Apple Tree Yard

Note to most of my regular readers: no football  here; be strong; the new season's not far away.

Recently I found a couple of copies of a magazine called Acclaim from 1993. It was the bi-monthly magazine of the Ian St James awards, and the Ian St James awards were an annual short story competition.

Louise Doughty was a previous winner, and she contributed a column to each issue, giving aspiring writers tips on What Makes A Winning Short Story. In effect, I suppose, she was passing on some of what she'd learned while doing the MA in Creative Writing at East Anglia.

Attentive and long-memoried readers of this blog (which narrows it down substantially) will recall that I've written about Louise before. And seeing this photo again has reminded me of what first attracted me to the beautiful Ms Doughty. Yes, I'm shallow, but just look into those deep dark eyes for a while. I may need to throw you a rope ...

And now she has a new novel out, Apple Tree Yard. I've given links below to a couple of reviews, which will give a better idea of the kind of book it is. What a lark it would be to analyse it in terms of Plot and Theme! What is it all about, huh? But it would be pointless. Louise is technically brilliant and the new book manages an intricate timeline with impressive ease. There's an ingenious and selective use of the present historic, which is no gimmick but a studied way of indicating which part of the story we're reading about now, and large parts of the book are written in the second person, addressed to the narrator's lover.

The effect is to make the gradual revelation of what happened more compelling. Although it is easy to guess what will have happened to have brought the narrator, Yvonne, to the predicament she outlines at the start of the book, there's enough uncertainty about what exactly had happened to keep one's interest engaged until the end, or the ends. Because you think you've heard all the story with a few pages to go, and you think you're just reading through a decompression zone, when one further fact is revealed that makes you think again about the whole story. Obviously, I won't say what that is.

As in the previous book, the first person narrative has a prose that sometimes flattens into triteness. But Yvonne's style gets a bit unhinged as the novel goes on, and those final few pages make you reconsider your opinion about what you've read.

There's a suspicion of improbability in the way an apparent plot-hole is plugged up. Again, no spoilers, but it involves police procedure, and the ostensible solution doesn't sound plausible at all. But the depth and detail of Louise's research is apparent throughout the book: it's unlikely this is her mistake, so it must be Yvonne's mistake or mistruth, which again makes you look again at everything she's said.

So, it's a strong recommendation from me. Here are some other views.

Alfred Hickling in the Guardian: "a compelling cautionary tale of what happens when fantasy begins to occlude real life"
Amber Pearson in the Daily Mail:  "A disquieting, perceptive and gripping read."
An interview with Louise on the Faber blog

And you can buy it a local bookshop, eg these nice people The Beckenham Bookshop

Off target

Advertising anything to me is pretty pointless, because I just don't buy much. But there's been a lot of concern about how much Facebook knows about us, and how it delivers us to advertisers with sinister precision.

Here are the advertisers who've presumably paid a tiny fee to Facebook to get my attention this morning.

First up, a hotel in Manchester. I've no idea how I could have given the impression I might be interested in this.


Then American Express. Like I need a new way to pay for things I don't even buy.
 

Bizarrely, a Brazilian dentist.


Michael Parkinson wants to sell me some kind of policy.


Oh well, if I'm staying in Manchester, I might as well do the Great Manchester Run. As if!


And then, if it turns my fingers white - whiter than they already are, I presume - here's someone to help my claim compensation.

I think we're a long way off from being Facebook's property yet.

Charlton 4 Bristol City 1

Once again the season ended with a happy day and a feeling of optimism. While there weren't the spectacular scenes of last year, once again we could reflect on a season that turned out to be a bit better than most people expected, and much, much better than some feared a couple of months ago.

I won't go into details of the game, particularly not the first half.

Just as we were all settling down for a similarly uneventful second half, Yann Kermorgant scored a brilliant goal - an unstoppable volley from a cross by Mark Gower - that threw wide open the goal of the season contest and ushered in a free-flowing display by Charlton. Although Bristol City were understandably not very good and not very interested, in that form Charlton could have beaten anybody in the division. One more goal from Kermorgant, one from Obiobiobika, and the last from Johnnie Jackson couldn't have gone to more popular players.

But, then again, every player is popular. You can search through the team and you won't find anyone who doesn't deserve their place. There are no skivers in the team, and what's more they all seem to be decent human beings. It's all so different from when Pardew's mercenary millionaires were underperforming on a weekly basis. I often wonder if fans of Chelsea, say, ever get bored of sighing "Yes, I know, perhaps he has shagged his mate's girlfriend/has shot a work-experience trainee/is a racist - but he's a really good player". We never have to do that. I've never met the man, unfortunately, but get the feeling that Chris Powell has high moral standards, and he infuses them into the squad. (Oh, I love him so much it's embarassing!)

As in all good parties, the guests get party bags, and Bristol City's was a silly goal. I hope they do well next season. It's always struck me as ridiculous that Bristol - England's sixth most populous city - can't seem to sustain a top-flight football club.

In other results, Millwall (bastards!) were saved from relegation by Crystal Palace (bastards!), who managed to stay in the playoffs. Wolves, disastrously but deservedly, whimpered into League One, and in a dramatic series of events Hull City became hot favourites for relegation next season.

All the drama elsewhere means that very few people will pay attention to Charlton's performance today, so Nick Pope will have to wait for his name to be used wittily in a witty headline. But those of us who were there will wonder what might happen next. Chris Powell took half a season to work out how to win League One. He's had a whole year to suss out the Championship. I'm really looking forward to next season.

Charton 2 Wolves 1

I'm going to slightly adapt my last post.

As so often at the Valley this season, the game was settled by a very late goal, but I think this was the first second time that Charlton did the scoring. Five minutes into added Just before the end of normal time Jonathan Obika met a cross from Rhoys Wiggins and headed it struck the ball firmly into the covered end goal, to give Charlton the three points their display absolutely more or less deserved.

The two other goals aren't really worth describing. They were scrappy goals in a scrappy game, particularly in the first half, when both teams treated it as a meaningless end-of-season fixture. Which is understandable, if not excusable, for Charlton. Other results meant that even if Charlton had lost, their position in the Championship would be secure. But Wolves' attitude was astonishing. Criminal. They're on the verge of a second consecutive relegation, but always looked as if they'd be happy with a point. The only time they looked at all concerned was for the nine minutes of the game they were losing.

In the second half, though, Charlton did look as though the game meant something, and the result means a thoroughly improbable combination of results could see them in the play-offs. What larks that would be, although no-one would have any great expectations. It would feel so beautifully cheeky to sneak into the big boys' playground, not caring what the result would be. It's very, very unlikely, though: a long shot, as unlikely as Karl Henry's 45-yard attempt midway through the first half, which beat everyone but the crossbar. It would have been a goal to remember, and the home crowd applauded, almost wishing it had gone in. That's something that generally only happens at the fag-end of the season.

The win didn't matter, but it was nice to get it. A third home win in a row. I'm not superstitious. I don't believe in lucky pants or anything like that. But is it a mere coincidence that Charlton have won all three home games since I've started cycling to them? Is it, huh, is it?

Of course it is. But actually, laydeez, may I mention: any pants I wear consider themselves lucky. Allow.

Charlton 2 Leeds 1

As so often at the Valley this season, the game was settled by a very late goal, but I think this was the first time that Charlton did the scoring. Five minutes into added time Jonathan Obika met a cross from Rhoys Wiggins and headed it firmly into the covered end goal, to give Charlton the three points their display absolutely deserved.

Earlier, the first half had seen a smart opening by Leeds dwindle away, and Charlton took control of the match, but failed to score. Shortly after the restart, though, it was who else but Johnnie Jackson who got the scoring started. The ball was rattling around Leeds' penalty area and bounced off a defender into his path. He took a moment to steady himself, and perhaps to give thanks that the defender had played him onside, and slotted the ball under the goalkeeper. It was a classic Jackson goal: he was in the right place at the right time and just had to keep his head.

Charlton only showed a little of the headless chicken syndrome that has followed them taking the lead in earlier matches, but unfortunately it resultled in the Leeds equaliser, Luke Varney showing a ruthlessness that he didn't often display in a Charlton shirt.

It looked like it would be a draw, and that felt unjust. Charlton had been much the better team, with everyone putting in a good performance. So Obika's goal restored a little equity to the world. That's one less problem for Dr Who to sort out. It also sent the home crowd into raptures, for at least three reasons:

1. It makes relegation pretty damn unlikely now.
2. It's always good to get a winning goal in the 95th minute.
3. It's always good to beat Dirty Leeds.

For they were quite dirty, and lucky to finish with 11 players on the pitch. They also benefited from a referee who had apparently decided to give the concept of handball a day off. Some fans half-heartedly booed him at the end, but it wasn't a day for that.

You have to admire the Leeds fans, though. They've had years of disappointment, with incompetent or borderline dishonest management, but still sold out the Jimmy Seed stand, and kept singing their dreary song all through the second half. And they hate Millwall.

Charlton 0 Burnley 1

A super goal from Charlie Austin gave Burnley all the points on an intermittently sunny after ...

No. No match report tonight. I want to speak directly to the man sitting next to me, and probably to the man sitting next to you.

You, my neighbour, do nothing to support the players. You don't clap the team onto the pitch. You never cheer or applaud good play, or wince and sympathise when a good idea doesn't work, or when a bold attempt at a brilliant pass misses by inches, giving the ball away. When a particular player makes a couple of mistakes you start grumbling "What a waste of space - get him off, Powell!" As the game goes on, you fold your arms tighter across your chest, determined to be unimpressed by all you see. (If the wind changed, you'd be stuck with that angry frown forever, you know.)

You may be a spectator but you're not a supporter. Suppporting a football club is more than turning up every fortnight and expecting to be entertained. It's about giving something to the players, in the bad times even more than in the good times. You, my neighbour, don't have the right to criticise players for not giving everything, when you've given nothing. You don't have the right to say they're too slow to find a teammate when you're too quick to find fault.

Charlton's home form is a problem. It's complex, and no-one seems to know what to do about it. But what's obvious is that getting on the players' backs isn't the solution. It's a very old principle, but true: if you've nothing helpful to say, shut up. Or go and watch Chelsea.


Editor's note: just imagine how many expletives I deleted in preparing this post for publication.

Charlton 0 Nottingham Forest 2

But does she have a magic left peg?

When two men are in love with the same woman, they have, despite their rivalry, a mutual respect for each other. For example, while I know for certain that Penelope Cruz would be happier with me, I can't help thinking that Javier Bardem must be a decent bloke to value her as much as he does.

It's like that with Charlton and Forest fans. We both love Andy Reid, and we both know that he was at his best with us. And we both despise Tottenham Hotspur, who didn't know what to do with him. (They were very much the Tom Cruise in the relationship.)

Reid was on brilliant form today, unfortunately. I'm pretty sure his pass that set up Forest's first goal was a piece of brilliance, which I'll want to see again. He was always at the heart of a very accomplished performance by his team, which brought out a lacklustre display from a tired-looking Charlton squad. How did that team achieve such a great result at Leicester in the week?

The opening of the game was sometimes embarrassing, with Charlton losing the ball again and again. Things were beginning to improve (I think) when Yann Kermorgant was sent off after about 35 minutes. Apparently it was a fair decision. He reacted badly to blatant obstruction by Greg Halford and lashed out at him. From then the only question was how badly Charlton would lose, and a 2-0 defeat was pretty good in those circumstances.

Lots of unhappy people at the end of the game, but really it was just a bad day at the office, an office in which the heating had broken down. We'll get over it. Like eventually I'll get over the fact that Penelope bizarrely chose to live in Los Angeles with a handsome sexy actor, rather than in Catford with me.