Saturday 24 September 2011

'Off With His Head!' Tindall's Treason

Mike Tindall has promised that it is ‘quiet ones from now on’, as Zara Phillips arrives in New Zealand ahead of schedule to keep her newly-wedded husband in check. She has moved across the globe with the fearsome, sweeping diagonal movement of a valuable chess piece, threatening Mike’s weak defence of pawns and drunken dwarves.

Since the CCTV footage has emerged of Mike’s inebriated fumbles with a beguiling entity only referred to as ‘a mystery blonde’, it is her identity that has so far deftly evaded the despairing tackles of a media scrum.  It is as if she has side-stepped the entire Journalist Barbarian XI, coasting past The Sun at full back and gifting into the corner.  All eyes are now on the big screen and each one of us is suddenly in the position of video referee.  I am opting for ‘No Try’, as Mike’s actions appear far from any traditional courting ritual, unless wiping a girl’s face with a serviette is some ancient intimate act in the South Sea Islands. He seemed to be mauling her features at times, appearing as insensitive as Val Kilmer’s portrayal of a blind man in At First Sight, who attempts to draw a mental image of Mira Sorvino by pawing at her nose. Whilst dipping his head near her cleavage, Mike was probably picturing nothing more sexual than a claustrophobic ruck and a prop forward’s buttocks.

Much has been made of the dwarf-throwing contest at the Altitude Bar, probably as it is the activity second most alien to Buckingham Palace; the first being topless darts. A small fraction of the mind can imagine a sherry-crazed Prince Phillip jutting his jaw out in pleasure at a garlanded display of Honululuian Pygmy Limbo, only because there is something Royal Tournament-esque about it. The dwarf-tossing detail was what made Martin Johnson’s sober comments about ‘just a few lads having a beer’ seem even more absurd. When he implored that:  'You've got to have a balance in your life’, the billed Mad Midget Weekender seemed unlikely to provide much ballast and stability.

It wasn’t until the intriguingly groomed and camp nightclub bouncer, Jonathan Dixon, waded into the fray, that the whole affair gained a sinister, treasonable angle. Dixon publicised the CCTV footage and with it, attracted the police’s interest. But there was something comically lost and uncertain about Dixon’s appearances in front of press semi-circles, as if he had taken PR lessons from Murray Hewitt in Flight of the Conchords.  During one, he seemed to issue the shaky warning of ‘Don’t do a Tindall’, then became childishly obsessed with a ‘rude cat’ representing Radio New Zealand, before distractedly mumbling ‘where are my mates?’ Then he unsuccessfully attempted to blag a lift from an apparent stranger in a green Hyundai Estate.

Dixon had previously issued inflammatory statements as if in an effort to rouse Dominion rebellion, referring to all manner of Queenly items such as bank notes, national anthems and beheadings. In the light of these musings, Her Majesty suddenly appeared as threatening as the Queen of Hearts, absent for the time-being, but once disturbed, capable of meting out swift and disproportionate justice to disloyal subjects.

The upturned, hollow eyes of Mike Tindall’s blood-spattered head displayed on a spike would act as a lasting deterrent to other potential royal philanderers, but he is too vulnerable to befall such a mean fate by the press. Even if we are quick to condemn, there is some sort of affectionate connection to him; some humanity amongst sovereignty. He could be a likened to Falstaff, all brash, bawdy and slightly brutish, but balanced with a pathos and an unexpected RADA-trained eloquence. As he shambles around after Zara, holding her luggage forlornly and apologetically, his character comes across as even more condemned and marginalised; perhaps Tindall could be a battlefield extra in Kenneth Branagh’s Henry V, chain-mailed under the weight of a regal emblem, heavily and unfairly outnumbered and sacrificed under a hail of sniping arrows.


Friday 16 September 2011

Bullying, Boo-boys and Benidorm: Sympathy for Sam Tomkins

It is 1984 and Queenslander Wally Lewis takes to the field as captain of Australia for the first time, with all eyes watching him. The Emperor of Lang Park tilts his head back proudly and links arms with teammates, as his tear ducts swell with national pride. His throat chokes as he tries to sing ‘Advance Australian Fair’ in a minor key baritone never heard before. The emotional moment is then somewhat punctured by an equally rousing, but distinctly unpatriotic rendition of ‘Wally’s a w****r!’ from sections of spectators. The reason behind this is purely tribal; Wally’s a Queenslander, born and bred, and the game is taking part in the heart of New South Wales.
Being booed by your fellow countrymen is not a new phenomenon; ask just about every England footballer. The bottom line (or at least the small print) dictates that the sportsmen is paid by the punter. They are therefore prone to the odd waved fist and expletive, much in the same way a greyhound is after chewing up your betting slip with its rabid, slobbering jaw.  But the beasts themselves are purely innocent, barking and joyous; the poor things only want to play. Wigan’s Sam Tomkins is such a puppy, feet pattering and tail keenly wagging. However, onlookers seem so affronted by him that they feel the urge to stab out their eyes whilst he’s a speck in their peripheral vision. The root cause of this unbridled hatred is not entirely clear; some cite an incident when Sam abused an injured player, others refer to an arrogance, a nasty streak or a diva-like exaggeration of the opposition’s foul play.
He is not helped by looking like Liam, the hapless ginger kid in ITV’s Benidorm; both have the kind of face that is a magnet for minor acts of bullying, such as an extreme wedgie, an inked microscope or having their PE kit dipped in the sceptic tank. You can picture a callow Sam being the last kid standing in a game of British Bulldog, evading posses of intimidating 6th formers and sour, red-cheeked fat kids. Exhausted into submission, Master Tomkins is finally set upon as if he is a quivering gazelle, his limbs spread-eagled like the bristles of a bog brush and smeared into the crud. And older brother Joel never seems to be around to protect him on the field, instead giving the impression that he is more focussed on sneaking in a crafty woodbine behind the bike sheds.
To reinforce these schoolyard images, there is also the cheekiness of Lee Briers who has the demeanour of a scruffy kid in Kes with scabbed knees poking out of grey school shorts, always picking his nose and flicking it, smelling faintly of Marmite, with pockets full of worms and a tatty blazer harbouring carnivorous chicks. In the last Wigan v. Warrington match, Lee was taken to one side by the referee for bullying Sam. He replied with a distracted and eye-rolling ‘yes sir’, ‘okay sir’ and ‘will do, sir’, as if no stranger to the headmaster’s office. He stopped short of exposing his backside in a perfunctory and casual manner in preparation for an unavoidable caning.
Despite being a figure of ridicule, like his Benidorm lookalike, Sam Tomkins is a magnet for obsessively protective females. An online forum has evolved with the wishful moniker: Sam Tomkins’ Girlfriends. It is unclear whether these are actual disenfranchised exes (partly explaining the number of boos), or hopeful Wigan suitresses. Judging by some of the wild and lurid declarations about Sam’s anatomical dimensions, it is highly probable they are the real McCoy. A shielding wife would plead with the tormentors at Sam’s England game and explain that his head-down, oblivious, response to their jeers wasn’t down to arrogance or even an unflustered, professional reaction. In his own forlorn words: 'I didn’t understand it when I first got out on the pitch. I ran over to the side and heard some boos. I genuinely thought: "I wonder who they are for."’
As the codes compete for attention over the coming weeks, rugby league might offer up a niche crowd chant about Kevin Iro as sonic competition for The World in Union symphony in New Zealand. Tomkins himself has bemoaned a lack of progress and popularity in his sport in comparison with its esteemed relative. Perhaps being unfashionable provides the unique appeal. Maybe rugby league should be played with a black ball. It’s possibly just a branding issue; union is usually endorsed by a dull, but powerful leading global company in either software or insurance. On the other hand you can imagine next year’s Grand Final backers to be something embarrassingly rudimentary or domestic, but full of spirit. Try saying this in a stirring, thick Yorkshire accent: ‘Super League – sponsored by Alphabetti Spaghetti’. We can only hope that Tomkins associates with being an ostracised brother and doesn’t turn his back completely on the boo-boys, flicking a ‘V’ as he goes.

Saturday 10 September 2011

Pundits and pushers: Lawrence Dallaglio and the ITV team

There is an upbeat, plucky approach to ITV’s coverage of the Rugby World Cup. Gone are the gloomy, autumnal Twickenham internationals on BBC accompanied by bickering match commentators and a pundit team consisting of a hip headmaster in John Inverdale, a red-eyed and vaguely threatening Jeremy Guscott, the exasperating Welsh cadence of Jonathan Davies and an absurd Keith Wood. In bright contrast, ITV have a neon-highlighted studio which seems to have incorporated a few of Sky’s touch-screen gizmos, without retaining the same overtone of male-chauvinism.
ITV has assembled a smooth blend of analysts to ease disoriented viewers through some early morning games kicking off at blank, single-figured hours. There is the offensive charm of Danny Care, palatable and groomed; the kind suitable for presenting Newsround or Blue Peter. There is Sean Fitzpatrick who, despite being a scary player in his time, now has a tranquil homeliness about him; he wears a suit well, but gives the impression he would be more comfortable in a pair of chinos with open-toe sandals, tending to a family BBQ.
Then there is the persuasiveness of Francois Pienaar, who, with hooked nose, looks slightly wizened like a shifty Lion King character that deliberately leads young cubs astray. The early starts seem to be affecting him, as he appears jaded and weary like a financially-troubled Ian Beale after a cafe health and safety scare. Perhaps fatigue was responsible for his peculiar announcement that the England players in the changing room would have ‘their hearts fluttering with steroids’. A pregnant pause followed, particularly from Lawrence Dallaglio, with his tangled past of substance-peddling tabloid allegations.  Either Francois meant: ‘adrenaline’, or was providing  a sinister insight into his 1995 meetings with Nelson Mandela, who may have instilled the ‘win at all costs’ mentality to the Springbok captain a little too forcefully.
What comes across most with Dallaglio is the sheer reasonableness of the man, as he lounges with angled head, poised on a cathedral of fat fingers. He fields gentle Steve Rider questions by narrowing his eyes as if sizing up an opposition no.8. His jaw line is still jaw-dropping and spectacular; the most impressive in world sport. His neck and chin are over-sized, square and powerful, making him look like David Coulthard with a goitre of the thyroid glands. In his playing days, there was a fumbling, wispy honesty about his work at the coalface. With his jutting, stubbly chin he would resemble Desperate Dan scrabbling around for a hidden cow pie with one hand and capable of lifting a full-size bovine with the other.
In the warm light of today, there can be no more far-fetched story than the one Dallaglio himself told to undercover News of the World reporters. He fabricated a distant past of drug dealing in a desperate bid to impress, probably talking street and term-dropping things like: ‘Whiz’, ‘Banano’, ‘Wraps’ and ‘Belushi’. But nobody can picture a youthful Lawrence peddling cocaine around Shepherd’s Bush from the boot of a suped-up hatchback, no matter how long ago; his accent would simply not allow it. ITV can relax; not even the unrealistic spectre of drugs, performance-enhancing or otherwise, could possibly frighten the family audience.

Friday 2 September 2011

Gurnica: The Picasso Portrait of Iain Dowie

The imperfect face of Iain Dowie signifies all that is good and honest about ‘The English Game’. His visage emits the same ugly charm of a tight, pre-war, lower league ground flanked with Rainham Steel advertising hoardings, and with an obscured view of a Morrisons behind the stands. If Dowie were a taste it would be a lingering mouthful of gravelly mince meat from a Pukka pie washed down with metallic bitter. If he were a smell it would be an eye-watering bouquet of unaired polyester and BO, complimented by a peaty finish of Old Holborn.

For poor Dowie has had to endure a career full of cruel comparisons. In his playing days it has been said he resembled The Borg, Davros or Sloth in the Goonies. But as this mantle has now passed to Liverpool’s Dirk Kuyt, another flattering doppelganger is suddenly required: perhaps an inter-galactic mix of Star Wars’ Admiral Ackbar and Futurama’s Dr Zoidberg will suffice, as there has always been something vaguely marine and deep-sea about him. It may be true that Dowie is still no oil-painting and rather a Picasso portrait, but these days he holds an air of groomed respectability. This has been added to the upright demeanour of a proud and admirable figurehead tangled in the maelstrom of an endless, desperate relegation battle.

Dowie has always had an infectious energy and, like hooliganism, can never be entirely eradicated from the sport. As a player, he was a journeyman, hopping from one sinking stone to the other. As a manager he was a ‘relegation-zone specialist’ in the company of dogged names such as Bassett, Warnock, Pardew and Royle. Employing a relegation specialist is a sort of self-fulfilling prophesy: the club is certain to be relegated. This is despite stumbling upon immediate, inexplicable success, often attributed to an abstract, superstitious shift in culture or training methods, such as re-introducing the card school on the team bus, or the kit-man reading lesser-known Neville Chamberlain speeches at half-time.

However, such fragile plights would always end the same way: after blowing a half-time lead on the final day, an injury time goal in some far-away corner of the country would crackle into 20,000 sets of headphones and precipitate a tearful pitch-invaded farewell from the league.

The type of player that appealed to these manager’s sensibilities was inevitably not glamorous nor a record signing. Instead struggling managers operated in a world of hatchet-men, target-men and utility players. This explained why Iain Dowie was the essential choice for the Sky Sports pundit sofa on Transfer D-Day; whilst the rest of the panel gave a Gallic shrug of their shoulders at the non-news being reported and then made 'W' symbols with their thumbs and index fingers in response an obscure loan agreement, Dowie was bristling with vitality and as keen as a beaver.

The excitement he generated over Guy Demel’s humble transfer to West Ham was palpable, combining a furrowed brow with clenched fists in an intense mime accompanied with coiled, blurted descriptions: ‘Big, strong full-back. A real bolster to the defence. Powerful…POWERFUL. Fantastic acquisition.’

Dowie often provided clarity after hazy, distracted comments from Sky’s anchor, Natalie Sawyer, who could barely cover up an understandable feeling of listlessness with sudden swathes of faux-enthusiasm. Dowie then effortlessly plugged holes and then craters after increasingly blank announcements of another club closing in on a deal. Perhaps to him, the midnight deadline had a childlike Christmas Eve fantasy about it, where a sneak-preview revealed some of the presents were 7 foot long, worth £10 million and wrapped in Armani cloth.

The lamp-lit car park vigils of frustrated reporters and agitated supporters were in no doubt encouraged by litres of polystyrene-clad coffee or hip flasks full of Benedictine. These fevered throngs had a wild-eyed nature about them rarely even seen at Big Brother evictions. Perhaps they were capable of pitch-forking their way into a blockaded North London bunker and lynching Arsene Wenger for his spend-thriftiness. They, along with Dowie, embody the misguided, frenzied and blind passion of The English Game. And there was probably that same smell of pies.

Friday 26 August 2011

I’m tense and nervous, can’t relax: the David Millar mantra


Being involved in cycling is like being in an 80s nightclub: even if you’re not on drugs yourself, there’s the foreboding feeling that a lot of the people are. The place is awash with bad mullet haircuts and gold chain accessories. There is an abundance of waggling and pumping limbs sheathed in luminous lycra, altogether giving the impression of some enormous spandex-clad millipede. The same light-headed clamminess experienced after dismounting from an unexpectedly gruelling bike ride to the shops and back can be felt in the otherworldly, weary walk home after an all-night disco, accompanied with rasping throat and an unnerving spate of heart palpitations.

Into this context steps David Millar with his retro, buttoned-up shirt and lapelled jacket; there being no better spokesperson for a sport accepted for all its highs, lows, dangers and joys. William Fotheringham labelled Millar’s appearance as ‘artistic grunge-chic’, author Freya North saw him more as a member of a student indie rock group. With his intense, dark eyes and fringe flopping onto a sweaty forehead, he resembles more a Talking Heads-era David Byrne. Each man is indefatigable, able to endlessly run on the spot and perform the flailing mime of a drunken cross-country skier. Both are also strangely angular and stiff with awkward upright postures, as if straight-jacketed or wearing drastically ill-fitting clothes.

When Millar talks about his past, it conjures a slightly seedy image of over-populated hotel rooms with curtains drawn, ice buckets everywhere and used syringes tossed carelessly under the chaise-longues. The motto on everyone’s lips is: ‘whatever goes on tour stays on tour’. For cycling used to be, like rock n’ roll, where drug-taking was as commonplace as having a cup of tea. So much so that this is now considered hopelessly unfashionable, and new, more dangerous methods of getting high are in vogue, evoking the same nightmarish scene, but this time someone's blood is hanging in translucent bags at the back of the cupboard.

Millar talks of a sport full of bad influences; from conspiratorial entourages to mysterious therapists and team managers acting like desperate, publicity-crazed Malcolm McLarens. A world of young and impressionable cyclists being encouraged to push the limits and act as self-destructively as possible, where instructions to ‘go and prepare correctly in Italy’ is a euphemism for having a black market, white-coated chemist syringe hormones into your body.

But Millar is testament to a shift; a change; a redemption. Like David Byrne, he is now someone who is palatable, mature, and clean-living; someone who might wear the spectacle/cardigan combination of a familiar uncle; someone you would trust to look after your kids. You can now have a relaxed café conversation with both men, but don’t dare let them order too many double espressos, as their black pupils will dilate.

There is the sense that Millar, in his cycling dotage, is still subjecting himself to peloton punishment just so that the sport he loves can live on. The more he suffers and self-flagellates for his sins, the more we can accept that some demon is being been exorcised, forgive and respect him once again. We can feel pride when David Harmon continually refers to him as ‘Britain’s David Millar’. Scotland can entertain mentioning him in the same breath as his namesake, legend Robert Millar. For cycling has been resurrected. On the other hand, for cynics and critics of the sport, there is still the amphetamine-jittery Talking Heads refrain: ‘Same as it ever was, same as it ever was…’

Friday 19 August 2011

Short back and many sides: Joey Barton’s head

Across the offices and magistrates’ courts of Britain, there is a united condemnation of Joey Barton.  Like a hoodied rioter, he is brandished ‘completely unacceptable’ and tarred and feathered as a delinquent dabbler in criminality. He is charged with irresponsible use of social networks and microblogging sites and quoting too many famous literary figures considered healthy for a footballer. We must hastily set up a kangaroo court for our little Joey. Let us sentence him swiftly and ruthlessly. His Dalai Lama re-tweets alone warrant a lengthy sentence.

Before passing judgement, we must also wrack our brains for some behavioural cause, for there is the nagging feeling that we are somehow collectively responsible for how Barton has turned out. We need C4’s Krishnan Guru-Murthy to chair an immediate meeting of varied social strata, garnering the opinion of awkward Goths, menacing hip-hoppers, jittery parents, belligerent shop-owners and hounded councillors. We know this will only descend into a dreadful row, but it a reasonable step to take in admonishing ourselves from guilt.

But, in the words of the Confucius: ‘One tree that stands alone bears the most fruit and is less likely to be chopped down’. Or something similar. So it is a fresh assessment of Barton that is the most rewarding. There are plentiful descriptions that have been offered: he is a hooligan, a hardman, a pocket dynamo, a ‘dangerous player’, as labelled by Fabio Capello. He is a play-actor or critic of play-acting. Nobody seems to know exactly what to make of him. Even his agent, Willie McKay offered a complete mis-read by suggesting he had the ‘easiest job in the transfer window’ and had already been inundated with interest from top European clubs. One can imagine a one-way conversation: ‘You need a midfield enforcer, Arsene. Now, before we talk turkey, a drop more Tennents Super?’

After falling out with the powers that be at Newcastle Utd, Barton referred to himself as ‘persona non grata’, shocking the public by demonstrating he can speak Latin. Presumably he has picked up the local lingo of a number of affiliated barristers, particularly as his ‘previous’ doesn’t read well in English: Gross misconduct - one count. Assault - two counts. Breaking a pedestrian’s leg (gallery murmurs). Jabbing a lit cigar into someone’s eye (gallery erupts). The CCTV footage advertises Barton’s street fighting prowess and leaves an indelible, yet grainy, image. It resembles a deleted scene from the film, Scum, awash with sullen youths in starched collared shirts, sporting mod haircuts and brutally attacking each other with cries of: ‘Where’s ya tool?’

However, in the words of Desmond Tutu: ‘Resentment and anger are bad for your blood pressure and your digestion. Repentment is better.’ Thusly, Barton has reformed, addressed addiction, patronised charities, visited clinics, consulted the scriptures, analysed his entrails. He is now better known for his witty Wildean jousts with a gaggle of bullying sports reporters on Twitter. In return, they treat him like an idiot savant without the savant. He frequently engages in an acute love-hate, macho-gay mental tussle with Piers Morgan. There is an endearing bridging-the-class-divide quality about these exchanges last demonstrated by Lord Ralph and groundskeeper Ted in The Fast Show.

Barton’s tweets have so provoked the FA and the media’s fury that they risk lashing out and reducing themselves to ten men. Journalists are incensed that not only does he read Nietzsche, but he can quite effortlessly spell his name, which was impossible before the advent of Information Technology.  It's as if Barton has a Twitter ghost-writer who is embarking on a huge practical joke. Critics have lambasted references to non-picture books and use of ‘multi-syllable words’. Barton might have countered with: ‘It’s poly-syllabic, shitlips.’ For the underdog has blasted away writer Oliver Holt, describing him as the ‘journalistic equivalent of holding a digestive biscuit in a cup of tea for a second too long’. He has treated politics too, informing that he cannot abide Ed Milliband’s haircut or his lisp, signing off with the hilarious: ‘…obviously he shouldn’t be banished, just not the front man,’ Barton must be aware that there haven’t been singers with speech impediments for g-g-generations.

The duality that exists within Barton’s head has manifested itself on the outside in what can loosely be described as a ‘hairstyle’. He insists his savage short back and sides pays homage to murderous New York cabbie, Travis Bickle. The violent psycho suddenly resurfaces in Joey. However he has ended up looking more like he has been clippered in a dimly lit trench, alongside Private Baldrick. A comic vulnerability is restored.  

Wednesday 10 August 2011

Can't see the Woods for the Giggs?

 

Tiger and Ryan canter onto the turf once more this August and try and look convincing and concentrated, puffing out their cheeks, stretching and maybe even doing a star-jump with a serious, furrowed expression. Polite and slightly incestuous interviewers will ask sensible questions about driving accuracy and fitness levels, all the time secretly wanting to acknowledge the crash of elephants in the room with questions such as: ‘Have you been treated over the summer for sex addiction, because in my day it wasn’t considered an illness?’
For these two former squeaky-clean-imaged sporting bores have both taken on the Frankenstein features of a Tabloid Monster, only to be safely viewed through the browned glass of a man-sized bell-jar or from the back row of a panoramic 19th Century operating theatre.

But on closer inspection, the two are not peas in a pod, nor chips off the old block.  Yes, they are fine specimens of post-ultra-modern-man, with their cars, their properties, their worshippers, their casual sexual liaisons. However, we need to exhibit each individual facet of their lives to discover the quintessential difference between men at each side of The Pond. The awkward, slapstick, smutty postcard of Giggs suddenly appears dog-eared and absurd in the light of the slick, bleach-blonde, blurred lens, blue movie shoot of Woods.

Put their sporting accolades side-by-side, like Top Trumps: Woods is the highest earning athlete ever. Next to this fact, Giggs’ OBE and Sports Personality of the Year seem embarrassingly English; as twee and obtuse as a BAFTA is to celluloid superstars. Giggs has a fine property in Worsley, Manchester, but this is dwarfed by Wood’s complex in Jupiter Island, Florida. Woods has a $20million yacht mockingly called the Privacy; Giggs’ boat is modest in comparison and filled with gravy.

The mistresses themselves juxtapose all that is American and all that is British. Like roast beef and burgers, a beast can be skinned in an entirely different manner. For among Woods’ harem there exudes a flashiness, a sassiness, a frilliness and an ass-shakingness: a waitress, a cocktail-waitress (as if carrying a tray of Cosmopolitans is somehow more saucy than dirty plates), a porn star and, oh, another porn star. In return, Giggs offers up an all-brunette triangle of doppelgangers, including ex-Big Brother contestant and his brother’s wife to underline the small-town sexual frustration of provincial Britain – was there a drunken fumble in a bingo hall followed by mutual self-loathing, or were they planning elope to a chilly, wind-battered village for the weekend?

For Woods is the pectoral-pumping, arm-flexing equivalent of the ripped man next door doing the lawn with his shirt off in Desperate Housewives; the sort of man who stares impassively at himself in bedroom mirrors whilst doing the deed. In contrast, Giggs is a fretting Dev from Coronation Street, tangled in a complicated manage a trois-quatre-cinq-six, at the centre of an ever-expanding family, yet spending too much time in denial with solicitors and all-in-all bobbing around with the dark, curled hair and sideburns of a Player and the gaunt, devious expression of anything but a Gentleman.

But perhaps there is something helplessly boyish about Giggs’ predicament; a profound innocence that finds him cycling unflinchingly around to Natasha’s house with pockets clumsily stuffed full of twenty pound notes for her abortion. His blank admission to an ex-teammate, Andrei Kanchelskis, sounds more like a teenager at a school disco, or a child regretting his choice of ice-cream:

“I go out with three girls but just can’t choose which one is the best”

Woods, tour diary and pager in hand, would pour derision at such a haphazard way of handling affairs.

Wednesday 27 July 2011

Robots or Ghostbusters? DRS vs. Umpire Billy Bowden

In the aftermath of the test match between England and India at Lords, the issue of technology in sport has flared up again. People on punditry sofas are tickling their gullets for reflex utterances such as: ‘if it’s there, why not make use of it?’ and sentences starting with: ‘in this day and age.’ The entire Sky commentary team can indulge their obsession with ‘eliminating the howler’. The galloping science of Snicko, Hotspot, Hawkeye and now Roughpatch* (the 5-day pitch wear analyser) has reduced an umpire’s role to that of a fabled druid astrologer divining secrets from entrails, whilst the rest of us idly tap away at our iPhones.

*so state-of-the-art that people are patenting the name; this is my application.

Andy Flower, the only coach who could compete with Shaun Edwards in an ‘Owner Who Most Looks Like Their Bulldog’ competition, has fanned the flames by branding the situation ‘unsatisfactory’, and caused a downright stir when insisting we don’t ‘quibble over millimetres’. But this is all pedantry/pedantics – what’s the difference? Would you rather a human or a machine gets it all wrong and ruins your day? With the former, at least there is a barroom talking-point or a chance to whinge and blame your failings on others. If we are trying to remove human error from cricket altogether, why not fire a bowling machine against a wall (not Rahul Dravid, just bricks and mortar)?

Despite England and India agreeing in advance not to use the Decision Review System for LBWs, Stuart Broad looked as if he was unable to cope without it. His wide-eyed incredulity at a poor decision gave him the impression of a sulky, flush-faced child reeling from the cold reality of mummy not buying ice-creams, but rather going to the post office instead.

Now that umpires have returned to the fray they are no longer merely glorified stock-exchange signallers dressed as butchers. Umpire Bowden doesn’t have to rely on his gimmicky range of flouncing signals, but can actually turn down a plum LBW simply because he doesn’t like the over-confident appeal (when will bowlers learn that umpires don’t equate a man running past the batsman with his arms in an aeroplane shape as a valid enquiry of ‘Howzat?’).

Bowden’s stoic expression at the wicket is sober and a little dewy-eyed, making him look like a forlorn Bill Murray in Groundhog Day coming to terms with an eternal and monotonous suffering. However, when he bursts into sudden movements, he is more like Dr Venkman in Ghostbusters trying to maintain control of his proton pack. A four is greeted by a great arc of the arm sweeping across his body as the back leg slides out, like his alter-ego’s character in Kingpin, with his fingers stuck in the ball, trying to shake it loose. Then there is the crooked finger of doom when giving a batsman out, supposedly down to arthritic joint-ache, though Bowden has left himself open to DRS, declaring this ‘50/50 reality/show’. Martin Crowe’s ruthless one-phrase film review likens him to Bozo the Clown.

But have pity on the lonely life of the umpire. For this weird and wonderful band of brothers are now paraded under the Star Wars moniker of ‘The Panel of Elite Umpires’. They may be sponsored by Emirates, but they are little more than travelling circus acts gaining free air miles. In times gone by, there have been a variety of acts up in lights: the painted ladies of sunblock - Umpire Buknor and Umpire Taufel; the bearded midget - Umpire Willey; Umpire Billy Doctrove, who could be mistaken for a New Orleans boogie woogie pianist; the longest ever name abbreviation to ‘Venkat’; the interval confectionary, Umpire Tiffin; the man whose name equates exactly to his appearance: Umpire Shepherd; the fire-eating blazing effigy of Umpire Hair. And the circus is never even in their home town, the poor things.

Thursday 21 July 2011

Cigar Swirls and Manly Curls: Miguel Angel Jimenez

Darren Clarke strolls serenely into the stuffy, sepia sunset of golfing history, contentedly puffing on a panatela. It is another ambler and cloud-creator who is more watchable, quite unique and un poco loco: Miguel Angel Jimenez. Even his name has a wonderful, lilting cadence; his motions are part of a greater circadian rhythm that pulses away to gentle ripples of applause, soft whooshes of club heads and the cream liqueur tones of Peter Alliss.

Visually, he looks like some Spaghetti-Western extra patrolling a craggy border region on horseback; perhaps an honourable Andalucian mounty or cheeky Mexican mercenary. He parades proudly around the green, plump as a pigeon, white-glove in hand, ready to slap the face of some wag failing to observe golf etiquette. His wavy hair, when unleashed, lends the appearance of Marco Pierre White in pimp’s clothing.

Darren Clarke’s reported annual spend on cigars is £25,000, making Jimenez’s estimated outlay the equivalent of smoking rolled Damien Hirst sketches. You cannot imagine Clarke and Jimenez being forced out of a non-smoking clubhouse into the teeth a wild coastal squall to huddle amongst a wispy bonfire of struck matches. No, instead these middle-aged Machiavellian men are serial drawing room recliners, arms outstretched on high-backed, studded leather, with chino-trousered legs akimbo, regaling tales of eagles, as if Aesop, or of albatrosses, as if Ancient Mariners.

However, in their company, after the fifth scotch and fifteenth Havana, one might find one’s eye a-glazing, the watercolour depictions of 18th century golf (top-hatted caricatures of men with moustaches, sticks and dogs) blurring, clubhouse fire crackling, heartbeat slowing and, suddenly, the reprise of a familiar hypnotic mantra: Peter Alliss stating: 'You are feeling very sleepy'.

Monday 11 July 2011

Cuddles and tempers: Cadel Evans

So, who to root for now that Bradley Wiggins has sadly crashed out of the Tour de France? Why, Cadel Evans of course. A psychologist might describe the Australian as a ‘fascinating blend of personalities’, whilst calmly chalking something down on a clipboard and pressing a buzzer to summon colleagues in white coats.

Evans’ face looks like a Jedi combination of Luke Skywalker and Yoda, with bulging, amphibious eyes and an enormous dimpled chin. You could imagine him to be a sketched character in some Steve Jackson and Ian Livingstone futuristic-fantasy book; perhaps a crowned frog prince sitting on a toadstool offering you a magic potion. Possibly benign, but quite probably of wicked intent; if you offend him, he will somersault from his zen, cross-legged position and suddenly challenge you with published attributes of: Skill; 6, Stamina; 18, Luck; 2.

Before he opens his mouth, you’d be forgiven for expecting Evans to talk gruffly like Matthew Hayden, starting each sentence with a confrontational, chest-puffing ‘Look, mate…’ But Evans is curiously vulnerable with an effete and gentle voice that is cultured and continental, enriching his sentences with French-isms like pavé and flamme rouge whilst name-dropping mysterious ski-stations such as Super-Besse and Hautacam.

Evans declared himself physically unsuitable for all other Australian sports as a youngster, being a mere whipper-snapper, but this little mongrel can certainly bare his teeth. Particularly when his lapdog, Molly, is threatened.  Evans’ tiny pooch was inexplicably touring around France with him during the 2008 race, and the pair were safely on their way for cuddles and Steak Tartare in a tour caravan. Then a clod-hopping journalist got too close and Evans issued the immortal statement : ‘Step on my dog and I’lI cut your head off.’

His fellow countrymen may explain this away with the line that he is ‘not shy in coming forward’, as if he was a Cronulla scrum half, but Evans’ tantrums are more endearing and more dimensional. He may be capable of throwing water-bottles, cycling helmets and punches, but there is a slapped-glove nobility about his actions, a Marquis of Queensbury coda to his violence and a Barbara Cartland canine-under-arm flounciness to his hissy-fits.

If you are still not buying into the Evans mystique, there are two more facts that may sway you:

  1. Evans lives in Switzerland, married to an Italian concert pianist, evoking the Alpine scenes of The Spy Who Loved Me. You could also picture him patrolling his villa, sipping a glass of Sangiovese to the searing strains of Vivaldi.
  1. His great-grandfather is Welsh.
Sold.

Tuesday 5 July 2011

Love is a Rollercoaster: The Warne-Hurley Gag Reflex

Think of two celebrities at random, one male, one female - preferably of different nationalities. Say, Gwen Stefani and Tom from The Apprentice. Now imagine them dating. Do the same with 2 work colleagues: Facilities Manager, Karl and Sandra from Accounts. Automatically intone in a Sex in the City voice, ‘Eeeoouuuuwww’. Finally, picture two completely different species of wild animal and imagine a secret savannah liaison: let’s choose a giraffe and a gibbon. Rather than generating some kind of disgust or loathing, the images simply fail to penetrate the mind, instead bouncing harmlessly off the cranium. The same effect is achieved when talking about the Shane Warne and Elizabeth Hurley relationship, or even when being Tweeted by the couple in person.

For Shane and Liz are serial Twits: they even Tweet about cereal. Followers are privy to type-script conversations between the two over a virtual breakfast table: ‘Fruit and cereal?’ Shane asks, from the other side of the world. ‘Just fruit’, Liz replies, effortlessly managing what no professional cricket coach could, in getting Warne to circumvent a bacon rasher. Belatedly, he talks of ‘target weights’, going from paunch to gaunt after his career has ended, sort of like a reverse-Ricky Hatton. Gone is the sightscreen-sized face of MacDonalds chomping on a 7-foot long chicken burger. In its place is a lean, youthful and suspiciously cling-filmed appearance. 

A Hurley-enforced diet explains why Shane is now constantly referring to food whilst in the Sky commentary box. At times he seems to be reeling off a fantasy grocery list in his Aussie twang: ‘Gaarlic naan’, ‘keeebabs’ and mysterious Mexican food called ‘nah-chose’ and ‘far-heed-ahs’, provoked merely by the sight of spectators wearing sombreros. Let us pray that Shane doesn’t join the Test Match Special team of pundits receiving their regular mailshot of homemade Black Forest Gateaux from Radio Four home economics.

Warne has put his ‘Fountain of Youth’ appearance down to Estee Lauder moisturiser and healthy vegetable-substitutes. However, if this was the case the Lauder family would be the equivalent of the Rockefellers and the increased export of yams would see Nigeria’s GDP competing with China’s. His eyebrows have been plucked lending him a quizzical look; the same arch-browed disapproval deployed by David Lloyd. Warne resembles an age-fatigued 40 year-old Beverly Hills 90210 actor being heavily made-up to play a character supposed to be half his age. But, ultimately, the audience aren't fooled: they know the Warne of the future will look exactly like a crow-footless Paul Hogan.

The gushing nature of Warne’s flirty tweets is highly alarming, given his track record of ‘textual harassment’. However, he’s toned it down to the extent that he sounds like a hormonal teenager frustratedly trying to write a power ballad in the family garage, resorting to Keating imagery and words like ‘angel’ and ‘sugar’. All this is a far cry from traditional Warne tabloid sample texts, such as: ‘I want to see you riding me’. Such whispered statements are altogether more sinister, like Aussie sledges designed purely to produce mental disintegration in the recipient.

One cannot fail to read each new Warne tweet extra-tentatively, in the manner of a distrustful Englishman evaluating a brash and vicious leg-break. The context of Warne’s womanising past looms large as does his mystery-ball penchant for Home Counties working girls (in the purely literal sense of the phrase; as in, secretary or trainee nurse). Warne’s Anglo-Australian attraction has been reciprocated by fans who have longed for an English-born spinner of such stature. This wish may yet come true, with the unnerving possibility that scores of blonde, swaggering toddlers are already showing cricketing promise in the gardens of Hampshire.

So, once again, Shane turns his wily hand to Keating Tweeting:

‘The journey of life is about riding the ups/downs.’

Liz is visionary in her response:

‘Love is like a rollercoaster ride - sometimes it's exhilarating but sometimes u feel sick and want to get off.'

Sunday 26 June 2011

'One Villas-Boas, there's only one Villas-Boas'...

...the Chelsea fans will chant in adoration of their latest, sartorially-elegant manager. Only there isn't: he is one amongst many macho-metrosexual clones on the sporting periphery of our modern world. A man as comfortable pacing the sidelines of a football pitch as he is in the aisles of a L'Occitane boutique. He is also the 8th manager in a crowded Abramovich lineage.

At least it seems that Chelsea have someone who can compete with Jose Mourinho for column inch in a Gap catalogue. At 33, Villas-Boas (which translates exactly as: House-Snakes in Latin) is now the Premiership's youngest ever manager. Could it be that Abramovich has mistakenly believed him to be Xabi Alonso, and is expecting him to distribute majestically from midfield? Not a bit of it: player-coaches are now such a rarity that it is completely impossible to mentally traverse beyond the Atari computer game, Player Manager, with its abundance of gameplay glitches and pixelated Kevin Keegans.

There is another comparison to be made with Villas-Boas: a striking resemblance to Guy Pearce in the film Momento. The similarity may turn out to be more than visual: with less than two years' experience, he may be the managerial equivalent of a short-term amnesiac. A confused demeanor at his first press conference may gradually degenerate to giving team talks from a scribbled note in his pocket, having defensive formations tatooed onto his torso and consulting polaroids with abstract messages on them, such as: 'John T - Do Not Trust'. In declaring this his 'dream job' and willingly playing Russian Roulette, the same perverse accusation finally levelled at Guy Pearce's character could be said for Villas-Boas: he is creating an unnecessary and unsolvable puzzle to give himself purpose.

Wednesday 22 June 2011

Murray v Nadal Wimbledon 2011 (superficial side-swipes)


Andy Murray has worked on his physique to the extent that his face is rough-hewn and his Adam’s apple protrudes markedly. In contrast, he has left his feral, unshaven, auburn wisps to roam freely. Now, when he berates himself, he gives the impression of a fawn-toothed, moulting highland elk, frustratedly braying in the morning mist as three other dominant males contest the rut.


In his post-match interviews, Rafael Nadal employs the Ancelotti Eyebrow to great effect (coupled with a host of lilting, continental insignificances).

Window-gate: The Matthew Prior Incident

Roy Harper sung mornfully: “When the day is done, and the ball has spun, in the umpire's pocket away” in his hymnal ballad ‘When an Old Cricketer Leaves the Crease’. It is a song about death. This rain-punctured England vs. Sri Lanka series was a listless purgatory in which gallant men waited, padded-up, for an umpires’ inspection. Indeed, if Sri Lanka hadn’t collapsed inexplicably on the last day in Cardiff when everybody’s backs were turned, this fifteen-day series would have been a no-score draw; even a dull result for the Pools coupon.

What was the only moment worth reflection? Not Pietersen’s rediscovered mojo. Not another serene Cook half-century.  Not a man dressed as a banana at the Rose Bowl. No, of course it was Matthew Prior’s vandalism at the Home of Cricket. The knee-jerk name circulated was 'Windowgate'; an incident shrouded in a Baker Street smog of mystery with frightened witnesses, conspiracies, subterfuge and a prevailing mafia omerta code of silence.

So, my dear Watson, the game is afoot and we must pursue the facts: man embarks on an innings, man finds himself in the midst of a savage run-pursuit, man is inelegantly run out, man re-enters the famous orange-brick bastion of Englishness which is the Lords Pavilion. Man brutishly puts a window through. It shatters over the MCC members’ area below, but our only victim is a poor lady (‘Since when?’ MCC grave-turners slather deliriously) whose ankle is cut by a shard of glass. (‘Glass of Chardonnay?’ MCC phantoms guffaw).

Blowers labled the act: ‘immaturity’, Aggers tweeted uncontrollably, and Graeme Swann threatened to ‘fist-fight’ anyone who blamed Prior. Then the ECB entered the circus and immediately assumed the mantle of ringmaster, whipping up a bizarre mix of statements that made less sense than elephants balancing on small, circular podiums. For it turned out that Prior had thrown a batting glove which set off a complicated chain reaction, resulting in a bat falling against a window. This sounded implausible, like the England changing room had been carefully rigged like an enormous themed version of the board game, Mousetrap. The official memo should have read:

‘The ECB regret to inform that when Matthew Prior entered the pavilion and threw his glove down, it caused Jonathan Trott’s boot to hit a ‘Stop’ sign, which in turn prompted Ian Bell to dive into a bath-tub, triggering a cage to descend onto a row of bats, which inevitably smashed the window.’ However, even the board game seldom reached a conclusion that satisfied either onlookers or participants.

Then, suddenly, the domino-effect theory was ditched and in its place we had Prior ‘placing’ his bat against the window ledge and the handle hitting a pressure point on the glass, playing on the fact that it is widely known that a tiny plastic mallet can, indeed, break a train window. An ugly apology of sorts ensued: the captain paraded Prior in front of the MCC in his wicket-keeping gear like a guilty Ned Kelly wearing anti-masturbation gloves. His mere presence may have been an unnecessary nuisance to such stead-fast traditionalists; akin to Gentlemen enduring, with a grimace, a Player circling amongst their ranks at tea-time. To them, Prior might have seemed like an uncouth West Country labourer keeping wicket for The Barley Mow XI, with a can of Ruddles County nestling behind him in the dandelions. But at least an apology signalled guilt. Or perhaps he was explaining to them the Law of Gravity.

Saturday 18 June 2011

Turning the Amen Corner: McIlroy's Major Challenge

Here we go again. There has been something evangelical about Rory McIlroy’s quest for his own, personal Grail; a Major trophy. Not so long ago at Augusta, in the heart of the Bible Belt around Amen Corner, the fleece-haired boy from Holywood was tethered to his caddy as if he was a fragile, quivering sacrificial lamb. Great groaning galleries looked down to witness the ephemeral nature of mortality, so that he might be granted an afterlife in the stars.

McIlroy has since resurrected, talking bravely and candidly about that day, and that back nine, carefully avoiding terms that spring to everyone else’s collective mind; bold, mechanical terms such as ‘meltdown’, ‘blow-out’, ‘choke’ and, to drive the theme irresponsibly home, ‘car-crash’ or ‘train-wreck’. If we, as mere spectators, cannot get over those graphic Masters images, then how can the man himself? As his name is chirpily announced on tee at the final round at Bethesda, a white noise might be fuzzing our hammers and stirrups, a bassy sound similar to the doom-laden Moog music of a Kubrick movie. As he camply struts and measures angles on the first green, we may already be betraying him with images of horseshoed putts and complete mis-reads. Even in his backswing, as stewards lift ‘quiet’ paddles, we could be exercising the psychic equivalent of a torn Velcro golf glove-strap as we visualise wildly shanked drives.
For how indelible those Augustan moments were: the way-way-wayward drive on the 10th that Peter Alliss tried to explain away with an imagined telephone wire somewhere over the fairway; a second-shot lie made more awkward by a paint-peeled, splintered Georgian porch, and McIlroy himself put off by the whistled Dixie of a man on a rocking chair, cradling a shotgun; a series of embarrassing tiddlers on the beguilingly pretty, but ‘out of your league’ 12th green – maddening, for every time the cameras returned, he seemed to be addressing a mirror-image of the previous putt.


Still nobody would lead him, solemn and straight-jacketed, away from the course. By this time, his demise was being underlined by the success of so many others. Ogilvy, Woods, Choi, Cabrera, Day, Scott, Schwarzel; all were seeing birdies and eagles descend in droves on their little pockets of woodland. This may have further spooked McIlroy’s remaining mental regiments, as native cries and explosive war-whoops encircled him on all sides of the battlefield. Finally, the 13th provided a wet ball and a cathartic outpouring of tears.
And yet, by winning the US Open, McIlroy will have managed to unshackle the weight of yesteryear, exorcised the pagan demons of the past, and we can finally all chant after the preacher in a Deep-Southern drawl: ‘A-men to that’.

Thursday 16 June 2011

Space race: Nasser's forehead

"Nasser Hussain's hairline is now so frighteningly high he is beginning to turn into a Marvel Comic character that crosses the lazy-eyed feline poise of Kitty Pryde with the egg-like, cerebral intensity of Professor X."

The Darling of Dublin

"Ken Doherty has a look about him at the baize that is so stern, so po-faced, so cratered, that he wouldn't be out of place in the Death Star Boardroom."

Tuesday 14 June 2011

Hamilton’s Formula

A jarring contrast of fortunes for the McLaren-men in Canada was lit up by the flash of lathe sparks and a cutting two second put-down: ‘What was he doing?’
In F1 you do not collide with a teammate. You do not go off on a straight – particularly one so long, so North American that it must stretch from view in a single, dignified line, evoking the spirit of railroad tycoons, gold fever and migrating bison. And yet thundering into this yawning expanse, Hamilton found himself squeezed into a walled corridor, like a desperate youth forcing an imported ’77 Mustang into a cluttered Chelmsford garage.
Hamilton was left drunkenly kicking at his puncture, and it would not have been surprising if his condition had escalated suddenly to induce the whipping of an imaginary Austin Estate with a branch of Hawthorn. After all, Niki Lauda has diagnosed Hamilton as ‘Completely Mad’, and we musn’t forget, this is coming from someone who was, himself, mis-diagnosed death on the racetrack and read his last rites by a hastily-summoned clergyman.

The final lap insult for Hamilton came as Button scythed through the field to take the chequered flag and with it, blot out any blame for the collision. McLaren put on a united front of celebration alongside the spectacularly-named BBC pit-part-man, Ted Kravitz, who captured Hamilton stating the seemingly obvious:
“If you don’t win, you always want your teammate to win.”
But this is a sport that exposes the word ‘team’ to such rigorous mechanical pressures that it stretches, turns back to front, loses letters  and transmogrifies to the word ‘me’. Hamilton’s expression betrayed his true feelings which may have read something like: ‘Button winning after the race I’ve had? It’s akin to your brother having an affair with your wife and paying for an abortion with a bicycle-basket full of twenty pound notes.’ But Hamilton no longer makes such clumsy, car-crash remarks or post-race ‘frickin’ jokes’ a la Ali G, via Bernard Manning.
‘Mad’, ‘Dangerous’ and ‘Going to get someone killed’ are tag-lines that racing drivers can somehow survive, possibly thrive on. Talk of Senna’s ‘untamed’ talent, Villeneuve’s ‘rage to win’ may have egged on an inexperienced back-grid driver to pull donuts on the warm-up lap. However, pundits are using words such as ‘resigned’, ‘desperate’ and ‘crisis’, which are unglamorous attributes more at home in Morecambe than Monaco. Talk of crisis always comes too early in sport punditry, so early in fact, that talk of 'talk of a crisis' may even jump the gun. And what kind of a crisis would Hamilton be experiencing? An identity crisis? Possibly. A racing driver mid-life crisis where models and fast cars have no bearing whatsoever? At 26? Again, possibly, but no: if he was a gambler, he’d be cold; if he was an insurance policy, he’d be unquotable. His assessment of the Canadian Grand Prix beforehand was less Nostradamus, more Michael Fish ’87:
The city is one of my favourite cities in the world. The weather, generally, has been fantastic every time we've been here.”
He is so spiritually and psychically under-the-weather that one wonders if the recent rumours of joining Red Bull will be scuppered by a brash announcement: ‘I have decided to join a Lotus team that harkens back to days when men were men and sideburns were sideburns’.
Such static lulls in nature’s forcefields are only momentary. He has offended the Gods somehow. Or at least Maggie Smith’s Hera whilst Laurence Olivier's Zeus is out taking a dump. A prodigy cannot go on being denied in such a manner. Especially one with such an iconic dad, visuals-over-sonics partner and A-list entourage. Indeed, competitors may even be fazed by the sheer expensiveness of his sunglasses. But there was a sign the tides are turning, the times are a-changing, for the wheel still it spins. And the loser now will be later to win - Hamilton’s Formula:
“Why am I so quick here in Canada? Well, you have to be close to the walls, which I particularly like. But not too close.”