On Chess

It's world championship season in my favourite game. Chess. It's quite an unsexy word - Chess - heavy on the sibilants. I like the opening sneeze of a consonant cluster, the burp of a central voiced vowel and the challenging hiss at its close. Chess is one of the few nouns that is truly noncount - it can't be pluralised in any circumstances. To me, this property reflects the game's universality and something of the paradox that although there are incalculably many possible games, there is only one chess.

My ambition for this week is to get a tweet read out by the commentators on the official FIDE live stream. I may have started too boldly, asking, "does this championship represent the death of combination chess?" My point being that in the hypermodern game the Grandmasters spend the whole time adopting positions that prevent their opponents making combinations (ie imaginative sequences of moves that lead to an advantage).

Back in the nineties, I fell in love with televised chess when nerdy English Grandmaster Nigel Short challenged surly Russian polymath Garry Kasparov. Kasparov thrashed him with brilliantly inspired combinations that inspired me to play the Sicilian defense as black for over a decade (these days I prefer Alekhine's). Kasparov went on to become a sort of enfant terrible in Russian politics - standing up to the billionaire oligarchs that have feasted on the rich spoils of the collapse of Sovietism. Short became an olive farmer.

Magnus Carlsen vs Viswanathan Anand has been billed as the 22 year old Norwegian Wunderkind taking on the old guard of the Indian academies. But there haven't been the predicted fireworks. The first four games in the current championship have all been draws. I nipped out to get a haircut during the middlegame today and nobody made a move whilst I was gone.

Lord Finnginn

My girlfriend needs more space. Literally. She's working from home today so I have been banished from my usual blogging spot at the dining table, so she can have room for all the notes, coasterless cups of tea and banana skins that are essential in a hard day's working-from-home. 

I'm more productive when Charlie's around, because I'm terrified that she thinks I spend all day napping and watching Millionaire Matchmaker on ITV2 plus one. Whereas everyone knows that I get up early to go for a jog around the park to clear my head ready to add a thousand words to that day's project. Alright, that's not strictly true. But I am limiting myself to one nap per day (two if I rise before 10am) and I only watch daytime television if I'm ill (and hangovers count as ill).

Most of my time is split between reading and staring out the window thinking about stuff. Uppermost in the chamber of my mind this week has been House of Lords reform. I've long been an advocate of a second chamber filled by lottery. I call the idea democracy from a Greek root meaning rule of the people. The current system of appointments is absurd - the House of Lords is filling up with party donors. Buy yourself a peerage. But did you know that two appointments per year are put before the Prime Minister by the House of Lords Appointments Commission? And any UK citizen can apply! Seriously here's the link! 

It gets better - last year only 400 people were nominated or put themselves forward. Four hundred applicants - two peerages. 200-1 odds of becoming a Lord! I intend to put myself forward forthwith. The pay is £300 a day! - On a good day I earn, what, thirty quid?

This evening, when Charlie asks just what the hell I've been doing all day? Instead of saying: "I read 200 pages of Barber's Myths and Legends of the British Isles" or "I spent two hours playing online chess and decreased my Elo rating by 78 points"; I will be able to say: "I applied for a peerage." 

New Year's Revolutions

In Norfolk they call New Year's Eve, "Old Year's Night". I like that. It suggests a time for reflecting on the past year, not making ill-conceived plans for abstinence in the coming one. Not that I'd let a mere semantic twist get in the way of a good list of resolutions. This year I have resolved to: 

Give up drinking for January (New Year's Day doesn't count.) Failed on the 5th.

Take more exercise (and, apparently, learn to spell exercise, I thought it had a 'c' after the 'x' like in 'except')
Jury's out on this one as it has been snowing. You can't expect people to exercise in the snow.

Read more novels (I mostly read non-fiction.)
But then Charlie did get me that thousand page history of human violence by Steven Pinker for Xmas.

And, of course, give up smoking. I love smoking. It has been pointed out to me that it is a drug that kills you that doesn't even get you high. But I still love it. Here's why:

Because you're having one.
Because, in school, 
I wanted to impress Julia and Jamie and Leann.
Because it was banned
Because I wasn't old enough.
Because I was old enough.

Because you're having one.
Because of Vonnegut and Stephen Fry and Che Guevara.
Because my father does.
Because my mother doesn't.

Because you're having one.
Because dinner's nearly ready.
Because of tea.
Because of after-dinner coffee.

Because you're having one.
Because I'm stressed.
Because I passed.
Because I think I failed that test.
Because of night.
Because of morning.
Out of sheer delight
Or when I'm dressed in black and mourning.

Because you're having one.
Because I'm drunk.
Because I'm hungover.
Because I've got 400 duty-frees
And we've just arrived in Dover.
Because I'm angry.
Because I'm cloaked in post-coital bliss.
Because when I'm pissed
I've got no self restraint.

Because you're having one.
Because of chess.
Because of poker.
Because the evening's nearly over
Or the day barely begun.
Because the sun is shining.
Because the thaw is due.
Because of who I am
Because of you.

Because you're having one.
Because today is here 
And who cares about tomorrow.
Because of the duality of human joy and sorrow.
Because you've got the only lighter 
And you're leaving.
Because the afternoon has darkened
Into evening.
Because we're out.
Because we're home.
Because the loneliness is unbearable.
Because my new tobacco pouch is full.
Because I'm hungry.
Because I'm running out.
Because you offered.
Because I can't be bothered 
To get up
And anyway 
We're set up 
For the day
And you are having one.

Not that I blame you...
You're probably only smoking
Because I am smoking, too. 

Smoking like a boss. 

Smoking like an addict. I should lend this photograph to the government department responsible for the anti-smoking adverts.

I've just noticed that I am wearing the same T-shirt in both these pictures. Maybe next year, I will make a resolution to sort out my wardrobe.