Be A Good Sport...

Yesterday I hit a new low as a football fan. My beloved team was the victim of what is known (appallingly) in the trade as a 'cupset' as they lost to lower league opposition with an alarming display of profligacy and indolence in front of goal, spurning several hat loads of chances and going out with a whimper in a penalty shootout.

Life as a fan is never easy (unless you support Manchester United or Chelsea, in which case it's more comparable with being an Eton-educated Oxbridge graduate and wondering whether you might just be able to get into a position of power in the current government). You suffer appalling lows as your ragtag collection of overpaid mercenaries show no passion or desire and then you reach ecstatic highs as your heroes show tremendous heart to set up a plucky win against a team funded by an entire Arab country. It's never boring. Heartbreaking, infuriating, coronary-inducing, but never boring.

The season as a whole has been dire, commensurate with the state of Delhi's Commonwealth Games, really - shit flowing through the halls and a bridge collapsing (alright... even I don't really know what that last bit means). Mostly, the point is that there's a fine line between just keeping things interesting and forcing supporters to the brink of despair. The Commonwealth Games organisers are 'confident' that everything will be sorted out. Albeit a confidence not shared by the numerous big name athletes that have pulled out, the general public or even the organisers' spouses (probably). The footbridge collapse yesterday could not have come at a worse time, just as losing to Brentford on penalties could not have come at a worse time (although that would be true at any time). Just when the Delhi organisers needed to prove that they could get it together and deliver a memorable games they were given a ludicrous accident that certainly made it 'memorable', just not for the reasons that everyone had been hoping for.

Fingers crossed that by December the halls won't be flooded with excrement and a serviceable bridge (with no concerns over structural integrity) will have been erected.

The only positive? At least I'm not Titus Bramble.

(For non-sports fans he's a calamitous defender... and now a rapist... apparently)


Today's blog was brought to you by the letter 'P' for Ped Mcpartland and the tweet that started it all...

Anyone for Pétanque...?

Unlikely sports comeback news now. I'm reliably informed that pétanque is very much now the summer game of choice, whether you're one of those trendy, slim actress-y types in hats or even a trendy, slim actor-y type with your own belt. Fancy chucking a ball into a collection of balls aiming to hit a tiny ball? Then pétanque is very much the game for you. What?... Pétanque, it's French and obviously very classy...?... Fancy chucking boules into a collection of boules aiming to hit a very tiny boule? Non?

And just when you thought this assertion couldn't be any more from the pages of Sugar Ape magazine, Olly Dixon of London synthpop group Filthy Dukes recently co-founded the East London Pétanque Association, staging "guerilla pétanque" events at selected summer festivals. I know I say this a lot but THE MEDIA HAS EATEN ITSELF blah, blah, blah HELL IN A HANDBASKET.

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.

Bicycle Race...

Well, I think I can probably assume that none of you have been watching the Tour de France (by all means prove me wrong by leaving a comment), after all, cycling rarely gets the coverage afforded to other sports (unless it's the kind of cycling where you ride fixies in circles for many laps and Scots win gold medals). But I would suggest that there is a good deal to promote cycling as a spectator sport.

This year's Tour de France is but 3 days old and already there have been more crashes than a stock exchange full of sozzled bankers. Yesterday saw the wet conditions claim a number of high profile victims, including Christian Vande Velde (who was described brilliantly in today's Guardian as a rider so accident prone it's surprising he hasn't reverted back to stabilisers), both Schleck brothers (one of whom managed to crash and then crash into a motorbike seconds later), Lance Armstrong and Alberto Contador. In a Tour that had already seen Brit David Millar (among others) topple over a stray dog in the first stage. Interestingly enough, no the first time a dog has had its say in the standings of the General Classification, only 3 years ago Marcus Burghardt's progress was halted spectacularly by a slightly befuddled mutt wandering in front of a group of riders.

People have been pointing to the difficult stages taking place in the Low Countries, but if they thought yesterday's slightly sodden, hilly venture was bad, then they may struggle to cope with the cobbles of today's stage. There was a time when any self-respecting pro cyclist would partake in the classics including the notorious Paris-Roubaix, known affectionately as 'The Hell of the North', which might as well be held on the streets of Weatherfield. However many GC riders in this age of rolling and face clutching in sport tend to avoid it these days. It should be interesting to see how they cope today...

If you're one of those people who tune into F1 on the offchance that someone does a Kubica (or perhaps that should be a Webber now) then dip into cycling for a change.

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.

Anyone For Tennis...

Well, Wimbledon was pretty bloody exciting yesterday as history was made. Play between Nicolas Mahut and John Isner was halted at a mere 59 all in the fifth set because of bad light.

This was a preposterous tennis match, the final set alone already eclipsing the previous longest match in history. Isner (who appeared to have one sleeve longer than the other for reasons which I don't fully understand) look shattered even before the 9 hour mark and I fully expected him to simply collapse on court, gifting the win to the Frenchman Mahut, however the 6 ft. 9 American dug deep and hung in there, depsite one or two of his serves representing a large Haddock attempting to free itself from a captive grasp.

Mahut certainly looked the fresher of the two, skipping along the baseline in the 30 degree heat while Isner looked as though he'd been taking part in a wet t-shirt competition, but despite this both men had chances to win the match. The games however continued to follow serve for over 6 hours and, just as the umpire looked as though he was going to fall of his perch, Mahut complained about poor visibility and play was suspended. So, at stumps of the first day it was 2 sets all, 59 games a piece in the final set. The second day starts in just under half an hour, will we have a winner before tea? I'll guess we'll have to wait and see.

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)

Using Chatroulette For the Powers Of Good...

That title may seem a tad anachronistic, but that's exactly what Merton, a self-taught pianist is doing. Cut through the cock and the weirdos and you'll find this jolly musical chap plink-plonking away in real time. To my shame I only discovered him yesterday and he only has one compilation video up. He's impressive, I'll give him that and he's seems to have broken the 'ones that scar people for life are the best ones' Chatrt mentality.

To see him improvising a song for each stranger that he's connected to is remarkable. Playing away like a mad internet Jermaine Clement, he makes canny observations about them a improvises songs from nothing. He's become a Twitter sensation and the video's gone viral - this could well be the beginning of a new internet meme and I for one would like to see more improvisational music there. Who knows what would have happened when I faced off with cat-stroking Bond villain had I had my trusty guitar in my hand (probably nothing, I imagine I still would have chickened out).

Anyway, this is another short one, I'm afraid. Largely because of an unholy trinity of me having new projects to work on (update in Thursday's weekly TYSIC section), not a great deal happening in the world and the Indian Premier League being shown for free on Youtube. There appears to be a big delay on the stream, but I'm getting sucked in nonetheless. Robin Uthappa just made an astonishingly quick 50, hacking away like an Indian Garry Sobers (resisting urge to make a 'holy slogging, Bat-man!' joke), before promptly getting out. "Those who burn twice as bright, burn for half as long" and so on and so forth...

Counting Down, Rain and Rawnsley... and Curling...

Quick warning: The links in today's blog contain very strong language, if that's likely to offend you... well, you probably should have stopped reading my blog some time ago.

It's very much one of those days. You know the ones, the ones where it's exceptionally dull and rainy and we offer our deepest condolences to those in the construction industry or other areas of work that involve prolonged periods battling the elements. So what can we do to amuse ourselves on days such as these? Well, some people (myself included sometimes) like to watch a cracking little device known as a television or 'TV' for short. One such piece of the endlessness that exists on this 'TV' is a daytime words and numbers-based quiz known as 'Countdown'. I know what you're thinking, 'Countdown' has been in existence for nearly 30 years, what's so special about today's emission? Well, it was won by Burnley Central Defender Clarke Carlisle, that's what.

Premier League footballer Carlisle smashed his opponent (not a premiership footballer) 89-55 and will go on to defend his crown tomorrow with the possibility of becoming an 'octochamp'. Occasionally these magical moments do happen on 'Countdown'. One that sticks in the memory was the occasion when an 8 year old boy earned a wordy and number-filled victory and became the youngest ever winner. Hooray for the 8 year old, brilliant words and numbers from the 8 year old! What people forgot is that the poor 30-something over which he triumphed, probably never showed his face in public/ever left the house again/killed himself. The Guardian website rather wonderfully (and in true football style) ran a live text facility for the defender's appearance on the show, which can be found here.

It's interesting to note the increasing influence of football over Countdown. Host Jeff Stelling is famous for being the face of Soccer Saturday on Sky Sports, in which he and a panel of ex-pros (Charlie Nicholas, Paul Merson, Matther LeTissier etc.) watch football matches (we don't get to see the action, just the reactions of the pros. I know it sounds bizarre, but it works better than one would imagine). Two series ago, Notts County midfielder Neil Mackenzie had a storming run to the quarter finals (performing better than his team then... zing) only to lose out to the eventual winner. I remember a lower league goalkeeper also winning a few Countdown matchups but his name escapes me. On the very slim chance that he's reading this, leave a comment if that's you.

Anyway, I've become sidetracked, I only came here to talk partially about Countdown, the other thing that I feel I should mention is the current Bullygate scandal that seems to be gripping. Already it's driven telephone operators to be suspended, Andrew Rawnsley to appear far more than he should do and Paxman to say 'fucking' on Newsnight.

Essentially we've learnt that Gordon Brown is apparently bad tempered, as opposed to all of the other lovely, good-natured, non-thieving politicians, I suppose? This blog is light-hearted fun and I try and avoid getting too political, but to be a politician (at least to be a good one) you do have to be a bit of a bastard. In the same way that you wouldn't want a Lieutenant Colonel going "would you mind awfully taking that stronghold? If it's too much, that's ok, I'll try and find some others to help" you wouldn't want a party leader who's gearing up for election season not getting a bit serious/sweary/angry. Brown is merely the latest in a long line of furious PMs- Palmerston, Churchill and Callaghan have all been responsible for gross lapses in manners and control. Apparently some civil servants phoned the Anti Bullying Helpline (who are now finding themselves up Shit Creek without a boat, let alone a paddle) and complained. Boo hoo, you're in politics, it's a tough field. Had these people never watched The Thick of It? If they can't handle Brown trying to get things done, then they would surely have had to undergo electro-shock therapy to erase the memory of 'Tucker's Law'.

Paxman swearing was terrific television and though he was forced to make an unconvincing apology by the producers, I suspect that he rather enjoyed it. In fact I'd like to see it more often. Paxman is already one of the least compromising, most feared political interviewers in the country, but surely this would give him the edge to get past the fabrications and manoeuvring of the slipperier politicians. "Did you threaten to overrule... did you FUCKING threaten to FUCKING overrule!" for example. Perhaps even slip some profanity into University Challenge. His dressing down of the students who give preposterously wrong answers would be made all the sweeter by Paxo calling them a 'massive twat' or somesuch other insult.

I don't know if the beeb received any complaints but it wasn't really Paxman swearing, it was Rawnsley swearing with Paxo as his proxy. There was a time when Rawnsley (a Spitting Image puppet of Robert Bathurst inflated to actual size to look more like Warren Clarke) was more bearable. He presented a rather insightful Channel 4 politics show with the late Vincent Hanna and used to write straight-talking columns for the Guardian, but he appears to have gone on a power trip with the release of his book. Of course no-one can actually confirm these allegations with hard evidence, all we have is a Helpline breaking their policy of confidentiality as is wonderfully summarised by Steve Bell's latest cartoon. Because of this lack of evidence, Taiwan's Apple Daily (who brought us a marvellous recreation of Elin Nordegrin chasing Tiger with golf clubs and smashing his car) have take it upon themselves to produce a CGI film of what it might have looked like if Brown had turned into Bullock from Deadwood and punched his way to answers. In the video a CGI David Morrissey reprises his role as Brown and performs a hilarious sequence of anger management fails from the Park Chan Wook directed version of The Deal. Every time Apple Daily does one of these it looks like some preposterous Time Trumpet-style spoof but long may it continue, the news has reached the point of satirising itself and may well save me some work.


Winter Olympics Update

Well Eve Muirhead's hopes of a medal were well and truly extinguished yesterday as the GB women took Canada to an extra end after a gutsy performance, but couldn't quite snatch a victory. It wouldn't have earned them a play-off place but there was still the matter of pride. Muirhead was again let down by her draws which had troubled her all tournament. In the post-match interview, Muirhead remained defiant and even jovial. A 19 year old with a bright future ahead, no doubt.

David 'the Iceman' Murdoch's chance of a medal remains alive, despite a 9-5 defeat to colourful-trousered Norway. The GB men's team will face Sweden (against whom they opened their account in the Round Robin matches) in a play-off, with the winner facing the mighty Canadians. If Murdoch's boys can progress against Nicklas Edin's Swedes, they will have high hopes of toppling the Canucks, despite losing to them in the earlier rounds. Murdoch has an excellent record against his Canadian counterpart and with Lead Euan Byers on top form at the moment, there's no reason why the men can't pick up a medal. A comedy moment from last night's match occurred when British Second, Pete Smith sent down one of Norway's yellow stones, instead of his own red. Thankfully the Norwegians were sporting enough to allow a straight shot. Listen out for more classic, clueless Cram commentary.

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

Insomnia - Why I'm On Vancouver Time...

It's been some time before I've managed to fall asleep in the same day that I woke up on, so it's just as well that there's plenty on to keep me occupied. Aside from the Winter Olympics, I'm also a big believer in radio and particularly 5Live's nightly phone-in hosted by Tony Livesey. As part of the 5Live reshuffle that saw Mayo move to the Radio 2 Drivetime slot vacated by Chris Evans, Richard Bacon, who had hosted the 10.30-1 show for over a year, moved to the afternoon and Radio Lancashire breakfast host and former Daily Sport editor Livesey took the reins of what had become a cult hit.

I'll be honest, with the announcement of his appointment I was a little skeptical about the Burnley man taking a slot which Bacon had made his own, but 2 months have passed and Livesey is really starting to hit his considerable straps. He's managed to win over a large percentage of Bacon disciples by giving central roles to listener favourites, newsreader Rachael Hodges and Nick Cosgrove from the prestigious 5Live Money department and it's this core of Team Livesey that provides the real entertainment. Whereas one might find other shows such as Victoria Derbyshire or Stephen Nolan to be dominated by their hosts alone, Livesey is keen to share the floor with Hodges, Cosgrove and the presenter's friend, invariably resulting in lively banter and a good deal of comic potential. The Livesey/Cosgrove relationship harks back to a golden age of radio comedy and Hodges keeps the pair in line masterfully. If you already listen or fancy listening at some point, there's also a lively Facebook Community (I say lively- me, Bri, Besty, Brock-man, Tatters and Abid all post regularly). Yesterday was a real cracker, with Punmaster General Bri McIntosh and myself wearing down Brock-man's patience (here's the best exchange of the night). I personally think that Livesey's got a real calming style about his presenting and that the show is going from strength to strength (and that's not just because I get my comments read out all the time...).

Ok, I know I went on about it yesterday, but the Winter Olympics are still happening and I'll be damned if I won't comment on them endlessly. Expect a lot of blogs to at least feature something about Vancouver 2010 for the duration. Last night, as I wondered if I'd be able to get to sleep before I had to get up, I was kept company by yet more Curling and the Men's Snowboard Halfpipe (featuring American prodigy Shaun White). Again the real highlight was Ed Leigh, they should let him commentate on every sport in the games (Cross-Country Skiing would be a lot more shouty and jargon-filled with the magnificent Leigh at the helm), though I'm sure most other people (the kind who know things about sport and don't use it to further their own comedy blogs) would say that the highlight was the remarkable new trick thrown down by White- the Tomahawk (or the Double McTwist 1260 *insert own 'do you want fries with that?' joke here*). Leigh practically had a coronary when White pulled this off on his final run. White didn't have to do it, the medal was already his, but like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler he gave everything for the crowd (this is my bid to be Leigh's co-commentator for the 2014 games...). Other things that you might hear from Leigh are "an enormous double grab Stiffy" (stop sniggering), "Huge Double Cork 10!", "Sweet 720!" and "Only managed 4 tricks there. Absolutely gutting." I get the impression that he could literally be saying anything and we would be none the wiser.

Another highlight of the Halfpipe was the weird X-Factor-style promo vids that each boarder had, featuring Bonnie Tyler wind machines and shiny backlighting. Some sold it more than others (expect Loreal to come calling for Shaun White soon) but it was another bit of preposterously decadent, superfluous techo-wizadry that one suspects landed the Vancouver games in their current state of financial meltdown. One event that didn't feature competitors heads appearing Big Brother (1984, not crap reality show) style on a massive screen (although some would argue it was poorer for it), was the Women's Downhill, featuring British hopeful Chemmy Alcott. Alcott acquitted herself quite well, finding herself in the gold medal position at one point (by virtue of being the second person to go... the first having crashed and then got up to complete the course) but was soon outclassed by the super-quick, tiara-wearing Californian Jennifer Mancuso and then by eventual winner, shin injury-carrying, poster-girl Lindsey Vonn. Though Alcott finished an eventual 13th, she did make somewhat of stir and was trending on Twitter within seconds. She also found a wider audience- one American viewer commenting that "if she was the President, she'd be Baberaham Lincoln." I'd like to think that Ed Leigh would have said the same, had he been the commentator for the event. I imagine screengrabs of Alcott hugging Vonn were made desktop wallpapers throughout the Minnesota area.

The highlight of the Downhill though (and it really has to be seen to be believed) was Anja Paerson's spectacular crash, featuring what Ed Leigh would call "pre-jump" and "big air" before travelling 60m and, as Ed Leigh wouldn't say on air, eating shit in spectacular fashion. It's incredible - a ridiculous, astonishing crash that will no doubt be hailed as the 'moment of the games' (by me, at least). I will try and find a video for tomorrow's pictorial featuring it, it will enrich your lives. As the commentator rather rudely pointed out "she probably flew further than Eddie 'the Eagle'!". A close second was this effort, scoring far lower on the impressiveness scale but picking up a hefty nincompoopery bonus. The best bit, is where the male commentator just laughs towards the end and the classic "oooohh" noise from the ex-pro.

Finally I was carried off by the Curling. Team GB enjoyed a rather successful day 'with the hammer' yesterday, with both the Men and Women's teams winning their matches. 19 year old Skip Eve Muirhead led the Ladies to a remarkable victory over world champs China, whereas things were looking a little rocky in places for David Murdoch's team as they overcame minnows France. The canny French were keen to place the corner guards and 'thousand yard stare' Murdoch called for a big play. "They don't want to get into a guard war and risk losing a big end." Explained 2002 hero Rhona Martin. Well who would? (If you want a more play-by-play description of last night's curling action, have a peek at my Twitter feed). There were a few cutaways to a rather cosy looking Martin and Cram in the commentary box. The legendary Skip was clad in some impressive BBC Sport winter merch, while Cram seemed to be getting a bit handsy (cabin fever?). Murdoch's brave clan eventually overcame the plucky Gauls and the coverage finished with some techno and screen advertising the Luge Doubles, a hilariously unnecessary event and officialy the least favourite sport of Nick Griffin and the Westboro Church.

In other news, I was alerted to this marvellous blog, a must for fans of Wittertainment.

Vancouver 2010 - Fun and Frolics... and Fatal Accidents (But We Don't Talk About Those) - Why I Love the Winter Olympics

Good afternoon, sports fans! (Don't worry, the blog won't all be in this tone). So, have we all been keeping up with the Winter Olympics? I know it takes a lot of flack and that the Britons have as much hope of topping the medal table as they do of recalling Eddie 'the Eagle' Edwards to the team, but I personally can't get enough of them. I have stayed up until 1 in the morning watching the Snowboard Cross and Curling and I'm not ashamed (well, maybe a little bit, but generally no more than usual). It is generally looked upon as the mildly-retarded, Yukon-dwelling cousin of the summer games, but it has bags of charm with its preposterous 'sports' and, best of all, the fantastic BBC commentary team.

As previously mentioned, my last two late nights/early mornings have consisted of the Mens' and Womens' Snowboard Cross competitions. Both were exceptional. For those who've never seen or heard of the sport (probably quite a lot of people), it's essentially a race on a downhill course. What's special about that? That's just like all the other winter race sports, right? Wrong. Snowboard Cross makes deliberate attempts to cause as many accidents as possible by inserting jumps, 'kickers' and 'four-packs' along the course. The procedure is a number of qualification runs take place- a time trial where individual riders attempt to make it through to the knockout stages, before a number of four-rider races occur until eventually we have a winner.

As I say, the course is very much the star. Commentator Ed Leigh (the Motson of Snowboarding, but with more jargon and impressions) explained that there 'had been tears backstage when some of the riders saw this Cypress Mountain course'. Now, in what other sport does that happen? I'm pretty sure that Nelson Piquet Jr. didn't break down into tears when he saw the Singapore track (well, not until Flavio Briatore told him to deliberately drive into a tire wall, anyway). It's a daunting, high-speed, freestyle-oriented course and plenty of the alpine riders seem to have come a-cropper with a number of favourites falling by the wayside. The Men's event was eventually won by veteran American Seth Wescott, who reeled in Canadian Mike Robertson with a remarkable turn of pace.

It was however the women's event that the expectant eyes of the sports media were fixed on. Lindsey Jacobellis was setting out to make amends for the most hilarious and idiotic blunder in Snowboard Cross History in the 2006 games. Britain had high hopes for 'medal-contender' Zoe Gillings (I don't suppose she was being touted as such in Canada or America...), who did a remarkable front-flip to recover after a dodgy air during one of the quali runs. Now, it was a foggy day yesterday and there were a hell of a lot of crashes, most of which are featured in this handy catch-up vid (sadly they miss out Leigh's masterful commentary on the very last crash in that film - "Did she go through the gate or did she go through the gate?"). Well it was non-stop drama, several bumrushings from the snow, a couple of headlong catapults into the safety fences and Jacobellis crashing out on the first corner of the semi-final. It was a fairytale finish however (expect a low-budget Canadian film about this one) as local-girl Maelle Ricker brought home gold for Canada.

Undoubtedly the highlights of Snowboard Cross are the massive wipeouts, but Leigh's commentary has to come a close second and he has already earned a cult following of people tweeting his best quotes as they happen. A happy evening was spent seeing comedians Lloyd Woolf and Mark Watson recommending people to watch the snowboarding and quoting the Ski Sunday co-presenter's (he's the one who isn't an ex-Olympic downhill skier) best bits. Take a look at Lloyd's Twitter feed for some terrific comic nuggets. My two particular favourites were "Again that four pack separating the ladies from the girls" (where have I heard that before) and "Pelvis-first into the back of that knuckle" which sounds like a rejected line from Carry On X-Games.

Also yesterday, some Curling happened. You know Curling, the one with all the Scottish people. It was Team GB vs. the dastardly Swedes in a game of what is essentially icy marbles with cleaning equipment. What's curious is that the Curlers are actually fairly athletic-looking. The British 'Skip' David Murdoch looks as though he could easily be doing a real sport and his Swedish counterpart, Niklas Edin, had biceps the size of a baby's head. They certainly don't need to be that large. Perhaps it's the sweeping that does it, the preposterous cartoon-style sweeping, I just don't know. It's a bit of a comedown from the Boarder X (as the cool kids call it), but it was a tense afair with canny Scot, Murdoch, just barely outsmarted by the hulking Edin. Excitement? I thought my trouser leg would never dry.

We are, of course, rubbish at the Winter Olympics. Speaking after veteran Swiss Didier Defago powered to a technically-perfect shock win in the Blue Riband event of the games, the Downhill Skiing, ending a 22-year Downhill gold drought, Briton Ed Drake said he was 'pretty pleased' with his 38th place. In other words, we've a ways to go before we produce any form of true skiing contender (though Chemmy Alcott is being touted for a top 10 finish in the women's event). Our best medal hope is Pewsey's own Shelley Rudman (just a short way down the A338 from the Or So I Thought... HQ) in the Skeleton Bob. The problem comes in the fact that the competition (of people throwing themselves downhill on tiny trays of carbon fibre) takes place on the same course that tragically claimed the life of Georgian Luger Nodar Kumaritashvilli in practice. They have since made the course slower and put up safety barriers, but the ghost of that incident is likely to feature in the minds of all the competitors not least for Rudman, whose young daughter will be trackside to watch, but the slider has stated that: "I would always think of my own safety and what happened was very difficult for everybody. But I felt more at ease when I saw the changes made and now I don't feel it is a dangerous track. Ella is my number one priority and I wouldn't do something that was absolutely high risk. If there's been an accident on the road, am I not going to drive my car any more? I'm here, I'm safe and I've just got to perform."

So we might not win anything, but it's the taking part that counts (in this case, it isn't loser talk) - the greatest thing of all about the Winter Olympics is the plucky underdog spirit. Very rarely do they win gold, or even make it onto the podium, but they have a dignity about them. Whether it's the Captain of the Indian team, a luger who's been to 4 Olympic Games, but had to rely on the charity of Vancouver residents to afford a lycra skin-suit or the legendary 1988 Jamaican Bobsleigh team, immortalised in the Disney film Cool Runnings, who punched so far above their weight and despite a horrific crash, walked across the line with the very dignity that I earlier spoke of. A lot of athletes could learn a thing or two about how to conduct themselves from the Winter Olympians (yup, that means you John Terry and just about every other England footballer out there).