Choices, choices, choices - mimitig

Although it has been a pretty wretched summer weather-wise, the last few months have been rich in terms of sport.

The weekend just gone was a case in point. On Saturday England’s cricketers were playing a crucial One-day game against India – effectively a final in a seven match series which was poised at three-all. Federer was on show in New York. Football had an important game for Euro 2008 qualifying as England played Israel. The rugby World Cup kicked off. The men in lycra were madly pedalling through Spain in La Veulta and on Sunday another bunch of cycling lads set off on the Tour of Britain.

Additionally motorsport was in full flood with Formula One at Monza, World Superbikes were doing their stuff at what I still think of as the Lausitzring (Eurospeedway – what’s that all about?), and Scotland’s own Dario Franchitti was evoking memories of the great Jim Clark as he drove to win the IndyCar Championship in the USA. Oh and Asafa Powell, the Jamaican sprinter, was busy breaking a world record.

These are just the sports I try to follow, so goodness only knows what else was happening.

With the cricket Twenty20 World Cup about to get underway, I am beginning to wonder whether there comes a point where there is simply too much sport. Particularly when one actually wants to be out there on a fine early autumn day indulging in a bit of sporting activity oneself. It’s a terrible dilemma – do you take advantage of the dry times to nip out for a couple of hours cycling, or rush home from work to check out what your various teams or individuals are doing? The healthy option, of course, is to take the exercise, and think – oh I can catch up on the results at the end of the day. But catching up on results has none of the excitement of following an event live – be that on television, radio or through the magic medium that is the interweb. So time after time over the summer and now autumn, my cycle waits patiently in the hall, or is only taken for a quick trip along the coast for a couple of miles, as I choose to spend hour upon hour glued to digital or longwave radio, the telly and my computer, multi-tasking as I attempt to keep a grip on up to five different contests at once.

It has been suggested to me, when I moan about the fact that I have a backlog of sports pages and magazines to get through (I have scarcely read a book for months – not even for my Book Group!) that I limit my enthusiasms – concentrate on just one or two sports. But how can you do this? If you enjoy, just as example, the sight of 100 or so fit young men in lycra speeding along country roads in France, Ireland, Spain, or even England at the same time as enjoying fit young men in leather muscling whacking great motor bikes around tracks across the world, or even not-quite-so-fit chaps in white, or strange pyjama garb, wielding the willow and hurling the red or white ball around, how can you just stop watching?

You can’t, you see, it’s just too much choice and too much sport.

Damn, gotta go and check the end of the Middlesex v Derby match before pumping up the bike tyres – I think I have a window tomorrow for a quick zip along the cliffs before I immerse myself in the Twenty20 tournament, while keeping an eye on my Division Two county boys as they start the last few matches of the season.

My NFL fantasy - The Velvet Bear

This is a piece about something being different when done the American way. I wanted to start it by pointing out some of the more obvious differences between the States and here in the UK. Then I realised that all the spelling jokes had been done. And the obesity ones. And the ‘electing the same moron twice’ ones. So, instead of a snappy – if somewhat contrived – intro, I’ll get straight to the point. Fantasy football, US style.

With the start of the NFL season only hours away, I would normally be logging into NFLUK and picking the side which, for the umpteenth year running, would fail to win me Superbowl tickets, or even a place at the big Superbowl party they hold each year. However, thanks to a friend with not only a finely tuned sense of generosity, but the knowledge that I love finding new ways to humiliate myself, I am now also a player in the US competition run by ESPN. And boy, do they take it seriously.

Look at the fantasy leagues run by the newspapers and other media over here. It’s just another feature offered to haul you in as readers, isn’t it? Can you imagine any of them publishing a separate monthly magazine on the subject, as ESPN do? Or providing weekly updates on their websites, as ESPN do? Thought not.

Not only that, but the whole game is different. Not for them the situation where several million people can, all at the same time, claim to own one player. Oh no. What happens is that each team is entered into a mini-league of 10 to 12 players. That mini-league then holds an online draft, at which each team takes turns to select a player. Once that player is selected, no-one else in the league can have them.

Which is why I found myself spending last Sunday evening, when I should’ve been preparing to move house the next day, hunched over a laptop, instant messaging with half a dozen Americans I had never met before. And a friend who was chucking sarcastic comments at my every selection.

The actual process should have been very straightforward. The draft order had been selected at random (albeit not in the way I thought it was going to be), so I had third pick in the odd numbered rounds and eighth in the even ones. There were to be 16 rounds, and various other little quirks to keep people like me on their toes. Most importantly, though, none of this messing around with salary caps. If you can get them, you can stuff your team with Peyton, LT, Steve Smith and Antonio Gates without fear of anything other than your fellow league members being envious.

Unbeknown to us, though, the ESPN website had decided to introduce a random element of its own, too. This meant that, although you selected a player, you wouldn’t necessarily be allowed to have him. I don’t think that this was deliberate, but it certainly made the evening more eventful. I got Gates by accident, when I tried to draft Deuce McAllister. And I got Deuce when I tried to draft Peyton. Which sounds like a pretty good return, until I tell you that I have no idea who I was trying to draft when I got landed with Ahman Green. I’m not sure that even the Texans want him.

So, with Joseph Addai having got me off to a fine start in the season opener (the Colts beat the Saints 41-10, more of which next week), it’ll be interesting to see what the rest of Week One brings.

(Apologies to those of you who were waiting for a team-by-team pre-season rundown. I lost the notes in the move but will try and do it before Sunday)

Luciano Pavarotti - Margin

In 1990 something truly massive happened in England. Paul ‘Gazza’ Gascoigne single-handedly raised a tactically stale England side to the status of World Cup entertainers while another fat genius piggy-backed on his success.

It was hard to imagine at the height of Gazza Mania that his impact on football would be so limited in the years ahead. Instead it was the piggy-backing Luciano Pavarotti who’s impact truly lasted as he became famous across the country.

In 1989 English football was a struggling working class game. It was rife with violent tendencies and racism. It was something looked down on by social betters. And fans were caged like the scum they appeared from outside to be.

By the time England valiantly lost their semi-final, all that had changed. Even the Square Mile succumbed. Men in expensive suits crowded the same pubs as the denim clad commoners to take in the action and to learn how best to shout at John Barnes and Terry Butcher from thousands of miles away.

And the new comers were hooked. A world they were previously barred from became welcoming. The foreign language was overcome, the cultural hostility grew weaker, and the confusing code of unwritten rules collapsed.

As a football fan from before 1990, I would love to claim that football’s inherent glory made this happen. But were that the case it would surely have happened sooner. Instead an opera singer deserves the credit, or at least some of it.

Pavarotti is undoubtedly one of the greatest opera performers of his generation. And pointing out his poor acting skill is akin to complaining that John Terry should score more goals.

As the brilliant voice that linked football with the most elite of arts, he flicked a switch in the hearts and minds of people that would not normally peer down their nose twice at football.

His voice conveyed the hope and optimism that Paul Gascoigne gave a depressed English game. It conveyed just as perfectly the despair and hurt of that second yellow card. And most importantly of all it mirrored all of the grace, beauty, intricacy and depth that football at its best, should embody, and that for the first time in a long time the English side had managed.

Opera can do that perhaps because it is much like football. To the uninitiated it is a bunch of fat people in silly outfits making a lot of indiscernible noise. But for those who ‘get it’ there is endless beauty and debate to be had.

While pundits on the BBC rush to worship Pavarotti as the ‘greatest ever’, I can’t help but think of all their claims that the latest player doing well is the best ever.

I always wonder at such claims whether some one has found previously lost footage of Alf Common and his contemporaries, which would enable a comparison to be made. And it struck me that to say this of Pavarotti was just as unfair to Adelina Patti, a 19th century star that no living person has ever heard sing.

I can’t make her case for her. But more of a shame for Pavarotti is that I can’t even make the case of Placido Domingo, another of the three tenors, and just as widely recorded as the man himself.

You see, I remain uninitiated. I like Pavarotti because he reminds me of football. But he never initiated me into his art. And needless to say the Royal Opera House is therefore still the hostile place with confusing rules and a foreign language that it was to me in 1989.

Some claim that the rise of piss poor pop groups like El Divo shows a widening of opera to new audiences. But that is a lie. They are the equivalent of a mobile phone clip of some pop star playing ‘keepy-uppy’ and should be treated as such.

In truth the English people don’t understand opera, they don’t take great interest in it, don’t attend it, and for the most part can’t name a great performer of it besides the Italian himself. (I’m reliably informed Leslie Garratt does not meet with that description.)

So thank you Pavarotti for the fond memories and your part in a revolutionary moment in English football. I hope one day your own medium will open up too.

RIP.

Milky chai with the godfather of Nepal - Nesta Quin

Over a pot of milky chai tea in a breezy café in the Nepalese capital, your globetrotting pseudscorner correspondent was fortunate enough to have a chat with current Nepalese coach and Sri Lankan cricketing legend Roy Dias before his celebratory dinner party at the Royal palace. The portly Dias had just returned from his fourth straight victorious U/19 Asian Cricket Council Championships and the ever-present well wishers in this crowded dilapidated dusty city are all keen to show their appreciation by continually interrupting our conversation.

I met Mr Dias, who has rightly earned the title of The Godfather of Nepal, at the recent semi-final between Nepal and Malaysia and the pleasure has been all mine. A gentleman in every aspect, I cringed when he told me of an interview he did with the BBC after his first ACC Championships six years ago. He was patronisingly asked, “How do they even play cricket in Nepal, aren’t there hills everywhere?”. He then told me that this “poorly educated Englishman” was supposedly serious. “I guess he’s never seen the incline at Lords” was my reply and Roy’s deep chuckle echoed onto the busy street outside at the mere mention of the vagaries at the international home of cricket.

Roy has been asked about yesterday’s final against Afghanistan continuously - won by Nepal in a tight low-scoring match - so I switched the conversation to his playing career and particularly his one and only match at the famous ground. It was the first Test match in England between the MCC and Sri Lanka and Roy conveyed that the then inexperienced Lankan squad were “nervous and excited” about the prospect of playing a Test at Lords.

“It was a wonderful occasion and I’ll never forget the standing ovation we received from the crowd after our captain Duleep Mendis twice turned down offers of bad light on the first afternoon.” I asked if the English skipper did likewise and Mr. Dias just smiled and raised an eyebrow. He told of how “Mr Gower” sent the Sri Lankans in after winning the toss and how nobody, including their own supporters, gave them a chance even though England had failed to win any of their previous dozen Tests.

His eyes sparkled as he reminisced of how the then minnows “declared close to 500” and how they cleaned up England for “around 350”. The match was drawn but it was the game that “signalled the arrival of Sri Lankan cricket to the world”.

“Everyone was very proud” but it still took another 17 years (2002) before England would engage Sri Lanka in anything more than one-off Tests at home. This “snub” still rankles the elder generation of Sri Lankan cricketers. They had played multiple Test series against every elite nation by 1989 and why England “were afraid of them” is “not understandable” I piped in something about England’s tour of Australia and recent World Cup performances being “of minnow-like proportions” and Roy’s hearty belly laugh once again resonated throughout the neighbourhood.

After some more well-wishers and a dozen autographs Roy settled back in his ornate wooden chair and mused about the future prospects for cricket in Nepal. He relayed plans to build a high-altitude Academy with help from the ICC and others. Many Asian athletes train in Nepal and Roy thinks that cricketers could also benefit from working on their fitness and skills at altitude.

He spoke at length about elite cricket being played “90 percent with head and heart” and how it is this aspect of the game where the Nepalese lads really excel. “What distinguishes Nepal is that they never give up and keep fighting with a passion to the very end. Gurkha spirit, underdog spirit, call it what you will. While other teams in the region may find it hard to summon the necessary desire and self-belief for whatever reason, to a man, the Nepalese cricketers have what it takes.”

He spoke passionately about the demographics of Nepal and stated that 40% of the population were aged under 15. He said that in his six successful years as coach that he had “barely scratched the surface” in terms of the talent available. He emphasized this point by sharing the little known fact that the U/15 ACC winning championship team only had two lads that had played in a competitive match and yet they won the regional tournament undefeated. With only “15 turf wickets” in the entire country and most of them situated in the south close to the border with India, The Godfather of Nepalese cricket is eyeing the rugged north of the country as a vital untapped resource that needs investment so that Nepal can take the next step up on the international ladder. Roy was deadly earnest when he said that he “would like to take hold of those boys who think nothing of going up and down mountains for miles to get their milk”. When facilities are available to these lads he assures me “that Nepal cricket would even be stronger”.

He then went on and used his home island as an example, “The Sri Lankan national team made some major improvement once they started recruiting from the outstations. That’s where they find the fast bowlers. They don’t need gym or strength work. It’s all natural.” I had Roy’s head nodding and his belly bubbling once again when I mused, “Well if you are scaling a mountain and wrestling a yak before breakfast mate, bowling 20 overs into the breeze should be as easy as sipping chai”.

After winning his fourth straight undefeated Asian U/19 Championship only 36 hours ago Coach Dias was understandably a busy man. He drained his cup and with a warm handshake and friendly smile he wished me well and quickly blended into the seething mass of humanity on Kathmandu’s sunset lit city streets. It was a pleasure to share half an hour with this remarkable living legend and once again I was reminded of the marvellous camaraderie and cultural respect that the game of cricket can create amongst it’s participants. Something, I am afraid to say, that mere spectators of this grandest of games seldom learn nor appreciate. Namaste.

Florrie Wentworth - tonyellis

In the 1970s, no British home was complete without its pair of castanets and figurine of a bull, back bristling with banderillas (lances). No home except ours, that is, because in our front room in Plaistow we had a traje de luces (suit of lights, traditional dress of the torero: http://www.flamencoshop.com/bullfight/suit_of_lights.htm) and a capote (cape) on one wall and, above the fireplace, a sword surrounded by the ears and tail of a bull. These days you’d have to travel to Billericay to see them. You’d also have to pay, because now they form only a small part of the museum dedicated to my Grandmother, Florrie Wentworth, or Florencita de Foresgeit as she is still lovingly known in Spain.

Nan was not the first torera: that was, arguably, Juanita Cruz. However, she was the first Englishwoman, the first grandmother and the first East Ender to wear the suit. This is the story of how she achieved that remarkable hat-trick of firsts.

Florence Constance Wentworth, first-born of a cabinet maker and an apprentice dressmaker, was born in Poplar, East London on April 3^rd, 1916. Her paternal grandfather had been the last of a family of agricultural workers, a tradition maintained only by the keeping of rabbits and chickens in the back garden. Joe Wentworth, her father, was determined to discourage any sentimentalism where animals were concerned and so, at the age of 6, she was sent out to wring the Sunday Roast’s neck. Young Florrie idolised her father and understood that he’d like her to return with the cutest of the livestock. Quite clearly, this could only be Bobtail, her favourite rabbit.

The neck of a chicken could have been ergonomically designed for wringing by a six-year-old. It is long enough for two small hands to grip and the vertebrae provide both purchase and leverage. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for a rabbit, whose already short neck will disappear entirely into bunny shoulders at the slightest suggestion of wringing. After 15 minutes of struggle in the shed, Florrie reached for the nearest weapon in sight, a rusted chisel, and drove it through poor Bobtail’s head. Although a little put out by the obliteration of his favourite part of the rabbit, Joe hid his disappointment and congratulated his proud daughter on her first kill. After all, he reasoned, it had been his responsibility to teach her the rabbit-punch.

Already genetically disposed towards big-bonedness, her father’s exemplary dedication to the provision of protein, along with the household chores she’d inherited from her mother, draped Florrie’s frame with muscle. In 1932, she had to pawn the family mangle in order to buy her brother a suit for his first job, and she took up her life-long habit of wringing out the washing by hand and began to develop the most formidable physique in the street.

Having sent her mother’s family out into the world, Florrie briskly set about raising her own, more or less seconded by Corporal James ‘Budgie’ Ellis. In 1934 my father, Victor, was born. She also found time to set up her own dressmaking company.

Now this is about Nan but, since I am about to have an important role to play in her life, I’d better introduce myself: Anthony Edmond, born March 31^st 1953 to Victor and my mother, Joan. I was born, went to school, etc, and more or less fade into the background until May, 1966 when Granddad Budgie fell off the perch. For a long distance lorry driver Budgie had, it seemed, left enough to provide for his wife. That was before his other wives and various creditors staked their claims. In the end, Gran managed to keep the house in Forest Gate by selling Flo’s Fashions to Evans Outsize. Still, this left little room for luxuries and Dad and his brothers decided to cheer us all up with a holiday abroad for the whole family.

By the time we boarded the plane on July 20th, ‘the whole family’ had been whittled down to Nan, Mum, my sister, aunts and female cousins and me. Victor took me aside to explain this masculine withdrawal as he dropped us off at Heathrow. Budgie had managed to get tickets for the World Cup Final. Unfortunately for me, he’d only been able to get six and, in any case, ‘someone has to look after the women’. If he felt any qualms about entrusting the entire feminine side of the family to a skinny, stooping, bespectacled 13-year-old, he managed to hide them.

While everything you’ve heard about the supreme tackiness of Lloret de Mar is true, in 1966 it was still at the beginning of its transformation from swan to ugly duckling. For the few unprepossessing English teenagers who went there that summer, it was little short of Paradise. A few days of constant sunshine, swimming and getting picked first at football had begun to work their magic on my seemingly invincible acne and drooping shoulders. A pity then that I was headed for the first great public humiliation of my life.

Sr. Castell, the owner of the newly-built hotel we were staying in, was determined that his guests should be shielded from the rapidly growing excursion industry. To this end he had constructed a small plaza de toros behind the car park and guests were invited to take on young bulls from local herds as part of an introduction to Spanish culture. One afternoon, about sixty of us made our way there. I was going to say “made our way happily”, but Gran would have made that a lie. She didn’t look especially unhappy but, somehow, she seemed to have lost something of her personality along with Budgie and her company. She’d been the last one to join in the Hokey Cokey and there hadn’t been a single clip round the ear handed out, even when Cousin Melody tried to cheer her up with a cockroach in her glasses case.

For those who don’t like to see (animal) blood spilt, this is the only type of corrida (bullfight) you can safely watch. It’s a chance for boys who think they want to be toreros to try out the techniques they’ve seen and to see if they have the right stuff. If they do and their parents are well off, they may be sent to an escuela taurina (bullfighting school). If their parents are rich, they can miss out this stage (there is also a way for working class boys to make their way and you can see Bardem doing so naked here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqLZ9ex9r7s.) Their opponent is a becerro (calf) before its horns appear or, often, a cow. The latter is generally preferred, since a young bull can quickly learn the tricks of the torero, thus making him an even more dangerous foe.

Sr. Castell himself opened the proceedings. As the paso doble (the two step; a dance music particularly associated with bullfighting) sounded from the Elizabethan record player and several men started to tease Manolito (the calf), he demonstrated the basic moves while explaining them in his accented but mostly correct English. Then the local boys took their turns.

In football terms, this was no more than a Sunday morning kick-around yet, in my eyes, there was something heartbreakingly noble about it. I was several inches taller than most of them but, as the first youth stepped out from behind the burladero (a kind of wooden shield in front of an opening in the barrier behind which the spectators sit), he raised his head to look around the stands and seemed suddenly to tower above us all. Then he looked at the bull and there was silence. I’m sure Victor and his brothers would have broken this fairly quickly with a sharp comment or two delivered in a Dick Emery voice. Relieved from the tension we’d all have joined in the laughter and then applauded as the boys and the English Men took turns to entertain us. As it was the boy, Raul, chose his own moment: “Ei, Toro”; claiming the young bull along with the rest of us.

Before that day, grace was something you mumbled before school dinner and beauty had no place at all in my vocabulary, yet Raul gave them both meaning for me as he strutted and spun around the plaza, drawing the bull past his slender body as if it were attached to the faded red capote. Along with this new vocabulary I was also learning some new, dangerous feelings and this could have been another kind of story. As in all such hero-worship, I couldn’t tell if I wanted to be with Raul or simply to be him and, since the former was impossible for me, I chose the latter.

When Sr. Castell asked for volunteers from among his guests, I was the first. I checked quickly around my womenfolk for signs of approval and was more or less satisfied. Only Nan was something of a disappointment. She was sitting in the front row wearing her flowered, wrap-around house dress, as if to distance herself from her crimplene and denim-clad relatives, and all her attention was focussed on knitting the third in a series of Dennis the Menace jumpers for me.

The Paso Doble sounded again and I took my place behind the burladero. Raul handed me the capote and Sr. Casell said: “remember la Verónica”. The Veronica (http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1211/1519/1600/01_Ver??nica) is the most basic of moves with the cape. It is named after the gesture of Saint Veronica when she wiped the face of Christ as he dragged his cross to Calvary. The idea is to hold the cape in front of you with both hands, calling the bull’s attention. When it charges, you move one leg behind the other while swinging the arm on the same side of the body backwards. The result is that the cape stays more or less in the same place while you disappear from behind it, thus ‘wiping the bull’s brow’. It’s a simple enough move and it becomes automatic. With practice. I started off well enough, jiggling the capote and holding it, so Sr. Castell told me when he visited me in the hospital, perfectly. Unfortunately, in the middle of my first Veronica I became somewhat confused and moved the cape instead of my body.

When a torero goes down, he is quickly surrounded by colleagues whose objective is to distract the bull, which would otherwise do his best to gore and trample his tormentor to death. However, while Manolito pawed the ground in preparation for the coupe de grace, my presumed rescuers were all doubled over and clutching at their testicles. Surprising really, seeing as it wasn’t their brilliantly white West Ham shorts which were rapidly turning red. Nor could I expect much help from my relatives, since those not frozen with horror were helpless with laughter. Except for Gran. As Manolito thundered towards me, she was suddenly between us. The half -finished jumper was a blur as Gran went through the first of her perfectly executed Veronicas. After several more passes, our Spanish hosts had begun to recover and were moving into the ring when Manolito managed to snatch the annoying garment between his teeth. It looked as if I was in for a good stomping at least, but Nan still gripped her knitting with one hand. In the other she held her no. 9 knitting needles. Just before she fell, she cried out: “I’m sorry, Bobtail!” and plunged her makeshift estoque (killing sword) between the calf’s shoulder blades.

A torn scrotum may sound fairly horrific, but a few stitches were all that was necessary. My metaphorical balls were another matter. Sr. Castell did his best to help with his comments on my handling of the capote, and my family tried to cheer me by explaining how funny I’d looked. Only Nan’s obviously improved spirits made me feel better. Most of all though, I was dreading going home and facing the taunts of the male Ellises and my friends at school.

Happily for me, English manhood had its own problems. A blind, Nazi-sympathising Swiss bastard had failed to see the ball clearly crossing the line and three minutes later, a man called Uwe Seeler had scored the winning goal. It would be years before the full psychological effects of this national disaster were fully felt, but in Plaistow they were pretty clear from the moment we arrived home. The once garrulous and self-opinionated Victor began to settle into the resigned gloom that would characterise him for the rest of his life. He only fought against the inevitable one last time when Nan announced her plan to return to Spain. She’d kept in touch with our host in Lloret and had been enchanted by his idea to make a novelty act of her great faena (the last third of the bullfight, in which the toreador has 10 minutes to despatch his or her victim). “You’re not dragging the family name through the Spanish mud”, he said. “You’re quite right, I’m not. In Spain a woman keeps her name when she marries. From now on I’ll be Florrie Wentworth to you!”

The following June, it was Mum who drove us to the airport and three days later we were in the church of Santa Maria del Mar in Barcelona, watching Nan and abuelo (grandfather) Alberto’s wedding. Then we joined them on their tour of holiday resorts as they took their show around the country. Florrie was starting to take her bullfighting seriously. She’d kept the red and black striped motif for her capote and still appeared in the flowered house dress (indeed, her only concession to the sartorial aspect of bullfighting was the hat with the mouse-like ears), but she was beginning to show an elegance that demanded a bigger audience than drunken tourists. Clearly she was ready to move from calves to her first novillo (a three-year-old bull). Except that women were not allowed to fight bulls in Spain.

It was two years before I saw Nan again. She’d bought me a ticket to Cuba so that I could spend the summer with her and Alberto as they travelled around the bullrings of Central and South America. After every fight, she left the ring to the sound of olés and Granddad thought it was time for her to tomar la alternativa (step up in class and fight fully-grown bulls).

In the Monumental in Mexico City, Nan was awarded her first trofeo, an ear. Just before I made my unwilling way back home, she had her greatest triumph in La Maestranza Cesar Girón in Maracay, Venezuela, receiving the ultimate accolade: both ears and the tail. The presidente (chief official) of the plaza took one look at Nan and decided to withhold the tail, since protocol demanded that she be carried from the ring on the shoulders of the other toreros and picadores. The situation looked rather ugly until a visiting team of castellers (human tower builders, see here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NIIzGnoYUtc) from Lloret offered to carry her. When I boarded the plane, the gruesome trophies were in my suitcase.

I didn’t see her again until 1974 when Article 49 of the Sindicato del Espectáculo (show business union), which prevented women from fighting bulls on foot, was repealed. She was headlining in "Las Ventas del Espíritu Santo" in Madrid and this time she was carried out of the plaza in front of the Caudillo (Franco) and her whole family, apart from Victor. In fact she was never to meet or talk to her first-born again and she didn’t return to London until the day before his funeral in the winter of 1991.

By this time, ‘our Flo’ was a household name in most of the world and after the funeral she was going to lay the cornerstone of Britain’s first bullring, built on the old Wembley site. It was no great surprise, therefore, to see the crowds awaiting her at Heathrow. It was warm for December and she was carrying her new chinchilla coat over her arm.

Outside in the car park, nobody paid any attention to Mandy Myers until she had launched her tin of red paint. Most of it hit its target, but Mandy’s final wrist flick sent the last few drops into Nan’s face, sending her staggering backwards into the road. When she had cleared her eyes, she looked up to see a white van bearing down on her. Professional to the end, she offered her crimson cloak to the bewildered driver just before disappearing under the wheels.

What happens to all the fat kids? - premcorrespondent

On the few occasions I raise my eyes from the racing pages (just about the only section that's smaller than it used to be), newspapers tell me that when the kids of today aren't shooting each other, they spend all their time with a computer control in one hand and a Big Mac in the other. So there are vast numbers of fat kids roaming our streets looking for pennies in the gutter to cobble together sufficient cash to buy a can of White Lightening. And what do fat kids do in kids' football matches? Goalie or ref, that's what they do.

So from this vast (in every sense) talent pool, England should be leading the world in goalkeepers and referees - right? Wrong! I reckon Shilton would still be England's Number One if he could get back to his fighting weight of 16 stone, and, if Graham Poll wasn't spending all his time plugging his book, we'd welcome him back with open arms to issue the yellows and catch the camera with his better side too.

To the games.

If Liverpool and Derby County were boxers, the fight would have been stopped in the fourth round to save Derby from further punishment. Liverpool declared on six goals and should have had ten: Derby might struggle to finish the season with less than 100 goals conceded. Level on 10 points with Liverpool are the Arse, for whom little Cesc acquired his now regular goal and card in their disposal of mid-table Portsmouth; Everton, kindly donated the full three points by the Bolton's Alonso brother's inability to stand still on the post at a corner; and miserable buggers Chelsea, who lost 2-0 at Villa Park - a great result for Villa which mysteriously kept them in the tenth place to which they have become so accustomed.

Manchester United reaped the reward of bringing on a proper forward at half-time, as Saha nodded in a corner to defeat plummeting Sunderland. Steve Coppell, for once with reason to look and sound as grim as he does, wasn't happy with Reading's second 3-0 scoreline in a row, West Ham the beneficiaries this time around as Bellamy had one of those rare games when only the opposition fans want to punch him. Middlesborough beat Birmingham 2-0 in a game every bit as good as it sounds and Newcastle were indebted to little Mickey Owen for their 1-0 win against Wigan, in a match during which the officials disallowed good goals and issued cards more or less at random.

Finally a little light comedy. Blackburn and Manchester City reminded us how Lancashire derbies used to be ("Never mind the ball, get on with the game") as four yellow cards and two reds were issued in the first twenty minutes of the second half, before Blackburn ran out 1-0 winners as Sven's tumescent introduction to the Premier League goes flaccid. Top comedy performance of the week goes to unjolly Martin Jol, whose Spurs team dominated the match at Craven Cottage before he split up the dynamic Keane / Berbatov duo and let Fulham rescue a point with a Kamara overhead kick that goes in once in a hundred times. Frankie Howerd lookalike Lawrie Sanchez could barely keep the smile off his face - not a problem Martin Jol has to deal with even at the best of times.

This week, I've offered my services to Steve McClaren, so can expect a late call up, even at my advanced age. Well, if it can happen to Heskey...

Dental flossers and nose pickers - premcorrespondent

It’s thirty years ago now, but it feels like yesterday. I was at Nottingham Forest’s training ground interviewing Brian Clough, so I asked him what made his teams so successful. He put down his glass, more or less looked me in the eye and said, “Young Man – it’s all about good ‘abits”. And with that he was off to sign a couple more plug ugly Scotsmen, leaving me to cadge a fag off John Robertson and reflect on the great man’s wisdom.

Come the end of August, football teams good ‘abits start to shine through, so which clubs are the dental flossers and which the nose-pickers after this round of Premier League games.

Business as usual at Stamford Bridge, where Chelsea’s habit of not losing at home continued as they beat Portsmouth one-nil to go top, which pleased (if not exactly entertained) the fans and left journalists wondering whether to bother going any more. At the Emirates, Little Cesc seems to have developed the excellent habit of scoring goals which will double the transfer fee next summer if it continues - his goal was enough to burst Sven’s bubble. Liverpool continue to kick off at times better suited to the first race at Haydock, but secured the win at soon-to-be-in-crisis Sunderland. Andriy Voronin continues to impress as much as his fellow Ukrainian at Chelsea doesn’t, although he does look like roadie at a Barbra Streisand concert – now there’s a singer.

Amongst the also-rans and no-hopers, Little Sam kept his job for another week with a 3-0 win against inconsistent Reading. Aston Villa climbed to tenth, where they will stay give or take a place for the next 34 games, with a late winner against 11 players I’ve never heard of representing Fulham. In the big game of the Championship season 2008-2009, Derby lost to Steve Bruce’s Birmingham at Pride Park. Alas at Upton Park instead of Chancery Lane, West Ham played out a predictable draw against Wigan, as the Hammers dutifully collect points now before Charltoning down the table after Christmas, before East End fervour kicks in to rescue them yet again. Uefa Cup place squabblers Everton and Blackburn drew 1-1 amidst more emotion at the finally doomed Goodison Park than a sports hack can describe.

I’d hardly tucked into the (British) steak and yorkshire pudding, before Big Sam’s Neaderthal cranium was filling the screen (and covering all those adverts behind it – Ha!) as he sent out his Geordie boys against whatever Middlesborough boys are called, for the dullest 2-2 I’ve ever seen. Middlesborough stay 16th where they appear to have been since being promoted.

In the last match of this long weekend, not-quite-in-crisis Manchester United gallantly refused to field any proper forwards, but were rewarded with a 1-0 win against going nowhere Spurs.

I’m spending the week watching the World Athletics Championships from Osaka, where I shall continue my lifelong study of the techniques employed in the women’s high jump and invest a little in buying the spread on doping disqualifications.

Let the game begin – Richard O'Hagan

Imagine this. It is a couple of weeks before the start of a new Premiership season and David Beckham has been arrested, charged with animal cruelty. He says he didn't do it, but the four guys charged with him have confessed and implicated him. He faces a five year prison sentence and a huge fine.

Meanwhile, Rio Ferdinand has been arrested so often in the past few months, he has been banned from playing for a whole season, John Terry is suspended until October after serving a jail term for having an unlicensed firearm and the brightest young star in British football, the one everyone wanted to sign at the end of last season, is refusing to sign a deal until he is offered better terms by the club that thought they'd got him back in April.

It couldn't happen here, could it? You'd like to think not - even if I am writing this in the week that Lee Hughes got out of jail after serving half his sentence for causing death by dangerous driving. Now substitute the names of Michael Vick, Adam 'Pacman' Jones and Terry 'Tank' Johnson and you are just scratching the surface of the fun and games that has been the off-season in America's National Football League.

Of course, having an off season of 6 months does help when it comes to finding time to generate scandal, but in all of the above cases the player concerned managed to do the damage during the season itself and has spent his time fighting afterwards. Indeed Johnson, at the time a defensive lineman for the Chicago Bears, had to get permission from a judge to even play in the Superbowl in February - before nipping inside for two months, a consequence of the firearms offence and a parole violation. Jones, many think, has been harshly dealt with, as the Tennessee Titan's cornerback hasn't actually been convicted of any serious offence - he's just been arrested for a heck of a lot of minor ones.

But it is Vick who is in the biggest trouble. One of the finest quarterbacks of his generation, he has - again as I have been writing this - concluded a plea bargain in which he will admit breeding and training dogs for dogfighting, and allowing them to fight on his land. He faces 5 years in jail and a very big fine. Which is actually a lot better than the federal racketeering charges - basically, a charge that he funded the dogfighting operation and the betting on it - he would've faced without the plea bargain.

Moreover, having served his time, Vick is very unlikely to play football again. This is partly due to the stringent code of conduct brought in by the NFL and their new Commissioner Roger Goodall. Step out of line with Uncle Roger and you are looking at a 10 game suspension, minimum. Moderation has never been a big element of American sport, but I doubt anyone would have anticipated the Goodall revolution. No offence too trivial, no suspension too long, seems to be his motto. And that is for things which happen off the field.

Of course, if you take 1800 young men and pay them upwards of £1m each per year [on average] then you are bound to get one or two bits of misbehaviour. Goodall can never have expected someone to do something as grim as he did. At the same time, the other 1799 can hardly have anticipated a man so puritanical, they are expected to make Snow White look like a slut. Imagine the outcry here if a Premiership player got a 10 match ban if they were convicted of a motoring offence? Jermaine Pennant would just be an expensive footnote in football history, that's for sure.

All of which leaves the Atlanta Falcons without a quarterback, the Titans without their number one kick returner and the Bears without the cornerstone of their defensive line. Out in Cincinatti, no fewer than 9 players have been arrested in the last 12 months and the entire team must be on tenterhooks. The only team cheering will be the Oakland Raiders, who finally got number one draft pick JaMarcus Russell to sign his contract less than 48 hours before the pre-season games began.

With all of this buildup, this has to be one of the most exciting NFL seasons ever. I've not even considered the chances of the Indianapolis Colts retaining their title, of the Bears recovering from their SuperBowl humiliation, and the damage that may have been wrought upon perennial favourites Tampa Bay by their signing of the mercurial Randy Moss, but I can't wait for it all to start.

Losing the plot - premcorrespondent

The problem with this year's league is you never know which bugger is going to lose next.

Spurs flatter to deceive with a no-show against Everton. Then they go and blow it with a 4-0 win. Newcastle have been busy blowing it for years - but Big Sam's side and the Villains somehow managed not to lose despite both sides deserving to.

Everton make a bold move to reclaim their loser tag, then Middleborough carelessly throw their's away.

Cleaners are still scrubbing the blood from the walls of the visitor’s dressing room at the JJB, limbs torn asunder as Sunderland - the side taking on Udae's Iraq's tag of team most afraid of defeat – somehow blow it against Wigan. They might have been able to claim referee persecution, but, I mean, letting Heskey score against you however offside he is while being unable to breech a defence marshalled by Titus Bramble - that's plain embarrassing.

Thank heaven for Bolton and Birmingham. Little Sam's side seems to be performing about as well as Pele in the bedroom and Brucie's bonus for promotion seems to be going back down again with the rapidity of a star of one of his chairman's quite excellent DVDs.

Lehman's punch lost Arsenal two points, and Tevez proved that spending £50 million on midfielders and strikers and part of football’s soul him still can't buy you a goal against a mediocre Sven side. Even one that persists in taking on General Melched's advice of walking slowly (with a football) towards the enemy’s lines.

As for the Super Sunday Title-Deciding Most Important Game since our 2pm kick off - I think we all know the loser there. Despite a strong challenge from Jose's tie knot and Rafa's beard - the ref lost it. Booking the Blues' entire odious back-four seems fair enough. But then failing to send any of them off? Was he listening to the Kop or not?

It seems the only loser we can properly rely on is me, at the nags, with a fist full of crisp £20 notes.

Sugar, Spice and No More Than Three Seconds - by Zephirine and Mimitig

To most people, the Baggy Green is the headgear proudly worn by the Australian cricket team. For others, the phrase has an altogether different connotation.

Some of us had to do our games lessons at school wearing skirts - short skimpy skirts, designed to reveal the podgy thighs characteristic of the adolescent British female - and under the skirts would be special knickers. Worn over the normal knickers, you understand, to provide an extra layer of modesty. They were more than the big pants of Bridget Jones fame: they were huge, baggy pants, and depending on your school uniform they might be navy, grey, or… dark green. One of us can never hear that Australian expression without a quiet smirk.

But worse, far worse than having to wear this combination of skimp and bag on a cold winter’s day while the teacher was warmly wrapped in her tracksuit, was having to play netball.

Research (well, one click on Wikipedia actually) informs us that netball, having been originally invented as a form of basketball specifically for women, is now “the pre-eminent women's team sport in Australia and New Zealand and is popular in Jamaica, Barbados, South Africa, Sri Lanka, and the United Kingdom”. Your correspondents find this hard to believe.

Based on personal experience, we maintain that netball is a stultifying distortion of everything that a ball game ought to be.

Think about this: when playing netball, you are not allowed to run with the ball. Or walk. Or move more than one step. Imagine a sport where, as soon as you get possession of the ball, you have to STAND STILL. That’s fun, isn’t it? Exciting? Dynamic? Not.

But you can’t stand still with the ball for more than three seconds. Got that? Can’t bounce the ball to keep possession, either.

You have to pass to somebody else. Aha. This is where we begin to see the hidden agenda of this ghastly game. Girlies must be made to share nicely. Girlies are not allowed to keep the ball and make a spectacular run down the court culminating in a flamboyant slam-dunk like the nasty boys do.

Only two players per team are allowed to shoot. So that’s great for the rest, eh? The star girlies who are the pets of the games teacher, they get to shoot, and everyone else has to be their little slaves and pass the ball to them so they can look good. And each player is only allowed in certain areas of the court. Girlies must remember their place and stay in it.

And, naturally, physical contact of any kind is strictly forbidden. Because girlies can’t push and shove, now can they? Girlies might hurt their delicate selves. And if you should chance to hamper another player just a tiny bit, or even come within touching distance of her, she gets a free pass and you have to stand beside her and do nothing. That’ll teach you: nice girlies don’t play rough.

Zeph, who in those days was a bespectacled child who would rather have been reading a book anyway, recalls being bemused, in her baggy green knickers, by a so-called sport in which so many sporting skills were not allowed. “I remember the constant whistle-blowing from that games mistress with the strange frizzy hair, halting the game every time it threatened to get going - some infringement of the rules could be guaranteed to occur every two minutes or so. And the tall, rather boyish girl in the class who got on so well with the games mistress would somehow always come out ahead and get to score lots of goals.”

Mimitig, who was a teenage athletic star (her knickers were navy) remembers: “It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s winter. Games. That’s fine, obviously – we’ll run out onto to the field and play hockey. No, no – it’s time for netball. Oh the horror. First off it’s the picking of the team. Seven girls to each side, and I have to wait until the end to hear my name called. Me: Captain of the Under-15s (hockey), playing tennis for the Under-16s and swimming for my county – but I can’t get picked in a playground for netball. No wonder I hated it.” For Mimi, too, the sport is forever associated with the boys from the nearby school who would climb the fence to watch the girls playing netball. “We got cold, even colder on that little playground. It was desperate as the boys watched our knickers and we watched the favoured girls score goals.”

And yet, this restricted, artificial, frustrating game is ‘the pre-eminent women's team sport in Australia and New Zealand’. What’s wrong with Southern Hemisphere females? Why don’t they follow the fine traditions of their countries and play cricket or tennis? And it’s ‘popular in Jamaica, Barbados, South Africa, Sri Lanka, and the United Kingdom’. Well, it certainly isn’t popular with us two inhabitants of the UK, or anyone we know. And surely, surely if you live in Barbados there are better things to do than catch a ball and stand still for not more than three seconds before you pass it on, making sure that you’re in the right section of the court and not within touching distance of any other player? Wouldn’t a nice swim be preferable? Or a bit of beach volleyball?

So let’s hear from these many women who apparently think netball is a great game. Are you out there? Are you readers of Pseuds? Come on, convince us. Tell us what’s so great about it. Persuade us that the time spent freezing in those baggy knickers wasn’t totally wasted, for to be sure we will never have that time again.

Sisyphus and the King – file, Guitougoal (MotM & Offside)

Sisyphus and the King

Sitting in a slow corner thinking about the last car I ever owned, again, watching dust dance in shot sunlight shafts. A man came to me, a stranger and in a soft voice he said “Albert?”

“Sisyphus” I said, so we could talk.

Call me Sisyphus; every day I roll my rocks higher without any hope for effect or reward but just occasionally the reward is in the rolling of the rocks themselves.

“What do you remember about goalkeeping?” he seemed to be peering under my eyebrows.

As I’ve said "A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened."

It was no accident; he’d unlocked the door with a calm and steady hand. I was already strapping up the gloves, spitting on them, planting studs in the earth, filling territory, a rock in the tempestuous waters of my defence; a lion in the mouth of a mysterious cave for any opposition. I was a sleek cat, ferocious guardian in those days.

“Would you like to talk to Lev Yashin in Vegas, maybe write a few words?”

“The Russian? But, …he’s dead.” I blurted out.

“Aren’t we all?” he replied as he walked back into the shadows from which he had come, some tickets now on the floor by my foot.

Lev Yashin, the Russian colossus, the Black Spider, the man who’d said “What kind of a goalkeeper is the one who is not tormented by the goal he has allowed? He must be tormented! And if he is calm, that means the end. No matter what he had in the past, he has no future!”

That’s my kind of goalkeeper; he might be the King of Goalkeepers. Why Vegas? I thought.

*

I was always a stranger but here in the Vegas candy bowl I felt like ordinary boiled sugar in an acid ocean of saccharine explosions. The hawkers, the hoods, the strippers, their marks; all screaming for attention over the nerve-jangling nickel waves of the slots.

Here the hot sun was cooking a Petri dish of degenerates, they were sizzling, devolving in the harsh light. Even the sand here was different from the ancient dust in Algiers, here the dream had been infiltrated, subverted with rhinestone and here, decadence was a badge of honour.

Walking in from the Nevada sun, the bar was unlit, I was blind. I put my hand out and followed my way along the wall until I could see again. I thought I was alone.

“Lev?” I called out but the sound sank into the velvet walls. There was a cough from a table near the exit, I looked over and saw two figures silhouetted there; a big man and a man in a cape.

They’d been playing chess, some of the pieces had fallen over but all I could see was the lamplight in the eyes of the great man. More than 270 clean sheets, and over 150 penalty saves in a career that spanned 16 years in Russian, European and World football.

He smiled, he knew I was tongue tied.

“Can I introduce you to my friend?” he said “Sisyphus, this is, ah… Lucky, Lucky Jackson.”

Big aviator sunglasses in the gloom, a lock of black hair hanging, a curled lip.

“Please ta meet ya, man” he held out a hand and I saw the rings.

“What…what is this?” I shook his hand, it felt warm and delicate.

Elvis laughed like only he could, can, Lev Yashin was smirking.

In a low voice he quoted my own words back to me "Truly fertile Music, the only kind that will move us, that we shall truly appreciate, will be a Music conducive to Dream, which banishes all reason and analysis. One must not wish first to understand and then to feel. Art does not tolerate Reason.” And I understood.

“Pleased to meet you too Lucky” I said.

What follows is a record of our conversation that day, Lev, Lucky and I.


Sisyphus: With all the ephemeral show ponies on display these days, is anyone really practicing the true art of the goalkeeper?
Lev [laughing]: Well, goalkeeping is a funny art, not normal…and I was a bit of a rebel for my times...

Lucky: I think most people have an instinct to rebel…

Sisyphus: What is a rebel but a man who says “no”?

Lucky: I couldn’t say no to the army…

Lev: No, army no, but goalkeepers too. Goalkeeper can’t say no to the shot hein, like girls can’t say no to cars eh Lucky?

Lucky [grins]: I once gave a pretty waitress an Eldorado, as a tip!

Sisyphus: Mon dieu! The coffee must have been good! It’s a matter of consent non?

Lev: The goalkeeper consents to put his body between the ball and the net, then he agrees to be famous…

Sisyphus: Fame is an aberration, a construct, a fake.

Lucky: Yeah, there’s a Me impersonator in Stockholm now, an old ham calls himself Blue Swede Shoes, huh! Even the Admiral wasn’t that bad, man…

Colonel Parker: A fella’s gotta eat! Hi guys, thought I’d find you all here.

Lucky: Man, you nearly gave me another heart attack, I thought you’d been fired.

Colonel Parker: Another day another boulder eh Sisyphus? Listen guys, I got a great idea…

The fast talking man in the Panama hat told us of his vision, a movie “The Penalty” an all action romantic comedy based around the adventures of a maverick yet charismatic goalkeeper in his quest for the heart of his one true love.

Colonel Parker: Marilyn’s gonna come back, play the broad, hey, how much does it cost if it’s free?

Lucky: I..I..I’m not sure about this…Marilyn ya say?

Colonel Parker: Monsieur Camus will do the scribblin’ and big Lev already has a contract to consult. I ‘m gonna leave you to work it all out, gotta go, hasta la vista babies!

Colonel Parker slips off out on to the strip. There’s a pause while the dust settles.

Lev: He seems like a nice man da?

Lucky: He’s the devil in disguise, huh!

Sisyphus: There can be no devil without God and if there is no God…

Lucky: Y-you know, more than anything I’d wanna be a good actor, a great actor but I always ended up doing those soft movies, darn.

Sisyphus: Hmm, a penalty is a dramatic moment Lucky, maybe we can do something.

Lev: I can help, I’ve saved more penalties than anyone, ever, I think.

Sisyphus: Didn’t you used to wear all black too?

Lev: Yes, they called me the Black Spider, big scary black spider, but only a bad thing for the other team, hah, for Moscow I was their pet, their friend.

Lucky: Yeah man, I know that feeling, big scary with a soft heart

Sisyphus: Does the penalty fit the crime?

Lucky: I am in double trouble on this one sir, my mama told me ”You do the crime you do the time” but the Admiral, man, he did a whole lotta crimes and I’m doing the time see…

Lev: Ah, the gulag …

Sisyphus: So what kind of part would you really like to play?

Lucky [scratches head]: Ah… singing-millionaire playboy, race driver, sir

Lev: Isn’t that what King Con made you do before?

Lucky: Only about 25 times Sir

Lev: Couldn’t we make this goalkeeper er…less realistic?

Sisyphus: This time the hero should seek understanding, the strike is the question, the save is comprehension which is also the goal …

Lucky: I could use my Karate, you do Karate in football right?

Lev: It’s normally called shoulder barging, but they don’t do that in penalties, they just shake their hips and stare a bit.

Sisyphus: Stare a bit, hmmm.

Lucky: Shake their hips, yeah?

Lev: Yeah, then the striker strikes, the goalie dives, saves and the whole stadium go crazy, it’s the best feeling in the world…

Sisyphus: Surement, but there is that stare…

Lucky: And the hip action…

Lev: Well, yeah but it’s a big moment, the tension, a time for men to be men.

Lucky: A man is just a little boy wearing a mans body

Lev [laughing]: Yes, you feel like a little boy in front of 80,000 screaming people.

Lucky: I know man, I know.

Sisyphus: Hmph, we should be focusing on the moment, non?

Lev: Actually it goes a bit silent in that moment just before the penalty is taken

Sisyphus: During the staring bit

Lucky [stands up]: With the hips, like this

[Elvis lifts his arms a bit, snarls and slowly gyrates to a sudden brass band thrust. Camus falls off his chair]

Lev: Hey Lucky, be careful man, he’s an intellectual he doesn’t understand those things

Sisyphus: *!@*!

Lucky: Hey, sorry man, I got into the moment.

*

We ended up editing our footage down to a 7 hour stare, with strategically placed hips and glimpses of Marilyn in the stands. Elvis read the voiceover with dark liquid power, a eulogy that spanned the perspectives of each of this trinity.

In a moment that stretched out forever, the tunnel vision was a metaphor for the solitude of existence and the ultimate futility of the actions of the striker or the goalkeeper, even the manager.

I thought it was funny but Colonel Parker wasn’t too interested in the movie itself, he said "I don't give a damn about your movie script, I don't understand it and don't try to explain it, just sell it!" Later he apologized "Hey sorry guys, you don't have to be nice to people on the way up if you're not coming back down."

But when it got around to the filming he kept asking the producers for more money for every frame showing Elvis’ hips as he set himself on the goal line.

The film was never released, it turned out that Colonel Parker (a.k.a. King Con) was really a Dutch midfielder. He’d embroiled the genetically enhanced van de Kerkhof twins in a Total Exploitation scam to expose Elvis across all media, leading Michels’ to Total Football and players covering all positions.

That was why he’d never allowed Elvis to tour Europe, in case Bill Shankley discovered the secret and sought to turn Ron Yates into a playmaker occupying the hole just behind Roger Hunt. Hell hath no business like the beautiful game.

*

We met once more in that dark bar in the middle of downtown Vegas. We were all back dressed in black, sensing each others existence in the pale lamplight. Not much was said, we’d all died before.

In the end we stood on the strip that night and together we looked around, Lev saw a world of forbidden neon fruit, I saw electric fishing nets for fools.

Elvis just breathed it all in and when he breathed out the world seemed brighter. He swung his black cloak off, reversed it in a violins sweep and paused to fix a diamond clasp. The virgin white satin now shimmering in the city lights, the rhinestone, diamante and pearls their own luminance.

Elvis grinned, his plump cheeks, the star in his eye, his imperial radiance, seemed to be the source of all we purveyed.

The return of the King.

He hugged Lev Yashin with regal grace and Lev was swiftly whisked off by the men from the institute in a black sedan.

“See you on the other side, man” he said as he put his arms around me too. For an instant I knew what he meant. I started to say something but with a sideways look and a flick of his hair he was gone.

It was as if all those fake stars on the strip had suddenly become real. The goalkeeper, the philosopher the King; crying culture in the face of their destiny, choosing freedom for a chance to be better men.

I lit another cigarette, put my head down and started walking again.

Silly little winker - Premcorrespondent

Twenty thousand people winked at Richard Hughes last night as he used all his foreign guile to wind up Christiano Ronaldo and get him sent off.

In a 1-1 title abdication for United, Pompey were accused of using various sinister tricks to give their opponents a hard time. Christiano Ronaldo got so incensed by the unsporting behaviour that he brushed his head against some one’s nose, while Sulley Muntari went for the more traditional late tackle to earn his early bath.

‘A bit of rain and a physical game’ was all Howard Kendall ever needed to beat Spurs and it seems some things don’t change. The midweek football started at White Hart lane but only one side played as Spurs went home after seeing a tough kick from Stubbs in the warm up. They really never did replace Dave Mackay.

And as reported at the weekend, Jose really does want a more exciting season this year. He let Reading have a one goal lead before two players earning more than the whole town also earned the Champions elect their now not so vital three points.

In the rest of the midweek action, Sven showed with a 1-0 win over Derby that all England needed to win the world cup was to pick some foreigners and play piss poor teams every game.

Soon to be relegated Wigan’s ‘not-so-local boy made good’, Antoine Sibierski, scored a consolation winner against a poor Boro side.

Sunderland proved that fear of the manager does work on modern players. For the second time in two games a last minute goal ensured a blood free dressing room at the end of what turned out to be a 2-2 draw with Birmingham.

And finally Fulham beat Bolton with a winner from Alexi Smertin in the sort of game that desperately needed a Nat Lofthouse or Johnny Haynes to save the crowd from cold and wet multi-million pound dross.

Now I think the Taxi has just pulled up with my takeaway and a big bottle of brandy. That should do till the weekend.

Dear Aunt Polly - file

Aunt Polly is the agony-aunt for the footballing stars of Great Briton and beyond. She knows pain personally and will always try her best to help through her tears though she is not legally or morally responsible for any of the consequences of following any of her advice.


Dear Aunt Polly,

I’m a struggling first time manager in one of the under divisions and I’ve just seen that the Carlisle manager Neil Macdonald has been sacked already. We’re only one game into the season, he drew that and his lot had finished eighth last season, my own record compares not well with his. How long do you think I’ve got?

Pickled Eggs

Dear Pickled Eggs,

Are you still there? Hard to say how long you’ve got, it depends on the particular flavour of your chairman’s mania. Some maverick owners will rant with spittle about loyalty right up to the moment they dump you however the more common or garden variety will just rant incomprehensibly and then sack you. If you’ve recently been given a vote of confidence or if your club has a loud supporter’s voice I’d find an estate agent from out of town.


Dear Aunt Polly,

I’ve got a pain in my foot and I think it might be one of me bones again, the doctors, manager, coach, players and a cleaner tried to explain it me but my I-pod was playing up. Does this mean I can’t drive me Hummer?

The King

Dear The King,

Sadly that’s probably true, is there still a bus service near where you live?


Dear Aunt Polly,

I’m a serial axe murderer from Haiti with lots of dosh I got from that government malarkey, I need a bit of a change of scene and I was thinking that a football club might be good for my image. Can you suggest a suitable one for a practical swashbuckling type like myself?

XXXX

Dear XXXX,

Aren’t you already here? Why don’t you stop by the Bates Motel in Leeds when you come over? Feel sure you’d be a warmly welcomed word to the wise.


The Wisdom of Footballers Quote of the Day:

Bobby Robson “We didn't underestimate them. They were just a lot better than we thought.”

Bye George he did it - premcorrespondent

Jose said something a while ago (I would look it up but my drink-addled body will not respond well to extended research - the DT plays havvock wioth tyyping don't-cha know) that he would make the team more exciting.

And by jove he did it. 3-2. Against a relegation favourite. Fragile at the back and exhilerating going forward. How very Ranieri/Vialli/Gullit/Hoddle/any previous Chelsea manager of him.

Elsewhere in the league things went, largely, according to plan.

Big Sam, Billy Davies, and Roy Keane all showed it's the manager not the money that makes things happen. Oh, and Sven's Championship Manager game is going as well as the time I took over Atalanta and led them to international glory. He seems to have kept faith with Bianchi - as I did all those CL manager sessions ago (Bianchi did rather well for me as well). All he needs to do now is sign Supat Rungratsumaree from Pompey and Akinfeev from somewhere in Moscow and Bojinov from Lecce and the parallels will be unprecedented. But then the last time a real-life (is Sven alive? I've never been sure) manager believed ChampMan it didn't go well (http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/games/archives/2006/06/19/football_manager_for_real.html).

Nice to see that money without the manager is also rather pointless - kudos to West Ham, Pompey, Spurs and Man U for reminding us that football is about more than balance sheets.

Arsenal - as many predicted, having lost their Calvin Clien model and the king of cool himself - seem to have lost their je ne sais quois and their ability to beat a high line of defence. Fighting Fulham with indeed - such things have not been heard of since the bad old days when Voltzy (http://www.volzy.com/abitaboutme.html) lined up in the red and white.

Liverpool managed to drag victory out of the jaws of impotence and a dodgy beard - but then young Steven has a habit of pulling stunning stikes out of the jaws of own goal and penalty-giving-away mediocrity.

Right, I'm off to the nearest late licence offy where I will buy enough legal, mind-altering stuff to tide me over until Wednesday's six games of goodness.

Toodle-pip.

Endorphin rush - Ebren

I went running yesterday. It's not something I do often, apart from my annual 10k road race (and at the rate I'm improving I'll be quicker than Paula Radcliffe by the time I'm 57), but after being blown away at football on Wednesday and having the true state of my physical conditioning thrown into sharp relief I felt the need to improve.

So, on a (the) glorious summer Saturday I dug out my running shoes and a David Beckham sleeveless vest trainers and whacked on some high-tempo rock on my iPod and headed out the door.

Unfortunately, I soon discovered why I don't go running very often.

It's dull, tiring, you feel bad when fat people pass you, walking, while eating an ice cream. Then, after deciding that you should run up a hill a bunch of fallow deer block your path.

Realising if I just turned around I would be forced to run past all the picnicking couples I had passed a mere two minutes earlier, making my athletic pose look about as convincing as Boris Johnson's I enacted an emergency detour.

Running through a lush field filled with happy couples making a far better use of the sunshine and nature than I had managed. I jogged on, then it hit me.

Ahead of me was a small hill, but a steep one. I accelerated. Five metres before the start of the hillock was a tree, two meters after the crest was another. I picked up my pace again.

I hit flat out at the first tree, and drove on. I found another gear halfway up and thrust out my chest for the tape at the second tree.

It was effortless, powerful, I couldn't feel my feet hitting the ground, I flew. I was alive.

I doubled my jogging (trudging) pace and headed for the park gate, ran on through and home.

I think I had just experienced my first endorphin rush, today my hamstrings hurt but the memory is strong. I might even go running again.

Here we go again - Margin

Tan topped up – check
Dreary FA Cup final purged from mind – check
New foreign signing looked up on youtube – check
Subscription to Sky Sports – check
Subscription to Setanta – check

Well earned enjoyment of some international cricket - check
‘Remember me’ box ticked for all football chat pages at work - check
Sunderland win the league in a dream – check
Made sure it was just a dream – check
Argument about Pele's merits on Guardian Unlimited – check
Argument about something political on same site - check
Pointless pre-season tour to developing world nation - check
Chat to boss about Luton Town’s prospects – check
Look up another new signing on youtube - check
Laugh at the latest woes to hit Leeds United – check
Laugh at the latest transfer into West Ham United - check
Youtube new youngster who definately is the real deal this time - check
Pointless pre-season friendly against local amateur side - check
Sign up to on-line Prediction league – check
Predict implausible first day wins for teams ending in ‘County’ - check
Predict 0-0 for Bolton v Newcastle – check
Pointless pre-season friendly against foreign team – check
Phone and shout at the ticket office when opening day ticket doesn't come – check
Don't phone back to apologise when it turns up the next day - check
Enter Fantasy football – check
Notice Dean Ashton going cheap after getting no fantasy points last year – check
Express horror at the number of pre-season injuries – check
Hope Sven does OK just to confound pundits – check
Ponder why the Championship doesn’t start two weeks before the Prem this year – check
Complain about the price of the new home shirt – check
Buy new away shirt – check
Ticket in hand and going no where 27 hours before kick off – check.
Believe this might just be the year – check
Realise it probably won’t be – check
Shout at monitor on seeing Lawro’s bland predictions – check
Forget all about work for the rest of the day – check.
Write silly check list - check

At home with Michael Vaughan and "friends" – Mimitig and Mouth of the Mersey

After the debacle of the World Cup, and the leaks from the England Dressing-Room, some snitch (who shall remain nameless) revealed just how your fearless correspondents had managed to get both audio and video tapes of what had been presumed to be private discussions between Captain Vaughan and his troops. As a result, security has been tightened to the extent that we are powerless to infiltrate the sanctum – a shame you’ll all agree. However, some desperate undercover work has enabled us to bring you details of an evening chez Michael following the hideously bad performance at Trent Bridge. Our thanks go to our anonymous helper, and we hope you all enjoy what is a revelatory meeting with some key players in the England side.

MV: Honey I’m home – how are the kids?

Mrs MV: Sssh – I’ve only just put them to bed with a few sweeties to keep them quiet.

MV: Oh my Christ – you’ve not raided the pot of jelly-beans for them, have you? You know those aren’t for kids – they are weapons of mass destruction in my secret war.

Mrs MV: No, no, don’t panic – I used the jelly-babies. You said you didn’t need them anymore.

MV: Thank fuck – anyway, I forgot to tell you a few of the lads are coming over tonight. We’ve got to work out what the bastard fuck went wrong against India – did you get the giant bag of Pick ‘n Mix I asked for?

Mrs MV: Yes, yes, darling, everything’s in place. I checked for bugs and I’ve drawn all the curtains too. You’re quite safe.

(sound of doorbell ringing)

MV: That’ll be Ali – I asked him to come early. The others should be here in the next 10 minutes. I’ll talk to him in the kitchen, show the rest into the lounge, then man the look-out, and if you see Peter Moores approaching, activate the escape route for the lads.

(Mrs MV opens door to Ali Cook, shows him into the kitchen where MV waits – a gentle look on his face, then she retreats to await more furtive arrivals)

MV (jovially): Ali, come in boy, come in. Tea, sweeties, a little tube of pastilles perhaps? (his face changes – almost Jekyll and Hyde-like). What the bloody fuck did you think you were doing, you arsehole? Christ Almighty – The Telegraph of all places. To go and tell the world that our next weapon is the pastille? You fool, you absolute fool. How do think I feel now? I’ve gotta think up a new plan, I’ve gotta explain to the lads who’s fucked it up. Why (MV drops head into his hands and begins to sob), why Ali? Are you working for Them? Just get the fuck into the lounge now, sit in the corner chair, and don’t fucking open your mouth unless I tell you too. OK (doorbell rings again). The lads are here. Keep that lip buttoned. And you can stop that fucking Bambi look right now – it works on the Npower girls but not on Michael Fucking Vaughan.

MV: Hi boys – come in, sit down – no not the corner chair Belly, there’s someone sitting there. Anyone want a drink? No, good – glad one lesson has been learned. So we’re here, on our own, and not all of us (thank fuck none of you blew the whistle and told Mooresey that we’re meeting tonight), just to have a captain’s man-to-men with some of you responsible for the disaster at Nottingham. You all know exactly what I mean and let’s get to the main items.

Number One: Sweeties. Now I don’t know for certain who stuffed AD’s trouser pockets with the damned things but someone owes him a tenner for the dry cleaning. Pounds not rands KP. And give him the money for Gods’ sake, he’s bullying Jimmy enough as it is

Number Two: Batting - Colly don’t look like that – get back to reading the Brearley book, you’ve a lot of work soon. Michael Vaughan was the only batsman who played well, Michael fucking Vaughan – and you all know what happens when Michael gets upset. And if you get all Geordie on me, I’ll just remind you what I did to Harmison – yeah?

Ah, fuck’s sake KP: if you must bring food, eat with your mouth closed – I can see the flavour from here. I think I speak for us all (well, Belly for sure) when I say that we need you to get back in the runs. And it would help if you didn’t speak in Afrikaans to AD – yes, we all know the story about the lion in the playground, but, fuck Kev – I thought we’d got over that in the Caribbean. Getting all exclusive with Al doesn’t build the Team.

Last tonight, before you go:

Bowling: well, Ryan – You’re a haircut away from a contract son, so go and do it – I read that fucking article “The Locks of Sidebottom”. Christ’s sake, do we need another prima donna in the side?

Monty – Just stop signing the photographs and for fuck’s sake when you have to, just scribble your initials – there’s no need for these long personal messages, they’ll have us all doing it. Good stuff, but there were times when you were quicker than Ryan, so slow it down. There’s a youtube clip of Tendulkar being bowled by a slow, flighted delivery at Trent Bridge on the last tour that shows you how it’s done.

Chris – Stop texting your dad for a moment please. For a 21 year old, you did well, really well. You’ve a lot of potential there. Speak up! You’re 26 next month? I can’t believe it. Okay, not a bad show but I’m still looking for a bit more pace – use your fucking height for Christ’s sake.

That’s it for tonight. I could get into keeping, but Matt, I haven’t the strength. You’re not the worst I’ve seen – fuck, I had to captain Jones – but you’re not the best and if you want to stay in white, bugger off to the nets.

The lads gather up their pads and pencils, start shuffling out, cautiously in case Mrs MV has slipped up and not alerted them to the presence of their esteemed coach, but all is well.

One player remains behind – he’s worried because MV hasn’t singled him out for censure.

Ian Bell: Michael, please sir, what am I to do? Why was I invited here tonight with the big boys?

MV: Ian: sorry kid, didn’t see you there. Just do your best, boy, do your best. Class is permanent, form is temporary. I believe in you, I love you, I really do.

In a moment, scarily reminiscent of The Godfather, little Belly-Boy gets down on one knee and kisses the heavy gold ring Michael has recently taken to wearing.

And our tapes, audio and video end as Ian exits – via the back garden.

When shareholders become scum - Allwell

Dave Allen is frustrated. Middle-aged and suited, with white hair smartly parted, he leans back in his chair and shakes his head at the TV cameras.

“You know, you can’t believe these people.”

Allen is chairman of Sheffield Wednesday Football Club. Together, he and fellow directors Geoff Hulley and Keith Addy own a controlling interest of 30% of the shares. Their latest attempt to sell those shares has failed. A bigger chunk of shares might be more attractive to a potential buyer. Allen knows where he might get some, maybe cheap.

Wednesdayite are the Sheffield Wednesday supporters’ trust. They run coaching courses for primary school children; their “smile” initiative buys match tickets from the club at full price and gives them to deserving people who would otherwise be unable to afford them; they donate money to local charities. Wednesdayite receive no funding from the club and no individual member can profit from their activities.

Allen works under no such limitations. Six years ago, he gave Wednesdayite a 10% shareholding saying, “The Sheffield Wednesday supporters are our greatest asset. They come to the matches, buy our shirts and do everything possible to support us. Their loyalty and commitment holds the key to our future. It is in recognition of this that myself, Mr Hulley and Mr Addy wish to make this gift.”

Now he wants it back. In return, he is offering to put £500,000 towards the acquisition and payment of players. The value of Wednesdayite’s shares is not clear, but is estimated to be in the region of £1.9m. Wednesdayite have declined.

Allen is displeased and has called a press conference.

“Ninety to 95 percent of fans of this football club are very happy with what’s going on, it’s just that lot that'll never be happy. You only want to come to the AGMs and listen to them…”

*

Cutlers’ Hall sits in the heart of Sheffield. A Monday night in November and people are gathering outside its extravagantly decorated main hall. They pause, blocked by the crowd. Squeezing through, they emerge into an aisle between two blocks of seating.

Above them a large chandelier dominates the elegantly corniced ceiling, while all around them giant formal portraits of past Master Cutlers are separated by marble-effect Corinthian columns. They scan the seats, 500 in total. All are taken. They return to the back of the hall and burrow in, standing wherever they can, facing a stage at the far end. There sit the directors.

This is the home of the trade guild of metal workers. Built in 1867 it is tonight the location of the Annual General Meeting of Sheffield Wednesday, a club formed in that same year and winners of four league championships and three FA Cups.

They have just sacked their manager, the ninth in as many years. They are £27m in debt. They are mid-table in the second tier of English football.

*

Dave Allen remembers: “By the way we were doing well.”

*

The meeting begins with the perfunctory execution of administrative tasks before questions are invited from shareholders.

Darryl Keys is the unpaid chairman of Wednesdayite. He was once a merchant bank director with responsibility for sports finance. Keys is concerned that, commercially, Wednesday are not as agile as they could be. He presents statistics illustrating how Wednesday’s revenue is significantly lower than comparable clubs at the same level. He provides examples of how those clubs maximise their income. He wonders whether Wednesday have room for improvement.

In reply, Wednesday’s finance director, Bob Grierson, rejects his advice, referring to the failure of Keys’ own business. He addresses none of the issues raised. Jeers rise up from the floor and a shout is directed towards the stage. “Shame on you.”

*

Dave Allen remembers: “These people who call themselves fans are nothing but a bunch of cretins, and I hope you’ve got that word right, cretins, cos that is what they are.”

*
A dark-haired woman walks, head down, to the front. Small and middle-aged, she tentatively approaches the microphone. Her eyes dart around the room, down to her hand-held notes, then around the room once more. She gives a small cough. Initially her voice is quiet and hoarse but soon she is speaking eloquently and passionately. Irma Kennedy has supported Wednesday for 40 years. She is not there to represent Wednesdayite. She talks as a supporter and as an individual shareholder.

“He (Allen) has told me I know nothing about football. While I do not profess to be an expert, I think I have earned the right to have an informed opinion and to have that opinion respected. It’s time you put aside your petty views and looked to rebuild your relationship with all fans.”

Her speech is reported in the Sheffield Star as “the most impassioned plea of the night”.

As she makes her back to her seat, applause fills the hall. Shouts merge together into an indistinct rumble of encouragement.

“You must stop insulting people like me,” she said.

*

Dave Allen remembers: “There was one woman stood up, the most venomous bitch I’ve ever come across in my life, she’d got three pages of diatribe to read out about me, it was just absolutely appalling.”

Allen again shakes his head and searches for the right word to describe his customers and fellow shareholders.

“Scum.”

Dave Allen remains as chairman of Sheffield Wednesday.

Dave Allen’s comments can be seen in this news clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78AsOlC4E-I

Last day in Paris: end of the summer - mimitig

The peloton sweeps round the Place de la Concorde, under the watchful eye of the golden Maid of Orleans – iconic astride her horse, and a symbol of Paris to match the golden angel who looks down on Berlin, or our own Angel of the North.

It’s been a strange day, low-key, very little racing, no champagne roll-out at the start and I suppose that befits the ending of a Tour that promised so much when Ken, in a slightly crumpled white linen suit, waved the boys off in Whitehall three weeks ago. One hundred and forty-one men are riding to the finish line, actually one more than made it to Paris last year, although it seems that this year has seen the abandonnment of more than usual. But that’s because this year, we’ve lost two whole teams. Astana – forced out after Vinokourov’s positive doping sample, and the Cofidis team’s voluntary withdrawal when Moreni tested positive.

Once racing really started – two laps into the Champs Elysee, it was a bit of a race on. Team Barloworld (let’s not forget they were a wild-card entry but already with two Stage wins and likely to take King of the Mountains), worked like bastards to catch the breakaway. All on their own, it wasn’t going to work, but then Discovery came to the party and brought the ten-man break back.

With rain threatening – an unwanted weather intervention to make the cobbles of the final laps into a skating rink – Quickstep got themselves organised to chase the pack down and line up their man, Tom Boonen for a final sprint. It didn’t work, Lampre’s Daniel Bennati took the win, from Big Thor Hushovd and the old boy Eric Zabel.

don’t know what to think about this Tour overall. I don’t know that I believe in the Maillot Jaune. Classic commentators, and old Tour pros, Paul Sherwen and Phil Liggett seem sure that this has been a good Tour, that drug cheats are in the minority and catching the cheats is a good thing. David Millar – reformed character and outspoken in his views – reckons it’s been the cleanest Tour he’s ridden, maybe the cleanest ever. I guess we have to wait for the outcomes of the dope tests, look at the rest of the season, and see where we are come June/July next year. For me, I’ll follow the news, I am upset by what has happened this year, but I’ll watch Le Tour next summer and hope that by then we can believe in our heroes in lycra.