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!

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

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?

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"

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.

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!