The significance of Gareth Thomas’s confession cannot be underestimated. At a time when his team mates would be swapping shirts, he could only think of lifting his.
It comes as no surprise to anyone west of Offa’s Dyke – it has long been rumoured that Alfie was equally at home at inside or outside centre. But to have it revealed, nay paraded in front of us in such a way is, for many rugby fans, a difficult thing.
Everyone knows someone who is gay – indeed, some of my best friends tell me they have best friends who are gay. But to have the winner of 100 Welsh caps, a former Lions captain, a legend of the game admit that his idea of a good time is a foot long hot dog with lashings of KY sauce has rocked even the most PC of rugby fans.
If he had been a squash player, a swimmer, or even a cricketer, then fine. But a rugby player? It strikes at the very heart of our long held belief that all rugby players like nothing more than 16 pints, a cheap curry and then a night with any girl drunk enough to accept them.
Thomas himself is not diminished by this announcement. It is the game of rugby which has been jolted from its pedestal. Not so long ago, there was a gay rugby team in the UK – they struggled for fixtures because too many opposition teams had questioned their binding techniques, but they served a handy function - a place where non conventional rugby players could go.
Now it seems as though the floodgates are about to open, and poofters will fess up in teams all over the country. It’s not such an issue in Wales – we all knew about Alfie, we had to deal with Cliff Morgan’s shenanigans, and we are rugby minded enough not to care so long as they play well, but how will the Poms handle it when they learn that Jeremy Guscott, or Bill Beaumont prefer running onto the inside ball?
At a time when the IRB are looking closely at the rucking laws, perhaps they could also re-legislate the f@cking ones as well. We need a game which is entirely unreconstructed, a last bastion for the few who have not lost their heads to the PC nonsense e which has seeped into our world. Ban lifting in the bedroom as well as the line out, and allow unlimited use of the boot in the ruck.
It is, of course, deeply ironic that he chose to come out in the Mail.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
On the decline and fall of a big pussy
The news that Tiger Woods may come out of hiding today to deliver the best man's speech at an old friends wedding has caused a media frenzy.
Number One Sports Fan imagines it might go something like this.......
Tiger arises, looking unshaved, wearing an old pair of Adidas trainers. Slurring lightly, he appears to have been drinking.
"Welcome everyone to the marriage of Byron, and the beautiful Eleanor" (winks knowingly at the bride)
" Today is the happiest day of their lives. Won't last, of course, as he becomes more intimate with her mood swings, pre menstrual tantrums and refusals to stop lunching and gossiping with Amy Mickelsen.
In fact (becoming maudlin) it's all downhill from here. (Byron nudges him sharply) But hey (perking up), maybe they'll make it. (takes a long swig of his wine).
I plan to return to competitive golf early in 2010, and let me just reassure you I am more focused than ever on winning major championships and (another sharp nudge from Byron)
Oh, yes, where was I, Byron and the gorgeous, sexy Eleanor (this time directs a pronounced leer at the bride who shifts uncomfortably in her seat) She's a real, number, Eleanor, a bit like my wife only bigger boobies and better in the ......(at this point a well aimed 5 iron whirls through the air, striking Tiger just above the left eyebrow. He slumps to the ground unconscious, as a heated argument breaks out between bride and groom).
Number One Sports Fan imagines it might go something like this.......
Tiger arises, looking unshaved, wearing an old pair of Adidas trainers. Slurring lightly, he appears to have been drinking.
"Welcome everyone to the marriage of Byron, and the beautiful Eleanor" (winks knowingly at the bride)
" Today is the happiest day of their lives. Won't last, of course, as he becomes more intimate with her mood swings, pre menstrual tantrums and refusals to stop lunching and gossiping with Amy Mickelsen.
In fact (becoming maudlin) it's all downhill from here. (Byron nudges him sharply) But hey (perking up), maybe they'll make it. (takes a long swig of his wine).
I plan to return to competitive golf early in 2010, and let me just reassure you I am more focused than ever on winning major championships and (another sharp nudge from Byron)
Oh, yes, where was I, Byron and the gorgeous, sexy Eleanor (this time directs a pronounced leer at the bride who shifts uncomfortably in her seat) She's a real, number, Eleanor, a bit like my wife only bigger boobies and better in the ......(at this point a well aimed 5 iron whirls through the air, striking Tiger just above the left eyebrow. He slumps to the ground unconscious, as a heated argument breaks out between bride and groom).
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
on skinning a cat
The latest revelations from America confirm that Tiger is not yet out of the woods.
It seems he has been scoring just as well, if not better, off the course. He is not the housewives choice for his golf.
The sympathy one felt for the man after his car crash has all but disappeared with the news that there are very few attractive women in America he has not been shagging. His prolific ability to get a long one in the hole has hitherto been a source of admiration. Now it will likely inspire jealousy.
What makes it worse is that all of these women appear extremely desirable. Whether it is his money, his fame, his quiet charm or the statistical improbability that he is hung like a rogue sparrow, we do not know.
But either way he appears to have more than his fair share of what we want.
If, as this column suspects, further accusations are made by additional women, then we can expect to see, on a regular basis next year, the sight of Tiger being chased round the course by 153 pro golfers and about 25 angry husbands and boyfriends whenever he deigns to appear in a tournament.
It only remains to be seen whether he has pulled out of his transgressions with the same alacrity that he has pulled out of of his tournament this week, otherwise life could be further complicated for Tiger by the appearance of some estate claiming cubs.
It seems he has been scoring just as well, if not better, off the course. He is not the housewives choice for his golf.
The sympathy one felt for the man after his car crash has all but disappeared with the news that there are very few attractive women in America he has not been shagging. His prolific ability to get a long one in the hole has hitherto been a source of admiration. Now it will likely inspire jealousy.
What makes it worse is that all of these women appear extremely desirable. Whether it is his money, his fame, his quiet charm or the statistical improbability that he is hung like a rogue sparrow, we do not know.
But either way he appears to have more than his fair share of what we want.
If, as this column suspects, further accusations are made by additional women, then we can expect to see, on a regular basis next year, the sight of Tiger being chased round the course by 153 pro golfers and about 25 angry husbands and boyfriends whenever he deigns to appear in a tournament.
It only remains to be seen whether he has pulled out of his transgressions with the same alacrity that he has pulled out of of his tournament this week, otherwise life could be further complicated for Tiger by the appearance of some estate claiming cubs.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
On privacy
If Tiger Woods turned up at tournaments, won them, as is his wont, took the prize money then went home, then he would indeed be entitled to his privacy. But he doesn't.
The Tiger money-making machine is more embrasive than the tentacles of Rupert Murdoch.
His income is excessive, much of it derived from parading himself to the public - sponsorships, product endorsements and appearance fees.
In pursuing this course, he has abdicated any right to privacy.
Hollywood stars are well known for wooing the paparazzi when they need publicity for their new films, or to boost their flagging careers, then castigating them when exposed for scandal. Such double standards are expected of such fragile, flimsy and feckless individuals.
Tiger has used his sporting prowess to insert himself most indignantly into the public eye. He has made his bed, now he must lie in it, and if we wish to watch him doing so, he has no right to complain.
Tiger makes money when we shave using Gillette products. he advertises because he has set himself up as a role model. So we have the right to know if that is true or not. And know we want to.
The Tiger money-making machine is more embrasive than the tentacles of Rupert Murdoch.
His income is excessive, much of it derived from parading himself to the public - sponsorships, product endorsements and appearance fees.
In pursuing this course, he has abdicated any right to privacy.
Hollywood stars are well known for wooing the paparazzi when they need publicity for their new films, or to boost their flagging careers, then castigating them when exposed for scandal. Such double standards are expected of such fragile, flimsy and feckless individuals.
Tiger has used his sporting prowess to insert himself most indignantly into the public eye. He has made his bed, now he must lie in it, and if we wish to watch him doing so, he has no right to complain.
Tiger makes money when we shave using Gillette products. he advertises because he has set himself up as a role model. So we have the right to know if that is true or not. And know we want to.
Monday, November 30, 2009
On needing a new Caddy
A crouching Tiger, hidden behind a hydrant whilst an enraged Elin tried to give him the thin end of her wedge (which she later changed to rescue club in her statement to the police) after learning he had been making birdies but signing for par.
An event which has prompted more wild theorising than the so called but obviously faked moon landings. Clearly, the truth is that this is a PR stunt to humanise Tiger - probably ahead of a new advertising campaign in which he endorses beer or chewing tobacco.
And it has worked. This column has never been a fan of Woods the person, but suddenly I want to have a beer with him.
The world loves nothing so much as a flawed personality sporting genius. Is this new naughty Tiger continuing the legacy of Gazza, of Best, of Walter Hagan?His private life will now be subjected to the most intense scrutiny. His every movement will be probed more deeply than Elton John's ring.
The paparazzi will invade every tournament in which he plays. His brutish minder, Steve Williams, will be so busy breaking cameras he will scarcely have time to carry his clubs. And his game may just not survive it.
Which opens up another line of theorising - is the whole thing a set up by one of his rivals in an attempt to dethrone the king? Big Phil has been smiling a lot lately! A sporting plot of devious cunning. Where's Myron Bolitar when you need him. Yoohoo, Myron, here's a bestseller in waiting.
An event which has prompted more wild theorising than the so called but obviously faked moon landings. Clearly, the truth is that this is a PR stunt to humanise Tiger - probably ahead of a new advertising campaign in which he endorses beer or chewing tobacco.
And it has worked. This column has never been a fan of Woods the person, but suddenly I want to have a beer with him.
The world loves nothing so much as a flawed personality sporting genius. Is this new naughty Tiger continuing the legacy of Gazza, of Best, of Walter Hagan?His private life will now be subjected to the most intense scrutiny. His every movement will be probed more deeply than Elton John's ring.
The paparazzi will invade every tournament in which he plays. His brutish minder, Steve Williams, will be so busy breaking cameras he will scarcely have time to carry his clubs. And his game may just not survive it.
Which opens up another line of theorising - is the whole thing a set up by one of his rivals in an attempt to dethrone the king? Big Phil has been smiling a lot lately! A sporting plot of devious cunning. Where's Myron Bolitar when you need him. Yoohoo, Myron, here's a bestseller in waiting.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
On the solution to rugby's woes
For saturday's clash at Twickers, England recalled several of their World Cup winners. How New Zealand would have loved to do the same. But they are all retired now.
Nevertheless, the motley collection of Fijians, Samoans, Cook Islanders and a few token south island farmers duly rolled over what has to be said is a diabolical England outfit. Imagine what France would have done to them (or Scotland for that matter).
The Jocks brought off a famous victory north of the border, courtesy of a wayward Matt Giteau. One for the match fixing panel, methinks.
In Cardiff, a resurgent Wales dealt a body blow to Argentina. Finally we saw some open rugby, courtesy of the Welsh Wizard Shane Williams. When the likes of Adam Jones, Mike Phillips and Lee Byrne return, this could be a formidable outfit.
But overall the game looks in pretty poor shape. The laws are now so convoluted that pretty much everything, except forward passing and crooked feeding, is a penalty offence. Could it be that the SH was right in pushing the ELVs?
Having spent a fortune creating fans, in order to pay for professionalism, the money men must now be concerned that these new found slavish adherents of the game may prove fickle in their following and switch to cycling, table tennis or even Rugby League for their replica shirts next year.
Number One Sports fan has given the matter some serious consideration, and come up with a 5 point plan to ensure Union stays popular amongst the masses:
1. WAG Matches - as a precursor the main event, matches could be played between rival team WAGS. Games would be refereed by Gok Wan who would have the power to give penalties for fashion gaffes, and would award additional points for the use of high street clothing for team strips.
2. 3 a side leagues (based in India). 3 a side rugby will be fast and furious, with lots of open play, very few rucks, and high scores on both sides. Matches will last 2 minutes each way to ensure that an entire tournament can be played in a day. Suggested name - Rugby Threege.
3. Bring in celebrity guest players from other sports and fields - Tiger Woods, David Beckham, Tony Blair etc - each could play for a 10 minute period - as a replacement player when a sinbinning occurs. Each team would have one celebrity, and whenever a member of their side got yellow carded, rather than being down to 14 men, their celebsub comes on.
4. Make the value of tries 5 points multiplied by the number of metres run by the scorer in scoring the try - so if Shane Williams makes a break from behind his own line and dots down between the opposition posts, Wales get 5 x 104 =520 points for the try.
5. Legalise high tackles, tackling catchers who are airborne and allow unlimited use of boot and knee in the ruck - this could attract a whole new type of fan away from clubs like Milwall and Cardiff City.
I will be forwarding these ideas to the powers that be and expect to see them trialled in next years Super Duper 75
Nevertheless, the motley collection of Fijians, Samoans, Cook Islanders and a few token south island farmers duly rolled over what has to be said is a diabolical England outfit. Imagine what France would have done to them (or Scotland for that matter).
The Jocks brought off a famous victory north of the border, courtesy of a wayward Matt Giteau. One for the match fixing panel, methinks.
In Cardiff, a resurgent Wales dealt a body blow to Argentina. Finally we saw some open rugby, courtesy of the Welsh Wizard Shane Williams. When the likes of Adam Jones, Mike Phillips and Lee Byrne return, this could be a formidable outfit.
But overall the game looks in pretty poor shape. The laws are now so convoluted that pretty much everything, except forward passing and crooked feeding, is a penalty offence. Could it be that the SH was right in pushing the ELVs?
Having spent a fortune creating fans, in order to pay for professionalism, the money men must now be concerned that these new found slavish adherents of the game may prove fickle in their following and switch to cycling, table tennis or even Rugby League for their replica shirts next year.
Number One Sports fan has given the matter some serious consideration, and come up with a 5 point plan to ensure Union stays popular amongst the masses:
1. WAG Matches - as a precursor the main event, matches could be played between rival team WAGS. Games would be refereed by Gok Wan who would have the power to give penalties for fashion gaffes, and would award additional points for the use of high street clothing for team strips.
2. 3 a side leagues (based in India). 3 a side rugby will be fast and furious, with lots of open play, very few rucks, and high scores on both sides. Matches will last 2 minutes each way to ensure that an entire tournament can be played in a day. Suggested name - Rugby Threege.
3. Bring in celebrity guest players from other sports and fields - Tiger Woods, David Beckham, Tony Blair etc - each could play for a 10 minute period - as a replacement player when a sinbinning occurs. Each team would have one celebrity, and whenever a member of their side got yellow carded, rather than being down to 14 men, their celebsub comes on.
4. Make the value of tries 5 points multiplied by the number of metres run by the scorer in scoring the try - so if Shane Williams makes a break from behind his own line and dots down between the opposition posts, Wales get 5 x 104 =520 points for the try.
5. Legalise high tackles, tackling catchers who are airborne and allow unlimited use of boot and knee in the ruck - this could attract a whole new type of fan away from clubs like Milwall and Cardiff City.
I will be forwarding these ideas to the powers that be and expect to see them trialled in next years Super Duper 75
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
On scrummaging
Oh, the power of those All Blacks.
Hot off the heels of making Martyn Roberts the guilty party when tackled around the neck by Dan Carter, they have now managed to get their pet poodle, Referees head Paddy n'O Brain, to confess that all those who thought the Italian front row pulverised them were in fact wrong.
What actually happened was that the nasty Italians, lead by the arch villain Castrogiovanni, were cheating all day, and in fact a penalty try should have been awarded to the ABs, notwithstanding the fact they were scrummaging 5 metres from their own line.
What rotters those wops are to bend the rules like that, and how awful for poor little Wyatt Crockett (one of the 33 props uses by the ABs in the last 2 years in a desperate attempt to have a front row which could compete with Australia)
These are, of course, an entirely different set of All Blacks to the ones who laughed when Beastly Mtarawira illegally outscrummaged Phil Vickery and said "it's a man's game, deal with it on the park".
They're not even the same ones who moan every time another team copies them and passes the ball forwards at a 45% angle.
And now, in attempt to dictate the style of match against England this week, they have the nerve, the hard rind, the immortal crust to claim that only a running game will satisfy the public.
Someone should take these arch whingers to one side and quietly explain that it is only in their own country that the game is in tatters.
In the NH, record crowds delight each week in seeing proper games of rugby, hard fought in packed mud between teams who get on with it.
In NZ, however, dwindling crowds sit bored by prancing, make-up wearing show ponies playing a sort of elongated version of sevens, whilst their top players depart for foreign shores with the regularity of Circular Quay ferries.
The Super-Duper 75, or whatever it is, and the Air NZ Cup, are a farce. The EPL, Heinken Cup, Magners league and Top 14 are magnificent. They prepare players for real battles, such as World Cup quarter and semi finals.
But doubtless this too will be eroded by the moaning men of the South Pacific islands - given they are hosting the next tournament, we can doubtless expect, shortly after their departure in the qualifying stages, a retrospective rule to be introduced which declares them the winners.
Plus ca change........
Hot off the heels of making Martyn Roberts the guilty party when tackled around the neck by Dan Carter, they have now managed to get their pet poodle, Referees head Paddy n'O Brain, to confess that all those who thought the Italian front row pulverised them were in fact wrong.
What actually happened was that the nasty Italians, lead by the arch villain Castrogiovanni, were cheating all day, and in fact a penalty try should have been awarded to the ABs, notwithstanding the fact they were scrummaging 5 metres from their own line.
What rotters those wops are to bend the rules like that, and how awful for poor little Wyatt Crockett (one of the 33 props uses by the ABs in the last 2 years in a desperate attempt to have a front row which could compete with Australia)
These are, of course, an entirely different set of All Blacks to the ones who laughed when Beastly Mtarawira illegally outscrummaged Phil Vickery and said "it's a man's game, deal with it on the park".
They're not even the same ones who moan every time another team copies them and passes the ball forwards at a 45% angle.
And now, in attempt to dictate the style of match against England this week, they have the nerve, the hard rind, the immortal crust to claim that only a running game will satisfy the public.
Someone should take these arch whingers to one side and quietly explain that it is only in their own country that the game is in tatters.
In the NH, record crowds delight each week in seeing proper games of rugby, hard fought in packed mud between teams who get on with it.
In NZ, however, dwindling crowds sit bored by prancing, make-up wearing show ponies playing a sort of elongated version of sevens, whilst their top players depart for foreign shores with the regularity of Circular Quay ferries.
The Super-Duper 75, or whatever it is, and the Air NZ Cup, are a farce. The EPL, Heinken Cup, Magners league and Top 14 are magnificent. They prepare players for real battles, such as World Cup quarter and semi finals.
But doubtless this too will be eroded by the moaning men of the South Pacific islands - given they are hosting the next tournament, we can doubtless expect, shortly after their departure in the qualifying stages, a retrospective rule to be introduced which declares them the winners.
Plus ca change........
Saturday, November 7, 2009
En Passe
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. So goes the old saying.
After years of castigating other teams, mainly England, for a reliance on the boot, the All Blacks finally capitulated, and played a kicking game from start to finish in Cardiff, with the result that they narrowly edged out a rampantly superior Welsh side.
Wales, who were clearly caught unawares by the IRB decision to repeal both forward passing and high tackle laws just before the game, did their utmost to compete, but were undone by an long instilled belief that passing the ball backwards was the right and proper way to do things.
Indeed, captain Ryan Jones revealed in his post match interview that due to an unfortunate breakdown in communications, the Welsh players were not informed of the rule changes until after the game. Their bewilderment, as the ABs passed the ball in front of themselves time and time again, was all too obvious.
Refreree Craig Cronje-Joubert had several anxious moments too. Having backed NZ to win by 13+, he did his utmost to gift the game to the Pacific Islanders, only to be frustrated time and time again by the TMO, who had clearly not had a bet on the match, and pettifoggingly insisted on sticking to the rules.
The difference between the two sides, apart from the fact they were playing two sets of rules, was outside half Dan Carter, who controlled the game superbly. He did however disgrace himself with a high tackle on Martyn Roberts which will undoubtedly mean he sits out next week. Cronje-Joubert, who by this stage had given up all attempts at apparent impartiality, was picked up on his mike saying “Nice one Danny, now stamp on the bastard”, but the citing commissioner will likely take a different view.
And so on to next week. Wales face Samoa, many of whom have brothers and cousins playing for the ABs. New Zealand, who these days pick their opposition with the precision of an upwardly mobile heavyweight boxer, travel to Italy. All roads lead to Eden Park in 2011 where, assuming the stadium is at least half built, France and South Africa will play out a thrilling World Cup final.
After years of castigating other teams, mainly England, for a reliance on the boot, the All Blacks finally capitulated, and played a kicking game from start to finish in Cardiff, with the result that they narrowly edged out a rampantly superior Welsh side.
Wales, who were clearly caught unawares by the IRB decision to repeal both forward passing and high tackle laws just before the game, did their utmost to compete, but were undone by an long instilled belief that passing the ball backwards was the right and proper way to do things.
Indeed, captain Ryan Jones revealed in his post match interview that due to an unfortunate breakdown in communications, the Welsh players were not informed of the rule changes until after the game. Their bewilderment, as the ABs passed the ball in front of themselves time and time again, was all too obvious.
Refreree Craig Cronje-Joubert had several anxious moments too. Having backed NZ to win by 13+, he did his utmost to gift the game to the Pacific Islanders, only to be frustrated time and time again by the TMO, who had clearly not had a bet on the match, and pettifoggingly insisted on sticking to the rules.
The difference between the two sides, apart from the fact they were playing two sets of rules, was outside half Dan Carter, who controlled the game superbly. He did however disgrace himself with a high tackle on Martyn Roberts which will undoubtedly mean he sits out next week. Cronje-Joubert, who by this stage had given up all attempts at apparent impartiality, was picked up on his mike saying “Nice one Danny, now stamp on the bastard”, but the citing commissioner will likely take a different view.
And so on to next week. Wales face Samoa, many of whom have brothers and cousins playing for the ABs. New Zealand, who these days pick their opposition with the precision of an upwardly mobile heavyweight boxer, travel to Italy. All roads lead to Eden Park in 2011 where, assuming the stadium is at least half built, France and South Africa will play out a thrilling World Cup final.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
On saturday night
The legacy of 50 odd years of heartbreak, injustice, poor refereeing and downright cheating will be played out this weekend in Cardiff.
Wales, a team who have so often been better, who have played more attractive rugby than, and who have remained honest in the face of cynical manipulation of the laws by the All Blacks over the years, have a sniff of a chance to put right the record and sends the men of Polynesia packing.
Shorn they may be of some critical pivots - the brilliant Byrne, the phenomenal Phillips and the the plucky Peel, but there are hearts of oak in this Welsh side. The indomitable Jenkins, the reportedly well-above-averagely hung Roberts, the gristle of Ryan Jones, these are men that the south pacific islanders would do well to fear.
New Zealand are a mixed bag, not just in the nationality of their players. McCaught and Carter are good, yes, but there are weaknesses that these two paragons manage to hide through their industrious endeavours.
Tialata is suspect, the second row and consequently the lineout are undernourished, and Nonu is always at risk of his make-up running. Blurred vision in midfield due to cheap maybelline products is the sort of potential error most coaches in the modern era have ironed out of their sides, but not, it seems on this occasion.
So on we go. The stadium will be packed, the crowd hopeful and vocal, and the first 20 minutes intense. Cymru am byth, I hear you say. I couldn't have put it better myself.
Wales, a team who have so often been better, who have played more attractive rugby than, and who have remained honest in the face of cynical manipulation of the laws by the All Blacks over the years, have a sniff of a chance to put right the record and sends the men of Polynesia packing.
Shorn they may be of some critical pivots - the brilliant Byrne, the phenomenal Phillips and the the plucky Peel, but there are hearts of oak in this Welsh side. The indomitable Jenkins, the reportedly well-above-averagely hung Roberts, the gristle of Ryan Jones, these are men that the south pacific islanders would do well to fear.
New Zealand are a mixed bag, not just in the nationality of their players. McCaught and Carter are good, yes, but there are weaknesses that these two paragons manage to hide through their industrious endeavours.
Tialata is suspect, the second row and consequently the lineout are undernourished, and Nonu is always at risk of his make-up running. Blurred vision in midfield due to cheap maybelline products is the sort of potential error most coaches in the modern era have ironed out of their sides, but not, it seems on this occasion.
So on we go. The stadium will be packed, the crowd hopeful and vocal, and the first 20 minutes intense. Cymru am byth, I hear you say. I couldn't have put it better myself.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
On Twitter, tweets and twats
Hallelujah. Twitter is in decline. Over the past year, since Twittermania gained real traction, we have been treated to the innermost thoughts, and daily minutae in the lives of sporting stars.
Now coaches, managers and sporting authorities the world over are banning their charges from Twittering. Is an ex-twitterer a Twat?
At first, Twitter gave us sports fans hope - a chance to learn the real, undiluted truth.
Would Dean Richards blog that Woolies were doing a Halloween special so he had just popped in to buy a gross of fake blood?
Would we learn that Gazza breakfasted on Chateau Vidaflore?
Would her Twitterings expound upon Serena's ambition to assassinate errant line judges. Presumably many of her childhood ghetto friends grew up to a career in murder.
But no. Twitter revealed sporting celebrities for the generally dull, mono-dimensional beings we suspected they might be all along. More of what Becks was doing on the loo rather than to Rebecca of that ilk. Big Sol, we discovered, spends more time beating eggs than his wife.
And so we called them boring. Ironically, when one isn't boring, we castigate them as publicly and painfully as we can. George Best, Ian Botham, and now Andre Agassi.
He lost a French open due to a slipping syrup, but won Wimbledon on drugs.
Imagine his twitter. "Wig slipping. Need to fix it. Have glue. Dilemma - Stick or sniff?"
No wonder he used to hide his head under a towel between games. And we thought that mirror was for vanity!
Sports people become stars because we perceive their lives to be glamorous. Twitter has shown us by and large they are not. Sure, they get paid a heap, and live the lifestyles of the rich and famous, but when the chips are down, they still crap brown.
So it's great when the mavericks arise, and restore our faith in the concept of sporting idolatry.
And please, sports stars, Twitter, if you must, but make it interesting.
If Martina is affected by a bad line call, we want to hear she means taking one just before a random dope test!
Now coaches, managers and sporting authorities the world over are banning their charges from Twittering. Is an ex-twitterer a Twat?
At first, Twitter gave us sports fans hope - a chance to learn the real, undiluted truth.
Would Dean Richards blog that Woolies were doing a Halloween special so he had just popped in to buy a gross of fake blood?
Would we learn that Gazza breakfasted on Chateau Vidaflore?
Would her Twitterings expound upon Serena's ambition to assassinate errant line judges. Presumably many of her childhood ghetto friends grew up to a career in murder.
But no. Twitter revealed sporting celebrities for the generally dull, mono-dimensional beings we suspected they might be all along. More of what Becks was doing on the loo rather than to Rebecca of that ilk. Big Sol, we discovered, spends more time beating eggs than his wife.
And so we called them boring. Ironically, when one isn't boring, we castigate them as publicly and painfully as we can. George Best, Ian Botham, and now Andre Agassi.
He lost a French open due to a slipping syrup, but won Wimbledon on drugs.
Imagine his twitter. "Wig slipping. Need to fix it. Have glue. Dilemma - Stick or sniff?"
No wonder he used to hide his head under a towel between games. And we thought that mirror was for vanity!
Sports people become stars because we perceive their lives to be glamorous. Twitter has shown us by and large they are not. Sure, they get paid a heap, and live the lifestyles of the rich and famous, but when the chips are down, they still crap brown.
So it's great when the mavericks arise, and restore our faith in the concept of sporting idolatry.
And please, sports stars, Twitter, if you must, but make it interesting.
If Martina is affected by a bad line call, we want to hear she means taking one just before a random dope test!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
On Player Power
The youth of today are a sorry lot. By the youth, I am of course referring to the spoilt, pampered and overpaid individuals that pass for sportsmen in this day and age.
In recent years these sad individuals, whose lives are wrapped in cotton wool, whilst their bank accounts grow forever more bulging, have developed a concept which strikes at the heart of our social problems, a lack of respect for their elders and betters which has manifested itself in the appalling Player Power.
This week we see the demise of Gareth Southgate, Andy Moles from NZ Cricket (you heard it here first) and in all probability Rafa Benitez at Liverpool – hapless victim of the players own shortcomings.
In recent times coaches and managers to many to mention have fallen victim to this inversely vicarious victimisation. If they win, the players cop the credit. If they lose, it’s all the managers fault.
Moles is perhaps the unluckiest of all. He took a shoestring and sealing wax outfit to the Champions Trophy and, albeit with a little help from Younus Khan’s bookie, somehow got them to the final. Now they want rid of him.
If a boxer takes a pounding in the ring (like Stephen Gately), he cannot blame his manager. Is boxing the last true sport, an ironic question when you consider most fights are more fixed than Hanse Cronje’s horoscope.
Cricket, rugby and soccer all suffer from blame the boss syndrome. They are the great team sports, with enormous commercial appeal and, consequently, stuffed to the seams with over paid Maradonnas, sorry, prima donnas.
To manage a group of these individuals, to a man obsessed with their own self serving agendas, may be one of the hardest tasks of all. To be then collectively knifed in the back by them is redolent of Caesar.
Which reminds me.
Once upon a time the great Julius was hosting a tea party for some of his closest friends. After all the food was eaten, all that remained was a tube of smarties.
There were ten remaining, exactly matching the numbers of guests present, so Caesar poured them out onto a plate.
But when it came to his turn, there were none left, and rising to his feet, he turned to the next man and said in an accusing snarl; “Et tu, Brute?”
In recent years these sad individuals, whose lives are wrapped in cotton wool, whilst their bank accounts grow forever more bulging, have developed a concept which strikes at the heart of our social problems, a lack of respect for their elders and betters which has manifested itself in the appalling Player Power.
This week we see the demise of Gareth Southgate, Andy Moles from NZ Cricket (you heard it here first) and in all probability Rafa Benitez at Liverpool – hapless victim of the players own shortcomings.
In recent times coaches and managers to many to mention have fallen victim to this inversely vicarious victimisation. If they win, the players cop the credit. If they lose, it’s all the managers fault.
Moles is perhaps the unluckiest of all. He took a shoestring and sealing wax outfit to the Champions Trophy and, albeit with a little help from Younus Khan’s bookie, somehow got them to the final. Now they want rid of him.
If a boxer takes a pounding in the ring (like Stephen Gately), he cannot blame his manager. Is boxing the last true sport, an ironic question when you consider most fights are more fixed than Hanse Cronje’s horoscope.
Cricket, rugby and soccer all suffer from blame the boss syndrome. They are the great team sports, with enormous commercial appeal and, consequently, stuffed to the seams with over paid Maradonnas, sorry, prima donnas.
To manage a group of these individuals, to a man obsessed with their own self serving agendas, may be one of the hardest tasks of all. To be then collectively knifed in the back by them is redolent of Caesar.
Which reminds me.
Once upon a time the great Julius was hosting a tea party for some of his closest friends. After all the food was eaten, all that remained was a tube of smarties.
There were ten remaining, exactly matching the numbers of guests present, so Caesar poured them out onto a plate.
But when it came to his turn, there were none left, and rising to his feet, he turned to the next man and said in an accusing snarl; “Et tu, Brute?”
Monday, October 12, 2009
On the ghastly spectacle of 20/20
The Champions League 20/20. If you exhumed WG Grace, or woke up Ted Dexter after lunch for that matter, and put them on the spot - "What is it", chances are they wouldn't have a clue.
Kerry Packer, on the other hand, doutbless over a game of Texas hold'em with God and St Peter, will be smiling down and saying "that's my baby".
Because that's what it is - the legacy of Packer and his World Cricket Circus. I cannot find it in myself to in any way endorse it.
It's irrelevance is staggering. It's baseball by another name, designed to entertain slack jawed, shifty eyed, unemployable morons, and their teenage mother girlfriends, from the nether regions of the Midlands and Uttar Pradesh.
In fact, I'll go further. It's the sort of thing that undermines sport as we know it.
What will come next? Already, the ghastly spectre of a Test championship has raised it's ugly head. I confidently expect the moneymen at SKY TV to propose 3 aside rugby or KwikGolf as the next big things. "Tiger has just 13 minutes to complete the second 9...."
The sponsors of Test cricket in the UK, nPower, want a return to terrestrial TV. So do I. For all sports. Lower salaries for players, more authority for referees and umpires, and Israeli oranges at half time.
Kerry Packer, on the other hand, doutbless over a game of Texas hold'em with God and St Peter, will be smiling down and saying "that's my baby".
Because that's what it is - the legacy of Packer and his World Cricket Circus. I cannot find it in myself to in any way endorse it.
It's irrelevance is staggering. It's baseball by another name, designed to entertain slack jawed, shifty eyed, unemployable morons, and their teenage mother girlfriends, from the nether regions of the Midlands and Uttar Pradesh.
In fact, I'll go further. It's the sort of thing that undermines sport as we know it.
What will come next? Already, the ghastly spectre of a Test championship has raised it's ugly head. I confidently expect the moneymen at SKY TV to propose 3 aside rugby or KwikGolf as the next big things. "Tiger has just 13 minutes to complete the second 9...."
The sponsors of Test cricket in the UK, nPower, want a return to terrestrial TV. So do I. For all sports. Lower salaries for players, more authority for referees and umpires, and Israeli oranges at half time.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
On unacceptable behaviour
The name Serena literally translates as The Peaceful One – not, as one of it’s more notorious owners fondly imagines, The Earful One.
The truly appalling, there is no other word for it, display by Serena Williams at the US Open will haunt tennis forever.
Do not, at your peril, compare it to the amusing antics of Mcenroe or Nastase. Williams took it to another level – there was a menace, an evil intent about her attack on the line judge, which went beyond an emotional outburst. Under pressure, she had reverted to type. She looks evil, she plays evilly, and when push came to shove she revealed herself in her true colours – an evil woman so out of place in a genteel sport, even in this day and age of grunters and munters.
If the tennis authorities do not carry out the ultimate sanction – she should be banned for life from pro tennis – then they are in effect endorsing it, and as such we will breed generation after generation of violently abusive tennis players who will push the envelope further and further until one carries a gun on court and blows away a hapless umpire or errant ball girl.
To her credit, I think it was a moment of madness born out of the absolute will to win – once the issue had been resolved, and the match lost, she departed with a minimum of fuss, pausing only to congratulate the bemused Clijsters. That in itself may the most damning evidence of all – her tacit acknowledgement that she had crossed the boundary.
Clijsters went on to cap a fairytale comeback by winning the tournament, but unless Williams is ejected from the game forthwith, I suspect it is her behaviour which we will remember for years to come, as we stand appalled by its legacy.
The truly appalling, there is no other word for it, display by Serena Williams at the US Open will haunt tennis forever.
Do not, at your peril, compare it to the amusing antics of Mcenroe or Nastase. Williams took it to another level – there was a menace, an evil intent about her attack on the line judge, which went beyond an emotional outburst. Under pressure, she had reverted to type. She looks evil, she plays evilly, and when push came to shove she revealed herself in her true colours – an evil woman so out of place in a genteel sport, even in this day and age of grunters and munters.
If the tennis authorities do not carry out the ultimate sanction – she should be banned for life from pro tennis – then they are in effect endorsing it, and as such we will breed generation after generation of violently abusive tennis players who will push the envelope further and further until one carries a gun on court and blows away a hapless umpire or errant ball girl.
To her credit, I think it was a moment of madness born out of the absolute will to win – once the issue had been resolved, and the match lost, she departed with a minimum of fuss, pausing only to congratulate the bemused Clijsters. That in itself may the most damning evidence of all – her tacit acknowledgement that she had crossed the boundary.
Clijsters went on to cap a fairytale comeback by winning the tournament, but unless Williams is ejected from the game forthwith, I suspect it is her behaviour which we will remember for years to come, as we stand appalled by its legacy.
On another poor decision
The decision by Andrew Freelance-Flintoff to reject a central contract, and instead tout his wares to the highest bidder, is a significant one for cricket.
In deciding to become a hired gun, Freddie has done no more than indicate that his playing days are numbered, doubtless because his injuries are worse than we know, and he intends to milk what dollars he can out of the Delhi Daredevils, Lashmipur Longdrops or whoever before he ends up in a wheelchair.
We should not castigate him for this, instead remembering how he has soldiered manfully through his career to bear an England workload of immense proportions.
But we should be frightened, very frightened indeed. Because lots of promising all-rounders to whom Old Freelance is something of a guiding beacon may well follow his example and become the latter day Ronin of the cricketing world, masterless men who ply their trade wherever they can.
The likes of Luke Wright, Ravi Bopara and even Stuart Broad could well be lost to England. NZ rugby has already experienced this phenomenon – play a few games for the All Blacks, up your worth then sod off to the highest dollar in Europe. It’s a national pandemic, sadly, but amusingly keeps them from winning the world cup on a quadrannual basis.
But heaven forbid it should happen to English cricket. We can lose a world cup without this sort of hoohah. So I think the answer is clear – the MCC should dispatch a hit squad – old Deadly Derek himself could lead it, and quietly bring an end to the sorry Freddie saga – they could use a poisoned pedalo – which would send a quiet but firm message to budding all-rounders – play for England or you get it.
In deciding to become a hired gun, Freddie has done no more than indicate that his playing days are numbered, doubtless because his injuries are worse than we know, and he intends to milk what dollars he can out of the Delhi Daredevils, Lashmipur Longdrops or whoever before he ends up in a wheelchair.
We should not castigate him for this, instead remembering how he has soldiered manfully through his career to bear an England workload of immense proportions.
But we should be frightened, very frightened indeed. Because lots of promising all-rounders to whom Old Freelance is something of a guiding beacon may well follow his example and become the latter day Ronin of the cricketing world, masterless men who ply their trade wherever they can.
The likes of Luke Wright, Ravi Bopara and even Stuart Broad could well be lost to England. NZ rugby has already experienced this phenomenon – play a few games for the All Blacks, up your worth then sod off to the highest dollar in Europe. It’s a national pandemic, sadly, but amusingly keeps them from winning the world cup on a quadrannual basis.
But heaven forbid it should happen to English cricket. We can lose a world cup without this sort of hoohah. So I think the answer is clear – the MCC should dispatch a hit squad – old Deadly Derek himself could lead it, and quietly bring an end to the sorry Freddie saga – they could use a poisoned pedalo – which would send a quiet but firm message to budding all-rounders – play for England or you get it.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
On a seemingly Pyrrhic victory
You did it! You did it! You said that you would do it, And indeed you did. I thought that you would rue it; I doubted you'd do it. But now I must admit it That succeed you did. You should get a medal Or be even made a knight.
Lyrics to the song "You did it", from My Fair Lady.
And indeed they did do it, although not quite in the manner of 2005. There is something a little hollow about this Ashes victory. Perhaps it need a mountainous performance from Freddie in the final test to make it truly the stuff of legend. But nonetheless they did it, so well done.
Lyrics to the song "You did it", from My Fair Lady.
And indeed they did do it, although not quite in the manner of 2005. There is something a little hollow about this Ashes victory. Perhaps it need a mountainous performance from Freddie in the final test to make it truly the stuff of legend. But nonetheless they did it, so well done.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
On the All Blacks and referees
You have to admire the All Black. Through gritted teeth, perhaps, but they can be the most obdurate of teams, albeit when it matters least. Last night’s victory over a hapless Australian side, shorn of it’s inspirational leader Mortlock, and during the match of most of it’s quality backs, was not a pretty affair. Nor was it compelling for any reason other than its closeness.
The delight on the faces of both players and coaching team spoke volumes. The great escape had nothing on this. Inept handling, forward passing en masse, and a clear lack of game plan made for a messy spectacle. The northern hemisphere teams must be licking their lips in anticipation of a reverse grand slam come the end of season tour at this rate.
Am I alone in being sick to the gills of the sight of Riche McCaught-Cheating bleating at the referee? We all know that every match played by the ABs is against 16 men, the opposition ranks being swelled by the ref, but there must come a point when the IRB put in their false teeth and outlaw this soccer style interrogation of every decision.
For those of us privileged enough to enjoy the kiwi commentators, each blast of the whistle is accompanies by a post mortem, which generally finds in favour of pro All Black decisions, but opposes those which themselves oppose their team. It’s great fun to listen to – we play a game where you have to take a drink each time the ref gets it wrong – usually most of us are unconscious well before half time.
Which means we don’t have to listen to them for all that long!
The delight on the faces of both players and coaching team spoke volumes. The great escape had nothing on this. Inept handling, forward passing en masse, and a clear lack of game plan made for a messy spectacle. The northern hemisphere teams must be licking their lips in anticipation of a reverse grand slam come the end of season tour at this rate.
Am I alone in being sick to the gills of the sight of Riche McCaught-Cheating bleating at the referee? We all know that every match played by the ABs is against 16 men, the opposition ranks being swelled by the ref, but there must come a point when the IRB put in their false teeth and outlaw this soccer style interrogation of every decision.
For those of us privileged enough to enjoy the kiwi commentators, each blast of the whistle is accompanies by a post mortem, which generally finds in favour of pro All Black decisions, but opposes those which themselves oppose their team. It’s great fun to listen to – we play a game where you have to take a drink each time the ref gets it wrong – usually most of us are unconscious well before half time.
Which means we don’t have to listen to them for all that long!
On the path to glory
Trott cantered to a ton, Swan galloped to 50, and England appeared to walk the walk just when it mattered most.
In golf they call day 3 moving day. Day 3 at the Oval saw England move into a seemingly unassailable position. Seemingly. 80-0 at the close has just the tiniest hint of ominous possibility about it. It has never been done before, but then they said that about Everest, The South Pole, and Elizabeth the First.
2 days is a long time in cricket, and as we all know, abject capitulation is a sort of surreal, contrived anagram of English cricket. If anyone can throw it away, we can. Step forward Stuart Broad, Andrew Flintoff and Graeme Swan.
Imagine if Flintoff and Broad could breed. What all-rounders they would produce. It wouldn’t take much, a bit of lippy, a couple of squirts of silicone, and a quick chopmecockoffermy performed by one of Harley Street’s most eminent, and I am sure Freddie might find young Broad appealing. The Aussie must be fed up with his appealing, especially on day 2 where he ripped their guts out, for all the world like a cross between a young Barry Manilow and a sabre-toothed tiger!
Just a thought.
So on we go. The double-decker is ready, the Queen is prepared to knight Collingwood, and glory awaits. England expects!
In golf they call day 3 moving day. Day 3 at the Oval saw England move into a seemingly unassailable position. Seemingly. 80-0 at the close has just the tiniest hint of ominous possibility about it. It has never been done before, but then they said that about Everest, The South Pole, and Elizabeth the First.
2 days is a long time in cricket, and as we all know, abject capitulation is a sort of surreal, contrived anagram of English cricket. If anyone can throw it away, we can. Step forward Stuart Broad, Andrew Flintoff and Graeme Swan.
Imagine if Flintoff and Broad could breed. What all-rounders they would produce. It wouldn’t take much, a bit of lippy, a couple of squirts of silicone, and a quick chopmecockoffermy performed by one of Harley Street’s most eminent, and I am sure Freddie might find young Broad appealing. The Aussie must be fed up with his appealing, especially on day 2 where he ripped their guts out, for all the world like a cross between a young Barry Manilow and a sabre-toothed tiger!
Just a thought.
So on we go. The double-decker is ready, the Queen is prepared to knight Collingwood, and glory awaits. England expects!
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
On Fans
When I was a stripling, fans were something that belonged to soccer clubs and AHA. To be a fan, you either had to inhabit the terraces every Saturday afternoon, screaming and yelling abuse at your opposite numbers, while 22 men ponced around with a round ball in front of, which was almost entirely incidental. You also need to fortify yourself beforehand with a great volume of lager and meat pies. The other kind of fan was an eye-make-up wearing, quiff haired bloke in skin-tight jeans trying to look like Morton Harkett. I know. I was one of them.
But you never got fans at cricket, golf or rugby – or athletics or lawn bowls, for that matter. People who went to watch these sports were followers, supporters, ex-players etc. But not fans.
Fans have entered the world of historically more genteel sports as a result of money, SKY TV and greedy administrators, who can see no further than midway along their own snout as it is buried in the trough of revenue.
Fans are people who don’t love the game, but are enticed to follow it through the introduction of world cups, the ruination of the game through so called progressive developments designed to simplify it so that it might appeal to even the most moronic of observers.
“We need more money”, say the money men, so they destroy the sport to make it appealing to people with no empathy for it. Fans are fickle. They are enticed into a sport, lured with false promises, swell the coffers for a while then drift away when they realise they don’t like, or appreciate what they are seeing.
Fans don’t know how to behave – witness the witless Barmy Army. In NZ this week a schoolboy match erupted into a mass brawl involving hundreds of spectators. Examples too numerous to enumerate illustrate this. Fans care only about the result, not the game, or quality of play.
That difference is never better illustrated than by the difference between the fans of Cardiff City, and those who attend Welsh rugby internationals at the Millennium Stadium. At City games, they turn into animals, yet at the rugby, win or lose, Cardiff is a great place to be. And yet many of those who attend both are the same people. They love rugby, and a good game. But they are fans of City.
It is unlikely that any major sport’s administrators will turn their back on fans whilst SKY continues to pump obscene amounts of money into sport. Piped pop musak will accompany the bowlers run up at Lords. Obscene chants will be heard on the 18th green at The Masters. Results at Twickenham will be pre arranged and the matches carefully choreographed – all to keep the fans interested, whilst, lovers of the games, retreat further back into our armchairs, watching the SKY broadcast with the volume down allowing us to listen to the commentary on Radio Five Live.
But you never got fans at cricket, golf or rugby – or athletics or lawn bowls, for that matter. People who went to watch these sports were followers, supporters, ex-players etc. But not fans.
Fans have entered the world of historically more genteel sports as a result of money, SKY TV and greedy administrators, who can see no further than midway along their own snout as it is buried in the trough of revenue.
Fans are people who don’t love the game, but are enticed to follow it through the introduction of world cups, the ruination of the game through so called progressive developments designed to simplify it so that it might appeal to even the most moronic of observers.
“We need more money”, say the money men, so they destroy the sport to make it appealing to people with no empathy for it. Fans are fickle. They are enticed into a sport, lured with false promises, swell the coffers for a while then drift away when they realise they don’t like, or appreciate what they are seeing.
Fans don’t know how to behave – witness the witless Barmy Army. In NZ this week a schoolboy match erupted into a mass brawl involving hundreds of spectators. Examples too numerous to enumerate illustrate this. Fans care only about the result, not the game, or quality of play.
That difference is never better illustrated than by the difference between the fans of Cardiff City, and those who attend Welsh rugby internationals at the Millennium Stadium. At City games, they turn into animals, yet at the rugby, win or lose, Cardiff is a great place to be. And yet many of those who attend both are the same people. They love rugby, and a good game. But they are fans of City.
It is unlikely that any major sport’s administrators will turn their back on fans whilst SKY continues to pump obscene amounts of money into sport. Piped pop musak will accompany the bowlers run up at Lords. Obscene chants will be heard on the 18th green at The Masters. Results at Twickenham will be pre arranged and the matches carefully choreographed – all to keep the fans interested, whilst, lovers of the games, retreat further back into our armchairs, watching the SKY broadcast with the volume down allowing us to listen to the commentary on Radio Five Live.
On the decider
So this is it, then. After 71 holes it all comes down to this. There's no time to be added on, so this kick could seal it either way. Only one more attempt at this height. The drama of the final moment in sport. There's a deathly hush in the close tonight and all that.
Tomorrow commences the final Ashes test - winner takes all, except that for Australia a draw is victory, in that they retain the Ashes.
The English selectors have resisted all call for change, failing to add Ramps, Tresco, Beefy Botham and other popular choices to the squad. Instead they have called up Trott, a South African. If he, and Cook, and Collingwood, and of course Bell fail, then expect calls for changes amongst the selectors. Especially Ashley Giles.
The drama continues. Freddie Flintoff strides onto the test stage for one final throw of the dice, a cricketing Gielgud about his swansong at Stratford. (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/cricket/international/theashes/6030103/The-Ashes-Andrew-Flintoffs-roller-coaster-Test-career-comes-to-an-end.html) Of course Freddie could singlehandedly sort out the global recession, win world war three on his own, and satisfy all the girls of the playboy mansion in a brisk 30 minute shagathon, but can he on his own win the Oval test and the Ashes for England? For Harry and St George?
It should be compelling stuff, enthralling right up the moment that Ponting brings up his ton before lunch on the first day, or when England shrink off the field 77-4 to munch on their cucumber sarnies. There’s a certain inevitability about it.
In many ways an Australian victory will better serve the English public – we can point to the non selection of ageing failures as the reason for defeat, and Ashley Giles will be burnt in effigy in clubs, coal mines and county grounds the length and breadth of Britain. We will unite in adversity.
There, that feels better, doesn’t it.
Tomorrow commences the final Ashes test - winner takes all, except that for Australia a draw is victory, in that they retain the Ashes.
The English selectors have resisted all call for change, failing to add Ramps, Tresco, Beefy Botham and other popular choices to the squad. Instead they have called up Trott, a South African. If he, and Cook, and Collingwood, and of course Bell fail, then expect calls for changes amongst the selectors. Especially Ashley Giles.
The drama continues. Freddie Flintoff strides onto the test stage for one final throw of the dice, a cricketing Gielgud about his swansong at Stratford. (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/cricket/international/theashes/6030103/The-Ashes-Andrew-Flintoffs-roller-coaster-Test-career-comes-to-an-end.html) Of course Freddie could singlehandedly sort out the global recession, win world war three on his own, and satisfy all the girls of the playboy mansion in a brisk 30 minute shagathon, but can he on his own win the Oval test and the Ashes for England? For Harry and St George?
It should be compelling stuff, enthralling right up the moment that Ponting brings up his ton before lunch on the first day, or when England shrink off the field 77-4 to munch on their cucumber sarnies. There’s a certain inevitability about it.
In many ways an Australian victory will better serve the English public – we can point to the non selection of ageing failures as the reason for defeat, and Ashley Giles will be burnt in effigy in clubs, coal mines and county grounds the length and breadth of Britain. We will unite in adversity.
There, that feels better, doesn’t it.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
On the decider
Don’t be carried away by the 20/20 finish to the 4th test – England were duly thrashed by a very wide margin.
The Ashes now hang in the balance, and with a batting line-up in disarray, only a miracle and some bold selection can win the day. Or bribery – has this been tried?
Can the selectors pull a rabbit out of the hat? Well, they will struggle to find one – there are so many names being thrown in there.
It’s easier to reverse the microscope – who stays, on merit? Strauss, Prior, Broad (just), Onions (just, again) and that’s probably it. The rest are contenders, just like the deep pool of talent lurking on county cricket challenging for a place. Could this be Michael Carberry’s moment?
This is not a time to worry about central contracts. It is time to consign Bell, Collingwood and, at least for now, Bopara to the scrapheap. Harmison can ice their cake. Anderson needs to get fit else Sidebottom must take his place. Freddie has to play, simple as that.
But the batsmen? Prior to 3. Trescothick to open. Ramprakash to 4. Key to 5. Trott to 6. Yes it smacks of despair, but believe you me, when Andrew Strauss says this is not a time for panic, he is wrong. It is time for helpless panic, desperate selections and to tread in every dog turd you can find.
The Ashes now hang in the balance, and with a batting line-up in disarray, only a miracle and some bold selection can win the day. Or bribery – has this been tried?
Can the selectors pull a rabbit out of the hat? Well, they will struggle to find one – there are so many names being thrown in there.
It’s easier to reverse the microscope – who stays, on merit? Strauss, Prior, Broad (just), Onions (just, again) and that’s probably it. The rest are contenders, just like the deep pool of talent lurking on county cricket challenging for a place. Could this be Michael Carberry’s moment?
This is not a time to worry about central contracts. It is time to consign Bell, Collingwood and, at least for now, Bopara to the scrapheap. Harmison can ice their cake. Anderson needs to get fit else Sidebottom must take his place. Freddie has to play, simple as that.
But the batsmen? Prior to 3. Trescothick to open. Ramprakash to 4. Key to 5. Trott to 6. Yes it smacks of despair, but believe you me, when Andrew Strauss says this is not a time for panic, he is wrong. It is time for helpless panic, desperate selections and to tread in every dog turd you can find.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
On runs and the Trotts
The addition to the England squad of Jonathon Trott is yet further evidence that the selectors are reluctant to relinquish the Empire.
If the 4th test goes against them, I fully expect to see the names of Jacques Kallis, Ishant Sharma and Chris Gayle on the team sheet for the oval. Maybe even a recall for Basil D’Oliveira. England have certainly missed a few dollies this year!
Trott, well know for smashing boundaries almost as much as he smashes dressing room furniture( http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/cricket/international/theashes/5972354/The-Ashes-Jonathan-Trott-comes-of-age-to-win-England-recall.html), will assume an Andy Murray like role in the hearts of the fans. Should he show true grit, he will of course become a true Brit; if not, he will be cast out as an impudent foreigner.
He may not get a game – he is nominally in the squad as cover for Freddie, a sort of cricketing duvet.
Can England win without Freddie and KP? The Lions won without all their stars, so maybe. The Aussies are on the back foot – evident as their psychobabble between matches now includes such earnest claims as “we hope Freddie is fit – we want to beat their best side” from Marcus North.
But we need a wicket taker. Harmie? – maybe. Sidebottom? perhaps. Onions, Broad? No. Honest county toilers. Broad may yet surprise us, and revert to the batting role which started him in cricket, becoming a sort of Kallis like 5th seamer. Onions, for all he looks like Mike Hendrick, is not of the same quality. Anderson and Swan (and Rudi Koertzen) are our best hopes – who’d have thought it?
With the forecast for Headingly looking reassuringly poor, and the Oval wicket producing as many runs as a Delhi curry this year, England may have done enough. Ponting and co will battle to the end, but sometimes the sporting script runs against battlers.
If the 4th test goes against them, I fully expect to see the names of Jacques Kallis, Ishant Sharma and Chris Gayle on the team sheet for the oval. Maybe even a recall for Basil D’Oliveira. England have certainly missed a few dollies this year!
Trott, well know for smashing boundaries almost as much as he smashes dressing room furniture( http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/cricket/international/theashes/5972354/The-Ashes-Jonathan-Trott-comes-of-age-to-win-England-recall.html), will assume an Andy Murray like role in the hearts of the fans. Should he show true grit, he will of course become a true Brit; if not, he will be cast out as an impudent foreigner.
He may not get a game – he is nominally in the squad as cover for Freddie, a sort of cricketing duvet.
Can England win without Freddie and KP? The Lions won without all their stars, so maybe. The Aussies are on the back foot – evident as their psychobabble between matches now includes such earnest claims as “we hope Freddie is fit – we want to beat their best side” from Marcus North.
But we need a wicket taker. Harmie? – maybe. Sidebottom? perhaps. Onions, Broad? No. Honest county toilers. Broad may yet surprise us, and revert to the batting role which started him in cricket, becoming a sort of Kallis like 5th seamer. Onions, for all he looks like Mike Hendrick, is not of the same quality. Anderson and Swan (and Rudi Koertzen) are our best hopes – who’d have thought it?
With the forecast for Headingly looking reassuringly poor, and the Oval wicket producing as many runs as a Delhi curry this year, England may have done enough. Ponting and co will battle to the end, but sometimes the sporting script runs against battlers.
Monday, August 3, 2009
On Graham Henry
“Bring me the head of Ted” is the rallying call amongst NZ rugby circles after yet another abject performance in the Trying Nations this week.
The Ted in question is none other than Graham Henry, Mr Shelf Life himself, who has in recent years flitted from coaching job to coaching job, capitalised on honeymoon periods then been revealed as an imposter of the worst kind, a coach bereft of all but Plan A.
Plan A itself isn’t that smart – it derives from years of being a headmaster and ensuring there is no room for individuality, flair and creativity - a strategy that the casual observer might think would sit well with the dull and dour men of Aotearoa.
The All Blacks are a mess. They refuse to sing the national anthem before games, preferring instead to do the Haka – all except Ma’a Nonu, a man so shorn of brain cells that he still mistakes his instructions and stays in the changing rooms to do a hooker just before kick off.
On the field, their inability to pass, catch or kick with any reasonable degree of accuracy
outweigh the inevitable bias all referees seem to show them – 3 out of 5 games lost this year.
Just as Wales, a small country who punched above their weight in the amateur era, accepted their decline and rebuilt from scratch, so NZ must recognise it has no divine right to supremacy, and must look to ways of remodelling the now sleeping black giant.
Not a task for Mr Henry and Plan A.
The Ted in question is none other than Graham Henry, Mr Shelf Life himself, who has in recent years flitted from coaching job to coaching job, capitalised on honeymoon periods then been revealed as an imposter of the worst kind, a coach bereft of all but Plan A.
Plan A itself isn’t that smart – it derives from years of being a headmaster and ensuring there is no room for individuality, flair and creativity - a strategy that the casual observer might think would sit well with the dull and dour men of Aotearoa.
The All Blacks are a mess. They refuse to sing the national anthem before games, preferring instead to do the Haka – all except Ma’a Nonu, a man so shorn of brain cells that he still mistakes his instructions and stays in the changing rooms to do a hooker just before kick off.
On the field, their inability to pass, catch or kick with any reasonable degree of accuracy
outweigh the inevitable bias all referees seem to show them – 3 out of 5 games lost this year.
Just as Wales, a small country who punched above their weight in the amateur era, accepted their decline and rebuilt from scratch, so NZ must recognise it has no divine right to supremacy, and must look to ways of remodelling the now sleeping black giant.
Not a task for Mr Henry and Plan A.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
On the wonderfulness of weekends
There is an utterly ghastly period known to us all, a hollow, empty void, a stark, barren wasteland.
Douglas Adams called it the long, dark tea-time of the soul.
I call it Monday to Wednesday, that awful, fallow, sportless period which condemns you to watching reruns of events from the 70s and 80s whilst you wait for the golf and cricket to begin on a Thursday.
You lie abed, drenched in pitiful apathy as the clock strikes 9. There is little point in stirring from your pit, unless you delight in the perversions that are darts, ice-skating, badminton and the like. These are not sports, merely hapless games which have no place on the plasma.
And then the winter of your sportless discontent is made glorious summer by this sun of sport, as Thursday dawns, another epic Ashes content looms, European golf, American golf, tri nations rugby and more, a veritable flood of quality live sport upon which to feast.
You gorge yourself with great gluttony, mindful that such a repast can only last until Monday, when once again you are deprived of the very life-blood that is top-class international sporting action, that very reason for being.
Ah me, the ebb and flow of life!
Douglas Adams called it the long, dark tea-time of the soul.
I call it Monday to Wednesday, that awful, fallow, sportless period which condemns you to watching reruns of events from the 70s and 80s whilst you wait for the golf and cricket to begin on a Thursday.
You lie abed, drenched in pitiful apathy as the clock strikes 9. There is little point in stirring from your pit, unless you delight in the perversions that are darts, ice-skating, badminton and the like. These are not sports, merely hapless games which have no place on the plasma.
And then the winter of your sportless discontent is made glorious summer by this sun of sport, as Thursday dawns, another epic Ashes content looms, European golf, American golf, tri nations rugby and more, a veritable flood of quality live sport upon which to feast.
You gorge yourself with great gluttony, mindful that such a repast can only last until Monday, when once again you are deprived of the very life-blood that is top-class international sporting action, that very reason for being.
Ah me, the ebb and flow of life!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
On the new football season
Only a matter of weeks remain until the new season is upon us – mind you, these days, that’s always the case – the 4 week gap between the end of one nodderfest and the start of another is hardly a break.
Excitement is building in the press – transfer frenzy is peaking. Dutch striker Wijt van Mann has signed for Hartlepool for a club record 50p and a bag of boiled sweets.
Out in Asia, on a pre-season tour, Michael Owen has scored twice for new club Man United, whilst colleague Rio Ferdinand has scored every night. Given this trip is midway between seasons, how do they decide if it is a pre-season tour, or a post – season one?
Diego Maradonna is coming to Portsmouth – doubtless he will be welcomed with due pompey and circumstance! Just what Portsmouth need, a bit of Argentinean flair. Apparently Maradonna has business interests at Bath Rugby Club so he wanted to be near enough to make sure everything is kept in line.
At Liverpool, Steve Gerard has been in headlines for all the wrong reasons. Yes, he has scored, but only as a points winner on a technical knockout.
Down in the nether regions of the Super Duper Mega Championship League, formerly known as the first division, Cardiff and Reading will once again try and win promotion. Reading especially, who seem to have made the play-offs every year since about 1451, will be desperate to make the Madjeski Stadium the home of premiership football. Cardiff also commissioned a new ground on the basis that they thought promotion was in the bag – they couldn’t fill Ninian Park in flight 2, so there should be a hollow ring to the endless chanting of “wogs begin at Bristol” around the SWALEC Stadium this season.
Finally, spare a thought for lowly Bangor FC – they were beaten 1-0 at home in a friendly by FC Honka
Excitement is building in the press – transfer frenzy is peaking. Dutch striker Wijt van Mann has signed for Hartlepool for a club record 50p and a bag of boiled sweets.
Out in Asia, on a pre-season tour, Michael Owen has scored twice for new club Man United, whilst colleague Rio Ferdinand has scored every night. Given this trip is midway between seasons, how do they decide if it is a pre-season tour, or a post – season one?
Diego Maradonna is coming to Portsmouth – doubtless he will be welcomed with due pompey and circumstance! Just what Portsmouth need, a bit of Argentinean flair. Apparently Maradonna has business interests at Bath Rugby Club so he wanted to be near enough to make sure everything is kept in line.
At Liverpool, Steve Gerard has been in headlines for all the wrong reasons. Yes, he has scored, but only as a points winner on a technical knockout.
Down in the nether regions of the Super Duper Mega Championship League, formerly known as the first division, Cardiff and Reading will once again try and win promotion. Reading especially, who seem to have made the play-offs every year since about 1451, will be desperate to make the Madjeski Stadium the home of premiership football. Cardiff also commissioned a new ground on the basis that they thought promotion was in the bag – they couldn’t fill Ninian Park in flight 2, so there should be a hollow ring to the endless chanting of “wogs begin at Bristol” around the SWALEC Stadium this season.
Finally, spare a thought for lowly Bangor FC – they were beaten 1-0 at home in a friendly by FC Honka
On Michael Jackson
It is a little know fact that, shortly before his tragic death, Michael Jackson, a keen amateur golfer, played high stakes match with Tiger Woods.
Standing on the first tee, and after a big night with Elizabeth Taylor, during which he had consumed numerous bottles of champagne, Jackson was feeling slightly the worse for wear, but, by virtue of having consumed 8 cans of Red Bull and a whole packet of max strength painkillers which he just happened to have about his person, he was in a reasonable state.
Woods was giving him a shot every hole, and Jacko, playing out of his skin, managed to shoot 17 pars to Tiger's 17 straight birdies to keep the match all square after 17.
On the 18th tee, just as Jacko was about to tee off, the sun burst from behind a cloud and a shaft of sunlight hit him between the eyes, causing him to shank the ball viciously into the deep rough.
By the time they found it, it had got dark, and despite the light of the moon, he was having real difficulty seeing the ball. A miraculous recovery saw him get to within lob wedge distance, but at this stage his hangover started to really kick in and he could manage no better than a one over par 5.
Woods duly holed his birdie putt to claim a famous victory.
Asked afterwards to what he attributed his last hole collapse, Jackson replied that he didn’t blame it on the sunshine, he didn’t blame it on the moonlight, he didn’t blame it on the good time, but he did blame it on the bogey.
Standing on the first tee, and after a big night with Elizabeth Taylor, during which he had consumed numerous bottles of champagne, Jackson was feeling slightly the worse for wear, but, by virtue of having consumed 8 cans of Red Bull and a whole packet of max strength painkillers which he just happened to have about his person, he was in a reasonable state.
Woods was giving him a shot every hole, and Jacko, playing out of his skin, managed to shoot 17 pars to Tiger's 17 straight birdies to keep the match all square after 17.
On the 18th tee, just as Jacko was about to tee off, the sun burst from behind a cloud and a shaft of sunlight hit him between the eyes, causing him to shank the ball viciously into the deep rough.
By the time they found it, it had got dark, and despite the light of the moon, he was having real difficulty seeing the ball. A miraculous recovery saw him get to within lob wedge distance, but at this stage his hangover started to really kick in and he could manage no better than a one over par 5.
Woods duly holed his birdie putt to claim a famous victory.
Asked afterwards to what he attributed his last hole collapse, Jackson replied that he didn’t blame it on the sunshine, he didn’t blame it on the moonlight, he didn’t blame it on the good time, but he did blame it on the bogey.
On KP
No Pietersen for the rest of the Ashes? Well nuts to you, KP, I say. We can do it without you.
The great British mentality will prevail. “We few, we happy few”, as Ian Bell said, talking to his runs. The Ockers are in disarray. We hold the whip hand, we are in the Bocks seat – mind you, they lost at home recently to the Aussies so that’s no advantage.
So who should step up and replace the former badger haired Kevin? And should Bopara stay? After all, centuries against the West Indies are a bit like passports for Poles - a formality these days.
There is a man who could do it. He is a great batsman, in form and no stranger to the Ashes. So what if he blubs like a baby whenever he sees a sign saying Heathrow next left?
I am speaking, of course, of none other than Marcus Trescothick. The selectors should go down on bended knee to him (which might also take his mind off his homesickness) and beg him to play in the final three tests. He’s got more class than a state school teacher, that boy, and can easily bat at 3.
This is the Ashes, a cauldron of fire and brimstone. There’s no place for wet behind the ears tyros like Moore or Denley. Ramps never cut it as this level, and we all know Key and Shah are not of the highest calibre.
No, Tresco is the man, and he must be selected. Number One Sports Fan has spoken.
The great British mentality will prevail. “We few, we happy few”, as Ian Bell said, talking to his runs. The Ockers are in disarray. We hold the whip hand, we are in the Bocks seat – mind you, they lost at home recently to the Aussies so that’s no advantage.
So who should step up and replace the former badger haired Kevin? And should Bopara stay? After all, centuries against the West Indies are a bit like passports for Poles - a formality these days.
There is a man who could do it. He is a great batsman, in form and no stranger to the Ashes. So what if he blubs like a baby whenever he sees a sign saying Heathrow next left?
I am speaking, of course, of none other than Marcus Trescothick. The selectors should go down on bended knee to him (which might also take his mind off his homesickness) and beg him to play in the final three tests. He’s got more class than a state school teacher, that boy, and can easily bat at 3.
This is the Ashes, a cauldron of fire and brimstone. There’s no place for wet behind the ears tyros like Moore or Denley. Ramps never cut it as this level, and we all know Key and Shah are not of the highest calibre.
No, Tresco is the man, and he must be selected. Number One Sports Fan has spoken.
Monday, July 20, 2009
On the second test result
Arise, Sir Freddie. Hail Lord Flintoff. Three cheers for the Duke of Flintoffshire. Freddie for King!
Encouraged by his ability to take wickets with no balls and be credited with catches that bounce at least twice before reaching the fielder, The Maharajah of Menace sprinted in unchanged for what seemed like 2 weeks, spitting fire and brimstone at the hapless Aussie tail. Here a bouncer, there a yorker, every ball a real corker.
Australia have no answer to this sort of imperial agression, underlining why they can never truly be considered a republic. Their tail folded like a children's origami book.
Even Swann, the sort of cheeky chappie who at school freely dispenses jam and digestive biscuit wedgies to younger lads, got amongst the wickets. His dismissal of Michael Clarke was a thing of beauty - so good you wonder if Clarke got the Ouija Board out last night to ask Hansie Cronje for some advice. It takes a real artist to make Swann look that unplayable.
A test, then, displaying the sort of drama normally reserved for 6 one hour episodes on the BBC. Austalia blew a 1-0 lead in '05, so I have every belief that England can do the same.
That is, unless Andrew Flintoff, the deliverer of destruction, the purveyor of purlers, the usher of unplayability can step up and once again remind us that Britons never never never shall be slaves!
Encouraged by his ability to take wickets with no balls and be credited with catches that bounce at least twice before reaching the fielder, The Maharajah of Menace sprinted in unchanged for what seemed like 2 weeks, spitting fire and brimstone at the hapless Aussie tail. Here a bouncer, there a yorker, every ball a real corker.
Australia have no answer to this sort of imperial agression, underlining why they can never truly be considered a republic. Their tail folded like a children's origami book.
Even Swann, the sort of cheeky chappie who at school freely dispenses jam and digestive biscuit wedgies to younger lads, got amongst the wickets. His dismissal of Michael Clarke was a thing of beauty - so good you wonder if Clarke got the Ouija Board out last night to ask Hansie Cronje for some advice. It takes a real artist to make Swann look that unplayable.
A test, then, displaying the sort of drama normally reserved for 6 one hour episodes on the BBC. Austalia blew a 1-0 lead in '05, so I have every belief that England can do the same.
That is, unless Andrew Flintoff, the deliverer of destruction, the purveyor of purlers, the usher of unplayability can step up and once again remind us that Britons never never never shall be slaves!
Sunday, July 19, 2009
On Andrew Flintoff
Farewell then, Andrew Flintoff - a larger than life cricketer.
After his recent announcement, he was described as retiring for the first time in his life.
He’s not everyone’s cuppa, is Freddie, bit then neither were Botham or Warne.
Sadly, he’s never been in their class, just their shadow, and stripped bare, his stats reveal him to be no more than an average Test match performer.
He’s had his moments, true. Never more so that in ’05, with ball, bat and pint in hand. Many will tell you that, without injury, his would have been a truly illustrious career.
Number One Sports fan begs to differ. Freddie is an honest artisan, a Corporal in the trenches who loves his country, nothing more. He needs the right officer to bring the best out in him, and those captains he has played under, Atherton, Hussain, Vaughan and most recently Strauss, are not really from the officer class. They are Freddies with Hs at the front of certain words, nothing more, and he, if he were familiar with the word, would probably describe them as jumped up parvenus best kept behind a desk, leaving the real commanding to proper officers.
One wonders how me might have gone under Brearley? A genius at getting his men to perform over and above their natural inclination, Brearley might have turned Freddie into a legend. He managed it with Botham.
But one thing you must hand to him is he is a tryer, and we all love one of those. He gives his all for England on the field. And they will miss him.
After his recent announcement, he was described as retiring for the first time in his life.
He’s not everyone’s cuppa, is Freddie, bit then neither were Botham or Warne.
Sadly, he’s never been in their class, just their shadow, and stripped bare, his stats reveal him to be no more than an average Test match performer.
He’s had his moments, true. Never more so that in ’05, with ball, bat and pint in hand. Many will tell you that, without injury, his would have been a truly illustrious career.
Number One Sports fan begs to differ. Freddie is an honest artisan, a Corporal in the trenches who loves his country, nothing more. He needs the right officer to bring the best out in him, and those captains he has played under, Atherton, Hussain, Vaughan and most recently Strauss, are not really from the officer class. They are Freddies with Hs at the front of certain words, nothing more, and he, if he were familiar with the word, would probably describe them as jumped up parvenus best kept behind a desk, leaving the real commanding to proper officers.
One wonders how me might have gone under Brearley? A genius at getting his men to perform over and above their natural inclination, Brearley might have turned Freddie into a legend. He managed it with Botham.
But one thing you must hand to him is he is a tryer, and we all love one of those. He gives his all for England on the field. And they will miss him.
On the Tour de France
The big annual bike ride, otherwise known as the Tour de France, continues merrily on it’s way up hill and down dale through the countryside of Gaul.
Some cycling acquaintances of mine once told me that every year they follow the tour from start to finish, then ride it straight afterwards – apparently in the company of thousands of other cycling enthusiasts. This sounds like the sort of fun I can only dream of, and on the very infrequent occasions that I seek their company, they relate each stage in some detail.
Watching the tour on TV, I imagine it appeals to the same sort of mentality that devotes itself to Grand Prix following. It is the commentators I feel sorry for, yet in a strange way admire too. Their ability to interject anecdote and comment in to a script that would otherwise read “and the wheels on the bike go round and round” is nothing short of heroic.
Occasionally, an incident occurs which livens things up, and this year we have had several of note, the death of a spectator, the shooting with an air rifle of several cyclists, and of course the return of Lance “Undrugged” Armstrong.
What we have not had yet, and it is the moment that every casual Tour watcher lives for, is Le Grand Pile-up! One little lapse of concentration, one wobbly wheel, and hundreds of lycra clad muscles untie in a collision of force which brings carnage to the race. It is even better when this happens on a bridge!
We have also not yet experienced the moment in which the Tour leader is denounced as a drug cheat,. The cycling authorities have worked hard to clean up their sport, much to the detriment of the schaudenfraudisitic public. We want Jean Van Tandem to build up an insurmountable lead then be disqualified because his B sample shows traces of Lucozade.
So 2009 is so far not a memorable year. No drugs, no smash, and no yellow jersey for Lance, not yet anyway. It really has just become another big bike ride.
Some cycling acquaintances of mine once told me that every year they follow the tour from start to finish, then ride it straight afterwards – apparently in the company of thousands of other cycling enthusiasts. This sounds like the sort of fun I can only dream of, and on the very infrequent occasions that I seek their company, they relate each stage in some detail.
Watching the tour on TV, I imagine it appeals to the same sort of mentality that devotes itself to Grand Prix following. It is the commentators I feel sorry for, yet in a strange way admire too. Their ability to interject anecdote and comment in to a script that would otherwise read “and the wheels on the bike go round and round” is nothing short of heroic.
Occasionally, an incident occurs which livens things up, and this year we have had several of note, the death of a spectator, the shooting with an air rifle of several cyclists, and of course the return of Lance “Undrugged” Armstrong.
What we have not had yet, and it is the moment that every casual Tour watcher lives for, is Le Grand Pile-up! One little lapse of concentration, one wobbly wheel, and hundreds of lycra clad muscles untie in a collision of force which brings carnage to the race. It is even better when this happens on a bridge!
We have also not yet experienced the moment in which the Tour leader is denounced as a drug cheat,. The cycling authorities have worked hard to clean up their sport, much to the detriment of the schaudenfraudisitic public. We want Jean Van Tandem to build up an insurmountable lead then be disqualified because his B sample shows traces of Lucozade.
So 2009 is so far not a memorable year. No drugs, no smash, and no yellow jersey for Lance, not yet anyway. It really has just become another big bike ride.
On the Open result
Tom Watson’s collapse in the playoff was inevitable. His 3 putt on 18 signalled a tiredness which many younger players would have felt after his heroics. But was there ever a worse story than Cink wins the Open? The man is greyer than John Major. Doubtless the American press will dredge up a story in which the 15 year old Cink tells his dying grandpappy, the man who put his first club in his hands, that one day he will win a major just for him, but at the end of the day, Watson would have been a fairytale. Cink is a drain.
But to Tom Watson, all you can say is good on you (and back Arnold Palmer or Walter Hagan for a top 5 next year)
It was an Open of surprises. The early departure of Woods and the way in which John Daly completely outdid Poulter on the trousers front. Number One Sports fan loves Daly. He has grit, true grit, and his swing is still a thing of beauty.
Woods is another matter. After two days of surly faces, angry swishes of the club and a general lack of graciousness, it was no loss to lose him. Contrast, if you will, the demeanour, and indeed the swing, of Woods and Watson. Who would you rather see? A gentleman and a player to the life. Had it been Woods who had battled Watson all the way to the line, could you see them walking off arm in arm? More likely Woods would have sent his minder, the brutish Steve Williams, to ask Watson to stand back lest he get in any camera shot.
Yes, winning is important, never more so than in a major championship, but Woods must learn to mask his disappointment. He could take lessons from Jean Van De Velde, who famously said “Nobody died” after losing his way in the Barry Burn.
The greatest moment for me in golf, and possibly in sport, was the sight of a 46 year old Jack Nicklaus walking up the 18th at Augusta in 1986. The adulation of the crowds was intense. They loved Jack, and he loved them. The normally verbose American commentators, displaying a hitherto unsuspected perception, said only one thing. “There are times in sport when a commentator should shut up, and this is one of them.”
Had Watson won this week, tht might have been another. But not so if Woods had been the victor.
But to Tom Watson, all you can say is good on you (and back Arnold Palmer or Walter Hagan for a top 5 next year)
It was an Open of surprises. The early departure of Woods and the way in which John Daly completely outdid Poulter on the trousers front. Number One Sports fan loves Daly. He has grit, true grit, and his swing is still a thing of beauty.
Woods is another matter. After two days of surly faces, angry swishes of the club and a general lack of graciousness, it was no loss to lose him. Contrast, if you will, the demeanour, and indeed the swing, of Woods and Watson. Who would you rather see? A gentleman and a player to the life. Had it been Woods who had battled Watson all the way to the line, could you see them walking off arm in arm? More likely Woods would have sent his minder, the brutish Steve Williams, to ask Watson to stand back lest he get in any camera shot.
Yes, winning is important, never more so than in a major championship, but Woods must learn to mask his disappointment. He could take lessons from Jean Van De Velde, who famously said “Nobody died” after losing his way in the Barry Burn.
The greatest moment for me in golf, and possibly in sport, was the sight of a 46 year old Jack Nicklaus walking up the 18th at Augusta in 1986. The adulation of the crowds was intense. They loved Jack, and he loved them. The normally verbose American commentators, displaying a hitherto unsuspected perception, said only one thing. “There are times in sport when a commentator should shut up, and this is one of them.”
Had Watson won this week, tht might have been another. But not so if Woods had been the victor.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
On the Try Nations
The annual tackle-free tryfest, more commonly known as the tri-nations, in which Australia, NZ and South Africa play each other at home and away ad nauseam until TV audiences dip below 1000, starts this weekend.
Regular followers will be aware that matches are carefully orchestrated by SKY TV to ensure maximum points are scored by both sides, whilst try saving tackles are likely to result in the offending player being stood down from lucrative advertising contracts for up to 2 matches.
For the opener, Australia, under kiwi coach Robbie Deans, come to fortress Eden Park. The All Blacks will doubtless win, courtesy of the special IRB dispensation which allows them and them alone to pass the ball forwards on any angle up to 33 degrees. They welcome back captain Richie McCaw, who would surely in any other country be known as Richie McCaught, because he would be, but are still with world's greatest ever fly half Dan Carter, a player so good that kiwi scribes devote even their cricket column to reminding us how he, and therefore the whole of NZ, punches about their weight for a small country.
New Zealand, who recently drew a series against a French team drawn mainly from 5th division clubs in the Alsace region, are struggling after losing the last world cup, half their team to the mighty Euro, and more recently a number of key players to injury. They also appear to be having real difficulty remembering the words of their national anthem.
Australia, on the other hand, have taken the opportunity recently to blood some new faces, and appear to be building a squad of depth and talent.
How the South Africans fare will probably depend as much on the instructions of their Indian bookmaker as it will their natural form. They must also deal with their Coach Pieter de Villiers, a man who regularly makes Eric Cantona look lucid. Nonetheless they appear to be head and shoulders above the rest, and should win the tournament with ease.
The prospect of the All Blacks enduring a slump in form 2 years out from a World Cup will send worries throughout the rugby world. Traditionally they peak when it really doesn't matter before slumping in must win matches. Might they have found the right formula this time?
Regular followers will be aware that matches are carefully orchestrated by SKY TV to ensure maximum points are scored by both sides, whilst try saving tackles are likely to result in the offending player being stood down from lucrative advertising contracts for up to 2 matches.
For the opener, Australia, under kiwi coach Robbie Deans, come to fortress Eden Park. The All Blacks will doubtless win, courtesy of the special IRB dispensation which allows them and them alone to pass the ball forwards on any angle up to 33 degrees. They welcome back captain Richie McCaw, who would surely in any other country be known as Richie McCaught, because he would be, but are still with world's greatest ever fly half Dan Carter, a player so good that kiwi scribes devote even their cricket column to reminding us how he, and therefore the whole of NZ, punches about their weight for a small country.
New Zealand, who recently drew a series against a French team drawn mainly from 5th division clubs in the Alsace region, are struggling after losing the last world cup, half their team to the mighty Euro, and more recently a number of key players to injury. They also appear to be having real difficulty remembering the words of their national anthem.
Australia, on the other hand, have taken the opportunity recently to blood some new faces, and appear to be building a squad of depth and talent.
How the South Africans fare will probably depend as much on the instructions of their Indian bookmaker as it will their natural form. They must also deal with their Coach Pieter de Villiers, a man who regularly makes Eric Cantona look lucid. Nonetheless they appear to be head and shoulders above the rest, and should win the tournament with ease.
The prospect of the All Blacks enduring a slump in form 2 years out from a World Cup will send worries throughout the rugby world. Traditionally they peak when it really doesn't matter before slumping in must win matches. Might they have found the right formula this time?
On The Open
Mostly The Open, sometimes The Open Championship, but never The British Open. The oldest and most august (which is odd, because it is held in July) of golfing challenges is with us once again.
Where better than Turnberry, the home of the famous Duel in the Sun, as opposed to The Jewel in the Sun, as one erudite kiwi golf writer put it this week (actually a rugby writer but they double up).
Tiger Woods, the housewives choice (presumably because they believe the legend) is the hot favourite. Once upon a time, 100 white men chasing a black man around a field was called a Klu Klux Clan witchhunt, now it is simply referred to as the PGA Tour.
Can the freakish, ugly swinged Woods continue his dominance and chase for The Golden Bear's majors record?
Number One Sports Fan thinks not.
Instead it is time for one of Europe's young guns to emerge from the "best players yet to win a major" pack and claim the Claret Jug. Kaymer of Germany is busy conquering Europe in a manner which belies the history of his race, Garcia may find links to his liking again, young McIlroy is a prodigious possibilityand could once again have the Irish exploding into the headlines, and Europe's forgotten man, Justin Rose, is showing signs of the touch which took him last year to world number 6. A Rose win, or least a good challenge, will lead to an outpouring of headlines relating to horticulture.
If it is to be a Yank who licks 'em on the links, look no further than Nick Watney or Steve Stricker. I think they are the only ones coming.
The weather will be the fifteenth club in every players bag (maybe the sixteenth in Ian Woosnam's).
According to who you believe, the forecast is for sun with light winds, scattered showers with winds, and torrential rain with gales. Forecasters have achieved concensus in ruling out tidal waves in Oxford and avalanches in Norwich, but otherwise opinion seems to remain sharply divided.
On this basis, one must assume it will be wet and windy every day, so the grinders, rather than the shotmakers, may come to the fore, which will clearly not favour Woods, as he is not the organ grinder.
In the words of old Tom Morris, the first of the great Open Champions : " Aye, there's nae thing so bad as getting the wind at Turnberry"
Where better than Turnberry, the home of the famous Duel in the Sun, as opposed to The Jewel in the Sun, as one erudite kiwi golf writer put it this week (actually a rugby writer but they double up).
Tiger Woods, the housewives choice (presumably because they believe the legend) is the hot favourite. Once upon a time, 100 white men chasing a black man around a field was called a Klu Klux Clan witchhunt, now it is simply referred to as the PGA Tour.
Can the freakish, ugly swinged Woods continue his dominance and chase for The Golden Bear's majors record?
Number One Sports Fan thinks not.
Instead it is time for one of Europe's young guns to emerge from the "best players yet to win a major" pack and claim the Claret Jug. Kaymer of Germany is busy conquering Europe in a manner which belies the history of his race, Garcia may find links to his liking again, young McIlroy is a prodigious possibilityand could once again have the Irish exploding into the headlines, and Europe's forgotten man, Justin Rose, is showing signs of the touch which took him last year to world number 6. A Rose win, or least a good challenge, will lead to an outpouring of headlines relating to horticulture.
If it is to be a Yank who licks 'em on the links, look no further than Nick Watney or Steve Stricker. I think they are the only ones coming.
The weather will be the fifteenth club in every players bag (maybe the sixteenth in Ian Woosnam's).
According to who you believe, the forecast is for sun with light winds, scattered showers with winds, and torrential rain with gales. Forecasters have achieved concensus in ruling out tidal waves in Oxford and avalanches in Norwich, but otherwise opinion seems to remain sharply divided.
On this basis, one must assume it will be wet and windy every day, so the grinders, rather than the shotmakers, may come to the fore, which will clearly not favour Woods, as he is not the organ grinder.
In the words of old Tom Morris, the first of the great Open Champions : " Aye, there's nae thing so bad as getting the wind at Turnberry"
On passing the first Test
So once again a mighty English performance. Australia will rightly feel they OJ'd this one - who knows how big a lead Monty and Jimmy might have built had their been another days play, and the Ocker batsmen would have been quaking in their boots at the prospects of making, say, 150 against the ferocious attack of Broad, Collingwood and Swan.
Strauss's brilliant tactical captaincy would surely have been a factor if their had been a sixth day, he is so astute, often making decisions that my 3 year old could not have made (unless medicated).
Throw in the shot making geniuses Cook, Bopara and Pietersen, and well, what a formidable outfit these Brits are.
On now to Lords, the home of both cricket, and Australian victories. Harmison must return, and why not Trescothick? who cares if he won't tour? He's still the best (OK, KP, best equal) batsman in the UK. They brought back Boycott and Edrich, who had no intention of touring Bangladesh that winter. Tresco would add some class and steel to the top order. Mind you, so would Captain Pugwash, on the basis of yesterdays abject capitulation.
6 draws in the last 7 tests at Lords? methinks 6 out of 8 will be the stat in 10 days time.
Strauss's brilliant tactical captaincy would surely have been a factor if their had been a sixth day, he is so astute, often making decisions that my 3 year old could not have made (unless medicated).
Throw in the shot making geniuses Cook, Bopara and Pietersen, and well, what a formidable outfit these Brits are.
On now to Lords, the home of both cricket, and Australian victories. Harmison must return, and why not Trescothick? who cares if he won't tour? He's still the best (OK, KP, best equal) batsman in the UK. They brought back Boycott and Edrich, who had no intention of touring Bangladesh that winter. Tresco would add some class and steel to the top order. Mind you, so would Captain Pugwash, on the basis of yesterdays abject capitulation.
6 draws in the last 7 tests at Lords? methinks 6 out of 8 will be the stat in 10 days time.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Burning for the Ashes
Ashes to Ashes, dust to dust
If Monty don't get you then Anderson must
(traditional Ethiopian doggerel popular in the shanty settlements of northern Addis Ababa)
5 matches. 5 mighty conflicts which determine, at one level, which of two nations is best at the noble game of cricket and, at another, perhaps more ethereal level, whether a nation formed on the regurgitation of all that was worst of the motherland has finally broken free of colonial shackles, or whether The Mother Country still fondly indulges her wayward infant in it's unruly and boisterous claims for independence before correcting the naughty child with a gentle smack..
10 weeks. A veritable Trojan War, and like the battles of ancient Ilium, containing many heroic individual rivalries. Agamemnon vs. Priam, Hector vs. Achilles will be reborn in Anderson against Ponting, Flintoff against Hussey et al.
A titanic struggle awaits. Many imponderable questions will be answered. Is Philip Hughes, the boy from the back blocks the next Bradman? Can Jimmy get the reverse swing going in the manner of 05 hero Simon Jones? Will Freddy stay off the booze?
2005 saw an English performance Churchillian its its doggedness, its determination and above all in its desperate quest for victory. 07 was an annihilation. What will 09 bring?
For England, the quintessentially English Pietersen and Strauss are key men. They are the 6th formers that every new boy aspires to emulate - the dashing card, and the sober head boy. Anderson and Flintoff, the kids from the wrong side of the tracks who's scholarships have enabled them to join their finely bred teammates on the hallowed sward. can they unite to claim a famous victory?
A nation holds it's breath, and we await, breathless too, with fingers crossed, our aspirations that dare to dream, of an English side who once again reclaim the Ashes from the old foe.
Bayete!
If Monty don't get you then Anderson must
(traditional Ethiopian doggerel popular in the shanty settlements of northern Addis Ababa)
5 matches. 5 mighty conflicts which determine, at one level, which of two nations is best at the noble game of cricket and, at another, perhaps more ethereal level, whether a nation formed on the regurgitation of all that was worst of the motherland has finally broken free of colonial shackles, or whether The Mother Country still fondly indulges her wayward infant in it's unruly and boisterous claims for independence before correcting the naughty child with a gentle smack..
10 weeks. A veritable Trojan War, and like the battles of ancient Ilium, containing many heroic individual rivalries. Agamemnon vs. Priam, Hector vs. Achilles will be reborn in Anderson against Ponting, Flintoff against Hussey et al.
A titanic struggle awaits. Many imponderable questions will be answered. Is Philip Hughes, the boy from the back blocks the next Bradman? Can Jimmy get the reverse swing going in the manner of 05 hero Simon Jones? Will Freddy stay off the booze?
2005 saw an English performance Churchillian its its doggedness, its determination and above all in its desperate quest for victory. 07 was an annihilation. What will 09 bring?
For England, the quintessentially English Pietersen and Strauss are key men. They are the 6th formers that every new boy aspires to emulate - the dashing card, and the sober head boy. Anderson and Flintoff, the kids from the wrong side of the tracks who's scholarships have enabled them to join their finely bred teammates on the hallowed sward. can they unite to claim a famous victory?
A nation holds it's breath, and we await, breathless too, with fingers crossed, our aspirations that dare to dream, of an English side who once again reclaim the Ashes from the old foe.
Bayete!
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