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.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
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.
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