Agents...

Right, this might be a boring one for people, however today's topic of ranting is football agents. Now, they've been around for a while, so why bring up the topic now? Well, two separate incidents in the last week have rather piqued my interest.

The arrival of agents in the game has been much maligned and I can assure that over the next 5 or so minutes (or however long it takes to read this) they're only going to get more maligned. The first incidence was that of ex-Everton player Dan Gosling. A fairly promising young midfielder and occasional full-back who stunned the club by walking out after only being offered a verbal contract and taking the case to the Premier League, who ruled that the Toffees should miss out on the £4 million compensation they would otherwise have been owed (a drop in the ocean, one might think, in this age where many premier league board rooms are suffering from a sever case of the Sheikhs... ahem... however for a club such as my beloved Everton, where our chairman still has to have a Radio 2 show and put on Blood Brothers in the West End for another year to keep the wage fund ticking over, it's rather a pain to miss out on such an amount).

Us football fans are notoriously fickle and as the story developed, the reaction went quickly from 'let's just wait and see, it's probably just the papers stirring, as usual' to 'I hope the lad never walks again...'. While it's true that the club never submitted an offer in writing, it's also true that Gosling has reneged on a 'gentleman's agreement' offering a contract worth nearly double his existing one, probably in no small part due to his agent. For me, agents have no place in the game and especially not representing players younger than perhaps even 24.

Perhaps it is too much to expect footballers to be anything more than overpaid mercenaries (latest news was that Gosling's Newcastle contract was more than triple his old Everton one) however the agent-led machinations in this case leave a sour taste, that's for sure.

Reason number 2 for agents having no place in the game, is illustrate very nicely by Michael Ballack's agent, Michael Becker, who, quoted in the latest issue of Der Spiegel, refers to the Detusche Nationalmannschaft as 'a bunch of gays'. Reason number 2 is 'because agents say really fucking stupid things.... alll the time'.

Now, manager Joachim Loew may look as though he's stepped straight from the pages of the H&M catalogue, but to assert that most of the team (I say most, he referred to one of the newer members ((not to be named obviously)) as being 'half gay') is gay simply because of their footballing performance is a link which I don't quite follow. He claimed that their more elegant and lighter style of play stemmed from the fact that they were all homosexuals and that they missed out on the final because they didn't have the aggressive edge of the teams of the 70s and 80s.

Now, this delusional nonsense is exactly the kind of thing I would have expected to see Alan Partridge report on The Day Today and yet I find it on the Guardian website. Homosexuality in is seemingly one of the last taboos in football. The point that should be made really is that Germany fielded an ethically diverse team that played an incredibly incisive and eye-catching brand of football. Whether their players are heterosexual or homosexual is neither here nor there and certainly none of the business of the public or Michael Becker and to imply that they missed out on the final simply because they didn't resort to the hatchet man and cheating tactics of both this year's finalists, only leads me to believe that football would be a better place if more teams were 'a bunch of gays' as Becker so tastelessly puts it.

They Think It's All Over... And, Well, It Is... Definitely...

So, another World Cup final has gone by. What did we learn, kids? Well, we learnt that Howard Webb shines his head for special occasions (possibly), that octopi are psychic and will surely enslave us all over the coming months (potentially), that Mark van Bommel has to produce a gun and threaten at least 3 opposition players with it to receive a red card (probably) and that when Ivory Coast players fall over to get someone sent off it's terrible but when men with faces much too small for their heads do it (*cough* Iniesta *cough*) it's genius.

What a thoroughly disheartening spectacle. The final was poor, no two ways about it. There were a handful of clear cut chances. Arjen Robben, through on goal numerous times, must surely now be thinking that it's time to dedicate more of the training regime to dinking it over the 'keeper and less to falling over like Tom Daley with pins and needles in both legs. Not even David Villa could score this time and we rumbled through a turgid 90 minutes, with the prospect of penalties looming large. Neither team looked like breaking through. It was a team of hatchet men versus a team of divers. Both cheats, but at least one goes about it in a more distinguished way than the other. Let's face it, kicking Sergio Busquets in the testicles is much, much more impressive than falling to the ground clutching your face like a nancy.

Anyway, as it happens, cheating small-face Iniesta bore down on the box only to hit some manner of ethereal hurdle in the time-space continuum, resulting in the sending off of Everton's John Heitinga, by Rotherham's Howard Webb. Now, I'm just going to put this out there... World Cup conspiracy theories... You can do what you like with that. 6 minutes later, that same shrunken Spaniard was in the box and rifled home the winner.

It was a poor game, not England-Algeria poor, but it nonetheless made me hope for serious injury or some kind of pitch invasion just to liven things up a bit. Highlights included Nigel de Jong letting Xabi Alonso know he was there... by kicking him square in the sternum and a Spanish fan being punched in the face after attempting to put a hat on the World Cup trophy.

Media Fakery...

Right, remember when that fan burst into the England dressing room after the lamentable performance against Algeria? Well, as it turns out, the whole thing was likely orchestrated by a journalist from the Sunday Mirror. Cue cries of "surely not?", "how awful" and "actually, now that you mention it, it does make sense and the 'I was looking for the toilet' excuse was a pretty fucking see-through one now, wasn't it...".

32 year old Pavlos Joseph apparently bumbled into the locker room while searching for the facilities. To be honest, the moment I heard this story the alarm bells were ringing. Supposedly he burst into the room full of dejected England players by accident and, rather than continuing his search for the men's room, he proceeded to inform them that their performance was 'woeful and not good enough' (to be fair, he's right about that one) and then 'had a word' with David Beckham. That basically makes the whole sorry experience a more downbeat parody of this already existing parody.

It seemed a classic 'woops, wrong room' *leaves room* *re-enters room* 'actually while I've got you, you're not fit to wear the shirt' *leaves room* kind of situation. The kind of thing that definitely only happens for Sport Relief comic parodies. Joseph, who has clearly been waiting for this kind of exposure to launch his Stavros Flatley tribute act, Pavlos Flatley (an already depressing indictment of modern celebrity), faces the ignominy of a court charge for trespassing and can now add conspiracy to that.

What's perhaps even more unsettling, is that this could signal the dawn of a new type of football hooligan. The kind that takes a bung from the Mirror or the News of the World and goes covert ops instead of the good old days of the Firms kicking the shi... oh, hang on. I'm not entirely sure which of those two is more depressing.

Soon no-one will dare talk to anyone who leaves their bag on the table in a coffee house for fear that they might be some kind of tabloid hack looking to exploit their idiocy. Yup, it's 'hell in a hand basket' alert time again.

I'm not going to say explicitly that we're all going to hell in a hand basket, but we're definitely all going to hell in a hand basket...

Weekend Stuff...

Well, well, well. How about that for a weekend. A real mixed bag, one might say.

An epic Doctor Who finale, a bollo performance from England's 'Golden Generation' against the Germans and some tremendous sets from a sweltering Glastonbury served up onto the tellybox by Auntie.

First things first, Who was really excellent. It had me thinking 'this is pretty good for the first few minutes' and then Matt Smith said "It's a fez. I wear a fez now. Fezzes are cool." At which point the entertainment part of my brain blurted out 'Ok, this is the best thing ever'. The performances were towering, the writing nothing short of brilliant and just enough intrigue was left to leave me wondering how I'll get by until the Christmas special.

Second things second, England are a painful team to watch. With my Swiss hopes already dashed by remarkable profligacy in front of goal against Honduras and a rather dubious red card against Chile, I now settled down to watch Capello's unchanged 4-4-2 take on a youthful and exciting German team. England's chances had been talked up by pundits and fans alike, but I (though I must confess I missed the Slovenia game) wasn't so hopeful having seen two uninspired and frankly uninspiring performances against the USA and Algeria. But then, surely this was the moment to step up to the plate and silence the doubters, the moments when things would turn around?

Well, no, not really, as it happened. The positive thinking lasted all of 20 minutes and then 'keeper Manuel Neuer smacked a drop kick 100 yards down the pitch, bouncing over the heads of a hapless Terry and Upson, for Miroslav Klose to slot past a furious David James. Village. The fury was compounded seconds later as dicy German passing led to Lukas Podolski smashing home through David James' legs from the tightest of angles. It was looking as though it could be a cricket score, when a chipped cross from Frank Lampard found the head of Matthew Upson who fired it over a rather flappy Neuer and into the net. The lifeline we'd supposedly been waiting for? It was the much-maligned Lampard who struck again sending a trademark slapshot 0f the crossbar and in. Except well, was it in though? Well, yes it was, but that didn't stop the Uruguayan ref and his assistant failing to notice this.

It all became irrelevant in the second half however as another incisive German counterattack (as a historian it's very, very difficult not to draw parrallels with the Battle of the Bulge and such like...) saw 20 year old Thomas Mueller, one of Germany's most impressive youths along with 21 year old Mesut Oezil, slot home and the quickfire double salvo was completed with another close range finish from the Bayern Muenchen youngster, 3 minutes later. The rout was complete, the misery confounded. Hope was lost the moment that Capello revealed his game-chasing attacking substitution to be Heskey on for Defoe.

It was an abject, miserable performance from the 'golden generation'. Rooney looked as feckless up front as he had done all tournament, Glen Johnson failed to be in the correct defensive position once, Terry and Upson resembled the Chuckle brothers at centre half and all were run rings round by the youthful exuberance of the talented Germans, as painful as that is to say.

An 'inquest' was promised by the commentators. To be fair, Lineker and chums could have summed up the performance simply as 'the Germans were much, much better at football than we were'. Shearer wasn't best pleased either. Hansen declared that the Germans brought 'ideas that England just couldn't cope with'. Yeah, like 'defending'.

The big players didn't perform. It was simple, England weren't a team, they were a collection of egos made to wear the same colour shirt for 90 hopeless, agonising minutes. Rooney is perhaps the greatest villain of all. Knackered and impotent up front, he's made Slovakia's Robert Vittek look like Pele. Hopefully some of the deadwood will have been cleared out in time for the Euros in 2 years time, but don't count on it.

Third things third, Glastonbury has some pretty stonking performances. Obviously on occasions such as these, it is the headliners that draw the most attention. Friday saw Gorillaz deputising for U2 and their crocked, divisive lead singer Bono and, by all accounts, not particularly well. Revellers began to drift away from the Pyramid Stage during a downbeat set which included only a couple of big hits. Contrast this with the other two headliners, Muse and Stevie Wonder, who produced terrific feel-good greatest hits sets (and with my favourite Glasto perfromance of recent memory, last year's epic Bruce Springsteen set) and you can see perhaps why a psyched-up Friday night crowd didn't appreciate a dark, experimental study in melancholia.

Muse were all stadium rock and pyrotechnics, producing a marvellously lively collection of hits from their impressive back catalogue. They finished with a stonking rendition of space western epic Knights of Cydonia prefaced by a snippet of Ennio Morricone's Man With a Harmonica from Once Upon a Time in the West (a personal favourite of mine). Motown legend Stevie Wonder gave a hugely entertaining, light-hearted set, reeling off hit after hit and present Glastonbury founder Michael Eavis with a harmonica during Happy Birthday. Wonder has clearly lost none of his exuberance, giving a wonderful, life-affirming performance to an adoring crowd.

Some People are on the Pitch! Oh... Wait, That's Just Footballers...

Bizarre football result news now (I am trying to limit myself rambling about football but it's not so easy, I'm sure many of you still have nightmares about the Winter Olympics and what that did to this blog. I'll try and keep it to 1 or 2 posts a week maximum and find other funny things to ramble about, promise - an example of things that I intend to comment on this week: Doctor Who, the 'Emergency' Budget, ). The World Cup has definitely kicked into action now, you can tell from the bickering within the teams and the inevitable fannying around from supposedly the best players in the world.

Let's deal with this chronologically. Friday saw England play out an awful 0-0 against Algeria that was very much the definition of 'bore draw'. As well as an absolutely shocking performance from Capello's men, it was also one of the most tedious 93 odd minutes of football in living memory. Neither team looked like scoring or indeed looked entirely like they could be arsed (if you want to see the awful spectacle yourself but done in a much, much more exciting way, then have a look at this). That said, it's not as though the other 'potential winners' are faring any better either. France have pushed the self-destruct button and may well end up putting out the coaching staff to face South Africa in the final group game and Italy's campaign has stuttered equallly as impressively as England's.

The current champion's fought back to snatch a draw in their opening game and were forced to do much the same against a spirited New Zealand team. Shane Smeltz stunned the Azurri by poking home the opening goal (from a, shall we say, mildly offside position) past a helpless Federico Marchetti after a magnificent Simon Elliot free kick. Juve's Vincenzo Iaquinta smashed home a spot kick after handbags between Ipswich's Tommy Smith and Roma's Daniele De Rossi (notice the difference there?) in the area. The All Whites held on to clinch easily the best result in the footballing history of a nation that doesn't even have a professional domestic league. So, the embarrassment is being piled onto Marcello Lippi's team but where did the rot start?

Well, fortunately for the Azurri, they still possess many of 2006's World Cup-winning team, unfortunately even then they were considered one of the oldest teams in the competition and the legs have only become more heavy and the faces more beardy in those 4 years (see: Daniele De Rossi, who appears to have spent his end of season break auditioning for a role as Tom Hanks' friend in Cast Away 2 or genuinely on a desert island). Also they lost the one-time 'world's best goalkeeper' Gianluigi Buffon in the first game of the group stage, replacing him with inexperienced Marchetti (just because you dress him exactly like Buffon, doesn't gift him the talent, Marcello) who has at times appeared a little unconvincing as a deputy.

But the madness didn't stop there, in yesterday's evening fixture, Brazil vs. Cote d'Ivoire (it strikes me as odd that we have to refer to them as that or CIV, none of the other countries insist on the native tongue spelling of their country in every other nation), we were given everything from the sublime to the ridiculous. Luis Fabiano opened the scoring with a well-taken finish after a threaded through pass from Kaka (who would still have his part to play in this crazy spectacle) and the Sevilla striker followed up with some flashy skills and after a flick and a jink (and at least two separate handlings of the ball) Fabiano thundered home the half volley. The ref even seemed to check with the striker if he'd handled. "Nope" Fabiano no doubt replied (except in Portugese). "That's good then. Just checking. Wouldn't want to make an arse of myself." The ref then replied (probably), before nodding and winking. Nonsense.

We weren't done with the bizarre yet though, not by a long chalk. Elano scored Brazil's third goal with a deft first touch into the net from Kaka's terrific squared ball (he's still not done though). Elano ran to the TV cameras and pulled down his socks taking out his shin pads (complete with his children's names emblazoned on them - funny place to put them, where no-one could see them, where they'll get sweaty and possibly be clattered into by an Ivorian, but we'll get back to that). It was strangely prophetic, as, just seconds later, Tiene smashed his studs metaphorically into Elano's children (see what I meant about getting back to that). I can only hope that he did actually put his shin pads back on, but then you'd be a fool not to (although, as we've established, you'd also be a fool to put your children's names on your shin pads). Either way he was stretchered from the field of play, while two children were no doubt sobbing in Sao Paulo after being sybolically scraped by an Ivorian's studs. Yet we still weren't done with what was one of the best games of the tournament so far (along with Slovenia-USA) but for all the wrong reasons.

Drogba pulled back a consolation goal for the Ivory Co... sorry, Cote d'Ivoire but they never looked like pulling a miraculous comeback despite the final twist in the tail/tale (depending on your persuasion). The ball went out for an inocuous throw-in but Kader Keita was on the floor clutching his face as if he'd been playing the part of 'Man Who Receives Chainsaw to the Face' in a low budget horror movie. What had happened? The Ivorians surrounded Kaka. Jonathan Pearce was apopleptic with confusion. The replays showed Keita given a cheeky nudge in the torso by Kaka, off the ball. So, he was given a little elbow in the chest. Then why was he rolling around on the floor like the victim of a botched assassination attempt? Well, presumably to get the already booked Kaka sent off. Which happened. Nice job there, folks.

Football, eh?

Swissophile...

I've always had a bit of a thing for the Swiss, indeed I've spent so many summer holidays there I'm expecting my citizenship papers to be in the post as we speak, so when in the Listening to Livesey Facebook Group World Cup Sweepstake I drew, at random, the mighty Switzerland from the metaphorical hat, it could only be fate.

Faced with an agonising wait until their opening midweek fixture against the highly-fancied European champs Spain, I sat back and researched the team. Many of those players I remembered from last summer were there - the excellent 'keeper Diego Benaglio, skilful winger Tranquillo Barnetta, seasoned campaigner Hakan Yakin. However one or two surprises cropped up. An injury to target man Marco Streller meant a call-up for 18 year old, Albanian-born Xherdan Shaqiri of FC Basel. I can't claim to have seen much of Kosovan-Albanian-born (do I see a pattern emerging) Albert Bunjaku either, so when the Schweizer Nati took to the field against the would-be champions without pacy utility man Valon Behrami and all-time leading goalscorer Alexander Frei (who has endeared himself to me on numerous occasions, once for spitting at Steven Gerrard and then again in this match for nonchalantly sitting in the dugout with a cup of tea) and captained by Udinese midfielder Gokhan Inler, I suspected them to find it a little difficult.

There's no doubt that in 'der General' Ottmar Hitzfeld, the Swiss have a top-class manager. The German is the only manager to win the Champions' League with two different teams, a feat equalled this season by Jose Mourinho. But even with a two-time World Manager of the Year at the helm, it was hard to look past the talented Spaniards. Surely the Swiss would look to snatch a point with some stout containment of Davids Villa and Silva and midfield dangermen Andres Iniesta and Xabi Alonso.

After the opening few minutes it was clear that this was the plan, now it was just a question of its effectiveness. Hopes took a blow when recently-unveiled Fulham signing Phillipe Senderos left the field with an injury. Steve von Bergen was brought on to partner rugged center half Stephane Grichting. The strike partnership of Blaise NKufo and hot prospect Eren Derdiyok saw little of the ball, as the Spanish stroked it around, sending chance after chance safely into Benaglio's gloves or sailing over the bar.

Then, from nothing, a Swiss break saw Derdiyok charge into the box, Casillas came out to win the ball but only suceeded in bundling the young Swiss over, I was ready to appeal for a penalty, but as my mouth opened, Gelson Fernandes popped up to stab home the loose ball and give Switzerland a remarkable lead over who many considered to be the champions-in-waiting.

The next hour or so saw my nerves shredded. Spain spurned yet more chances and heroics from the magnificent Benaglio and sheer determination from the veteran Grichting. A lively looking Lichtsteiner at right back made a couple of surging runs, but the Swiss found themselves very much penned into their own half. Then all of a sudden Derdiyok popped up again and hit the upright. The Swiss were showing real danger on the break, but that would be their last meaningful attack.

As the game wore on would tired legs be able to maintain the brave defending that had preserved the lead for this long? Spain threw on Torres in a last gasp attempt to break down the highly organised Swiss defence, but he fired his best chance wide and, despite looking lethal throughout, Spain succumbed to defeat in their opening game.

This was a magnificent result and a tactical victory for der General. Swiss Parliament finished early so they could watch the end of the game, car horns were blown triumphantly in the streets of Bern, Basel and Zurich and for a day Alpenhorns triumphed over Vuvuzelas. My national pride was stirred (impressive, seeing as I'm not a Swiss national) and I felt jubilation for the first time this World Cup. Hopp Schwiiz!

Every Kick Mattering Massively to Someone, Presumably...

Right, yesterday saw the third Soccer Aid in which celebrities and retired pros from England and the Rest of the World kick a football not quite as well as we're used to while Clive Tyldesley tells us about how Olly Murs used to play semi-professionally and Andy Townshend reminds us that he once had a career too (nope? Me neither). I'm making light of it, but it is all for a genuinely good cause- the money raised goes to Unicef- and it is a fairly decent laugh watching out of shape blokes pretending to be Bobby Moore.

To be fair, for a few minutes the ragtag bunch of reality TV stars, actors, presenters and whatever it is that Jonathan Wilkes actually does did look like the real England team. Sadly those minutes were the last 20 or so which saw half of their 10 penalties saved by Patrick Kielty or blazed over the bar. Yes, we witnessed 90 minutes of pretty tentative football which saw a first half Nicky Byrne (your man there out of off of Westlife) penalty saved by David Seaman and a Jamie Redknapp (manager's son... not a hint of nepotism or anything...) goal on the stroke of half time, before a well-placed Teddy Sherringham header left the Rest of the World with a mountain to climb, however much like a cosmopolitan, star-studded Edmund Hillary they duly climbed it with a sweeping poacher's effort from Joe Calzaghe and a corner bundled over the line by Sammi Hyppia, leaving things all square.

So plenty to talk about, presumably we have some qualified pundits to discuss the nitty gritty to keep the real fans interested? Well, no. In fact there were more pundits on the pitch than in the studio. "What did you make of it?" asked Dermot O' Leary to Louise Redknapp, who is naturally both qualified to comment on football and make a fair, unbiased judgement, despite the fact that her husband is on the pitch. And if that wasn't intricate, Pleat-like analysis enough, we were also treated to the opinions of The Pub Landlord.

This years event was much hyped as fans and pundits alike revelled at the prospect of the legendary Zizou possibly nutting Robbie Williams or Ben Shepherd in the chest, but produced rather a different success story as 48 year old Woody Harrelson blasted home the decisive spot kick. Having taking up the game at the tender age of 40, the Hawaii-based actor is more used to the barefoot, beach brand of 'soccer', but took a crash course under Rest of the World manager Kenny Dalglish (and apparently some kids in Battersea park who let him join in their kickabout) and had the courage to strike home the 20th penalty of the shootout, past a helpless, dejected, lanky Jamie Theakston, sending the rest of the world into raptures (presumably).

Michael Sheen (Clough/Blair/Your Italian fella out of off of the Twiglet film) lifted the trophy and passed it around to fellow Welshman Gethin Jones, comedy actor Mike Myers, James Kyson-Lee (Ando from Heroes... even Tyldelsey referred to him as that), Gordon Ramsey (who can't have done his dodgy knees much good... much less his sweary, sweary mouth), Simon Baker (The Mentalist... not an accusation or derogatory assertion about his footballing ability, that's the show he's from) and of course the heroic Harrelson. Figo and Zidane turned down the offer of raising the Champers-filled silverware to their lips (presumably not much cop if you've won a World Cup or Champion's League, charity or no...).

It was left to Robbie Williams (one of the England players who 'pulled a Becks' and duly fired over the bar. Also see: Paddy McGuiness, Theakston and basically Dominic Cooper) to dissect the defeat as he talked to Dermot... or was it Kirsty Gallacher... I can't really remember. Essentially he didn't care because it was for charity (a fair point, I suppose... the old 'get out of jail free card'). We were also treated to seemingly gratuitous shots of Orlando Bloom in the BT tower reminding us how nice it was to be there as a representative of Unicef and how all of the generic t-shirted telephone operatives behind him were doing a great job. This seemed to happen during the football itself.

Well, basically Soccer Aid had everything: banal opinions in the studio, essentially pointless pitchside interviews, overweight celebrities huffing and puffing on the pitch and, of course, Bradley Walsh. Much fun was had by all and let's face it, it isn't every day that you get to see Woody from Cheers stroke a penalty past a sprawling Heart breakfast DJ or Paddy Kielty make a terrific one-on-one save against Alan Shearer.

(It's easier to be cynical about this than the BAFTAs, where the tremendous The Thick of It picked up a hat-trick of awards... although I should point out that Unicef do absolutely sterling work. Donate to them, I would)

Friday Pictorial the Seventeenth: Football

Well, World Cup fever is taking hold and everyone's been putting out their songs to spur on England. I can't help but feel, however, that many of them aren't looking at it in the right way.
To that end here is the Friday Pictorial unofficial World Cup song...

Everybody's Sporting For the Weekend...

Yeah, this one's mostly about sport again, sorry about that. It was a rather hectic weekend of sport and most of my Saturday and Sunday were spent watching various sized men/women pushing/kicking/throwing balls/stones or travelling quickly downhill on skis/teatrays/bobsleighs.

Let me paint for you the picture of Saturday morning. I came home to find my beloved blues playing Manchester United on the tv. Ordinarily I avoid watching live games on TV as they invariable result in losses, but I was knackered and slumped down in the chair to see the expected happen- Man U went 1-0 up in the space of 16 minutes. Right, business as usual, I thought, seeing as Everton had won just 1 of their 28 Premier League meetings with SAF's team. The United faithful began singing a chant which would be sacrilege for me to even breathe on here (needless to say it raised my hackles) and I was fully prepared to head upstairs and cut myself off from all sources of sports news, when the ball fell to much-maligned winger Diniyar Bilyaletdinov (that's easy for you to say...) and he hammered an absolute purler past a static Van der Sar from 25 yards. The Mancs were silenced instantaneously by the Russian's stunner and hope began to return to the Goodison faithful. Before long Gwladys Street was rocking and we were acquitting ourselves well, despite a couple of shaky moments. Some heroic defending by captain Phil Neville prevented Rooney from smashing it into an open net after rounding Tim Howard. When the half-time whistle went, I'd had enough. I've seen enough Everton-United games in my time to know that we are always cruelly denied a draw in the final moments.

I retreated upstairs and had a lie-down, avoiding the feminine wiles of the internet super highway and it's easily accessible sports updates. I bided my time and returned downstairs to check the final result only to see young Jack Rodwell charging, upright and majestic towards the United box, he coolly bamboozled Jonny Evans and placed a terrific right-footed strike beyond a sprawling Van der Sar to make it 3-1! I couldn't believe my eyes. A shirtless Rodwell charged into the crowd to receive the adulation of the Evertonians. I fell to my knees, fearing the 'play injury time until Man United win' rule would be enforced by referee (and Sky 4 sympathizer) Howard Webb. "I'm not a praying man," I uttered, eyes firmly shut, "but if you're there, Big Dunc, for Christ's sake don't let them score!"

They did not score and we had earned a remarkably convincing victory over the champions, after having beaten title-race leaders Chelsea in our previous game. I was on a dizzying high for the remainder of Saturday and knuckled down to watch some Winter Olympics. The night previously skeleton-bobber Amy Williams had sealed Great Britain's first (and only - you'll see) gold medal of the games and the first individual gold since Robin Cousins danced on ice in 1980. Williams gave a superlative performance on her sled, Arthur and sealed the medal on the tricky Whistler circuit with consumate ease. The skeleton is just a ridiculous event (I know I'm not exactly the first one to point that out) and my personal favourite bit is where they crash into the foam sheets at the end- it's basically a glorified level of Pat Sharp's Fun House (that dates me...). As they waited for the final runs to get underway, Auntie showed some promo vids - Williams was basically Charlie from Top Gun with a teatray and a big hill. Again have a look at my Twitter feed for yet more details.

My true Winter Olympic obsession has however been the Curling, which has well and truly sucked me in. The weekend was somewhat of a mixed bag for the plucky Scots as 19 year old Skip, Eve Muirhead, played some dodgy stones to throw away what should have been a routine win over the Americans and David Murdoch's boys lost to Canada for the first time in 5 matches against the Canucks. There were however dramatic victories, with Murdoch triumphing over the Chinese and last night the Americans. It's not necessarily the action of Curling that is so very charming, but the presentation. The belt and slacks combo sported by every curler, Rhona Martin keeping Steve Cram in line in the commentary box, Byers and MacDonald sweeping furiously as Dave plays another smashing stone to clear the house. There was a bizarre point during yesterday's match when Rhona had (for reasons which I still don't fully understand) disappeared and Cram collared American track and field legend Carl Lewis to join him in the box- yup, you heard that right, for a surrealist ten minutes the Beeb's curling commentary team were Steve Cram and Carl Lewis. What next? Lord Coe sitting alongside Ed Leigh for the Women's Ski Cross?

I digress, the main point is that it is genuinely nailbiting stuff. The tactics are incredible and we have some tremendous players. Euan Byers (the British lead) has an astonishing accuracy rating for the tourney, I'd venture one of the best of any team and Murdoch is a tough, canny general, playing those oh so crucial final shots. As they took on the USA, featuring one player with a cap... indoors and another with a tattoo (where the hell do they think they are?) , their ability really shone through. Though the talent evident within the team has been conspicuously absent against several opponents (Canada included) it did return against the US. A lone woman roared "Davey Murdoch's Barmy Army!" and no-one else even seemed tempted to join in. I was singing along at home, as David 'the Iceman' Murdoch played a marvellous draw to seal the 9th end. I think I actually understand some of the technicalities of curling now (shame the nearest rink is Tunbridge Wells...).

There were some hectic thrills and spills in the other events too. Ski Cross was essentially carnage with home favourite Delbosco just falling out of the sky on the penultimate jump, while Ed Leigh and Graham Bell basically just had a laugh on commentary. Bobsleigh provided numerous painful looking prangs- one including the British pair (you just knew it was going to happen). My suggestion to improve Bobsleigh: instead of calling them things like Germany 2 and Liechtenstein 1 (who also took a tumble), give them proper names. Cool Runnings had the 'Rasta Rockett', why not have the 'Berlin Bomber' (actually that one might not be so good in the current climate) or the Spirit of Vaduz? Monaco could be the 'Monte Carlo Flyer', wouldn't that be so much better? Speaking of Monaco, (an inclusion every bit as bizarre as the Jamaicans, where's 'Monte Carlo or Bob'?) a famous Bob-pilot of theirs in the golden age was none other than Prince Albert II, who now enjoys a behind-the-scenes role. This got me thinking about the days when royalty had a proper go at things- when the King would ride in the Derby or play cricket for the Gentlemen, there was a wonderful 'What we miss about...' in the Guardian today about the 1928 St. Moritz games, in which plucky Brit, David Ludovic George Hopetoun Carnegie, 11th Earl of Northesk snatched a hard-earned bronze in the skeleton bob. So Williams is but the most recent in a long line of British people deranged enough to hurl themselves down a twisty track on a teatray and well done to her. It does strike me that the events that Britain are capable of winning medals in play to our natural strengths: idiocy, marbles, housework etc.


Plan for the Week
40% (of time) Writing Blogs
30% Tweeting about and watching the Winter Olympics
30% Learning 'Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau' before Friday