 Whelan scored again to give us a 1-0 victory at the Stadium of Light on the following Tuesday night. We had yet another 0-0 draw with Charlton, then a 2-2 draw at home with mega-bucks trophy chasers (in those days) Leeds United; Ince and the veteran loan star Dean Windass grabbing the goals. A 2-1 win at home to Fulham in midweek was followed by a 1-0 defeat at the Boleyn ground in ‘appy ‘ammer territory, resuming that staccato pattern of draws, wins and losses. At least the form in the cup was holding up. Blackburn were the next team to be beaten, 1-0 at the Riverside in mid-February. The keenly-watched quarter final draw threw up the rather chewy prospect of Everton. There had been no easy draws at all.

 Leicester visited the Riverside in early March and very kindly scored the winning goal for Boro. The hapless Frank Sinclair slotted the ball past his own ‘keeper from a good 30 yards to the amazement and delight of the Boro fans. Southampton away (on a Wednesday night – credit to the fans who travelled for that one) were next up, and Noel Whelan secured a 1-1 draw for us.

 The following weekend was the FA Cup quarter final against Everton, which was won much more easily than expected. Whelan, Nemeth and Ince scored in a comfortable but unspectacular 3-0 win. The match was televised once again, but this time there was a larger crowd of over 26,000. Attendances for the season had settled at between 26 and 30 thousand depending on the opposition. Was that something to do with the football on show? McClaren’s style definitely wasn’t flashy, all-out attack, but the goals against column was showing a satisfactory number. The lower attendances were probably down a combination of factors – including the football and the increasing prices to watch a game. Me? Well I didn’t get to go to many matches this season. Family commitments made it difficult to justify the cost of a season ticket, but I was at least thankful that many of the games were shown on TV.

 Liverpool visited the Riverside next and were sent back to Merseyside without a point. Southgate scored the winning goal in the 2-1 triumph – his first for the club. Then it was time to visit Old Trafford, which no longer seemed an unbreakable fortress after the spectacular win there in 1999. Our emergence as something of a bogey team to United was enhanced with a 1-0 win in front of the largest crowd of the season in the Premiership. The recently-arrived-on-loan Benito Carbone made the most of a defensive mistake and set up Alen Boksic to slide home the winner. I don’t think Roy Keane was very happy with his team mates that day.

 March finished with a 1-1 draw at home to Spurs, courtesy of another goal by the French full-back. Robbie Mustoe gave us a 1-0 victory against Derby County on 1^st April, and then Carbone and Ehiogu scored to defeat Aston Villa at the Riverside. Boro were up to 9^th position in the table.

 Next up it was Arsenal in the FA Cup semi-final. The Gooners were on course for another double-winning season under the mercurial, selectively-myopic Arsene Wenger. Boro’s team was ravaged by injury and had to call on youngsters like Luke Wilkshire, the Australian winger, to fill in. The Boro contingent went to Old Trafford full of hope more than expectation, but organized a card display to demonstrate their kinship and feelings of communal pride. I wasn’t there myself, but watched it on TV. The card display and the singing were incredibly inspiring, making those of us watching at home feel proud, so it must have rubbed off on the team.

 Boro battled their hearts out against the London aristocrats, not letting them settle or play their normal game. There were one or two chances created, but spurned. Hope was kept alive and kicking until an Arsenal corner was diverted into the Boro goal by Gianluca Festa. Thierry Henry strutted around like Freddy fucking Mercury in celebration of the own goal, right in front of the Boro fans as the distraught Festa sank to his knees. All we needed was a robe, a crown and a guillotine.

 And that was that. There was no coming back. Arsenal got their league and cup double and Boro’s season petered out. Home defeats to Blackburn and Chelsea were joined by away defeats to Leeds and soon-to-be-relegated Ipswich Town.

 So Middlesbrough finished 12^th on 45 points. It wasn’t bad; it wasn’t great. It was OK. Given the way the season had started, things could have been worse. The unexpected FA Cup run had given fans something to cheer, but it was obvious that there was still work to do. Steve McClaren was still trying to stamp his mark on the team and obviously had a few ageing Robson-era stars like Mr. Boksic to deal with. His continuing involvement with the England team and their preparations for the World Cup in Japan and South Korea, as well as rumours about him considering an offer to manage Leeds United, didn’t endear him to the fans as much as some might have hoped. Only time would tell if he could win the fans over.

 It was summer again. I took my wife and son on holiday to the scorching hot island of Corfu and while I watched the World Cup games in a bar by the brilliant Mediterranean Sea, I didn’t know what was looming round the corner for me and my family. Not far from where England were being dumped out of the competition by Brazil, something like the beat of a butterfly’s wings and the slight shift in tectonic plates started a chain of events that would once more take me on my travels.

 I do love a bit of Chaos Theory…

What can be said about 2001? Everyone I know remembers where they were when the shocking events of that bright September morning in New York unfolded. The whole world watched as the whole world changed. I was at work in an office in York when the news came through and spent the rest of the day vainly searching the internet for news about the attacks and listening to increasingly wild and wacky rumours and theories.

 These history-defining moments overshadow everything else, especially frivolous games involving chasing a ball around a field. Life perspective is brought quickly and painfully into focus. Eventually, the shock and horror fade and recede in the minds of the public, and the paralysis of fear gives way to stoic acceptance that life has to go on…trite as that sounds. We soon go back to worrying about our own worlds and lives; wondering what is for tea tonight; wondering how that ball-kicking game at the weekend will go…

 The other news events of the year seem irrelevant in comparison to 9/11, but the notable events included the UK Foot and Mouth outbreak, the re-election of Blair’s Labour party into power, the execution of Timothy McVeigh (2 months before 9/11) and the bankruptcy of Enron.

 In popular culture, the world of film was dominated by fantasy and animation. The first Harry Potter and The Lord of The Rings films lead the way, with Monsters, Inc. and Shrek in tow. In the music world, US-based “Nu Metal” and the likes of Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit featured heavily, and the Beatles “1” album showed that the appetite for Liverpudlian boy bands wasn’t diminishing. Oh, and Steps split up. Tragedy.

 The inevitable departure of Bryan Robson was not seen as a tragedy. He had overseen six seasons of mixed success and rollercoaster emotions. Early promise had been unfulfilled. He had come so close to, yet so far from, making history with the club. The consensus was that he had been found wanting in terms of his coaching ability.

 It’s possible that Gibson agreed with this assessment. When it became clear that Terry Venables wasn’t going to stick around, the chairman went looking for a new man to take the helm. Steve McClaren, who had earned a reputation as a good coach and assistant manager with Derby County and Manchester United, was approached and turned down offers to join Southampton and West Ham to take up the challenge of managing Boro.

In terms of playing staff, McClaren brought in a couple of Man United second-string players in the form of Jonathan Greening and Mark Wilson. Szilard Nemeth, the Slovakian forward, joined from Inter Bratislava, and the French full-back Frank Queudrue also signed. The biggest signing was that of Gareth Southgate, with Boro paying a record fee for the centre back. He was persuaded to resume his partnership with former Villa player Ugo Ehiogu, and the signing was seen as something of a coup. The Boro public weren’t sure what to expect, but were hopeful that someone of McClaren’s obvious calibre would bring success. The more instant the better, naturally.

 It didn’t start very well. McClaren’s first game in charge at the Riverside saw the visit of Arsenal, who promptly condemned Boro to a humiliating 4-0 defeat. There followed two away games at Bolton and Everton, both of which were lost, before we entertained the black and white beer bellies from up the road.

 We started that game quite well, but a couple of key refereeing decisions with penalties at both ends and a sending off turned the tide in Newcastle’s favour. They romped to a 4-1 win, leaving Boro fans worried about how this season was going to pan out. So much for a good coach. Goals were flying in to the Boro net with alarming ease, and only one had been scored at the right end…by a defender.

 The recovery started with a 2-0 win over West Ham at home (the weekend after the terrorist atrocities in the USA), followed by a hard-fought comeback in the televised Monday night match against Leicester. We came from a goal down at half-time to win 2-1, with goals from Ince and new boy Greening.

 Next up was Chelsea away – always a tricky prospect – but Boksic and Robbie Stockdale scored the goals that earned a creditable 2-2 draw. The early-season shiteness was fast becoming a distant memory…or so we thought. That perennial not-so-much-bogey-as-constant-stream-of-snot team called Southampton mugged us 3-1 at home. The revival was over.

 After the international break in early October, Boro resumed with a 0-0 draw away to Charlton Athletic and an always-pleasant home win against Sunderland on a Monday night, French Frank showing us his ability with free kicks. We then lost 2-1 away to Tottenham, settling into a familiar, arrhythmic pattern of inconsistency. The prevalent feeling was that the team couldn’t get into top gear. Maybe they were struggling with the new manager’s almost scientific approach, but they seemed unable to play free-flowing football for any more than the odd patch.

 Something clicked on the 3^rd November, however, and Boro gave Derby their traditional hammering at our place…5-1 on this occasion. Nemeth, Boksic and Mustoe got a goal each, but the star of the show was the young man called Carlos Marinelli, who scored twice and ran the Rams ragged. As seems to happen with many players hailing from Argentina, this young fellow was immediately saddled with the expectation that he would be the next Maradonna. Other than in this Derby game, I don’t recall him ever looking like he would get close to fulfilling such a destiny.

 The team obviously exhausted their good form in that game, because other than a 1-0 win away at Blackburn, there were no more victories in 2001. Since the last four games in December were against Man U, Liverpool, Arsenal and a resurgent Newcastle, one can’t be too surprised about this. Disappointed, yes; surprised, no. A 4^th round exit from the League Cup at the hands of Blackburn Rovers did little to lift the mood.

 The FA Cup didn’t prove to be much of a distraction from the primary mission of survival. Hamilton Ricard scored with a superb curling effort to progress against Bradford in round three, but Wimbledon sent us crashing out in a replay at Selhurst Park.

 Even big teams such as Liverpool found the newly-tightened defence a difficult proposition and were sent away without points. Goals were still at a premium at the other end as well - aside from a 4-0 win over Derby – and seven of the ten games in the unbeaten run were draws, but that was much better than defeat after mind-numbing defeat, and the points total was looking much, much healthier. The last game of the run was against Villa away, where Ehiogu scored against his former club to secure a 1-1 draw.

 The next league defeat suffered was at home to Southampton on 24^th February, but by then Boro were out of the bottom three. March started with a 0-0 draw against Charlton Athletic, and then it was time for the annual visit to St. James’ Park in Newcastle. Newcastle were now a comfortable mid-table outfit, still hoping they could become a permanent fixture amongst the big boys at the top end, but ultimately falling short. Even Bobby Robson’s management couldn’t help them break out of their torpor and Boro were not in a charitable mood on this particular visit. Alen Boksic decided to turn up, scoring with a magical free-kick to give us a rare taste of victory on Geordie turf.

 Chelsea beat us 2-1 at Stamford Bridge in the next game, which was followed by a 0-0 draw with that other North East team. We then expected nothing less than our customary battering at Highbury by Wenger’s Arsenal, but contrived to win the game 3-0 despite having only one or two shots on target in the whole match. Two of the goals were own goals, and top-flight safety was within reach.

 A first goal by late-season arrival Dean Windass wasn’t enough to prevent a home defeat to Ipswich, but at least we were back on familiar territory: beating a team like Arsenal and then losing to Ipswich. This is a little unfair to the Tractor Boys, to be honest. They had come up from the First Division for this season and were expected to bounce straight back down, but eventually finished 5^th and qualified for the UEFA Cup.

 Leicester away provided one of the most memorable Boro goals in recent years, with the enigmatic Mr. Boksic turning a defender this way and that before delivering an exquisite lob into the goal from more than twenty yards out. Ince and Ricard added the other goals in a 3-0 win that took us up to 15^th in the table. A 2-0 home defeat to Manchester United – on their way to a 7^th Premiership title – was follow by a 1-1 draw with already-relegated Bradford City.

 Safety had been secured well before West Ham came to visit the North East. Job and Karembeu scored in the 2-1 victory, but what happened after the game is more memorable. As the team and the management staff performed their traditional end-of-season lap of honour, there was clearly-audible hostility and discontent directed towards Bryan Robson from the stands. It was clear that he wasn’t going to be able to continue working at the club in any capacity. He had brought some exciting times to the club, of that there was little doubt, but ultimately his coaching skills had been found to be lacking. It was time for both Robson and the club to move on.

 So, Boro had finished a comfortable 14^th after the flirtation with relegation. Uncertainty now stood like the awkward shy man in the corner at a party, waiting for someone to tell him where to find a drink. Who would be the manager next season? Would Venables stay on as sole manager? Would the real Alen Boksic please step forward?At least we weren’t in the shoes of Manchester City, who joined the Cities of Coventry and Bradford in relegation. There was something to build on.

 As for me, I had challenges of my own. I fought through massive sleep depravation and the appearance of an irregular heart-beat (I am going to suggest “Red Bull gives you Arrhythmia” as a new tag-line) and tried my utmost to be a good father and husband. My son was still just a pooping and eating machine, but I was looking forward to being able to impose my world view on the boy when he became old enough to pay attention to my foibles. For now a Boro romper suit and a cuddly Roary the Lion would have to do.

Ah, the dawn of a new millennium, the 21^st Century…just spare me the arguments about when it actually started, please…

 Whatever, the 21^st Century was here; a point in time that used to look so futuristic and distant, even in 1990. Where were the flying cars, silver boiler suits and meals in pill form that the books and films had promised us? Still in our imaginations, it seems. Of course, times were a-changing. The internet was spreading and growing, becoming more and more influential in the way we worked and played. At work we could e-mail crap jokes and preposterous urban myths to all our friends at the click of a button. At home we were able to negate the need for red-faced, surreptitious episodes in newsagents, but had to wait half an hour for anything decent to download on the dial-up connection, by which time curious wives and mothers had kicked the bedroom door down.

 Still, the greater world around us moved on apace. In the news headlines we saw Pope John Paul II apologize to the world for the wrongdoings of the Roman Catholic Church over the centuries. Vladimir Putin became president of Russia, presumably taking a few days to clear all the empty vodka bottles from his office in the Kremlin, Israel withdrew IDF forces from Lebanon for the first time in 22 years, Concorde crashed into a hotel in Paris, Al Qaeda bombed the USS Cole in the Arabian Gulf and chimpanzee-in-chief George W Bush won the protracted US presidential election with some electoral jiggery-pokery in Florida

 The biggest films of the year included Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible II, Ridley Scott’s Gladiator and a bearded Tom Hanks in Cast Away. The world of popular music featured a generational battle of the divas between Britney and Madonna, and U2’s Beautiful Day marked a return to form for Bono and the boys. Music snobs go back to your Peruvian goat nostril blowing, please.

 In other sport and football, France won Euro 2000 with a golden goal, Real Madrid won their 8^th European Cup/Champion League title, Tiger Woods achieved the golfing Grand Slam, that German fella won the F1 Championship, Pete Sampras bored his way to another Wimbledon Tennis victory and Italy joined the Five Nations Rugby union tournament to make it the Six Nations and finally gave Scotland someone to beat.

 For me, 2000 was a year of massive change. There was the move to Thirsk, my thirtieth birthday and – the biggest one of all – the arrival of my son in the middle of August. Everything changed at that point: I was now responsible for a new life, one that I would nurture and mould. It scared me half to death, and I still can’t quite believe it ten years later.

 I had to give up my season ticket, of course. Of course?! Well, there were many factors here, which I won’t go into in case it sounds like I’m making excuses. I was able to keep my Sky Sports subscription, at least, and would be able to keep up with Boro’s fortunes via the various mediums available. The gentle tones of Alistair Brownlee and Century Radio were number one on the car radio.

 As for the football itself, the fans of Middlesbrough FC had reason to be optimistic about the new season. We lost Christian Zeige to Liverpool under controversial circumstances, but this was off-set by the arrival of Alen Boksic, Christian Karembeu, Ugo Ehiogu and Joseph Desire-Job. Boksic was another example of Bryan Robson’s ability to attract top-drawer talent to the club. Would his coaching skills measure up as well? After something of a sterile, uneventful season, Boro fans were looking for some excitement. I’m not sure what transpired was what they had in mind.

 It all started so promisingly as well. The first game of the season, less than a week after my son’s birth, was away to Coventry. We stuffed them 3-1 with Job and Boksic sharing the goals. Here comes that hope again. You can’t do anything about it; it gets into your head, even though you know where it is going to end up.

 A draw with Spurs was followed by a 2-1 home defeat to Dirty Leeds, and the hope was soon receding. A indifferent run of form was becoming established…draws with the odd defeat: Derby, Villa and Manchester City sharing points with us and Everton dooming us to yet another narrow home defeat. Southampton away provided a measure of respite with a 3-1 win and a brace of Boksic goals. It was becoming painfully obvious that Mr. Boksic had class and skill oozing from every pore, but he seemed to keep it hidden a lot of the time. He would also develop a reputation for being injury prone, and the cynical whisperings about his reportedly astronomical weekly wage were soon heard in the pubs and work places of Teesside.

 A wretched run of eight league defeats and one draw then followed, starting with a 3-1 beating by the Geordies. Goals were hard to come by at the right end, but flew in with joyful abandon at the other. Charlton, Ipswich, Arsenal, Manchester United, Leicester all took great pleasure in adding to this horrible run. The fans’ patience was running out fast. A team with such talent just shouldn’t have been struggling so badly and losing so poorly to average teams. There was also another early exit in the League cup, with an aggregate defeat to lowly Macclesfield.

 At the end of November, fellow strugglers Bradford City were the visitors to the Riverside and promptly went into a 2-0 lead. The boos started to echo round the stadium, a sound I hadn’t heard a lot of in my Boro life to date. Mr. Robson’s future at the club was starting to look decidedly uncertain. Ehiogu and Ince scored in the second half to salvage a point, but it didn’t stop Boro sinking to 19^th place in the Premier League. The crowds at the Riverside were noticeably lower, threatening to dip below 28,000. Something had to change.

 An away defeat to West Ham marked Bryan Robson’s last game as sole manager of the team. Chairman Steve Gibson decided against the nuclear option of sacking him and brought in the much-needed acumen and smooth demeanour of former England manager Terry Venables. There were opinions galore as to what his actual role was, but it was clear that he had been asked to come in to take the reins whilst giving some guidance and advice to Robson. Where that left Robson was uncertain; would he be able to resume sole management duties at some point? He was, as they say, damaged goods in many peoples’ eyes.

For me it is like Sunderland vs Leeds - I wish they could all lose. We’ve had 2 and a half years of Brown stumbling on after his initial honeymoon period with gaffe after gaffe and the man just seeming totally out of his depth.

We’ve got as Tory leader in Cameron who despite the awfulness of the current incumbents just cannot get enough support in polls to suggest he has sealed the deal. We’ve had Labour MPs caught in lobbying firm stings. We’ve had the Tories dodging the question about whether Ashcroft paid UK tax on his income until forced to come clean. We have LibDems seemingly wanting to be all things to all people with their main hope to be holding the balance of power. Does their willingness to give the vote to prisoners still stand?

We’ve had the expenses scandal that finally showed us how deeply into the trough so many had their noses. If it wasn’t for the fact that The Tories would have got in earlier and therefore benefited from actions that many of their own MPs took then I would have wanted the election last year to get rid of those guilty of the worst excesses.

It is important to vote because people gave their lives in order for us to have that democratic right but which one of our main parties are deserving of it?

Is the reason so many people are not taking part in the democratic process one of the reasons we have 2 BNP MEPs and them talking of winning control of at least one council in London ?

The recent Corus closure showed our Labour MPs to be slow out of the traps at best - and still there in Bell’s case as far as I can see - but I don’t recall a great Tory or LibDem effort to do anything other than blame Labour. Peoples’ lives are affected by this and the Secret Millionaire programme showed how the knock-on affect can mean (for instance charities suffering as people losing their jobs have less to spare for donations) - so why weren’t representatives of all parties getting together and showing a united Teesside front to try and save those jobs from the 1st minute?

So who would people recommend the people of Teesside vote for? What improvements will any of the party’s make to improve the lives of ordinary people? Maybe it’s just something that happens as you get older or maybe our politicians are getting worse but I used to feel that the result of the election was important in that I felt one of the parties was better than the other but that’s been ebbing away for a while. Last time I voted for the party that seemed best for me before thinking about the country so I guess that was when disillusion was beginning to set in.

My vote? At the moment unless one of the main parties was in a 2 horse race with the BNP for a seat I can find little enthusiasm for any of them. I’m fed up with Labour , don’t trust the Tories and have seen very little to make me want to vote LibDem.

My prediction? Well my late father said before the 1992 election when Labour were favourites “The Tories will always get their vote out” and he was right then. I think that is why they’ll walk it - along with polls indicating they not only have a national lead but that they will also do even better in marginal seats that will make the difference in a close race.

(Typed up by Chopper, acting PPS to the Right Honourable TeessideCleveland)