Ahhh hello old friends, I am glad to give you the chance to venture back into my incoherent, babbling thoughts.
Regarding the title, I don't know if you can call an unpaid internship "employment", but it's the best I had to work with, and it made me feel special. I will miss the glum stares of commuters begging for the sweet embrace of death on cold Wednesday mornings and the opportunity to dress in jeans on 'casual Friday', like a complete maniac, but things had to change, so I stormed out of there last week with my head held high, deciding enough was enough*.
* - patiently waited until the last minute, subtly begged for a job and meekly acknowledged the inevitable end of my contract.
So, with the year approaching its end and my promises of regular blogs as broke three members of Take That, I would like to offer the writing equivalent of the deathbed repentance. After all, the world is supposedly ending on Friday if you believe a long-dead collection of people which ran out of time, resources and calendars. No, not Woolworths, the Mayans.
I am sorry to have abandoned you all once again, but my tenacity and unwavering desire to chase my dreams meant that I had to prioritise a little. (When I say tenacity, I mean apathy, when I say dreams, I mean unpaid internship and when I say prioritise, I mean that getting home late gave me little option but to cry myself to sleep in preparation for the next day.)
Today I will try to write a few reviews of the past twelve months. 2012 has been pretty quiet year, so it shouldn't take me long. Happy reading.
Monday, 17 December 2012
Monday, 8 October 2012
Das Finger strikes again as Alonso falters
Warning: the following blog was written by someone suffering from severe man-flu and about to celebrate an incredibly low-key birthday.
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Ahhh Formula One 2012, what are we going to do with you ey?
You couldn't just be all boring and predictable, like Ed Miliband, snooker or Alan Shearer could you?
I am of course talking about the season as a whole, this weekend's race at Suzuka was more dull than a Kimi Raikkonen speech about geology. Am I the only one who thinks that? Suzuka normally provides great racing but, after the first corner, I was quite underwhelmed by the action.
Anyway, the sport is still set for it's most thrilling finale in...well...two years. This year, the glory looks set to go either to Fernando Alonso or Sebastian Vettel...or maybe Lewis Hamilton or maybe Kimi Raikkonen. In fact, I was tempted to name this post "two and a half men" on that basis, but then most people would avoid it on the grounds that the blog would involve Charlie Sheen hanging out with a ten-year-old boy.
Once again, I tried to avoid both qualifying and race results, but once again, my irrational addiction to BBC Sport meant that I gave away both before I could hang on for the highlights shows. Anyway, just like at the Bahrain Grand Prix earlier this year, I was given the terrifying feeling that I had been taken back in time to 2011, with Seb dominating a race and everyone being far too polite to put up a fuss. As a result, I won't spend too much time talking about how the German cruised to pole position, got to the first corner first and subsequently dominated the race, holding off the challenge of the brilliant Felipe Massa.
Behind him, there was more of a race, with Romain Grosjean again doing his best to annoy the whole paddock. Grosjean to me is like Donkey Kong in Mario Kart, he can be quick, but is incredibly clumsy. After a decent getaway, he collided with Mark Webber after what he said was an over-zealous attempt to not hit anyone. Say what? That's like saying "but love, I was trying so hard not to kiss her, I ended up shagging her"...isn't it? However, Romain wasn't the only Lotus causing trouble in the first corner; Raikkonen himself was caught up in his own incident, in his case with championship leader Alonso, causing him to spin out and as a result, making this year's title battle tighter than (note: come back to crap sex metaphor later).
Kamui Kobayashi drove a splendid race in front of his home fans to take the final podium position, despite a late push from Jenson Button who, sadly, wasn't able to apply more pressure than he did, which was about as much as a kitten in a vacuum. That said, Button drove a strong race in difficult circumstances at a track he often excels at. How he copes with the demands of being McLaren's apparent number one driver will be interesting with the talented Sergio Perez making life difficult. The young Mexican remains enigmatic to me; after three podium finishes this season, two of them in second place, you would have expected him to have amassed many points than he has. You want to know why? I'm going to tell you, gather round.
The reason he hasn't is his inconsistency, which surfaced again this weekend. After a stunning overtaking move on the unusually circumspect Hamilton, he attempted a similar manouvre later in the race, only to get it totally wrong, and in the manner of a drunk man falling over in a puddle, only at 100mph. Then again, the Sauber wouldn't be the first thing with a Chelsea logo stamped on it's body to do something reckless and stupid.
Are we done talking about the race now? Yes? Good, let's look ahead.
Four of the next five races were not on the calendar in 2008, when Lewis Hamilton took the world title. I was going to go somewhere with that statistic, but it actually doesn't really mean anything, so I may just leave you in awe of my knowledge.
I can't see past Vettel winning a third consecutive title, which would be something of a shame. I don't think Vettel has driven particularly well this year, while Alonso and - to a lesser extent - Hamilton have been excellent and consistent. Of course, my prediction means Vettel won't win the title, but the Red Bull looks so strong after a a raft of new upgrades. That said the next four circuits should in theory suit the McLaren, due to the huge straights at these tracks, tracks which follow the tried-and-tested formula from track designing extraordinaire Herman Tilke (long straight, hairpin, long straight, loads of twisty shit in the middle, with run-off about the size of New Zealand, then back to the long straight). To make the season interesting, one of Raikkonen or Hamilton has to win in Korea.
McLaren will of course say they will not use Button to help Hamilton, but failure to do so would be stupid, and McLaren are too well run and too strategically strong to...oh wait. Anyway, if Button fails to comply, Hamilton will do what he does best: get on Twitter and moan about it.
I do love back-to-back races, providing as they do a great opportunity to make sex jokes about Formula One on consecutive weekends. I hope you enjoyed my return to Formula One, if not, the link to that Felipe Massa piece will remind you of when I used to be funny.
I will report back to you in a week, when hopefully I will be able to leave my bed.
Peace.
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Ahhh Formula One 2012, what are we going to do with you ey?
You couldn't just be all boring and predictable, like Ed Miliband, snooker or Alan Shearer could you?
I am of course talking about the season as a whole, this weekend's race at Suzuka was more dull than a Kimi Raikkonen speech about geology. Am I the only one who thinks that? Suzuka normally provides great racing but, after the first corner, I was quite underwhelmed by the action.
Anyway, the sport is still set for it's most thrilling finale in...well...two years. This year, the glory looks set to go either to Fernando Alonso or Sebastian Vettel...or maybe Lewis Hamilton or maybe Kimi Raikkonen. In fact, I was tempted to name this post "two and a half men" on that basis, but then most people would avoid it on the grounds that the blog would involve Charlie Sheen hanging out with a ten-year-old boy.
Once again, I tried to avoid both qualifying and race results, but once again, my irrational addiction to BBC Sport meant that I gave away both before I could hang on for the highlights shows. Anyway, just like at the Bahrain Grand Prix earlier this year, I was given the terrifying feeling that I had been taken back in time to 2011, with Seb dominating a race and everyone being far too polite to put up a fuss. As a result, I won't spend too much time talking about how the German cruised to pole position, got to the first corner first and subsequently dominated the race, holding off the challenge of the brilliant Felipe Massa.
Behind him, there was more of a race, with Romain Grosjean again doing his best to annoy the whole paddock. Grosjean to me is like Donkey Kong in Mario Kart, he can be quick, but is incredibly clumsy. After a decent getaway, he collided with Mark Webber after what he said was an over-zealous attempt to not hit anyone. Say what? That's like saying "but love, I was trying so hard not to kiss her, I ended up shagging her"...isn't it? However, Romain wasn't the only Lotus causing trouble in the first corner; Raikkonen himself was caught up in his own incident, in his case with championship leader Alonso, causing him to spin out and as a result, making this year's title battle tighter than (note: come back to crap sex metaphor later).
Kamui Kobayashi drove a splendid race in front of his home fans to take the final podium position, despite a late push from Jenson Button who, sadly, wasn't able to apply more pressure than he did, which was about as much as a kitten in a vacuum. That said, Button drove a strong race in difficult circumstances at a track he often excels at. How he copes with the demands of being McLaren's apparent number one driver will be interesting with the talented Sergio Perez making life difficult. The young Mexican remains enigmatic to me; after three podium finishes this season, two of them in second place, you would have expected him to have amassed many points than he has. You want to know why? I'm going to tell you, gather round.
The reason he hasn't is his inconsistency, which surfaced again this weekend. After a stunning overtaking move on the unusually circumspect Hamilton, he attempted a similar manouvre later in the race, only to get it totally wrong, and in the manner of a drunk man falling over in a puddle, only at 100mph. Then again, the Sauber wouldn't be the first thing with a Chelsea logo stamped on it's body to do something reckless and stupid.
Are we done talking about the race now? Yes? Good, let's look ahead.
Four of the next five races were not on the calendar in 2008, when Lewis Hamilton took the world title. I was going to go somewhere with that statistic, but it actually doesn't really mean anything, so I may just leave you in awe of my knowledge.
I can't see past Vettel winning a third consecutive title, which would be something of a shame. I don't think Vettel has driven particularly well this year, while Alonso and - to a lesser extent - Hamilton have been excellent and consistent. Of course, my prediction means Vettel won't win the title, but the Red Bull looks so strong after a a raft of new upgrades. That said the next four circuits should in theory suit the McLaren, due to the huge straights at these tracks, tracks which follow the tried-and-tested formula from track designing extraordinaire Herman Tilke (long straight, hairpin, long straight, loads of twisty shit in the middle, with run-off about the size of New Zealand, then back to the long straight). To make the season interesting, one of Raikkonen or Hamilton has to win in Korea.
McLaren will of course say they will not use Button to help Hamilton, but failure to do so would be stupid, and McLaren are too well run and too strategically strong to...oh wait. Anyway, if Button fails to comply, Hamilton will do what he does best: get on Twitter and moan about it.
I do love back-to-back races, providing as they do a great opportunity to make sex jokes about Formula One on consecutive weekends. I hope you enjoyed my return to Formula One, if not, the link to that Felipe Massa piece will remind you of when I used to be funny.
I will report back to you in a week, when hopefully I will be able to leave my bed.
Peace.
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
Orgies, Bin Laden and Lazarus...you'll see.
The last time I made a blog post, Andy Murray appeared to be doomed to failure in all Grand Slam finals, the Olympics hadn't happened yet, and if someone asked me to "Gangnam style", I would think I was being invited to some crazy orgy.
A lot has changed; I have graduated from university, finished a position at Total Football Magazine and have taken a new position elsewhere, making the big bucks (travel expenses) like an actual journalist, not some spotty, itchy twenty-something desperately seeking an employer with more money than sense. Since I stopped blogging, we in Britain have witnessed a truly remarkable summer of sport, and I take a lot of responsibility for that. So, with the sporting drama of the next few months guaranteed to be as dry as a Panda in a convent, I will return with my shining wit (or an anagram of it), for your entertainment. You know, until I get bored and stop again.
Anyway, my last blog was about Andy Murray's heartbreaking Wimbledon final loss. As I predicted, the naysayers and "haters" quickly resumed liking the "Scot" when he became a "Brit" again at this Summer's Olympics, where he not just beat Roger Federer, but inflicted a defeat more embarrassing than Steve Kean doing a press conference...naked. Oh, Steve Kean has been sacked? My God, it has been a while.
I will return to Andy Murray later, but I think the Olympics needs to be discussed beforehand. Last time I wrote here, Britain was about to be swamped by 791 million foreign spectators, and our tube systems would be more cramped and over-worked than Wayne Rooney at a nursing home. Our security would be so bad that Osama Bin Laden would actually come back from the dead, travel to Stratford, win a few gold medals, give the Queen a wedgie and then destroy the Olympic Park.
As it happened, we were treated to a truly remarkable Games. I still have no idea what the opening ceremony was about, but it was a truly spectacular display of what it means to be British, without the political-correctness, whining and bad food. When the flags came out, I was overwhelmed by how many countries actually wanted to send people to East London, but that's what the Games are all about, triumph over adversity*. After Wiggins, Hoy and co blew us away on their bikes, there came an evening so dramatic and so triumphant that the whole nation collectively squealed in orgasmic delight. And not just because everyone seems to have a crush on Jessica Ennis.
* - sorry cockneys, please don't hurt me.
The first Saturday of the Games included a 45 minute period where Britain won three gold medals...in athletics. Not on bikes or on boats, but actually running and stuff. From then on, something magical happened. We started being nice to each other. Train and tube journeys would be accompanied by smiles, manners and conversations. Of course, we have since regressed into our old selves, where any attempt to talk to a stranger on the train is met by either a glare or prayers that one won't get stabbed. Ahhh London.
I was lucky enough to watch the Beach Volleyball at Horse Guards Parade, but to those of you thinking I'm a jammy sod, half of the time was spent up in the Gods, in the middle of a storm, looking at big Latvian men diving around in the sand, playing with balls. Not so lucky now am I?
I told you I would get back to Andy Murray. After his Olympic triumph, Murray took New York by storm, displaying determination, ruthlessness and throaty roars not seen since Godzilla in the 1998 movie...Godzilla.
Once again, as soon as people got a feeling Murray could win, their attitudes began to change towards him. A fifth Grand Slam Final followed and a meeting with Novak Djokovic would test whether Murray really had grown stronger mentally. After winning two titanic sets, it appeared the 76 year wait for a British male Grand Slam winner would be continue for no more than an hour. Murray, sensing I now had a job to get up for early the next morning, decided to screw with my mind and lose the next two sets. However, he hung on to take a victory which was never in doubt. My Facebook statuses - accompanied by constant swearing and anti-Scottish sentiment - were just a joke.
What else happened? Oh yeah, the Formula One hasn't been too bad. Fernando Alonso, being Dick Dastardly himself, managed to take a huge lead in the World Championship almost without anyone noticing, until Lewis Hamilton and Sebastian Vettel said "hang on a minute,what the hell?" Victories in Hungary and Italy helped Lewis close the gap on the Spaniard, before a gearbox more brittle than Michael Owen's hamstrings gave way in Singapore, allowing Vettel to take advantage.
Hamilton has since moved to Mercedes, a transfer shocking for one simple reason: it proved Eddie Jordan right. Have I really been gone so long that Eddie Jordan is now some kind of bright shirt-wearing, goatee-sporting, future-predicting genius? Or did he just get the two teams mixed up, like the time he called Paul McCartney "George"? I'm sure I will address this issue in my upcoming blog about the Japanese Grand Prix, where I will make grovelling apologies to my Formula One readers, who are a dedicated bunch and strange for the simple fact that they find me funny. The move doesn't make much sense to me, but then Lewis earns slightly more than me, so he can do what he wants.
The football has started again, but nothing has really happened there, except that Mark Hughes is still rubbish, Manchester United's midfield is still awful and we still don't know if John Terry is a racist. More football blogs will of course follow, but this summer's epicness, combined with Rio Ferdinand's ineptitude, has left me with a sense of apathy towards what is still my favourite sport.
Finally, I have even started to like golf. Last Sunday's Ryder Cup win for Europe was so dramatic and emotional, I ended up bouncing around, on my bed, in my boxers at eleven o'clock at night, something which probably caused local dog-walkers to wonder who I was enjoying my Sunday night with. Europe's comeback was so good, I will now refer to Lazarus' little story as a comeback of 'Lazabal* proportions.
* - sorry.
A shit pun in relation to a momentous comeback. It's always nice when blog posts come around full circle. I apologise for being away so long, but I'm sure you found the strength to live without my irrelevant musings about sport, the one thing that distracts from just how shit life can really be.
I look forward to annoying you all again this weekend. Toodles.
A lot has changed; I have graduated from university, finished a position at Total Football Magazine and have taken a new position elsewhere, making the big bucks (travel expenses) like an actual journalist, not some spotty, itchy twenty-something desperately seeking an employer with more money than sense. Since I stopped blogging, we in Britain have witnessed a truly remarkable summer of sport, and I take a lot of responsibility for that. So, with the sporting drama of the next few months guaranteed to be as dry as a Panda in a convent, I will return with my shining wit (or an anagram of it), for your entertainment. You know, until I get bored and stop again.
Anyway, my last blog was about Andy Murray's heartbreaking Wimbledon final loss. As I predicted, the naysayers and "haters" quickly resumed liking the "Scot" when he became a "Brit" again at this Summer's Olympics, where he not just beat Roger Federer, but inflicted a defeat more embarrassing than Steve Kean doing a press conference...naked. Oh, Steve Kean has been sacked? My God, it has been a while.
I will return to Andy Murray later, but I think the Olympics needs to be discussed beforehand. Last time I wrote here, Britain was about to be swamped by 791 million foreign spectators, and our tube systems would be more cramped and over-worked than Wayne Rooney at a nursing home. Our security would be so bad that Osama Bin Laden would actually come back from the dead, travel to Stratford, win a few gold medals, give the Queen a wedgie and then destroy the Olympic Park.
As it happened, we were treated to a truly remarkable Games. I still have no idea what the opening ceremony was about, but it was a truly spectacular display of what it means to be British, without the political-correctness, whining and bad food. When the flags came out, I was overwhelmed by how many countries actually wanted to send people to East London, but that's what the Games are all about, triumph over adversity*. After Wiggins, Hoy and co blew us away on their bikes, there came an evening so dramatic and so triumphant that the whole nation collectively squealed in orgasmic delight. And not just because everyone seems to have a crush on Jessica Ennis.
* - sorry cockneys, please don't hurt me.
The first Saturday of the Games included a 45 minute period where Britain won three gold medals...in athletics. Not on bikes or on boats, but actually running and stuff. From then on, something magical happened. We started being nice to each other. Train and tube journeys would be accompanied by smiles, manners and conversations. Of course, we have since regressed into our old selves, where any attempt to talk to a stranger on the train is met by either a glare or prayers that one won't get stabbed. Ahhh London.
I was lucky enough to watch the Beach Volleyball at Horse Guards Parade, but to those of you thinking I'm a jammy sod, half of the time was spent up in the Gods, in the middle of a storm, looking at big Latvian men diving around in the sand, playing with balls. Not so lucky now am I?
I told you I would get back to Andy Murray. After his Olympic triumph, Murray took New York by storm, displaying determination, ruthlessness and throaty roars not seen since Godzilla in the 1998 movie...Godzilla.
Once again, as soon as people got a feeling Murray could win, their attitudes began to change towards him. A fifth Grand Slam Final followed and a meeting with Novak Djokovic would test whether Murray really had grown stronger mentally. After winning two titanic sets, it appeared the 76 year wait for a British male Grand Slam winner would be continue for no more than an hour. Murray, sensing I now had a job to get up for early the next morning, decided to screw with my mind and lose the next two sets. However, he hung on to take a victory which was never in doubt. My Facebook statuses - accompanied by constant swearing and anti-Scottish sentiment - were just a joke.
What else happened? Oh yeah, the Formula One hasn't been too bad. Fernando Alonso, being Dick Dastardly himself, managed to take a huge lead in the World Championship almost without anyone noticing, until Lewis Hamilton and Sebastian Vettel said "hang on a minute,what the hell?" Victories in Hungary and Italy helped Lewis close the gap on the Spaniard, before a gearbox more brittle than Michael Owen's hamstrings gave way in Singapore, allowing Vettel to take advantage.
Hamilton has since moved to Mercedes, a transfer shocking for one simple reason: it proved Eddie Jordan right. Have I really been gone so long that Eddie Jordan is now some kind of bright shirt-wearing, goatee-sporting, future-predicting genius? Or did he just get the two teams mixed up, like the time he called Paul McCartney "George"? I'm sure I will address this issue in my upcoming blog about the Japanese Grand Prix, where I will make grovelling apologies to my Formula One readers, who are a dedicated bunch and strange for the simple fact that they find me funny. The move doesn't make much sense to me, but then Lewis earns slightly more than me, so he can do what he wants.
The football has started again, but nothing has really happened there, except that Mark Hughes is still rubbish, Manchester United's midfield is still awful and we still don't know if John Terry is a racist. More football blogs will of course follow, but this summer's epicness, combined with Rio Ferdinand's ineptitude, has left me with a sense of apathy towards what is still my favourite sport.
Finally, I have even started to like golf. Last Sunday's Ryder Cup win for Europe was so dramatic and emotional, I ended up bouncing around, on my bed, in my boxers at eleven o'clock at night, something which probably caused local dog-walkers to wonder who I was enjoying my Sunday night with. Europe's comeback was so good, I will now refer to Lazarus' little story as a comeback of 'Lazabal* proportions.
* - sorry.
A shit pun in relation to a momentous comeback. It's always nice when blog posts come around full circle. I apologise for being away so long, but I'm sure you found the strength to live without my irrelevant musings about sport, the one thing that distracts from just how shit life can really be.
I look forward to annoying you all again this weekend. Toodles.
Sunday, 8 July 2012
I'm 21 years, 8 months and 29 days old.
And I wanted to cry my eyes out about half an hour ago. In Andy Murray's words "this is not going to be easy".
But I'm gonna try. I'm probably going to get really defensive at bigoted people or end up sounding like Andy's PR manager, but I'm gonna try.
For the last two days... OK two weeks... OK seven years, Andy Murray has had to deal with questions about when he would win a first Grand Slam title. "It's a matter of time" said all the pundits. "I'm still improving" said Murray. "Stop asking me about Andy bloody Murray" said the other members of tennis' big three-and-a-half. The weight of expectation for the best part of a decade has been on Andy's Scottish (coz he lost) shoulders and to forge a career as successful as he has is nothing short of amazing.
Yes, he has forged a successful career. Ten Grand Slam semi-finals, four Grand Slam finals, beaten in all only by three of the best players ever to play the game. How Andy must wish his parents had had a little too much vodka one night a few years earlier, then he would be battling Juan Carlos Ferrero and Gaston Gaudio instead of Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer. And Rafael Nadal. And Joe-Wilfried Tsonga.
Instead, Andy was baptised into the cruel world of British sporting expectation a little late, while it was left to Tim Henman to battle players from tennis' Hall of Meh. Life isn't fair.
People often don't like Murray because he is dour, serious and...well, Scottish. "Give me Tim Henman any day of the week" they say behind their copy of The Daily Mail, a replica England flag sticking out of a tweed hat as they intertwine their barely disguised disdain for their country's best player with their dissatisfaction with Council Tax, immigrants, the Labour party and Holly Willoughby. These same people are those who burnt David Beckham in effigy in 1998 and don't "get" Lewis Hamilton.
Only in this country could we reject our finest sporting products. If the Chinese turned their back on their finest products, there would be NOTHING IN OUR BLOODY HOUSES. Roger Federer is a likeable enough guy but sometimes fails to cross the line between arrogance and magnanimous...ness. Do the Swiss hate him? No. Why? Because the Swiss get stuff done. In their eyes, personality and background are immaterial when the results are taken into account. Only in Britain could we ask for just a little bit more. "Sure, he's good and sure, he plays for us, but would it kill him to smile a little more?" With all due respect; fuck off. This guy was around when sixteen children were killed at his school, a happy-go-lucky attitude probably went with them. Joe-Wilfried Tsonga is a chipper character and has a great name. One Grand Slam final. And was beaten by Murray.
Bear in mind, these same people who slag off our best tennis player may well be the first to support him when he dons Olympics clothing in just under a month's time. "Always liked him" they'll say. "I hope he wins" will say others. "Leave me alone" will say the rest.
Besides, Andy Murray's runner-up speech was heart-warming if nothing else. People criticise him for being stoic, apathetic and downright grumpy. So what if he is? Today, he showed a passion and a commitment to his sport which if a few more of us did to our jobs (I'm still unemployed but shhh), our economy would be a whole lot better. Here was a guy who had had his arse kicked for nearly four hours, but had the grace to applaud the man who deservedly beat him and the gratitude to thank those who share a country with him, even if some (the minority) turn their back on him.
Andy Murray is like a Scottish (coz he lost) Jesus, people didn't like him when he was doing his thing, but maybe two thousand years from now, huge churches will be erected with massive stained windows of Murray's face contorted in a mixture of rage, frustration and passion. A necklace of Murray pointing at a ball boy for a towel wouldn't look great though.
Even after defeat, and my own witty use of brackets, I wonder if our country and our media will finally accept that Andy Murray is British. The man lives in England, has some English blood and nearly kills himself for the "foreign" people who support him. Whisper it, he may even be becoming slightly more likeable.
A brief word about the match because, you know, there was a match before I decided to yell at people who dislike Andy Murray, even if they do have their own reasons and right to dislike the guy.
Murray made the better start. So often in the big matches, he is slow out of the blocks and cedes a momentum which becomes too forceful to overcome. After breaking early, he was pegged back on serve early in the first set. However, he staved off the Federer threat and eventually broke and then went on to win the first set. So often Murray is accused of being defensive or overwhelmed by the occasion. Others use that most ambiguous, convenient, self-serving and pointless of sporting phrases: "he bottled it". Not in that first set he didn't, he went full pelt and deservedly took his early lead. Hell, he even played so well, he made Roger Federer look his thirty years. Federer almost broke sweat.
But like that bit when your dream is getting good, some bastard wakes you up. Halfway through the second set, Murray was arguably playing the better tennis and had points to break the Swiss players serve. And then Federer showed up, playing unbelievable tennis to hold serve and then even better stuff to force the break which gave him the set. It was all too good to be true, like when you're doing an exam and the first ten questions are easy, then someone asks you to work out the square root of the meaning of life.
As Murray contemplated his now level footing with tennis' best ever player, he struggled to stay in touch until, in a moment of sporting pathetic fallacy, it began to rain. A collective breather was almost audible under Centre court's closing roof as the players took a break which one sensed Murray needed.
As it turned out, Federer wasn't fussed. Momentum? Pah! Home hero? Whatever. Federer came out under the 1,000 ton roof and proceeded to dump that same weight of pressure on the Murray serve which, if you were nit-picking, was his main weakness. Federer broke midway through set three and then midway through set four to set up his grand victory, a victory Murray made sure was not inevitable until an attempted passing shot on Federer's second match point was 90% of its way to the tramlines. Those were the margins. Murray was incredible, Federer was just a bit better. The bastard.
What now for Murray? He's come back from this sort of adversity before and I think we can all agree that he is one of the best players in the world. He will continue to get chances and he will continue to improve, something he has done (at least mentally) with the instalment of Ivan Lendl as his coach. Lendl himself, you will be bored to tears hearing, lost his first four Grand Slam finals too. But then, he played in a slightly more favourable era too. Murray should win one of these dam things soon, but this country is amazing at producing nearly men. Which is one of the few things we do with as much consistency as a Roger Federer drop shot.
It wasn't easy to write that, but I did it anyway. The last few months have sucked for me as a sports fan. To fill you in, I support Manchester United, Lewis Hamilton, the Scotland rugby team, Surrey country cricket club and other teams which have this year been so close to victory, before being pipped by someone slightly better.
Sporting Gods, why have you forsaken me?
For the next few weeks, I may give a lot of money to charity, do more of the washing up and even buy gifts for people. Things have got to turn around.
And they will. This was not Murray's time but, as I write, the sun has just come out. Maybe it will for Britain's (coz he's still a winner) Andy Murray one day.
But I'm gonna try. I'm probably going to get really defensive at bigoted people or end up sounding like Andy's PR manager, but I'm gonna try.
For the last two days... OK two weeks... OK seven years, Andy Murray has had to deal with questions about when he would win a first Grand Slam title. "It's a matter of time" said all the pundits. "I'm still improving" said Murray. "Stop asking me about Andy bloody Murray" said the other members of tennis' big three-and-a-half. The weight of expectation for the best part of a decade has been on Andy's Scottish (coz he lost) shoulders and to forge a career as successful as he has is nothing short of amazing.
Yes, he has forged a successful career. Ten Grand Slam semi-finals, four Grand Slam finals, beaten in all only by three of the best players ever to play the game. How Andy must wish his parents had had a little too much vodka one night a few years earlier, then he would be battling Juan Carlos Ferrero and Gaston Gaudio instead of Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer. And Rafael Nadal. And Joe-Wilfried Tsonga.
Instead, Andy was baptised into the cruel world of British sporting expectation a little late, while it was left to Tim Henman to battle players from tennis' Hall of Meh. Life isn't fair.
People often don't like Murray because he is dour, serious and...well, Scottish. "Give me Tim Henman any day of the week" they say behind their copy of The Daily Mail, a replica England flag sticking out of a tweed hat as they intertwine their barely disguised disdain for their country's best player with their dissatisfaction with Council Tax, immigrants, the Labour party and Holly Willoughby. These same people are those who burnt David Beckham in effigy in 1998 and don't "get" Lewis Hamilton.
Only in this country could we reject our finest sporting products. If the Chinese turned their back on their finest products, there would be NOTHING IN OUR BLOODY HOUSES. Roger Federer is a likeable enough guy but sometimes fails to cross the line between arrogance and magnanimous...ness. Do the Swiss hate him? No. Why? Because the Swiss get stuff done. In their eyes, personality and background are immaterial when the results are taken into account. Only in Britain could we ask for just a little bit more. "Sure, he's good and sure, he plays for us, but would it kill him to smile a little more?" With all due respect; fuck off. This guy was around when sixteen children were killed at his school, a happy-go-lucky attitude probably went with them. Joe-Wilfried Tsonga is a chipper character and has a great name. One Grand Slam final. And was beaten by Murray.
Bear in mind, these same people who slag off our best tennis player may well be the first to support him when he dons Olympics clothing in just under a month's time. "Always liked him" they'll say. "I hope he wins" will say others. "Leave me alone" will say the rest.
Besides, Andy Murray's runner-up speech was heart-warming if nothing else. People criticise him for being stoic, apathetic and downright grumpy. So what if he is? Today, he showed a passion and a commitment to his sport which if a few more of us did to our jobs (I'm still unemployed but shhh), our economy would be a whole lot better. Here was a guy who had had his arse kicked for nearly four hours, but had the grace to applaud the man who deservedly beat him and the gratitude to thank those who share a country with him, even if some (the minority) turn their back on him.
Andy Murray is like a Scottish (coz he lost) Jesus, people didn't like him when he was doing his thing, but maybe two thousand years from now, huge churches will be erected with massive stained windows of Murray's face contorted in a mixture of rage, frustration and passion. A necklace of Murray pointing at a ball boy for a towel wouldn't look great though.
Even after defeat, and my own witty use of brackets, I wonder if our country and our media will finally accept that Andy Murray is British. The man lives in England, has some English blood and nearly kills himself for the "foreign" people who support him. Whisper it, he may even be becoming slightly more likeable.
A brief word about the match because, you know, there was a match before I decided to yell at people who dislike Andy Murray, even if they do have their own reasons and right to dislike the guy.
Murray made the better start. So often in the big matches, he is slow out of the blocks and cedes a momentum which becomes too forceful to overcome. After breaking early, he was pegged back on serve early in the first set. However, he staved off the Federer threat and eventually broke and then went on to win the first set. So often Murray is accused of being defensive or overwhelmed by the occasion. Others use that most ambiguous, convenient, self-serving and pointless of sporting phrases: "he bottled it". Not in that first set he didn't, he went full pelt and deservedly took his early lead. Hell, he even played so well, he made Roger Federer look his thirty years. Federer almost broke sweat.
But like that bit when your dream is getting good, some bastard wakes you up. Halfway through the second set, Murray was arguably playing the better tennis and had points to break the Swiss players serve. And then Federer showed up, playing unbelievable tennis to hold serve and then even better stuff to force the break which gave him the set. It was all too good to be true, like when you're doing an exam and the first ten questions are easy, then someone asks you to work out the square root of the meaning of life.
As Murray contemplated his now level footing with tennis' best ever player, he struggled to stay in touch until, in a moment of sporting pathetic fallacy, it began to rain. A collective breather was almost audible under Centre court's closing roof as the players took a break which one sensed Murray needed.
As it turned out, Federer wasn't fussed. Momentum? Pah! Home hero? Whatever. Federer came out under the 1,000 ton roof and proceeded to dump that same weight of pressure on the Murray serve which, if you were nit-picking, was his main weakness. Federer broke midway through set three and then midway through set four to set up his grand victory, a victory Murray made sure was not inevitable until an attempted passing shot on Federer's second match point was 90% of its way to the tramlines. Those were the margins. Murray was incredible, Federer was just a bit better. The bastard.
What now for Murray? He's come back from this sort of adversity before and I think we can all agree that he is one of the best players in the world. He will continue to get chances and he will continue to improve, something he has done (at least mentally) with the instalment of Ivan Lendl as his coach. Lendl himself, you will be bored to tears hearing, lost his first four Grand Slam finals too. But then, he played in a slightly more favourable era too. Murray should win one of these dam things soon, but this country is amazing at producing nearly men. Which is one of the few things we do with as much consistency as a Roger Federer drop shot.
It wasn't easy to write that, but I did it anyway. The last few months have sucked for me as a sports fan. To fill you in, I support Manchester United, Lewis Hamilton, the Scotland rugby team, Surrey country cricket club and other teams which have this year been so close to victory, before being pipped by someone slightly better.
Sporting Gods, why have you forsaken me?
For the next few weeks, I may give a lot of money to charity, do more of the washing up and even buy gifts for people. Things have got to turn around.
And they will. This was not Murray's time but, as I write, the sun has just come out. Maybe it will for Britain's (coz he's still a winner) Andy Murray one day.
Monday, 2 July 2012
Euro 2012 over, productivity levels rise
Stupid blog won't let me add stupid pictures, I hope your concentration holds!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For 23 days, I have been stuck in a blissful state of football related comatose. I woke up this morning feeling as if I’ve aged three years in three weeks.
The skies are grey again, as if the football Gods themselves are preparing for their impending exit from the spotlight. Euro 2012 is over, which means that for the more dedicated of us, a seemingly endless trawl through football’s transfer gossip is depressingly likely.
Fortunately, I like tennis and, as I’m not yet a taxpayer, I like the Olympics. I essentially get the next month of sport-induced procrastination for free, which probably means continued unemployment, but a sort of permanent weary smile. So I think we know who wins there.
Anyway, this is a Euro 2012 article, so I thought it would be pertinent to do a review of a truly, wonderfully, excitingly adequate tournament. Enjoy.
After 30 games, a few exciting debates, a few moronic ones, 72 goals (I think), the brilliance of Andrea Pirlo, the ineptitude of England and much, much more, we had a final.
Most people predicted a Germany v Spain showpiece, while the more ambitious (stupid) of us thought the Netherlands would go all the way.
After a few big teams and names fell by the wayside, it was Italy who stood up to Spain to mark the end of the tournament.
The build up to the game centred on three main themes:
Are Spain boring?
I was thinking the same thing after painfully precise victories over France and Portugal. Efficiency? Clinical football? Winning on penalties? It suddenly seemed like Spain were turning into Germany.
Unfortunately for Ms Merkel and co, this sudden likeness is with regard to their football, not with their economy, but that’s a debate for people who have more of an idea of how economics works.
For all their possession, Spain were really struggling to break teams down, which led many casual (geeky) observers to question whether opposition teams had already figured out a way to cope with Spain’s control of possession. This ball retention was becoming so monopolised that one expected Xavi to pull out a big cane and fake moustache, before turning the pitch into a grid which he endlessly circled in a tiny silver car. Just me?
Last night, the Spanish finally played at their best. It turns out that if your players play 60 odd games a season, they get tired. It turns out that if you are shorn of your record goal scorer, you’ll struggle to…score goals. It turns out that if you have Alvaro Arbeloa at right back, you can’t afford to be too gung ho. Last night, Spain were anything but boring; they beat Italy into submission until they stopped twitching.
Is Andrea Pirlo the best player in the universe?
It turns out that controlling England’s midfield is easier than reciting the words to the Spanish national anthem (there are none). Pirlo was outstanding against England, but last night he was almost peripheral as a lack of possession and space ensured that Italy never seriously threatened Iker Casillas’ goal.
Let’s talk about Mario Balotelli some more.
“Are we going to get super Mario, or stupid Mario?” “You never know what you’re going to get with Balotelli.” “He could score or he could get sent off.” I think the robotic BBC pundits have got stuck, as they keep saying the same things over.
As a football writer, I should love Balotelli for his headlines and tendency to do something stupid, but I don’t buy into the hype.
He worked hard last night, but was a frustrated figure and, his performance against Germany aside, remains a player who lacks the consistency to keep worrying defences. Stupidly, I’ve talked about him for 100 words.
So, Spain were excellent. Surprise. Apparently they only had 50% of ball possession but, as those aforementioned pundits love to tell us, “it’s what you do with it that matters.”
A goal of real quality from Jordi Alba answered the critics regarding Spain’s lack of penetration, an attribute I will not make a tenuous metaphor for.
The other three goals came from David Silva, Fernando Torres and even Juan Mata, which is likely to prompt further claims that the Premier League is to thank for Spain’s dominance.
Before I wrap up, here are a few of my highlights of Euro 2012.
Goal of the tournament – Cesc Fabregas vs Italy
Didn’t expect that did you?! It wasn’t going to be this goal, but I didn’t want to spell the name of the Polish captain again. This goal encapsulated what Spain can do when they are at their best and forced to attack. Minutes after falling behind, Spain struck when first Andres Iniesta found a path through Italy’s midfield, before a wonderful reverse pass from David Silva gave Fabregas the chance to score. An admirable mention for Theo Walcott’s deflected-but-not-deflected shot against Sweden.
Player of the tournament – Jordi Alba
This is so easy. Not Pirlo, not Gomez, not Milner. No, those titans of international football have been slain by the hitherto relatively unknown left back. A goal in the final was just reward for a fine tournament in which he constantly provided width to a sometimes pedestrian attack, contributed to five consecutive clean sheets and much more. Besides, he was top scorer in fantasy football.
Game of the tournament – England 3-2 Sweden
It may surprise you, but I did not pick this game for the thrilling technical brilliance on display. Olof Mellberg’s first goal was a finish of real quality, but although the standard of both teams was outstanding, it was the drama and entertainment which makes it stand head and shoulders above the rest.
So there you have it, the tournament is finished and so am I. I better find something to do now. I may even eat an apple. Football fans, stay strong, there’s only six or so weeks left to go till we can do nothing again!
Now get back to work.
By Doug Elder
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For 23 days, I have been stuck in a blissful state of football related comatose. I woke up this morning feeling as if I’ve aged three years in three weeks.
The skies are grey again, as if the football Gods themselves are preparing for their impending exit from the spotlight. Euro 2012 is over, which means that for the more dedicated of us, a seemingly endless trawl through football’s transfer gossip is depressingly likely.
Fortunately, I like tennis and, as I’m not yet a taxpayer, I like the Olympics. I essentially get the next month of sport-induced procrastination for free, which probably means continued unemployment, but a sort of permanent weary smile. So I think we know who wins there.
Anyway, this is a Euro 2012 article, so I thought it would be pertinent to do a review of a truly, wonderfully, excitingly adequate tournament. Enjoy.
After 30 games, a few exciting debates, a few moronic ones, 72 goals (I think), the brilliance of Andrea Pirlo, the ineptitude of England and much, much more, we had a final.
Most people predicted a Germany v Spain showpiece, while the more ambitious (stupid) of us thought the Netherlands would go all the way.
After a few big teams and names fell by the wayside, it was Italy who stood up to Spain to mark the end of the tournament.
The build up to the game centred on three main themes:
Are Spain boring?
I was thinking the same thing after painfully precise victories over France and Portugal. Efficiency? Clinical football? Winning on penalties? It suddenly seemed like Spain were turning into Germany.
Unfortunately for Ms Merkel and co, this sudden likeness is with regard to their football, not with their economy, but that’s a debate for people who have more of an idea of how economics works.
For all their possession, Spain were really struggling to break teams down, which led many casual (geeky) observers to question whether opposition teams had already figured out a way to cope with Spain’s control of possession. This ball retention was becoming so monopolised that one expected Xavi to pull out a big cane and fake moustache, before turning the pitch into a grid which he endlessly circled in a tiny silver car. Just me?
Last night, the Spanish finally played at their best. It turns out that if your players play 60 odd games a season, they get tired. It turns out that if you are shorn of your record goal scorer, you’ll struggle to…score goals. It turns out that if you have Alvaro Arbeloa at right back, you can’t afford to be too gung ho. Last night, Spain were anything but boring; they beat Italy into submission until they stopped twitching.
Is Andrea Pirlo the best player in the universe?
It turns out that controlling England’s midfield is easier than reciting the words to the Spanish national anthem (there are none). Pirlo was outstanding against England, but last night he was almost peripheral as a lack of possession and space ensured that Italy never seriously threatened Iker Casillas’ goal.
Let’s talk about Mario Balotelli some more.
“Are we going to get super Mario, or stupid Mario?” “You never know what you’re going to get with Balotelli.” “He could score or he could get sent off.” I think the robotic BBC pundits have got stuck, as they keep saying the same things over.
As a football writer, I should love Balotelli for his headlines and tendency to do something stupid, but I don’t buy into the hype.
He worked hard last night, but was a frustrated figure and, his performance against Germany aside, remains a player who lacks the consistency to keep worrying defences. Stupidly, I’ve talked about him for 100 words.
So, Spain were excellent. Surprise. Apparently they only had 50% of ball possession but, as those aforementioned pundits love to tell us, “it’s what you do with it that matters.”
A goal of real quality from Jordi Alba answered the critics regarding Spain’s lack of penetration, an attribute I will not make a tenuous metaphor for.
The other three goals came from David Silva, Fernando Torres and even Juan Mata, which is likely to prompt further claims that the Premier League is to thank for Spain’s dominance.
Before I wrap up, here are a few of my highlights of Euro 2012.
Goal of the tournament – Cesc Fabregas vs Italy
Didn’t expect that did you?! It wasn’t going to be this goal, but I didn’t want to spell the name of the Polish captain again. This goal encapsulated what Spain can do when they are at their best and forced to attack. Minutes after falling behind, Spain struck when first Andres Iniesta found a path through Italy’s midfield, before a wonderful reverse pass from David Silva gave Fabregas the chance to score. An admirable mention for Theo Walcott’s deflected-but-not-deflected shot against Sweden.
Player of the tournament – Jordi Alba
This is so easy. Not Pirlo, not Gomez, not Milner. No, those titans of international football have been slain by the hitherto relatively unknown left back. A goal in the final was just reward for a fine tournament in which he constantly provided width to a sometimes pedestrian attack, contributed to five consecutive clean sheets and much more. Besides, he was top scorer in fantasy football.
Game of the tournament – England 3-2 Sweden
It may surprise you, but I did not pick this game for the thrilling technical brilliance on display. Olof Mellberg’s first goal was a finish of real quality, but although the standard of both teams was outstanding, it was the drama and entertainment which makes it stand head and shoulders above the rest.
So there you have it, the tournament is finished and so am I. I better find something to do now. I may even eat an apple. Football fans, stay strong, there’s only six or so weeks left to go till we can do nothing again!
Now get back to work.
By Doug Elder
Saturday, 30 June 2012
Wimbledon 2012: Where seeds fall and dreams grow
Is that the campest headline ever written? It was either that or "Rihanna and Katy Perry in sex tape scandal. Controversy confirms that the world will end in 2012" in an attempt to boost my page views. No matter.
We are only six days in at this year's Wimbledon, but it's shaping up to be a cracker. I was even at Wimbledon on Wednesday (I think) to give you insider knowledge of the tournament itself. I even tried to get in the press area in the grounds, but for some reason I was denied.
"Hi, my name's Douglas Elder, I'm here for the press thingy stuff?"
"How come you don't have a pass"
"I don't need a pass, don't you know who I am?"
"No"
"The writer of the popular blog 'Irrelevant irreverence'"
"Oh you! My brother says stop posting on BBC Sport's website...and your photo is scary"
I tried.
Anyway, if any of you were ever unfortunate enough to read the book 'Stormbreaker', you will understand my next analogy. In the book, the protagonist uncovers a plot by a Chinese triad to sabotage the championships. Their plan involves subtly drugging the opponents of some nobody they are betting on. The first few days of these championships have seen remarkable similarities.
On Thursday night, Rafael Nadal was beaten by relative unknown Lukas Rosol. Of course, Rosol played the match of his life, but there seemed to be a strange lethargy about Nadal. Perhaps he was made to look poor by the sheer ferocity of Rosol's groundstrokes, but Nadal just seemed half a step too slow. The challenge for Rosol now comes with his next matches, when he will be expected to destroy opponents, much in the same way I destroy all and sundry when they dare face me on a tennis court.
I started making links to Chinese triads and became racked with suspicion, but then I shook myself out of such xenophobia and sent an anonymous report - detailing the probability of the Chinese derailing Wimbledon - to the Daily Mail instead. Expect some breaking news in the next hour or so.
As for Rosol, after losing the first set on a tiebreak, it appeared that the man had talent, but he would ultimately be swept aside by Nadal, a man who celebrates and punches his fist when his alarm wakes him up on time. However, the Czech player suddenly went all psycho axe murderer on the Spaniard and butchered him for most of the remainder of the match. Rosol, with eyes wide open in Hannibal Lector fashion, hit winner after winner as Nadal began to look more out of place than Andy Murray doing a stand-up gig.
Speaking of Murray, this does mean that he will have someone else to lose to in this year's semi-final which has naturally made British pulses race faster. The poor bugger has only played two matches and now a place in the final is "his to lose". Huh?! The Scot (if he doesn't win) once again has the weight of expectation on him. However, the British (if he wins) player at least only has to carry the burden of "last Brit (if he wins) standing" for nine days, instead of the usual twelve. Heather Watson reached the giddy heights of Round Three* while James Ward nearly got out of Round Two*. But didn't.
* - capitalised to emphasise magnitude of achievement.
Watson and Laura Robson look like future top thirty players (not the most ambition prediction, but hey ho) and they might serve to take further attention from our beleaguered Scottish hope (when he loses).
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| Apparently women find Nadal sexier than me, so here is him with no top on to balance out the fact that I posted a picture of a pretty German lady recently |
As for Rosol, after losing the first set on a tiebreak, it appeared that the man had talent, but he would ultimately be swept aside by Nadal, a man who celebrates and punches his fist when his alarm wakes him up on time. However, the Czech player suddenly went all psycho axe murderer on the Spaniard and butchered him for most of the remainder of the match. Rosol, with eyes wide open in Hannibal Lector fashion, hit winner after winner as Nadal began to look more out of place than Andy Murray doing a stand-up gig.
Speaking of Murray, this does mean that he will have someone else to lose to in this year's semi-final which has naturally made British pulses race faster. The poor bugger has only played two matches and now a place in the final is "his to lose". Huh?! The Scot (if he doesn't win) once again has the weight of expectation on him. However, the British (if he wins) player at least only has to carry the burden of "last Brit (if he wins) standing" for nine days, instead of the usual twelve. Heather Watson reached the giddy heights of Round Three* while James Ward nearly got out of Round Two*. But didn't.
* - capitalised to emphasise magnitude of achievement.
Watson and Laura Robson look like future top thirty players (not the most ambition prediction, but hey ho) and they might serve to take further attention from our beleaguered Scottish hope (when he loses).
Djokovic looks a long way from his best but one would expect him to improve, after all, how many times has he been written off in the last eighteen months before coming back to win...and give us more opportunity to look at his brother clenching his fist. Oh joy. Expect Novak to play poorly all the way to the final where he may meet Murray, before the Serbian raises his games and deflates our national self-esteem, denying us the chance of another national holiday.
As for Roger, I would be amazed if he won this year's title. This now means he will almost certainly win the tournament, but I think he is starting to look slower and slower against aggressive opponents. For two hour yesterday, he was outplayed in longer rallies and it was only experience that saw him through. Better players will get in his way soon, and I don't think the Swiss player is going to make it. But he does have great hair.
I'm not sexist, but I haven't had much chance to see the women play yet.
The BBC don't seem to want to show them, and Wimbledon like to throw them (not literally, imagine that) onto the outside courts. I'm not going to get into an argument about equal pay, as that would be silly, and Serena Williams would probably track me down and eat me.
Maria Sharapova is still in the draw. Goody. Yesterday she screamed when putting away what was essentially a drop volley. Is she an excitable character or just very annoying? You decide.
As we approach halfway, the tournament is shaping up very nicely indeed, and as it has just passed half eleven, I can now look forward to another long, boring day in my bed as I watch tennis for the day. All for your entertainment. People praise the ground staff at Wimbledon as the unsung heroes, but they have it easy. I'm the one who has to watch Ernests Gulbis vs Jerzy Janowicz in fading light on an outside court.
No need to thank me.
Monday, 25 June 2012
Were we really going to win anyway?
What's-a matter you? Hey! Gotta no respect. What-a you think you do? Why you look-a so sad? It's-a not so bad, it's a nice-a place. Ah, shaddapa you face.
The wise words of Joe Dolce there, and I think we can all learn something from that great, great man. Yes, it hurts. Yes, we’re still rubbish at penalties. But in truth, we played for this agony…and the ending shouldn’t surprise any of us. So shaddapa your face.
England didn’t have the players required to really harm Italy. Of course we tried. And unlike at the World Cup two years ago, no one can fault a lack of effort. Maybe a lack of ambition, but when England get too ambitious, really bad things tend to happen in clubs and pubs around the country, so we should be grateful that we chickened out.
England had little choice but to sit back and hope for a Chelsea-esque miracle. At least penalties would give us a (theoretical) 50-50 chance. In the end, we chose suicide over execution.
We also have to deal with the fact that we know more people of Italian descent than we thought we did. Count how many of your mates have changed their name from Paul Smith to Paulo Seppi.
In fact, the people I most feel sorry for are the good people at Google. Their translate feature must have gone into overdrive at the amount of middle-class, suburban British kids working out just what “Forza Italia” means.
That said, if Google translate can survive the over-use I gave it in preparation for my Italian exam this spring, it can cope with anything.
I hope these expatriates can now focus all their attention on Thursday’s semi-final against Germany. Did we really want to play against Germany in a semi-final again?
When all is said and done, last night was essentially an opportunity to update your wall chart (if you’re quite sad), maybe get some fantasy football points (if you’re a bit sadder) and moan at your country's various Manchester United players (if you support Arsenal).
Other than that, it was a match played for the right to lose to the Germans. What an honour.
But let’s just talk about penalties briefly. Like the 4-2-3-1 formation or eulogising over Mario Balotelli or the Messi v Ronaldo debate, the “the team that misses first usually wins” argument was in full force last night at Elder Towers.
It happened again, which begs the question, “why do England never win when they miss first?” The answer is simple, we’re not very good at them.
We’re a nation of worriers; you only have to see what Bird Flu or Tim Henman did to the countries collective blood pressure to know that keeping calm in a shootout isn’t our thing.
Another wise word of advice for those living in this fickle, fickle land, if you’re called Ashley, stay indoors for a bit.
As for the game, it was typical England. There was plenty of huff and puff and lots of admirable but fruitless teamwork, but an ultimate lack of skill, which proved to be the team’s undoing.
The comparison is simple. How much ground did Andrea Pirlo cover last night? How big an effect did he have on the game? Ask the same questions about Danny Welbeck and Steven Gerrard and the answer is why England won’t win a major tournament anytime soon.
Unless we pick David Dunn or Joey Barton…
In terms of Euro 2012, it’s 28 games later. Like in the famous zombie movie, I still feel a little infected, but not so much with rage, more with that familiar taste of disappointment and that taste of paracetamol after one hour too many staring at a TV screen.
Euro 2012 still grips me, but it is almost over, which is a real shame.
Last night was the first 0-0 of the tournament and the football has in general been fantastic. Except the Ukraine v Sweden game and anything involving Ireland, Greece and…England.
But us football fans still have work to do. Before the nation slips once again into a sporting coma as Wimbledon and the Olympics get ever nearer, Euro 2012 isn’t done just yet.
With three games to go, let’s see England’s exit as a sweet relief. Let’s enjoy this last week as much as we can without the pressure of worrying about our brave, but limited nation.
There are more important things than football at the end of the day. If nothing else, there’s a fantasy football league to be won.
The wise words of Joe Dolce there, and I think we can all learn something from that great, great man. Yes, it hurts. Yes, we’re still rubbish at penalties. But in truth, we played for this agony…and the ending shouldn’t surprise any of us. So shaddapa your face.
England didn’t have the players required to really harm Italy. Of course we tried. And unlike at the World Cup two years ago, no one can fault a lack of effort. Maybe a lack of ambition, but when England get too ambitious, really bad things tend to happen in clubs and pubs around the country, so we should be grateful that we chickened out.
England had little choice but to sit back and hope for a Chelsea-esque miracle. At least penalties would give us a (theoretical) 50-50 chance. In the end, we chose suicide over execution.
 |
| "Ahhh crap" |
But we never really had a chance did we? No, our big shot at European glory came eight years ago in Portugal, when an agonising penalty shootout loss to the hosts meant we crashed out at a time when the draw was really opening up for a talented side. So don’t look-a so sad. It’s-a not so bad.
I will also remember Euro 2004 due to Greece’s insistence on boring the continent to tears. That tournament may have provided some hope to England fans; anyone can win football tournaments with a little luck, a good manager and a Hellas (pardon the pun) of a lot of defending…it just didn’t work out this time.
Eight years ago was when we had the right to be sad, not now. Now we’re pretty mediocre. Hard working, but mediocre.
And it is that simple fact that we all have to come to terms with. Instead of waking up with a smile and slightly sore head, we all have to face the crushing reality of Monday morning with yet more tournament heartbreak at the back of our minds.
Instead of glorious, witty Facebook statuses about England’s pragmatism triumphing over Italy’s over-rated, so-called technical superiority, a lot of us have had to come to terms with the fact that we were not lucky enough to be born into a country with sufficient footballing prowess.
 |
In fact, the people I most feel sorry for are the good people at Google. Their translate feature must have gone into overdrive at the amount of middle-class, suburban British kids working out just what “Forza Italia” means.
That said, if Google translate can survive the over-use I gave it in preparation for my Italian exam this spring, it can cope with anything.
I hope these expatriates can now focus all their attention on Thursday’s semi-final against Germany. Did we really want to play against Germany in a semi-final again?
When all is said and done, last night was essentially an opportunity to update your wall chart (if you’re quite sad), maybe get some fantasy football points (if you’re a bit sadder) and moan at your country's various Manchester United players (if you support Arsenal).
Other than that, it was a match played for the right to lose to the Germans. What an honour.
 |
| Don't think it would end well this time |
But let’s just talk about penalties briefly. Like the 4-2-3-1 formation or eulogising over Mario Balotelli or the Messi v Ronaldo debate, the “the team that misses first usually wins” argument was in full force last night at Elder Towers.
It happened again, which begs the question, “why do England never win when they miss first?” The answer is simple, we’re not very good at them.
We’re a nation of worriers; you only have to see what Bird Flu or Tim Henman did to the countries collective blood pressure to know that keeping calm in a shootout isn’t our thing.
Another wise word of advice for those living in this fickle, fickle land, if you’re called Ashley, stay indoors for a bit.
As for the game, it was typical England. There was plenty of huff and puff and lots of admirable but fruitless teamwork, but an ultimate lack of skill, which proved to be the team’s undoing.
The comparison is simple. How much ground did Andrea Pirlo cover last night? How big an effect did he have on the game? Ask the same questions about Danny Welbeck and Steven Gerrard and the answer is why England won’t win a major tournament anytime soon.
Unless we pick David Dunn or Joey Barton…
In terms of Euro 2012, it’s 28 games later. Like in the famous zombie movie, I still feel a little infected, but not so much with rage, more with that familiar taste of disappointment and that taste of paracetamol after one hour too many staring at a TV screen.
Euro 2012 still grips me, but it is almost over, which is a real shame.
Last night was the first 0-0 of the tournament and the football has in general been fantastic. Except the Ukraine v Sweden game and anything involving Ireland, Greece and…England.
But us football fans still have work to do. Before the nation slips once again into a sporting coma as Wimbledon and the Olympics get ever nearer, Euro 2012 isn’t done just yet.
With three games to go, let’s see England’s exit as a sweet relief. Let’s enjoy this last week as much as we can without the pressure of worrying about our brave, but limited nation.
There are more important things than football at the end of the day. If nothing else, there’s a fantasy football league to be won.
Sunday, 24 June 2012
I know absolutely nothing about Formula One
So, I was really, really wrong.
About two days ago, I thought it would be hilarious to talk about how boring the forthcoming European Grand Prix would be. And for about three and a half laps, I was as smug as a vindicated Piers Morgan.
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| My bad. |
Then things got a bit silly. I have no idea how to analyse this race but, as you have probably been directed here from Andrew Benson's blog, luckily I don't have to. So this will probably be a calculated, eloquent, mature evaluation of a f*cking awesome race.
Sebastian Vettel's retirement.
If neither Vettel, Gary Anderson nor David Coulthard - three men with considerably more money, knowledge and sex appeal (yes, even Gary Anderson) than me - can't make sense of the incident, then I will have no chance. It was lap thirty-something or forty-something, and a safety car had bunched up the field to the point where my prediction of boredom was already looking misguided.
So often in the past, Vettel has used the safety car restart as another opportunity to show everyone else how good his car is. However, today he was not able to get the gap he wanted and, under pressure from Fernando Alonso, Romain Grosjean and other, his car inexplicably failed.
Out of the race went the German, out of the car went some pretty expensive gloves and out of my sofa went my backside. "HAVE SOME OF THAT YOU MUG! SHOVE THAT FINGER UP YOUR A**E!" I politely exclaimed. The realisation that Fernando Alonso had taken the lead was yet to sink in, but suddenly, a real race was building.
Suddenly, those still dormant fears in the back of the minds of F1 fans were receding - unlike last year, Vettel was not going to simply run away with the world championship.
The sight of Christian Horner's leg nervously shaking with no image of his top half always makes me feel a little uncomfortable and wonder which channel I am watching. It was nothing like the nervous excitement felt by Formula One fans around the world and the crowd in Valencia when the German walked away from a race which was far from finished.
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Fernando Alonso's brilliance.
In recent weeks, I am warming to Alonso. Despite myself and, to a larger extent, despite himself, I am gaining a huge amount of respect for the man which I know in my heart of hearts is mutual. I respect his driving, he respects my writing.
Starting 11th on the grid, it appeared that today's race would be an opportunity for Vettel and Lewis Hamilton to stretch their leads over the dangerous Spaniard. As it happened, Alonso managed to gain 25 points on both men. What the hell.
Starting 11th on the grid, it appeared that today's race would be an opportunity for Vettel and Lewis Hamilton to stretch their leads over the dangerous Spaniard. As it happened, Alonso managed to gain 25 points on both men. What the hell.
As usual, Eddie Jordan was up Ferrari's arse about their poor qualifying performance and again, Stefano Domenicali was reduced to the role of told off schoolboy as Mr Jordan went on another of his hindsight-fueled, senseless rants. A bit like me really, but in a fabulous shirt.
Yes, Alonso's qualifying was poor but, as I remarked in a rare moment of insight and clarity, starting 11th is probably about the 7th best place to start. Ignoring the temptation to start on the harder, slower tyre, Alonso knew that he needed a good start to make his fresher tyres work. He did just that, climbing to seventh early on, a position which enabled him to take advantage of the huge slices of fortune he was to enjoy.
Yes, Alonso's qualifying was poor but, as I remarked in a rare moment of insight and clarity, starting 11th is probably about the 7th best place to start. Ignoring the temptation to start on the harder, slower tyre, Alonso knew that he needed a good start to make his fresher tyres work. He did just that, climbing to seventh early on, a position which enabled him to take advantage of the huge slices of fortune he was to enjoy.
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| Explains a lot... |
The safety car which indirectly brought about the end of Vettel's race served to help Alonso. Closing right up to the leading cars, Alonso found himself in the top three when an uncharacteristic bad pit stop for Lewis Hamilton saw the home driver challenging for victory.
Another important retirement, this time for Grosjean, meant that Alonso was never going to be seriously threatened for victory.
Another important retirement, this time for Grosjean, meant that Alonso was never going to be seriously threatened for victory.
Lewis Hamilton's...afternoon.
I'm not talking about him first, so I'm not a "fanboy", whatever that means. As a Hamilton fan, today was incredibly difficult to watch. Starting second, it was clear that his McLaren did not have the pace to threaten for victory and it was no surprise when the impressive Grosjean found a way through. What followed was a continuation of the impressive maturity we have seen throughout this season from Hamilton.
With around thirty laps to go, Hamilton was in a comfortable enough third position and fifteen points would have been a respectable return from a difficult race. Hamilton was on the harder tyre while Alonso was closing in on softs. Had the safety car stayed out, Hamilton would possibly have been favourite to claim at least a podium place.
However, the safety car meant that Hamilton had to pit earlier. Which is not good.
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| Oops... |
Had someone said that Grosjean and Vettel would not finish, one would have believed Hamilton would win, and he perhaps would have done were it not for more bad luck/incompetence from McLaren.
As those around him pitted, Lewis decided the time was right to follow suit. Big mistake buddy. This time, a faulty jack contributed to a fourteen second pit-stop, which meant that Hamilton fell to sixth place, a position he improved to third, but to the detriment of his tyres, which would later fall away.
Surviving a stewards inquiry for speeding under yellow flags, Hamilton was in second with around five laps to go. He fought bravely to keep Raikkonen behind, but it was no use and soon Pastor Maldonado was behind him.
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| At least he's good-looking... |
I don't much like Maldonado. Like Hamilton, he has a reputation for being a hot-head and overly aggressive, but without the same talent. Braking late to overtake Hamilton, the Venezuelan ran wide and went off track and it appeared he would have to try again.
All biases aside, he then cut back into Hamilton and took him off the track. With Hamilton's tyres fading, Maldonado could have been more patient and Lewis more pragmatic. Both men could have taken twenty-seven points instead of one.
I haven't seen Hamilton's post-race interview, but another 'Ali-G' moment can't be discounted! Many observers were wondering if Hamilton could do a one-stop strategy. People think this is to save time. No, it's literally so that Lewis only has to pit once.
All biases aside, he then cut back into Hamilton and took him off the track. With Hamilton's tyres fading, Maldonado could have been more patient and Lewis more pragmatic. Both men could have taken twenty-seven points instead of one.
I haven't seen Hamilton's post-race interview, but another 'Ali-G' moment can't be discounted! Many observers were wondering if Hamilton could do a one-stop strategy. People think this is to save time. No, it's literally so that Lewis only has to pit once.
I am proposing a sweep stake for the reason for Hamilton's next poor stop. Square tyres are currently the favourite.
Parallel to this is the Martin Whitmarsh attempted cheer-up line. I am expecting "the jacks were fine, the mechanics are the best, and it is probably Lewis's fault for stopping too far forward. But he'll learn and we'll come back stronger."
Jenson Button came eighth.
What else happened? Oh yeah, Jean Eric-Vergne crashed into Heikki Kovalainen for no real reason. Narain Karthikyean, no doubt buoyed by his 24th-placed finish here last year, drove a splendid race.
Michael Schumacher finished third after a relatively anonymous race, but his podium was well reserved. A return of one podium in around forty races isn't tooo bad.
Michael Schumacher finished third after a relatively anonymous race, but his podium was well reserved. A return of one podium in around forty races isn't tooo bad.
So I was wrong, oh well. Let's hope I write off Silverstone too.
Friday, 22 June 2012
I promised myself I wouldn't write about Valencia but...
Jaime Alguersuari said it will be good race. And who am I to doubt that behemoth of Formula One racing?
It may only be Friday, but I felt compelled to document just how boring this race could be. On the other hand, it could prove me wrong. But I'm never wrong...except the time I said that this Formula One season will be really boring. Or when I predicted that Felipe Massa would rule not just Motorsport, but the entire universe.
You may have read about it, but there have been seven different winners in this season's first seven races. I'm surprised Ben Edwards (pictured) hasn't mentioned it more, but I'm sure it will be mentioned this weekend, as there is likely to be little else to discuss.
I remember watching last year's European Grand Prix in Portugal. Yes, I was in Portugal, not because I can afford to go to Portugal due to my flourishing journalism career, but because my family went on holiday and I don't see much sunlight, so I saw it as a good opportunity.
What I witnessed was the most boring race I have ever seen. The foreign commentary actually provided an interesting variable while the intermittent advert breaks were a blessed relief. Sebastian Vettel won the race pretty comfortably, more comfortable than a lot of his victories last season, and no one even crashed. Narain Karthikeyan, a driver who my regular readers will know I am a huge fan of, became the first ever driver to finish 24th in a Formula One race. He must be so proud.
This year, it might be a little less boring. Indeed, this morning's first practice session saw the front nine drivers separated by about two tenths of a second, which does bode well for Sunday's action. But you watch, that gap will get wider and wider until Vettel or maybe Hamilton "surprise" us all and put their car on pole.
The curious case of Jenson Button may be ending, he came fourth in practice this morning, which will be sweet relief to the Englishman, who has had a pants couple of races recently. His problem, according to oracle Alguersuari, was that he had thought his tyres weren't warming up enough, so he made changes to counter the problem, which made the original problem (overheating) even worse. None of that made any sense to me, but the more technical reader may understand. You're welcome. However, do you now see why I don't make too many analytical articles?
I have to say it, I am a Lewis Hamilton fan, so I was delighted to see him win in Canada last time around. The performances of Romain Grosjean and Sergio Perez are worth highlighting too; exceptional drives from really promising young drivers. If Grosjean can avoid hitting Michael Schumacher at the first corner here in Valencia, expect him to challenge again.
Of course, the BBC have the rights to show this race, so I will be watching in spite of myself. I am likely to chain myself to a chair facing a freshly painted wall in an attempt to avoid the 'action'. However, we all know that I'll find a way to watch what should be a gripping (my armrest in frustration) race.
I will try and get a piece on the race done as soon as possible so I can go into overdrive with my spamming of Andrew Benson's column on BBC Sport. I hope you guys stick around to see what I have to say. I promise it will be funnier than this piece, it's just anticipating being bored is very difficult to make funny.
Even for me.
It may only be Friday, but I felt compelled to document just how boring this race could be. On the other hand, it could prove me wrong. But I'm never wrong...except the time I said that this Formula One season will be really boring. Or when I predicted that Felipe Massa would rule not just Motorsport, but the entire universe.
You may have read about it, but there have been seven different winners in this season's first seven races. I'm surprised Ben Edwards (pictured) hasn't mentioned it more, but I'm sure it will be mentioned this weekend, as there is likely to be little else to discuss.
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| Come get me ladies... |
This year, it might be a little less boring. Indeed, this morning's first practice session saw the front nine drivers separated by about two tenths of a second, which does bode well for Sunday's action. But you watch, that gap will get wider and wider until Vettel or maybe Hamilton "surprise" us all and put their car on pole.
The curious case of Jenson Button may be ending, he came fourth in practice this morning, which will be sweet relief to the Englishman, who has had a pants couple of races recently. His problem, according to oracle Alguersuari, was that he had thought his tyres weren't warming up enough, so he made changes to counter the problem, which made the original problem (overheating) even worse. None of that made any sense to me, but the more technical reader may understand. You're welcome. However, do you now see why I don't make too many analytical articles?
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| "WHY CAN'T I GET HEAT INTO MY TYRES?!" |
Of course, the BBC have the rights to show this race, so I will be watching in spite of myself. I am likely to chain myself to a chair facing a freshly painted wall in an attempt to avoid the 'action'. However, we all know that I'll find a way to watch what should be a gripping (my armrest in frustration) race.
I will try and get a piece on the race done as soon as possible so I can go into overdrive with my spamming of Andrew Benson's column on BBC Sport. I hope you guys stick around to see what I have to say. I promise it will be funnier than this piece, it's just anticipating being bored is very difficult to make funny.
Even for me.
Germany v Greece preview
But, in times of struggle, one must keep calm and back the Germans, and that is what I plan to do here.
For so long, the cliches associated with German football were about how "efficient" they were or how one should "never write off the Germans." I wrote off the Germans once, and I'm still paying for it. The shame. These days, there is a glorious unpredictability about Germany; they will either play well, or they will play really well. The drama!
Tonight, they play the weakest team left in the tournament.
What frustrates me most about this game is not that Greece qualified despite being a dreadful team, nor that a certain German victory will mean that England - should they beat Italy - will only be playing for the right to lose to a better team once again. No, what annoys me is that weeks ago, I proposed the possibility of Germany winning this quarter-final against Greece, giving me the chance to write the brilliant headline "No referendum needed, Germany kick Greece out of the Euro." Now everyone has thought of it and I just look like Ross in 'Friends' when he said he came up with the phrase "got milk?"
I digress from digressing.
I honestly can't see past a German win. That said, I can never envisage a world where Greece win football games, yet it happens. In Mario Gomez, the Germans have a striker who has more goals than touches of the football. Gomez remains a player I don't rate too highly and the tireless work of Bastian Schweinsteiger, Mesut Ozil and Lukas Podolski makes me think of the horse Boxer in 'Animal Farm', the animal which did all the work while the greedy pigs get all the spoils.
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| Come on Germany |
Greece's only real hope coming into this game was their captain Giorgos Karagounis, but even he got suspended after he was booked for 'diving' against Russia by a referee who seems as desperate as me to avoid the snorefest that was Euro 2004. In defence, a lot of players with very long names are impressive, but shouldn't have enough to cover the movement of Germany's attacking quintet, a group of men more scary and evil than One Direction. In attack...there probably won't be much attack, but Georgios Samaras and Dimitris Salpingidis will have much depending on them, but they are unlikely to cause too many problems.
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| Is it me, or is European 'weird' weirder than regular 'weird'? |
To all my Greek readers, I apologise for any bias against your team. Your players have done your country proud in such difficult circumstances. However, I am a football fan, not a nice person. Come on Germany.
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