A lot of people have been asking me recently what exactly I’m researching for my thesis. A quick pop-quiz of my social network revealed quite a spread of subject matter that my friends for some reason assumed I was studying. Most have gotten the ‘economics’ part right (well done), but I’ve heard  specific thesis topics ranging from feminism to climate change, from helping the poor to ‘some psychology thing’, and from human experiments to my favourite (from a grandmaster who shall remain nameless): “Feeding the capitalist machine”.

I guess the only message that can be taken from this is that I probably talk too much. Fair point. In any case, for the record, my thesis is on the persistence of social norms, and particularly bad social norms or taboos. The basic question is: why do some customs and norms stubbornly persist for generations, despite being practically useless or, occasionally, even bad for society?

That probably needs some more explanation, which I’ll get to in a later post, complete with some juicy examples. For now, though, I’m only outlining it as part of my apology for being slack with the blog. While I’m making excuses, it turns out I’ve been recruited by ChessPublishing to write their anti-Sicilians column. (For the non-chess readers, this is a set of opening variations in chess. Just in case you think I’ve got anything against Italians.)

I figured I’m not going to have time for much chess in the coming thesismania, so at least this forces me to put aside a couple of days a month to studying something a little more fun than equations. You can check out the blurb to my first column here. I’ve also been swamped with chess commentary on ChessFM in my spare time, given the tsunami of top level chess events we’ve had recently. For some reason, chess commentary has really started taking off (I can hear the laughter from you non-chessites, but I’m ignoring you). In fact, these days it’s almost mandatory at the big tournaments to have video and on-location commentators, so ChessFM probably has to catch up and send people to the events to match the coverage we’re getting. (Yes, I’m writing this partly to advance my own frequent flyer points. Shh.)

One thing I’ve noticed from all the coverage is the cultural style differences among the US, continental European and British coverage of events. The commentators for the US championship – Jen Shahade, Yasser Seirawan and Maurice Ashley – were really great, but the whole production was styled like they were commenting on a baseball game. There was action, drama, crosses to special reporters, hyperbole, alliteration, exclamations and exaggerations. I felt like I was part of a Vegas showcase rather than a chess event. Is this bad? Probably not, especially given the US audience. They sensationalised the event, and by jove, they did it well.

On the other hand, the commentary from the Norway and Paris/Moscow events was far more subdued. The commentators – spearheaded by the charming yet monotonic Dirk Jan ten Geuzendam – spoke in dulcet, sometimes somnolent tones, with large pauses and conservative evaluations. I felt like I was at an economics lecture: the quality of the analysis was superb and I certainly learned more about the deeper points of the games, but the lessons were often more catatonic than constructive.

The commentary from the London Candidates tournament, however, has to be my favourite. We usually got to see my mates Laurence Trent and Nigel Short giving blunt and candid opinions about the games and the players, with gorgeously witty intermezzos when the action on the board was quiet. Their dry, abstract British humour, distinguished enthusiasm and erudite knowledge of chess history and strategy perfectly blended the best of both commentary worlds. It’s somewhat humbling to write such a flattering description seeing as I was a rival commentator during the event, but their coverage really was awesome.

I have to say, chess commentary is an amazing job. Now that I’ve finally accepted that my chess-watching procrastination is inevitable, I may as well make some pocket money while I’m wasting valuable thesis hours staring at the games. Combined with writing chess articles on ChessPub, I’ve probably found the two best side-jobs I could have while pretending to be an economist (excluding, of course, my number one dream job: song writer for Flight of the Conchords).

In fact, if this thesis thing doesn’t work out…

More posts to come soon. There’ll even be some without chess in them.

You’ll notice in the article some kind quotes directed at Andrew Saint, one of the victims, such as “He genuinely was such a nice person.”  I can only echo those words.  Andrew was one of the nicest, most humble guys I’ve ever met. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, nor have I seen him without a smile on his face – except, perhaps, during chronic time trouble at the board, but even the unluckiest of chess defeat would be met with gracious (and smiley) acceptance at the end. There is no hyperbole here.

I’ve known Andrew since I was a kid, and in fact I can’t remember when we first met – the earliest I can clearly remember is speaking the 1999 Australian Junior Championships in Hervey Bay, Queensland. After he finished school, Andrew wanted to share his passion for chess with the community, getting involved in chess organisation and administration in South Australia. Such a thankless job can often be short term for naive but good-hearted chess personalities, but Andrew, ever the nice guy, accepted a position on the Melbourne Chess Club committee after moving to Victoria. He wasn’t just a chess enthusiast, either: hours before the tragedy struck, Andrew won his section of the Doeberl Cup, his biggest tournament victory in recent years.

I last spoke to Andrew in September last year, when he visited the World Chess Olympiad in Istanbul. He was very excited to see some famous international chess players in person, and I was able to introduce him to a few whose names he had only read about in the chess news, such as former World Women’s Chess Champion, Hou Yifan. I recall that she accidentally knocked over his glass of water, shattering it on the ground, which led to the comical scene of Andrew and Hou (also a super nice girl) racing to outdo each other in offering to clean up the mess. I’m not sure who was more embarrassed!

Andrew (centre) and I at the Istanbul Olympiad. A few minutes later, his water glass would smash at the hands of a very high rated culprit. (Source: Shaun Press)

It wasn’t too surprising to see Andrew at the Olympiad; after all, travel and chess were two of his three main passions. His third was cooking, and one of his friends in Melbourne noted that Andrew hoped one day to open his own Bed & Breakfast inn, complete with cooking classes for the guests. I know I’d have stayed there.

One thing that’s become very clear from this horrible tragedy is how closely knit the chess community is. A flood of support and sentiment has flowed to the players and their families, and the Melbourne Chess Club, spearheaded by its tireless president Grant Szuveges, has been the focal organisational point for press releases, news, cards and hospital visits. It’s reminded me how this network of trust and reliance worthy of family is, for me, one of the best things about being involved in chess.

Goodbye Andrew; I’m very sorry I’ll never get to visit your B&B, or congratulate you on your victory, or host you in Amsterdam on a European holiday, of which we spoke. The Australian chess community has lost one of its favourite sons, its Mr Nice Guy. In fact, perhaps the only time I’ve seen him not putting others before himself was on the board: here’s Andrew spectacularly beating his higher rated opponent in the 1999 Australian Juniors, using my favourite Portuguese defence.

This was certainly the most dramatic top-level chess tournament I’ve ever seen, and the drama didn’t stop until the final game. Perhaps most amusing to readers of this blog, I basically predicted everything incorrectly over the final rounds in an astonishingly bad streak. Carlsen scored only 0.5 from his final three games, losing with white to both Ivanchuk and, in the last round, Peter Svidler. Kramnik spectacularly beat Aronian with the black pieces in round 11 to give him outright first, but the lead was relinquished the following round when he failed to convert his advantage against Gelfand. It turned out that just a draw would have sufficed in the final round against the mercurial Ivanchuk, but of course Kramnik couldn’t have predicted that Carlsen would lose and therefore the Russian played very risky chess in his game – a ploy that eventually backfired when Kramnik was forced to resign in the last game of the tournament.

So Carlsen and Kramnik both lost in the final round, but still ended up tied for first on the surprisingly low score of plus-three – far removed from my confident prediction of “plus-five or plus-six”. Indeed, nothing I guessed came to pass.

This does not bode well for my Champions’ League predictions this week.

(For info: Bayern – Juventus 1-0; PSG – Barcelona 0-1; Real Madrid – Galatasary 2-0; Malaga – Dortmund 1-1.)

I have to say, my suggestion of  ‘risky chess’ as the optimal strategy for this sort of event has not entirely been proved correct.  We’ve seen Aronian employing this over the past couple of rounds, but unfortunate blunders borne from speculative flourishes in equal positions against both Gelfand and Svidler have backfired. This has left him now firmly on the back foot in the race for the title, with only a miracle offering him a chance of finishing first.  Meanwhile, both Carlsen and Kramnik have been playing their usual grinds, stoically defending when worse and always pushing and prodding when nursing a slight edge.

It’s paid dividends, to be sure, but I don’t think that’s the whole story behind their success. Two of the key elements behind their performances, I feel, are blunder minimisation and optimising practical chances. These guys quite simply don’t play the really bad moves that have been seen in so many of the other games, and they always keep both the clock and the tournament situation in mind in order to pose their opponents as many problems over the board as possible. Kramnik in particular has played exceedingly well this tournament and thoroughly deserves his position in second place, though it’s definitely going to be a mammoth task to overtake Magnus at this stage.

I’ve maintained since the start of the tournament that plus-five or plus-six would be needed to win, though most of my colleagues disagreed. Carlsen’s next got white against the second-last placed Ivanchuk, and in the penultimate round has black against Radjabov, currently languishing at the bottom of the table. He then finishes off with the white pieces against Peter Svidler in the last round. Carlsen certainly won’t score below 50% from these three games, but I think it’s a safe bet to say that plus-one or plus-two are more likely outcomes, giving him the aforementioned final scores.

So that means Kramnik needs at least plus-two from the last three rounds, in my opinion, to have a fighting chance at the world championship spot. The critical game is next: Black against world number two Levon Aronian. Kramnik said in the press conference that the main thing is “just not to lose”, but I’m sure after Aronian’s tragic loss today, Big Vlad will be looking to press home every psychological advantage and look for an opportunity to gain a crucial victory with the black pieces. After that he’s got a tough white game against Gelfand, who’s looked sharp in the second half of the tournament, and then black against the mercurial Ivanchuk to finish. I’m not sure where the wins are likely to come from, but it’s definitely clear that plus-two is a long shot against this field.

Meanwhile, Aronian himself mentioned in the press conference that his chances were far from over. This is theoretically true, but it absolutely requires him to win tomorrow (and, in the process, knock down one of his chief competitors). He has excellent chances to win with white against Radjabov in the last round, and if he manages such a spectacular run home and Magnus stumbles, a tie for first between the two would actually (I believe) gift the title to Lev on tie-break. So there’s a small chance the Armenian (and honorary Australian) could still claim the title – and what a Hollywoodesque finale that would be.

One way or the other, any scenario that would see someone other than the Norwegian world number one winning the tournament hinges on a big result tomorrow. Fortunately for me, I’ve been drafted into the Internet Chess Club commentary team tomorrow to present the games, so I’ll be right in the thick of it to observe the action unfold. You can listen in tomorrow at www.chess.fm from 2pm GMT, and watch the games at the same time at the official site. (Or, you know, enjoy a chess-free Easter Friday. Also possible.)

I have to admit, I had some doubts before the event started. These things have a bit of a reputation for being a snorefest borefest drawfest, resembling any other top-category tournament where the big names are too conservative to play for anything other than a series of half points. Usually the winner scores something like plus-two or plus-three (meaning two or three more wins than losses, with the rest being draws), and that way all the competitors basically protect their high ratings and guarantee invitations to future events. Not an irrational strategy by any means for a professional chessplayer, but arguably not what the spectators want to see.

Not this time, however!  This time, there’s too much at stake, too much to gain. A shot at the world title doesn’t come along very often, and for some of these guys, this tournament is definitely their best ever shot at having a crack at being crowned the world’s best. Sure, playing some risky, attacking chess may backfire and see them drop a few rating points, but the downside risk is hardly enough to dissuade the players from the glory that awaits if Lady Luck is feeling frisky.

What this means is that, for once, we have the world’s very best player going at it hammer-and-tongs to rip apart each other’s defences. We’ve got unusual, unorthodox and even downright dubious openings appearing on the top boards, much to the delight of coffeehouse-chess amateurs everywhere. We’ve got unsound sacrifices, positional bluffs and unpredictable time scrambles filling our computer screens as we watch positions appear that are more commonly found on board 15 of a junior blitz event.  It’s glorious.

Of course, I exaggerate somewhat; the lines that the guys are playing have obviously been worked out in excruciatingly intricate detail over the past few months by themselves, their paid seconds (~grandmaster assistants) and the world’s strongest chess engines. The ‘risky sacrifices’ are deeply calculated gambles which, while perhaps not objectively the best moves in a given position, maximise the chances of overall success. The bluffs are carefully conducted to optimise the pressure on their unsuspecting opponents, while the defences and countermeasures are equally top class.

You’ve got to understand that at the top, the same chess players usually appear, and so these guys play against each other in events dozens of times each year.  But this one’s very different. For once, coming second or third is significantly worse than coming first. It’s all about the top spot, and that makes the risks worth it.

We just finished a course in behavioural finance in my university program in which one of the most fascinating results is that company CEOs are usually overconfident and in fact consistently over underestimate the risks and downside potential when making decisions. The reason? Well, hundreds and sometimes thousands of employees in a company have the potential to become CEO if the right results go their way, but only one or two ever will. In this ‘winner takes all’ sort of structure, it’s not usually the best employee who gets to the top of the ladder, but one of the ones who takes the most risks, but just happens – through good luck - to get the good results. This leads to the somewhat unfortunate result that CEOs are generally riskier people than the rest of their employees, though this doesn’t make them better leaders.

And we’ve got the same situation in this event. For once, the winning score is not going to be a flimsy plus-two. I’m predicting at least plus-six to win the event – a mammoth score at this level, to be sure, but one that will be necessary in the very spread field that will result from this sort of risk taking. We’ve already seen Magnus Carlsen and Levon Aronian (the world’s number one and two ranked players) racing to plus-three after only six rounds.  Drawing their way to the finish line is definitely not going to be enough.

A result of this is that it cuts down the number of people who I think can actually win the Candidates.  Sure, in a normal event, any of these eight guys is good enough to get plus-two or plus-three if they’re really in form. But a Boris Gelfand or a Alexander Grischuk getting plus-six?! Not in my mind (though this is just my opinion, of course).

Vassily Ivanchuk has the potential, to be sure, and he did the right thing in taking big risks with both colours in the rounds so far – but fortune was not with him, and the time scrambles did not fall in his favour. At a score of minus-two, despite his amazing talent and his will to take risks, I’m afraid no betting man would put money on his chances of winning outright from here.  Likewise with Radjabov’s unfortunate time-induced blunder yesterday; minus-one is probably too far for him to catch up, given that I’m saying he needs to score plus-seven from here to win.

So we’re down to four. It’s hard to ever write off the world number three and former world champion Vladmir Kramnik, and to be fair, his chess has been of exceptionally high quality so far. But he’s been unlucky not to convert at least one and probably two winning positions so far, and so six draws has resulted. I predict he’ll finish with a plus score for the rest of the tournament, maybe even plus-three, but as one of the older competitors, the energy levels will be falling as the second week wears on. Maybe a top three finish is possible, but I’m predicting we’ve seen the last world championship match with Vlad the Impaler at the board.

Then we come to one of the crowd favourites, Peter “Mr Cricket” Svidler. He’s taking risks and playing well, although only on 50% at the moment. Still, having lost over twenty kilos for the event (a feature that’s seen too much media attention, in my opinion, so I’ll leave it there) Pete’s going to be in good shape to keep playing high-energy chess towards the second half. His biggest weakness is not skill or strength or luck; it’s self-belief. He has a fantastic humility for a top-ten chessplayer and a deliciously self-deprecating sense of humour, but I feel that maybe these traits are underlined by a genuine lack of confidence in his own ability to become the world’s number one. Still, with one or two results tipping his way with the chess gods smiling on his pieces, Pistol Pete might just start to believe…and then anything can happen. I’d love to see him take the title, but everyone (most especially Peter himself) would rightly admit that it’s a long shot.

And then there’s the big two. It kind of reminds me of Nadal and Djokovic vying for the right to be the one to wrest the title from the ageing Federer, but I’m not sure which of Carlsen or Aronian is which. (Carlsen is more softly spoken, I guess, so let’s make him Rafael.) Both Magnus and Lev have the potential to put together big scores against the best in the world, and both definitely have both the talent and determination to reach plus-six. In my mind, it’s hard to bet against one of these guys winning, but even harder to pick between them. If the Norwegian plays his best chess, he’ll win – of that there’s no doubt. But can he really consistently keep performing at around 3000 ELO tournament after tournament?  He was lucky not to lose to Chucky a few days ago, which suggests that nerves are starting to creep into the play of the boy-wonder who’s broken every record and won every title, except that of World Champion.

Too close to call. But the main point is, thanks to the winner-takes-all accolades for this event and the consequences thereof for risk-taking, I can only imagine two players reaching the sort of scores necessary to win. One way or the other, the chess is going to be incredibly entertaining for us spectators, and that’s what I like to see. Let’s just hope the players don’t try their hand at becoming CEOs any time soon, though, and keep their sacrifices on the board.

But last weekend I managed a sneaky trip to England for the Four Nations Chess League, the only chess I seem to manage to fit in these days.  I was looking forward to sitting down at the board again, but I picked up a bug in Amsterdam before I left and as any chess player will tell you, there’s nothing worse than having to play chess when you’re sick. The closest thing I can compare it to is sitting an exam when you’ve got a cold: it’s about the same level of enjoyment and headache-inducing effort.

What to do? After visiting the ATP Rotterdam Masters a fortnight ago, I took a leaf out of the tennis player’s handbook. Injured tennis players often decide to serve-and-volley in a match to shorten the points. I decided to play sharp, risky opening gambits to avoid rawn-out maneuvering battles and send the games swiftly towards their results. Besides, every time I played a long game at these British league matches, I invariably ended up missing the team dinner. And I was hungry.

I was paired on the Saturday with the black pieces against the solid Fide Master, Laurence Webb.  Perfect: I could whip out my new strategy and also avoid his preparation by playing one of my favourite old gambits, the Portuguese. In fact, I’m writing a book on the opening at the moment, so a swashbuckling victory would make a delicious modern addition to my material.

…More than a little naive, in hindsight. Having not played the variation we got in about a decade, I forgot my own analysis and found myself a piece down as early as move 7.  Despite my best efforts to trick Laurence with cheeky traps and cunning complications, he found all the right moves, and any sniff of compensation for my ‘sacrifice’ was quickly snuffed out. My position went from bad to worse, with the computer evaluating Laurence’s advantage at over +9 for seven consecutive moves, even rising as high as +16.  (For the non-chess among you, +9 means white’s advantage is about the equivalent of having an extra 9 pawns to your opponent. A top level draw rarely swings above a one-pawn edge for either player, and anything above 1.5 is considered a winning advantage.)

To be fair, none of the ways to finish me off were trivial to calculate, and I managed to pose enough practical difficulties that Laurence joined me in time trouble and ended up giving back most of his advantage. In the end, he accidentally repeated moves three times, allowing me to claim a draw, though even this was not without controversy (see the notes to the game below).  Not my finest game, that’s for sure, but at least it was (a) entertaining and (b) short. Actually, usually I’m on the other side of these sorts of games, building up a winning position only to choke in time trouble. After so many occasions feeling robbed, I’ve learned more than enough about how to set your opponent difficulties in converting an advantage, and so in my defense, it was probably about time I picked up half a point on the other side.

The team was successful overall despite my draw, although I think my captain was less than impressed with my efforts, and strongly hinted that my future membership would not at all be helped with a repeat performance on the Sunday. Not an unjust assessment, to be fair! Fortunately, I played significantly better the next day, building up a sizeable attack early on against the Kiwi FM Nick Croad and crashing through in a brief and less controversial affair. So it looks like my spot in the team is safe for another month…

Below is the lucky Saturday swindle. As you click through the moves, those in italics will have a couple of comments appearing below them. The game is hardly going to instill fear into the hearts of my future opponents, but it’s quite entertaining. Having said that, it’s safe to say I’m not going to put it in my new book…

When we reached the final position, I put my king on d6, stopped the clocks and claimed a draw by threefold repetition.  Unexpectedly, this proved to be quite controversial! The position has indeed occurred three times, but of course, neither of us was recording moves at this point so I couldn’t prove it on the scoresheet. In fact, strangely, the arbiter asked me to play on! I reminded him that I’d stopped the clocks and made a draw claim, so we went to reconstruct the last couple of moves, and after a bit more debate, we finally agreed on the draw.
Naturally, I was extremely fortunate to get the half point, even though one could argue that this was the best position I’d had all game. But after …Kd6, white keeps a winning endgame advantage with 42.Kh3!, keeping both extra pawns. I have a few drawing chances, particularly based around heading for a Rook-and-Bishop-versus-Rook or a Bishop-and-Wrong-Rook-Pawn endgame (both of which are theoretically drawn), but it would be a lot more work, and surely I would have missed dinner…

Of course, things have changed in recent years, largely thanks to our inclusion (and respectability) in the soccer world cup. But when the office started a Champions’ League tipping competition this week to mark the start of the finals, I had a tough time explaining that ‘footy tips’ were a bit different where I came from.

(In fact, just the term ‘footy’ seemed to lead to all sorts of confusion and subsequent ridicule. I tried to explain that such suffixed abbreviations weren’t that uncommon in Australian slang, such as ‘brekky’ and ‘bevvy’ for breakfast and beverage, respectively.  The linguistic lesson quickly degenerated, however, and I now have to put up with such cacophonic bastardisations as ‘crickety’ for cricket and, worst of all, ‘eggy’ as an appalling lengthening of a breakfast ingredient.)

Faced with opposition from such football powerhouse nations as Portugal, Germany, Spain and the Netherlands, it’s fair to say that I’ve been well and truly branded the underdog tag for the tipping competition. To be fair, the mockery of my soccer-betting abilities may have been amplified to some extent when it became known that I knew of less than half the 16 teams in the knockout competition. However, I feel I have several unique advantages that put me in good stead to record an historic upset and dispel all disparagement forever more:

• I have no intrinsic allegiance to any team, aiding me in putting emotions aside for fully rational tipping decisions;
• As a result of the jeers and low expectations, I am ultra-motivated to win and have invested much time that should be spent on my thesis on ridiculous sports analysis websites; and
• …My greatest weapon of all: the secret advice of my good friend Manuel Weeks, who has the triple assets of a strategic brain, Spanish genes and being an absolute gun at Football Manager.

This week, I’m tipping a 1-0 win to Juventus away against Celtics (Scotts can play soccer?!), a safe 1-1 draw between Valencia and Paris (because I don’t know anything about them), 2-1 to Real Madrid at home to Manchester (two teams I have actually heard of), and an ambiguous 1-1 prediction in the last game between Dortmund and some team I can’t pronounce, but sounds suspiciously like Azeri chess super-grandmaster Shakhriyar Mamedyarov.

You may be thinking I’m giving away all my secrets in this post about my tipping assets and predictions, but I highly doubt they’ll be reading this. And if you are, dear Tinbergen colleagues, here’s a picture to drive home the fear you should have in the Aussie tipping prowess. As Douglas Adams would no doubt have said, “There’s a frood who really knows where his towel is.”

(...even if he doesn't know who the team is.)

As far as I’m concerned, running should only be carried out either (a) to get to somewhere important, or (b) to get away from someone important.  For me, usually either case involves carrying, kicking or hitting a ball of some description (though I have also been known on occasion to run away from cattle and elephant stampedes, as well as to run towards Argentinean pickpockets).

Still, there was something different about the morning beach runs over the holidays; something refreshing, releasing, and dare I say it, almost fun.  The daily routine went something thus:

5:00am                 Wake up at dawn to the first of the sun’s morning rays streaming through my window.  The sky is as clear and blue as the ocean, and the temperature is 25 degrees. I get dressed – just a pair of board shorts – grab my keys, and jog out the door.

5:15am                 The beach is literally 50 metres from the apartment. I sprint across the road and unreservedly fling myself into the surf, splashing the white foam everywhere with the exuberance of a five year old.  The water is perfect, 20 degrees and more inviting than an open bar at a chess cafe. I swim a few imaginary laps and my muscles feel warm and alive.

5:30am                 I jog towards the headlands, my toes curling slightly under the firm, wet sand that straddles the waves and the beach. Every step is buoyed by the bounce of the smooth, warm earth. A few other joggers pass by me on the beach, each greeting me with a kindly smile and a genial “G’day”. A few drops of sea water roll down my face, the taste on my lips matching the salty ocean air filling my nostrils.  I am alive.

6:00am                 After half an hour, I hit up the exercise equipment the local council has installed by the shore.  My hands grip the pull-up bars, then subsequently the dips, presses and crunches. When my muscles start to burn, I race back into the surf for a final swim. I grab a healthy açai smoothie and a mango, and eat my breakfast sitting on the shore, looking out at the sun’s reflection over the Pacific Ocean.

7:00am                 I jog back to the apartment, stopping for a quick dip in the pool to cool down – that’ll count for a shower.  Soon I’ll wake up the boys, we’ll head into town for some breakfast, and then head back to the beach – wash, rinse, repeat.

Burleigh Beach: Easy to get up in the mornings

That’s how I began my mornings a fortnight ago on the paradisiacal beaches of Queensland.  I’m pretty sure that if I had access to such facilities on a daily basis, it mightn’t be so hard for me to finally become a morning person.  Revived and inspired on my return to European winter, I decided to try to continue the schedule over here – after all, a run is a run, right?  I’ll let you be the judge; here’s how today’s effort went:

7:00am                 Wake up before dawn, though you could hardly tell; the sky is cloudy and dark, but I’ll be lucky to see the sun all day anyway.  The temperature is -5 degrees. I get dressed – socks, shoes, tights, tracksuit pants, thermals, t-shirt, hoody, beanie and gloves – grab my keys, and stumble out the door.

7:15am                 The park is 10 minutes from my apartment.  I jog towards it, tripping and stammering thanks to the combination of the morning darkness and the layer of freshly frozen ice covering the snow that blankets the ground. The blast of icy wind that greets me as I leave the front door is as inviting as an abattoir’s freezer. I get to the entrance to the park and start a few warm-up stretches. The cracks in my joints sound like gunshots, echoing through the deserted winter forest. My muscles violently complain and curse me with threats of revenge tomorrow morning.

7:30am                 I jog through the park, my toes curling slightly as I run, largely thanks to the snow that has already managed to seep through my running shoes and gently soak my socks. Every step is a treacherous menace over the deathtrap that is the iced surface. A couple of my fellow joggers pass me by, looking as sodden and cheerless as I feel. I can’t tell if they’re smiling when they pass and mumble a muffled, “Hrgffbtt”, thanks to the scarves they’ve wrapped around their faces. A few drops of sweat attempt to roll down my face, but turn into tiny ice crystals on the end of my nose. I’ve accidentally been breathing with my mouth hanging open and now I can’t feel the tip of my tongue. I think my snot has started to freeze.

8:00am                 After half an hour, I hit up the exercise equipment the local council has installed in the middle of the park.  My hands try to grip the pull-up bars, but the ice tricks me again and I fall squarely on my butt.  A similar fate awaits me on the monkey bars.  My attempt at the hurdles on the frozen ground ends predictably. I finish the equipment circuit and start the return jog – this time, into the wind.

9:00am                 I jog back to the apartment, collapsing through the door and shaking the snow off, shivering, to find that my housemate is in the shower.  I strip down and curl up like a foetus in front of my wall heater.  Soon I’ve got to head into class or I’ll be late, so I’m desperately hoping that the shower is free so there’s a little hot water left and I don’t have to go to class with frozen sweat stuck to my skin.  From the bathroom, I hear the gentle cascade of running water – wash, rinse repeat.

Amsterdam: Somewhat less so

With no further ado, here are my top 10 choices for the best songs of 2012. Pundits, bettors and Triple J judges: take note.

10. 360 – Run Alone
From beautiful destruction to bouncy optimism.  Run Alone is the first of three dance tunes I’ve thrown into this year’s mix, but it keeps enough character to stop the indie hipsters turning up their noses at the slightly commercial-house flavour.  It’s a light-hearted, all-round winner for beating the blues, coupled with a sunny film clip. Harmless fun, but perhaps a little too shallow to make the final popular-vote list.

9. Seth Sentry – Dear Science
Guaranteed to make the final 100, though almost certainly too frivolous to crack the top 10.  Still, most of us have wondered at some point why technology is taking its time in giving us the future we imagined, and Seth rams the point home.  The whole song is essentially a complaint that science still hasn’t given us hoverboards, and while the message may be slightly simplistic, it’s hard to argue with the logic. A delightful novelty.

8. Macklemore & Ryan Lewis - Thrift Shop
One of the heavy hitters for the year, Thrift Shop is a serious contender for the number one song of the year.  The beat has a slight Brother Ali feel to it, but it’s the deep, booming baritone hip-hop, combined with the boppy novelty melody, that might see it oust Little Talks for top dog.  To be honest, I think their other, less popular number Same Love, with its serious anti-homophobia message, is a far more meaningful work, but I can’t argue with the fact that this is the song off their acclaimed The Heist album is the one I’m most likely to keep on repeat.  If the rules of Hottest 100 entry were strictly enforced by the judges, Thrift Shop would be a clear favourite for the gold.  But, as it happens…

7. Of Monsters And Men - Little Talks
…it’s probably second-favourite to this blockbuster.  Little Talks was technically first released in late 2011, which should render it ineligible for the 2012 Hottest 100, but it’s been included anyway as a candidate.  Having taken the US and Europe by storm, Of Monsters and Men can be quietly confident of picking up the most prestigious honour in Australian radio, come January 26.  Little Talks sounds a little like Mumford and Sons crossed with the vocal qualities of The xx, and although it’s no Lion Man, it remains favourite to take out line honours for 2012.

6. Calvin Harris - Sweet Nothing {ft. Florence Welch}
The dynamite combination of esteemed DJ Calvin Harris and the phenomenal vocals of Florence Wench (from Florence and the Machine) was always going to score highly on the charts and poll well with the Australian public.  I’ve had the privilege of seeing Florence in concert in both Melbourne and Amsterdam, and it must be said that her voice needs no background beat to encourage you to jump all over the place.  But the one-two combo of Sweet Nothing will get both the fluro-donning raver and antiquated indie folker linking arms and banging heads on the picnic table.  Guaranteed to be a hit at parties.

5. Abbe May – Karmageddon

The song that most easily came to mind when recalling the best of the year was this little apocalyptic apple from an artist I’d never heard of before.  At first, it has a slight Tame Impala feel with those strained, echoing male battle cries, but this beautifully juxtaposes with Abbe’s resonant voice that innocently masks the rather morbid doomsday lyrics.  We’re all going down in a ball of flames, by crickey, this girl’s voice is so – damn – sexy.  For a year in which the world was supposedly supposed to end, Karmageddon was eerily appropriate – and if we were all going down, Abbe’s voice would be the sound to send us there.

4. Rudimental - Not Giving In

The final dance number of my list is probably the best of the bunch.  A wickedly upbeat tune, the vocals of English duo John Newman and Alex Clare combine with the effects of the instrumental brass and rumbling bass to really encourage a sense of unbridled optimism and intrinsic strength throughout its five-and-a-half minutes.  If you think I’m giving the song a little too much meaningful credit, check out the music video, set in the slums of Manila, and guaranteed to keep you thinking long after the final note.

3. Chance Waters - Young & Dumb {ft. Bertie Blackman}
I have to confess, I’ve always had a secret crush on Bertie Blackman, which first sparked my interest in this duet with the Australian hip-hop artist formally known by the ridiculous handle Phatchance.  I’m very glad I did, though, because this is an exquisite little ditty that I predict will be a surprising hit in the final countdown.  Despite the lyrical reputation of the singers, it’s actually – how do I put this? – surprisingly romantic.  Do you know someone currently jaded with love and togetherness?  Then this is the perfect remedy to ease them back into a state of wary optimism.  Try to listen to it without tapping your feet; I dare you.

2. C2C - Down The Road

Probably the most unusual find for my list this year.  In general I’m not very familiar with the French music scene, but this English-language piece by a turntable band from Nantes is a beautiful silence-stopper.  Only two and a half minutes long, Down the Road feels like a country/blues classic that’s been mixed up and minced through an electronic blender – but somehow, it works.

1. Flight Facilities - Clair De Lune {ft. Christine Hoberg}
From the shortest to the longest of my entries this year, we come to my favourite track of 2012.  At almost eight minutes long,  Clair De Lune is quite a trip, a dreamy escape, and simply beautiful.  The title (French for ‘moonlight’) could not be more apt, and Christine Hoberg’s angelic voice would be enough to send anyone off to blissful slumber, were it not for the carefully constructed instrumentals and smooth melody to perfectly complement the ensemble.  It’s definitely my pick of the candidates, but while I would love to see it claiming the mantle of Number One, I recognise that Flight Facilities has a style that’s not for everyone.  But it’ll be there in the final cut, and most deservedly so.

So there you have it – my list of the hottest tracks of 2012. You can vote yourself at http://www.abc.net.au/triplej/hottest100/12/ and give yourself a chance to win a Triple J Golden Ticket, giving yourself entry to all the biggest music festivals in Australia for 2013.  (Okay, perhaps not that useful to you non-Aussies, but I’m living in Amsterdam and still jumping on board.)  Now to bring on Australia Day and see how my picks fared.  Happy listening!

Dear Europe,

I’m writing this brief note to you from Burleigh Beach,
Australia, where I’m holidaying to escape your winter and to bring in the new
year.

Tonight also marked my first full calendar year as a resident in your
continent. It’s been a period of change and of rugged yet gradual integration
into your way of life. I must admit, at times it’s been tough: you’ve often
left me feeling on the back foot, lacking in culture, unrefined, and so very,
very un-European.

I’ve never been much of a man for fashion, but your European
style (and judgment of those who lack it) did at times leave me feeling wholly
inadequate. I recall fondly that trip to Paris where my entrance to my very
first French party was met with the suggestion, “We don’t like your jeans. They’re
too baggy.”

Or the friendly advice from my friends in London that my
winter jacket made me look like a homeless ninja-turtle – while I still take it
as a compliment, I’ve since realised that a man who lives in Europe has certain
cultural obligations. You’ll be happy to know that in an extravagantly consumerist
2012, I literally doubled my wardrobe (I bought a second pair of shoes, and a
pair of jeans).

I’ve also learned something of the value of art.  For example, thanks to the exceptional modern
art galleries of London, Paris and Amsterdam, a wall painted entirely blue
should be taken as a biting criticism of capitalism and the perils of
technological progress, and thus should certainly be worth half a million
dollars. I’ve learned that comments such as “This guy must have been tripping
something chronic” are not an appropriate way to comment on van Gogh’s work –
at least not out loud. And I’ve learned through tasteful suggestion that dancing
‘Gangnam-style’ on tables in restaurants is perhaps not quite the ‘expression
of world music’ I claim it to be.

Truth be told, I still don’t realise why detachable shower
heads are so very vital to the showering experience, but at least I’m now aware
of it. I’m also now aware that the European Football Championships is a soccer
event, and that apparently the Dutch and the German teams haven’t always been
friends. You’ve taught me how to put up with second hand smoke in small,
windowless bars, and that the best beer in the world is almost always without
question that brewed in the city in which I’m currently drinking. While I haven’t
quite learned the correct pronunciation of Italian beverages, I’m now oh so
aware that my Aussie-drawl articulation “Maa-key-arr-tow” and “Caa-par-chee-na”
are perhaps not as pleasant to the ears as I would have people believe.

It’s been a period of change, dear Europe, in adapting to
your ways. You’re a complicated beast, and I’m perhaps a little less refined
than your average Euro-spawn, but I’m learning, and growing. And I like you, I
have to say. We can be friends.

But despite my peaceful resolution to learn ever more about
you in this exciting new year, let me take this brief opportunity to fire
something back at you. It’s not much, but it’s all I have, and it’s at least
undisputable. For here on the beach on New Year’s Day in Australia, I may always
be behind in your view of fashion and style (or in fact shirts), nor have a
real barista or an arty rock worth thousands of dollars anywhere nearby. But I
do have a timezone, and in that I’m at least ahead, having just seen in 2013
with the rest of my compatriots. And so for now and for the next few hours, at
least, I want you to think about this.

You are SO 2012.