Sweet Nothings

Because I enjoyed the first Hunger Games film before reading the books, I was slightly worried that Catching Fire would fall prey to the “adaptations are always a disappointment if you’ve read the book” rule. In fairness to the first film, it managed to stay admirably close to its source without coming across as clunky or bookish, so maybe it was the proverbial rule-proving exception. The second book, although a retread in many ways, does enlarge the canvas with resistance movements and other political manoeuvrings, pretty much ruling out such a close adaptation. Could it still meet expectations? In Catching Fire, Panem - your typical post-catastrophe future dystopia in which humanity has failed miserably to learn from past mistakes - is on the verge of civil war thanks to our heroine Katniss Everdine’s actions at the end of the last Games. No revolutionary, Katniss just wants her family to be safe. Unfortunately, as mentor Haymitch points out, winning the Games becomes a

This is an article I submitted to a football magazine a while back. Haven't heard any more from them so I'm guessing they weren't interested, but I figured somebody might want to read it... EDIT: It has now been published and is available in the latest issue of Late Tackle magazine, available - as they say - at all good newsagents and several bad ones. Next stop: Fleet Street (the metaphorical one obviously). ------------------------------------------------------ Fantasy football’s warping of our natural instincts is well-documented. You can find yourself cheering on even the game’s most heinous villains when their every touch in the opposition’s half brings the promise of precious points – even when they’re playing your own team. The even murkier side of this phenomenon is much less discussed, however – what becomes of the poor souls for whom FF dominates their football-following lives and yet, somehow, results in utter failure? Spending inadvisable amounts

The most photographed corner of Bruges. And proud of it. First things first – don’t come to Bruges with a wheeled suitcase. Yes, it’s easy to get there on the Eurostar and much of the town’s medieval architecture has been lovingly preserved, but this does mean cobbles galore, even on the pavements. The constant clack-clacking of those wheels even on the short walk from the station to our B&B pierced through the relative calm of the backstreets like the call of a particularly irritating bird.  Bordered by a ring of canals, the city centre is a beautiful little island-bubble reminiscent of Venice, and its station also sits on the edge of a canal, disgorging daily hordes of tourists (yes, many with wheely cases) to clog up the city’s narrow arteries. It’s very obvious to trace the quickest route to the heart of Bruges, as these roads are the ones lined with wall to wall gift shops and eateries specialising in waffles, beer, lace and general tut. The key difference is that the