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Showing posts with label Real Madrid. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Real Madrid. Show all posts

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Poison Pens Five: HOLD THE FRONT PAGE!!!!


'Journalist asks question at press conference shocker!'

Seriously, I'm not making this up. About four national newspapers have all covered this non-story.

A journalist went to a press conference, plucked up the courage to ask a question, got an answer, then left.

I mean, OMG!!! All those scary old dudes there, asking about, like football and stuff. No wonder plucky Lisa has her hand totally to her chest in shock at what she's done (while posing for a photo, natch.) She, like, TOTALLY asked a question at a press conference?

I know! Like, who knew journalists did that? She should get a medal or something. Probably Fianna Fail are already tapping her up to run in the next general election.

Let's remind ourselves - this chick went to university. She trained as a journalist. Her daddy was a journalist before her. So she's seen her dad do this, she's educated and trained to do it. Why is it so shocking that she went as a journalist to a press conference and asked a question? It's her JOB to do that!

What so-fucking-what yawnathon will the Irish media treat us to next? 'Man rose early and drove electric cart to deliver milk'? 'Sun expected to rise in the East tomorrow morning'? 'Moon disappointingly not made of cream cheese'?

The media rightly get it in the neck sometimes for their sense of whats worthy of reporting and what isn't. People see endless tabloid headlines about Jade Goody, or Jordan, or David Beckham, and despair.

But this article is a spectacular classic of an even more debased genre - journalists puffing themselves and each other.

People do their jobs everyday without expectation of public acknowledgement, and many people do a damn sight more important work than asking Cristiano Ronaldo about his shorts.

Where are their articles?

People who perform surgery, fly airplanes, teach children or cure cancer, take note. Here's what a REALLY difficult job is like:

"It was mortifying from my point of view," said Lisa Cannon, "but at the end of the day that's what I was sent there to do."

Well done for spotting that, love. Yes, you went to a press conference and did your job. Congrats. Do we have to read about it in the paper everytime you do your job properly?

"It was a pretty difficult interview because I couldn't ask him any of the questions I really wanted to but I'm glad I did it," she continued.

Oh, hold on a minute. She didn't ask any of the questions she wanted to? Why not? Isn't asking some questions the sum total of her task? What stopped her? Did someone overpower her and clamp a chloroform cloth over her mouth before she could get the words out?

Perhaps she didn't do her job so well after all, if she couldn't ask questions at a press conference when your job is to do exactly that.

I don't mean to knock the girl - she's probably very nice and might well be generally excellent at her job, which I understand involves talking about clothes and make-up a lot on TV3. And it wasn't her decision to put this tripe into the national press.

My only questions remain for the national press themselves:

Why should the public give a fuck about this?

What is it doing in a newspaper?

How many 'Journalist did their job' stories do you reckon you could print before gangs of brain surgeons, airline pilots, firemen, nurses, teachers and other actually relevant people storm your newsroom and gag the lot of you with chloroform cloths?

Friday, October 13, 2006

Bore-trait of Zizou


Don't bother going to see 'Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait'. Don't bother waiting for it to come out on DVD either. Don't buy it at Christmas for your Dad or brother, with the sly intention of watching it yourself.

Don't wait for cable TV to show it next year. Forget it even exists. It is crap. I know, I went to see it last night. I want my 90 minutes back.

If anyone ever missed a sitter in front of a gaping empty net, it is the makers of this nonsense. What better subject for a fascinating footie documentary than the best player of this generation, Zizou?

In addition to his supreme talent, he is also that supreme rarity in the modern world - a Muslim role model loved by all. Even the armed guards at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem once conceded to me that no player was more gifted, no player more capable of uniting entire audiences in captive appreciation of his abilities.

Zinedine Zidane's history - the Algerian heritage, the upbringing in the tense, dangerous streets of Marseilles, the rise through French teams to Juventus, then to Real Madrid as the best of the famous Galacticos - is only part of what is missing from the nonsense I watched last night.

Let me explain what the filmmakers have done. If you've ever watched a Premiership game on Sky, you're probably familiar with their 'playercam', which trains a camera on one player for 15 minutes. Make that seventeen cameras on Zizou for 90 minutes, and you've got this boreathon of a movie.

Despite what some gullible people might say, this is not some oblique masterpiece, or an art moment to savour. It is 90 minutes of a sweaty man, trudging around the Bernabeu, waiting for his teammates to pass him the ball.

This film, much more than his headbutting Marco Materazzi in the World Cup final, will diminish memories of Zizou's genius. If Zinedine Zidane's magic can be boiled down to pixillated phone camera footage of his boots to the sound of a turgid drone by Mogwai, then there is no magic in football.

This artwank should have been left in whatever pretentious Parisian gallery it emanated from. I hope, now that Zidane has retired, that someone will make a proper documentary and portrait of him.

But this isn't it.