The Guardian’s style guide to English language, which came free with yesterday’s paper, is kind enough to point out the difference between St James Park and St James’ Park: the former is the proud home of Exeter City F.C., named after a first century saint; the latter is the stadium of Newcastle United, whom are to be felt sorry for these days, and whose ground is owned, apparently, by several non-existent saints named Jame.

It made me realise I haven’t written about football here in a while. And Exeter beating Macclesfield 1-4 yesterday afternoon is too good a thing not to mention. We are now tenth and comfortably mid-table with the top spots only a few wins away. Which is a good thing, because in theory the first season at a higher level is supposed to be a fight against relegation, but in practise the Football League’s heavy point reduction of three opponents has been made that almost impossible and there had been a serious risk of this becoming a rather boring season. I was particularly happy with Matt Gill scoring the 1-4: not because I like him better than the other players, but because he gained me seven points in the Telegraph Fantasy Football Game. It’s one of these games where you select eleven players and get points if they do well; these players, of course, are not the ten-grant-a-day Premier League greeds, but the more modest and down-to-earth League Two journeymen. Despite an almost non-existent knowledge of the players I had bought, but thanks to some well-chosen substititions, I have been in the top-1000 (out of 12.000) for several weeks now. Perhaps I missed my vocation to become a football manager.

(Of course, now that we live in Exeter, it’s much easier for me to go and see the Grecians play. Unfortunately, their home games tend to be at rather inconvenient times like 3pm on Saturdays. It is nice though, on days like that, so see people in football shirts scattered around town, giving one a subtle but correct impression that ‘something is going on’.)

Every time I finish a book by Coetzee, I think it will take a while before I pick up the next one. But I keep being drawn to his stories and his prose and The Master of Petersburg, which I just finished, is his fifth book I have read this year. I actually had been meaning to read this one for a longer time, ever since my grandmother (who will turn 85 next weekend) had told me she had read it; I regret that I had not realised earlier that her interest in literature goes much deeper than reading popular Dutch authors.

The Master of Petersburg is not a happy book; none of Coetzee’s novels are. Depressive might even be accurate, but they are never depressing. Human failure, in particular when dealing with other humans, is described to the tiniest details, but failure does not extend beyond that: the world never fails, is not a failure, and certainly not a bad place per se. Although, I think that to a certain extent, one should be willing (and perhaps even wishing) to see that.

This book once again shows Coetzee’s almost unique talent as an author. The failure is that of a father who has lost his (step)son in a mysterious accident; he then tries to understand what happened, how and why the son died, but also, more importantly, the relationship between the father and the son. The father, it should be noted, is Fyodor Dostoevsky, the great Russian author: the book is set in 1860s Saint Petersburg and several events actually took place during Dostoevsky’s life. But the father is as much Coetzee himself, who has lost a son (Dostoevsky’s had a stepson but was outlived by him) and wrote about the experience in this book.

The other day, I had a somewhat unexpected discussion on contemporary literature with a mathematics professor. I told him to read Coetzee’s Disgrace, for I still think that is his best piece of art (although it took me some time to appreciate that). And the autobiographical Boyhood is probably his most accessible work. But this one comes close to both really.

Phil, who is the singer of the June Brides (did he tell you he has formed a band again?), posted some snippets of old June Brides reviews on Anorak. They included phrases like ‘The sooner this cohort of mocking cacophony start pushing prams instead of piffle the better’ and ‘that “14 year old boy who still wets his bed” vocal style’. I suppose I shouldn’t mind this —they were written two decades ago in mainstream press that I don’t really care about anyway— but it is still a tiny bit sad, don’t you think?

And then I am glad that there is a parallel world in which people spend their energy not on showing off their virtual muscles, but on making fanzines and writing about things they care about. Wrap Your Troubles In Dreams, which is written by Brighton-based Amy with the help of some friends, is one among many in a wave of new fanzines. It is worth buying if only for the two hours of untroubled happiness you get from reading it. It has the usual fanzine stuff, including comics, cute drawings, reviews and interviews. If twee can be shouted then this zine does exactly that. The interviewed artists include Dustin Rocketship, Bobby Trembling Blue Stars and Pam Berry, the latter being my favourite read. I was going to say that Pam needs a blog, but upon re-reading I discovered she already has one.

The zine comes with a 14-song compilation cd with mainly new bands. Surely worth a listen too, if only for a damn great song by Toronto’s Sarah, Plain and Tall, who handclap themselves to Cat’s Miaow-ish heights. Yay!

What I understand of cricket is that someone throws a ball upon which someone else tries to hit it away using a piece of wood and then the hitter scores points by running to-and-fro two wooden Ms before the thrower’s team mates have found the ball and thrown it back to its base. I presume this is equivalent to knowing Spanish to the extent of being able to count to ten and say ‘good morning’: it is still a long, long way to Don Quixote. But, after reading Netherland, at least I am convinced of cricket’s special position among other sports; that it is a Sport with a capital S, in comparison to which other sports are nothing but games.

Joseph O’Neill’s novel, however, is not a book about cricket, just like it isn’t a novel about New York or about growing up in The Hague. It is a book about failure in life —in a short period of life— and the understanding of it, to which these things are a mere background. More importantly, it is an awfully well written story, one that makes reading a fulfilling pleasure just because of the language. O’Neill, whom I had not heard of before, but who is an Irishman who grew up in the Netherlands, then worked in London before moving to New York (and thus bound to become a great writer), really gets things. Like the post-9/11 thing: I had been struggling with that label for a while, for it is true but didn’t feel right; but then I decided that it actually fits very well, for such Big events hardly ever affect people’s lives in obvious ways and then always mixed with seemingly irrelevant personal experiences.

I think it is a brilliant book. Not shortlisted for the Booker, but if that means something, then surely that the six other books are all brilliant. How is that?