You could take someone’s eye out with that! – Mimitig

When I was at school, unless the weather was positively arctic (which didn’t happen that often in Oxford), our morning and lunch breaks were spent outdoors playing the same sort of games that had entertained our parents and grandparents. There was precious little in the way of regulation – we were mostly just left to get on with it, and the heavy hand of Government had yet to step in and ban such competitive fun as conkers.

There were running around games – tig and such. Sitting down games – marbles. And jumping and skipping games. Now I hadn’t thought about any of these for years until I was chatting away with a friend, here in the north-east of Scotland about how we used to pass the time in the playground.

There we were, we’d talked about the chasing games – we called it Touch-tig down south, up here it was “Join the captain or walk the plank”, but it was the same game.

Then we talked about various crazes that we’d both known: clackers was one (those two balls on strings that you had to make hit each other in a violent way), and the ankle hoop game – a round circle of brightly coloured plastic (mine was yellow) went round your foot. Attached to it by a piece of plastic string was a bell-shaped item and the idea was that you rotated the ring and jumped over the string until you finally got your other foot well and truly hit by the bell. Not particularly skilful though a certain amount of co-ordination was required, but good exercise.

Suddenly, at the same time, we both went: “Remember what we used to do with knicker elastic?”

Now some might see that as a call for memories of a furtive and fumbling nature, but my friend and I were thinking of exactly the same playground game. Our minds froze, then out of nowhere the term “French Skipping” popped into my head. Before any of you leap to conclusions, this is the official name of the activity and is not scurrilous or suggestive in any way, though I don’t know why it would have been called “French”.

All you needed were three players and the requisite length of knicker elastic tied in a loop. Two girls (and as I went to a girls’ school, it was always girls, though I’d love to know if boys played this too – I doubt it somewhat) stood a few yards apart with the elastic hoop encircling both pairs of ankles. The third girl was the jumper – her task was to perform various moves and cause the elastic to become crossed up in more and more complicated ways. When all jumps were completed the girls at each end would move the “hoop” up. The jumper would then be challenged with completing the moves at “kneesies, thighsies and waisties”. Should she be up to these supreme endeavours, she would then face performing the jumps at “chesties”. Seldom could this be achieved and so after a failure at any level, another girl would get a go.

Aah memories, memories.

I wonder how many of the games we used to play are still current? Almost without exception, an over-active imagination could imbue our pastimes with an element of risk or danger – hence “stop doing [whatever] you could take someone’s eye out with that” was the warning cry that over-anxious teachers and parents would emit. But no-one ever banned our fun and I’ve never come across anyone who had an eye taken out by a playground game.

The closest I’ve heard is from my friend whose dad was playing on the beach one day as a young loon, with all his friends, and they found an unexploded World War II mine. It didn’t stay unexploded for long, and one poor chap, now an old man, carries a deep scar close to his eye from a bit of the shrapnel. But it didn’t happen at school!

It’s Derby ’73 all over again - premcorrespondent

They say the hangovers get longer the older you get, which means a certain knight will still be feeling the effects of the special bottle of wine he set aside in memory of his grey-coated nemesis.

Ah,that famous Matalan coat, those twinkling eyes, I almost wanted United to win. Almost.

But another thing that gets worse as you get older is hatred. For several decades now I have felt a rising enmity to the ruddy-faced Govan escapee. But it’s hard to drag your own blood-shot eyes from him as he rants, raves, and blusters because one day, one game, a capillary in his face IS going to pop. You mark my words – I’ve seen it happen in the press box and it’s not pretty.

And we can all hope that when that fateful day occurs the man splattered will be Young Arsene.

And his teeny-bopper move to ditch the classes will come back to haunt him then, oh yes, no matter how prettily his pre-pubescent players pass. And my they looked impressive, seeing young Cesc run the show like a seasoned pro was something to behold. Derby, meanwhile, did an impression of Serbia against Argentina, and I can’t shake the feeling Arsenal might well play their part in the extended metaphor later on.

Big Martin and Little Sam played out a relegation six-pointer over in Burnden Park with neither side showing evidence of the bottle required to stay in the first division.

Newcastle brushed off last week’s defeat to Serbia with Big Sam’s faith in pies and Croatians and Croatians that like pies being paid off. The toon now sit one place above Chelsea with a game in hand.

Speaking of clubs ahead of Grant’s grafters, Sven’s City did something his England side never tried. A thrilling 3-3 draw, with four goals in the second half. Fulham – the other half of the draw - sit in 17th, two points ahead of Serbia and Bolton, and one ahead of the Lilywhites. So not a huge departure from the days of drawing with Macedonia then Svennis. Expect City to qualify for the finals then go out on pens in the quarters.

Rounding up the makeweights, Villa climbed to a shock 8th place with a win at home. But then they had already beaten the blues 2-0 at home once this season. The groan in the press box when Agbonlahor scored was considerable.

And Liverpool followed this up by drawing at home to the blues in a game they should have won.

Blackburn are, along with Spurs and Everton, currently busy highlighting exactly how little the hacks know about football with a 1-0 surrender to Portsmouth. That said a win would see them (as well as West Ham and Villa) climb above Roman’s new-look team and potentially into fourth. Kanu, 93, and his size 11s are proving there is life in the old dog yet – although there is no danger of him becoming big-headed about it.

Sunderland earned a point at Boro in front of three Teesdiers, a parrot, the WAGs and 28,000 travelling Wearsiders. Reading beat Wigan, in a game so irrelevant it made Bob cry and me hide in my allotment mooing like cow for 45 minutes.
I think the farmer’s coming back now so I’m off for another week – toodle pip.

The Second Meaning of Sport - Greengrass

Studying at the London School of Economics in the mid-1960’s was a fantastic experience for a simple lad from a Lancashire mill town.

This was Swinging London, and for me it really swung. I realised that southern ale was not, as I had been taught, ”witches’ piss” - Young’s was a grand brewery!

Carnaby Street, blues groups by the score, folk clubs every night of the week, Bert Jansch on tap, all-night poker schools and an unlimited supply of Southern Crumpet. Since I had a Beatles haircut and a northern accent, they all thought I had grown up with the Fab Four - and who was I to spoil their fun?

There was, admittedly, that regrettable Jagger business. That poor bloke, after two years of hard studying at the L.S.E., apparently got wind of the fact that I was on my way there, realised that there wasn’t room for both of us, pouted, and did the decent thing. Last I heard of him, he was singing with some half-arsed band out Kingston way - not Kingston, Jamaica, but Kingston upon Thames.

There was a lass from the Wirral at the L.S.E. The Wirral is just a ferry cross the Mersey from Liverpool. Wirral people like to believe they talk posh, but they talk Scouse - well, a sort of veggie Scouse. She was what today’s Swedes might term a ”puma”: heads turned in the library when she went to look for a book; she must have caused any number of stiff necks.

Miss Wirral had a boyfriend back home, and I had a girlfriend back home. We really enjoyed having a coffee, ”studying” together, agreeing that Herman’s Hermits were crap, humming ”Wild Thing” and taking turns to sigh about our long-distance relationships.

After a while, we stopped sighing about our long-distance relationships and went for a short-distance relationship: we were, after all, at a school of economics, and saving on travel made sense.

She stayed with her aunt in Ealing, which in my mind’s eye was the stop before Plymouth. I went out there once, to watch The Who with her, and noted that the ads for rooms to rent stated ”No Irish”. Well, you can’t expect Ealing landladies to speak the Erse, now can you?

I stayed in Brixton, which appeared to be a suburb of Kingston - not Kingston upon Thames, but Kingston, Jamaica. Coming home half-cut in the early hours of Sunday morning and hearing the ska pouring out of all-night parties was one of the joys of living there.

I was sharing a room in a Brixton student flat, which meant that my meetings with Miss Wirral involved me bribing my room-mate, Paul, to go out and get drunk every time we needed a bit of peace and quiet. We just couldn’t properly appreciate Buddy Guy singing ”First Time I Met the Blues” on my reel-to-reel Grundig with Paul in the room.

After a few months of that, I got a room near Euston station - I couldn’t stand the thought of my love of music turning that poor lad into an alcoholic.

Come the Christmas break, it was time to nip over to the Wirral and meet her parents. I sung ”I Hear You Knockin’” to my knees and sunk into their smug suburban sofa, ready for the trial to begin. But it wasn’t all bad - the next day, they went to work and we didn’t, which of course gave us loads of time to visit the library in Liverpool and the jam butty mines of Knotty Ash.

Then came THE BIG ONE: Liverpool v. Manchester United at Anfield. Liverpool was her team, Manchester United mine. We rolled up to the ground at the last minute and headed for the cheapest entrance in sight. It turned out to be the Kop, and it was packed.

Since I was shouting things like ”Keep on runnin’!” every time a Red Devil looked like breaking clear, the Liverpool fans quickly sussed out the fact
that I supported United.

After about 40 minutes of heart-warming homely abuse I noticed that people who had passed out were being passed over the crowd and onto the pitch, just behind the goal. I whispered to Miss Wirral, ”We gotta get outa this place. Pretend to faint!”

She suddenly said, ”Oooh!” and collapsed into my arms. She was passed over the heads of the crowd, and I swam after her. When we arrived on the pitch, she was given a whiff of smelling salts to ”bring her round”. The man from the St. John’s Ambulance Brigade then asked me if I was OK, and I told him I was fine. He said that I might need a drop of brandy ”to be on the safe side”, and I understood him to be a very wise man, so I took a swig.

As we were led away to the halfway line, she mumbled that she’d never forgive me the fact that she got those awful smelling salts for her brilliant acting - and I got a shot of brandy.

We arrived just in time to see the players come out of the tunnel for the second half - you could almost touch them! We spent the second half in seats, and later heard that Miss Wirral and I had appeared on the telly as we walked along the touchline.

She later got back with her Wirral boyfriend, and I continued my valiant quest for the Meaning of Sport.

NFL roundp - the Velvet Bear

One of the great things about this game is that it’s never predictable. Looking down the fixtures for Week Two, I thought I would struggle to find an introduction without resorting to the slightly tired ruse of explaining the game by reference to rugby. And then the Patriots got caught spying.

I alluded to this last week, but really didn’t think anything much would come of it, what with the Kevin Everett injury and it being the start of the season. How wrong I was.

Bizarre though it may seem, the NFL actually does have rules on spying on your opponents - unlike most other sports, where it is fair game if you can get away with it. Even for a game so highly tactical, this is slightly surprising, because it has always been a sport which depends as much upon second guessing what your opponent will do as what you do yourself. You would think that any little advantage would be allowed to be taken. Clearly not. From the reaction in the States, you would think that Pat’s coach Bill Belichick hadn’t so much found the Holy Grail as taken a dump in it.

To understand why people are getting so upset, you need to understand about the playbook. This is - to carry the Biblical analogy a little further - the bible of any team. In it is every play the team could conceivably run that season. Some teams have very simple playbooks, some have ones which make War and Peace look like a slimline paperback. Basically, if you want to know how to beat a team, get a hold of their playbook. It is so valuable that some sides don’t allow them to be taken home, even by players like quarterbacks, who need to know everything in there.

This explains why, when you see them during a match, the coaches all talk with their mouths covered. They don’t want anyone lipreading them, because most of the time they are talking to the quarterback, calling the next play. Similarly, quarterbacks almost never talk to their players on the pitch, other than when they are in a tight huddle. Instead they use hand signals. When you see Peyton Manning waving his arms around like an epileptic seagull, he’s actually ‘talking’ to his team members. It was these signals that the Patriots were recording and trying to decipher.

In my book, all of this would be fair game, were it not for the fact that the NFL has specifically outlawed it. Which has given Roger Goodall another excuse to flex his muscles, which he has done in quite a creative way. The Patriots were fined $750,000, of which $500,000 has to be paid by Belichick (don’t cry for him, he gets paid in excess of $4m per annum) and has docked them a pick in next season’s draft, precisely which one depending upon how well they do this season. As he himself said, this is far more of a long term punishment than simply suspending Belichick, because it affects the Pats’ plans for the future - and they are a side notorious for planning their draft picks very carefully.

It wasn’t all bad news for the Patriots, though. On the field they humbled the Chargers 38-14, notching up a 24-0 half time lead along the way. Tom Brady threw for almost 300 yards, Randy Moss ran in two more touchdowns and new boy Adalius Thomas returned a fumble for another score.

In other news:

· Eli Manning surprises everybody by playing for the Giants against the Packers, but is horribly upstaged by Grandad Brett, who not leads the Packers to a 35-13 win but wins his 149th match, an NFL record;

· The Colts regress horribly from their opening day spanking of the Saints and only just hold on to beat a fairly average Titans side 22-20;

· The Saints, however, are still over someone’s knee with their pants down and this time it is the Buccaneers wielding the paddle as they go down 31-14. The Saints look threatening on offense but seem to have forgotten to pack a defense;

· The Bills wore ‘Everett 85’ t-shirts under their game shirts and will auction them for charity, but were outclassed by the Steelers and lost 26-3. Everett himself is making good progress, is breathing unaided and has some slight movement in all limbs. There is talk of him being transferred to a specialist rehab unit very soon;

· The Bears continued their one team campaign to rid me of hair, performing smoothly and efficiently in the first half and woefully in the second to end up with a less than comfortable 20-10 win over the Chiefs. Their two scores came from reserve left tackle John St Clair and a punt return from Devin Hester. The only consolation was that St Clair’s score was a copy of a play the Bears used to run with William ‘The Refrigerator’ Perry twenty years ago. Which might be an omen;

· Over in Cleveland, it was hard to tell whether it was a game of two brilliant offenses or two woeful defenses. Bengals QB Carson Palmer contrived to throw six, yes six, touchdowns and still end up on the losing side as Derek Anderson showed that the Browns were right to trade Charlie Frye after Week One and led the Browns to a 51-45 victory;

· The Browns were not the only team to bounce back from shocking starts to the season. Oakland almost stole the game from under the Broncos’ noses, losing to an overtime field goal;

· Detroit QB Jon Kitna has hailed his recovery from concussion during Sunday’s game as ‘a miracle’ - and judging from his subsequent blatherings about God he either really means it or hasn’t recovered at all;

· The Bills’ resident orthopaedic surgeon - and the man credited with saving Kevin Everett’s life - is called Andrew Cappuccino. Wonder how he likes his coffee?

· Atlanta have signed Byron Leftwich and Morten Andersen in an effort to get their season started. That’s right, the solution to the problems left by Michael Vick is a banged up QB with more dodgy parts than a Trabant and a kicker who, at 47, makes Brett Favre look positively juvenile;

· The Eagles are comprehensively outplayed by the Redskins and lose 20-12. Afterwards, Donovan McNabb excuses his own performance by complaining that black quarterbacks are criticised more than white ones - which would work as an excuse, except that Rex Grossman isn’t black;

· Tank Johnson signs a two year deal with the Cowboys, despite the fact that he’s suspended until after Week Eight. Will they still want him when they find out his real name is Terrence?

Fast Lady in Pearls -- Zephirine

When Mildred Mary Petre was 15, her elder brother went away for a few months, telling her to look after his new motorbike. Naturally she tried riding it, and was soon charging round the country lanes at ever-increasing speeds with her collie dog in the side-car. She then discovered she could go faster by taking the baffles out of the exhaust, and as a result found herself in court for noise nuisance and speeding. When asked if she had a licence for the bike, she said: no, but she did have a licence for the dog. The year was 1911.

By the time the First World War ended, she had grown up, saved up enough to buy her first car and was determined to become a racing driver. A woman driver was no longer a novelty, but there were very few women in the cutting-edge world of motor racing, where Mary quickly became outstanding for her skill, daring and endurance.

In 1926 she married Victor Bruce, an excellent racing driver himself who in the same year became the first Briton to win the Monte Carlo Rally. Keeping to the nineteenth-century tradition of adopting the husband’s entire name, she became known as Mrs Victor Bruce, and this is the name she goes by in the record books - though very few people now have even heard of her. In 1927 she won the Coupe des Dames at the Monte Carlo Rally, and together the couple embarked on a series of racing and record-breaking adventures.

(If you’re about to flip over to Google to see if this is a true story or I’ve made it all up, let me save you the trouble: it’s all true.)

It was a time when many wealthy amateurs paid their own way in their chosen sports, but neither of the Bruces was rich. They were seriously good drivers, though, and they funded their driving careers by forming relationships with car and tyre manufacturers who sponsored them in order to test and improve new products. So that when they took a car up into the Arctic Circle, it wasn’t purely for fun, they were able to prove that the vehicle could function well in those conditions; though along the way Mary also found a wonderful hairdresser in northern Finland.

Perhaps their most astonishing achievement was a ten-days-and-ten-nights endurance drive round the Montlhéry circuit in France. They did this in December 1927, in an open AC sports car, covering more than 15,000 miles, at first driving for three hours each but later having to extend it to six hours each as the lack of sleep was too punishing; the six-hour stints, however, presented a serious risk of frostbite in the below-zero conditions. The few other women racing drivers of the day wore trousers or overalls for driving, but Mary Bruce always drove dressed in a jacket and skirt and, invariably, her pearls. For the Montlhéry drive she added a fur rug from her hotel bedroom. She said later that the ten-day record left her with a lasting dislike of sandwiches, as all they ate while driving were ham sandwiches, kept in the glove compartment and tasting of petrol.

Now backed by the AC company, Mary Bruce spent much of 1928 racing at the famous Brooklands circuit, and in June 1929 she returned to Montlhéry to attempt a 24-hour solo drive, in a borrowed 4.5 litre Bentley as AC didn’t have a suitable car . At least this time it was summer, but the weather was still terrible. (The photo shows the Bentley being refuelled at Montlhéry.) She covered 2,164 miles in 24 hours, at an average speed of 89.57 mph - a record which was unbeaten by any solo driver for over fifty years, and has never been surpassed by another woman.

And then, after a brief flirtation with speedboats, Mary Bruce discovered aeroplanes.

She saw a plane for sale in a shop in London. According to her own account: “I thought, ‘What are we coming to now, when we can buy aeroplanes out of shop windows? Soon I shall be so old-fashioned nobody will want to talk to me unless I learn to fly.’” It was a small light aircraft with wings which could be folded back, intended to be transported around and used for short pleasure flights. Mary Bruce decided to buy it and take it round the world.

And so she did, in 1930, having rapidly learned how to fly and navigate. She went on her own: the aircraft was a two-seater, but she couldn’t take a co-pilot as the spare seat had to accommodate a petrol tank. Planes tended to fall apart quite easily in those days, so such things as a spare propeller were essential, and the spares threatened to overload the little plane. She wanted to take a dictaphone to record her impressions of the flight, and refused to leave it behind when the mechanic said it was too heavy. Her husband said: ‘Don’t stop her taking the dictaphone, she’ll never be happy unless she’s talking,’ and in order to lighten the load she threw out the parachute.

She didn’t actually fly the plane all round the world, it couldn’t carry enough fuel to cross the oceans, so she put it on ships for the sea crossings and flew it across the land masses - it would be another two years before Amelia Earhart flew non-stop across the Atlantic. Going round the world with her little plane took Mary Bruce five months and numerous adventures, some frightening, some farcical, before she arrived safely back at Croydon Aerodrome. Her small son Anthony was clearly a chip off the old block, as all he said when his mother got back was, ‘ Mummy, you’re an hour late.’

She continued flying until the Second World War, taking part in early experiments in mid-air refuelling as well as stunt flying for public entertainment, and gradually becoming more of an entrepreneur (though she diversified by going back to riding horses and doing a little competitive show-jumping). She built up a small fleet of aircraft doing passenger and cargo runs out of Croydon, and during the war her company provided aircraft maintenance and repairs. The Bruces were divorced in 1941 and Mary continued on her own in the post-war years as a successful businesswoman in aviation. It was during this period that her fame died away, associated as it was with another and very different world.

This probably didn’t bother her - she doesn’t seem ever to have courted publicity. There’s no doubt she was thrilled each time she won a race or broke a record, but she was motivated by the love of speed and competition, rather than the desire to be famous.

During the 1970s, when she was 78, she had a go at test-driving the new Ford Ghia Capri and took it up to 110 mph, though she objected to wearing a crash helmet, having never worn one before, and initially put it on back to front. At 81, she went up in a Chipmunk and looped the loop for the last time. And although by this time she was pretty much a forgotten name, she did appear on the Russell Harty TV show (sharing the bill with Oliver Reed), before she died in 1990 at the age of 94.

She wrote: ”Speed has always fascinated me since my first pony bolted. Going slowly always made me tired.” Amelia Earhart, Amy Johnson, Jean Batten, and other early women aviators achieved great things and had their own personal glamour and mystique, but none of them also broke records in racing cars and powerboats. And surely none matches Mildred Mary Bruce for sheer panache.

[more photos, and film clips, at http://pocketfulofpseuds.blogspot.com ]

Jose Mourinho at Pseuds' Pscenes

In a real scoop for Pseuds’ Pscenes we’ve uncovered a behind-the-scenes tape giving you the lowdown on what really happened at Stamford Bridge.

Mourinho’s Chelsea history, the goals from his last game against Rosenborg and a video montage of some of the special one's special moments are all here.

Post your own YouTube clips or video/picture pieces by sending YT addresses, pics with, of course, your words of wisdom, to fileofacks@gmail.com.

Digging in the dirt - premcorrespondent

Sorry about the late post. I've been digging up the potatoes on the allotment and if some snotty nosed kid sagging off school hadn't tried to pinch the whole sack, forcing me to stick the spuds in the boot of the Cortina and drive home with Radio Five, for all I knew the Premier League weekend might still be rumbling on. I've heard that there are countries where the populace will venerate a vegetable on which there is the vague shadow of the Madonna, so I'm thinking of flogging these spuds in the Manchester United Megastore, because every last one of them is etched with the face of Wayne Rooney or Paul Scholes.

To the matches. Spud-faced Wayne couldn't get a game at Goodison, as his team-mates ground out their usual 0-1 win to squeeze out a pre-Wenger Arsenalesque 11 points out of this season's four goals. Spud-faced Scholes was lucky to stay on the pitch - so no change there. At Fratton Park, Liverpool's Premier League squad drew a blank to draw the game with Pompey's plodders after 55 year-old Kanu summoned enough energy to kick the ball, only for Reina to save the penalty. Kings Road entertainers Chelsea nil-nilled against Happy-go-Lucky Mark Hughes' Blackburn Rovers. Rounding off the Big Four, Arsenal gave Martin Jol just enough hope with an early goal for it to hurt like mad when they roared back with three of their own to push the Dutchman closer to his P45. Little Cesc continued to make up for the absent Henry (as well as even more absent Vieira) with another goal, the scamp.

Amongst the lost and confused, Little Sam's Bolton continued their nose-dive with a defeat at Birmingham, while Sunderland beat Reading with an eye-catching display from Kenwyne Jones, whose mirror must be worn out. Wigan drew 1-1 with Fulham in a match that must have pleased the Premier League's branding consultants no end and West Ham jumped into a European slot with an easy 3-0 win over middling Middlesborough.

Come Sunday, and the fixtures still weren't finished, with Manchester City's single goal win over Aston Villa taking Sven's men to second place and leaving Martin O'Neill in a seemingly pre-ordained 11th. Sven's stock continues to rise, while O'Neill's is as stationary as a Northern Rock queue. Monday's match must have brought waves of nostalgia flooding over Newcastle fans, as they blew a chance to go top six losing at doomed Derby.

There's plenty of star players in the Premier League, but of the galacticoes, only Little Cesc was on target - funny that, the weekend before the first round of CL matches.

I'm off to peel the skin off Wayne Rooney's faces, then deep fry them in high cholesterol lard and hang the consequences.

Colin McRae 05/08/1968 - 16/09/2007

A Tribute to Colin McRae – mimitig

Sunday 16th September.

I was really looking forward to a day of exceptional sporting choice and hopefully quality. Three international Twenty20 cricket matches to enjoy – including one involving England. A Formula One race at Spa – one of the very great racing circuits. MotoGP at Estoril – with a real chance of a fine race after all the testing Michelin had just done, and one more treat on the telly – a two hour review of the Tour of Britain, in which British road cyclists (especially the Manx Express – Mark Cavendish) had done extremely well.

Sadly, although all these events went ahead according to their broadcast paths, I found it hard to muster any enthusiasm for these, my favourite of sports.

I had woken in the small hours to hear a report on the news that a helicopter had crashed in Lanarkshire and it was confirmed that one of the dead was Colin McRae. It was one of those times when you don’t quite know if you’re really listening to a news report on the radio or if you’re having some deeply unpleasant nightmare.

I went back to sleep. When I resurfaced, there was no mention of a helicopter crash on the news – it was several hours before I heard that what I had suspected was indeed true and former World Rally Champion Colin McRae had indeed been killed, along with his young son Johnny, and the two other people on board. It was a horridly bizarre echo of Stevie Hislop’s death in the skies above Hawick on 30th July 2003.

While the deepest sympathy goes to Colin’s surviving family, his wife Alison, father Jimmy, fellow rally driving brother Alister, and close friends, all Colin’s fans are reeling with shock and grieving. His close friend, motor-cycle ace Valentino Rossi dedicated his win at Estoril today to Colin. I saw how moved Vale was before the race as he spoke of his friendship with the Scotsman, and I believe that he fought so hard for the win to honour Colin’s own fighting spirit. Rossi – normally the most ebullient of spirits was in tears on the podium.

Colin had droves of fans outside his own specialised world of rallying – in which he became Britain’s first World Rally Champion in 1995 after a thrilling final event decider with Subaru team mate Carlos Sainz on Rally GB. Although not to win another World Title, Colin held the record of 25 WRC wins until recently overtaken by Sebastian Loeb. He moved from Subaru to Malcolm Wilson’s M-Sport (Ford) team and after wins at the Safari Rally (oft considered the toughest test of man and machine) and Portugal, only just missed out on a second World Title in 2001.

His next move to Citroen did not bring great rewards. Colin never really gelled with the French team – despite having spent the time and energy to become comfortable with the language. At the end of 2003, Colin effectively retired from the World Rally stage, though he took part in the Paris-Dakar rally. He then moved to sportscars and drove, with great credit at the Le Mans 24 Hours.

He made further occasional appearances at the WRC - and some strong performances with Skoda had led to his name being linked to a full return to the discipline for 2008.

But Colin was more than just a great of World Rallying. He was a keen and talented motor-cycle rider, a sports and saloon car driver, and had his go in single-seaters. With fellow Scot David Coulthard, he competed in the 2006 Race of Champions at the Stade de France, and was due to do so again at Wembley this winter. He also pioneered motor-sport in the world of computer games. The ground-breaking Colin McRae Rally was released by Codemasters in 1998 and has been updated and made available to all the latest platforms on a regular basis.

However, despite his global status and following, Colin always remained close to his Scottish rallying roots, and the last few years have seen him either as a competitive or supportive presence at even the smallest of rallies. I had the pleasure of meeting him, though very very briefly, in Cooper Park in Elgin as he walked around, signing autographs, chatting with the kids, and smiling a lot.

He was, and it is with pain that I write that word, a truly great ambassador for his sport, his country and a terrific example of how to conduct yourself in both victory and defeat. Tributes have poured in from his friends and colleagues. David Richards (who in an ironic postscript to this tribute, today walked away unhurt from a helicopter accident as he returned to Britain from the F1 race at Spa), Nicky Grist, Max Mosley, Jackie Stewart, Malcolm Wilson have all had warm and genuine things to say, but I leave you with the words of Colin’s mate David Coulthard:

“Why is it always the good guys it happens to?”

Colin McRae: 1968-2007

NFL week one - the Velvet Bear

When I first stated following American football, back in the early 80s, there were two positions I always wanted to play. The first, obviously, was quarterback. Who wouldn’t want to be the team’s glory boy? I don’t think that, at the time, it occurred to me that he would also be the team’s best paid player, but then neither did the possibility that he might also be the subject of huge levels of public opprobrium; as one who found himself shouting “Jesus Christ, is a quarterback with hands too much to hope for?” at Rex Grossman on Sunday, I know that only too well now.

The other position I wanted to play was tight end. “Tight what?” you may well ask, and I wouldn’t blame you for doing so. One of the nice things about this kind of football is that, unlike in sports such as rugby and cricket, most of the positions on the field have reasonably straightforward names. “Quarterback” would probably be an obscure title, but fortunately even non-fans know what that is. “Linebacker” is a bit contrived, but not too bad once you realise that linebackers are the guys playing behind the front line when the side is defending. I could explain what a ‘nickelback’ is - other than a really bad rock band - but you don’t often see someone playing there anyway.

None of which explains what a tight end is. I guess the best analogy would be with a flanker in rugby. Imagine if you will the typical American football scene, with the two lines of men facing one another, crouched down, like two rugby front rows just about to engage. The tight end will be the guy on the very end of the attacking side’s line. His job is basically to be both a blocker of players trying to get to the quarterback, but also an outlet for the quarterback to throw the ball to, usually if he is in trouble himself. In other words, very much the relationship between a flanker and his scrum half. It’s a pretty thankless job, far removed from the glamour of being a quarterback, running back or wide receiver and I have no idea why it appeals to me so much.

The nature of the role is such that tight ends get banged up pretty easily, too. There’s always someone just that little bit bigger than you trying to flatten you. Fortunately, serious injuries in the NFL are pretty rare. The padding and helmets are much maligned on this side of the pond, but they are there for a reason - you should see some of the photos from the 1950s, before there was any real protection at all - and whilst there are now concerns about the long term effects of the sport, these are more to do with the level of care (or lack of it) available to ex-players than the seriousness of onfield injuries.

All of which makes what happened to the Buffalo Bills’ Kevin Everitt at the weekend rather shocking. Everitt - the Bills’ reserve tight end - suffered a severe spinal injury when tacking Domenik Hixon of the Denver Broncos. He underwent surgery on Sunday evening to repair fractures to his third and fourth vertebrae. For a time it was thought that he would never walk again, but at the time of writing he has regained some movement in his arms and legs. It is, however, the most severe injury in the NFL since Detroit Lions’ Mike Utley was paralysed from the waist down whilst making a tackle back in 1991. That record compares very favourably with both rugby codes.

It wasn’t a good week for the Bills. They lost two other players to season ending injuries. One of them, Ko Simpson, broke an ankle tripping over a team mate. And they lost to a last-minute field goal, too.

In other news:

· Randy Moss scored a touchdown on debut as New England beat the New York Jets 38-14. The Patriots might be in trouble, though, as they are being investigated by the NFL, accused of spying on the Jets;

· In the same game, Eli Hobbs set an NFL record by running 108 yards for a touchdown;

· Big Ben Roethlisberger threw a career best four touchdowns to help Pittsburgh beat Cleveland 34-7;

· Chicago, as you might have guessed, blew their game against San Diego. Despite being 3-0 up for most of it, they contrived to both lose 14-3 and lose two key members of their defense to season-ending injuries;

· Atlanta got off to a predictably bad start, losing 24-3 to Minnesota;

· Brett Favre’s 384th season in the NFL began with a win as he lead Green Bay to a 16-13 win over Philadelphia, the winning score coming with just two seconds remaining;

· Another late finish saw Washington beat Miami 16-13 in overtime;

· The other New York side, the Giants, lost to Miami and also saw quarterback Eli Manning to a shoulder injury which will keep him out for a month. It would be unkind to suggest that this won’t make much difference to the team, but I’m going to do it anyway;

· The least said about how woeful Oakland were, the better. But at least they really have now signed JaMarcus Russell;

· More bad news for Tennessee. Not only is Pacman Jones suspended for the season, their other star cornerback Antonio Gates is out injured for it (Pacman, meanwhile, has used his time off to become a tag team wrestling champion. As you do.).

Was Ebren right? - file

In his seminal work “Rafa Needs to Sign Unproven Small Names” the venerable Professor Gunther Ebren von Sauerkraut states empirically that “Rafael Benitez [the Liverpool manager] needs to sign unproven small names”. He goes on to support this astonishing assertion with reference to historical and contemporary European investment performance analyses and outlines a plausible comparative study which leads him inexorably to the fantastic and unfashionable conclusion that Liverpool, as a football club, would be better off if they signed unproven small names.

But was he right?

Upon reflection and with the benefit of hindsight it’s possible to look at the primary sources in context:

• Rafa’s scruffy torn out bit of notepad shopping list with the names of Torres, Voronin and Babel et al clearly crossed out, or smudged with a damp finger as in the case of Torres.

• The spreadsheet with the balance of payments, salaries and accumulative interest and other costs of the acquisition of chosen newbies.

• With 360 long minutes of Premiership football already completed, said team has had full opportunity to demonstrate their potential for success and provide (or not) collaborative data for von Sauerkraut’s bold claims.

As it happened Rafa elected to go his own way and turn his nose up at the hirsute Footologist’s considered advice; he spent an awful lot of money on signing proven big names who are doing very well so far, thank you.

That said, it’s clearly impossible to know what would have happened if the Reds had gone the other way so this shouldn’t detract from an assessment of Gunther Ebren’s proposal.

In fact it could be argued that shining examples of the perspicuity of that text has been on show at Wembley this week.

A manager who definitely has something to prove and has in no way already made any sort of a name for himself was forced into a position (at first) where he had to name a team of “Players with something to prove, not men who have already made a name” as the Lord of Dampness suggested for the scouzers.

This is of key importance for an England team who’ve been called many names individually and collectively in the recent past and it’s a welcome change of direction from compromised selection policy.

As many observers are reporting today; England looked hungry in the last two games but perhaps more importantly they looked humble.

For those who’ve lived off the fat of their ancestors (limited) success for far too long, humility is a powerful medicine, a panacea for arrogance, a remedy for vanity and a recipe for teambuilding.

Von Sauerkraut’s piece offers strategies too that could have been furiously tapped into McClaren’s PDA; “…the way to get world-class players seems to be to buy players that aren't world class yet.” Perhaps he mistyped ‘buy’ and put in ‘make’ instead. For the England national team it could be suggested that the success in the last two games was partly due to the truth of the statement that ‘the way to get world-class players is to make players world-class.’

Again, a radical and forward thinking position for a national manager who may well be relishing the idea of a similar career route. Although sadly, it seems that this added responsibility has yet to filter down to the FA or any of the youth teams or schools of excellence.

“Most would agree that the Galactico experiment was not a resounding success” for England or Real.

That the hundreds and thousands of Galactico topping on the Red ice-cream at Anfield is giving the appearance of efficacy so far is testament to the other truth that ‘you get’s what you pay’s for’. England, however, don’t have to worry about the price of their players, only the Galactico mentality, and that has been the overriding flavour of the resounding flop over the past decades.

”So my advice to Rafa - if you want the best you have to buy from the second-tier.” McClaren has selected from the second tier, with care, and fingers crossed, he looks like he’s getting the best from them.

This week’s performances have been as convincing as any England performance in living memory. The usual caveats apply about the length of the study, opposition, home territory and disallowed goals but over the two games England were consistent in style, balance, attitude and quality and it’s more than just the players.

So could Ebren have been right?

Yes, but about the wrong team.

Like going on an epic quest to the Oracle at Delphi for the winning lottery numbers and getting a map reference for Shangri La by mistake, or trawling through miles of ancient cuneiform for the real name of the one true Dog and coming out with an anagram of Hong Kong Phooey [Fr. Hong Kong Fou Fou].

In the immortal words of Professor Pakamambo “von Sauerkraut is nature’s red herring; a little smelly but full of protein.”

NFL team by team – the Velvet Bear

Sitting here at the start of five months of gridiron fun, it is disconcertingly easy to see who most of the playoff participants will be. This is one of the least open seasons for years, largely because so many teams were in such bad shape at the end of last season, not even extensive drafting and player trading has made a whole lot of difference. Admittedly, there is always the chance that someone will come from absolutely nowhere, as the New Orleans Saints did last season, but that isn't likely to make a whole lot of difference to the outcome. It is therefore with a certain sense of inevitability that I present my guide to the 32 candidates for the title Superbowl Champions 2008.

ARIZONA CARDINALS (2006 Record 5-11)

Just how a side like the Cardinals had such a bad 2006 season still mystifies me. How any team with Edgerrin James, Larry Johnson and Anquan Boldon can have a losing year is somewhat incredible, but the fact is that, for all of their offensive capability behind the line, the o-line itself was a shambles. They'll be hoping that the new coaching team of Ken Whisenhunt and Russ Grimm can work that out in a way that enables them to get the best from their stars. On defense, their major problem is going to be stopping the run and the fact that, in Eric Green, they have the second-worst cornerback in the NFL. The upside of this is that the inventiveness of co-ordinator Clancy Pendergast should lead to some very aggressive play, with plenty of sacks and turnovers.

ATLANTA FALCONS (7-9)

It's hard to get a worse start to the season than the Falcons have already had, with the Michael Vick affair not only disrupting their entire offensive planning, but distracting the franchise as they tried to regroup after 2006's decidedly average season. They're left with a second rate QB in Joey Harrington, two very average RBs in Warrick Dunn and Jerious Norwood, an unchanged defensive line which spent most of last season getting beaten up by everyone they faced and only one real attacking threat in Alge Crumpler. And you can't win games with just a decent tight end. If they win as many as six games this season I'll be surprised.

BALTIMORE RAVENS (13-3)

The Ravens surprised many people last season and probably hoped that they would make it all the way to the Superbowl. This year they will do well to do half as well. They're an ageing team where most of their best players are, at most, two seasons from retirement.Signing running back Willis McGahee from Buffalo will help in the short term, but he is no spring chicken either. Their best hope is actually in defense, where they are so strong, even losing a player as good as Adalius Thomas won't make a significant difference.

BUFFALO BILLS (7-9)

Losing McGahee will mean that they look ever more to the passing game. QB JP Losman is no longer the innocent youngster of previous seasons and, on his day, has a phenomenal arm. The problem is that his wide receivers are among the smallest in the NFL. Without a running game to speak of, this is going to be a problem against any side with reasonably tall cornerbacks - unless Marshawn Lynch comes through faster than expected. On defense, they have a compartively inexperienced front 7, but boy are they quick.

CAROLINA PANTHERS (8-8)

2006 was a huge disappointment. Injuries to Steve Smith illustrated just how badly one-dimensional they had become, even for a side with DeShaun Foster and DeAngelo Williams in the backfield. A new offensive co-ordinator, Jeff Davidson, will be expected to redress the balance and will have to do so fast, as they have not really replaced the retired Keyshawn Johnson. Defensively, they are on the small side and injury-prone, but if Julius Peppers and Kris Jenkins can stay fit, they'll still be a handful.

CHICAGO BEARS (14-2, lost Superbowl)

Even as a Bears fan I still have to ask how the hell they managed to win so many games with a liability like Rex Grossman at QB. Anyone who saw his nightmare Superbowl ought to know that this was no shock to Bears supporters, who have had to put up with the NFL's most error-prone triggerman for far too long. Losing star RB Thomas Jones in the close season won't have helped the offense either, hence the attempt to turn Devin Hester into an offensive as well as defensive player. Otherwise, the Bears will rely upon the erratic Cedric Benson for their points - unless a miracle happens and Grossman manages to find receivers Bernard Berrian and Muhsin Mohammed on a regular basis. The defense, lead by star linebacker Brian Uhrlacher, remains a ferocious prospect for opponents.

CINCINNATI BENGALS (8-8)

Expect much, much more from the Bengals this year. With Carson Palmer on form and Chad Johnson, TJ Houshmanzadeh and (once his suspension is served) Chris Henry for him to aim at, stopping them scoring will take a better team than most of those they will face. They'll concede plenty of points - their secondary, Jonathan Joseph aside, is feeble - but you'd always expect them to be a score ahead anyway.

CLEVELAND BROWNS (4-12)

Last year was a disaster. This year won't be much better, unless rookie QB Brady Quinn comes good and the rest of the team manage to avoid being arrested. Brayon Edwards and Kellen Winslow should be potent attacking threats, but whilst they have good tailbacks in short yardage situations they have no-one who poses much of a ground threat. Their D is a solid and unspectacular unit who relied too much on rookie Kamerion Wimbley last season; they'll all need to put more effort in if the Browns are to have much of a season.

DALLAS COWBOYS (9-7)

This will surprise many, but, statistically, Tony Romo was the best QB of 2006. His overall passing was better and he made fewer errors than anyone else, Peyton included. With TO for once living up to his self-generated reputation and Jason Witten a potent threat at TE, they shouldn't miss the injured Terry Glenn at all. The hard hitting Ken Hamlin shores up a creaky defense, although the secondary is still going to have to hide the woeful Anthony Henry if they are not to cough up easy points.

DENVER BRONCOS (9-7)

The astute off-season signings of Daniel Graham and Brandon Stokeley should open up more options for Jay Cutler this season, whilst Travis Henry gives them running options. It is probably too much change for a young QB like Cutler to absorb in the early season, but expect them to come strong in the second half. Having Champ Bailey and Dre' Bly on defense will make them very hard to score against, so once they can get some points on the board they will be a formidable outfit.

DETROIT LIONS (3-13)

You have to feel sorry for Lions QB Jon Kitna. He's a talented player who deserves much more than he has to work with here.He gets abysmal pass protection, the o-line's run blocking is scarcely any better and, despite having explosive rookie Calvin Johnson wide out, he's got very few targets indeed. Basically, here's one guy who'll be spending a lot of play time on his backside this season. The defensive line spent more time injured than on the field last season, but if Shaun Rogers stays fit he and new signing Dewayne White will give them some much needed steel and probably represent their best hope of avoiding sixteen weeks of humbling.

GREEN BAY PACKERS (8-8)

So, Old Man Favre returns for yet another season in Wisconsin. He's interesting to watch, because his play has become increasingly maverick as the years have worn on - which must make him infuriating to coach and to play with. Just how much scope he will have for that this year, when his only real weapon is WR Donald Driver, is open to debate. He's either going to make someone a star, or it is all going to go horribly wrong for the Packers. Their defense is at least consistent, in that they make as many cock-ups as they do brilliant plays. Expect a losing season.

HOUSTON TEXANS (6-10)

All change in Houston, where the talented - if untried - Matt Schaub has replaced David Carr at QB and where veteran Ahman Green has been brought in to try and give some penetration to the running game. The problem is that very little has been done about the dreadful offensive line of 2006, the one which left Carr so badly beaten up and stopped the run in the first place. Apart from Green, Schaub has only Andre Johnson and (at short yardage) Ron Dayne as threats worthy of the name, so it could be a tough learning curve - to the point where it is a toss up who will be wishing he had stayed in Atlanta, him or the Falcons. Things might be a little easier if the defense was reliable, but it isn't, it's inexperienced and has a real vulnerability at CB.

INDIANNAPOLIS COLTS (12-4, won Superbowl)

What would you like me to say. They have Peyton, Marvin Harrison, Reggie Wayne, Joseph Addai and Dallas Clark. The defense is a mess, with a mass of off-season defections being led by star linebacker Cato June, but the only way that will matter will be if Peyton gets injured; the real weakness of the Colts lies in the fact that it is so much his team now, without him it is doubtful they'd cope.

JACKSONVILLE JAGUARS (8-8)

A slightly disappointing 2006 for the Jags, largely as a result of their failure to hold onto the ball. If they could just stop dropping the thing, they would be a pretty formidable proposition. This season, expect much more work for running backs Fred Taylor and Maurice Jones-Drew, who were the best RB pairing last season. The defense has the enormous tackle combination of John Henderson and Marcus Stroud, plus star CB Rashean Mathis, so they will be very hard to score against. Expect a better season than last.

KANSAS CITY CHIEFS (9-7)

A two man team if ever there was one. Larry Johnson and Tony Gonzalez must be wondering what they did wrong in a previous life to end up playing behind a line as clueless as this one. Johnson will be hoping for the same number of yards and TD s with far fewer carries than the 400+ he had last season. The defense has been strengthened by the arrival of Napoleon Harris and Alfonso Boone, but really it was youth, not weight, the Chiefs needed here. Expect plenty of 4th quarter scores against this ageing unit.

MIAMI DOLPHINS (6-10)

It all went very wrong for the Dolphins in 2006. They started as playoff favourites and ended as also-rans. Having released Daunte Culpepper, it is hard to see how they will be any better off with the injury prone Trent Green. The offense lacks any real weapons; for all Chris Chambers' promise at wide receiver, his iron hands will have to soften before he can be seen as any sort of threat. The defense will rely too much on the incoming Joey Porter - who is going to have to play out of his skin to justify his reported salary - and the underrated André Goodman. Another tough year in prospect.

MINNESOTA VIKINGS (6-10)

The good news for Vikings fans is that the close season saw them shift Brad Johnson, the world's least mobile QB and a whole host of other makeweights. The bad news is that they've not actually been replaced by anyone. Second year QB Tavaris Jackson will lead them this year and will spend most of it handing the ball to Chester Taylor and rookie Adrian Peterson (not to be confused with the Bears' rookie of the same name), because the Vikings' passing game is going to be non-existent. Being more positive, the defense isn't bad, with a solid reputation against both the pass and the run.

NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS (12-4 )

Tom Brady will be licking his lips in anticipation. An offense which not only features Randy Moss and Donte Stallworth, but which is so strong, they could afford to let Reche Caldwell go last week. Not only that, but the defense, bolstered by Adalius Thomas, lacks any obvious weakness either. Only overconfidence can stop them now.

NEW ORLEANS SAINTS (10-6)

With Drew Brees, Reggie Bush, Deuce McAllister and last year's surprise new arrival Marques Colston, it is arguable that the Saints should've won more games, scored more points and generally beaten the hell out of most other teams. What let them down was a defense which lacked both speed and penetration; nothing they have done in the close season has changed this, so expect a very similar season to the last.

NEW YORK GIANTS (8-8)

The Giants have one huge problem, which is that Eli simply isn't Peyton. In fact, if he wasn't a Manning, it is arguable that the Giants would not have persevered with him anything like as long as they have. The Giants' solution to his regular brain freezes was always to give the ball to Tiki Barber, but Tiki isn't there any more and Brandon Jacobs and Reuben Droughns are just not as reliable at digging a side out of a hole. All this is before you consider that any side which has Plaxico Burress as their #1 receiver has problems anyway. They'll be looking to their tough defense, buoyed by new co-ordinator Steve Spagnuolo, to keep them in games.

NEW YORK JETS (10-6)

In signing Thomas Jones from the Bears the Jets have at last given Chad Pennington a decent weapon to work with. The o-line is sound, but they lack class otherwise, with Jerricho Cotchery having had a particularly shoddy season last time around. The defense has historically been good against the pass but feeble against the run and this will hurt them again this year if some serious improvements are not made.

OAKLAND RAIDERS (2-14)

It is hard to see how it is going to get any better for the Raiders in 2007. Randy Moss has gone, leaving the side bereft of quality wide out. LaMont Jordan and the incoming Dominic Rhodes will enhance the running game, but at the time of writing they still don't have a quarterback, with JaMarcus Russell still (contrary to what I wrote a couple of weeks ago) refusing to sign a contract. As for the defense, well, the only stars are in the corners and that is never a good thing, because you're just asking to get run into oblivion.

PHILADELPHIA EAGLES (10-6)

Donovan McNabb can't shore them up forever, but then again I say that every season and every season he does so. Brian Westbrook remains the main alternate threat, especially if McNabb's dodgy knee flares up again. They look weak wide out, though. The defense will blitz and blitz and blitz on the back of good line discipline and a talented secondary. At times it will go wrong, but no-one is going to rack up a cricket score against them.

PITTSBURGH STEELERS (8-8)

An 8-8 season was such a disappointment to them last year, as they tried to adjust to life post-Bus. This year, they have to adjust to life post-Cowher. Can they do it? Well, a year out of the spotlight can only have helped Ben Roethlisberger and Willie Parker remains a threat on the ground. Hines Ward will be #1 receiver and the better for it, especially with Santonio Holmes to keep him company. The defense will continue to do the basics very well indeed, secure in the knowledge that if you get past the line, you've still got to get past the human cannonball that is Troy Polamalu. Definitely should have a better year this year.

ST LOUIS RAMS (8-8)

The big question here whether the creaky o-line can give Marc Bulger enough time to unleash Steven Jackson, Torry Holt and Isaac Bruce. If they can, the Rams will be a side to be reckoned with. If, like last season, they can't, Bulger faces another season seeing more turf than gaps. The defense has been the subject of extensive surgery, but the line looks undersized and will once again be vulnerable against the run.

SAN DIEGO CHARGERS (14-2)

It isn't hard to see what will happen here. From the snap, Philip Rivers will hand the ball off to LT, LT will blast another hole in a hapless defensive line, and the Chargers will keep doing it until they score. It's a blessing and a curse. An easy offense to run, where any variation surprises, but also rather predictable. So, just for variation, they'll dump the ball off to Antonio Gates and watch him make the yards instead. The clock runs down, as does the spirit of the opposition. In defense, they've got Shawn Merriman, Quentin Jammer and a whole host of others as adept at stopping the run as their offensive counterparts are at making it. Hard to beat.

SAN FRANCISCO 49ERS (7-9)

Still an improving side, the 49ers. Bringing in Darrell Jackson and Ashley Lelie gives Alex Smith some much needed options downfield, but the loss of Frank Gore for the opening games is still a big blow. An awful secondary cost them dear last time out, but this has been rectified by the signings of Nate Clements and Michael Lewis. In all, new coach Jim Hostler - and 49ers fans everywhere - have much to hope for this year.

SEATTLE SEAHAWKS (9-7)

Last season was spoilt for them by the injury which deprived them of Matt Hasselbeck for a good part of it. This year, they have lost Darrell Jackson and Jerramy Stevens, so an awful lot depends upon Shaun Alexander recovering his 2005 form. The defense is built on speed, not power, so expect them to take a pounding there, too. A shadow of their former selves.

TAMPA BAY BUCCANEERS (4-12)

Anyone expecting the Bucs to bring in some youth to replace their aging side will have been very disappointed. Instead, Jeff Garcia will be the second oldest starting QB in the NFL. Moreover, he's their only threat on the ground apart from Cadillac Williams. The defense is in better shape, with Gaines Adams a quality signing, but nothing less than a complete overhaul could've prevented this being a very tough season for the Bucs.

TENNESSEE TITANS (8-8)

If he could play QB, RB and WR all at the same time, then Vince Young would. Moreover, if he could, the Titans would let him, because the options are LenDale White, Chris Henry and David Givens, which doesn't add up to an awful lot in my playbook. They've no Pacman Jones on defense, either, but they do have the hugely underrated Nick Harper, for which they may come to be incredibly thankful indeed.

WASHINGTON REDSKINS (5-11)

Don't expect too much passing from the Redskins. Mark Brunell had real trouble finding his receivers last season and things aren't going to change much this year. But given that they will have to go to a running game, losing Derrick Dockery seems at best careless, at worst tantamount to allowing Clinton Portis to be assaulted several times a week. Luckily, they now have Ladell Betts as a quality backup. They'll need to put plenty of points on the board, though, because their defensive line is old, injury-prone and likely to ship points like an old bucket ships water.

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.