Imagine this. It is a couple of weeks before the start of a new Premiership season and David Beckham has been arrested, charged with animal cruelty. He says he didn't do it, but the four guys charged with him have confessed and implicated him. He faces a five year prison sentence and a huge fine.
Meanwhile, Rio Ferdinand has been arrested so often in the past few months, he has been banned from playing for a whole season, John Terry is suspended until October after serving a jail term for having an unlicensed firearm and the brightest young star in British football, the one everyone wanted to sign at the end of last season, is refusing to sign a deal until he is offered better terms by the club that thought they'd got him back in April.
It couldn't happen here, could it? You'd like to think not - even if I am writing this in the week that Lee Hughes got out of jail after serving half his sentence for causing death by dangerous driving. Now substitute the names of Michael Vick, Adam 'Pacman' Jones and Terry 'Tank' Johnson and you are just scratching the surface of the fun and games that has been the off-season in America's National Football League.
Of course, having an off season of 6 months does help when it comes to finding time to generate scandal, but in all of the above cases the player concerned managed to do the damage during the season itself and has spent his time fighting afterwards. Indeed Johnson, at the time a defensive lineman for the Chicago Bears, had to get permission from a judge to even play in the Superbowl in February - before nipping inside for two months, a consequence of the firearms offence and a parole violation. Jones, many think, has been harshly dealt with, as the Tennessee Titan's cornerback hasn't actually been convicted of any serious offence - he's just been arrested for a heck of a lot of minor ones.
But it is Vick who is in the biggest trouble. One of the finest quarterbacks of his generation, he has - again as I have been writing this - concluded a plea bargain in which he will admit breeding and training dogs for dogfighting, and allowing them to fight on his land. He faces 5 years in jail and a very big fine. Which is actually a lot better than the federal racketeering charges - basically, a charge that he funded the dogfighting operation and the betting on it - he would've faced without the plea bargain.
Moreover, having served his time, Vick is very unlikely to play football again. This is partly due to the stringent code of conduct brought in by the NFL and their new Commissioner Roger Goodall. Step out of line with Uncle Roger and you are looking at a 10 game suspension, minimum. Moderation has never been a big element of American sport, but I doubt anyone would have anticipated the Goodall revolution. No offence too trivial, no suspension too long, seems to be his motto. And that is for things which happen off the field.
Of course, if you take 1800 young men and pay them upwards of £1m each per year [on average] then you are bound to get one or two bits of misbehaviour. Goodall can never have expected someone to do something as grim as he did. At the same time, the other 1799 can hardly have anticipated a man so puritanical, they are expected to make Snow White look like a slut. Imagine the outcry here if a Premiership player got a 10 match ban if they were convicted of a motoring offence? Jermaine Pennant would just be an expensive footnote in football history, that's for sure.
All of which leaves the Atlanta Falcons without a quarterback, the Titans without their number one kick returner and the Bears without the cornerstone of their defensive line. Out in Cincinatti, no fewer than 9 players have been arrested in the last 12 months and the entire team must be on tenterhooks. The only team cheering will be the Oakland Raiders, who finally got number one draft pick JaMarcus Russell to sign his contract less than 48 hours before the pre-season games began.
With all of this buildup, this has to be one of the most exciting NFL seasons ever. I've not even considered the chances of the Indianapolis Colts retaining their title, of the Bears recovering from their SuperBowl humiliation, and the damage that may have been wrought upon perennial favourites Tampa Bay by their signing of the mercurial Randy Moss, but I can't wait for it all to start.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
Losing the plot - premcorrespondent
The problem with this year's league is you never know which bugger is going to lose next.
Spurs flatter to deceive with a no-show against Everton. Then they go and blow it with a 4-0 win. Newcastle have been busy blowing it for years - but Big Sam's side and the Villains somehow managed not to lose despite both sides deserving to.
Everton make a bold move to reclaim their loser tag, then Middleborough carelessly throw their's away.
Cleaners are still scrubbing the blood from the walls of the visitor’s dressing room at the JJB, limbs torn asunder as Sunderland - the side taking on Udae's Iraq's tag of team most afraid of defeat – somehow blow it against Wigan. They might have been able to claim referee persecution, but, I mean, letting Heskey score against you however offside he is while being unable to breech a defence marshalled by Titus Bramble - that's plain embarrassing.
Thank heaven for Bolton and Birmingham. Little Sam's side seems to be performing about as well as Pele in the bedroom and Brucie's bonus for promotion seems to be going back down again with the rapidity of a star of one of his chairman's quite excellent DVDs.
Lehman's punch lost Arsenal two points, and Tevez proved that spending £50 million on midfielders and strikers and part of football’s soul him still can't buy you a goal against a mediocre Sven side. Even one that persists in taking on General Melched's advice of walking slowly (with a football) towards the enemy’s lines.
As for the Super Sunday Title-Deciding Most Important Game since our 2pm kick off - I think we all know the loser there. Despite a strong challenge from Jose's tie knot and Rafa's beard - the ref lost it. Booking the Blues' entire odious back-four seems fair enough. But then failing to send any of them off? Was he listening to the Kop or not?
It seems the only loser we can properly rely on is me, at the nags, with a fist full of crisp £20 notes.
Spurs flatter to deceive with a no-show against Everton. Then they go and blow it with a 4-0 win. Newcastle have been busy blowing it for years - but Big Sam's side and the Villains somehow managed not to lose despite both sides deserving to.
Everton make a bold move to reclaim their loser tag, then Middleborough carelessly throw their's away.
Cleaners are still scrubbing the blood from the walls of the visitor’s dressing room at the JJB, limbs torn asunder as Sunderland - the side taking on Udae's Iraq's tag of team most afraid of defeat – somehow blow it against Wigan. They might have been able to claim referee persecution, but, I mean, letting Heskey score against you however offside he is while being unable to breech a defence marshalled by Titus Bramble - that's plain embarrassing.
Thank heaven for Bolton and Birmingham. Little Sam's side seems to be performing about as well as Pele in the bedroom and Brucie's bonus for promotion seems to be going back down again with the rapidity of a star of one of his chairman's quite excellent DVDs.
Lehman's punch lost Arsenal two points, and Tevez proved that spending £50 million on midfielders and strikers and part of football’s soul him still can't buy you a goal against a mediocre Sven side. Even one that persists in taking on General Melched's advice of walking slowly (with a football) towards the enemy’s lines.
As for the Super Sunday Title-Deciding Most Important Game since our 2pm kick off - I think we all know the loser there. Despite a strong challenge from Jose's tie knot and Rafa's beard - the ref lost it. Booking the Blues' entire odious back-four seems fair enough. But then failing to send any of them off? Was he listening to the Kop or not?
It seems the only loser we can properly rely on is me, at the nags, with a fist full of crisp £20 notes.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Sugar, Spice and No More Than Three Seconds - by Zephirine and Mimitig
To most people, the Baggy Green is the headgear proudly worn by the Australian cricket team. For others, the phrase has an altogether different connotation.
Some of us had to do our games lessons at school wearing skirts - short skimpy skirts, designed to reveal the podgy thighs characteristic of the adolescent British female - and under the skirts would be special knickers. Worn over the normal knickers, you understand, to provide an extra layer of modesty. They were more than the big pants of Bridget Jones fame: they were huge, baggy pants, and depending on your school uniform they might be navy, grey, or… dark green. One of us can never hear that Australian expression without a quiet smirk.
But worse, far worse than having to wear this combination of skimp and bag on a cold winter’s day while the teacher was warmly wrapped in her tracksuit, was having to play netball.
Research (well, one click on Wikipedia actually) informs us that netball, having been originally invented as a form of basketball specifically for women, is now “the pre-eminent women's team sport in Australia and New Zealand and is popular in Jamaica, Barbados, South Africa, Sri Lanka, and the United Kingdom”. Your correspondents find this hard to believe.
Based on personal experience, we maintain that netball is a stultifying distortion of everything that a ball game ought to be.
Think about this: when playing netball, you are not allowed to run with the ball. Or walk. Or move more than one step. Imagine a sport where, as soon as you get possession of the ball, you have to STAND STILL. That’s fun, isn’t it? Exciting? Dynamic? Not.
But you can’t stand still with the ball for more than three seconds. Got that? Can’t bounce the ball to keep possession, either.
You have to pass to somebody else. Aha. This is where we begin to see the hidden agenda of this ghastly game. Girlies must be made to share nicely. Girlies are not allowed to keep the ball and make a spectacular run down the court culminating in a flamboyant slam-dunk like the nasty boys do.
Only two players per team are allowed to shoot. So that’s great for the rest, eh? The star girlies who are the pets of the games teacher, they get to shoot, and everyone else has to be their little slaves and pass the ball to them so they can look good. And each player is only allowed in certain areas of the court. Girlies must remember their place and stay in it.
Zeph, who in those days was a bespectacled child who would rather have been reading a book anyway, recalls being bemused, in her baggy green knickers, by a so-called sport in which so many sporting skills were not allowed. “I remember the constant whistle-blowing from that games mistress with the strange frizzy hair, halting the game every time it threatened to get going - some infringement of the rules could be guaranteed to occur every two minutes or so. And the tall, rather boyish girl in the class who got on so well with the games mistress would somehow always come out ahead and get to score lots of goals.”
Mimitig, who was a teenage athletic star (her knickers were navy) remembers: “It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s winter. Games. That’s fine, obviously – we’ll run out onto to the field and play hockey. No, no – it’s time for netball. Oh the horror. First off it’s the picking of the team. Seven girls to each side, and I have to wait until the end to hear my name called. Me: Captain of the Under-15s (hockey), playing tennis for the Under-16s and swimming for my county – but I can’t get picked in a playground for netball. No wonder I hated it.” For Mimi, too, the sport is forever associated with the boys from the nearby school who would climb the fence to watch the girls playing netball. “We got cold, even colder on that little playground. It was desperate as the boys watched our knickers and we watched the favoured girls score goals.”
And yet, this restricted, artificial, frustrating game is ‘the pre-eminent women's team sport in Australia and New Zealand’. What’s wrong with Southern Hemisphere females? Why don’t they follow the fine traditions of their countries and play cricket or tennis? And it’s ‘popular in Jamaica, Barbados, South Africa, Sri Lanka, and the United Kingdom’. Well, it certainly isn’t popular with us two inhabitants of the UK, or anyone we know. And surely, surely if you live in Barbados there are better things to do than catch a ball and stand still for not more than three seconds before you pass it on, making sure that you’re in the right section of the court and not within touching distance of any other player? Wouldn’t a nice swim be preferable? Or a bit of beach volleyball?
Friday, August 17, 2007
Sisyphus and the King – file, Guitougoal (MotM & Offside)
Sisyphus and the King
Sitting in a slow corner thinking about the last car I ever owned, again, watching dust dance in shot sunlight shafts. A man came to me, a stranger and in a soft voice he said “Albert?”
“Sisyphus” I said, so we could talk.
Call me Sisyphus; every day I roll my rocks higher without any hope for effect or reward but just occasionally the reward is in the rolling of the rocks themselves.
“What do you remember about goalkeeping?” he seemed to be peering under my eyebrows.
As I’ve said "A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened."
It was no accident; he’d unlocked the door with a calm and steady hand. I was already strapping up the gloves, spitting on them, planting studs in the earth, filling territory, a rock in the tempestuous waters of my defence; a lion in the mouth of a mysterious cave for any opposition. I was a sleek cat, ferocious guardian in those days.
“Would you like to talk to Lev Yashin in Vegas, maybe write a few words?”
“The Russian? But, …he’s dead.” I blurted out.
“Aren’t we all?” he replied as he walked back into the shadows from which he had come, some tickets now on the floor by my foot.
Lev Yashin, the Russian colossus, the Black Spider, the man who’d said “What kind of a goalkeeper is the one who is not tormented by the goal he has allowed? He must be tormented! And if he is calm, that means the end. No matter what he had in the past, he has no future!”
That’s my kind of goalkeeper; he might be the King of Goalkeepers. Why Vegas? I thought.
*
I was always a stranger but here in the Vegas candy bowl I felt like ordinary boiled sugar in an acid ocean of saccharine explosions. The hawkers, the hoods, the strippers, their marks; all screaming for attention over the nerve-jangling nickel waves of the slots.
Here the hot sun was cooking a Petri dish of degenerates, they were sizzling, devolving in the harsh light. Even the sand here was different from the ancient dust in Algiers, here the dream had been infiltrated, subverted with rhinestone and here, decadence was a badge of honour.
Walking in from the Nevada sun, the bar was unlit, I was blind. I put my hand out and followed my way along the wall until I could see again. I thought I was alone.
“Lev?” I called out but the sound sank into the velvet walls. There was a cough from a table near the exit, I looked over and saw two figures silhouetted there; a big man and a man in a cape.
They’d been playing chess, some of the pieces had fallen over but all I could see was the lamplight in the eyes of the great man. More than 270 clean sheets, and over 150 penalty saves in a career that spanned 16 years in Russian, European and World football.
He smiled, he knew I was tongue tied.
“Can I introduce you to my friend?” he said “Sisyphus, this is, ah… Lucky, Lucky Jackson.”
Big aviator sunglasses in the gloom, a lock of black hair hanging, a curled lip.
“Please ta meet ya, man” he held out a hand and I saw the rings.
“What…what is this?” I shook his hand, it felt warm and delicate.
Elvis laughed like only he could, can, Lev Yashin was smirking.
In a low voice he quoted my own words back to me "Truly fertile Music, the only kind that will move us, that we shall truly appreciate, will be a Music conducive to Dream, which banishes all reason and analysis. One must not wish first to understand and then to feel. Art does not tolerate Reason.” And I understood.
“Pleased to meet you too Lucky” I said.
What follows is a record of our conversation that day, Lev, Lucky and I.
Sisyphus: With all the ephemeral show ponies on display these days, is anyone really practicing the true art of the goalkeeper?
Lev [laughing]: Well, goalkeeping is a funny art, not normal…and I was a bit of a rebel for my times...
Lucky: I think most people have an instinct to rebel…
Sisyphus: What is a rebel but a man who says “no”?
Lucky: I couldn’t say no to the army…
Lev: No, army no, but goalkeepers too. Goalkeeper can’t say no to the shot hein, like girls can’t say no to cars eh Lucky?
Lucky [grins]: I once gave a pretty waitress an Eldorado, as a tip!
Sisyphus: Mon dieu! The coffee must have been good! It’s a matter of consent non?
Lev: The goalkeeper consents to put his body between the ball and the net, then he agrees to be famous…
Sisyphus: Fame is an aberration, a construct, a fake.
Lucky: Yeah, there’s a Me impersonator in Stockholm now, an old ham calls himself Blue Swede Shoes, huh! Even the Admiral wasn’t that bad, man…
Colonel Parker: A fella’s gotta eat! Hi guys, thought I’d find you all here.
Lucky: Man, you nearly gave me another heart attack, I thought you’d been fired.
Colonel Parker: Another day another boulder eh Sisyphus? Listen guys, I got a great idea…
The fast talking man in the Panama hat told us of his vision, a movie “The Penalty” an all action romantic comedy based around the adventures of a maverick yet charismatic goalkeeper in his quest for the heart of his one true love.
Colonel Parker: Marilyn’s gonna come back, play the broad, hey, how much does it cost if it’s free?
Lucky: I..I..I’m not sure about this…Marilyn ya say?
Colonel Parker: Monsieur Camus will do the scribblin’ and big Lev already has a contract to consult. I ‘m gonna leave you to work it all out, gotta go, hasta la vista babies!
Colonel Parker slips off out on to the strip. There’s a pause while the dust settles.
Lev: He seems like a nice man da?
Lucky: He’s the devil in disguise, huh!
Sisyphus: There can be no devil without God and if there is no God…
Lucky: Y-you know, more than anything I’d wanna be a good actor, a great actor but I always ended up doing those soft movies, darn.
Sisyphus: Hmm, a penalty is a dramatic moment Lucky, maybe we can do something.
Lev: I can help, I’ve saved more penalties than anyone, ever, I think.
Sisyphus: Didn’t you used to wear all black too?
Lev: Yes, they called me the Black Spider, big scary black spider, but only a bad thing for the other team, hah, for Moscow I was their pet, their friend.
Lucky: Yeah man, I know that feeling, big scary with a soft heart
Sisyphus: Does the penalty fit the crime?
Lucky: I am in double trouble on this one sir, my mama told me ”You do the crime you do the time” but the Admiral, man, he did a whole lotta crimes and I’m doing the time see…
Lev: Ah, the gulag …
Sisyphus: So what kind of part would you really like to play?
Lucky [scratches head]: Ah… singing-millionaire playboy, race driver, sir
Lev: Isn’t that what King Con made you do before?
Lucky: Only about 25 times Sir
Lev: Couldn’t we make this goalkeeper er…less realistic?
Sisyphus: This time the hero should seek understanding, the strike is the question, the save is comprehension which is also the goal …
Lucky: I could use my Karate, you do Karate in football right?
Lev: It’s normally called shoulder barging, but they don’t do that in penalties, they just shake their hips and stare a bit.
Sisyphus: Stare a bit, hmmm.
Lucky: Shake their hips, yeah?
Lev: Yeah, then the striker strikes, the goalie dives, saves and the whole stadium go crazy, it’s the best feeling in the world…
Sisyphus: Surement, but there is that stare…
Lucky: And the hip action…
Lev: Well, yeah but it’s a big moment, the tension, a time for men to be men.
Lucky: A man is just a little boy wearing a mans body
Lev [laughing]: Yes, you feel like a little boy in front of 80,000 screaming people.
Lucky: I know man, I know.
Sisyphus: Hmph, we should be focusing on the moment, non?
Lev: Actually it goes a bit silent in that moment just before the penalty is taken
Sisyphus: During the staring bit
Lucky [stands up]: With the hips, like this
[Elvis lifts his arms a bit, snarls and slowly gyrates to a sudden brass band thrust. Camus falls off his chair]
Lev: Hey Lucky, be careful man, he’s an intellectual he doesn’t understand those things
Sisyphus: *!@*!
Lucky: Hey, sorry man, I got into the moment.
*
We ended up editing our footage down to a 7 hour stare, with strategically placed hips and glimpses of Marilyn in the stands. Elvis read the voiceover with dark liquid power, a eulogy that spanned the perspectives of each of this trinity.
In a moment that stretched out forever, the tunnel vision was a metaphor for the solitude of existence and the ultimate futility of the actions of the striker or the goalkeeper, even the manager.
I thought it was funny but Colonel Parker wasn’t too interested in the movie itself, he said "I don't give a damn about your movie script, I don't understand it and don't try to explain it, just sell it!" Later he apologized "Hey sorry guys, you don't have to be nice to people on the way up if you're not coming back down."
But when it got around to the filming he kept asking the producers for more money for every frame showing Elvis’ hips as he set himself on the goal line.
The film was never released, it turned out that Colonel Parker (a.k.a. King Con) was really a Dutch midfielder. He’d embroiled the genetically enhanced van de Kerkhof twins in a Total Exploitation scam to expose Elvis across all media, leading Michels’ to Total Football and players covering all positions.
That was why he’d never allowed Elvis to tour Europe, in case Bill Shankley discovered the secret and sought to turn Ron Yates into a playmaker occupying the hole just behind Roger Hunt. Hell hath no business like the beautiful game.
*
We met once more in that dark bar in the middle of downtown Vegas. We were all back dressed in black, sensing each others existence in the pale lamplight. Not much was said, we’d all died before.
In the end we stood on the strip that night and together we looked around, Lev saw a world of forbidden neon fruit, I saw electric fishing nets for fools.
Elvis just breathed it all in and when he breathed out the world seemed brighter. He swung his black cloak off, reversed it in a violins sweep and paused to fix a diamond clasp. The virgin white satin now shimmering in the city lights, the rhinestone, diamante and pearls their own luminance.
Elvis grinned, his plump cheeks, the star in his eye, his imperial radiance, seemed to be the source of all we purveyed.
The return of the King.
He hugged Lev Yashin with regal grace and Lev was swiftly whisked off by the men from the institute in a black sedan.
“See you on the other side, man” he said as he put his arms around me too. For an instant I knew what he meant. I started to say something but with a sideways look and a flick of his hair he was gone.
It was as if all those fake stars on the strip had suddenly become real. The goalkeeper, the philosopher the King; crying culture in the face of their destiny, choosing freedom for a chance to be better men.
I lit another cigarette, put my head down and started walking again.
Sitting in a slow corner thinking about the last car I ever owned, again, watching dust dance in shot sunlight shafts. A man came to me, a stranger and in a soft voice he said “Albert?”
“Sisyphus” I said, so we could talk.
Call me Sisyphus; every day I roll my rocks higher without any hope for effect or reward but just occasionally the reward is in the rolling of the rocks themselves.
“What do you remember about goalkeeping?” he seemed to be peering under my eyebrows.
As I’ve said "A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened."
It was no accident; he’d unlocked the door with a calm and steady hand. I was already strapping up the gloves, spitting on them, planting studs in the earth, filling territory, a rock in the tempestuous waters of my defence; a lion in the mouth of a mysterious cave for any opposition. I was a sleek cat, ferocious guardian in those days.
“Would you like to talk to Lev Yashin in Vegas, maybe write a few words?”
“The Russian? But, …he’s dead.” I blurted out.
“Aren’t we all?” he replied as he walked back into the shadows from which he had come, some tickets now on the floor by my foot.
Lev Yashin, the Russian colossus, the Black Spider, the man who’d said “What kind of a goalkeeper is the one who is not tormented by the goal he has allowed? He must be tormented! And if he is calm, that means the end. No matter what he had in the past, he has no future!”
That’s my kind of goalkeeper; he might be the King of Goalkeepers. Why Vegas? I thought.
*
I was always a stranger but here in the Vegas candy bowl I felt like ordinary boiled sugar in an acid ocean of saccharine explosions. The hawkers, the hoods, the strippers, their marks; all screaming for attention over the nerve-jangling nickel waves of the slots.
Here the hot sun was cooking a Petri dish of degenerates, they were sizzling, devolving in the harsh light. Even the sand here was different from the ancient dust in Algiers, here the dream had been infiltrated, subverted with rhinestone and here, decadence was a badge of honour.
Walking in from the Nevada sun, the bar was unlit, I was blind. I put my hand out and followed my way along the wall until I could see again. I thought I was alone.
“Lev?” I called out but the sound sank into the velvet walls. There was a cough from a table near the exit, I looked over and saw two figures silhouetted there; a big man and a man in a cape.
They’d been playing chess, some of the pieces had fallen over but all I could see was the lamplight in the eyes of the great man. More than 270 clean sheets, and over 150 penalty saves in a career that spanned 16 years in Russian, European and World football.
He smiled, he knew I was tongue tied.
“Can I introduce you to my friend?” he said “Sisyphus, this is, ah… Lucky, Lucky Jackson.”
Big aviator sunglasses in the gloom, a lock of black hair hanging, a curled lip.
“Please ta meet ya, man” he held out a hand and I saw the rings.
“What…what is this?” I shook his hand, it felt warm and delicate.
Elvis laughed like only he could, can, Lev Yashin was smirking.
In a low voice he quoted my own words back to me "Truly fertile Music, the only kind that will move us, that we shall truly appreciate, will be a Music conducive to Dream, which banishes all reason and analysis. One must not wish first to understand and then to feel. Art does not tolerate Reason.” And I understood.
“Pleased to meet you too Lucky” I said.
What follows is a record of our conversation that day, Lev, Lucky and I.
Sisyphus: With all the ephemeral show ponies on display these days, is anyone really practicing the true art of the goalkeeper?
Lev [laughing]: Well, goalkeeping is a funny art, not normal…and I was a bit of a rebel for my times...
Lucky: I think most people have an instinct to rebel…
Sisyphus: What is a rebel but a man who says “no”?
Lucky: I couldn’t say no to the army…
Lev: No, army no, but goalkeepers too. Goalkeeper can’t say no to the shot hein, like girls can’t say no to cars eh Lucky?
Lucky [grins]: I once gave a pretty waitress an Eldorado, as a tip!
Sisyphus: Mon dieu! The coffee must have been good! It’s a matter of consent non?
Lev: The goalkeeper consents to put his body between the ball and the net, then he agrees to be famous…
Sisyphus: Fame is an aberration, a construct, a fake.
Lucky: Yeah, there’s a Me impersonator in Stockholm now, an old ham calls himself Blue Swede Shoes, huh! Even the Admiral wasn’t that bad, man…
Colonel Parker: A fella’s gotta eat! Hi guys, thought I’d find you all here.
Lucky: Man, you nearly gave me another heart attack, I thought you’d been fired.
Colonel Parker: Another day another boulder eh Sisyphus? Listen guys, I got a great idea…
The fast talking man in the Panama hat told us of his vision, a movie “The Penalty” an all action romantic comedy based around the adventures of a maverick yet charismatic goalkeeper in his quest for the heart of his one true love.
Colonel Parker: Marilyn’s gonna come back, play the broad, hey, how much does it cost if it’s free?
Lucky: I..I..I’m not sure about this…Marilyn ya say?
Colonel Parker: Monsieur Camus will do the scribblin’ and big Lev already has a contract to consult. I ‘m gonna leave you to work it all out, gotta go, hasta la vista babies!
Colonel Parker slips off out on to the strip. There’s a pause while the dust settles.
Lev: He seems like a nice man da?
Lucky: He’s the devil in disguise, huh!
Sisyphus: There can be no devil without God and if there is no God…
Lucky: Y-you know, more than anything I’d wanna be a good actor, a great actor but I always ended up doing those soft movies, darn.
Sisyphus: Hmm, a penalty is a dramatic moment Lucky, maybe we can do something.
Lev: I can help, I’ve saved more penalties than anyone, ever, I think.
Sisyphus: Didn’t you used to wear all black too?
Lev: Yes, they called me the Black Spider, big scary black spider, but only a bad thing for the other team, hah, for Moscow I was their pet, their friend.
Lucky: Yeah man, I know that feeling, big scary with a soft heart
Sisyphus: Does the penalty fit the crime?
Lucky: I am in double trouble on this one sir, my mama told me ”You do the crime you do the time” but the Admiral, man, he did a whole lotta crimes and I’m doing the time see…
Lev: Ah, the gulag …
Sisyphus: So what kind of part would you really like to play?
Lucky [scratches head]: Ah… singing-millionaire playboy, race driver, sir
Lev: Isn’t that what King Con made you do before?
Lucky: Only about 25 times Sir
Lev: Couldn’t we make this goalkeeper er…less realistic?
Sisyphus: This time the hero should seek understanding, the strike is the question, the save is comprehension which is also the goal …
Lucky: I could use my Karate, you do Karate in football right?
Lev: It’s normally called shoulder barging, but they don’t do that in penalties, they just shake their hips and stare a bit.
Sisyphus: Stare a bit, hmmm.
Lucky: Shake their hips, yeah?
Lev: Yeah, then the striker strikes, the goalie dives, saves and the whole stadium go crazy, it’s the best feeling in the world…
Sisyphus: Surement, but there is that stare…
Lucky: And the hip action…
Lev: Well, yeah but it’s a big moment, the tension, a time for men to be men.
Lucky: A man is just a little boy wearing a mans body
Lev [laughing]: Yes, you feel like a little boy in front of 80,000 screaming people.
Lucky: I know man, I know.
Sisyphus: Hmph, we should be focusing on the moment, non?
Lev: Actually it goes a bit silent in that moment just before the penalty is taken
Sisyphus: During the staring bit
Lucky [stands up]: With the hips, like this
[Elvis lifts his arms a bit, snarls and slowly gyrates to a sudden brass band thrust. Camus falls off his chair]
Lev: Hey Lucky, be careful man, he’s an intellectual he doesn’t understand those things
Sisyphus: *!@*!
Lucky: Hey, sorry man, I got into the moment.
*
We ended up editing our footage down to a 7 hour stare, with strategically placed hips and glimpses of Marilyn in the stands. Elvis read the voiceover with dark liquid power, a eulogy that spanned the perspectives of each of this trinity.
In a moment that stretched out forever, the tunnel vision was a metaphor for the solitude of existence and the ultimate futility of the actions of the striker or the goalkeeper, even the manager.
I thought it was funny but Colonel Parker wasn’t too interested in the movie itself, he said "I don't give a damn about your movie script, I don't understand it and don't try to explain it, just sell it!" Later he apologized "Hey sorry guys, you don't have to be nice to people on the way up if you're not coming back down."
But when it got around to the filming he kept asking the producers for more money for every frame showing Elvis’ hips as he set himself on the goal line.
The film was never released, it turned out that Colonel Parker (a.k.a. King Con) was really a Dutch midfielder. He’d embroiled the genetically enhanced van de Kerkhof twins in a Total Exploitation scam to expose Elvis across all media, leading Michels’ to Total Football and players covering all positions.
That was why he’d never allowed Elvis to tour Europe, in case Bill Shankley discovered the secret and sought to turn Ron Yates into a playmaker occupying the hole just behind Roger Hunt. Hell hath no business like the beautiful game.
*
We met once more in that dark bar in the middle of downtown Vegas. We were all back dressed in black, sensing each others existence in the pale lamplight. Not much was said, we’d all died before.
In the end we stood on the strip that night and together we looked around, Lev saw a world of forbidden neon fruit, I saw electric fishing nets for fools.
Elvis just breathed it all in and when he breathed out the world seemed brighter. He swung his black cloak off, reversed it in a violins sweep and paused to fix a diamond clasp. The virgin white satin now shimmering in the city lights, the rhinestone, diamante and pearls their own luminance.
Elvis grinned, his plump cheeks, the star in his eye, his imperial radiance, seemed to be the source of all we purveyed.
The return of the King.
He hugged Lev Yashin with regal grace and Lev was swiftly whisked off by the men from the institute in a black sedan.
“See you on the other side, man” he said as he put his arms around me too. For an instant I knew what he meant. I started to say something but with a sideways look and a flick of his hair he was gone.
It was as if all those fake stars on the strip had suddenly become real. The goalkeeper, the philosopher the King; crying culture in the face of their destiny, choosing freedom for a chance to be better men.
I lit another cigarette, put my head down and started walking again.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Silly little winker - Premcorrespondent
Twenty thousand people winked at Richard Hughes last night as he used all his foreign guile to wind up Christiano Ronaldo and get him sent off.
In a 1-1 title abdication for United, Pompey were accused of using various sinister tricks to give their opponents a hard time. Christiano Ronaldo got so incensed by the unsporting behaviour that he brushed his head against some one’s nose, while Sulley Muntari went for the more traditional late tackle to earn his early bath.
‘A bit of rain and a physical game’ was all Howard Kendall ever needed to beat Spurs and it seems some things don’t change. The midweek football started at White Hart lane but only one side played as Spurs went home after seeing a tough kick from Stubbs in the warm up. They really never did replace Dave Mackay.
And as reported at the weekend, Jose really does want a more exciting season this year. He let Reading have a one goal lead before two players earning more than the whole town also earned the Champions elect their now not so vital three points.
In the rest of the midweek action, Sven showed with a 1-0 win over Derby that all England needed to win the world cup was to pick some foreigners and play piss poor teams every game.
Soon to be relegated Wigan’s ‘not-so-local boy made good’, Antoine Sibierski, scored a consolation winner against a poor Boro side.
Sunderland proved that fear of the manager does work on modern players. For the second time in two games a last minute goal ensured a blood free dressing room at the end of what turned out to be a 2-2 draw with Birmingham.
And finally Fulham beat Bolton with a winner from Alexi Smertin in the sort of game that desperately needed a Nat Lofthouse or Johnny Haynes to save the crowd from cold and wet multi-million pound dross.
Now I think the Taxi has just pulled up with my takeaway and a big bottle of brandy. That should do till the weekend.
In a 1-1 title abdication for United, Pompey were accused of using various sinister tricks to give their opponents a hard time. Christiano Ronaldo got so incensed by the unsporting behaviour that he brushed his head against some one’s nose, while Sulley Muntari went for the more traditional late tackle to earn his early bath.
‘A bit of rain and a physical game’ was all Howard Kendall ever needed to beat Spurs and it seems some things don’t change. The midweek football started at White Hart lane but only one side played as Spurs went home after seeing a tough kick from Stubbs in the warm up. They really never did replace Dave Mackay.
And as reported at the weekend, Jose really does want a more exciting season this year. He let Reading have a one goal lead before two players earning more than the whole town also earned the Champions elect their now not so vital three points.
In the rest of the midweek action, Sven showed with a 1-0 win over Derby that all England needed to win the world cup was to pick some foreigners and play piss poor teams every game.
Soon to be relegated Wigan’s ‘not-so-local boy made good’, Antoine Sibierski, scored a consolation winner against a poor Boro side.
Sunderland proved that fear of the manager does work on modern players. For the second time in two games a last minute goal ensured a blood free dressing room at the end of what turned out to be a 2-2 draw with Birmingham.
And finally Fulham beat Bolton with a winner from Alexi Smertin in the sort of game that desperately needed a Nat Lofthouse or Johnny Haynes to save the crowd from cold and wet multi-million pound dross.
Now I think the Taxi has just pulled up with my takeaway and a big bottle of brandy. That should do till the weekend.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Dear Aunt Polly - file
Aunt Polly is the agony-aunt for the footballing stars of Great Briton and beyond. She knows pain personally and will always try her best to help through her tears though she is not legally or morally responsible for any of the consequences of following any of her advice.Dear Aunt Polly,
I’m a struggling first time manager in one of the under divisions and I’ve just seen that the Carlisle manager Neil Macdonald has been sacked already. We’re only one game into the season, he drew that and his lot had finished eighth last season, my own record compares not well with his. How long do you think I’ve got?
Pickled Eggs
Dear Pickled Eggs,
Are you still there? Hard to say how long you’ve got, it depends on the particular flavour of your chairman’s mania. Some maverick owners will rant with spittle about loyalty right up to the moment they dump you however the more common or garden variety will just rant incomprehensibly and then sack you. If you’ve recently been given a vote of confidence or if your club has a loud supporter’s voice I’d find an estate agent from out of town.
Dear Aunt Polly,
I’ve got a pain in my foot and I think it might be one of me bones again, the doctors, manager, coach, players and a cleaner tried to explain it me but my I-pod was playing up. Does this mean I can’t drive me Hummer?
The King
Dear The King,
Sadly that’s probably true, is there still a bus service near where you live?
Dear Aunt Polly,
I’m a serial axe murderer from Haiti with lots of dosh I got from that government malarkey, I need a bit of a change of scene and I was thinking that a football club might be good for my image. Can you suggest a suitable one for a practical swashbuckling type like myself?
XXXX
Dear XXXX,
Aren’t you already here? Why don’t you stop by the Bates Motel in Leeds when you come over? Feel sure you’d be a warmly welcomed word to the wise.
The Wisdom of Footballers Quote of the Day:
Bobby Robson “We didn't underestimate them. They were just a lot better than we thought.”
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Bye George he did it - premcorrespondent
Jose said something a while ago (I would look it up but my drink-addled body will not respond well to extended research - the DT plays havvock wioth tyyping don't-cha know) that he would make the team more exciting.
And by jove he did it. 3-2. Against a relegation favourite. Fragile at the back and exhilerating going forward. How very Ranieri/Vialli/Gullit/Hoddle/any previous Chelsea manager of him.
Elsewhere in the league things went, largely, according to plan.
Big Sam, Billy Davies, and Roy Keane all showed it's the manager not the money that makes things happen. Oh, and Sven's Championship Manager game is going as well as the time I took over Atalanta and led them to international glory. He seems to have kept faith with Bianchi - as I did all those CL manager sessions ago (Bianchi did rather well for me as well). All he needs to do now is sign Supat Rungratsumaree from Pompey and Akinfeev from somewhere in Moscow and Bojinov from Lecce and the parallels will be unprecedented. But then the last time a real-life (is Sven alive? I've never been sure) manager believed ChampMan it didn't go well (http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/games/archives/2006/06/19/football_manager_for_real.html).
Nice to see that money without the manager is also rather pointless - kudos to West Ham, Pompey, Spurs and Man U for reminding us that football is about more than balance sheets.
Arsenal - as many predicted, having lost their Calvin Clien model and the king of cool himself - seem to have lost their je ne sais quois and their ability to beat a high line of defence. Fighting Fulham with indeed - such things have not been heard of since the bad old days when Voltzy (http://www.volzy.com/abitaboutme.html) lined up in the red and white.
Liverpool managed to drag victory out of the jaws of impotence and a dodgy beard - but then young Steven has a habit of pulling stunning stikes out of the jaws of own goal and penalty-giving-away mediocrity.
Right, I'm off to the nearest late licence offy where I will buy enough legal, mind-altering stuff to tide me over until Wednesday's six games of goodness.
Toodle-pip.
And by jove he did it. 3-2. Against a relegation favourite. Fragile at the back and exhilerating going forward. How very Ranieri/Vialli/Gullit/Hoddle/any previous Chelsea manager of him.
Elsewhere in the league things went, largely, according to plan.
Big Sam, Billy Davies, and Roy Keane all showed it's the manager not the money that makes things happen. Oh, and Sven's Championship Manager game is going as well as the time I took over Atalanta and led them to international glory. He seems to have kept faith with Bianchi - as I did all those CL manager sessions ago (Bianchi did rather well for me as well). All he needs to do now is sign Supat Rungratsumaree from Pompey and Akinfeev from somewhere in Moscow and Bojinov from Lecce and the parallels will be unprecedented. But then the last time a real-life (is Sven alive? I've never been sure) manager believed ChampMan it didn't go well (http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/games/archives/2006/06/19/football_manager_for_real.html).
Nice to see that money without the manager is also rather pointless - kudos to West Ham, Pompey, Spurs and Man U for reminding us that football is about more than balance sheets.
Arsenal - as many predicted, having lost their Calvin Clien model and the king of cool himself - seem to have lost their je ne sais quois and their ability to beat a high line of defence. Fighting Fulham with indeed - such things have not been heard of since the bad old days when Voltzy (http://www.volzy.com/abitaboutme.html) lined up in the red and white.
Liverpool managed to drag victory out of the jaws of impotence and a dodgy beard - but then young Steven has a habit of pulling stunning stikes out of the jaws of own goal and penalty-giving-away mediocrity.
Right, I'm off to the nearest late licence offy where I will buy enough legal, mind-altering stuff to tide me over until Wednesday's six games of goodness.
Toodle-pip.
Endorphin rush - Ebren
I went running yesterday. It's not something I do often, apart from my annual 10k road race (and at the rate I'm improving I'll be quicker than Paula Radcliffe by the time I'm 57), but after being blown away at football on Wednesday and having the true state of my physical conditioning thrown into sharp relief I felt the need to improve.
So, on a (the) glorious summer Saturday I dug out my running shoes and a David Beckham sleeveless vest trainers and whacked on some high-tempo rock on my iPod and headed out the door.
Unfortunately, I soon discovered why I don't go running very often.
It's dull, tiring, you feel bad when fat people pass you, walking, while eating an ice cream. Then, after deciding that you should run up a hill a bunch of fallow deer block your path.
Realising if I just turned around I would be forced to run past all the picnicking couples I had passed a mere two minutes earlier, making my athletic pose look about as convincing as Boris Johnson's I enacted an emergency detour.
Running through a lush field filled with happy couples making a far better use of the sunshine and nature than I had managed. I jogged on, then it hit me.
Ahead of me was a small hill, but a steep one. I accelerated. Five metres before the start of the hillock was a tree, two meters after the crest was another. I picked up my pace again.
I hit flat out at the first tree, and drove on. I found another gear halfway up and thrust out my chest for the tape at the second tree.
It was effortless, powerful, I couldn't feel my feet hitting the ground, I flew. I was alive.
I doubled my jogging (trudging) pace and headed for the park gate, ran on through and home.
I think I had just experienced my first endorphin rush, today my hamstrings hurt but the memory is strong. I might even go running again.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Here we go again - Margin
Tan topped up – check
Dreary FA Cup final purged from mind – check
New foreign signing looked up on youtube – check
Subscription to Sky Sports – check
Subscription to Setanta – check
Well earned enjoyment of some international cricket - check
‘Remember me’ box ticked for all football chat pages at work - check
Sunderland win the league in a dream – check
Made sure it was just a dream – check
Argument about Pele's merits on Guardian Unlimited – check
Argument about something political on same site - check
Pointless pre-season tour to developing world nation - check
Chat to boss about Luton Town’s prospects – check
Look up another new signing on youtube - check
Laugh at the latest woes to hit Leeds United – check
Laugh at the latest transfer into West Ham United - check
Youtube new youngster who definately is the real deal this time - check
Pointless pre-season friendly against local amateur side - check
Sign up to on-line Prediction league – check
Predict implausible first day wins for teams ending in ‘County’ - check
Predict 0-0 for Bolton v Newcastle – check
Pointless pre-season friendly against foreign team – check
Phone and shout at the ticket office when opening day ticket doesn't come – check
Don't phone back to apologise when it turns up the next day - check
Enter Fantasy football – check
Notice Dean Ashton going cheap after getting no fantasy points last year – check
Express horror at the number of pre-season injuries – check
Hope Sven does OK just to confound pundits – check
Ponder why the Championship doesn’t start two weeks before the Prem this year – check
Complain about the price of the new home shirt – check
Buy new away shirt – check
Ticket in hand and going no where 27 hours before kick off – check.
Believe this might just be the year – check
Realise it probably won’t be – check
Shout at monitor on seeing Lawro’s bland predictions – check
Forget all about work for the rest of the day – check.
Write silly check list - check
‘Remember me’ box ticked for all football chat pages at work - check
Sunderland win the league in a dream – check
Made sure it was just a dream – check
Argument about Pele's merits on Guardian Unlimited – check
Argument about something political on same site - check
Pointless pre-season tour to developing world nation - check
Chat to boss about Luton Town’s prospects – check
Look up another new signing on youtube - check
Laugh at the latest woes to hit Leeds United – check
Laugh at the latest transfer into West Ham United - check
Youtube new youngster who definately is the real deal this time - check
Pointless pre-season friendly against local amateur side - check
Sign up to on-line Prediction league – check
Predict implausible first day wins for teams ending in ‘County’ - check
Predict 0-0 for Bolton v Newcastle – check
Pointless pre-season friendly against foreign team – check
Phone and shout at the ticket office when opening day ticket doesn't come – check
Don't phone back to apologise when it turns up the next day - check
Enter Fantasy football – check
Notice Dean Ashton going cheap after getting no fantasy points last year – check
Express horror at the number of pre-season injuries – check
Hope Sven does OK just to confound pundits – check
Ponder why the Championship doesn’t start two weeks before the Prem this year – check
Complain about the price of the new home shirt – check
Buy new away shirt – check
Ticket in hand and going no where 27 hours before kick off – check.
Believe this might just be the year – check
Realise it probably won’t be – check
Shout at monitor on seeing Lawro’s bland predictions – check
Forget all about work for the rest of the day – check.
Write silly check list - check
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
At home with Michael Vaughan and "friends" – Mimitig and Mouth of the Mersey
After the debacle of the World Cup, and the leaks from the England Dressing-Room, some snitch (who shall remain nameless) revealed just how your fearless correspondents had managed to get both audio and video tapes of what had been presumed to be private discussions between Captain Vaughan and his troops. As a result, security has been tightened to the extent that we are powerless to infiltrate the sanctum – a shame you’ll all agree. However, some desperate undercover work has enabled us to bring you details of an evening chez Michael following the hideously bad performance at Trent Bridge. Our thanks go to our anonymous helper, and we hope you all enjoy what is a revelatory meeting with some key players in the England side.
MV: Honey I’m home – how are the kids?
Mrs MV: Sssh – I’ve only just put them to bed with a few sweeties to keep them quiet.
MV: Oh my Christ – you’ve not raided the pot of jelly-beans for them, have you? You know those aren’t for kids – they are weapons of mass destruction in my secret war.
Mrs MV: No, no, don’t panic – I used the jelly-babies. You said you didn’t need them anymore.
MV: Thank fuck – anyway, I forgot to tell you a few of the lads are coming over tonight. We’ve got to work out what the bastard fuck went wrong against India – did you get the giant bag of Pick ‘n Mix I asked for?
Mrs MV: Yes, yes, darling, everything’s in place. I checked for bugs and I’ve drawn all the curtains too. You’re quite safe.
(sound of doorbell ringing)
MV: That’ll be Ali – I asked him to come early. The others should be here in the next 10 minutes. I’ll talk to him in the kitchen, show the rest into the lounge, then man the look-out, and if you see Peter Moores approaching, activate the escape route for the lads.
(Mrs MV opens door to Ali Cook, shows him into the kitchen where MV waits – a gentle look on his face, then she retreats to await more furtive arrivals)
MV (jovially): Ali, come in boy, come in. Tea, sweeties, a little tube of pastilles perhaps? (his face changes – almost Jekyll and Hyde-like). What the bloody fuck did you think you were doing, you arsehole? Christ Almighty – The Telegraph of all places. To go and tell the world that our next weapon is the pastille? You fool, you absolute fool. How do think I feel now? I’ve gotta think up a new plan, I’ve gotta explain to the lads who’s fucked it up. Why (MV drops head into his hands and begins to sob), why Ali? Are you working for Them? Just get the fuck into the lounge now, sit in the corner chair, and don’t fucking open your mouth unless I tell you too. OK (doorbell rings again). The lads are here. Keep that lip buttoned. And you can stop that fucking Bambi look right now – it works on the Npower girls but not on Michael Fucking Vaughan.
MV: Hi boys – come in, sit down – no not the corner chair Belly, there’s someone sitting there. Anyone want a drink? No, good – glad one lesson has been learned. So we’re here, on our own, and not all of us (thank fuck none of you blew the whistle and told Mooresey that we’re meeting tonight), just to have a captain’s man-to-men with some of you responsible for the disaster at Nottingham. You all know exactly what I mean and let’s get to the main items.
Number One: Sweeties. Now I don’t know for certain who stuffed AD’s trouser pockets with the damned things but someone owes him a tenner for the dry cleaning. Pounds not rands KP. And give him the money for Gods’ sake, he’s bullying Jimmy enough as it is
Number Two: Batting - Colly don’t look like that – get back to reading the Brearley book, you’ve a lot of work soon. Michael Vaughan was the only batsman who played well, Michael fucking Vaughan – and you all know what happens when Michael gets upset. And if you get all Geordie on me, I’ll just remind you what I did to Harmison – yeah?
Ah, fuck’s sake KP: if you must bring food, eat with your mouth closed – I can see the flavour from here. I think I speak for us all (well, Belly for sure) when I say that we need you to get back in the runs. And it would help if you didn’t speak in Afrikaans to AD – yes, we all know the story about the lion in the playground, but, fuck Kev – I thought we’d got over that in the Caribbean. Getting all exclusive with Al doesn’t build the Team.
Last tonight, before you go:
Bowling: well, Ryan – You’re a haircut away from a contract son, so go and do it – I read that fucking article “The Locks of Sidebottom”. Christ’s sake, do we need another prima donna in the side?
Monty – Just stop signing the photographs and for fuck’s sake when you have to, just scribble your initials – there’s no need for these long personal messages, they’ll have us all doing it. Good stuff, but there were times when you were quicker than Ryan, so slow it down. There’s a youtube clip of Tendulkar being bowled by a slow, flighted delivery at Trent Bridge on the last tour that shows you how it’s done.
Chris – Stop texting your dad for a moment please. For a 21 year old, you did well, really well. You’ve a lot of potential there. Speak up! You’re 26 next month? I can’t believe it. Okay, not a bad show but I’m still looking for a bit more pace – use your fucking height for Christ’s sake.
That’s it for tonight. I could get into keeping, but Matt, I haven’t the strength. You’re not the worst I’ve seen – fuck, I had to captain Jones – but you’re not the best and if you want to stay in white, bugger off to the nets.
The lads gather up their pads and pencils, start shuffling out, cautiously in case Mrs MV has slipped up and not alerted them to the presence of their esteemed coach, but all is well.
One player remains behind – he’s worried because MV hasn’t singled him out for censure.
Ian Bell: Michael, please sir, what am I to do? Why was I invited here tonight with the big boys?
MV: Ian: sorry kid, didn’t see you there. Just do your best, boy, do your best. Class is permanent, form is temporary. I believe in you, I love you, I really do.
In a moment, scarily reminiscent of The Godfather, little Belly-Boy gets down on one knee and kisses the heavy gold ring Michael has recently taken to wearing.
Monday, July 30, 2007
When shareholders become scum - Allwell
Dave Allen is frustrated. Middle-aged and suited, with white hair smartly parted, he leans back in his chair and shakes his head at the TV cameras.
“You know, you can’t believe these people.”
Allen is chairman of Sheffield Wednesday Football Club. Together, he and fellow directors Geoff Hulley and Keith Addy own a controlling interest of 30% of the shares. Their latest attempt to sell those shares has failed. A bigger chunk of shares might be more attractive to a potential buyer. Allen knows where he might get some, maybe cheap.
Wednesdayite are the Sheffield Wednesday supporters’ trust. They run coaching courses for primary school children; their “smile” initiative buys match tickets from the club at full price and gives them to deserving people who would otherwise be unable to afford them; they donate money to local charities. Wednesdayite receive no funding from the club and no individual member can profit from their activities.
Allen works under no such limitations. Six years ago, he gave Wednesdayite a 10% shareholding saying, “The Sheffield Wednesday supporters are our greatest asset. They come to the matches, buy our shirts and do everything possible to support us. Their loyalty and commitment holds the key to our future. It is in recognition of this that myself, Mr Hulley and Mr Addy wish to make this gift.”
Now he wants it back. In return, he is offering to put £500,000 towards the acquisition and payment of players. The value of Wednesdayite’s shares is not clear, but is estimated to be in the region of £1.9m. Wednesdayite have declined.
Allen is displeased and has called a press conference.
“Ninety to 95 percent of fans of this football club are very happy with what’s going on, it’s just that lot that'll never be happy. You only want to come to the AGMs and listen to them…”
*
Cutlers’ Hall sits in the heart of Sheffield. A Monday night in November and people are gathering outside its extravagantly decorated main hall. They pause, blocked by the crowd. Squeezing through, they emerge into an aisle between two blocks of seating.
Above them a large chandelier dominates the elegantly corniced ceiling, while all around them giant formal portraits of past Master Cutlers are separated by marble-effect Corinthian columns. They scan the seats, 500 in total. All are taken. They return to the back of the hall and burrow in, standing wherever they can, facing a stage at the far end. There sit the directors.
This is the home of the trade guild of metal workers. Built in 1867 it is tonight the location of the Annual General Meeting of Sheffield Wednesday, a club formed in that same year and winners of four league championships and three FA Cups.
They have just sacked their manager, the ninth in as many years. They are £27m in debt. They are mid-table in the second tier of English football.
*
Dave Allen remembers: “By the way we were doing well.”
*
The meeting begins with the perfunctory execution of administrative tasks before questions are invited from shareholders.
Darryl Keys is the unpaid chairman of Wednesdayite. He was once a merchant bank director with responsibility for sports finance. Keys is concerned that, commercially, Wednesday are not as agile as they could be. He presents statistics illustrating how Wednesday’s revenue is significantly lower than comparable clubs at the same level. He provides examples of how those clubs maximise their income. He wonders whether Wednesday have room for improvement.
In reply, Wednesday’s finance director, Bob Grierson, rejects his advice, referring to the failure of Keys’ own business. He addresses none of the issues raised. Jeers rise up from the floor and a shout is directed towards the stage. “Shame on you.”
*
Dave Allen remembers: “These people who call themselves fans are nothing but a bunch of cretins, and I hope you’ve got that word right, cretins, cos that is what they are.”
*
A dark-haired woman walks, head down, to the front. Small and middle-aged, she tentatively approaches the microphone. Her eyes dart around the room, down to her hand-held notes, then around the room once more. She gives a small cough. Initially her voice is quiet and hoarse but soon she is speaking eloquently and passionately. Irma Kennedy has supported Wednesday for 40 years. She is not there to represent Wednesdayite. She talks as a supporter and as an individual shareholder.
“He (Allen) has told me I know nothing about football. While I do not profess to be an expert, I think I have earned the right to have an informed opinion and to have that opinion respected. It’s time you put aside your petty views and looked to rebuild your relationship with all fans.”
Her speech is reported in the Sheffield Star as “the most impassioned plea of the night”.
As she makes her back to her seat, applause fills the hall. Shouts merge together into an indistinct rumble of encouragement.
“You must stop insulting people like me,” she said.
*
Dave Allen remembers: “There was one woman stood up, the most venomous bitch I’ve ever come across in my life, she’d got three pages of diatribe to read out about me, it was just absolutely appalling.”
Allen again shakes his head and searches for the right word to describe his customers and fellow shareholders.
“Scum.”
Dave Allen remains as chairman of Sheffield Wednesday.
Dave Allen’s comments can be seen in this news clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78AsOlC4E-I
“You know, you can’t believe these people.”
Allen is chairman of Sheffield Wednesday Football Club. Together, he and fellow directors Geoff Hulley and Keith Addy own a controlling interest of 30% of the shares. Their latest attempt to sell those shares has failed. A bigger chunk of shares might be more attractive to a potential buyer. Allen knows where he might get some, maybe cheap.
Wednesdayite are the Sheffield Wednesday supporters’ trust. They run coaching courses for primary school children; their “smile” initiative buys match tickets from the club at full price and gives them to deserving people who would otherwise be unable to afford them; they donate money to local charities. Wednesdayite receive no funding from the club and no individual member can profit from their activities.
Allen works under no such limitations. Six years ago, he gave Wednesdayite a 10% shareholding saying, “The Sheffield Wednesday supporters are our greatest asset. They come to the matches, buy our shirts and do everything possible to support us. Their loyalty and commitment holds the key to our future. It is in recognition of this that myself, Mr Hulley and Mr Addy wish to make this gift.”
Now he wants it back. In return, he is offering to put £500,000 towards the acquisition and payment of players. The value of Wednesdayite’s shares is not clear, but is estimated to be in the region of £1.9m. Wednesdayite have declined.
Allen is displeased and has called a press conference.
“Ninety to 95 percent of fans of this football club are very happy with what’s going on, it’s just that lot that'll never be happy. You only want to come to the AGMs and listen to them…”
*
Cutlers’ Hall sits in the heart of Sheffield. A Monday night in November and people are gathering outside its extravagantly decorated main hall. They pause, blocked by the crowd. Squeezing through, they emerge into an aisle between two blocks of seating.
Above them a large chandelier dominates the elegantly corniced ceiling, while all around them giant formal portraits of past Master Cutlers are separated by marble-effect Corinthian columns. They scan the seats, 500 in total. All are taken. They return to the back of the hall and burrow in, standing wherever they can, facing a stage at the far end. There sit the directors.
This is the home of the trade guild of metal workers. Built in 1867 it is tonight the location of the Annual General Meeting of Sheffield Wednesday, a club formed in that same year and winners of four league championships and three FA Cups.
They have just sacked their manager, the ninth in as many years. They are £27m in debt. They are mid-table in the second tier of English football.
*
Dave Allen remembers: “By the way we were doing well.”
*
The meeting begins with the perfunctory execution of administrative tasks before questions are invited from shareholders.
Darryl Keys is the unpaid chairman of Wednesdayite. He was once a merchant bank director with responsibility for sports finance. Keys is concerned that, commercially, Wednesday are not as agile as they could be. He presents statistics illustrating how Wednesday’s revenue is significantly lower than comparable clubs at the same level. He provides examples of how those clubs maximise their income. He wonders whether Wednesday have room for improvement.
In reply, Wednesday’s finance director, Bob Grierson, rejects his advice, referring to the failure of Keys’ own business. He addresses none of the issues raised. Jeers rise up from the floor and a shout is directed towards the stage. “Shame on you.”
*
Dave Allen remembers: “These people who call themselves fans are nothing but a bunch of cretins, and I hope you’ve got that word right, cretins, cos that is what they are.”
*
A dark-haired woman walks, head down, to the front. Small and middle-aged, she tentatively approaches the microphone. Her eyes dart around the room, down to her hand-held notes, then around the room once more. She gives a small cough. Initially her voice is quiet and hoarse but soon she is speaking eloquently and passionately. Irma Kennedy has supported Wednesday for 40 years. She is not there to represent Wednesdayite. She talks as a supporter and as an individual shareholder.
“He (Allen) has told me I know nothing about football. While I do not profess to be an expert, I think I have earned the right to have an informed opinion and to have that opinion respected. It’s time you put aside your petty views and looked to rebuild your relationship with all fans.”
Her speech is reported in the Sheffield Star as “the most impassioned plea of the night”.
As she makes her back to her seat, applause fills the hall. Shouts merge together into an indistinct rumble of encouragement.
“You must stop insulting people like me,” she said.
*
Dave Allen remembers: “There was one woman stood up, the most venomous bitch I’ve ever come across in my life, she’d got three pages of diatribe to read out about me, it was just absolutely appalling.”
Allen again shakes his head and searches for the right word to describe his customers and fellow shareholders.
“Scum.”
Dave Allen remains as chairman of Sheffield Wednesday.
Dave Allen’s comments can be seen in this news clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78AsOlC4E-I
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Last day in Paris: end of the summer - mimitig
The peloton sweeps round the Place de la Concorde, under the watchful eye of the golden Maid of Orleans – iconic astride her horse, and a symbol of Paris to match the golden angel who looks down on Berlin, or our own Angel of the North.
It’s been a strange day, low-key, very little racing, no champagne roll-out at the start and I suppose that befits the ending of a Tour that promised so much when Ken, in a slightly crumpled white linen suit, waved the boys off in Whitehall three weeks ago. One hundred and forty-one men are riding to the finish line, actually one more than made it to Paris last year, although it seems that this year has seen the abandonnment of more than usual. But that’s because this year, we’ve lost two whole teams. Astana – forced out after Vinokourov’s positive doping sample, and the Cofidis team’s voluntary withdrawal when Moreni tested positive.
Once racing really started – two laps into the Champs Elysee, it was a bit of a race on. Team Barloworld (let’s not forget they were a wild-card entry but already with two Stage wins and likely to take King of the Mountains), worked like bastards to catch the breakaway. All on their own, it wasn’t going to work, but then Discovery came to the party and brought the ten-man break back.
With rain threatening – an unwanted weather intervention to make the cobbles of the final laps into a skating rink – Quickstep got themselves organised to chase the pack down and line up their man, Tom Boonen for a final sprint. It didn’t work, Lampre’s Daniel Bennati took the win, from Big Thor Hushovd and the old boy Eric Zabel.
don’t know what to think about this Tour overall. I don’t know that I believe in the Maillot Jaune. Classic commentators, and old Tour pros, Paul Sherwen and Phil Liggett seem sure that this has been a good Tour, that drug cheats are in the minority and catching the cheats is a good thing. David Millar – reformed character and outspoken in his views – reckons it’s been the cleanest Tour he’s ridden, maybe the cleanest ever. I guess we have to wait for the outcomes of the dope tests, look at the rest of the season, and see where we are come June/July next year. For me, I’ll follow the news, I am upset by what has happened this year, but I’ll watch Le Tour next summer and hope that by then we can believe in our heroes in lycra.
It’s been a strange day, low-key, very little racing, no champagne roll-out at the start and I suppose that befits the ending of a Tour that promised so much when Ken, in a slightly crumpled white linen suit, waved the boys off in Whitehall three weeks ago. One hundred and forty-one men are riding to the finish line, actually one more than made it to Paris last year, although it seems that this year has seen the abandonnment of more than usual. But that’s because this year, we’ve lost two whole teams. Astana – forced out after Vinokourov’s positive doping sample, and the Cofidis team’s voluntary withdrawal when Moreni tested positive.
Once racing really started – two laps into the Champs Elysee, it was a bit of a race on. Team Barloworld (let’s not forget they were a wild-card entry but already with two Stage wins and likely to take King of the Mountains), worked like bastards to catch the breakaway. All on their own, it wasn’t going to work, but then Discovery came to the party and brought the ten-man break back.
With rain threatening – an unwanted weather intervention to make the cobbles of the final laps into a skating rink – Quickstep got themselves organised to chase the pack down and line up their man, Tom Boonen for a final sprint. It didn’t work, Lampre’s Daniel Bennati took the win, from Big Thor Hushovd and the old boy Eric Zabel.
don’t know what to think about this Tour overall. I don’t know that I believe in the Maillot Jaune. Classic commentators, and old Tour pros, Paul Sherwen and Phil Liggett seem sure that this has been a good Tour, that drug cheats are in the minority and catching the cheats is a good thing. David Millar – reformed character and outspoken in his views – reckons it’s been the cleanest Tour he’s ridden, maybe the cleanest ever. I guess we have to wait for the outcomes of the dope tests, look at the rest of the season, and see where we are come June/July next year. For me, I’ll follow the news, I am upset by what has happened this year, but I’ll watch Le Tour next summer and hope that by then we can believe in our heroes in lycra.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The Pseudifier – by Offgrass & Greenside
A bierstube just off the autobahn. Outside, a faded, peeling poster promises: "For this night only - Madame Mimi's Lycra and Leather Extravaganza".
Inside, Oliver Kahn dances the can-can, accompanied by a bevy of lederhosen-clad Bavarian brass monkeys. Greengrass turns to Offside:
- So you brought me all this bloody road for this?
- That’s just a decoy, I’m trying to keep this quiet for the moment. Listen, Gigi, you've been away for a long time, so I was getting bored and I developped this… thing. Hang on, let me show you.
- What the f…?
- Oops, sorry. That’s just a test environment I created to fine tune the… oh, nevermind. Here, look at this.
- Pretty neat, hein? But look, what’s even better is that I can do it with people, you know, Pseuds. I can bring them to life. I tried it last weekend with Guitou and Marcela as guinea pigs and it worked fine. Well, Guitou’s hair came out all wrong and Marcela was a lot smaller than she should be, but otherwise it was great. All you need to do (Offside pastes the Pseuds’ Corner URL in the addres bar) is work from one of their comments on the site, and the machine… well, it’s complicated but, to put it in a nutshell, the letters and words solidify into a data stream that goes through… this… and the blogger materialises… like so…
Blinding flash of light. Greengrass stares, open mouthed…
Heartbreak, heartache and Gosh did I ever need that Lion-print bikini - Mimitig
So here we are, again. Drug cheating bastards making a mockery of the Lycra. I've cried, God only knows how many tears I've shed for the wishing of my sport to be clean. I thought this year we had it cracked (subliminal choice of words there), but I did believe that we had a Tour that would live up to its glorious start in London - Ken and Christian as one, smiling - oh smiling so much you had to be happy. Millions, sodding millions of Brits and visitors to our shores turned out to watch the Prologue and the first racing stage to Canterbury. Oh, we were so happy and so proud. I felt that my months of protecting and championing Pro-cycling were vindicated. Now as I write that word - I shudder from the Vin. It's so cruel and so unfair.
I can't bring you a report of the latest stage because I am in shock - I am horrified and sad, and in tears. My sport, my precious cycling is plunged back into its darkest Festina days. Brad Wiggins - so clean you could wash your clothes in him - was afraid to voice his doubts about Vino, and how many others feel the same?
Today we not only had more drug suspects, but also the horrifying sight of ETA using the Tour route as a means to terrorism. I live in a very safe place but I've just been to the south and at Luton Airport, there were men with guns and hostility. Coming home, to Inverness, how calm it was. Just a few chaps and girls in those luminous green jackets to not get run over by the planes. It was just so low-key. No scary stuff from terrorism, no scary stuff cos the rivers are flooding and, hey, I'm fine, my family is fine.
I would love to write something jolly and funny about this stage - but it's all shite and I hate it. I am, if you- my reader hadn't already grasped this, a romantic. I believe in the best of everyone, I trust. For me, it is the only way to live and follow the sports.
Apparently the stage ended with Rasmussen, Leipheimer and Contador taking the honours.
Well, however much of a naïve I am, there are two names there that I now doubt. Contador to win in Paris. Mimi to wear the bikini in Paris!
I can't bring you a report of the latest stage because I am in shock - I am horrified and sad, and in tears. My sport, my precious cycling is plunged back into its darkest Festina days. Brad Wiggins - so clean you could wash your clothes in him - was afraid to voice his doubts about Vino, and how many others feel the same?
Today we not only had more drug suspects, but also the horrifying sight of ETA using the Tour route as a means to terrorism. I live in a very safe place but I've just been to the south and at Luton Airport, there were men with guns and hostility. Coming home, to Inverness, how calm it was. Just a few chaps and girls in those luminous green jackets to not get run over by the planes. It was just so low-key. No scary stuff from terrorism, no scary stuff cos the rivers are flooding and, hey, I'm fine, my family is fine.
I would love to write something jolly and funny about this stage - but it's all shite and I hate it. I am, if you- my reader hadn't already grasped this, a romantic. I believe in the best of everyone, I trust. For me, it is the only way to live and follow the sports.
Apparently the stage ended with Rasmussen, Leipheimer and Contador taking the honours.
Well, however much of a naïve I am, there are two names there that I now doubt. Contador to win in Paris. Mimi to wear the bikini in Paris!
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Another new Argentine dawn - Paulita
Goals shouted from the depth of the lungs, firecrackers, honks, spontaneous gatherings of unknowns on the streets, nothing seems too much when celebrating a cup in Argentina. Especially in Buenos Aires, a city that exhales football through every pore and dresses accordingly in the colours of the winner, non-footballing citizens and losers can't help but finding themselves captives of the victory tide.
Not last Sunday anyway. Not the day in which Argentina obtained the World Cup U-20. Again. Despite the high TV viewings and the endless lines written in newspapers, that went by as quiet a Sunday as any other winter football-less Sunday in Argentina.
Imposingly, five of the last seven world cups in this category were won by Argentina, cumulating a total of six in the thirty years of history of this tournament.
The first one was delivered in 1979 by a dearly remembered pair: Ramón DÃaz and Diego Maradona, who claimed to have played his best football in that team. Considering the mouth that uttered those words or, better said, the left foot of that mouth, it's not hard to imagine exactly how good that football was. Or maybe it is. A final with Brazil in 1995, another with Uruguay in 1997, a home victory in 2001 with Saviola's record of eleven goals and the kick off of Messi's era in 2005 were the stops to the 'again' in 2007.
The WC U-20 took place under the shadow of Copa América and ironically ended casting a merciless light into the senior team and the final where 'it was all yellow'. No, the 'again' is not conceited and uppish, not even anesthetized by the habit of U-20 cups, or at least not entirely, but it's mostly saddened, disconcerted and slightly accusatory of the habit of not winning cups of the elders.
Nonetheless, whatever the context, the squad and coach, Hugo Tocalli (previously, Pekerman's assistant), deserve the accolades. If, as it is said, every champion needs to first experience rough times to forge character, this team forged its own at the South American Championship in which the qualification for the World Cup to be held in Canada was put in check.
In the beginning of the WC, they hammered Panama 6 - 0 and later on outplayed the joint favourites in this tournament, Mexico and Chile, the latter resulting in incidents between fans, players and the police. The fibre was displayed in the final, after an anxious start and the opener scored beautifully by the Czech Fenin and so was the flair. In the second half, Banega was lord and master of the midfield, Moralez moved mischievously from flank to flank, from box to box, and Aguero's back proved to be strong enough to carry the ten in his shirt. So convincing were the last 45 minutes that little it was noticed the absence of defender and captain Cahais, the speed and goals of De MarÃa and the homeostatic presence of Yacob.
As Tocalli puts it: "The objective is always the same: collaborate in the growth of footballers," these teams invite you to think about the future, the path that will hopefully lead them to the senior national team. A path that could be bumpy and bumpier if footballers keep emigrating early, as Insua (Liverpool) and Fazio (Sevilla), to foreign benches.
Not last Sunday anyway. Not the day in which Argentina obtained the World Cup U-20. Again. Despite the high TV viewings and the endless lines written in newspapers, that went by as quiet a Sunday as any other winter football-less Sunday in Argentina.
Imposingly, five of the last seven world cups in this category were won by Argentina, cumulating a total of six in the thirty years of history of this tournament.
The first one was delivered in 1979 by a dearly remembered pair: Ramón DÃaz and Diego Maradona, who claimed to have played his best football in that team. Considering the mouth that uttered those words or, better said, the left foot of that mouth, it's not hard to imagine exactly how good that football was. Or maybe it is. A final with Brazil in 1995, another with Uruguay in 1997, a home victory in 2001 with Saviola's record of eleven goals and the kick off of Messi's era in 2005 were the stops to the 'again' in 2007.
The WC U-20 took place under the shadow of Copa América and ironically ended casting a merciless light into the senior team and the final where 'it was all yellow'. No, the 'again' is not conceited and uppish, not even anesthetized by the habit of U-20 cups, or at least not entirely, but it's mostly saddened, disconcerted and slightly accusatory of the habit of not winning cups of the elders.
Nonetheless, whatever the context, the squad and coach, Hugo Tocalli (previously, Pekerman's assistant), deserve the accolades. If, as it is said, every champion needs to first experience rough times to forge character, this team forged its own at the South American Championship in which the qualification for the World Cup to be held in Canada was put in check.
In the beginning of the WC, they hammered Panama 6 - 0 and later on outplayed the joint favourites in this tournament, Mexico and Chile, the latter resulting in incidents between fans, players and the police. The fibre was displayed in the final, after an anxious start and the opener scored beautifully by the Czech Fenin and so was the flair. In the second half, Banega was lord and master of the midfield, Moralez moved mischievously from flank to flank, from box to box, and Aguero's back proved to be strong enough to carry the ten in his shirt. So convincing were the last 45 minutes that little it was noticed the absence of defender and captain Cahais, the speed and goals of De MarÃa and the homeostatic presence of Yacob.
As Tocalli puts it: "The objective is always the same: collaborate in the growth of footballers," these teams invite you to think about the future, the path that will hopefully lead them to the senior national team. A path that could be bumpy and bumpier if footballers keep emigrating early, as Insua (Liverpool) and Fazio (Sevilla), to foreign benches.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Football Dodgems: How to be cool in school - TonyEllis
Sports do not build character. They reveal it.
Heywood Broun (1888 - 1939)
Children as a social group are not very imaginative, so the ways to advancement in the playground hierarchy are fairly limited. In fact, there are only really three.
Method 1: Being Hard. The adult world might have problems in quantifying this, what with WBC, WBC, IBO etcetera, but there’s only one Hardest Kid in the School (well, two I suppose, as the girls had their own category). Unfortunately, this was far from being me, handicapped as I was by a morbid fear of pain. My father, desperate for a real boy, paid for me to have classes in Pushido, the ancient Japanese art of shoving and scowling. Not even this could overcome my basic cowardice.
Method 2: Getting in Trouble. Since a necessary corollary of this method was being rulered, slippered, caned or otherwise thrashed, I was again hamstrung by my algophobia, along with my uncanny ability to maintain a lie in any situation. The latter skill might have earned me a degree of respect, had I been able to claim it publicly. However, as my refusal to confess had led to one or two mass detentions, any boasting would have put me in a difficult situation (see method 1).
Method 3: Being Good at Sport. I think I could have been a contender in this category were it not for two early traumas. The first of these, aged 9, was overhearing my father describe my first appearance in the scouts’ football team to my mother. “I was so embarrassed - he was staggering around on those skinny legs like a new-born foal.” Yet far worse was to follow. In a last-ditch attempt to awaken my masculinity, I was sent to a boarding school. Here I was introduced to every cowardly weakling’s nightmare: Rugby.
My pathetic build should, by rights, have kept me safe from this appalling blood sport. However, in an ill-conceived attempt to appease a disappointed father and a psychopathic Welsh Sports Master, I won a hundred yards race for my house. The brief, warm glow of victory was quickly replaced by an icy terror: “Well, well, boyo, who’d have thought it? You’re very small, it’s true, but quick, mind. Right Wing. Saturday.
I really thought I’d got away with it. Eighty minutes of running up and down the wing and not a scratch or a bruise to show for it. My method was simple: if there was no-one near me, I could make a serious attempt to catch any passes that came my way; if any of the other team was within tackling distance, I would fumble the ball, making sure I fell into the nearest mud patch in my desperation to reach it. I even received a few hearty pats on the back from my team mates - the other side, weary of wasting their energy on an obvious non-combatant, had decided to focus their efforts on more worthy opponents, thus leaving me free to score the winning try.
There was no fooling Mr Roberts, though. ‘Beaten for cowardice’. I’ll never forget those words. At our school, we were made to fill in the punishment book ourselves.
While this last experience may have broken some people, it was the making of me. First of all, it gave me an appreciation of irony far beyond my years, according to Mr Wright, our English Literature Master. Secondly, I lost my terror of corporal punishment. In fact, had I known how much this service was going to cost today, I’d probably have made more of the opportunities afforded by a minor public school. In short, I was now primed for success. Who knows what I might have made of myself?
Back in Wanstead, however, events dictated otherwise. My father had run away with Laurie Webb, the bucket and sponge man for Clapton Orient, and next half-term hols I was introduced to Uncle Frank, mum’s new friend from the local Labour Party. Uncle Frank was a car worker and Trotskyite infiltrator, so, rather than being put on the train with my tuck box, I took the bus from our council house in Dagenham to Burton’s, a comprehensive in Rainham.
Drippy ex-public schoolboy goes to state school in Essex; you wouldn’t give much for my chances, would you? Yet this was 1970 and, for the first time in my life, I was perfectly placed to stake my claim for coolness. While uniform rules had been ruthlessly enforced at my previous school, the headmaster had a love for the Romantic poets which meant that hairstyles were largely left to our parents. Uncle Frank had done away with the holiday tradition of dragging me off for a short back and sides, so I started my first day with one of those floppy basin cuts you’ve probably seen in films starring Rupert Everett; a style which coincided perfectly with Essex youth’s segue from skin to suedehead. Although my crossed ‘t’s gave rise to accusations of homosexuality, a public school accent was perfectly suited to the baiting of teachers whose pathetic attempts at flagellation were now as flea-bites to me. The discovery of Uncle Frank’s stash moved me up rapidly through the playground ranks, but I didn’t reach the top until I invented Football Dodgems.
This game inside a game required one always to be where the ball was not, accurately judging the trajectory of each pass so as to be able to run away from the target area. Great skill was necessary, since the rules stated that neither the players of the official game nor the overseeing sports teacher should become aware of the game within. Each unwilling touch of the ball would earn a minus point, and the loser had to ask Jenny Dobson to go out with him.
At first there were only three of us. Still, by now it was possible for even tossers to be cool, as long as we had long hair and a collection of records by groups nobody else had ever heard of. We began to attract more players. As our numbers grew, the skill required became more demanding and we had to make some changes. Jenny Dobson’s schoolwork was suffering, for one thing. For another, maintaining some kind of flow became increasingly difficult as the number of genuine footballers went down. This last factor nearly saw the death of the game. Mr Owen, our psychopathic Welsh Sports teacher, finally noticed that something was amiss; difficult not to, really, given that the only person grimly hanging on to the outmoded football was the school captain, Kevin Bernard. As Kevin was being forced screaming into the ambulance, Billie Gover, the school grass, whispered something into Mr Owen’s ear.
My expulsion was, it seemed, a matter of formality. However, since that formality involved a meeting with Uncle Frank, Head of the Board of Governors, it was a chastened Mr Owen who took the early bath.
The rest is history. Uncle Frank became Minister for Sport under the premiership of Red Robbo and championed Football Dodgems as an antidote to competitive sport. It may only be a demonstration sport in China, but by 2012 it’ll be right up there with synchronised swimming, hopscotch and origami.
Heywood Broun (1888 - 1939)
Children as a social group are not very imaginative, so the ways to advancement in the playground hierarchy are fairly limited. In fact, there are only really three.
Method 1: Being Hard. The adult world might have problems in quantifying this, what with WBC, WBC, IBO etcetera, but there’s only one Hardest Kid in the School (well, two I suppose, as the girls had their own category). Unfortunately, this was far from being me, handicapped as I was by a morbid fear of pain. My father, desperate for a real boy, paid for me to have classes in Pushido, the ancient Japanese art of shoving and scowling. Not even this could overcome my basic cowardice.
Method 2: Getting in Trouble. Since a necessary corollary of this method was being rulered, slippered, caned or otherwise thrashed, I was again hamstrung by my algophobia, along with my uncanny ability to maintain a lie in any situation. The latter skill might have earned me a degree of respect, had I been able to claim it publicly. However, as my refusal to confess had led to one or two mass detentions, any boasting would have put me in a difficult situation (see method 1).
Method 3: Being Good at Sport. I think I could have been a contender in this category were it not for two early traumas. The first of these, aged 9, was overhearing my father describe my first appearance in the scouts’ football team to my mother. “I was so embarrassed - he was staggering around on those skinny legs like a new-born foal.” Yet far worse was to follow. In a last-ditch attempt to awaken my masculinity, I was sent to a boarding school. Here I was introduced to every cowardly weakling’s nightmare: Rugby.
My pathetic build should, by rights, have kept me safe from this appalling blood sport. However, in an ill-conceived attempt to appease a disappointed father and a psychopathic Welsh Sports Master, I won a hundred yards race for my house. The brief, warm glow of victory was quickly replaced by an icy terror: “Well, well, boyo, who’d have thought it? You’re very small, it’s true, but quick, mind. Right Wing. Saturday.
I really thought I’d got away with it. Eighty minutes of running up and down the wing and not a scratch or a bruise to show for it. My method was simple: if there was no-one near me, I could make a serious attempt to catch any passes that came my way; if any of the other team was within tackling distance, I would fumble the ball, making sure I fell into the nearest mud patch in my desperation to reach it. I even received a few hearty pats on the back from my team mates - the other side, weary of wasting their energy on an obvious non-combatant, had decided to focus their efforts on more worthy opponents, thus leaving me free to score the winning try.
There was no fooling Mr Roberts, though. ‘Beaten for cowardice’. I’ll never forget those words. At our school, we were made to fill in the punishment book ourselves.
While this last experience may have broken some people, it was the making of me. First of all, it gave me an appreciation of irony far beyond my years, according to Mr Wright, our English Literature Master. Secondly, I lost my terror of corporal punishment. In fact, had I known how much this service was going to cost today, I’d probably have made more of the opportunities afforded by a minor public school. In short, I was now primed for success. Who knows what I might have made of myself?
Back in Wanstead, however, events dictated otherwise. My father had run away with Laurie Webb, the bucket and sponge man for Clapton Orient, and next half-term hols I was introduced to Uncle Frank, mum’s new friend from the local Labour Party. Uncle Frank was a car worker and Trotskyite infiltrator, so, rather than being put on the train with my tuck box, I took the bus from our council house in Dagenham to Burton’s, a comprehensive in Rainham.
Drippy ex-public schoolboy goes to state school in Essex; you wouldn’t give much for my chances, would you? Yet this was 1970 and, for the first time in my life, I was perfectly placed to stake my claim for coolness. While uniform rules had been ruthlessly enforced at my previous school, the headmaster had a love for the Romantic poets which meant that hairstyles were largely left to our parents. Uncle Frank had done away with the holiday tradition of dragging me off for a short back and sides, so I started my first day with one of those floppy basin cuts you’ve probably seen in films starring Rupert Everett; a style which coincided perfectly with Essex youth’s segue from skin to suedehead. Although my crossed ‘t’s gave rise to accusations of homosexuality, a public school accent was perfectly suited to the baiting of teachers whose pathetic attempts at flagellation were now as flea-bites to me. The discovery of Uncle Frank’s stash moved me up rapidly through the playground ranks, but I didn’t reach the top until I invented Football Dodgems.
This game inside a game required one always to be where the ball was not, accurately judging the trajectory of each pass so as to be able to run away from the target area. Great skill was necessary, since the rules stated that neither the players of the official game nor the overseeing sports teacher should become aware of the game within. Each unwilling touch of the ball would earn a minus point, and the loser had to ask Jenny Dobson to go out with him.
At first there were only three of us. Still, by now it was possible for even tossers to be cool, as long as we had long hair and a collection of records by groups nobody else had ever heard of. We began to attract more players. As our numbers grew, the skill required became more demanding and we had to make some changes. Jenny Dobson’s schoolwork was suffering, for one thing. For another, maintaining some kind of flow became increasingly difficult as the number of genuine footballers went down. This last factor nearly saw the death of the game. Mr Owen, our psychopathic Welsh Sports teacher, finally noticed that something was amiss; difficult not to, really, given that the only person grimly hanging on to the outmoded football was the school captain, Kevin Bernard. As Kevin was being forced screaming into the ambulance, Billie Gover, the school grass, whispered something into Mr Owen’s ear.
My expulsion was, it seemed, a matter of formality. However, since that formality involved a meeting with Uncle Frank, Head of the Board of Governors, it was a chastened Mr Owen who took the early bath.
The rest is history. Uncle Frank became Minister for Sport under the premiership of Red Robbo and championed Football Dodgems as an antidote to competitive sport. It may only be a demonstration sport in China, but by 2012 it’ll be right up there with synchronised swimming, hopscotch and origami.
Long live the king - Nestaquin
Optometrist Geoffrey Francis Lawson, son of Wagga Wagga and known throughout the continent as plain old Henry, recently accepted a lucrative offer from the Pakistan Cricket Board to coach the national squad for the next two years. It is a curious decision for both parties.
When first approached some two months ago Lawson scoffed at the offer. “A 1000 planets would have to align” was his curt response when asked if he was interested. His concerns were many and serious.
At the time rumour and innuendo were rife about the nature of Bob Woolmer’s demise. Lawson spoke of “safety being a big factor” and no-one doubted whose safety Geoff was referring. Once the police investigations were complete Lawson warmed a little towards such a prominent appointment stating, “Once the Woolmer event was resolved, that made me feel better about things”.
There were, however, other fears that needed assuaging. Most of them concerning the Pakistani players. Chief amongst these worries was the attitude of the cricketers. There is a discernment throughout the cricketing world that Pakistan are unfit, ill disciplined and poorly motivated. There is plenty of evidence that this is indeed the case. The recent World Cup debacle and the petulant forfeiture at Kennington Oval in 2006 are two of the more publicized attestations of recent years.
Their opening bowlers Shoaib Akhtar and Mohammad Asif were pulled from the 2006 Champions Trophy after producing a positive urine test for nandrolone. Taken predominately by post menopausal women to treat osteoporisis, ingesting the banned anabolic steroid earned the meretricious Akhtar a 24 month ban, and in a somewhat perplexing decision, the equally guilty Asif a 12 month stint in the nets. These convictions were soon overturned in controversial circumstances. The players were found not guilty on appeal not because they were innocent but because of a legal technicality from the original case.
Lawson. as befits a country squire with a liberal education, adores the moral high ground and this situation disturbs him. Ethically, Henry sees the world mostly in black and white and his attitude regarding performance enhancing drugs is well known. Pakistan officials have been told in no uncertain terms that if there is a repeat indiscretion Lawson will resign immediately. Considering that players take these substances in the shadows away from prying eyes, and knowing that Lawson is an intelligent, experienced and skilled media performer, it is an obstreperously ill directed public ultimatum that will undoubtedly bear a bitter fruit in the fertile political soil that is Pakistan cricket.
It is anathema to an Australian sportsman to not give total effort when competing in a team environment. It is linked to the mythical and ephemeral ANZAC spirit affectionately and colloquially known as mateship. “Not having a go” is the greatest sporting sin an athlete can commit. Three seasons back on Pakistan’s last tour of Australia, Lawson in the employ as cricket analyst at the publicly owned Australian Broadcasting Commission routinely described the visitors cricket as abysmal and their efforts disgraceful. Always the public diplomat Henry balanced his views with the diametrically disguised diatribe along the theme that the team was brimming with talent.
Now a rookie international coach Lawson has stressed the importance of pride, mongrel and respect on every occasion available. In a lengthy interview with Cricinfo’s Assistant Editor Nagraj Gollapudi, the new coach put forward his philosophy for turning around Pakistan’s pusillanimous performances.
“As a captain or a coach or even as a spectator or a selector or a board member you expect the players to give 100 percent every time they walk on the field; now that 100 percent might vary if they are injured or tired but if they walk on to the field and give their maximum all the time then everyone walks away satisfied. That's what Australia do so well: they treat every single game as very important. They never go at it half-hearted, they never go at it three-quarters, they are always doing their best to win every game. That is a great approach to follow - that every game of cricket you play you have to treat it like it's your last one.”
It would appear obvious to most that the Pakistan Cricket Board have appointed Lawson with this philosophical paradigm in mind. Only three coaches were interviewed and all were Australian. Despite his inexperience and the natural language barrier - only 4 players within Pakistan’s squad understand English - the PCB chairman Dr Nasim Ashraf has admitted that it is the quintessential Australian sporting nature of Lawson that got him the nod over his vastly more successful and qualified compatriot Dav Whatmore, “He is an educated no-nonsense fellow with a positive outlook and that Australian attitude we are looking for”. Lawson concurred, “I think they appreciate how the Australian approach to playing cricket is a successful one and that's what they're trying to tap into”.
Lawson, before accepting the poisoned chalice, also expressed concerns about the rise of Islamic fundamentalism in mainstream Pakistani culture and the fact that the Pakistan Cricket Board’s patron - the real boss - is military dictator General Pervez Musharraf. He cited reports that the players infatuation with Islam was affecting their cricket, even stating that he had heard that fielders were substituted during international matches to allow them to kneel towards the Kaba and pay homage from the prayer mat. For a secular cricketer like Lawson this recent development in Pakistani society and sporting culture is barely comprehensible. “I’ll be having none of that” was his final comment on the situation before appointment.
Coronated King Henry in the Pakistani media, Lawson has now softened his tone, "I believe they have overcome those obstacles," he said. "I think the board, the players and maybe some religious leaders have set out some conditions for when players can pray during matches, and how much work they can do during Ramadan. They are professional athletes, and as a coach you are looking for them to maximise their own potential.”
It is ironic that in a country that prohibits gambling that the PCB would plunge so heavily in entrusting Geoff Lawson with the stewardship of the national side. He possesses a mediocre decade old first-class coaching record and has no international experience, he understands very little about the changing nature of Pakistani society and he proudly possesses the natural lack of empathy required of an Australian Test quick. He said upon his appointment, "I don't suffer fools and I don't put up with second best”.
Combine Lawson’s quirks, insecurities and forthright attitude with the fractious nature of the Pakistani administration, an out of the loop and outspoken ex-player lobby, a newly appointed untested captain, a caviling squad with a poor work ethic, in addition to the widening linguistic, religious and cultural divide between the West and Pakistan, all under the unsleeping eye of an unpopular and tottering military dictatorship and it is not difficult to imagine some tough times ahead for the man affectionately known as Henry.
When first approached some two months ago Lawson scoffed at the offer. “A 1000 planets would have to align” was his curt response when asked if he was interested. His concerns were many and serious.
At the time rumour and innuendo were rife about the nature of Bob Woolmer’s demise. Lawson spoke of “safety being a big factor” and no-one doubted whose safety Geoff was referring. Once the police investigations were complete Lawson warmed a little towards such a prominent appointment stating, “Once the Woolmer event was resolved, that made me feel better about things”.
There were, however, other fears that needed assuaging. Most of them concerning the Pakistani players. Chief amongst these worries was the attitude of the cricketers. There is a discernment throughout the cricketing world that Pakistan are unfit, ill disciplined and poorly motivated. There is plenty of evidence that this is indeed the case. The recent World Cup debacle and the petulant forfeiture at Kennington Oval in 2006 are two of the more publicized attestations of recent years.
Their opening bowlers Shoaib Akhtar and Mohammad Asif were pulled from the 2006 Champions Trophy after producing a positive urine test for nandrolone. Taken predominately by post menopausal women to treat osteoporisis, ingesting the banned anabolic steroid earned the meretricious Akhtar a 24 month ban, and in a somewhat perplexing decision, the equally guilty Asif a 12 month stint in the nets. These convictions were soon overturned in controversial circumstances. The players were found not guilty on appeal not because they were innocent but because of a legal technicality from the original case.
Lawson. as befits a country squire with a liberal education, adores the moral high ground and this situation disturbs him. Ethically, Henry sees the world mostly in black and white and his attitude regarding performance enhancing drugs is well known. Pakistan officials have been told in no uncertain terms that if there is a repeat indiscretion Lawson will resign immediately. Considering that players take these substances in the shadows away from prying eyes, and knowing that Lawson is an intelligent, experienced and skilled media performer, it is an obstreperously ill directed public ultimatum that will undoubtedly bear a bitter fruit in the fertile political soil that is Pakistan cricket.
It is anathema to an Australian sportsman to not give total effort when competing in a team environment. It is linked to the mythical and ephemeral ANZAC spirit affectionately and colloquially known as mateship. “Not having a go” is the greatest sporting sin an athlete can commit. Three seasons back on Pakistan’s last tour of Australia, Lawson in the employ as cricket analyst at the publicly owned Australian Broadcasting Commission routinely described the visitors cricket as abysmal and their efforts disgraceful. Always the public diplomat Henry balanced his views with the diametrically disguised diatribe along the theme that the team was brimming with talent.
Now a rookie international coach Lawson has stressed the importance of pride, mongrel and respect on every occasion available. In a lengthy interview with Cricinfo’s Assistant Editor Nagraj Gollapudi, the new coach put forward his philosophy for turning around Pakistan’s pusillanimous performances.
“As a captain or a coach or even as a spectator or a selector or a board member you expect the players to give 100 percent every time they walk on the field; now that 100 percent might vary if they are injured or tired but if they walk on to the field and give their maximum all the time then everyone walks away satisfied. That's what Australia do so well: they treat every single game as very important. They never go at it half-hearted, they never go at it three-quarters, they are always doing their best to win every game. That is a great approach to follow - that every game of cricket you play you have to treat it like it's your last one.”
It would appear obvious to most that the Pakistan Cricket Board have appointed Lawson with this philosophical paradigm in mind. Only three coaches were interviewed and all were Australian. Despite his inexperience and the natural language barrier - only 4 players within Pakistan’s squad understand English - the PCB chairman Dr Nasim Ashraf has admitted that it is the quintessential Australian sporting nature of Lawson that got him the nod over his vastly more successful and qualified compatriot Dav Whatmore, “He is an educated no-nonsense fellow with a positive outlook and that Australian attitude we are looking for”. Lawson concurred, “I think they appreciate how the Australian approach to playing cricket is a successful one and that's what they're trying to tap into”.
Lawson, before accepting the poisoned chalice, also expressed concerns about the rise of Islamic fundamentalism in mainstream Pakistani culture and the fact that the Pakistan Cricket Board’s patron - the real boss - is military dictator General Pervez Musharraf. He cited reports that the players infatuation with Islam was affecting their cricket, even stating that he had heard that fielders were substituted during international matches to allow them to kneel towards the Kaba and pay homage from the prayer mat. For a secular cricketer like Lawson this recent development in Pakistani society and sporting culture is barely comprehensible. “I’ll be having none of that” was his final comment on the situation before appointment.
Coronated King Henry in the Pakistani media, Lawson has now softened his tone, "I believe they have overcome those obstacles," he said. "I think the board, the players and maybe some religious leaders have set out some conditions for when players can pray during matches, and how much work they can do during Ramadan. They are professional athletes, and as a coach you are looking for them to maximise their own potential.”
It is ironic that in a country that prohibits gambling that the PCB would plunge so heavily in entrusting Geoff Lawson with the stewardship of the national side. He possesses a mediocre decade old first-class coaching record and has no international experience, he understands very little about the changing nature of Pakistani society and he proudly possesses the natural lack of empathy required of an Australian Test quick. He said upon his appointment, "I don't suffer fools and I don't put up with second best”.
Combine Lawson’s quirks, insecurities and forthright attitude with the fractious nature of the Pakistani administration, an out of the loop and outspoken ex-player lobby, a newly appointed untested captain, a caviling squad with a poor work ethic, in addition to the widening linguistic, religious and cultural divide between the West and Pakistan, all under the unsleeping eye of an unpopular and tottering military dictatorship and it is not difficult to imagine some tough times ahead for the man affectionately known as Henry.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Canny Contador chases Chicken and conquers col - Mouth of the Mersey
With the 15 km climb to the Plateau de Beille rearing up before them, the main contenders were massed to attack the inevitable Spanish breakaways - all except Vinokourov who paid for yesterday's fine stage win.
Rabobank immediately went to the front to distance the pretenders to Rasmussen's jersey with Michael Boogerd showing real strength in his last Tour. Valverde was the first GC man to go and Kloden was looking troubled. Discovery's Popovych then worked very hard for Leipheimer and Contador, before the final selection was made.
The lead group contained a super-strong Contador, a nervous Rasmussen, an experienced Sastre, an unpredictable Soler, and two riders who were marking moves desperately, Evans and Leipheimer. Rasmussen and Contador soon realised that they were the strongest and rode together to distance Evans and Kloden who were intent on limiting their losses to the climbers and thinking about Saturday.
As the pair entered the cauldron of fans unique to a mountain-top Tour finish, the alliance split as Rasmussen bickered with Contador expecting the young Spaniard to come through and do a turn. No doubt under orders from the wily Bruyneel, Contador was having none of it, knowing that Rasmussen had to pull him to the finish to maximise his gains over Kloden and Evans. (In the old days, Rasmussen would simply have sold the stage to Contador in exchange for his work).
Sure enough, Contador came round the Maillot Jaune for the stage, a huge win for him so close to the Spanish border. They were chased home by the eccentric but gifted Columbian Soler, then two men not quite strong enough for the stage, Leipheimer and Sastre, then the two time-trial specialists, Evans and Kloden, both of whom were smart and brave.
After two tumultuous days, Rasmussen is still in yellow with Contador at 2.23, Evans at 3.04, Leipheimer at 4.29 and Kloden at 4.38. Tomorrow is another brutal day, with a brief respite on Tuesday before the last mountain stage on Wednesday and the crucial contre-le-montre lurking on Saturday. Rasmussen is now odds-on, which can't be right, with Contador good value at 9/4, Evans at 7/1 and Kloden available at 12/1, which must be too generous with two mountain stages and the time trial to come. Contador looks the coming man to me and may usher in a new era for the Tour after last year's disaster - let's hope so, whoever wears yellow in Paris. Join Mimi next week for her inimitable reportage.
Rabobank immediately went to the front to distance the pretenders to Rasmussen's jersey with Michael Boogerd showing real strength in his last Tour. Valverde was the first GC man to go and Kloden was looking troubled. Discovery's Popovych then worked very hard for Leipheimer and Contador, before the final selection was made.
The lead group contained a super-strong Contador, a nervous Rasmussen, an experienced Sastre, an unpredictable Soler, and two riders who were marking moves desperately, Evans and Leipheimer. Rasmussen and Contador soon realised that they were the strongest and rode together to distance Evans and Kloden who were intent on limiting their losses to the climbers and thinking about Saturday.
As the pair entered the cauldron of fans unique to a mountain-top Tour finish, the alliance split as Rasmussen bickered with Contador expecting the young Spaniard to come through and do a turn. No doubt under orders from the wily Bruyneel, Contador was having none of it, knowing that Rasmussen had to pull him to the finish to maximise his gains over Kloden and Evans. (In the old days, Rasmussen would simply have sold the stage to Contador in exchange for his work).
Sure enough, Contador came round the Maillot Jaune for the stage, a huge win for him so close to the Spanish border. They were chased home by the eccentric but gifted Columbian Soler, then two men not quite strong enough for the stage, Leipheimer and Sastre, then the two time-trial specialists, Evans and Kloden, both of whom were smart and brave.
After two tumultuous days, Rasmussen is still in yellow with Contador at 2.23, Evans at 3.04, Leipheimer at 4.29 and Kloden at 4.38. Tomorrow is another brutal day, with a brief respite on Tuesday before the last mountain stage on Wednesday and the crucial contre-le-montre lurking on Saturday. Rasmussen is now odds-on, which can't be right, with Contador good value at 9/4, Evans at 7/1 and Kloden available at 12/1, which must be too generous with two mountain stages and the time trial to come. Contador looks the coming man to me and may usher in a new era for the Tour after last year's disaster - let's hope so, whoever wears yellow in Paris. Join Mimi next week for her inimitable reportage.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Brave Chicken - Mouth of the Mersey
Recent years have seen many Tours de France follow a predictable pattern: Big Mig hangs on in the mountains, then pulverises the opposition in the time trials; Lance wins the first mountain stage and the time trials but spends the rest of the race behind his Jim Jones style dedicated team; Ullrich finishes second; Virenque wins when it no longer matters. But after 2006's welcome return of perspective (too much perspective), 2007's race is continuing a welcome retreat from the formulaic.
This weekend was always going to shuffle the pack with Sunday's mountain top finish for the climbers and Saturday's contre-le-montre for the triallists. Albi's Gothic piles provided the inevitable picturesque backdrop as the riders covered 54km of Tarn's rolling rainy roads. There were a few casualties, but handling the road has always been part of a TdF contender's challenges. None of the GC men hit the road, although Alejandro Valverde could hardly have lost more time had he done so.
The big ride came from Alexander Vinokourov, who is talking up his chances, but his eyes are telling us that it's too late. Chapeau to Vino who showed a competitor's spirit. The other big winners were Cadel Evans (now 1.00 down in second), Alberto Contador (at 2.31) and Andreas Kloden (at 2.34).
But my ride of the day was the Maillot Jaune's. Rasmussen is a notoriously bad time-triallist, especially under pressure in poor conditions and he must have felt the weight of an orgy of drug stories these past few days as he stared at the tarmac from the start house. So it was a brave Chicken indeed who held on to the Jersey and it will take a big ride to wrest it from his shoulders tomorrow.
Bradley Wiggins showed himself to be a stage winner of the future with a very fine ride for fifth place on the day, backed-up with a superbly phlegmatic interview from the team van.
Aussie Evans is the new favourite at 11/4, Rasmussen you can have at 7/2, Vino a very skinny 4/1, Kloden and Contador a handy 5/1. With the race heading towards tens of thousands of Spaniards lining the roads of the Pyrenees, I like the look of the young, but very strong, Contador.
This weekend was always going to shuffle the pack with Sunday's mountain top finish for the climbers and Saturday's contre-le-montre for the triallists. Albi's Gothic piles provided the inevitable picturesque backdrop as the riders covered 54km of Tarn's rolling rainy roads. There were a few casualties, but handling the road has always been part of a TdF contender's challenges. None of the GC men hit the road, although Alejandro Valverde could hardly have lost more time had he done so.
The big ride came from Alexander Vinokourov, who is talking up his chances, but his eyes are telling us that it's too late. Chapeau to Vino who showed a competitor's spirit. The other big winners were Cadel Evans (now 1.00 down in second), Alberto Contador (at 2.31) and Andreas Kloden (at 2.34).
But my ride of the day was the Maillot Jaune's. Rasmussen is a notoriously bad time-triallist, especially under pressure in poor conditions and he must have felt the weight of an orgy of drug stories these past few days as he stared at the tarmac from the start house. So it was a brave Chicken indeed who held on to the Jersey and it will take a big ride to wrest it from his shoulders tomorrow.
Bradley Wiggins showed himself to be a stage winner of the future with a very fine ride for fifth place on the day, backed-up with a superbly phlegmatic interview from the team van.
Aussie Evans is the new favourite at 11/4, Rasmussen you can have at 7/2, Vino a very skinny 4/1, Kloden and Contador a handy 5/1. With the race heading towards tens of thousands of Spaniards lining the roads of the Pyrenees, I like the look of the young, but very strong, Contador.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
A Great Dane, a lucky Labrador and a Kazakh hounded out - Mouth of the Mersey
Today's stage of the Tour de France took the riders through some picture-postcard Alpine scenes, as they pedalled from Val-d’Isère to Briançon. Twelve years ago, inspired by the deeds of Roche and Zulle, Hinault and Lemond, Herrera and Parra, I took myself off to ride that same road, tackling first the Col du Telegraphe and then the fearsome Col du Galibier. Even with 1100cc of Yamaha power to help, it was no easy matter and gave me an enduring respect not just for the riders' endurance, but for the bike-handling needed to get up and down these ancient routes. These roads are for the hardest of sport's hardest men.
Race organisers like to include a chance for all types of riders to have their day in the sun, so, with two mountain top finishes to come next week when the race hits the Pyrenees, today's stage was constructed for the opportunist who could build a lead over the mighty Galibier and hold off the peloton all the way down to Briançon. Overall contenders know that on stages like this the Yellow Jersey can be lost but never won, so will sit back to let others make the race.
However, the first noteworthy incident of the day is destined for "What happened next?" quizzes and youtube immortality - we can laugh now we know all parties were unhurt, but it shows the dangers of open road racing. Click here for the action http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/gallery/2007/jul/17/tourdefrance.cycling?picture=330211215 and navigate with the arrowheads. Barking mad!
On the lower slopes of the Galibier, two questions were resolved: (i) the stage's opportunist would be wild card entry Barloworld's Columbian climber Juan Mauricio Soler Hernandez; and (ii) pre-race favourite Alexander Vinokourov was in trouble with his injuries.
Soler had two minutes over the Galibier which proved enough on the 38km descent into the finish. His stage win will send his cycling-mad countrymen into riotous joy and makes us aging fans recall the great Cafe de Columbia equipes of the mid-eighties - how I would have liked to have worn that jersey without the fear of people pointing and laughing. His win rewards his enterprise and the race organisation, whose punt on Barloworld is proving very wise. Soler will never buy a drink in his homeland for the rest of his life.
Chasing Soler were a a very select group that included GC men Valverde, Evans, Contador, Mayo, Leipheimer, Kloden, Sastre and a brave Moreau. It also included a very strong Race Leader, Denmark's Michael Rasmussen, who must be hoping that the jersey will inspire him to personal bests in the time-trials to come. He is clearly the strong man in the mountains. The most prominent name missing from that list is Vino's who finished in tears and now trails the Yellow Jersey by an unbreachable 8 minutes 5 seconds. Vino's dream is over, probably for good.
The race is wide open as it leaves the Alps. You can get 3/1 about Valverde and Kloden; 5/1 about Aussie Evans; and 13/2 about Rasmussen and Contador; with Mayo at 16/1. The Mouth advises a piece of those two climbers at 13/2.
Join me on Sunday for an update after Saturday's Contre-le-Montre and Sunday's ferocious stage to the Plateau-de-Beille, before Mimi's back for next week's denoument.
Race organisers like to include a chance for all types of riders to have their day in the sun, so, with two mountain top finishes to come next week when the race hits the Pyrenees, today's stage was constructed for the opportunist who could build a lead over the mighty Galibier and hold off the peloton all the way down to Briançon. Overall contenders know that on stages like this the Yellow Jersey can be lost but never won, so will sit back to let others make the race.
However, the first noteworthy incident of the day is destined for "What happened next?" quizzes and youtube immortality - we can laugh now we know all parties were unhurt, but it shows the dangers of open road racing. Click here for the action http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/gallery/2007/jul/17/tourdefrance.cycling?picture=330211215 and navigate with the arrowheads. Barking mad!
On the lower slopes of the Galibier, two questions were resolved: (i) the stage's opportunist would be wild card entry Barloworld's Columbian climber Juan Mauricio Soler Hernandez; and (ii) pre-race favourite Alexander Vinokourov was in trouble with his injuries.
Soler had two minutes over the Galibier which proved enough on the 38km descent into the finish. His stage win will send his cycling-mad countrymen into riotous joy and makes us aging fans recall the great Cafe de Columbia equipes of the mid-eighties - how I would have liked to have worn that jersey without the fear of people pointing and laughing. His win rewards his enterprise and the race organisation, whose punt on Barloworld is proving very wise. Soler will never buy a drink in his homeland for the rest of his life.
Chasing Soler were a a very select group that included GC men Valverde, Evans, Contador, Mayo, Leipheimer, Kloden, Sastre and a brave Moreau. It also included a very strong Race Leader, Denmark's Michael Rasmussen, who must be hoping that the jersey will inspire him to personal bests in the time-trials to come. He is clearly the strong man in the mountains. The most prominent name missing from that list is Vino's who finished in tears and now trails the Yellow Jersey by an unbreachable 8 minutes 5 seconds. Vino's dream is over, probably for good.
The race is wide open as it leaves the Alps. You can get 3/1 about Valverde and Kloden; 5/1 about Aussie Evans; and 13/2 about Rasmussen and Contador; with Mayo at 16/1. The Mouth advises a piece of those two climbers at 13/2.
Join me on Sunday for an update after Saturday's Contre-le-Montre and Sunday's ferocious stage to the Plateau-de-Beille, before Mimi's back for next week's denoument.
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