Oh mister tangerine man... - Premcorrespondent

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So much for a world cup that was more Jordi Cruyff than Johnan. Mismatched games, stars falling short of expectations and frustrating tactics made much of it interesting rather than thrilling.

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And so to the Premier League. Or Premiership; whichever of the two they are calling the first division these days.

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Off I went to Wigan to watch my once beloved Blackpool. Saturday night out there after a game; that’s something to savour. I hope modern top flight fans don't stick their noses up at the old town and instead enjoy some good old-fashioned fun. There’s nothing quite like boozing it up on the beach and eating greasy chips off the cold thighs of local trollops in the North West.

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Oh to be young and in love with the legend of a club that gave us so much Stanley Matthews magic. Of course this game was in Wigan and my days of winning round free and easy floozies are long behind me. Especially after that incident with my third wife all those years ago. But it seems the good old days are back, if only for one great away match. A very comfortable 4-0 win was a tangerine masterclass of hard work and common sense football. Wigan should learn how to punt if they want to stay up again this year.

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It was a weekend for lessons. Drogba decided repetition was the best way to make his points stick. He scored three while Chelsea got six. West Brom look like they’ll go down easier than Peter Crouch’s hooker did but at least they keep coming back and trying again in the hope they won’t flunk out this time.

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Manchestarabia were taught a lesson too. They just about held out at 0-0 at White Hart Lane but they got away with a mauling from a side that looked as tasty as fry-up after a night on the sauce. Gomes could have stayed home for all the work he had to do. Unless they sign Lady Luck next, this sort of performance won’t deliver the trophies some Arab state bought the Sky Blues for.

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Not that it was all bad for City. They did at least get lucky. Hart played very well too. And they did display some smart English grit, kicking the players who made them look like overpaid wannabes. Modric will be especially bruised today.

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Arsenal learned the price they should charge Barca for their beloved captain this weekend. And that price is nothing. Zip. Just a simple thanks but no thanks. Liverpool are hardly a class act again yet, but were it not for a rare Reina screw-up Arsenal would have got the defeat their lack of creativity deserved.

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Passing the ball about is nice and pretty but some one has to do something with it. If that man is Fabregas then without him they looked bereft. That said, 1-1 at Anfield may yet prove a good result if Hodgeson has his way with his team.

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In the Midlands Villa coped very well with the unexpected loss of their gaffa. A walkover saw them score three against West Ham who have apparently not got over the arrival of Grant. Old Bobby would have turned in his grave at such shambolic defending as Petrov, Downing and the outgoing Milner scored all too easily.

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Just down the road the two sides no one likes to play but everyone expects to beat gave the crowd a thrilling home win. Stoke fought back well from 2-0 down to 2-1 but couldn’t keep it going. In the end Wolves were determined and even ambitious, going close to a third and fourth late on.

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And in the games no one much noticed, Everton lost away to Blackburn, Sunderland and Birmingham shared the points, and Bolton drew 0-0 with Fulham.

Are we nearly there yet? – mimitig

Whilst this is a phrase that, for many of us, echoes the little voice of childhood as we sat in the back of Morris Travellers or Hillman Minxes as parents seemed to drive for ever to the north or west in search of holidays, it is surely what the legs (if they could speak) of the peloton are asking today.

Today being the second rest day of this year’s Tour de France, the answer is 525.5 killermetres and that is not a typo. Paul Sherwen and Phil Liggett always say “killermetres” although the accepted pronunciation, as far as I can research, is actually “kill-om-eter”. There’s a subtle difference and tomorrow’s 174km truly will be killer metres for someone as the Tour ascends the Col du Tourmalet for the second time this year.

So far this year the Tour has taken in over 3000 km of its total distance of 3642 km (official figures – my sums have them riding 4004.9 km but then I’m using a solar powered calculator and we’ve had no sun for the last five days!).

The peloton has covered a starting Time Trial – flat, rainy and a bit dull, seven further flat stages that have given Mark Cavendish three sprint wins, some hilly and middle mountain finishes and three in the high mountains. Mark’s three wins have seen him equal and beat some of the best sprinters the world of cycling has ever seen – Erik Zabel and Mario Cipollini have 12 each – The Manx Missile has 13 in just three and a half Tours. For a man who was way out of form coming in to this year’s Tour, and losing the first two possibilities for lack of form, it is a remarkable turnaround. Sadly there has been controversy again. This year not for Mark’s own actions in a sprint, but for those of his lead-out man, Aussie Mark Renshaw. On the run in to Cav’s third victory in Bourg les Valence (Stage 11, Thurs July 15), as the sprint started to wind up, Garmin Transition’s Kiwi Julian Dean stuck the elbow into Renshaw. A very dangerous and unacceptable thing to do. In defence, Renshaw nudged his head against Dean’s arm. Should have ended there, but the red mist of sprinters had descended. Renshaw went on to head-butt Dean three more times and then, unforgiveably looked behind and seemed to deliberately close out Tyler Farrar (of Garmin). None of these actions had an impact on the finish so rightly Cav claimed it, but it was a rather unedifying episode of Tour sprinting. Renshaw was the only man punished – not just relegated (which would have been fair) but thrown off the Tour (totally unfair) and Dean – the man who started the who’s yer father in the first place was off scott free. As I say, unedifying all round really.

However, that is cycling and that is Le Tour – the commissars have the last say and they said it. Fortunately – for fans of cycling and Mark Cavendish – the Missile proved on Stage 13 that he can do it without Renshaw. On a day when watchers saw former drug-cheat Alexandre Vinokourov prove that you can do it with your own blood and win a stage (and I am not convinced, sorry), Mark led the charge to the line for second place, but first of the sprinters, and did it in style.

After this lot of ducking and diving, elbows and heads, we saw the Tour head into the really high mountains. This year the Alps were just a little tickler for the big days. One hundred years to celebrate of men on bikes versus desperate altitudes and weather – The Pyrennees. The stages that tour director Christian Prudhomme hoped would define this year’s race.

He has done well, that man. No momentous occasions in the Alps, all to play for in the Pyrennees and even better, all to play for in the final day in the Pyrennees. There are only really two men left in the GC – Andy Schleck and Alberto Contador (though Denny Menchov and Sammy Sanchez could spring a surprise). It looks as though they will continue to go head to head up the Tourmalet. Neither has been able to lock down an advantage. Schleck maybe has looked stronger but then the mechanical problem with his chain on the 15th stage gave the lead and the Maillot Jaune (and the cuddly lion) to Contador. That little episode has lead to the Tour’s second big controversy – should Alberto have attacked under those circumstances? Tour protocol has an unwritten law that the Maillot Jaune is not attacked for a mechanical, but it is far more complicated this time. Denny and Sammy were already attacking and going to fight out their third and fourth. I don’t think Alberto did anything wrong. If Schleck comes out of the rest day strong, then he can make his attack before the final Time Trial. It’s up to him.

Of the other former favourites, there is both plenty and nothing to write. Bradley Wiggins has been totally honest – last year he came in with unexpected form and got fourth, this year his form has not been there. All he can hope for is a good finish in the final Time Trial.

Cadel Evans – with the Rainbow Jersey of World Champion on his shoulders – rode well early and proudly took Yellow. Then crumbled in what is becoming a rather Aussie way – maybe he and Ricky Ponting can share a beer of sadness together (88 all out when you win the toss – ho ho ho!).

Armstrong in his last ever Tour has been somewhat of a revelation – nice, journo-friendly, even a bit laughing. Once he knew all was gone he rode a fantastic breakaway on Stage 16 in to Pau. Gave his all and reminded us of why we respect him. The stage was won by Pierrick Fedrigo and he gave France their sixth Stage win of the Tour. I can’t remember the last time that happened and with French riders topping King of the Mountains as well.

Tomorrow we go out for the final day in the mountains. This day will certainly decide the Polka Dot Jersey, should also decide the overall winner. Unless something bizarre occurs, Andy Schleck will certainly win the White Jersey (and the stuffed yeti toy) and Alberto Contador will go into the final Time Trial knowing that he will be in Yellow in Paris.

After that we have two days more for Mark. A sprint finish is likely into Bordeaux and of course no matter if the Maillot Jaune is decided, there is the sprint on the Champs Elysees. Who can forget last year’s finish? Renshaw delivering Cav to the line so easily that it was a double Mark finish.

That won’t happen this year, but if Cav can get over the Tourmalet, he’ll fight to the finish. More to prove this year. My guess, and bet, if I were a betting woman, would be that Bernie Eisel will deliver Cav to the line in Paris.

Contador to win. Schleck second. Denny third.

Thor for the Green.

One of the French for KoM.

Cav on the Champs.

World Cup 2018 - cissethedog

This year’s World Cup has been ok, not great, not rubbish. But I suspect the long term trend is towards a blander, cagier ‘product’. This is not good.

These changes have four main objectives:

• Feature a wider variety of playing styles
• More coverage for smaller teams/players
• Support the referees with technology, but not to burden them with any extra subjective decisions. Make some things simpler, give the attacking team more of the advantage
• Encourage new approaches to the game

It also accepts the World Cup is set apart from the rest of the football calendar; there should be no problem with it having some unique rules.

Increase WC to 64 teams:

16 groups of four
Six games per group = 96 games in the group stage. Six matches played most days (2 on opening day, 4 on last day of the group stage), no problem with matches played concurrently.

Knockout rounds of 32 – 16 – 8 – 4
Draw for knockout stages comes only after group stage is finished; top teams are seeded (1-8) by the number of goals scored in group stage, top seed gets to chose which runner up it prefers. Seed 1 plays 8 in the next round (2v7, 3v6, 4-5).

Why: more teams, more good & bad, more opportunity for small countries to progress. May make it easier for ‘top’ teams to qualify, therefore allowing more time/scope to develop new systems. Group games can be played in smaller venues. Seeded draw makes for more TV drama, and rewards goalscoring

Group stage points:
1pt for draw, 2pt for win by more than one goal, 3pt for win by 2+ goals

Why: creates more risk/reward

Knockout stage:
Teams reduced by one man if drawing after 90mins. Opposition managers to choose which outfield player to be removed; reduced by a further player after first period of extra time. Then penalties

Why: creates more space, throws up new tactical options

Technology:
To be used if the ball has crossed the line. Play to carry on as normal, but brought to a halt by 4th referee (off field, watching the video replay) if evidence says ball was in.

Offside: microchips in shoes (& ball) should be able to detect real-time position of players; player onside if his foot is behind the foot of the last man. Again, play until off-field ref says its off (should be <1 style="font-weight: bold;">Scrap the 6-yard box:
keeper takes kick from the line between his posts

Why: limits distance of these kicks

Free-kicks:
players can take from anywhere within 5 yards of where foul was committed – but no nearer the goal.

Why: may help create better shooting angle for attacking team

Throw-ins taken one handed:
Why: speeds it up, allows option of longer distance throws

Use a proper football
Official ball to in use, worldwide, for full season prior to event. Silly to have the event undermined like Jubilano 2010

For the love of the game - ebren

An email, a mad dash home, a cross-town trek. Arriving late, padding up, waiting on the boundary, taking off the pads after a single delivery, fielding, losing, drinking. This week I have played four games of cricket, losing three.

There’s something horrible about losing a game of cricket. Eight times out of ten you can see it coming, sometimes for hours, but there’s nothing you can do about it.

Each delivery whispers “wicket” seductively in you ear, before dashing off to the boundary for some other batsman. You feel every run at the end, deep in your stomach. The ones hit 100 metres away and the one that flash two feet past your outstretched hands. Worse are the unplayable balls that remove no bails.

I’ve lost three times, for three different teams, in four days, spent eighty overs fielding, 21 ‘umpiring’ because I was already out, scored two runs and bowled no balls.

“Three overs to come, three batsmen waiting, four runs needed. Now we’ve got our boot on your throat we’re going to keep pushing down,” I said to the opposition captain on Thursday. Gallows humour is sometimes all you have.

I should point out now I’m not very good at cricket. I love the game, but I never really progressed after dropping the sport as a 13 year old. I kept watching, spending days on the sofa in front of Tests, picking apart one side of a ball completely while watching Nasser score 207 at Edgbaston. I’ve seen England play Twenty20, ODIs and a few days of Test cricket at the Oval in the last couple of years as well as watching Surrey.

But until recently my last bat was in a junior size and I’d never owned pads or gloves. That was about to change.

Approaching 20 years after I stopping playing, I was asked if I wanted a game after a drunken conversation with some colleagues. I might have over-reacted. I bought whites for less than the price of a football shirt after my first game, then a bat, then gloves, pads, a box, more pads (thigh ones this time) new whites and three, different, bags.

I found that missing cricket because I was playing football annoyed me. I stopped playing football. I joined a new team so I could play on the weekends – I’d been pulled in and was hooked.

But once that first flush of lust, the quickening of the pulse and shy smile at the thought of pulling on whites and picking up a bat, has passed the drudgery sets in.

On Wednesday and Thursday we’d posted paltry scores, then somehow hung on and not lost embarrassingly early. It was still a nice way to spend a summer’s evening after work, and my mercy-mission across the capital to help one team out was rewarded by free beers.

Saturday was different. A 40-over game lasting well into the evening, we’d exploded in the middle order and then faded in the end to post a competitive total of 205. We asphyxiated their openers, cutting off space and air with a tight field and a tighter line. After 17 overs they’d scored just 50 runs.

Then something horrible happened. A man, who’d rather be at the theatre, came in. Every ball, regardless of its quality, was thrashed. After the 21st over we had a drinks break, he retired himself to go to the west end, and the score was 117.

The spell was broken and as afternoon slipped into evening the odds of victory lengthened with the shadows.

I didn’t go out for a drink after the game, I was bone tired after 40 overs fielding, 21 standing and six batting, flogging myself chasing lost causes as balls reached the rope a meter or two ahead of me, bruised by a ball I didn’t catch and facing a long journey by public transport before I could get food and clean the sweat from my body.

But the next time I get that email, I’ll come running back. Because the bitter taste of defeat doesn’t normally last long. The moments do. Like the grin after seeing a debutant thrash a ball straight over the bowler’s head, someone had never held a bat until a few weeks earlier, and the cheers from the boundary after I signalled a six not a four.

When the Hell welcomes the Tour - mimitig

Cycling fans (are there any out there?) have been wondering when this year’s Tour de France would really kick off.

Le Grand Depart in Rotterdam was very low key for anyone who wasn’t actually there. Cancellara rode brilliantly to secure the Yellow Jersey through a time trial, again, but everyone else, except maybe David Millar, was way too cautious in the wet conditions and it was what Paul Sherwen would describe as a damp squid.

Day Two rolled out of Rotterdam into Belgium and – so, sorry chaps, can’t remember too much about it. Day three should have been great, with hills and cross winds, but that just didn’t happen. It was defined by horrid, slippy descents on narrow roads leading to half the field – and one motorbike-mounted cameraman - unintentionally dismounting, sometimes at speed.

Fabian, he of the yellow, decided it was all too much and neutralised the race: getting all the riders to effectively join in on a 'go slow' over the finish line. Well, all but one, a Frenchman, riding for a Belgian team, took a decisive lead 12 kilos in, then held it for 183 more as the riders crossed from his team’s country into his own.

Someone else was a little unimpressed by the go-slow: the God of Thundor, our Thor, seemed a bit pissed off by the strike and made his displeasure known afterwards in no uncertain terms, but there you go, that’s the Yellow Jersey.

But then the race hit the cobbles, the pave. Racing the roads of The Hell of the North – it is so surprising that so many top riders seem pissed off about this stage. The race route was published almost a year ago so there was plenty of time to practice and prepare. It didn’t work out that way. Chaos and crashes.

A young Canadian went off the front – for ages, then a chap whose name is Brut caught him. Behind there was both chaos and beautifully coordinated chasing.

Crashes galore - continuing the chaos of the first two stages. But fine chasing and excellent racing at the front.

The paves really did do for the peloton. I can’t remember a more exciting stage and let me take this opportunity to thank ITV4 for broadcasting stages live this year. I am guessing that this is their response to Sky. As in – hey buddies, we broadcast it all, we can decide whether to mention your name – if you’re good enough.

Well blimey, were Sky good enough today? I think so. My Welsh blood is rushing to my head and trying to make me sing all those songs because Geraint Thomas got second on the stage to big Thor and is actually second on the road. Damn close to the maillot jaune, and rose to the podium to pull on the white jersey of best young rider.

Lance is a couple of minutes down and, to be honest, I really don’t want to talk about him. Let Landis and the Wall Street Journal do their worst.

Brad is OK. Millar is not looking for a high GC so his third in the Prologue is good.

There is a long way to go in this tour but congrats to the organisers for a day of huge excitement.

Rob Green lights up the bar - Margin

Watching football in a bar at 11:30am raises some questions. For a start, do you meet up with friends for breakfast before the game? We decided not to. But then do you drink throughout the proceedings? Those of you who know me best know there is only one answer to that, though we genuinely kidded ourselves otherwise for a short time.

Colin and I knew just one bar in San Francisco that we could definitely both find, and that was the one we got chatting in a couple of nights earlier. So all was well right?

Nope.

We met outside the door at 10:30am. Outside the locked door. Foley’s on O’Farrell Street doesn’t open at that early hour and we had to find somewhere else quickly so we had time to settle in and pick our spot.

Fortunately Market Street has a big bright sports bar of the sort we just don’t have in England. There is neon everywhere. There is a big glass front that I fear would be smashed in most English towns. There are booths facing screens in every direction. The wonderfully friendly bar staff were chipper even as they worked an earlier shift than they would normally face. This sports bar knew the drill. It was open early, had garlic fries on the go, and offered us beer as we stepped through the door. We surprised them by ordering tea and orange juice.

I should stress that Colin is Irish and as such a USA fan temporarily. Obviously I see the world differently. But we figured that with no guarantee of a crowd we would at least provide antagonism enough for each other.

We took our seats at a table a few metres from a giant wall mounted screen. The orange juice and tea lasted about ten minutes and we had finished our first pints before England were one-nil up. As I said, the sports bar knew the drill better than us.

As we drank our first pints and watched Steve McManaman and Roberto Martinez talk about the game in store, we were joined by others. Colin’s girlfriend arrived after her short but impressively productive shopping trip. A couple of middle aged women had pulled up chairs alongside us all. And a German chap with a lot of hair had introduced himself and joked that the USA would win this one.

And so to the goal. The passing was excellent, the finish perfect, and around a third of the bar jumped up and cheered. There was noise, excitement, and a lot of England and English shirted strangers congratulating each other as though we’d been friends for years. It was not yet noon but this felt like watching the game at 8pm in a London boozer.

Or at least it would have done, but with England scoring, only a third of the bar erupted. We arrived early so hadn’t realised that it was now definitely standing room only. People stood around the bar watching small screens. More people still stood everywhere else facing all different directions to watch whichever screen was convenient.

And then came Rob Green’s mishap. Now this may have been calamitous for us English. It could have meant going on to lose a game we should have won. It may also be the effective end of his world cup. But it was also manna from heaven in Market Street. The assembled yanks and the handful of Irish taking in the game needed this. And so did us complacent English.

None of them expected to win. None of us expected them to win either; at least not after our opener. But that goal inspired hope. Suddenly every move forward triggered intakes of breath and cheers of “C’mon!”

At the other end there were yelps of “No!” every time England shot. And the other third of us behaved exactly the same in reverse.

The atmosphere grew until the last ten minutes when we all became resigned to the draw in front of us.

And when the game ended every American, local or otherwise, commented that that was the end of Green this world cup.

As far as they were concerned, Green was done for. The British press would tear him apart. There would be no mercy. He would be the scape goat and his career would now suffer.

They were of course all pleased with a draw, and commiserated me despite my sanguine take on the group stage. But all day long they continued to comment on our goalie and how unfair it was that he would be destroyed and hated for that one mistake.

And they were right. This was not a matter of insight but a simple matter of fact to Americans. Football isn’t special or specialist. It is just football and the assumption was that we all knew how such things worked. Especially us English with our horrible press.

Sadly for Rob Green, if they are wrong, it will only be because of timing. Had that been a knock-out game his best next move would be to cancel his ticket home. As it is he might hope that it will be long forgotten as he sits on the bench and lets another keeper try to do better.

Fingers crossed!

Pre-game nerves, Califnornia style - Margin

So as it turns out, California is different. Very different to New York in fact.

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“I hate soccer” was the first thing I heard about the sport I love, and I heard it without solicitation.

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The gruff and seemingly rather negative Mike who runs the hostel I’ve booked a room in hates the World Cup. It is everywhere apparently, and worse still the hostel will be showing it in its rather impressive mini cinema every day. I plan to watch it elsewhere but it is at least there as a back up plan.

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Or I thought I’d be watching it elsewhere. But then I wasn’t so sure. A quick chat with adorable Alex, a pretty blonde Oakland girl, first thing on my first morning in the city made clear that football is not part of her world either.

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Now as some of you know, Ebren and I are Oakland A’s fans. This surprised her as she assumed only Oaky locals know about their team. She even suggested I go see the Giants play as it is more central and means I won’t have to waste time in a dull part of town.

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Football meanwhile: “Oh yeah, you guys get really violent about that don’t ya?” was pretty much all she knew of the subject. I reassured her that violent was the wrong word, just in case she got the wrong impression of us Brits. Aggressive would be more accurate.

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Anyway, a quick wander around town and I wasn’t sure what Mike’s problem was. There are no signs up outside pubs. No one asked me about “the big game”. Frankly if football didn’t exist as a global phenomenon it seems the surface of San Francisco would change not one bit.

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Fortunately the surface is superficial. The game is on. Not in the commercial money spinning way that New York has it. But sports bars will be showing games as a standard. The wide variety of supposedly Irish pubs will also have games on their screens.

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One lad whose name I didn’t ask and he didn’t offer, was well up for the match tomorrow. His mate owns a bar in Presidio and they convinced him to open at 10am so they could all pile in there and enjoy while eating a barbeque breakfast. He’s confident the USA will win. I set him straight as best I could but his knowledge of the England team was pretty weak.

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The same can not be said for the couple from Vancouver I met last night after my mini-date with a waitress from a downtown diner. Of course I didn’t talk football with her. That tends to kill dates in England and I had no intention of testing that aspect to Californian life right then.

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The couple from Vancouver were from Ireland originally and were on holiday in California for a couple of weeks like me. She doesn’t like football, but he has forced her along to various games. We watched the basketball as the Celtics drew level in the series with the Lakers. Being Irish he wants England to lose. But he would happily see England win the world cup if France were humiliated along the way.

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Along with that couple, I got chatting to a pleasant mother and daughter from Pennsylvania. The mother knew quite a bit about soccer and it turns out her husband was from Brooklyn. She was particularly keen to stress they were fans of Wayne Rooney, before moving on to other sports.

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Eileen, her lovely daughter, had bought her out to California as she was on a business trip and it made for a nice treat. She however was not interested in sport. She knew there was a world cup, but had little to say about it.

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Then the barman overheard us chatting and promised he’d be open early for the big game. So Colin from Vancouver and I will meet up at 10am for breakfast before supporting opposing sides.

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Please god England don’t let me down!

The Big Game - Margin

I landed in Brooklyn three days ago. Didn’t know anything about the place other than it was cheap, but it turns out where I stayed was a lot like Hackney Wick. A few fashionable arty types have taken over a couple of abandoned warehouses as workshops or opened coffee shops. But mostly it’s just poor, industrial, and untidy.

As you can imagine, I felt right at home. Except that I wasn’t at home. I was abroad. And I was abroad for good reason. I wanted to see the world cup start through the eyes of a nation that doesn’t really see football. Some people even warned me the games might not be on in pubs.

How wrong they were. The world cup is everywhere in New York. There are guys on the street corners of Manhattan selling knock off world cup shirts. There are signs outside pubs promising to show every game, with half price pitchers on offer for the duration. And the people, well I have to say, never have so many strangers asked me about one game that hasn’t happened yet.

Yep, there may be a world cup coming up, but the moment people heard I was English that tournament went out the window. It’s all about USA v England. Two guys even told me in no uncertain terms that they expect a 1950 style upset. I mocked them of course, safe in the knowledge it can’t come back to haunt me as they will never see me again.

This atmosphere all came as something of a surprise. But apparently we’ve got the Yanks all wrong. Or at least New Yorkers.

Take Andy, a Brooklyn barman at a pizzeria. He is waiting for the Premier league fixture list to come out so he can see when Everton have two home games in one week. That’s the week he’ll visit. Again. He does it every year and is sorely put out at the lack of UEFA Cup matches next season as he likes to see Europe by flying out to watch his Toffeemen play abroad.

So OK, one tough looking bar tender doesn’t make for much of a trend. But there was also a street protestor outside the New York Stock Exchange. Having checked in and visited Liberty Island, I was later asked about Rio Ferdinand by a guy doing a subversive art project. He had a picture he’d painted of some Treasury big shot, and people were signing the empty space around him with anti-establishment comments. I added “2+2=5 on Wall Street” and we quickly got back to talking injured defenders. Apparently we (England) had nothing to worry about so long as Rooney stayed fit.

There was also April and Bret. I met these two at a burger bar near Broadway before I checked into my place the first night I arrived. April was 19 and had to hope no one noticed as she drank her cocktail. Bret was a couple of years older. They wore black, had fashionable piercings, and looked like poster children for Camden Town.

April has a part in a play once a week in Manhattan. Bret is a sound engineer. In England these are the people who ignore football most of the time, if not all. Here they wanted to know their (USA) chances against us (England) and whether the buzz of activity around football bought on by the world cup is what life is like in England all the time. I told them it that was spot on and drank with them for five hours, before finding my place to stay.

Better still was a different kind of poster pin-up. (I apologise to female readers for the next couple of paragraphs)

Imagine being in a dive of a bar at around 1am in a distressed part of town. Then imagine a well endowed 24 girl playing pool in that bar. She’s got on a slinky figure hugging short dress that barely reaches down to the tops of her long beautiful legs. Her bright red hair is outshone only by the ruby lipstick and her overwhelming energetic but genuinely witty personality. Every guy there is trying to help her play her shot as she copes surprisingly well with her high heels and the seemingly large quantities of beer she’s had. It was like an FHM photo shoot.

Now be honest. What’s the best that could happen in real life? Maybe you get an entertaining glimpse of a little more than you should? You introduce yourself and get lost in the crowd of aspiring pool mentors? Or she hears your accent while you order a pint, and strikes up a conversation. And not just any conversation. She asked about the big game.

Yep, suddenly the bizarre cliché had me reaching for the nearest ring and going down on one knee. That just doesn’t happen in England. At least not to me. But in East Williamsburg dreams come true. It triggered a collective smoke outside and a big conversation about how playing abroad has made American players better able to compete for their country.

Sounds great doesn’t it? Except it isn’t. It nearly made me forget why I wanted to see the states during a world cup summer. I don’t want Americans to get football. I don’t want them to be like the English. I want to experience something different. And although it is different in some ways, if they all start liking it properly they might get good at it. And then the rest of us are screwed.

So after just three hours sleep and with my head and muscles crying out for mercy, I am now at the airport waiting to board a flight to California. Hopefully there are real Americans there who don’t know where England is on a map, think a football is pointy, and at best support Mexico or Nigeria from afar instead of the USA.

Wish me luck.

England can win – by mimitig

I’m not going to plunge into an explanation of that headline straight away – too much of a shock for our readers. Let’s ease our way into this unlikely situation.

So while club football is almost over – Chelsea have done the double and Dundee crushed the hopes of the Highlands beating Ross County 3-0 in the Scottish Cup - and with at least a few weeks to go before the Football World Cup takes over the airwaves, we have a little, tiny, wee window in which to play our traditional summer sports.

My favourites are well-known to Pseuds and today I will set aside my affinity with leather and lycra and, for your delectation, will concentrate on men in pyjamas.

In March and April we were treated to the joys of the Indian Premier League. For the first time this was live on terrestrial telly. Every day we had matches to watch. Sometimes only one, but mostly double-headers – all live from the various grounds in India – and presented by a wondrously diverse set of broadcasters.

From the utterly gorgeous but totally biased fan Mandira Bedi (and this link does not do her justice!) to the not-at-all gorgeous but unbiased and expert Simon Hughes – no, not THAT one, I mean former county cricketer and Channel 4 analyst (I await comments here …)

The glory of the IPL was that for many of us, it was the first time we had been able to watch live cricket on the telly since 2005 and although the involvement of many international players could have made for allegiances, it was not so. It was just great to get the chance to see all these players performing on a big stage. I found myself supporting a team which had Jaques Kallis in it, for goodness sake. And I relished the opportunity to watch some of the Aussies live prior to another Ashes year.

Just a few short weeks after the tournament ended, cricketers descended upon the Caribbean for the ICC World Twenty20 Tournament. And there’s the first thing. We got used to this form of the game being T20 in India. More letters once we’re back in “official land”.

Anyway, everyone was there – all the big teams plus a few spares like Ireland and Afghanistan. They didn’t last long, though it was very good to see the cricket family enlarging.

Group matches were played out and then the Super Eights. The West Indies, hosting the even, got knocked out then, as did India and very surprisingly England didn’t. The semi-finals lined up with England v Sri Lanka (early favourites) and Australia v Pakistan (holders).

England won their semi rather comfortably – slightly scary for fans. We’re not used to doing things properly.

Australia v Pakistan was a very different match. Australia expected to win with ease but the right Pakistan turned up and posted a top total of 191. Equalling the totals set earlier in the competition by England and Australia.

The men from the sub-continent gave the antipodeans a hard task. At first it seemed as though Pakistan were in control, so it went on for 18 overs. They were winning, it looked to be a glorious win for the “homeless” international side. But then Mike Hussey cut loose and in the final over he broke the collective heart of a nation and Australia scraped a win. Rabbits and hats were the words.

This meant that the holders, Pakistan, were out and perennial losers, England, would face Australia in the final.

Interesting now – the Twenty20 World Title is the only one the Australians have never won and England – well they haven’t won anything at World level for, well ever really.

Battle was joined on Sunday. England, in the body of Collingwood, won the toss and put the Aussies in to bat. A bold move, I would have thought as England’s long-term record in chasing in the short version of the game has not been great. It started very well indeed. Ryan Sidebottom got Watson with his third ball and after three overs, the Aussies were 10 for three.

A fine start indeed. And just the sort of start to set England nerves jangling and England teeth tearing at nails.

There was no way that we could start with a flourish and keep it going, but we did. Restricted the Aussies to 147. This was gettable. For a good team. On a good day.

The second innings started – I was just home from work and so naturally England lost an early wicket. Talk about fate, luck, and omens. This was the first time in a limited overs tournament that my team had any chance, and I lost the first wicket.

Stepping away a bit, ie not sending emails to the OBO and pretending not to listen to TMS, I subliminally learned that England were creeping up to a good total. Possibly a winning position.

With my nerves in a sectionable state, I did rejoin live coverage – cursing the commentators who kept banging on about how England couldn’t lose this. Fraught does not begin to describe the emotions I and many England fans were feeling.

Until the final over it was hard not to have a horrid feeling that it could all go so hideously wrong, but it didn’t.

Despite losing the wickets of Lumb, Keiswetter and Pietersen, England did win and captain St Paul Collingwood hit the winning runs – a fitting end.

Colly has not been in good form for this tournament with the bat but he has been a fine captain. England have deserved this win. Their first in an International Tournament for, well, not in my memory. A superb win, clinical is the best way to describe it. It wasn’t done with flair and luck, it was done with hard yakka and superb execution.

To my astonishment, our achievement has left me with nothing more to say.

MotoGP Strikes again – mimitig

11 April 2010 – the start of the new MotoGP season. So important to the BBC (who trailed the opening F1 race for weeks) that it was relegated to Freeview only on BBC3.

What a shame and what an opportunity missed by the broadcasters because while the opening race of F1 was a drone fest, the first race of MotoGP2010 was a belter.

Last season saw the man widely accepted as the GOAT (Greatest Of All Time), Valentino Rossi, winning his ninth World Championship, and he has indubitably stamped his not inconsiderable personality all over the last decade of motorcycle racing.

Indeed some younger fans may not even remember a time when Rossi did not top the headlines at every single race meeting. Younger fans may even have thought that the old man might have retired at the end of 2009 due to the plethora of young talent that has been making an impact in the sport.

Such young fans would do well to remember that the old man is only 31 years old.

So hello the new season. Hello not a lot of news about pre-season testing making it to the papers or broadcast media. Hello the Losail circuit in the desert of Qatar.

Welcome to the night race.

Last year was quite literally a wash-out. With only four days of rain a year, the bikes copped the lot and had to run the race on the Monday. Stoner won it. Again. Stoner, in fact, has won the last three races and was bidding for a fourth win with a great pole lap. Everyone hoped for a dry race and that’s how it started. Stoner on pole, ahead of Rossi and Jorge Lorenzo.

Nerves got edgy before the start – wondering if weird desert weather would intervene again but everything got off well. No rain, no problems, but some started better than others. Rossi got a blinder as did little Dani Pedrosa. Casey, pole-sitter and odds-on winner, took a couple of laps to take the lead but put some ace moves on and was breezing it. Then, as commentator Charlie Cox would have said (if he’d thought about it) – “he needs that like a third armpit” – as Stoner folded the front end on a sandy line and chucked it into the gravel trap.

Guess who was waiting to pick up the pieces. Yup. The GOAT.

Rossi rode the next laps like a demonstration. He had a lot of high-speed chasing going on – Dovizioso was dangerous. The Honda horsepower on the straight a constant threat. Nicky Hayden doing his best to keep Ducati honour alive and in the later stages, Rossi’s team mate Gorgeous George putting in the most amazing performance.

For the last five laps it was a performance of preservation of tyres and fuel par excellence by Signor Dottore – only after the race finished did we know how close to the bone Rossi’s strategy was (he ran out of fuel on the warm-down lap).

It was though, a five lap sprint of derring-do for George. Stuck behind Hayden and Dovizioso lap after lap he had to be brave. And was he brave! He is suffering with a broken hand but who would know it as he toughed it out – last of the late brakers to take them both – on a circuit notoriously hard for overtaking.

George gave Yamaha the season opening one-two that they could have only dreamed of pre-season and poor Nicky (it’s always poor Nicky) lost out by 1000ths of a second to Dovizioso because the Honda has the grunt in a straight line.

If Stoner hadn’t have crashed out, it might have been a done deal for Ducati to win, but this is MotoGP and as Charlie says “the one thing that is predictable in this sport, is the unpredictable”.

All is to play for. One race, one winner. Rossi.

In two weeks we will convene in Japan, at Motegi – a track with so much history and atmosphere one can almost smell the leather and rubber now.

I just hope that the broadcasters will find it easier and more pleasurable to publicise the bike racing. Obviously this weekend, we were up against Tiger Woods and his first public golf outing since his personal life meltdown. Well that’s as may be and I’m sure they got lots of viewing public but I can’t help but be rather happy that in MotoGP we don’t get those kinds of headlines.

With bike racing, what you get is fine and exciting on track racing and pretty much bugger all for the front pages.

Watch and enjoy and, honestly, if anyone thinks that Rossi is too old to do this, well, just think again!

Yellow and red overlapping footballs - Ebren

There's something insidious about corporate boxes and sponsor tickets.

At one level, you know that the cash companies provide means more money for the clubs and - in theory - cheaper tickets for the fans. But it's not right. The FA Cup final filled with officials not fans. And a European Cup quarter final at the Emirates with a man from Little-Rock Arkansas sitting to my left, because he works for MasterCard.

I shouldn't really have been their either, to be fair, nor should the people to my right or the left of the MasterCard man. But put yourself in my place, would you say no to a free seat in the Emirates for Arsenal-Barcelona? Thought not.

But there were complications: explaining who was who was harsh: "That's Messi - he's probably the best player in the last 20 years; that's Alves - a pantomime villain but one of the most influential figures in the Barcelona team; Ibrahimovic - he's a lazy Swede; Xavi -won't misplace a pass; Fabregas - captain, watch the softness of his touch; oh, and that's Bendtner - he's not very good at football."

At so it began, Arsenal barely holding on, Almunia saving shots like a demon, Alves being booed and involved in almost every Barcelona move, Bendtner mis-conrolling like a pub player (to be fair there were one or two nice touches and he wasn't served well by Arsenal deciding now was the time to try hoofing it long to a big man with no support), yellow shirts swarming all over Arsenal then playing some of the best possession football I've seen.

But there was someone I'd forgotten to highlight in my one line player descriptions. Samir Nasri.

When Nasiri arrived in London in 2008 he was the latest in the line of "new Zidanes" (a title currently held by Gourcuff) and a YouTube search of his Marseille displays ahead of his arrival showed touch, pace and finishing - a real player then. But the boy who ran out in the iconic red-and-white shirt wasn't a new Zidane. He was peripheral, lightweight, behind the pace - and looked like he was more likely to turn into a new Hleb than a new Pires or Zizou.

But that wasn't the game he played last night. He was Arsenal's most (only?) effective outfield player, matching Alves for distance covered, tacking deep, and playing like an Arsenal player should - touch, speed, awareness, movement, intent.

It's no coincidence he was involved in Arsenal's best move of the first half, from the only period in the opening hour when they played like Arsenal should at home. (Okay, there was one nice move down the right and cross from Bendtner, but that was just to annoy me, I think).

As the game reached its pulsating conclusion, Walcott's pace and positioning stretching and worrying Barcelona in the way Alves did to Arsenal in the first half, the crowd roaring it's encouragement and swearing at the referee (and Alves) and Fabregas scoring the equaliser then waving away a stretcher and limping on to the end with a broken leg, my American host was cheering as loudly as anyone.

I might not agree with sponsors getting tickets to key games as point of principal, but by god I was glad to be there in the stands and watch Nasri emerge from the shadows to outshine Messi and Henri while Walcott and Almunia took on the best team in the world and proved their equals.

Welcome to the new Decayde - mimi

That is “decayed” not some kind of American pronunciation of where we are living. This is not a Decade. This is a new decayed.

So why? Well where to begin. With the boys who kick balls – oh that’s the big money place. Well they seem pretty decayed. At the top of the league it’s not about football it’s about mistresses and headlines in the lavvy tops.

At the bottom of the league, it’s still lavvy paper but for different reasons, Poor old Pompey are stuffed for lack of money. At the top poor old JT and AC are stuffed for too much money and too many cheap, well insert your own word there.

In another sport, one we don’t do a lot of here but one who many of my friends and neighbours do here, the golf. Well, hi di hi. Yet again who knows what’s happening. Everyone is waiting for the re-emergence of the Tiger One.

How excited is the world to see Tiger’s first putt or pit or birdie? Well the birdie obviously. That’s what the world wants.

So while we wait for this, what else is happening in the new decade of sport?

For many there is the new season of Formula 1. Race one in – Christ was it Oman, Dubai, Dohar – quite frankly it was so boring I can’t remember. What I do remember is that it wasn’t where we want. The season opener has been in Melbourne for years and it’s rubbishly not there this season.

However somewhere in a desert somewhere, there was an F1 season opening race and it was dull, dull, falling asleep dull. The man who was on pole would have won, except for a problem, so the man who was second, won.

Hope the rest of the season won’t be as dull.

So thank the creative lord who gave us cycling. And the lord that decided to change dates so that instead of boring Lancey Tour in the early stages of the year, we got Oman. Lovely, lovely Oman. A place that is not historical for cycling, but that absolutely loved the peloton and a tour which gave us fun and controversy. [Edvard: don’t go pee like that again!]. Aah the first chance to see how, given a chance, the peloton will punish Sky.

Despite that little weeing incident, it was a great race and the teams are looking good. Just as we are getting into the classics, peddlers like Tom Boonen are coming into form. It’s all looking good on the road.

Not looking bad on the track either. Wendy Houvenaghel, Wendy Louise – speedy cycling lady. Sadly she is not Welsh and so did not get a gold in Denmark, but she is very fast. Only ever comes second to the real Queens of Speed. So where are we now?

Two days into the World Champs and we have a Gold, a silver and a bronze. Jesus effing crhist. Most nations would think that was good. Thing is we are Team GB and we are used to winning everything. Time to take the Mobile Maxx time out and think. Do we want to win now, or do we want to win in 2012? I’m with Chris and the Secret Squirrels on this one.

Love it when the boys and girls win, but love it more in Olympic year.

So if I can’t be yelling for the boys and girls in Denmark, I have to put my heart and soul into some cricket.

YES!!!!!!!!!!!! It’s the IPL and lord almighty, lord almighty we have the live cricket on the telly every fucking day!.

His truth is marching on – lordy lordy.

Every day, sweet honies, you can watch the bestest of Indian cricketers along with international stars like Fat Jack Kallis, Mad Dog Hayden, Blondie Shane, Albie (weird)~ Morkel and who knows who else. Blimey, you might even see Owais Shah – but not Dimi cos he’s hurt.

But why not give it a try – there are even a few Aussies there for you perverts who like that sort of thing.

IPL on ITV4 every day, every match. Live.



I’ve got my money on the Mumbai Indians and the Kings XI Punjab.

Got to love this comp.

And see what they do in Denmark.

Cycling and cricket. Am I the only person.

Probably yes as while I write this I am listening to this:

And so fine to know that we are fine and there are loads of other reasons for being fine but I can’t think of many right now.

2009: a review - mimitig

Almost three weeks into the new decade and already I am wondering what were the highlights of 2009. What are the big important memories of a year that was post-Olympic and pre-World Cup?

There were great achievements for lots of sportsmen and women and teams. Hey, Tiger Woods probably counts all of those in his portfolio – after all, if we are to believe the papers, he’s had more than a netball team to play with.

Seriously though, there were good things. In tennis Roger Federer won an amazing final at Wimbledon to become one of the real greats. Sadly tennis was then dragged down by Andre Agassi’s revelations – forget the drug stuff, the big thing was that he always hated tennis.

Cycling – previously the sport of the drug cheat – was proven clean. No cheating in the Tour and great stuff done by our very own Manx boy, Mark Cavendish who also won Milan-San Remo. At the first time of asking. He then went and won sprints in the Giro and then broke all records by winning six stages of the biggest sporting event of the year. Yes, that would be Le Tour de France – made even more important last year by the return of Lance Armstrong.

It’s not sure whether the race would have won as many headlines if Lance hadn’t been there, but Mark Cavendish’s achievements were top notch whatever. He is now recognized as the fastest man on two wheels over the 250 metres that count in a sprint finish. Hard to know what he will do this year to top his achievements of 2009.

The England and Wales cricket team went through hell at the start of the year – the disaster of Captain Kev and Coach Moores was widely documented and was pretty hideous but the upside was that Andrew Strauss was appointed captain and did what we really wanted. Regained the Ashes.

It was not a classic series, though nail-biting at certain times, and there were certainly no great national out-pourings of excitement at the end when Straussy and his men held the little urn in their hands.

Strauss and the boys went on to South Africa and at the time of writing, they are looking good to either draw the series or (is it cowardly to pray for rain?) win it. Whatever happens over the next few days, this England team have shown a lot of heart and guts and may be rather better prepared to take on a developing Australian side for the Ashes DownUnder in the final throes of 2010.

What else has happened? Well Beth Tweddle won a World Title in gymnastics and a couple of chaps got medals too. In athletics, Jessica Ennis became a World Champion as did hop. skip and jump chap Phillips Idowu. This was good, but not, as far as I read, hugely written about.

In motorsport we had another World Champion. Jenson Button won the first six races of the season, or something like that, then went into a bit of a down turn, but came good in the end and it was lovely, wasn’t it? Another British champ to follow in the footsteps of the greats like Jim Clark, Jackie Stewart, Graham Hill and the more recent fellers: Nigel, Damon and Lewis. Yeah, well not a great season in my view.

Better was the ever enthralling MotoGP championship. At the start of the season, not many would have put money on the eventual title winner. Rossi, despite being the defending champion, was a bit written off. But blimey, never mind poor Casey’s health issues, Valle rode every race as though his life was on the line and when he pulled off the win at Assen, he became only the second rider in history to win more than 100 races. Rossi went on to win the Championship of 2009 – a record breaking event in itself. Valentino has now won nine World Championships and is one of those immensely charismatic sportsmen that only appear once a decade, if that.

He has made motorcycle racing sexy for the 21st century and his brio and entire being hark back to the golden era of greats such as Mike Hailwood and of course, Valle’s own hero, Giacomo Agostini.

Lots of other things went on in 2009. There was a Six Nations Rugby tournament, but because I’m Welsh and we didn’t win, I chose to forget the season.

In football, my team won nothing, so I chose to forget that too.

Now we launch into 2010 – wondering whether our sportsmen and women will even attend the big international event of the year. Scotland and Wales have said they will send teams to Delhi for the Commonwealth Games – England hesitates and prevaricates.

While football will have its summer in the sun in South Africa, track and field athletes, swimmers, gymnasts, hockey players and many others will have to wait and see what the politicians say about Delhi.

What a crying shame that is and what a damning indictment on how sport in the UK is governed.

Why the BBC and the Public will get it wrong, again - Mimitig

Hello dear readers – it’s that time of year again. Yes the time when otherwise unengaged and uninitiated so-called “fans” will vote for the BBC Sports Personality of the Year.

So the first hurdle to overcome in this ridiculous charade is how the shortlist is arrived at. Does anyone know how? All I know is that at this time of writing, neither of my two sporting heroes of the year seem to have been mentioned anywhere.

I have no problem with recognizing the names that are being bandied about. Jessica Ennis is a fine athlete and won a brilliant gold medal in Berlin as did Phillipps Idowu. Great stuff, but they are not what you would call personalities.

Andrew Strauss captained the England and Wales Cricket team to an Ashes win – he is hardly mentioned, but can any of us forget the amazing scenes when England won the Ashes in 2005? Not Andrew’s fault that he only had a two year losing cycle to correct.

Then who are the others? David Hayes is a boxer who no-one had ever heard of in the general sporting field until a fight, in Germany, with a very big man. Now he is, apparently, a hero.

Well not in my eyes.

This year there are four huge sporting heroes – and all are pretty big and satisfying personalities. Of my four, one is ineligible for the BBC SPOT thing because he is foreign, but of course in a totally sane world, Valentino Rossi would win without a fight.

Vale may win the Overseas Award – if they have one. If they do and he doesn’t than that will be a travesty of justice because Rossi is now totally acknowledged as the GOAT. That is The Greatest Of All Time. The accolades and awards loaded onto Valentino’s shoulders this year seem unbearably heavy.

From Giacomo Agostini to Wayne Rainey to Kevin Schwantz – they all agree that Rossi is just a bit special, a bit different and a bit of, if they were to be really honest, a bit of a god. Rossi won the title this year, his ninth world title. He has just taken the biscuit really. Won titles in every class he has competed in and in recent years, he has lost and then come back and won and won again.

Valentino is the man.

So outside bikes with engines we look at bikes and men. This season only two men have really cut the mustard. Yes Lance returned, with all his va va voom and multi-million pay-offs to dodge the testers and go to the Tour DownUnder and get the papers writing about him.

He cycled well in the season – and made a lot of friends – but still managed to piss off the core of cycling fans by refusing to come out whole-heartedly on drug-free cycling. But never mind, he did good and got loads of press inches for the sport and when our Brad went up against him in the Tour – well it was fab.

The Tour was already getting column inches due to the Manx Express who was winning sprint after sprint. Then Brad was up there. In the mountains – going pedal for pedal against the world legend that is Lance Armstrong.

Ultimately Brad came in one place behind the American machine, but for cycling fans, this fourth place was a win.

So in the Tour, who is the winner? Our Brad or Marky Mark? It’s a hard call, but the thing is, not only did Mark get his six sprints and beat the best ever British record, but in the season, Mark got Milan-San Remo. A classic race. A first for Britain. (Oh and I forgot to mention that Mark got the Maglia Rosa in the Giro).

Cav is the classiest act this nation has, so boo to the Spot BBC thing because they won’t even list him and poo to most of Britain who don’t realize that they have a national treasure on their hands.

The BBC Sports Personality of the Year will be decided by people who don’t watch much sport and go on headlines.

Congratulations therefore to Jenson Button. But you don’t deserve it. OK – team about to crash out, Ross Brawn comes to the rescue, great car, brilliant start, fairytale and all of that. Great, and in my heart, I love that Jense won and a British team, oh it makes the little heart beat wilder, but the thing is, and this is the thing …

For me, cars ain’t the thing any more. Too much big business, too much Bernie Fucking Ecclestone… I want sports where people really matter and people make the difference.

So for me, there really is only one contender for this SPOTY thing. One man has made a difference to my sporting year. One man has inspired me, and one man makes me leap up off the sofa and yell.

That man is Mark Cavendish.

And he won’t win, probably won’t be short-listed, but he’s my boy. Last year, this year and no doubt in 2010. Cav is our boy.

Read and weep.

Thank you: what a weekend of achievement - mimitig

Are any of you old enough to remember Archie Bell? Probably not but this song is right there in my head as we celebrate yet another British World Champion.

Jenson Button signed off on a fairytale season in Brazil by winning the Drivers’ Championship in Formula 1 and ensuring that his team, Brawn, won the Constructor’s title.

Jenson, Jense, JB however you cry him, becomes the 10th British F1 World Champion, following in the hallowed footprints of Mike Hawthorn, Jimmy Clark, James Hunt, Sir Jackie Stewart, John Surtees (on two wheels as well), Graham Hill, Nigel Mansell, Damon Hill and Lewis Hamilton.

The facts say that this is the first time in 40 years that British drivers have won back to back titles. So well done Lewis and Jense.

The real story behind this year’s fight is not all the F1 political rubbish – the rows about the double diffusers, the scandal of Nelson Piquet and Renault, the story is about Brawn GP and Jenson Button.

Barely a year ago, in the off season, Honda pulled the plug on their F1 racing game. Hundreds of jobs were at stake in Brackley, Oxon, and around the F1 valley of suppliers. A management team, headed by engineering and technical guru Ross Brawn, bought into a dream and took charge of the team. At the start of the season it was such a fairytale. Button won the first six races out of seven and everything looked glorious.

Then the other teams got to grips with the technological developments and not just caught up, but overtook Brawn. Adrian Newey’s car (Red Bull) proved faster again and again and Brawn, a privateer team could not keep up.

The Championship was not a done deal. Vettel started winning, Mark Webber won and in the Brawn team, Rubens Barrichello started to outdo Button.

This weekend just gone, the teams were in Brazil, at Interlagos – one of the few truly iconic tracks left on the calendar. Qualifying was a ridiculous hit and miss weather affected scenario. Typical Brazil.

Then came the race. Button was near the back of the grid, Vettel also. Rubens on Pole – his home race. But as expected, lap one resulted in crash chaos and everything changed. While the chaps at the front did escape, some chaps behind got a get of jail card and could change their strategy.

Webber chose well, converted to a one-stop and drove sublimely to victory. Jense made up places and then as the race unfolded, drove like a fiend to overtake and overtake and bloody deserve his ultimate victory.

Rubens was unlucky – a puncture in the late stages ensuring that he finished behind his team-mate – but that’s the way of life. Them’s the breaks and Jense built his championship on superb early season victories.

Earlier in the day, another Aussie, Casey Stoner, rode quite brilliantly to a win at the Phillip Island circuit. Chased hard by the GOAT (Rossi), he proved to all and sundry that he has recovered from his illness and is right back where he wants to be.

Sweet Jorge crashed out on the first lap, so Rossi goes to the penultimate race with a 38 point margin, but for next season, Casey has shown he’s right back there.

Back in the UK, there were gymnastics going on in the place I can’t help thinking is called the Dome. I know, I know, it’s the O2, but – nah – it’s the Dome.

Anyway, although there was a bit of a nasty injury to the young Columbian girl, ultimately there was joy unbounded as Beth Tweddle – her of the teeth – won a gold medal for Floor.

That’s excellent stuff – Team GB is getting good at stuff like cycling (Bradley Wiggins just took his first Pro stage victory at the Herald Sun Tour downunder), rowing (we know we’re good at that) and all sorts of sitting down sports. Now we doing jumping up and down stuff and, as far as motor sport is concerned, we’re back where we belong.

No other nation has as many champs as we have. Even in the Schumacher years of domination, there was always Ross Brawn. Michael couldn’t have won without him.

This year is the joy unbounded. Jense gets the Driver’s title, Ross and the boys get the Team plaudits and bloody well deserved.

Roll on the last F1 race in Abu Dhabi, roll on Malaysia for the two-wheelers.

While cricket lurks (and get well again please Tresco) – waiting for the trip to South Africa, lets enjoy the last flings of the motorsport season.

Ryan Giggs: Missing you already... - PremCorrespondent

No meaningful football for almost two weeks! This must be the longest break since the big freeze of 1963, when your correspondent was obliged to light bonfires on the pitch to thaw the ground - in April! Undersoil heating has put a stop to that (and promoted the global warming that means that undersoil heating isn't necessary after all). So, with England qualified for the World Cup and very few people caring much about how the Scots, Irish (x2) and Welsh manage to fail this time round, the maw that is the football media needed something to fill it until the team news starts filtering through on October 16. So it's a big thanks to Sir Alex Ferguson, whose criticism of referee Alan Wiley's fitness has given everyone something to be sanctimonious about until "Rooney - injury scare?" takes over next week. Is there no end to this Scotsman's commitment to English football?

The games themselves. Portsmouth found a new owner, a win and a referee who was the only person in Molineux who failed to see a blatant penalty box handball. Wolves will have their chance to avenge that injustice next season - in the Championship. In the other Saturday games, Hull got a much needed win over Wigan, not that it'll keep them in the Premier League and Burnley got their usual home win, this time over Birmingham, whose Sebastian Larsson failed even to raise his arm after scoring in the last minute proving again that a "consolation goal" should be called a "no consolation goal" (as we all know). And Manchester United were behind for all but 15 minutes of their home game to Sunderland, but still salvaged a point, which either shows great self-belief or an unhealthy reliance on an absent 36 year-old. Tottenham either got a good point at Bolton or surrendered two vital points - being Tottenham, we just don't know and probably never will.

Come Sunday, Arsenal took turns to shoot the ball into the net against Blackburn with six of the youngsters getting to run around looking smug - especially Bendtner - but you don't win trophies by letting goals in at home, as Arsene has proved for years now. The two Blackburn goals told more than Arsenal's six about where they will finish in May. Everton and Fulham eked out post-Europa League draws, as the fixture burden stymies any chance they have of kicking on from last year's high placings, whilst Stoke consolidated admirable mid-tableness and West Ham wait for their season to start. The big one saw Chelsea's huge beasts run over a Liverpool XI that had Lucas in centre-midfield and therefore will never win anything of substance. Monday finished off football for a yawning eternity with little to separate Villa and Citeh, as, indeed, there will be at the end of the season.

Man of the Weekend was the fourth official at Old Trafford, who failed either to deck Sir Alex or to laugh at his antics. Win of the Weekend's was Chelsea's, showing that last week's defeat was a blip and that they are back on track for what should be a comfortable Title. Loss of the Weekend was Ryan Giggs - he is needed to provide elegance and dignity to his league and club, both of which lack those qualities without him. I'm off to hibernate.

Entering the final phase: Motorsport 2009 - mimitig

The weekend of October 3 and 4 saw both Formula 1 and MotoGP move into their final phase. Formula 1 went racing in Japan: after that only two races left and both flyaways – to Brazil and the finale at first time track Abu Dhabi.

MotoGP was in Portugal and Rossi, leading the Championship by 30 points going in to the weekend was looking to maintain his record of nine visits to Estoril and nine podiums. The bike boys also have two flyaways to come: Philip Island (Australia) and Malaysia, but return to Europe and Valencia for their grande finale.

Formula 1 went to Japan on the back of controversy – Renault’s race-fixing of the 2008 Singapore Grand Prix but, as is the way in F1, the talk this time was not about that, but all about Fernando Alonso’s move to Ferrari for 2010. One of the worst kept secrets in the paddock, this news “broke” during the preceding week and set off a predictable discussion about what this meant for everyone else. Where would Raikkonen go – back to McLaren? What about Heikki – one Finn in, one out, perhaps to Renault? Rosberg and Barrichello to swap at Brawn and Williams – maybe Mercedes taking a stake-holding in the Brawn team?

So much chatter that it almost drowned out the events of qualifying, but thanks to some rather careless driving, qually became unusually tense and exciting. The second session was red-flagged twice and the final session ended under a red flag – all of which threw the grid into some disarray.

Button and Barrichello – the top two drivers ended up 10th and 6th respectively after various penalties had been applied to drivers caught up in crashes and the aftermath of qualifying.

Vettel – needing to score at the max to stay in the hunt was untouched. A perfect lap delivered pole position and out in front, Seb was clear of the chaos.

The race started at 6am UK time – it needs the promise of an exciting race to get up that early. Thanks to the dramas of qualifying and the fact that Suzuka is one of the classic drivers’ tracks often delivering Championship deciding races – it’s safe to bet that a lot of people dragged themselves out of bed in the dark to see what would happen.

The pre-race build-up was one of the best of the season. Controversy put to bed, it was all about the racing. So much could happen – both the Drivers’ and Constructors’ titles were up for winning, but if results didn’t go Brawn’s way, then both, especially Drivers’ could become much more exciting.

As it happened, no titles were either won or lost. Vettel drove magnificently for a lights to flag victory – even a very late intervention of the safety car could not disrupt his rhythm. Trulli and Hamilton fought hard for second place, with the Italian gaining the honours for his Japanese Toyota team. A boost that might just keep the manufacturer in the sport a while longer.

Both Brawn drivers took points – Barrichello pipping JB to seventh and so stealing a point in the standings. Honda would have been looking on with mixed feelings – it was perfectly possible for Brawn to have taken enough points to win here, just 11 months after Honda withdrew from the sport. A bitter-sweet moment that has been postponed for surely the Constructors’ title will go to the newbies in Rio.

So all is still to play for in F1. Vettel’s 10 points put him right back in the hunt with only 16 points separating him from leader Button, Barrichello a mere 14 behind JB and two races to go.

In Portugal , although MotoGP does not go in for the level of controversy that has rocked F1 over the past few years, paddock talk was also much about contracts. Yamaha have decided to sign US rider Ben Spies to the Tech Two team, thus relegating our own James Toseland back to the world of Superbikes. Already a double World Champion (for Ducati and Honda), James has put a brave face on the situation and vows to bring the Superbike title home for Yamaha. Nicky Hayden has kept his Ducati contract, despite being pushed incredibly hard by Stoner’s stand-in Mika Kallio – who goes back to the satellite team as the rumours were confirmed and Stoner was back in the saddle for Estoril.

Casey – World Champion in 2007 – suffered a mystifying and debilitating illness which saw him exhausted and vomiting after the Donington race. He returned to his native Australia and underwent all manner of tests to ascertain the cause. With no definitive results, Casey has been eschewing a variety of foods to see if diet is at the nub of the matter, and judging by his physical appearance and performance on his comeback in Portugal, it would seem that cutting out lactose is a very good thing.

To everyone’s astonishment, not least his own, Stoner banged his bike on the front row and rode an exemplary race to second place. Beaten only by a stunningly on form Jorge Lorenzo – who had taken pole and was in a world of his own during the race.

Gorgeous George, sporting specially designed leathers and helmet to honour the 40th anniversary of the moon landing, could indeed have been on a different world as the race unfolded. Beaten off the line by the usual fast-starting pocket rocket that is tiny Dani Pedrosa, he quickly re-took the lead and sped away.

It was a demonstration of superiority that we normally see delivered by Lorenzo’s Italian team mate, the legend that is Valentino Rossi. In fact, Lorenzo, over the weekend, mirrored the performance that Rossi had turned in a month ago in Misano. On that occasion, Rossi aced every session, all the practice, the qualifying and the race. George returned the favour this time out.

With Rossi finishing in fourth (off the podium for the first time in Estoril), Lorenzo has blown the championship wide open. Three races to go, 75 points up for grabs and Rossi has what seems now a slender 18 point lead.

Stoner, despite the missed races, is only three points off third place – and puts the pressure on Pedrosa.

While the race itself was not a fest of excitement, the results make the championship far more exciting as we head to Stoner’s home race at Philip Island.

For British interest, James Toseland’s ninth place (good for him but not a thriller) was overshadowed by another Brit. Young Bradley Smith, riding in the 125cc class, took a fine third, leaving him second overall in the standings. We may be losing our only representative in the premier class of motor cycle racing, but at least we’ve got a youngster who shows the talent and spirit that could well take him into MotoGP within the next few years.

Fans of four- and two-wheeled sport with engines will be licking their lips with relish at the thought of high-octane racing for the final month or so. Pundits enjoy describing the contests as “going down to the wire”. This year it doesn’t feel like hype.

For all the trials of loyalty that F1 has put its supporters through this year, the last races are well set to deliver true excitement. In MotoGP, a championship that almost seemed sewn up by the GOAT after Misano is going to be one of the best in recent history.

It is going to be fun!