Bless him. I'm very much proud.
Particularly as I know he secretly quite enjoyed it.
And I love Butthead Suede. I'm using that.
The game is very much on.
Thursday 31 May 2007
ROGBY!
Hello there, you tiny handful of Dan's friends, hello, hello and welcome to my inaugural match report on A Sporting Bet.
It was a game the "noble sport of Rugby" played early on Saturday morning and the combatants were a number of men in yellow shirts (Australia) and a number of men in red shirts (Wales). I assume the match was happening in Australia, that or God has forsaken the Welsh and permanently darkened their skies whilst making them play Rugby on Saturday mornings.
To be honest, this won't be much of a match report for a number of reasons:
1.) I didn't take any notes. None. Which would be Ok if it wasn't for the fact that..
2.) I don't have even basic knowledge of the rules of Rugby, so the most of the match was spent with me in a state of baffled confusion. Every now and again Dan would shout or groan, or break into song for no discernible reason, and I would have to ask him what had just happened, which frequently was less than helpful.
Here's a sample:
[Much running and passing on pitch, red player one passes to red player two,]
DAN (shouts): NOOOOOOOO!
[Ed drops his beer in shock, and stares at the screen where red player two has just passed the ball to red player three]
ED (confused): What...what happened?
DAN (still staring fixedly at the screen) : Oh, Canahoolanrahan [or someone] just dummied the back spin reversal [or something] which will give the Aussies.. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
[Ed stares confusedly at screen, nothing much appears to have happened)
ED: What happened?
repeat.
3.) I was in the grip of a bastard of a hangover. (Ladies and Gentlemen, a tip: don't attempt to nurse a hangover next to a fat Welshman who keeps shouting for no reason and making you drink beer).
But all of that being said, here goes.
THE BEGINNING
When we turned on the TV, we were in the Welsh dressing room (horrifying, I know) and a pack of burly, angry looking men were running on the spot. Quite a few of them had beards, all of the looked ugly and intent with the exception of one smooth skinned guy with ridiculous vertical hair and a face that looked like a cross between Johnny Suede and Butthead from Beavis and Butthead, who looked like he was remembering that he'd left the oven on or suddenly needed a really big poo, (more on Butthead Suede later). Then something happened, and they all charged out of the changing rooms with a weird prancing gait and into the light of the stadium.
THE SONGS
Both teams sang (disappointingly not at the same time, as I quite liked the idea of battling national anthems). They were led respectively by some famous Australian singer and a mousey looking Welsh bloke.
I say they sang, but as the camera panned along the line of Welsh players (a nation who, let's not forget, are famous for their singing), there was Butthead Suede NOT SINGING. He wasn't even pretending to sing, just standing there like a bouffanted lemon with his trademarked "Do I need a poo?" look on his face. Dan informs me that he's going out with Charlotte Church so perhaps he now hates singing so much he can't bring himself to sing ever again (Actually Butthead Suede's relationship perhaps explains his expression - more "Hmmm, axe, chainsaw or poison?" rather than "Do I need a poo?"). I told Dan that I thought this showed a lack of commitment on Butthead's part and clearly the Welsh coach agreed as once they'd finished singing, off trotted Butthead to sit on the naughty bench.
THE GAME!
Much running about. For a while it looked like Wales were going to win, then it looked like they weren't, then they got back in front again - and so on. The received wisdom (from Dan), is that they played luckily but not well. Then, thrillingly (cof), in the final minute with Wales a point ahead, on of the Welsh players jumped at a ball when he should have run at a man, and the Aussies scored to win. This was met with delight by the Aussies, stoic acceptance by the Welsh team and bizarre howling noises and extensive swearing from Dan.
THE SUMMARY
Whilst Dan was finding the whole thing a riot, from my point of view it all seemed slow and (dare I say it) boring, like watching the same scene of film (a scene where some men jump on some other men and shout) over and over again from slightly different angles. In fact, in it's structure it was a lot like pornography (where you essentially watch the same thing happen over and over again, but from slightly different angles) but pornography that only involved burly angry men and occasionally Butthead Suede (whose uniform, by the way, remained spookily white and pristine throughout the match...like he was A ROBOT!...).
So that's my summary. Watching Wales play Australia was like watching bad gay pornography.
Chew on that, sports fans.
It was a game the "noble sport of Rugby" played early on Saturday morning and the combatants were a number of men in yellow shirts (Australia) and a number of men in red shirts (Wales). I assume the match was happening in Australia, that or God has forsaken the Welsh and permanently darkened their skies whilst making them play Rugby on Saturday mornings.
To be honest, this won't be much of a match report for a number of reasons:
1.) I didn't take any notes. None. Which would be Ok if it wasn't for the fact that..
2.) I don't have even basic knowledge of the rules of Rugby, so the most of the match was spent with me in a state of baffled confusion. Every now and again Dan would shout or groan, or break into song for no discernible reason, and I would have to ask him what had just happened, which frequently was less than helpful.
Here's a sample:
[Much running and passing on pitch, red player one passes to red player two,]
DAN (shouts): NOOOOOOOO!
[Ed drops his beer in shock, and stares at the screen where red player two has just passed the ball to red player three]
ED (confused): What...what happened?
DAN (still staring fixedly at the screen) : Oh, Canahoolanrahan [or someone] just dummied the back spin reversal [or something] which will give the Aussies.. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
[Ed stares confusedly at screen, nothing much appears to have happened)
ED: What happened?
repeat.
3.) I was in the grip of a bastard of a hangover. (Ladies and Gentlemen, a tip: don't attempt to nurse a hangover next to a fat Welshman who keeps shouting for no reason and making you drink beer).
But all of that being said, here goes.
THE BEGINNING
When we turned on the TV, we were in the Welsh dressing room (horrifying, I know) and a pack of burly, angry looking men were running on the spot. Quite a few of them had beards, all of the looked ugly and intent with the exception of one smooth skinned guy with ridiculous vertical hair and a face that looked like a cross between Johnny Suede and Butthead from Beavis and Butthead, who looked like he was remembering that he'd left the oven on or suddenly needed a really big poo, (more on Butthead Suede later). Then something happened, and they all charged out of the changing rooms with a weird prancing gait and into the light of the stadium.
THE SONGS
Both teams sang (disappointingly not at the same time, as I quite liked the idea of battling national anthems). They were led respectively by some famous Australian singer and a mousey looking Welsh bloke.
I say they sang, but as the camera panned along the line of Welsh players (a nation who, let's not forget, are famous for their singing), there was Butthead Suede NOT SINGING. He wasn't even pretending to sing, just standing there like a bouffanted lemon with his trademarked "Do I need a poo?" look on his face. Dan informs me that he's going out with Charlotte Church so perhaps he now hates singing so much he can't bring himself to sing ever again (Actually Butthead Suede's relationship perhaps explains his expression - more "Hmmm, axe, chainsaw or poison?" rather than "Do I need a poo?"). I told Dan that I thought this showed a lack of commitment on Butthead's part and clearly the Welsh coach agreed as once they'd finished singing, off trotted Butthead to sit on the naughty bench.
THE GAME!
Much running about. For a while it looked like Wales were going to win, then it looked like they weren't, then they got back in front again - and so on. The received wisdom (from Dan), is that they played luckily but not well. Then, thrillingly (cof), in the final minute with Wales a point ahead, on of the Welsh players jumped at a ball when he should have run at a man, and the Aussies scored to win. This was met with delight by the Aussies, stoic acceptance by the Welsh team and bizarre howling noises and extensive swearing from Dan.
THE SUMMARY
Whilst Dan was finding the whole thing a riot, from my point of view it all seemed slow and (dare I say it) boring, like watching the same scene of film (a scene where some men jump on some other men and shout) over and over again from slightly different angles. In fact, in it's structure it was a lot like pornography (where you essentially watch the same thing happen over and over again, but from slightly different angles) but pornography that only involved burly angry men and occasionally Butthead Suede (whose uniform, by the way, remained spookily white and pristine throughout the match...like he was A ROBOT!...).
So that's my summary. Watching Wales play Australia was like watching bad gay pornography.
Chew on that, sports fans.
Monday 28 May 2007
The Game Is On
Hell yes. That's right. On Saturday, Edward and I sat down and watched an entire game of rugby together. It was (and I'm strangely proud to say this) the first time he has ever done it - Wales vs Australia was a historic match.
Of course, had Gareth Cooper not sliced his clearance kick in the 79th minute (or had the normally unflappable James Hook not hit the post from right in front with a penalty some twenty minutes earlier) it would have been an even more historic day, as Wales would have held on for their first victory over Australia in Australia since 1969. But he did (and he did) and we didn't. I'm not gonna lie to ya - it hurt.
Positives to take from the game? Colin Charvis was magnificent, a true old school blindside's game - he was everywhere, doing (as the old adage goes) his best work when you couldn't even see him. James Hook is (penalty miss aside) so good he makes me question my heterosexuality on a regular basis - the old fly-half factory has churned out another mercurial silky-handed wonder. And (and there's a big part of me that wants to write this in capital letters) Gav is back. The quickest hands on the field, the biggest boot on the field - one run where he fended off three Australians in quick succession was enough to get my juices flowing, and genuinely excited about the World Cup. A back-line of Peel, Hook, Henson, Shanks, Shaney, Mark Jones and Kev/Alfie should scare the crap out of any team out there - even the one that plays in black.
And yes, there were concerns - the line out's still not functioning, we were very scrappy in the loose, and both our tries were opportunist rather than crafted, but fuck it, we still scored them. I'm going to be positive - the chances for that have been few and far between since March 19th 2005, which remains the best day of my life.
Edward's view will appear soon - unfortunately this week's a bit busy with work stuff, but he'll get it up as soon as. There's no way he'd force himself through 80 minutes of 'sweaty wrestling' and then not write about it.
Personally I'm very excited: he made a number of incisive observations, including my personal favourite, "You get more beards in rugby than you do in football, don't you?"
It's going to be awesome.
Of course, had Gareth Cooper not sliced his clearance kick in the 79th minute (or had the normally unflappable James Hook not hit the post from right in front with a penalty some twenty minutes earlier) it would have been an even more historic day, as Wales would have held on for their first victory over Australia in Australia since 1969. But he did (and he did) and we didn't. I'm not gonna lie to ya - it hurt.
Positives to take from the game? Colin Charvis was magnificent, a true old school blindside's game - he was everywhere, doing (as the old adage goes) his best work when you couldn't even see him. James Hook is (penalty miss aside) so good he makes me question my heterosexuality on a regular basis - the old fly-half factory has churned out another mercurial silky-handed wonder. And (and there's a big part of me that wants to write this in capital letters) Gav is back. The quickest hands on the field, the biggest boot on the field - one run where he fended off three Australians in quick succession was enough to get my juices flowing, and genuinely excited about the World Cup. A back-line of Peel, Hook, Henson, Shanks, Shaney, Mark Jones and Kev/Alfie should scare the crap out of any team out there - even the one that plays in black.
And yes, there were concerns - the line out's still not functioning, we were very scrappy in the loose, and both our tries were opportunist rather than crafted, but fuck it, we still scored them. I'm going to be positive - the chances for that have been few and far between since March 19th 2005, which remains the best day of my life.
Edward's view will appear soon - unfortunately this week's a bit busy with work stuff, but he'll get it up as soon as. There's no way he'd force himself through 80 minutes of 'sweaty wrestling' and then not write about it.
Personally I'm very excited: he made a number of incisive observations, including my personal favourite, "You get more beards in rugby than you do in football, don't you?"
It's going to be awesome.
Sunday 20 May 2007
Pedigree Excitement At Lord's
I'm monumentally groggy as I write this, having spent a rather delightful day at Lord's yesterday, thoroughly enjoying both the hospitality and the produce of Marston's Pedigree, the official beer of etc, etc. It's a funny old thing when corporate hospitality and sport collide, and I'm not sure I'm a fan.
Don't get me wrong, I don't want to appear ungrateful - I had a very lovely day, and met some very lovely people, and drank an awful lot of very lovely beer. What's more, the lunch was delightful - at the same time as being utterly bizarre. We sat down, the nice people poured the wine and brought us food, and we all tucked in. The forty minute lunch interval passed, the cricketers took to the field again, play recommenced... And we kept on eating. Whilst there's nothing wrong with watching sport on TV with a beer or two, it seems slightly odd to make the effort of organising tickets and travelling all the way to the ground to do it...
That aside, it was a great day. An overnight declaration meant that Hoggy was sending down the sent down the first ball of the day from the Nursery End. It was Mr Harmison's first delivery that everyone was interested in though, and third slip and gully readied themselves nervously as the lanky bastard piled in, with memories of the Ashes debacle still far too fresh. Not this time though. Phew. Despite the early overcast conditions, the ball wasn't doing a lot in the air, though Harmie was getting it to seam a little. Monty was clearly the hero of the day, odd-shaped chap that he is (massive shoulders. Vast.). There are few nicer things in sport than the sight of the Luton twirler gambolling down the wicket, arms flailing in delight as another wicket falls...
And then some lovely people from Wolfblass gave me lots of wine. Awesome.
PS It meant missing the football. But having seen the highlights, it doesn't appear that that was really any bad thing.
Don't get me wrong, I don't want to appear ungrateful - I had a very lovely day, and met some very lovely people, and drank an awful lot of very lovely beer. What's more, the lunch was delightful - at the same time as being utterly bizarre. We sat down, the nice people poured the wine and brought us food, and we all tucked in. The forty minute lunch interval passed, the cricketers took to the field again, play recommenced... And we kept on eating. Whilst there's nothing wrong with watching sport on TV with a beer or two, it seems slightly odd to make the effort of organising tickets and travelling all the way to the ground to do it...
That aside, it was a great day. An overnight declaration meant that Hoggy was sending down the sent down the first ball of the day from the Nursery End. It was Mr Harmison's first delivery that everyone was interested in though, and third slip and gully readied themselves nervously as the lanky bastard piled in, with memories of the Ashes debacle still far too fresh. Not this time though. Phew. Despite the early overcast conditions, the ball wasn't doing a lot in the air, though Harmie was getting it to seam a little. Monty was clearly the hero of the day, odd-shaped chap that he is (massive shoulders. Vast.). There are few nicer things in sport than the sight of the Luton twirler gambolling down the wicket, arms flailing in delight as another wicket falls...
And then some lovely people from Wolfblass gave me lots of wine. Awesome.
PS It meant missing the football. But having seen the highlights, it doesn't appear that that was really any bad thing.
Thursday 17 May 2007
Good morning, everybody...
Yes, that's right, the cricket's back. And I mean proper cricket, not the travesty that was the World Cup. Test cricket. Grown-up cricket. The sort of cricket that huge numbers of people moan about while everyone else follows it with an almost blinding passion. And whilst Richie's mellifluous tones won't be greeting us this morning, it's still bloody exciting. As the clock strikes eleven, Steve Harmison (please God) will start thundering in, ready to scare the bejaysus out of whichever hapless fool happens to be facing him. Bring it.
And of course there are concerns: Freddy's ankle is one; the weather is another. But sod it - it wouldn't be the cricket season if it wasn't cold and grey. Over the next few months there's a veritable feast of cricket ahead of us, and all those other florid phrases sports writers use when what they really mean is 'My girlfriend/partner's not going to see me for months. And with a bit of luck, I'll be single in time for the Rugby World Cup'. Adding to my joy in this instance is that I'm going on Saturday. Hurrah for me.
Incidentally, Edward is away this weekend for his Dad's 60th, so once again I'll be failing to force him to watch/write about sport. Sorry. Eventually, this blog will be about what it was always intended to be about. Promise.
In the meantime, this is bloody funny.
And of course there are concerns: Freddy's ankle is one; the weather is another. But sod it - it wouldn't be the cricket season if it wasn't cold and grey. Over the next few months there's a veritable feast of cricket ahead of us, and all those other florid phrases sports writers use when what they really mean is 'My girlfriend/partner's not going to see me for months. And with a bit of luck, I'll be single in time for the Rugby World Cup'. Adding to my joy in this instance is that I'm going on Saturday. Hurrah for me.
Incidentally, Edward is away this weekend for his Dad's 60th, so once again I'll be failing to force him to watch/write about sport. Sorry. Eventually, this blog will be about what it was always intended to be about. Promise.
In the meantime, this is bloody funny.
Tuesday 8 May 2007
A Good Cause
A quick break from my sporting ramblings, while I urge anyone who is stumbling across this blog to do their bit for a very worthy cause. To raise money for Mountain Rescue, the late Marcus Brown has painted this:
If you check out 'The Dead Artist' in the links section to the right, you'll see how you can help just by clicking on the link.
I'll now go back to wanging on about sport. Cheers.
If you check out 'The Dead Artist' in the links section to the right, you'll see how you can help just by clicking on the link.
I'll now go back to wanging on about sport. Cheers.
Oportunities Missed
Edward's back from China tomorrow, which is obviously very exciting for all of us - that's right, you know who you are. He's had, I'm assured, a marvellous time, and has some very exciting news. It's sod all to do with this blog though, so you probably won't get to hear about it. Sorry.
Anyway, to the point: it's quickly transpired that Ed picked a really sucky couple of weeks to go away on holiday. Off the top of my head, we've missed the following:
- The Women's FA Cup Final, where Arsenal completed an historic quadruple in front of nearly 25,000 people
- The Zurich Premiership Play-Off Semis (Ed, this one's rugby)
- The Awesomely Shambolic Final Of The ICC Cricket World Cup West Indies 2007 (to give it its full title)
- Man Utd regaining the Premiership title for the first time since 2004...
- ...days after crashing out of the European Cup away to Milan, ruining the prospect of an All-English final with Liverpool
- Mark Selby and John Higgins re-writing history in the final of the Embassy World Snooker Championships (you have NO IDEA how much I would have enjoyed making him watch that)
I could go on. Suffice to say, we're off to a slow start, and for that I can only apologise. But don't worry - this is far from finished. To say sorry in the meantime, here's Argentinean wunderkind Lionel Messi scoring for Barcelona against Getafe. Words fail me, which is why this video comes with a generic mid-Atlantic rawk soundtrack. Hurrah. Brilliantly (and somewhat randomly), Messi's goal is followed by a bunch of kids playing football. All of these children are better at sport than Edward.
Anyway, to the point: it's quickly transpired that Ed picked a really sucky couple of weeks to go away on holiday. Off the top of my head, we've missed the following:
- The Women's FA Cup Final, where Arsenal completed an historic quadruple in front of nearly 25,000 people
- The Zurich Premiership Play-Off Semis (Ed, this one's rugby)
- The Awesomely Shambolic Final Of The ICC Cricket World Cup West Indies 2007 (to give it its full title)
- Man Utd regaining the Premiership title for the first time since 2004...
- ...days after crashing out of the European Cup away to Milan, ruining the prospect of an All-English final with Liverpool
- Mark Selby and John Higgins re-writing history in the final of the Embassy World Snooker Championships (you have NO IDEA how much I would have enjoyed making him watch that)
I could go on. Suffice to say, we're off to a slow start, and for that I can only apologise. But don't worry - this is far from finished. To say sorry in the meantime, here's Argentinean wunderkind Lionel Messi scoring for Barcelona against Getafe. Words fail me, which is why this video comes with a generic mid-Atlantic rawk soundtrack. Hurrah. Brilliantly (and somewhat randomly), Messi's goal is followed by a bunch of kids playing football. All of these children are better at sport than Edward.
Monday 30 April 2007
To see if this works...
This is a video of me and mates training for the aforementioned 7s tournament - we got a lot better than this. Promise. No, seriously...
Ouch
A quick aside, that would no doubt bore Ed senseless were he in the country (as I may have said before, he's not, so sod him): I played 7s yesterday for the first time in nearly ten years. I could run through every injury on my body, but it would take a while, and probably wouldn't be that interesting - suffice to say that I have a badly bruised big toe, a badly bruised right ear, and pretty much everything in between is scraped/bruised/sprained. Christ, it hurt.
Anyway, it's been the kick up the arse I've clearly needed for the last ten years - that realisation that I actually am as unfit as I tell people I am. And so I'm running, I'm joining a gym to do some weights, I'm playing sport regularly... At the same time as I'm educating Ed in the ways of spectator sport, I'm going to be re-educating my body in participation of the same. It could go horribly wrong - I'll keep you posted. As, no doubt, will Ed - particularly if it goes horribly wrong.
It's really quite cathartic, this blogging lark, isn't it?
Anyway, it's been the kick up the arse I've clearly needed for the last ten years - that realisation that I actually am as unfit as I tell people I am. And so I'm running, I'm joining a gym to do some weights, I'm playing sport regularly... At the same time as I'm educating Ed in the ways of spectator sport, I'm going to be re-educating my body in participation of the same. It could go horribly wrong - I'll keep you posted. As, no doubt, will Ed - particularly if it goes horribly wrong.
It's really quite cathartic, this blogging lark, isn't it?
Saturday 21 April 2007
Farewell to BC
Just a quick post, unrelated to my and Ed's wager (aside from the amusing thought that Ed probably wouldn't know who I'm talking about). It would be wrong to let what's just gone by pass without mention, as a genuine sporting great (and not in the over-used 'English football' sense of the word 'great') has just raised his bat to the international crowd for the last time.
What could have been an inconsequential end to the penultimate session of an over-long Cricket World Cup, two teams that had already failed to qualify quarrelling over a $50,000 pot, was transformed the moment Brian Charles Lara announced that it would be his last game of international cricket. One of the greatest batsmen the games has ever seen, questions over his captaincy and failure to guide the Windies to the knock-out stages of the World Cup in their back garden were put aside, as thousands gathered within the ground, and millions more the world over to bid farewell to a phenomenal natural talent.
Words don't really cut it though - instead, I'd suggest you watch this and try and stop yourself dancing along to the fabulous carribean beats that accompany it. Or, better yet, watch it on mute.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IW-NbPf8PY0
What could have been an inconsequential end to the penultimate session of an over-long Cricket World Cup, two teams that had already failed to qualify quarrelling over a $50,000 pot, was transformed the moment Brian Charles Lara announced that it would be his last game of international cricket. One of the greatest batsmen the games has ever seen, questions over his captaincy and failure to guide the Windies to the knock-out stages of the World Cup in their back garden were put aside, as thousands gathered within the ground, and millions more the world over to bid farewell to a phenomenal natural talent.
Words don't really cut it though - instead, I'd suggest you watch this and try and stop yourself dancing along to the fabulous carribean beats that accompany it. Or, better yet, watch it on mute.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IW-NbPf8PY0
Settling In
As my esteemed friend Jared (if I knew how to work the intraweb, Jared's name would be in blue and underlined, and would link to www.thecarnivoreproject.com - sadly, I don't, and so it isn't/doesn't. Is there a certain rustic charm to that, or is it just annoying? Yeah, thought so.) has rightly pointed out, I'm already acting like an experienced blogger - I haven't updated for over a fortnight. Sorry about that. (What's nice is how sincere that apology is - Jared's our only reader thus far (prove me wrong) so it's genuinely personal.)
Anyway. Sportwise, this recent fortnight has mostly been taken up with Ed getting ready to leave the place where we work(ed) together, us throwing a surprise 30th birthday party for his lovely girlfriend (she thinks this blog is a 'silly boy project' - that means she likes it), and my discovering that Ed 'knows' that Kobe Bryant is a rapist and that he plays some kind of ball for the Los Angeles Giants. Or Wolverines. I could carry on - we went through most animals. It was bloody exciting.
Anyway - Ed is now in China, and will be for the next two weeks. I did think about asking him to post from there, but he's got other stuff to worry about. So essentially, this begins with a vengeance when he gets back.
In the meantime, I could post about the frustration of watching the Os lose to Leicester, or how bizarre it is to realise that the Australians just won't lose at cricket. I could mention the Grand National, and how I nearly put money on Silver Birches because I once nearly lived at a house called Silver Birches, but didn't, only to discover that my friend who knows about that kind of thing had been tipping him all week and a lot of other friends had made a lot of money off it... But that would just be a distraction. And frankly, that last one just pisses me off.
So - things to come. Ed and I are going to head to the races. We're going to go and see the Heineken Cup final. We're going to buy scalped tickets to the FA Cup final. We're going to go and watch a pair of as yet undecided teams play cricket. And we're going to watch some strangers play darts in a pub - possibly a pub near you. And that, as the cliche goes, is just the beginning.
Ed doesn't know any of this yet, which makes it even better.
I also have a bit of a climax ot the whole thing in mind - I'll tell you about that a bit later. Once I've told him.
He's away for a couple of weeks, but I'll keep it ticking over in the meantime - there is, after all, the conclusion of the cricket world cup to bear in mind. Cynics might suggest that it's only right the Cricket World Cup should last approximately three weeks longer than anyone's interest therein - I'm just looking forward to watching Australia play Sri Lanka. Again.
Sport's great, isn't it?
Anyway. Sportwise, this recent fortnight has mostly been taken up with Ed getting ready to leave the place where we work(ed) together, us throwing a surprise 30th birthday party for his lovely girlfriend (she thinks this blog is a 'silly boy project' - that means she likes it), and my discovering that Ed 'knows' that Kobe Bryant is a rapist and that he plays some kind of ball for the Los Angeles Giants. Or Wolverines. I could carry on - we went through most animals. It was bloody exciting.
Anyway - Ed is now in China, and will be for the next two weeks. I did think about asking him to post from there, but he's got other stuff to worry about. So essentially, this begins with a vengeance when he gets back.
In the meantime, I could post about the frustration of watching the Os lose to Leicester, or how bizarre it is to realise that the Australians just won't lose at cricket. I could mention the Grand National, and how I nearly put money on Silver Birches because I once nearly lived at a house called Silver Birches, but didn't, only to discover that my friend who knows about that kind of thing had been tipping him all week and a lot of other friends had made a lot of money off it... But that would just be a distraction. And frankly, that last one just pisses me off.
So - things to come. Ed and I are going to head to the races. We're going to go and see the Heineken Cup final. We're going to buy scalped tickets to the FA Cup final. We're going to go and watch a pair of as yet undecided teams play cricket. And we're going to watch some strangers play darts in a pub - possibly a pub near you. And that, as the cliche goes, is just the beginning.
Ed doesn't know any of this yet, which makes it even better.
I also have a bit of a climax ot the whole thing in mind - I'll tell you about that a bit later. Once I've told him.
He's away for a couple of weeks, but I'll keep it ticking over in the meantime - there is, after all, the conclusion of the cricket world cup to bear in mind. Cynics might suggest that it's only right the Cricket World Cup should last approximately three weeks longer than anyone's interest therein - I'm just looking forward to watching Australia play Sri Lanka. Again.
Sport's great, isn't it?
Wednesday 11 April 2007
Oh, and this is me.
This is me. Look at me liking sport. I'm probably talking passionately/obsessively about it here.
Grr. Sport. Grr.
Hello. I'm Ed.
“He couldn’t understand why anyone would play a game where both sides agree on the rules”
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Guilty as charged I’m afraid. I don’t know anything about sport. I don’t support a football team, I’ve never been to a live sporting event (actually I’ve been to one, an America vs. Scotland rugby match – I fell asleep somewhere during the first half), I don’t know what the offside rule is, I’ve only watched about four competitive fixtures of any sport on TV from start to finish and I haven’t played a competitive team sport since school.
Let me illustrate my point with an anecdote. A few years back I was (unwisely) asked to do some work for Reebok, and was up at their offices in York. They asked me to interview someone for them, a jug-eared unassuming bloke who until about halfway for the interview I assumed worked in their marketing department. He introduced himself as he came into the room. “I’m John Terry”.
“Hello John,” I said. “What do you do?”.
This has its disadvantages; there are certain rounds of pub quizzes when I go quiet and stare out of the window, conversation with cab drivers tends to be limited to their views on immigration and the standard male icebreaker of “so what did you make of the game on Saturday?” tends to not so much break the ice as bounce off it. As an insecure teenager I went through a period of learning a few salient facts every few months about the current views on “Beckham’s ball skills”, “the fucking Australians”, or “why Tim Henman is going to make it this year” so I could throw them into sport chat like grenades but not actually have to waste time watching the stuff. These days I don’t bother, I’m just open about my total cluelessness towards anything that might be printed in the last ten pages of the newspaper and let people deal with it (or in Dan’s case, obsess over it unhealthily).
But there’s also a massive upside.
Gentlemen, I have so much free time. I probably actually do more exercise than most of you (rock-climbing, swimming and hiking if you must know), my Saturday afternoons and Monday evenings (is it Monday?) are blissfully free, I’ve never had to learn a bunch of sporting stats, or pay for Sky sports, or buy insanely over-priced team shirts. Girls love me.
Why am I like this?
“I blame my father”. That’s my standard line when the question of why I don’t know who Arsen Wenger (sp?) is, or why I’m not sure how many people are on a football team, or why I couldn’t name any current member of the English Rugby side comes up. But this probably isn’t fair as whilst he may not be mad-keen on football, wild horses couldn’t drag my Dad away from the television when the Oxford Cambridge boat race is on, and my brother is such a rabid Arsenal fan that he goes without food in order to be able to afford a season ticket.
I just think I missed the boat at some point. As a kid my favourite games were the ones where the rules were invented as the game progressed, the sports I was good at whilst at school weren’t the ones that involved linking arms on the back of the coach and singing about Father Abraham and there comes a point (about 10 years old I think) when you accept that you just don’t care all that much whether you should be supporting Liverpool or Man U and instead want to talk about Dangermouse.
But, all of this being the case, Dan has laid down the gauntlet, and I’m willing to give it a go. I’m thinking of it more as a social experiment, the dealer’s first freebie of the opiate of the masses, but I severely doubt that I’m going to develop a full blown habit.
I’ll give Dan a year. One year. If he invites me to go to a sporting event I’ll go. If he wants me to sit in a pub and shout at a bunch of grown men running about in quaint and curious uniforms I’ll do it.
I may not enjoy it, but I’ll do it and at the end of the year I’m betting that my pulse still won’t race when I hear Des Lyneham’s dusky tones, that I still won’t care that Wotsisname Abromovitch (sp?) is “buying football” or whatever, or that the Ashes, or Football, or Championship Tiddlywinks are “coming home”.
Then Dan can leave me alone and I can go back to adoring women and Dangermouse.
Let’s call it a bet. A sporting bet.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Guilty as charged I’m afraid. I don’t know anything about sport. I don’t support a football team, I’ve never been to a live sporting event (actually I’ve been to one, an America vs. Scotland rugby match – I fell asleep somewhere during the first half), I don’t know what the offside rule is, I’ve only watched about four competitive fixtures of any sport on TV from start to finish and I haven’t played a competitive team sport since school.
Let me illustrate my point with an anecdote. A few years back I was (unwisely) asked to do some work for Reebok, and was up at their offices in York. They asked me to interview someone for them, a jug-eared unassuming bloke who until about halfway for the interview I assumed worked in their marketing department. He introduced himself as he came into the room. “I’m John Terry”.
“Hello John,” I said. “What do you do?”.
This has its disadvantages; there are certain rounds of pub quizzes when I go quiet and stare out of the window, conversation with cab drivers tends to be limited to their views on immigration and the standard male icebreaker of “so what did you make of the game on Saturday?” tends to not so much break the ice as bounce off it. As an insecure teenager I went through a period of learning a few salient facts every few months about the current views on “Beckham’s ball skills”, “the fucking Australians”, or “why Tim Henman is going to make it this year” so I could throw them into sport chat like grenades but not actually have to waste time watching the stuff. These days I don’t bother, I’m just open about my total cluelessness towards anything that might be printed in the last ten pages of the newspaper and let people deal with it (or in Dan’s case, obsess over it unhealthily).
But there’s also a massive upside.
Gentlemen, I have so much free time. I probably actually do more exercise than most of you (rock-climbing, swimming and hiking if you must know), my Saturday afternoons and Monday evenings (is it Monday?) are blissfully free, I’ve never had to learn a bunch of sporting stats, or pay for Sky sports, or buy insanely over-priced team shirts. Girls love me.
Why am I like this?
“I blame my father”. That’s my standard line when the question of why I don’t know who Arsen Wenger (sp?) is, or why I’m not sure how many people are on a football team, or why I couldn’t name any current member of the English Rugby side comes up. But this probably isn’t fair as whilst he may not be mad-keen on football, wild horses couldn’t drag my Dad away from the television when the Oxford Cambridge boat race is on, and my brother is such a rabid Arsenal fan that he goes without food in order to be able to afford a season ticket.
I just think I missed the boat at some point. As a kid my favourite games were the ones where the rules were invented as the game progressed, the sports I was good at whilst at school weren’t the ones that involved linking arms on the back of the coach and singing about Father Abraham and there comes a point (about 10 years old I think) when you accept that you just don’t care all that much whether you should be supporting Liverpool or Man U and instead want to talk about Dangermouse.
But, all of this being the case, Dan has laid down the gauntlet, and I’m willing to give it a go. I’m thinking of it more as a social experiment, the dealer’s first freebie of the opiate of the masses, but I severely doubt that I’m going to develop a full blown habit.
I’ll give Dan a year. One year. If he invites me to go to a sporting event I’ll go. If he wants me to sit in a pub and shout at a bunch of grown men running about in quaint and curious uniforms I’ll do it.
I may not enjoy it, but I’ll do it and at the end of the year I’m betting that my pulse still won’t race when I hear Des Lyneham’s dusky tones, that I still won’t care that Wotsisname Abromovitch (sp?) is “buying football” or whatever, or that the Ashes, or Football, or Championship Tiddlywinks are “coming home”.
Then Dan can leave me alone and I can go back to adoring women and Dangermouse.
Let’s call it a bet. A sporting bet.
What's the point?
So - what are we doing here? Most sporting blogs have a particular obsession - this, however, is more of a generalist sports site, if that's not too twatty. Love rugby? You'll find it here. Crazy for football? Come on in! Skiing floats your boat? Welcome, you're among friends! Lawn green bowls drive you crazy? Go away. You're weird.
There is however a point to all of this - much as the idea might excite me, I doubt there's going to be that much interest in me wanging on about whatever sporting event/controversy/point of interest happens to have piqued my curiosity on any given day.
So what is that point? Well, in my first post I mentioned that this blog was inspired by an Englishman who wasn't even aware that England had won the last Rugby World Cup. To give you a bit more info on said Englishman: his name is Edward; he is furiously intelligent, and devours film, music, literature as if they were cakes; he also, unfortunately, devours cakes as if they were cakes; he has a head that's shaped a bit like a potato; and, most importantly, he knows less about competitive sport than a six year old Amish girl. The scary thing is that he just doesn't care. Isn't bothered in the slightest. Personally, I think it scares him - the pure, tribal nature of sport is just a bit much for his delicate sensibility. He disagrees; but then he would, wouldn't he?
Regardless of the justification, Edward has managed to prevent sport from having even the slightest of impacts upon his life with a spectacular degree of success for over 28 years now. And then last night something funny happened. Man United beat Roma 7-1 at Old Trafford, and Ed was actually a bit interested. Not a lot, but a bit - he got that this was quite a cool thing. I explained that this was particularly impressive as Roma were currently lying second in Serie A; Ed didn't know what Serie A was. And this annoyed him. And not just a bit. For the first time he seemed to recognise that sport was more than just a sweaty thing that bigger boys did; it suddenly represented a massive gap in his knowledge, and his experience.
And so we're going to change that, using the sparkly magic of the worldwide intraweb - it is, as I'm sure you'll agree, terribly exciting. While you will get a lot of me wanging on about sport (my obsession with Welsh rugby will no doubt reach a (vain)glorious peak during the World Cup later this year), you'll also get to hear Ed as he makes his way nervously into an alien world. We'll go to games together, and write parallel reports. And you can watch him grow. Think of him as an over-sized baby who's never been allowed to play with other children before (and not just because he has a head like a potato). You can be there for the laughter, and be there for the tears. It's really all pretty exciting. Don't you reckon?
I'm going to let him introduce himself now. Sorry if he's rude - he'll just be showing off because he feels threatened. Be gentle, won't you.
There is however a point to all of this - much as the idea might excite me, I doubt there's going to be that much interest in me wanging on about whatever sporting event/controversy/point of interest happens to have piqued my curiosity on any given day.
So what is that point? Well, in my first post I mentioned that this blog was inspired by an Englishman who wasn't even aware that England had won the last Rugby World Cup. To give you a bit more info on said Englishman: his name is Edward; he is furiously intelligent, and devours film, music, literature as if they were cakes; he also, unfortunately, devours cakes as if they were cakes; he has a head that's shaped a bit like a potato; and, most importantly, he knows less about competitive sport than a six year old Amish girl. The scary thing is that he just doesn't care. Isn't bothered in the slightest. Personally, I think it scares him - the pure, tribal nature of sport is just a bit much for his delicate sensibility. He disagrees; but then he would, wouldn't he?
Regardless of the justification, Edward has managed to prevent sport from having even the slightest of impacts upon his life with a spectacular degree of success for over 28 years now. And then last night something funny happened. Man United beat Roma 7-1 at Old Trafford, and Ed was actually a bit interested. Not a lot, but a bit - he got that this was quite a cool thing. I explained that this was particularly impressive as Roma were currently lying second in Serie A; Ed didn't know what Serie A was. And this annoyed him. And not just a bit. For the first time he seemed to recognise that sport was more than just a sweaty thing that bigger boys did; it suddenly represented a massive gap in his knowledge, and his experience.
And so we're going to change that, using the sparkly magic of the worldwide intraweb - it is, as I'm sure you'll agree, terribly exciting. While you will get a lot of me wanging on about sport (my obsession with Welsh rugby will no doubt reach a (vain)glorious peak during the World Cup later this year), you'll also get to hear Ed as he makes his way nervously into an alien world. We'll go to games together, and write parallel reports. And you can watch him grow. Think of him as an over-sized baby who's never been allowed to play with other children before (and not just because he has a head like a potato). You can be there for the laughter, and be there for the tears. It's really all pretty exciting. Don't you reckon?
I'm going to let him introduce himself now. Sorry if he's rude - he'll just be showing off because he feels threatened. Be gentle, won't you.
A dramatic start...
How to introduce this blog?
I think 'briefly' is probably the best way.
(Incidentally, that reminds me of a great game. That'll come in a later post.)
Important things to know about this blog:
- Sport matters. It matters more than most things.
- If you thought 'Really? Seriously?' when you read that first point, you're probably in the wrong place.
- This blog was the idea of someone who didn't know England won the last Rugby World Cup.
- To stress, that person wasn't me. I am well aware that England won the last Rugby World Cup. I was moving house at the time.
- Why I was moving house will inevitably come out at some point. But not yet.
Finally, to cement the blogger's arrogance, there's a fiver for the first person to correctly source the title quote of this post in the comments.
I'm going to be talking about sport. You, hopefully, are going to be reading about it. Who knows - we might just have fun.
Cheers.
I think 'briefly' is probably the best way.
(Incidentally, that reminds me of a great game. That'll come in a later post.)
Important things to know about this blog:
- Sport matters. It matters more than most things.
- If you thought 'Really? Seriously?' when you read that first point, you're probably in the wrong place.
- This blog was the idea of someone who didn't know England won the last Rugby World Cup.
- To stress, that person wasn't me. I am well aware that England won the last Rugby World Cup. I was moving house at the time.
- Why I was moving house will inevitably come out at some point. But not yet.
Finally, to cement the blogger's arrogance, there's a fiver for the first person to correctly source the title quote of this post in the comments.
I'm going to be talking about sport. You, hopefully, are going to be reading about it. Who knows - we might just have fun.
Cheers.
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