The Branston Rabids Files x3 - file

Little Shoppe of Bolocks – Part 1

It’s the morning of the big game with Melchester Roofers and the bulk of the Branston Rabids first team squad are ‘stable’ in their own ward at Branston General Hospital.

Hercules “Eckle” Profiterole, the Belgian centre-half and private eye, has had his nose bitten off by a savage Portugazi and the club chairman looks strangely smug.

The local A&E staff had worked their fingers to the bone in a pandemonium of players, their agents and family, press, police and fans the previous night. Fending off reporters and supporters and jabbing everyone with rabies shots, seaming endless stitches, reattachments and wrapping of miles of bandages.

A surprising amount of pain killers were being consumed too, thought the ward sister, who was a rugby fan.

Those conscious and not hallucinating saw Jorges Mourir once more, live on TV news, getting shot with a tranquilizer dart by the RSPCA. It, they agreed, was a shame; he’d been the best manager they’d had in ages.

He was already being linked with the vacant Gorky Blu Meanies job.

Eckle had tried half-heartedly to marshal the troops but eventually given up until the morning.

[The etymology of the Rabids name surprisingly predates this incident, though it is thought by some to be prescient. The club's founder, and great grandfather of the present owner, Sir Fagan Tannic, came from a long line of wealthy industrialists.

Their family business was one of many mysterious things to have come out of the shadowy corners of the dark ages; the recycling of rabbit condoms that underpinned the giant multinational that is today’s Rabbit Brand Corp.

Unfortunately in 1869 when the club sent its erstwhile tea lady to register with the newly formed Football Union, she had had a horrid head add dose cold. No amount of screaming ‘Rabids I tell you, Rabids!’ could convince the clerk and even her frantic bunny impressions were misconstrued. A succession of spiteful FU officials had refused to change it ever since, hence Branston Rabids it is.

Incidentally, the multinational arms were given to Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza’s four elder sisters while he was left only with a knighthood and a football club with rising damp.]

The next morning Sir Derek was in early, checking under the players’ bandages, sneezing, loosening the odd stitch here and there.

"Morning all," he said breezily "how are my honed Adoni today then?" The slight Scottish winger winced and let a tear hit his cheek as the chairman ripped off his ear bandage again, ear and all.

"Nurse!" Yelled Rocket.

The morning morphine was kicking in and Hercules Profiterole decided to go out in to town to see about finding a nose guard.

In a side street off a back road, near the canal, Eckle noticed a dirty little old shop he had never seen before. He saw the sign under the grime "A Little Shoppe of Bolocks" it said, Eckle read it twice. Through the thickly crusted windows he could only make out that it was some kind of antique shop but just as he was about to walk away he saw a shining silver nose plate.

He pushed the creaking door open with the "Tink" of a broken bell and immediately found himself in the middle of all manner of dusty sporting memorabilia and bulging paraphernalia.

Old trophies and medals in boxes, caps, armbands, signed photos and Figurine Panini albums, a complete set of West Indies touring athletic supports (unwashed) were draped over gloves and shin guards, shirts, boots and a mounted display of Accrington Stanley lucky heather.

As if by magic the shopkeeper appeared, he was a short and balding man in a striped pinafore.

"Good morning sir," said the man.

"Good morning to you," Eckles replied.

"If I’m not mistaken you are a Rabid man are you not sir?"

"I am and," Eckle and paused for effect "...he he! Are you Mr. Bollocks then?"

The round faced man stiffened slightly. "It’s pronounced Bo – lock if you don’t mind. Are you looking for anything in particular or just perusing the annals of history?"

"Not really into annals as it happens, or history, I can’t even remember where I left me fags. I just came in to look at that old nose protector in the window."

"Oh yes, a lovely piece that, rumoured to have belonged to a descendant of Ethelred the Unready. We have many titbits that might awaken your historical curiosity, what about this, it’s an original print of the first FU Cup final at Wembley."

"Oh, I saw that. The Gorky Blu Meanies won didn’t they?"

"Noo, not the new Wembley the original Wembley, don’t they have Wembley where you come from?"

"No we don’t, who’s that then?"

"Ah, that’s PC George Scorey."

"That’s a fancy name for a horse," said Eckle.

"No the copper, the horse was called Billie, its called The White Horse Final now you know."

"Did he win then did he? Did he? Heh!"

"No, Bolton won, but they single-handedly kept 200,000 fans in order. Djunno he wasn’t even on duty that day?"

"Who the horse?"

"No the copper."

"So why did he have his horse with him then?"

"I don’t know."

They chatted gaily away like this for a while and then the conversation turned to Mr Bolock’s business partners who could do wonders with in vitro fertilization and the possibilities presented by an unusual light box in the back room.

"Ye what? You’ve got a magic light box that can send me back in time so’s I can collect his sperm for your mate? Yer mad, man! Heh!"

"Well that nose plate is solid silver and it would probably be worth a few thousand to a collector you know, what if we called it payment?" said the wily antiquarian.

"A few thousand you say. Hmm." Eckle rubbed his Belgian chin "And I’d definitely be back in time for this afternoons match?"

"Oh yes, the time you spend in the… er …light box doesn’t count here, you’ll be back as soon as you left."

"Mmm, well alright then, where is it? Back there?"

The little shopkeeper pulled back a heavy green velvet curtain to reveal a shining light box in the centre of a gloomy ante-room.

"That’s right," he said with a little smile "just put the picture on the box. Oh, you might need this," and he handed Eckle a very large test tube.

Year of the Cat?- levremance

It’s been a topsy-turvy AFL season so far and the premiership race is wide open. Eleven rounds remain in the minor round for the wheels to fall off or to get a season back on track. In the race for September here’s how they’re placed at the turn.

Geelong with 8 wins 3 losses and a superior percentage leads the way. The Cats have added a much-improved defensive action to their free-flowing style of football and are a big chance to end a 44-year premiership drought. Jimmy Bartel and Gary Ablett Jr are in single figures with the bookies for the Brownlow medal.

West Coast is second, also with 8 wins. Time out for key on-ballers has hardly affected normal service and captain Chris Judd remains unstoppable. Ben Cousins, who is back from rehab, made a nationally televised ‘mea culpa’, which, to many, was long on the mea but a little short on the culpa. He must agree to a raft of conditions, including regular drug testing, before returning to the fold.

Hawthorn’s buddy system seems to be working. It goes like this. When in doubt kick it to Buddy. Lance ‘Buddy’ Franklin that is. The emerging centre-half forward kicked a bag of 9 against Essendon and 6 last round against Sydney in a losing side.

Essendon, second last in 2006, are fourth behind the Hawks. Recruits Alwyn Davey and Mal Michael have added pace and strength respectively to allow old hands Lucas, Lloyd, Hird and Fletcher to show their class. Consecutive 1-point wins over the Swans and West Coast has confounded the tipsters.

Collingwood’s army is on the march and the Magpies sit in fifth place at the mid-season break. Despite injuries to key players, the Woods have maintained their good form and the mix of youth and experience has brought results. At their best they can give the flag a shake come September.

The Kangaroos, who started favourites for the wooden spoon, round out the four teams on 7 wins and 4 losses. Despite suffering three straight losses at the start of the year they recovered with 5 wins on the trot and on current form will make the eight.

Sydney, while similarly placed to their 2005 premiership year, have their problems. The new ‘hands in the back’ rule has rendered bustling forward Barry Hall anachronistic, dual Brownlow medalist Adam Goodes’ form is enigmatic and running halfback Tadgh Kennelly popped his kneecap again in Saturday’s win over Hawthorn. The Swans head a group of four on 6 wins and 5 losses

Adelaide’s tortuous training regime, devised by former Australian cycling coach Charlie Walsh has, theoretically at least, made the Crows the fittest team in the AFL. If they can ever get their best 18 out of rehab, that is. Two preliminary final defeats in a row and an aging list mean that 2007 may be their last shot at glory for a while. My guess is that it’s going to be a while.

The Western Bulldogs lie just outside the eight on percentage. While the Scraggers boast perhaps the second best midfield in the competition they lack marking power and rely too heavily on Brad Johnson in attack. When the run-and-carry game is denied them they know no other way home.

Port Adelaide was on top after 6 rounds but has stumbled since. Old time wharfies would be horrified that the Power has been labeled ‘soft’ and the switch to indirect ‘tempo’ footy has been a waste of time in more ways than one.

Fremantle’s ill-disciplined acts have seen them lead the league in players fronting the AFL tribunal. Mercurial forward Jeff “The Wizard” Farmer stands out with a 6-match ban for eye gouging followed by a 7-week club imposed ban for assaulting a Mt Lawley nightclub bouncer. Still the Dockers came home with a wet sail last year and they’re only a game outside the eight.

Brisbane has seen retirements and salary cap pressures reduce the ‘Kings of the Jungle’ to prey. The ‘Gabbatoir’ is feared no more. Early wins made some believe that the heydays were back but a draw against lowly Richmond is all that followed giving them 4 and a half wins.

Carlton’s played in 5 of the 6 highest scoring games this season. Problem is they’ve lost 3 of them. The Blues can entertain all right but they just can’t defend. If they can plug a leaky defence they could storm home.

St Kilda is down and out on Fitzroy Street and looking for an angry fix, metaphorically speaking of course. Off the field, the president is suing the ex-coach over an unpaid loan and the one-time best mates can’t stand each other. On the field, a plethora of soft tissue injuries means the highly rated playing list never gets on the park.

Melbourne supporters were throwing the chains in the back of the Range Rover for a winter in the chalet at Crackenback before the Demons snapped a 9 game losing streak with 2 straight wins. One more loss however, and its back to the glu-vine and the snow bunnies.

Richmond have 10 losses and a draw and that means they have plenty of time to decide who they take with the number one draft pick. Coach Terry Wallace mused before the season that the Tigers wouldn’t see success until well into next decade. Others are less hopeful.

Football disunited - Margin

This week I conducted an accidental social experiment. I got some school friends, university friends, and some colleagues together for a birthday meal and a night out.

With latecomers we numbered 19, and it turns out my friends are a diverse bunch. Around half had post or under graduate degrees in subjects like textile design, archaeology, history*, economics and fashion.

We were publishers, nurses, council staff, writers*, unemployed, and (whisper it) a lawyer.

We numbered Atheists*, Christians, Agnostics and Hindus, homosexuals, heterosexuals*, baritone choir singers, rockers* and house clubbers.

One went to public school, three private, two religious school, and the rest went to bog standard comprehensives*.

Most were from my native South East of England, but some hailed from New Zealand, Mauritius and Rochdale.

We may not quite have been the cosmopolitan height of modern Britain, but we were not far off. So we let our divisions unite us with talk of non league football.

There was some mention of Pilates and Yoga. There was more talk of house buying, relationship and job talk. We reminisced and bitched about old times and old friends, and speculated about when dessert would arrive.

But it was football that really divided us.

We largely split between West Ham, Spurs* and Arsenal, along with a lone Kingstonian voice in the otherwise Premiership crowd. The one Liverpool fan spent his time embarrassing a hen party at another table, and the sole Man City follower sobbed into her soup that Big Sam should have chosen them.

And so the conversation flowed.

We discussed the detail of Luton Town’s governance. They were owned by a bastard who stole their money until fans bought the club’s creditors. They then called in the debt while organising a boycott so as to take control of the club on the cheap. A new ground is finally being built and the new ‘owners’ have a contract that gives control back to the fans if attendances fall (under another boycott).

We discussed Chelmsford City’s large crowds since moving to the Melbourne Athletics Stadium. Last season they drew an average attendance of 1001 in the Ryman Isthmian Premier Division. That is the seventh tier of English football, putting Chelmsford as far behind Rochdale as Rochdale are behind Manchester United. Their travelling support even outnumbers the home crowd at some away games.

We discussed the upturn in fortunes at Exeter City where Spurs legend Steve Perryman is Director of Football. He lost a good manager to his former club’s youth academy recently but has seemingly replaced him an excellent new man in Paul Tisdale.

And we discussed Kingstonian, who sadly were not as lucky Luton Town fans when faced with a bastard in charge. They were subjected to high debts, the sale of their players, and were made homeless when AFC Wimbledon of all teams took their ground. They went on to be relegated three times from their Conference high to the Ryman Isthmian Division one South – one division below Chelmsford City.

And so with religion, race, sex, sexuality, class and hair colour to divide us, an Italian restaurant in Soho offered a glimpse of utopia. Everyone was happy and fed - and for one off-season afternoon there was no Premiership.

* = Margin's place in the crowd.

Look, we get it, you're the new Maradona, now stop already - Ebren

"He's the new Maradona" – how often have we heard that?

Ortega, Riquelme, Saviola, Tevez – in fact any small, young, Argentine forward gets this label.

And they all fail to live up to it. One after the other these wonderfully gifted young men have been exposed to the media glare and shrunk back, returning to Argentina, or drifting through minor European clubs winning little.

But one player was determined not to live down to this. Not to accept that the spotlight will shift.

So he has taken Maradona's book, his guide, and decided to follow it.

Top player in the youth cup – check.

Barcelona – well, Saviola and Riquelme had done that before – but to miss out on the Euro Cup in such style? Check.

Score a ridiculous goal from the half way line – check.

Team in danger of throwing away the championship, score a handball – check.

But from here young Lionel has a few things left to do.

So far he has yet to win Serie A with an unfashionable club, or to drive his country to success at the World Cup.

Then there is the descent into womanising, alcoholism, the dependence on illegal drugs, and the ballooning weight, and the stolen plastic penis to consider.

So, my advice to Mr Messi - don't stay the new Maradona for long, just because millions consider him the greatest player to have played, does not mean you want to be like him in all things.

The handball in a key game is a good time to stop.

Of course he won - Ebren

In October 2001 I started rowing, I trained hard, worked on my technique, hit the gym and worked with my crew and coach to make us as good as we could be.

In June 2002 we raced competitively, five times in four days, got promoted and won "blades" - something only ten per cent of rowers manage over their careers.

I was asked if I was happy with the achievement, I wasn't. All I had done was avoid disappointment.

We had trained to be better than those around us and the promotion and oar with my name on it on the clubhouse wall were the natural result of this.

Yesterday Lewis Hamilton won his first Formula One race. Grinding every other driver under his heel. First in qualifying, then in the first stint, then every time the safety car came out to remove the lead he had built up.

But the prevailing emotion after the victory sense was not surprise, it felt normal. Normal that this 22-year-old had dominated a field of the best drivers on the planet. A field of Grand Prix winners and former and world champions. Normal that this result pushed him eight points clear in the drivers' championship. Normal that he had done it in his sixth race in his first season in the sport.

In the press conference afterwards he was happy - of course - but calm. Collected. In control. Just like he has been in every race this season.

He has lost it once - a crash in Monaco - but he simply failed to notice this. And watching him four-wheel drift a car around this famous track, inches from the walls, to try and out-qualify his team mate (the double and reigning world champion) in a heavier car a few hours later was the thing that made me really sit up. In fact, it was the first thing in an F1 race that has got me out of my seat in the sport for a very long time.

He races the car, slides it drifts it, out-brakes men racing in their hundredth grand prix, holds his nerves under pressure as people with lighter cars ride his rear wing to try and pass and attack his team-mate's position.

And yet he remains a likeable, intelligent, good-looking, modest person. One who seems to take the sport and winning in his stride - simply because that's the way it's meant to be.

From the first time he stepped behind a wheel he has been the best on the track, and he has worked hard to stay there. This is normal. Why should F1 be any different?

It's just a shame he isn't four years older - to see him take on Schumacher in his pomp would have been a sight to behold.

The Free Olympics - file

Words are cheap and opinion costs less.

There should be a Free Olympics. These words were chosen with care and attention to clarity and meaningful expression of an opinion that is gaining momentum in the international discussion on drug-free sport.

Free from restrictions over which performance enhancing chemical substances can be taken.

It shouldn’t be surprising that this is being suggested, but it is. The hyperbolic War on ‘Drugs’ rationale has clouded the issue in any rational discussion over ethics and strategy on this issue.

A direct by-product of historical McCarthyism this meaningless and ineffectual shadow of political morality has cast almost impenetrably dark clouds over world opinion from the rise of globally dominant American ideology to the present day.

What exactly are the moral differences between the chemicals in carrots and steroids or coffee and amphetamines?

Everything we ingest has a chemical definition and affects us in some way. The pharmacological definition of the word drug lists its functions and doesn’t differentiate between them; likewise the common usage of the word includes medicine and mushrooms.

Even the term ‘natural’ is irrelevant; cocaine is a naturally occurring substance as are carrots, our performance might benefit from the judicious use of carrots or cocaine. And many of the same people who will complain about synthetic performance drugs will be concomitantly slurping on their beef and carrot cup-a-soups.

Whether you agree with recreational or performance drugs or not you should be wary of the politicians’ rhetoric because exaggeration and simplification only brush the issues under the carpet. History proves that prohibition doesn’t solve anything; it doesn’t even provide much of an obstacle.

The basic anti-doping principles of sport were laid down in 1967 by the International Olympic Committee:

1. protection of the athletes' health
2. respect for medical and sports ethics
3. ensure an equal chance for everyone during competition.

There is no reason here to distinguish between performance enhanced sport and non, except that the rules should be the same for everyone. Therefore the codes should be separated; a Free Olympics AND a Drug-Free Olympics.


1. The argument that athletes would risk their lives by taking more and more dangerous drugs doesn’t carry any weight. This article is promoting responsible and professional scientific research, practice and advance not chemical abandonment. Athletes, humans, have always pushed themselves to the extremes. It is the very same fundamental motivation that drives human excellence in all fields, not just sport, and it should be developed and encouraged. Be all that you can be.

2. Enhancing performance safely through transparent scientific research and practice doesn’t challenge any medical ethics and the only sports ethic should be one of equality for all within agreed rules.

3. An equal chance for everyone is not being achieved by prohibition, the only answer is segregation.



It might even be argued that it’s impossible to have a level playing field anyway.

Think of the economic and social disadvantages of a Sudanese to an American and their nutritional and genetic consequences not to mention their appetite for or opportunity to excel at sport. Think of German or Swedish attempts at eugenics…

Nothing immoral in drugs just like there’s nothing sinful about political sympathy, gender, colour or race. It’s all spin; transient politically manipulated morality.

Parity is the real issue here, not drugs or morality. Therefore the solution should address that and not get caught up in culturally unilateral and historically fickle politics. Zero tolerance is an effective strategy in some affairs and it might also be a feature of the Drug-Free Olympics, especially as a Free Olympics would offer a fair alternative to cheating.

Perhaps those who pontificate freely and brashly on this topic would do well to look at their own colleagues and ask who stops journalists from being all they can be by taking performance enhancing drugs. The police?

Is it right and fair that writers, journalists (and other professionals) might benefit from performance enhancing drugs while athletes and sportsmen may not? Particularly when sports are freely described as art…

Hunter S. Thompson, William S. Borroughs, Will Self, Lord Byron; Ben Johnson, Diane Modahl, Thomas Hicks, Festina, Lance Armstrong. Hard to say that these folk were on a level pitch.

Drugs in journalism; also dangerous if unsupervised, also gives an unfair advantage in a competitive field, also changes the nature of the competition, also illegal, also chosen by many despite the risks, ‘immorality’ and illegality.

Ultimately there is nothing different about performance drugs than any performance strategy. If there was an open debate, scientific development and free competition it wouldn’t change the fact that only the most exceptional athletes would win in either code.

Free the Olympics from cheats; celebrate drug-free sport and also explore vigorously chemically enhanced human potential. It will probably be superseded by genetically engineered athletics anyway!

Pseud-O-Maniacs

Pseud-O-Maniacs

Present


Triffic

T's


We’ve got more than 40 designs now in our gallery and it’s time to decide

what on earth we are going to do next.

http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/fileofacks/PseudsCornerTShirts

Poll Position - 50KaWeekSub

This week saw the professional passing of Graham Poll – a man I’m sure that many people would love to see the back of – good riddance, hasta la vista, you could even send him send him 3 leaving cards. Poll and controversy have seemingly been bedfellows for eternity with headlines following him as frequently as a Drogba dive. Graham Poll will be remembered, demonised and ridiculed but almost certainly not missed – except that is by me:

Monday night a saw a documentary that highlighted this much maligned figure as a likeable, confident, articulate and surprisingly sensitive human being - how many footballers can we put in that bracket?

One comment (in the doc) that summed up Poll’s profile comes from the effeminate co-com voice of Mark Lawrenson in another piece of inspired journalism, “I’m sure that Graham Poll will have the last word,” when describing an on-field altercation. Nothing wrong in this comment you might say – but why shouldn’t refs have the last word. Why should the Rooney’s, Keane’s, Ferguson’s have sole moaning rights both before, during and after the game. Lawrenson isn’t the only pundit who criticises referees but co-commentators and pundits are typically ex-players with axes to grind when it comes to the men in black and referee barracking is a tiresome cliché even for a washed up ex-pro like Lawro .

Since his “passing” Poll has been criticised in many quarters for having the audacity to question Brian Barwick and the FA with many exposing him as an attention seeker. He has also been described as an arrogant and publicity obsessed whore with no thoughts about the consequences of his hideous personality. If that is the case then what adjectives do we use to describe Jose Mourinho, Joey Barton or career breaker turned new media darling Roy Keane?

Let’s think about Graham Poll - he didn’t start an illegal war on false pretences followed by a farewell tour, didn’t commit perjury - he didn’t even lie. My message to Graham Poll is this: Yes you made some mistakes, yes you liked the limelight but yes you were the best in the profession and for that I would like to thank you Mr Poll and apologise on behalf of the fans, yobs, media, players and managers who abused and continue to abuse you. I wish you a lucrative and long overdue break from the game that you love – you deserve it – unlike many in the corrupt and poisoned chalice profession that is football. You may even have a biography worthy of the name.

The Branston Rabids Files x2 - file

The Hound of Baskerville Athletico – Part 2

Previously on Hound of Baskervile...
Jorges Mourir, the ex-Baskerville Athletico manager has just joined Branston Rabids Football Club. It’s a mixed blessing; his track record speaks for itself but so does his air of putrefaction.

The black-eyed chairman Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza has got the first team squad to sign injury disclaimers and Hercules “Eckle” Profiterole, the Belgian centre-half and private detective, smells a fish.

Jorges Mourir was late for training the next morning, leaving Basho Johnson, first team coach and twin brother of Boris, in charge to kick it off.

Ever since an unfortunate touchline run-in with Professor Moray-Arsey, the Gurning Emirs manager, Basho has only been able to speak in haiku or koan.

"Nanny? Nay never.
"Train free young fooballets with
"No Nike nanny"

He said and with a wry smile and a sigh, his eyes returned to the sky.

The players are used to this and take it as a sign to start kicking balls around randomly. Eckle and Warsaw go over to the touchline and start practicing last minute sliding tackles from behind on the slight Scottish winger.

20 minutes later when everyone is knackered and a card game has been set up behind the shower block, they hear:

"Arrr," cough, splutter: "Arrrr, come on Rabids let’s go! Arrr."

Mourir looked even worse than yesterday, his eyes red and bulging and reeking of decomposing moles.

"PASSION!" he spits with venom: "Branston Rabids are all about passion, yes?" he slapped Chris Rocket hard on the back leaving Chris winded and gasping. "Five-a-side eberyone, no prisoners yes?"

They amble, run and then pelt headlessly around the five-a-side pitches, driven by an increasingly maniacal Mourir.

"Arrr, you, numpty. Arrr, run, push, live with your heart and die, DIE!!" he slavered at Warsaw. "Is passion?" he squealed "Passion, PASSURrrghh."

He fell over clutching his throat and foaming at the mouth. He rolled around for a minute as the players gathered for a laugh. Then he calmed down.

"Er…are you alright?" said Eckle: "Would you like some water?"

"Arrgghh, no, no," said Jorges: "Its ok, ok, thanks." He mustered a frothy yellow smile which sent a shiver down the spine of the team. "I was bitten by a dog before I left Portologo and it’s starting to sting a bit."

He rolled up his left trouser leg to reveal his half-eaten calf, festering and fermenting. Eckle saw the bubbling and hissing pustules of frothing flesh and the black and green gangrenous bits and looked up at the pale face of Mourir.

"It’s only a scratch," said the manager: "Mr Stanza want me to start quick so I come, now," CLAP CLAP: "BACK TO WORK, RUN, DIE FOR BRANSTON!"

But when the slight Scottish winger missed the ball five minutes later the Portugazi jumped on him and sank his teeth into his wee pink ear. Like a mad Iberian hound he tore and ripped and gored and then stood over the limp Glaswegian frothing pink bubbles from his mouth and roaring.

The entire midfield just stood and looked at him and before they could think of anything better to do Mourir had passed among them, verily, like a rabid fox in a chicken coup.

Through the spray and mist of fizzing arteries Eckle noticed Basho running away screaming “Aaaah, the sound, the sound of one tooth biting,” and that Warsaw was the only one trying to stop the crazed continental shouting "Red card ref! Red card! Ref?"

Mourir, now crouching and circling, snarling and snapping, was on to him in a fell leap at Warsaw’s neck. Eckle jumped into action and pulled the managers face back and over and down. But Jorges bounced straight back into Eckle biting hard on the central defenders nose, growling.

When Warsaw finally hit him, with all the force of a Trans-Siberian express train, he flew howling fully 15 metres away, still with Eckle’s beak between his teeth.

Jorges was not yet gorged and bounded off to bury his fangs into the fleeing left buttock of the inside right, and then on for a squealing apprentices forearm. The open-nostriled Eckle gave chase, stuck out a sliding leg and tripped his manager into the goal post with a ‘TUNK!’ and a slow downwards slide.

Apart from some groaning it all went a bit quiet after that.

Then came the sirens; press, police, paramedics, in that order.

As it turned out the Authorities were aware that quarantine laws had been contravened and that there was a possibility of a rabies incident, but were inclined to let it slide as Baskerville Athletico were, after all, a very good team.

Despite the pain and the blood Eckle was mostly just worried about how they were going to patch a team together. The big game with Melchester Roofers was only 24 hours away and most of the squad had rabies.

He was eventually lifted into one of the ambulances, clutching his nose in a sock in his hand. He could only breathe through his mouth as his nose hole was stuffed up with blood and bandages but he still saw the pitch haired chairman, Sir Tannic-Stanza, laughing triumphantly into his Bluetooth.

Dodgy, thought the Belgian through squinting eyes, very dodgy…

The Velodrome - byebyebadman

Hugues had been a companion the last time I had seen a rugby match, and the circumstances could not have been more different. Sometime over the Christmas period two years ago we sat in near Siberic conditions at Edgeley Park in Stockport to watch an awful contest between Sale and Bath. The icy wind tore through us, making our teeth chatter in symphony. Who won? Who cares. A chilling experience, in every sense of the word.

I went to visit my sister Louise, Hugues and my new-born niece Emily this weekend in Pelisanne in the Provence region of France. As a surprise a trip to the Velodrome in Marseille had been arranged to watch the semi-finals of the French rugby championship between Stade Toulouse and Montferrand.

At this point I will admit to a little scepticism – not just because of the Stockport experience, but I have always found attending rugby matches, a passionless experience. I have seen Welsh internationals at the old Arms Park, where the pre-match singing and banter was exceptional, but the subsequent hammering dished out to the home team soon sucked the atmosphere dry. I also lived in New Zealand for a year and followed Wellington for a season, yet the abiding memory is one of row upon row of empty seats, in the country where love of rugby is said to be imprinted on the soul of the population. I even saw the All Blacks, thinking that surely was where the hysteria resided, but never has so little atmosphere been provided by so many for so few.

Sceptical as I may be I would never return a gift and this was also sisterly-approved man-time between Hugues and I. We parked by the old port in Marseille and made our way to the Joliette station on the Metro. As our train departed there were a few in the yellow and blue of Montferrand and a couple in the red and black of Toulouse around us. With each passing stop, they multiplied – ten, twenty, fifty, two hundred until each carriage was awash with colour. The rivalry was obvious, with both sets taunting each other, but there was a camaraderie as well; before we reached the final stop of Ste Marguerite Dromel the train erupted with a vibrant rendition of – appropriately enough – the Marseillaise.

As we stepped into the huge concrete salad bowl of a stadium Hugues turned to me and proudly announced ‘You are in the Stade Velodrome.’ I had mentioned several times down the years that I would like to go, but my visits had never coincided with an Olympique Marseille home game. As I caught my first glimpse of the pitch I remembered what had happened there. Francescoli, Boksic, Voller and even our own Chris Waddle had played regularly; Bergkamp scored his wonder goal against Argentina at one end; Platini, Tigana, Giresse et al defeated Portugal in 1984 in one of the epic internationals of all time.

That was football though, and today was about rugby. We were in the Montferrand section amidst a sea of yellow and blue flags. Interestingly, there were I would estimate a dozen different designs at least, flags from different seasons and generations, not the product of some supplied-on-the-day merchandise by the club and the sponsors. I found that heartening. The stadium itself was unimpressive, with cramped rows of dusty blue seats, litter everywhere and perimeter fencing to cage in human beings like cattle. Unfortunately for me a rather rotund French gentleman in the adjacent seat was sat partially on me – on the one occasion he chose to break wind, I could feel the aftershock through his thigh…

This turned out to be a minor discomfort as it became clear most of the match would be spent on our feet. The Toulouse fans made the initial racket, soon countered by a thunderous din from our (I have to be Montferrand; apart from the seating, they wear the blue and yellow of Warrington) end. Two songs in particular were on constant repetition – the cry of ‘TOU-LOU-SE!’ to the 3/3 beat of some deafening drums, counteracted by “Montferrand, allez, allez, allez!’ to the tune of Yellow Submarine. Hugues told me beforehand that these were the two best supported teams in France, and it was already clear that this would be unlike any rugby game I had ever been to.

Amidst the carnival, a game ensued. It had hitherto been a blustery, overcast day but as if to signal the match may begin the wind ceased and the clouds parted, illuminating the now packed stadium in glorious Mediterranean sunshine. The game was tense, tight and, predictably, bogged down in rugby’s red-tape of scrums, lineouts, rucks and mauls. despite the early boon of the first try Montferrand looked pretty ineffective, and by half-time Toulouse had mercilessly kicked their way into a 15-7 lead.

There was a despondency in our end during the break, the general consensus being that Toulouse were too strong, the Montferrand backs bouncing off their defence like flies hitting a windshield. Hugues, who knows far more about rugby than me, saw no way back. Such a despairing situation is an opportune moment for a piece of off-the-cuff brilliance.

Early in the second-half Montferrand’s international winger, Aurelien Rougerie, picked the ball up deep in his own half and ran at Toulouse. He slipped past one tackle, then another, suddenly breaking clear of the red and black swarm. In full flight he gracefully rounded the full-back and touched the ball down despite a thumping tackle on the line. Amazing.

Often a set of supporters will, as one, detect a shift in momentum and ram the advantage home. The noise from the Montferrand fans became overwhelming and visibly, unquestionably lifted the players. A penalty sent them into the lead; a dropped goal increased the advantage. The fans in red and black were barely audible now. Toulouse were gone, and everyone in the stadium knew it.

The game ended farcically, the hooter sounding during a lull whilst a Toulouse player lay injured, then restarted several minutes later from a scrum which Montferrand kicked high into the crowd. At the whistle the Montferrand players went almost as crazy as the fans, doing a lap of honour and then perching themselves precariously on the fencing, singing in unison with their public, shaking their hands, wearing their scarves. Hugues and I stayed to soak up every last second.

We negotiated the Metro comfortably and returned to to the car. As we started to head back to Pelisanne, I asked Hugues to clarify something that had seemed a little strange – were the Montferrand players' celebrations not just a touch excessive, given that this was a semi-final?

“No,’ Hugues replied, ‘they are happy now because when they get to the final, they always lose.’

I laughed – I’m not sure Hugues understood why – and we pulled onto the motorway and left Marseilles and the Velodrome behind us.

"Hurray! Fantastic! We Love it!" - Margin

Londoners have bad taste and judgement. We knew the Palace of Westminster was ugly and needed replacing. Monument was a pointless waste of money. And forks in the Middle Ages were Satan’s tridents.

We hated the neon boards at Piccadilly, derided our large clean bendy busses, and feared escalators were made to kill us.

It is not just that we judge the new wrong – it is that we judge the new so wrong that only Christopher Wren’s cleverness kept us from cancelling St Paul’s Cathedral half way up.

And so it is that the new Olympic symbol deserves great praise.

It reflects dynamism, youth, togetherness, inclusion, sport, integrity, honesty, fluffy bunnies, and double chocolate ice cream. It is a vibrant brand that will bring the world together and will reflect the glory of the greatest sporting spectacle on Earth.

It is not an expensive unfinished jigsaw, nor bland corporate dross. It is not the lazy creation of ad men with no hint at our sporting or cultural heritage. And it is not pretentious tripe shot from a committee’s collective arse.

So in this Londoner’s opinion the new Olympic logo is fantastic – and it is certainly better than the ugly Houses of Parliament and the awful Big Ben that we used as our symbol in 1948.

New logo and launch video here: http://www.london2012.com/about-newlook-video.html

Salon des Pseuds’ goes back to the source as the Pakalolo Tavern gets steam cleaned: - Leif

On the rocky shores of the Aegean the white stone steps cascade, down into the salt water and up to a cool grassy glade punctuated by silver birch, soft pine and ionic columns shouldering the night sky.

A cracked stone tablet reads ‘Welcome Traveler’ in Greek.

Alabaster statuettes on pedestals of Khan, King, Gascoigne, Hemingway and Freeman; busts of Budd, Best, Bradman, and Baggio and Fangio all flicker in the waving lights from the hanging golden lanterns.

Ancient Persian rugs flatten pools in the whispering grass, silver chalices brim with the wondering, wandering grass.

There’s a bleached driftwood bar with silver nails and verdigris copper carte de jour and a cave that reaches through the ages to bring us every wonderful shade of elixir ambrosia straight from the poisoned tree of life; scrumpy anyone, calvados?

Sprigs of lavender adorn the birches and twigs of thyme burn slowly in the grate.

Timeless veils of immortal ephemera parade, serenade; our ghosts of Marley, Morrisey, Clarke and Morrison, Cave, Buckley and Bob; a gift from Yortubus, god of context.

Pseuds’ gather like shadows in the breeze, banter, bark and bray, inspiring, exhaling.

Haggling for hearsay with the echoes of Camus, Ezekiel, Thomas and Chief Dan George…

Liverpool - worst fans in the world: Official - Ebren & Margin

Uefa has ruled that Liverpool officially have the worst fans in Europe.

Over the last four years the European football authority explained that fans of the five-time European Cup winners have been involved in more incidents than the fans of any other club.

And that was not the only problem.

A Uefa spokesman said: "Zey are 'orrible, every time zey show up to support their club.

"Other clubs, zey return tickets - this is nice, we invite our friends, they 'ave nice lunches, everyone is 'appy. But zees Scousers, zey insist on turning up.

"And zey are even 'orrible for us 'oo 'ave kept ticketz away from ze fanz in advance. Zey make so much noize, zat we can hardly 'ear ourzelves eat."

A supporter from the LFC fan club responded: "Alright! Alright! Calm down.

"Dey do dough, don't dey, la."

MotoGP comes alive - mimitig

A Glass of water for Mr Parrish, and a handful of Vale (ium) for the Mimi, please.

What a stonking race! The best of the season so far, and now MotoGP really comes alive this year.

I thought I'd be writing a piece tonight on how the Aussies rule the roost (and more later) but what I forgot was that Mugello is Valentino's home turf and he would just never let it go.

As I followed the build-up to today's race, I was in full agreement with the pundits that this is the year when the Aussies are coming. The young guns Stoner and Vermuelen have won most of the races this year. Casey, riding for Ducati, has disproved his crash and burn reputation, and shown great maturity with the Italian team this season. Chris, riding for Suzuki, has taken advantages when he can, and a wet weather win in Le Mans was typical of his opportunistic skill.

Casey and Chris took pole and No 2 on the grid for today's race, and it seemed as though this would be a stroll in the park for a bit of Aussie rules. A great pre-race interview with Mick Doohan explained why they come over here with such a burning desire to win. The Brisbane man said: "It's a long way to go home with your tail between your legs, y'know? Australians always want to have it their way - winning."

Well fine, Mick. We know how the Aussies approach their sport and yes, they do like to leave large footprints in the sand, but up against the master, the Doctor, at home in Mugello and there'll be a fight on your hands!

And what a fight they got! Rossi didn't get the best of starts and in the early laps was down in 8th - not a winning position you would have thought but the Doctor was at home in his surgery and about to deliver a few lessons to his patients, or as commentator Charlie Cox would say - Nightmare in a bubble car for his opponents. Rossi just showed them all why he is Number One in the world of motor-cycle racing. He may not be the reigning world champion or even leading the current table, but he is the best in the world. My heart is in my mouth too often these days when he races, but I keep my faith with him - even at a 60 degree lean, and I trust that he will do the business, and deliver another World Championship for me and all his other fans. Just remember that although he may have been around for ever, he is still only 28 years old.

A postscript for today's race was that the privateer D'Antin Ducati team led the Italian bikes home. Nice one Alex!

Things would never be quite the same - Zephirine

The public might be all cricketed out, but it wasn't always this way

The West Indies cricket team are currently touring England, and the home side look set to beat them. So far, so predictable. Apart from diehard cricket fans the country is mostly indifferent, only perhaps registering that Michael Vaughan seems to be back, a guy with silly hair has done well for himself, and Freddie's ankle has gone again.

But it wasn’t always like that. There was actually an England/West Indies Test series which changed the country.

It was in 1976.

Looking at archive footage in a recent BBC4 documentary, you can see that Britain was an edgy, restless place that year; nobody had much money, different governments had come and gone, Harold Wilson resigned as Prime Minister. The country was at war - farcically, with Iceland, over fishing rights, but more bitterly and bloodily in the guerrilla struggles in Northern Ireland, which after seven years were becoming a way of life. Twelve IRA bombs exploded in London during January, and in March the extended family known as the Maguire Seven were wrongfully imprisoned for terrorism. In popular culture, the iconoclastic spirit of punk was on the rise.

Racism - conscious and unconscious - was still widespread in Britain, and black youth had constant trouble with a police force which could be bigoted and undisciplined. Many black British felt ‘invisible’ and not really part of the country; but at least there were laws declaring discrimination on grounds of race to be wrong. In South Africa, of course, things were quite different: June 1976 would see the Soweto riots in which protesting schoolchildren were shot and killed by security forces.

The England cricket captain, Tony Greig, had grown up in South Africa. Exceptionally tall, with untidy white-blond hair, he was an outgoing, aggressive player. In a TV interview before the first Test against the West Indies, Greig said “These guys, if they get on top they are magnificent cricketers. But if they're down, they grovel, and I intend, with the help of Closey and a few others, to make them grovel."

Watching the recording now, it seems clear what he means, the mindset of his childhood resonating unquestioned through his strong South African accent: “these guys”, the black men, have no strength of character, they won’t withstand pressure.

In itself that was insult enough, but for the West Indian players the word ‘grovel’ meant much more than just a punchy soundbite - it meant the auction block and the overseer’s whip. As soon as they heard Greig’s comment, they were blazing angry. Led by Clive Lloyd, whose schoolmasterly exterior masked a ferocious commitment to West Indian cricket as the outward symbol of proud independent nations, they set out to demolish England.

Summer 1976 in Britain would be the hottest and driest summer on record.

Many talented people have come from the county of Yorkshire, but it’s a part of the world that doesn’t do glamour. In the archive footage, this fact is embodied in the solid form of Brian Close, astonishingly an England opening batsman at 45 years old. Balding, managerial, shirtsleeves rolled up, he looks as if he should be at home washing the car before his Sunday dinner.

Bowling to him is Michael Holding from Jamaica, lithe, slim, 22 years old, so famously soft-footed in his long, suspense-inducing run-up that he acquired the nickname ‘Whispering Death’. Today many still consider Holding the fastest bowler in history. As he bowls, with his seemingly effortless action, to Close, the future challenges the past, and leaves it standing lost and helpless.

And here, coming out to bat, is Isaac Vivian Alexander Richards, from Antigua, on his first tour of England.

What can you say about King Viv that hasn’t already been said? Except that, watching the old grainy TV pictures, one wonders: has there been a sportsman before or since who used good humour as such a weapon? Here he is already at 24 years old, as he would be throughout his career: lethally affable. Supremely at ease, he makes being at ease threatening. He smiles, he chews gum, he strolls out to the crease like a contented lion checking out its territory of a sunny afternoon. His every move conveys that whatever the bowler sends down, it will be his pleasure to dispatch it to the boundary. He scores 232 in his first Test.

Did the West Indies demolish England and make Tony Greig grovel? Of course they did. They won 3-0, and if two matches hadn’t been drawn because of rain they would have won them all. The English are a funny lot, though, forever torn between a shared tradition of conventional hierarchy and a mongrel subversive individualism. We love a pirate, and the West Indies walloped us that year like mythical pirates with swagger and style and courage; few can have resented that victory, and many - especially the ever-rebellious young - enjoyed every bit of it.

And it really meant something. In those pictures of the final test at the Oval - the unwatered grass bleached out to greyish beige by the August heat - by this time the whole country knows what’s going on and it seems the entire black population of South London is at the match. As Holding splinters Tony Greig’s wicket, Viv Richards scores 291 and West Indies beat England by 231 runs, row upon row of young men in wide lapels and afro hair are cheering, singing, pouring onto the pitch at the final victory, fierce, energised, empowered. No one could tell them now that black people were only there to clip bus tickets and clean hospitals. There would be battles to fight and minds to be changed, rivers to cross, but in that summer of 1976 they believed they could make it: they would never be invisible again.

Some visual aides from youtube:

Holding gets a bit nasty:

Holding takes wickets:

Some highlights from King Viv’s career against England

The Branston Rabids Files x1 - file

The Hound of Baskerville Athletico– Part 1

Hercules "Eckle" Profiterole, the Belgian centre-half and part-time private detective, was disturbed.

Managers came and went like professional porn studs at Branston Rabids Football Club; it was a well-hung and well-oiled swing door that swung freely and without noise. But today the Rabids chairman, Sir Derek Tannic-Stanza, had called everyone together for a meet-the-new-manager meeting.

We should be training for the Melchester Roofers game, thought Eckle, not off chortling with chipolatas on sticks.

The 28 man squad had been allocated 3 seats in the corner of the President's Suite for the meeting - at the back, behind a Plexiglas screen. As he came in Eckle covered his sensitive Belgian nose as a heady stench of putrefaction hit him in the face like a Roberto Carlos free-kick. He nodded to Warsaw and joined the melee.

Eckle and Warsaw are the rocks of the Branston Rabids defence - Warsaw more overtly rocklike being 7 feet 8 inches of heavy Black Russian on loan from Gasket Moscowa. He’d been on loan for 7 years now and had been nicknamed Warsaw by a dyslexic ex-manager.

The Belgian and the Russian had adapted to life in Branston, England differently. Eckle with a flat in town; Warsaw a basement storage area under the abattoir, Eckle speaking clear Marquis of Queensbury rules English whereas Warsaw managed to communicate in the language of football, with a thick Afro-Russian accent.

"What’s that disgusting smell?" said Eckle just as Chris Rocket the blonde and flashy number 7 walked in.

"Morning all!" chirped Chris: "Ughh! What’s the stink man? Warsaw have you let rip again? Foul, man, foul."

At that moment the oily chairman Sir Derek clapped his hands.

"Good morning to you all and it is!" he coughed. "The start of a bright new day here at Branston Rabids Football Club! The sun is shining.." he swept his hand across an imaginary horizon "the birds a singing and all is for the very best in the best of all possible worlds, n’est pas?"

Players shuffled intimately inside their Plexiglas cordon.

"Ok, riiight, well if you can all just quickly sign these forms then we’ll move right on to meeting the new cheese on the block, ok?"

He handed out small bookies' biros and sheets of paper. All the players signed their names and handed them back without reading them. Except Eckle, who frowned.

"Why are we signing injury disclaimers Sir Derek?"

"What? Oh, don’t worry its nothing, bit of red tape really, just there please."

"But this means we won’t get paid if we get injured then?"

"Temporarily and regrettably yes, that’s right, have you got a pen?"

"Yes, but…oh never mind," Eckle shruged, he was very proud of his record of 207 consecutive games.

"Jolly good, pip pip," said Sir Tannic-Stanza as he collected the forms.

"Now, let’s get on with the introduction shall we? All the way from the European Champions, Baskerville Athletico, to sunny Branston, a warm hand for … our new manager!"

The chairman clapped and whooped twice loudly and enthusiastically until he realized he was whooping alone, the door opened and a waft of rotting flesh blew in a sweating and pale Jorges Mourir.

"Arrr, hello eberyone," he limped over to put his arm around Sir Derek and then leant on him heavily, breathing spittle hoarsely.

"Er…so, the beginning of the great adventure eh lads? I’m sure you’ll afford the new gaffer all the support you can in these difficult first few days…" the chairman shuffled uncomfortably under the weight of the sagging Portugazi.

"Jorges," ... ah ... record at Baskerville Athletico is without equal and we are very fortunate to …ah … Warsaw can you give me a hand here?"

Warsaw obligingly stepped behind Mourir and held him by his collar and belt while the new manager’s torso, limbs and head hung limply from his giant new skeleton.

With a look at the new manager and a quick step towards the door, clutching disclaimers in doughy white hands, Sir Derek added: "I know I can count on you all. Jorges will be taking training from now on…bye." And left.

The players blinked as the Portugazi sagged quietly, and then wanderd off. Warsaw put Mourir gently on a chair and went outside to join Eckle and Chris Rocket.

"Well at least he’s taking training instead of bloody Basho," said Chris, lighting a fag.

Eckle said nothing, there was a look behind his eyes as if lightening is trying to pass through wet clay. He was thinking. Something about the injury disclaimers and the stench of Mourir. . .

"Don't bother, I'm never going to understand cricket" - Ebren

The winter sports have passed us by. Football season over (everywhere except Spain), rugby season ended. Britons only ever pay attention to tennis for two weeks a year and cycling and athletics barely rate as a blip on the radar.

But there is one sport that is only just coming into its own, it's just that millions of people don't seem to rate it.

Cricket is "boring", you see. "How can you like a game that goes on for five days and is still a draw?" I am asked on a semi-regular basis.

It's a game only played in the commonwealth. By boring Brits. You stop to have lunch, and then a brief break for tea.

Perhaps the ultimate in-joke is that it is a sport that you cannot play in the rain invented by people in England. Other countries would appreciate the irony, if they understood irony.

But it is also a sport that dominates the imagination of huge swathes of the world's population. India, Pakistan, Bangladesh. All have populations bigger than anywhere in Europe. At least twice as big in fact.

It's a sport that is loved in places as culturally and geographically diverse as Australia and Pakistan. New Zealand and the West Indies. Holland and Zimbabwe.

So what's this cricket malarkey all about then?

Put simply, you have eleven men on each side. You score points (called "runs") by hitting a ball thrown at you (bowled) with a wooden bat. The team with the most points (runs) wins.

You get a run if you manage to reach the throwing area before the other team can get the ball to either the hitting zone or the throwing area (the creases). If you have time to make this run (20.12m) more than once then you get two points, and so on. If you hit the ball clean out of the playing area you get six points, if the ball bounces or touches the ground before it leaves the playing area you get four points.

Each of the players gets a go at hitting the ball. They have to leave the hitting zone (are "out") if one of the opposition players catches a ball they have hit before it touches the ground, or if the ball hits the three wooden sticks (stumps and bails individually, "the wicket" collectively) behind them.

To stop people being able to play all day by just standing in front of the wooden sticks and so stopping the other team hitting them, there is a rule that if you block a ball that looked like it was going to hit the wooden sticks with your leg then you have to stop as well (leg before wicket - known as LBW).

So that is how you score and how you get out (run out, if the ball reaches the hitting zone before you do. Caught out. Bowled - when the opposition hit your stumps. And LBW).

There are a couple of other things worth mentioning. You always have two batters playing at once. One standing where the ball is thrown from, and one waiting to hit the ball. That way if an odd number of points (runs) is scored, you do not have to wait for the batter to get back to the hitting zone (crease) to start again.

The second batter runs at the same time as the first, and can be knocked out if the ball reaches the crease (either the throwing end or hitting zone) before they do, just like with the person who hit the ball.

After six throws you switch which crease you throw from (they are both set up the same), and you can only throw the ball with a straight arm.

Because your arm has to be straight, the people throwing often (mainly, in fact) bounce the ball into the ground to confuse the batter. While this slows it down, it introduces an degree of uncertainty in the batter as the ball is not entirely round and has a fatter, rougher strip round the middle (the seam).

There are three main types of thrower (bowler), seam bowlers (who use the seam of the ball to introduce uncertainty), swing bowlers (who make the ball move in the air - normally by polishing one side of it), and spin bowlers (who throw the ball slower, but spin it so it darts off the pitch to the left or right).

Each team either gets one or two goes at scoring as many points (runs) as they can before they run out of time or are all "out", then the other team tries to beat that score. If they score exactly the same or run out of time before everyone is out it's a draw. To speed things up, some games are played over a limited number of balls (120 or 300 normally), so it's just who scores the most in that time (unless everyone on one team is out, then your turn is over). In this version there are strict rules on where the ball is thrown to stop teams cheating by simply not throwing the ball where it can be hit (called a "wide").

And that's cricket.

This is the game you see on beaches in the Caribbean, that is Christian Vieri's first love (and probably Dwight Yorke's, not to mention Phil Neville, no - please don't) .

Simple. One man throws, one hits. Biggest score wins. But limitlessly varied.

Subtle and brutal. Civilised and savage. A game I, and hundreds of millions of others love.

Get on board and enjoy the ride.

And if that doesn't convince you - games last anywhere up to five days, you can drink in the stands, and there are convenient breaks for food.

Ernest and The Boxer by “The Boxer”

The Boxer reflects on what he has learned from Ernest Hemingway.

"We won the first with half of the money that we had to spend and he paid 12-1, jumping beautifully, taking command on the far side of the course and coming in four lengths ahead. We saved half of the money and put it away and bet the other half on the second horse who broke ahead, led all the way over the hurdles and on the flat just lasted to the finish line with the favourite gaining on him with every jump and the two whips flailing. We went for a glass of champagne at the bar under the stand and waited for the prices to go up. “My, racing is very hard on people,” my wife said. “Did you see that other horse come up on him.” The horses came by, ours wet with his nostrils working wide to breathe and the jockey patting him.
“Poor him,” my wife said. “We just bet.”" (A Moveable Feast)

Ernest Hemingway began work as a reporter for the Kansas City Star in 1917 at the age of 18. He resigned from journalism seven years later to write fiction but throughout his career maintained the key journalistic skill of being able to entertain and inform.

Of the many things I have taken from Hemingway’s style is the importance of incorporating a unique viewpoint when writing about everyday experiences. An example of this is shown in the above piece where a couple are in a racecourse champagne bar immediately after winning a large sum of money. They speak of how hard the race was on their nerves before seeing the exhausted winning horse which puts their feelings into context.

The extract above appeared in 1936 and the ability to give a unique viewpoint to an everyday occurrence is as valuable today as it was over 70 years ago.
Hemingway’s sports-writing pieces were informative and to the point. He described Enghein Racecourse, situated outside of Paris, as the ‘small pretty and larcenous track that was the home of the outsider’. In twelve words he has relayed information that is helpful to the newcomer, informative to the expert and interesting to all and this is a fine example of a style that I have strived for over the past two years. It is very easy to presume a reader’s knowledge and this can make an article difficult to understand but the balance must be maintained to ensure fresh information is given for the more knowledgeable spectator’s benefit.

Equally the ability to quickly catch a reader’s attention while relaying the sense and pace of an event is a key aspect of sports-writing and is something I have consciously worked towards; and to this end Hemingway’s boxing writing has helped me immensely:

"The gong rang and Jack turned quick and went out. Walcott came towards him and they touched gloves and as soon as Walcott dropped his hands Jack jumped his left into his face twice…Walcott was after him, going forward all the time with his chin on his chest". (Men without Women)

On a practical level, and without exception, I start every piece of writing by using Hemingway’s mantra of beginning with ‘one true sentence,’ and when writing longer pieces I try as much as possible to ‘always stop when there is [still] something there.’

Emotion is a key aspect of competitive sports and consequently sports reporting and Hemingway was notable for his ability to accurately relay others’ emotions and the characteristics that become apparent in the exultance of victory or defeat’s despair:

"My wife had a horse one time at Auteuil named Chevre d’Or that was 120-1 and leading by 20 lengths when he fell at the last jump with enough savings on him to keep us for six months. We tried never to think of that. She had cried for the horse, I remembered, but not the money". (A Moveable Feast)

As a writer he was very aware of his own limitations and believed you should write ‘what [you] know about truly and care for the most,’. While this statement may seem idealistic in this competitive age I do believe the knowledge that comes from research – and an ongoing love of a sport – will shine through and become the article’s foundation.

Hemingway believed he could write about all sports but that he should not as he did not possess the required knowledge. For this reason he rarely wrote of cycle racing, which he enjoyed, as he felt the quality of his writing could not relay the sport’s essence:

"I have started many stories about bicycle racing but have never written one that is as good as the races are both on the indoor and outdoor tracks and on the roads. But I will get the Velodrome d’Hiver with the smoky light of the afternoon and the whirring sound the tires made on the wood as the riders passed, the effort and the tactics as the riders climbed and plunged, each one a part of his machine". (A Moveable Feast)

A sportswriter must avoid excessive supposition and exercise sound judgement on what is appropriate to report and what is not; and Hemingway, an enthusiastic and reportedly successful gambler, mixed regularly with horse trainers and jockeys in the 1930s when doping was rife. He maintained his journalistic equilibrium by keeping a ‘tight rein’ on hypothesis and overt speculation and reported accurately while avoiding mentioning specific instances or individuals.

‘You had to watch a jumping race from the top of the stands at Auteuil… to see what each horse did and see what horse might have won and did not, and see why or maybe how he did not do what he could have done. You watched the prices and all the shifts of odds each time a horse you were following would start.’ (A Moveable Feast)

In common with current writers Hemingway very often wrote of his personal experiences and day to day situations. His ability to do this was startling given that he was often writing of emotive subjects – such as widespread horse doping. He had the ability to stay true to journalism’s code of ethics; seemly remaining distant from his subject while creating an intimate relationship with the reader that was often almost disturbing in its familiarity:

"I had wanted to go to the races very badly. But at this time I could not afford to go to the races, even though there was money to be made there if you worked at it. It was the days before saliva tests and other methods of detecting artificially encouraged horses and doping was very extensively practiced. But handicapping beasts that are receiving stimulants, and detecting the symptoms in the paddock and acting on your perceptions, which sometimes bordered on the extra sensory, then backing them with money you cannot afford to lose, is not the way for a young man supporting a wife and child to get ahead in the full time job of learning to write prose". (A Moveable Feast)

Undoubtedly the craft of sports writing has changed significantly since the 1930s but I believe that Hemingway’s sports writing skills have stood the test of time. His ability to entertain factions of sports fans with vastly different knowledge levels undoubtedly remains at the heart of good sports reporting. So too, does his ability to maintain journalism’s theoretical balance of what should be done against how it is practised. The above examples of reporting accurately whilst maintaining his subject’s freedom and confidentiality are just an example of how this talented reporter, renowned author and skilled sportswriter maintained journalism’s code of practice.

Hemingway ended Death in the Afternoon (his ‘exhaustive account’ of bullfighting) with an epilogue that I feel is appropriate here. It is his account of a piece of work, such as this, that has been completed but where the author felt he had so much more to say:

‘If I could have made this enough of a book,’ he began, ‘I would have had everything in it. The Prado, looking like some big American college building, with sprinklers watering the grass…’ (Death in the Afternoon)

Not a Boxing Classic - file

Henry Cooper vs. Cassius Clay, Wembley Stadium 18th June 1963
This programme is signed ‘Cassius Clay The Greatest of All Time’ and dated the day of the fight 6-18-63.


A classic sporting moment, especially if you are English, but is it still possible for sports writers to take on the old classics?

It’s a great year to write about, but how to gloss over John F. Kennedy’s promise of a Civil Rights Bill or his trip to Dallas or Martin Luther King’s ‘Letter from Birmingham Jail’ and ‘I Have a Dream’ speech? How to touch lightly the unraveling events in Vietnam or the impact they would have on the young Clay?

A year when Spurs were the first English team to win a European trophy, Everton won the league and Man U raised the FA Cup, of Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer and Chuck McKinley at Wimbledon.

‘Oh! What a Lovely War’ and ‘Oliver’ first opened in London and Please, Please Me first hit the decks. In America ‘The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan’ came out as did ‘Surfin’ USA’ and the charts heaved with the likes of Ring of Fire, Da Doo Ron Ron, Wipe Out by the Safaris, Twenty Four Hours from Tulsa and It’s my Party.

The year that saw the arrival of Jose Mourinho and Graham Norton, Graham Poll and Gary Kasparov and the departure of Jean Cocteau, Georges Braques, Edith Piaf, Aldous Huxley, C.S. Lewis as well as, of course, JFK and Lee Harvey Oswald.

It’s a great fight to write about; Clay, at 21, was coming in undefeated on his way to the Heavyweight Championship title and Cooper was thought to be a tough enough 29 year old pro that wasn’t too tough to stand in his way. The British public was electrified by the occasion and live boxing on TV was already big business in the US.

Cassius Clay had arrived in England amid the usual brouhaha and taunted lyrically to anyone who would listen, predicting Coopers end in the fifth round.

Wembley was packed to the rafters on the night with as many as 50,000 fans baying ‘En-ery, En-ery’ but Clay came out with a fanfare and a cardboard crown, ‘I’m the Greatest’ on his back.

Clay was determined to dance, Cooper to get him against the ropes. There was a few hairy moments in the first few rounds and the youngster was bleeding from his nose but seemed to be biding his time and playing with our ‘Enry who was starting to gush from a cut above his left eye.
Cooper lands his famous left hook ‘Enery’s ‘Ammer’ (which ‘traveled 15 times faster than a Saturn V rocket with a force on landing of nearly 3 tons’) right at the end of Round 4 and Clay is dumped on the canvas for only the second time in his career.

The crowd is going mental and the Louisville Lip is clearly out on his feet as he gets helped back to his stool, where illegal smelling salts may have been administered by the fast thinking Angelo Dundee. A split in Clay’s glove is found and enhanced and who really knows how long the break lasted between those pivotal rounds.

Clay comes back out refreshed, destroys Cooper’s eye and gets the questionable honour of a Sonny Liston title fight as his reward. The rest, as they say, is history.

Great people to write about too; almost any history of Mohammed Ali makes good copy as the source is so extraordinarily great and Sir Henry Cooper also makes it into the history books not least as a lovable Cockney icon. What of the life and times of Angelo Dundee or perhaps even Jim Wicks, Cooper’s manager?

For every sports classic there is the accompanying opportunity for a sports journalism classic to rise to the occasion. This story is mostly covered by writers from a few basic angles; the blip in the rise and rise of Ali, the chance that England’s Cooper might have had and the controversy over the ripped glove and the debatably extended break between rounds.

I wanted to know if there was a still pointy angle to be found on this worn Rubik’s Cube of a story and so I read as much as I could about it, looked through the film and photographs of the fight and the times and tried to put myself into the Wembley crowd that night.

In the end I chose to focus on the cracks and not on the slabs, in between rounds from the perspective of Jim Wicks. There was a poetry workshop in the Guardian which seemed to show me a way to do this. By projecting Wicks’ words to Cooper in the corner, at this hugely pivotal moment between the 4th and 5th round, and recording it as a dramatic monologue.

I thought that perhaps by going the Blake route of finding ‘Eternity in an hour’ in a minute, I could capture a meeting point of strands of fate against a cultural and historical backdrop. Coopers peak, Ali’s fortune and determination to overcome Coopers left hook no matter the damage being done to his brain, Dundee’s defence of his boxer and Wicks’ hope for his.

‘Enery’s ‘Ammer

“‘Ee ‘ya ‘enry, ‘ave a breeva
You’ve got ‘im san, ‘es ‘ad it
‘E’s flat aat like an ‘alibut ‘enry
‘E’s cuddlin the rope like a baby innee?

‘Ee ‘ya ‘enry, let me at ‘em eyes o’ yours
‘Or blimey, this ‘uns a deep ‘un, ‘ee ‘yaa
Can you ‘ear ‘em boy? ‘Enery, Enery’
‘E ‘aint no greatest ‘e ‘aint
Fackin’ cardboard crown!

‘Ee ‘ya ‘enry, you flawed him mate ‘n’ it’s only the fawth
‘N’ ‘e said ‘e’d ‘ave you daan in the fifth
‘N’ ‘e said you wuz a bum, a steppin’ stone
‘Swhy we put the money on…

‘Ee ‘ya ‘enry, never mind abaat that naa, ‘ee ‘ya press this taal
‘Enery’s ‘ammer ‘ad ‘im ‘enery, ‘e woz saved by the bell
Lets rab you daan, ‘ave a bit a wind
‘E’s ‘arf aat on that stool ‘enry, look at ‘im

‘Ee ‘ya ‘enry, wot woz it ‘e said?
“Landan bridge is fawlin’ daan and so will Coopa in Landan taan”
Fackin’ jungle bun…awight ‘enry I’ll keep it daan
Awight ‘enry, give it a rest mate, getchyer breff

‘Ee ‘ya ‘enry, woss awl diss den? Woss up wiv ‘is mit?
Dem fly Yanks, woss up wiv it?
Why’s ‘e pulling dat string aat of it?
Wass ‘e doin? OI, GET AAT OF IT!

‘Ee ‘ya ‘enry, they’re tryin’ t’ welch us
“OI STOP PLAYIN’ WIV ‘IS GLOVE!
AY? WOT? NAA MATE, GET ‘IM AAT”
They’re brickin’ it mate that’s the rub

O’ ‘Ee ‘ya ‘enry, are you ready?
Don’t let ‘im dance, get ‘im up against the ropes
Keep yer left working boy and keep ‘im awf ‘is toes
Goo on ‘enry san, you keep it up you’ve got this wan

Goo on ‘enry san, you keep it up you’ve got this wan…”

So, not about the boxing classic but an attempt to say something fresh on a hacked out sports writing classic. I challenge any of you, who choose to challenge yourselves, to take a ‘Classic’ moment of sport and find something new to say about it, or a new way to say it, or a fresh angle.

In competition not with file, but with the greats of sports journalism and the great history of the events themselves. The bar isn’t very high at all (see above) and the process may well be hugely rewarding for the writer and certainly for the readers.

Ligue 1 wrap-up - offsideintahiti

The suspense is over... since mid-November actually, when Lyon had their sixth consecutive title in the bag and were able to concentrate properly on yet another early failure in Europe. They duly obliged, and let Roma go on to bigger things in the Champions League, while they focused on going through the motions at home and, in the end, did just enough to leave their nearest rivals, Marseille, 17 points behind. These two will represent France in the Champions League next year, but, as ever, it's impossible to guess how many of their current squads will have heeded the sirens' calls of more glamourous leagues by then. Lyon seem to have secured the ongoing services of their Brazilian spine, with Cris, Juninho and Fred staying on the banks of the Rhône, but are likely to lose Abidal, Malouda, Clerc, Govou, Wiltord, and possibly others. In Marseille, the main question marks hang over their three youngsters, Frank Ribéry, Samir Nasri, and Nigerian left-back with a missile launcher for a left foot, Taye Taiwo.

The first certainty for Lyon is that Gérard Houllier will not be steering them to their next early spring European disaster. The ex-Liverpool manager has resigned by his own mutual consent on the same day that Didier Deschamps was being resigned by the exclusive mutual consent of the Juventus board, presumably as a thank you gesture for taking the Old Lady straight back up to Serie A for his first season in charge, and in spite of a heavy points deduction. A straight swap is highly unlikely, but Deschamps is now perceived as a strong candidate for the Lyon job, while Houllier will probably disappear into the Australian bush. Unless Marseille snatch Deschamps, in a move that would see the man who captained them to their only European success (in 93) at the helm of the club for next season's Champions League campaign, with long-term caretaker manager, Albert Emon, returning to the club's youth set-up. Alain Perrin, of Premiership fame and who guided Sochaux to victory in the French cup and 7th place in the league, is also said to be interested in the Lyon job.

Unsurprisingly, most of the excitement this season was to be found further down the table. Much further down. Big guns Monaco and Paris Saint-Germain gave the phrase "squeaky bum" a whole new meaning by flirting dangerously with the drop zone for long periods. Both had to take drastic action and change managers mid-way through. Paul LeGuen managed to salvage his own career and the club's immediate future with an impressive late run which saw PSG finish in 15th after briefly touching rock-bottom for the first time ever. Monaco fired their Hungarian coach, Laszlo Boloni, early in the season after a disastrous start and put their trust in Laurent Banide, a young, unproven manager, who steadied the ship and eventually cruised comfortably into 9th place.

Sadly, another monument of French football was not so lucky. After fourty-four years in the top flight, eight titles and numerous cups, FC Nantes will be playing in Ligue 2 next season. A deep shock for a club whose name had come to define flowing, attacking football in France, with the expression "le jeu à la Nantaise" being a synonym for one-touch football. The enrollment of Fabien Barthez in the second half of the season smacked of desperate measures, and the episode summed up the club's woes, with the French goalkeeping legend letting in soft goals, walking out on his teammates in the middle of a game, and ultimately being chased out of the stadium, and away from the club, by angry fans. Those same angry fans who invaded their home pitch in protest four minutes from the end of the penultimate game of the season, demanding the board's resignation and, in the process, unwittingly producing the biggest shock of all. On the pitch, Nantes and Toulouse had been locked in a tedious 0-0 draw. The referee was unable to restart the game, the French FA stuck to the letter of the law and, despite the game being almost over at the time of the interruption, awarded Toulouse the 3 points, handing them an unbelievable lifeline and a huge psychological boost in their floundering quest for 3rd place and the preliminary round of the Champions League.

Last Saturday, at kick-off, the four teams vying for 3rd place were within two points of each other, with Lens (3rd) travelling to an already relegated Troyes, Rennes (5th) visiting a disappointing Lille, who had nothing to play for, and Toulouse (6th) and Bordeaux (4th) going head to head in the French capital of Rugby. The much coveted podium spot changed hands no less than five times in the course of the evening. Lens, who had spent more than two thirds of the season in the top 3, quickly fell behind at Troyes, and got their full-back Marco Ramos sent-off in the first half, which pretty much extinguished their challenge. Bordeaux went 1-0 up in Toulouse through their Brazilian Wendel, and hopped onto the podium.

Toulouse, however, refused to lie down. Their international strike force sprung into action, with Brazilian Paulo César and Cameroon international Achille Emana combining to provide Swedish center forward Johan Elmander for a spectacular hat-trick. With less than twenty minutes to go, le Stadium went crazy (yes, the Toulouse stadium is called le Stadium, that's its name), only to learn three minutes later that Rennes had opened the scoring in Lille. John Utaka had just propelled the club from Brittany into 3rd place for the first time in the whole season and into Champions League football for the first time ever. Now, if there is a right time to clinch that qualifying spot, a quarter of an hour from the end of the championship is certainly it. A nervous final fifteen minutes ensued, with the Rennes players, staff, and officials lining up along the touchline, getting ready to celebrate.

At the end of normal time, Rennes were well in control and even missed a good chance to kill the tie. At the end of the fourth minute of stoppage time, however, they conceded a free-kick at a distance that, at first glance, looked safe enough. From forty yards out, Obraniak floated it in and Fauvergue, who had come on late as a substitute, rose unchallenged to send a looping header over the stranded Rennes goalkeeper and, probably much to his surprise as a Lille player, score the most important goal in the history of Toulouse Football Club. The Rennes players buried their heads in the grass, the city of Toulouse partied all night. Toulouse finish the season in 3rd on 58 points, with Rennes, Lens, Bordeaux, and Sochaux all tied on 57. Who said French club football couldn't be exciting, sometimes?

In summary, Champions League spots go to Lyon, Marseille and Toulouse (whose only European claim to fame so far had been to knock-out Diego Maradona's Napoli on penalties in an early round of the UEFA cup in 1986). Nantes, Troyes and Sedan will play next season in Ligue 2. They will be replaced in the top flight by Metz, Caen and Racing Club de Strasbourg, who made it in spite of their manager being in charge for his very first season in the business. You may want to look out, next year, for the club from Alsace and this young, enthusiastic, attack-minded coach by the name of Jean-Pierre Papin.