Henmania? Who the f**k was Henman? It's Murraymania now, as the tangle haired, foul mouthed but won't-we-love-him-if-he-wins Scot brushed aside Nadal as if he was just another Spanish Armada.
That Nadal was practically in a wheelchair when he retired is of no relevance. The Mint had it won anyway. Such courage, such tenacity, such a shame he's so obnoxious.
But that's why Tiger Tim never cut the mustard when the chips were down. He was too nice, too worried if his girlfriend was watching him.
Little Andy couldn't give an airborne Donald about what people think, he just wants to win, and win he may well.
Only a bloke called Marian (shouldn't be too hard), and the Fed Express stand in his way. It's common knowledge that Swiss Rog is about to be exposed by the National Enquirer as Tiger Woods in a full body suit, which should distract him just enough for the Dunblane Lobber to sneak past him in 4 sets and claim the crown
If he does, the Wimbledon Committee will breathe a sigh of relief, and be able to abandon their plan to ban foreign nationals in 2011 in a effort to bolster the chances of a first British winner since Fred Pterodactyl in 778000 BC.
Of course, Brits holding both the Ashes and the Australian title at one time will only strengthen calls for Australia to ditch the monarchy once and for all, but who cares. Australians have never understood that the whole point of Australia was to get rid of them in the first place.
So Och Aye de Noo, It's a broad brich moon lich, and Cowdenbeath for the Cup.
Come on, let's here it. Murray, MUrray, MURray, MURRay, MURRAy, MURRAY
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
On the passing of a legend
Rarely has a non player achieved such significance in any sport. Bill Mclaren, the commentator, was a true icon of the game of rugby. Although a useful player (he had a trial for Scotland in 47 before TB cut short his career), it was as a match caller that he truly hit the heights.
To listen to his soft Scottish burr, trotting out his quirky phrases and sharing with us a depth of knowledge and insight into the match unfolding was truly a thing of beauty. Humour, warmth and sympathy were his tools of trade.
In an era where commentators today are opinionated, ignorant and rarely add to the viewing experience, Mclaren is a legend of the days of yore.
Cynics might say he was lucky enough to work rugby’s golden period, when giants of the game such as Ripley, Duckham, Irvine, Blanco, Edwards, Oh, that fellow Edwards, et al delighted us with their grace, their trickery and their strength. Mclaren was perhaps merely the knife that spread their butter.
But for those who knew him, his effortless analysis, his never ending knowledge and top-of-the-head trivia were actually the product of unremitting hard work. His copy of the match programme would be covered from front to back in scrawled notes, the product of hours of research (in, it must be said, the pre interweb era) which enabled his flow of facts.
Unlike many modern commentators, he called the game he saw, avoiding bias, and praising both sides when appropriate. What he told us added to our experience, to the point that on any number of occasions, watching a match on TV became preferable to seeing it live.
As a pioneer of televised sports commentary, he was part of a golden era; Harry Carpenter, Dan Maskell, Peter Aliss, David Coleman, Murray Walker John Arlott and Peter O’Sullevan. But Bill was the king.
If ever a man deserved a knighthood, he did, and the 6000 members of the Facebook group “Knighthood for Bill Mclaren” will be doubly devastated that their efforts have gone unrewarded now that their hero has ascended to that great Hawick clubhouse in the sky.
During his final commentary, Wales v Scotland in 2002, the crowd sang "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow". And he was.
To listen to his soft Scottish burr, trotting out his quirky phrases and sharing with us a depth of knowledge and insight into the match unfolding was truly a thing of beauty. Humour, warmth and sympathy were his tools of trade.
In an era where commentators today are opinionated, ignorant and rarely add to the viewing experience, Mclaren is a legend of the days of yore.
Cynics might say he was lucky enough to work rugby’s golden period, when giants of the game such as Ripley, Duckham, Irvine, Blanco, Edwards, Oh, that fellow Edwards, et al delighted us with their grace, their trickery and their strength. Mclaren was perhaps merely the knife that spread their butter.
But for those who knew him, his effortless analysis, his never ending knowledge and top-of-the-head trivia were actually the product of unremitting hard work. His copy of the match programme would be covered from front to back in scrawled notes, the product of hours of research (in, it must be said, the pre interweb era) which enabled his flow of facts.
Unlike many modern commentators, he called the game he saw, avoiding bias, and praising both sides when appropriate. What he told us added to our experience, to the point that on any number of occasions, watching a match on TV became preferable to seeing it live.
As a pioneer of televised sports commentary, he was part of a golden era; Harry Carpenter, Dan Maskell, Peter Aliss, David Coleman, Murray Walker John Arlott and Peter O’Sullevan. But Bill was the king.
If ever a man deserved a knighthood, he did, and the 6000 members of the Facebook group “Knighthood for Bill Mclaren” will be doubly devastated that their efforts have gone unrewarded now that their hero has ascended to that great Hawick clubhouse in the sky.
During his final commentary, Wales v Scotland in 2002, the crowd sang "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow". And he was.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
On rumours and truth
For anyone who doubted the truth of the rumours exposed in my most recent post, of the foul and dastardly Operation Soutpiel, I have only 3 things to say:
AJ Strauss* c Amla b Steyn 0
IJL Trott lbw b Morkel 5
KP Pietersen c Parnell b Morkel 7
I shall now go into hiding lest some ghastly voortrekker hit squad comes seeking retribution for my having blown the operation open wide. Time to voetsak!
AJ Strauss* c Amla b Steyn 0
IJL Trott lbw b Morkel 5
KP Pietersen c Parnell b Morkel 7
I shall now go into hiding lest some ghastly voortrekker hit squad comes seeking retribution for my having blown the operation open wide. Time to voetsak!
Sunday, January 10, 2010
On Souties and sweeps
Rumours have reached N1SF, rumours so shocking that if true will shake the foundations of the cricket world to it's core, and result in a Tsunami so all encompassing that the game may never recover.
What are these rumours? Well, I'll tell you.
It is said that Dr Ali Bacher, the man who masterminded South Africa's transition from the cold war years of Apartheid to full reintegration in the global circuit, put in place a fiendishly devious scheme know as Operation Soutpiel.
Soutpiel involved the recruitment of the children of several fanatical white South Africans, children who displayed prodigious cricketing talent as youngsters, and sent them overseas to be embedded as deep sleepers in other countries, much like the Sonnenkinder of the Nazi Germany (although there is little if any compelling evidence that cricket formed any part of Hitlers plan for a fourth Reich).
Bacher's henchman, who recruited these children, was, so the story goes, an all too believable Hanse Cronje.
Amongst the members of the Soutpiel squad were, according to the rumours which have reached me, three boys by the names of Strauss, Pietersen and Trott. Their mission? To play their way into positions of trust in their adopted country and, when the spymasters in their homeland called, to throw away their wickets.
After watching the third test, this apparently far fetched rumour started to gain some traction with me. Strauss and Pietersen, who have little to prove at this level, had no problem gifting their wickets away.
Trott, who is new enough not to have internally resolved the "do I betray my country or average" question yet, seemed to struggle in the second innings, but presumably received some threatening text messages during the lunchbreak and capitulated when appearing set.
And so the rumour gains traction.
Like any sleeper, when activated, their cover is blown, and so the final test, the one SA need to win in order to square the series, will be a compelling event which could see the end of these three in English colours.
Much depends up on the SA X1 - if they cannot achieve superiority in their own right, then the hard word will descend on the Soutpiel three, and they may be forced to sacrifice their careers (although of course not their IPL contracts) by being dismissed cheaply.
This sort of chicanery can only add to the drama of the modern game. Will Strauss, the most convincing foreign English captain since the Nawab of Pataudi, face an inner struggle when called to account. Is Pietersen's ego so big that he will find it unavoidable to reply to questions about his technique with a big innings? And is Trott, the most recent addition to the side, little more than a hitman sent in to ensure these two betray the Brits, or else run them out mercilessly?
Drama indeed. And more than a little believable!
What are these rumours? Well, I'll tell you.
It is said that Dr Ali Bacher, the man who masterminded South Africa's transition from the cold war years of Apartheid to full reintegration in the global circuit, put in place a fiendishly devious scheme know as Operation Soutpiel.
Soutpiel involved the recruitment of the children of several fanatical white South Africans, children who displayed prodigious cricketing talent as youngsters, and sent them overseas to be embedded as deep sleepers in other countries, much like the Sonnenkinder of the Nazi Germany (although there is little if any compelling evidence that cricket formed any part of Hitlers plan for a fourth Reich).
Bacher's henchman, who recruited these children, was, so the story goes, an all too believable Hanse Cronje.
Amongst the members of the Soutpiel squad were, according to the rumours which have reached me, three boys by the names of Strauss, Pietersen and Trott. Their mission? To play their way into positions of trust in their adopted country and, when the spymasters in their homeland called, to throw away their wickets.
After watching the third test, this apparently far fetched rumour started to gain some traction with me. Strauss and Pietersen, who have little to prove at this level, had no problem gifting their wickets away.
Trott, who is new enough not to have internally resolved the "do I betray my country or average" question yet, seemed to struggle in the second innings, but presumably received some threatening text messages during the lunchbreak and capitulated when appearing set.
And so the rumour gains traction.
Like any sleeper, when activated, their cover is blown, and so the final test, the one SA need to win in order to square the series, will be a compelling event which could see the end of these three in English colours.
Much depends up on the SA X1 - if they cannot achieve superiority in their own right, then the hard word will descend on the Soutpiel three, and they may be forced to sacrifice their careers (although of course not their IPL contracts) by being dismissed cheaply.
This sort of chicanery can only add to the drama of the modern game. Will Strauss, the most convincing foreign English captain since the Nawab of Pataudi, face an inner struggle when called to account. Is Pietersen's ego so big that he will find it unavoidable to reply to questions about his technique with a big innings? And is Trott, the most recent addition to the side, little more than a hitman sent in to ensure these two betray the Brits, or else run them out mercilessly?
Drama indeed. And more than a little believable!
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
On never doubting Thomas
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.
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.
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.
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