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.”