In Remembrance Of The Now Inconsequential

 

4-3-3: Cup Final Saturday 2010

 

(11 May 2010 – David Cameron forms a coalition government;

15 May 2010 – Chelsea-1; Portsmouth-0)

 

 

On Cup Final

Saturday

men unite

 

to watch the game

and all that

goes before

 

it. That at least

is what I

remember

 

from days when my

grandfather

was alive

 

to administer colour television

and distribute conspiratorial beer

 

whilst speaking in

awe of the

singular:

 

A

Goalkeeper in

splendid

isolation.

 

All trace of romance and enjoyment has

now been betrayed. In the spirit of the

New Politics today I cut the grass

instead.

 

This poem of mine appeared on this blog back in 2012 but, admit it, you had forgotten about it. I certainly had but it came back to me as I meandered around a garden centre on Saturday afternoon. And the reason? Because I was meandereng during the Cup Final. In this age of wall-to-wall televised football, the Cup Final will never recapture the status it once had. Ah well. Our garden looks nice though.

The Games Come To Brum Just As Football Comes Home

I was up early on Friday in the company of ICW. We were making the small hop to Coventry for the opening session of the Commonwealth Games Rugby Sevens. I analysed the organisation at the venue with the expert (take that with a large dose of salt) eye of a 2012 Games Maker. There were teething problems at the venue (the excellent Coventry Stadium) and clearing security took too long, such that despite our early arrival at the venue we missed the first couple of matches. No matter, the volunteers started to find their collective voice and the general atmosphere of bonhomie went undisturbed. I can pay it no better compliment than to say that it put me in mind of London 2012.

The rugby was good. Sevens (never a discipline that suited a mud-plugger such as the Pig) requires deftness, vision, and buckets-full of speed. Unfortunately the English men seemed clumsy, tunnel-visioned, and slow as they got dismantled by Samoa. Oh well. 

ICW was on a Games marathon of his own on Friday. Having spent the morning with me, he was up and in spectating mode once again for the evening session at the swimming. He jovially reports that it was an excellent night, bar having to hear the all-conquering Australian anthem seven times. Oh well.

The Games were just up the road in Sutton Park for three days as the site of the various triathlons. The locals were out in force and rewarded by a lot of English gold medals. For today I am here at my desk but playing golf later with the Monday Night at PH lads. Tomorrow I have the first of five days at the athletics, accompanied on this first day by WJR. This will bring back memories of all the athletics we were privileged to see live as youngsters in the company of our grandfather, W. Harry Hayward, a Vice President of the Amateur Athletic Association. He would have loved all of this on his doorstep. Oh well. 

Football's Coming Home. That excellent sentiment has become rather stale since it was given musical life by Skinner and Baddiel back in 1996. Well yesterday it at last made some sense as the England Women won the European Championship at a packed Wembley. That Germany were the beaten finalists seems somehow fitting. And it is nice to see that we can stage a major final without it being hijacked by a rogue tribe of coked-up piss-head savages.

Cerrtainly all of this uplifting sport serves as a welcome distraction from the unlovely spectacle of the Conservative Party tearing itself apart to find a successor to the awful Johnson. I cannot slide a fag-paper between the two candidates in terms of their lack of loveliness. Thankfully I don't have a vote. Never have I felt quite so divorced from my political instincts. Apathy Rules UK? Oh well.    

My Friend Is Not A Racist

You may have been deafened by my silence on England's 'tragic' defeat in the final of the European Nations Cup - since this is a (should that be 'the') Blog of Record and in case you missed it, we (I do still mildly identify with the team) lost 2-3 on penalties to Italy. Enough said. Well almost. Bear with me on this one.

The three missed penalties unleashed a wearyingly predictable torrent of racist abuse of the penalty-takers on what has come to be known as social media. That has been roundly and correctly condemned - this vile cacophony is what happens if you give wankers a megaphone. I can hear some of you baying that those of us who live in glass houses shouldn't lug stones about but I'll carry on heedless. Let me unravel for you the tale of Marcus Rashford and my friend who is not a racist.

Let's go back to Rashford's unfortunate penalty miss and let's not beat about the bush - it was comically bad - a stutter-step to the ball and a tame shot that unerringly hit the post. But that is the thing about sport - six inches to the right and the ball would have rolled into the net. Arise Sir Marcus. So anyway, there is a meme doing the rounds which intercuts Rashford's arrested run to the ball with old footage of Max Wall doing his comedy walks. Well my friend (for whom the term 'good bloke' might have been invented) found it mildly amusing and showed it to a customer. This customer promptly and casually accused my friend of being a racist. That is offensive bollocks. It is, and I'm sorry to get all portentous here, the self-righteous and asinine product of the world bequeathed to us by the Macpherson Report - a report which, full of good liberal intentions, encouraged a cult of lazy denigration and vicarious identity politics.

It is not racist to criticise or to lampoon Rashford for his penalty. It is racist to suggest that this occurred because he is black. All that happened is that  a young millionaire who has done much commendable political work made a bit of a prat of himself in his day job. Laughing at it makes it bearable. He'll get over it. So should we and, most importantly, my friend is not a racist.   

Am I Superstitious?

I have to pose this question because it seems to me that the performance of our national football team is irretrievably linked to whether or not I trouble to watch the games. It did not start as a deliberate policy but for various reasons I have thus far been only an intermittent spectator of Euro20 (I do know it's 2021 but the branding seems to have remained unchanged). I generally find group games turgid and, in particular, I avoided the match against Scotland since I had long forecast a goalless draw or worse. Then came the Germans and on that occasion we were taking DN1 to the station - England actually scored twice while we were in transit - by this stage my superstition had kicked in and I wouldn't even listen on the radio. Instead the Groupie looked up the result on her phone.

Nor did I watch the Ukraine game, although I flicked the television over to check on progress just as Jordan Henderson headed the fourth goal. Here arises the dilemma - did my presence spark the goal or had my absence provoked its three predecessors? I have now to make my mind up. Do I watch tomorrow? A nation turns its weary eyes to me.

Butcher, Butcher, Sempre Butcher

Today's heading is a quotation, I think, from Enzo Bearzot, late manager of Italy. It was a favourite phrase of that doyen of English football writers, Brian Glanville, and summed up the English taste for a muscular centre half at the heart of its teams. Well, as we bask in the glory of last night's 2-0 vicory over Germany, we can update this to 'Maguire, Maguire, sempre Maguire'. Harry Maguire, most definitely an old-fashioned stopper, was man of the match. Ing-ur-land indeed.

Mind you I should have known that last night was coming. In the bar at Royal Pype Hayes on Monday we were chatting about the football, me from a position of benign ignorance and AP from a more knowledgeable stance. I mentioned that England had, in qualifying from their group, scored fewer goals than any other qualifier. The man at the next table overheard me and was quick to interject that neither had we yet conceded goal. He was clearly onto something. So sempre Maguire.

Same As It Ever Was

Sorry, I have gone through an inactive period blogwise. I have not been entirely lazy, rather I have been waging my ineffective war with my chapter on Antony and Cleopatra. Still mired in that task though an end (or more exactly an interval - there will have to be substantial revision) is in sight. Great play, as yet a patchy chapter only.

Enough of my problems. How have you been? Are you yet vaccinated against Covid? That seems to be the key to getting out of this bloody lockdown. Waiting for a Covid-free world will be stupid. Within reason, we have to live with it as we do with other ailments. I find the cozy stupidity of those who think we can all live at the cost of each other the most frighteneing aspect of current thinking.

Aren't the Tories a shower? The sheer blind stupidity of Matt Handjob takes some believing. And isn't Dominic Cummings quite simply the nastiest, most odious, disloyal little shit you have ever seen? These bastards drove me into a position I never want to be in - I found myself agreeing with that shit of all shits, Alastair Campbell. I got over it but please never again.

More tee shirts sold than records?

So why today's title? Well, I was going to go (yet again) with my favourite 'Pop Will Eat Itself', but I thought you might be bored with that. You know what I mean by now. That lucky phrase comes to mind again as Sky flood the sporting airwaves with advertisements for the Hundred - cricket designed for people who hate cricket and find Tweny20 too boring. The same weary sentiment is reinforced by the news that Premiership Rugby are increasing the size of the league and imposing a moratorium on relegation. Watch this space - the rich will get richer. And what about the complete charade of the group stages of football's Euros. Thirty-six matches to accomplish the minor task of eliminating only eight of the twenty-four teams. Stultifying. Greedy. Mind you I ask you to give me credit for having backed the nil-nil draw in the England v Scotland match. I'm sorry but it was as obvious as Scotland's failure to garner any other points. 

Still, no matter. I'm enjoying golf with the lads and it's QMT tour in three weeks time. Glorious stupidity. I had a particularly joyous outing at Forest of Arden last week with CC and BH. The greens were an eye-opener for those of us who are used to the speed-bumps on the greens at Royal Pype Hayes.

England v Germany tonight. I'm not sure I can stand to watch it. 

Of Greed And Hubris

If you want to hear a torrent of well-meaning guff, just tune-in to TalkSport and listen to deluded football fans trumpeting their 'victory' in seeing off the unlovely and hubristic European Super League. Be afraid, be very afraid - well, actually no, the time for being afraid for the soul of this sport passed years ago.

Here are the facts. Football is a game owned, at its top level, by stupendously rich men. They are not in it for the glory of the thing - that may have motivated them at some distant point in the past but they now find themselves with a cash cow that they fear may have been milked to death. Here's the thing: the business model for football is unsustainable unless it is constantly patched together by eye-watering injections of television money. The inconvenient thing about that model is the very jeopardy that makes sport compelling. So what do you do if that jeopardy (let us call it 'relegation' - ah you get the picture) bothers you? Easy, you invent a lucrative competition from which you can never be relegated, no matter how shit you might become. The hubris in this movemnet is in no part better exemplified than in the ESL membership of Tottenham Hotspur - by whose definition precisely is this one of Europe's great clubs?

Badges of shame

So all members of this self-ordained 'Big Six' of English football have now  recanted of their sins and this is a 'victory' for the fans. Watch this space. Football is governed by the atrociously venal FIFA and the not quite so efficiently venal UEFA. The latter will shortly expand their misnamed Champions League (your correspondent was two years old when Spurs were last champions) so that the fat cats (they will be described as 'legacy clubs' or some other such bollocks) are guaranteed a place in the competition, regardless of merit. The gambit of the ESL will thereby have worked. Sure there will be some casualties (some have no real legacy to boast) but the principle will have been established. The biggest clubs will be all set to shower players with endless cash and to bullshit their way out of any moral hazard. And please don't tell me about the health of the American franchise model. I am a great consumer of American sport but can you really tell me what is the point of being, say, a Detroit Lions fan.

And my own sport, rugby union football, cannot rest easy - the franchise model is what the top clubs want. Jeopardy is no part of their agenda.  

Mind you, what do I know? I'm a West Bromwich Albion fan. Why aren't we in the ESL? Immunity from relegation would suit us nicely.

What Was It Like Before Coronavirus?

Can anyone remember? The whole bloody world has ground to a halt, interrupted by explosions of activity as people indulge in panic-buying bog roll. Not a good look. As of a few minutes ago all the schools have been closed save for the offspring of 'key workers' - whatever that means and assuming such workers have not already self-isolated themselves and their children. Has it occurred to the powers that be to suspend the stock markets as well? After all the markets are run by and for children who sometimes need protection from themselves.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not angry about all this - if the medics say we're all going to die then I'll go along with it. For now.

What else can I report. Oh yes, last week at Cheltenham was fun albeit tempered by an end of holidays feeling that soon such frivolity would be banned. Sure enough it has been. When last we corresponded I was optimisticallly clutching my Lucky 31 voucher which was going to land me some £13500. As it turned out it paid a return of £6.71. About as good as my punting got all week.

Don Juan's Reckless Daughter - listening to it now. Now there's a reason to be cheerful. Good old Joni.

I've been out running the last couple of days after an indecent period of sloth. Yesterday was dreadful - two miles and nothing more rewarding than the sensation that I might be sick. Today was better - three miles and now I can barely walk. I must rediscover those balmy and energised days of 1996 when I ran the London Marathon and lost only narrowly in a sprint finish with a bloke in a rhino costume and another with one leg. Once were warriors indeed.

More good cheer: I have regained the reading bug (it deserts me on occasion) and am immersed in several good books. Gary Imlach's My Father and Other Working Class Football Heroes is that cherishable beast, the good sports book - a record of a game now long gone with the wind. Premier League millionaires might do well to read it. It tells of a time when the professional players were treated lamentably and we should not be nostalgic for those times but we might want to stop for a moment and see how far the immorality has has spun to the other side of the coin. For fiction I am re-reading Waugh's Sword of Honour trilogy. A delight. Poignant as well because I read the first couple of chapters to Dad the last time I saw him alive. I'm also dipping in and out of a tatty old paperback edition of World at War, the book that accompanied the fabulous television series.

The Groupie and I are off to collect a wine order. I hope she's ordered enough to last the length of the curent crisis. Now that really would be bad news. See you on the other side.  

Good Stuff, Bad Stuff, Loads Of Stuff In Fact

Four days have now passed since the miracle at Headingley which saw Ben Stokes, by a combination of megatalent and towering will, lift an otherwise hapless England cricket team across the line to victory. Watch again the last hour of that match and then try to tell me that Twenty20 is other than a tasteless frippery.

cricket, bloody hell

That was good stuff. Bad stuff was the demise of Bury FC. Worse has been the quality (more markedly the lack of it) of debate that Bury's expulsion from the Football League has inspired. Even the usually sane, albeit hyperbolic, Jim White on TalkSport had lost the plot in the immediate aftermath. The questions no one has been asking and which need to be posed are these: What is it that dictates that we absolutely must have ninety-two functioning fully professional football clubs in this country? What other country has, per capita, a similar number of such clubs? Why should the insolvency of a football club be administered by any standard other than that applying in all other industries (bar banking I suppose I ought cynically to add)? I do not deny that football has a particuar problem in being invaded by shyster investors but the crisis of football is all about greed at the top of the mountain and envious chancers looking to scale the immoral peaks.

Brexit, bloody sodding Brexit. Boris Johnson's proroguing (alright I know it's technically the Queen) of parliament has got the Remainer luvvies all of a tizzy. There is sham outrage and pious bollocks about this signalling some death of democracy. Oh good grief, grow up. Parliament will miss perhaps five days of potential debate on a topic it has already wasted three years of fannying about upon. I am no fan of Boris but the outrage arises because just for once a Prime Minister has outflanked the Remainers, a group who have become used to getting their own way in the face of nothing more daunting than Theresa May's crass, appeasing ineptitude. If you're on the same side of an argument as Jeremy Corbyn, Gina Miller, two dozen Anglican bishops and, worst of all, John Bercow, you might just be wrong.  

Football's Gone Away

It was all rather lovely whilst it lasted but now it's official - we're not going to win the World Cup. Statistically speaking it must be highly unlikely that we will reach another semi-final in my lifetime. Oh well, back to the day job - oh yes that's right I haven't got one - lazy Pig.

The positives: Southgate has the team playing a possession based game, or rather he did have until the second half of the Croatia match. All credit to the Croats who deployed a high pressing game and eventually condemned England to having Pickford lump long balls up the pitch. Harry Kane had a poor match - had he taken one of those chances when we were still 1-0 up you have to doubt that Croatia could have recovered. Another positive - so far as one can tell our hooligans never made it to Russia or if they did they decided (wisely) that Putin's police were best not provoked. Kieran Trippier and Harry Maguire also huge positives. Biggest of the lot, Gareth Southgate himself - a decent bloke not (yet) brought to his knees by the job. So now attention can turn quite properly to the best sporting event north of Cheltenham - the Open golf next week.

Big Fat Pig has lost a few pounds and is still managing to get some exercise notwithstanding the oppressive weather (my poor old lawn). Yesterday he did an hour on the Precious Bike including two unlikely ascents of Mont Worcester. He is girding his loins in readiness for attempts on the Col de Hillwood Common and, most daunting of all, Mont Hillwood. This morning he ran for over four miles. He's coming home, he's coming home, Fat Pig's coming home - try it, this actually fits the tune.

So what do you do in the immediate aftermath of the last semi-final you expect to live to see your country grace? Easy you slosh yourself a glass of sauvignon blanc (ripe and fruity) and watch an episode of the brilliantly bonkers Toast of London. And yes I can hear you Clem Fandango.
   

Football's Coming Home?

The question mark in the title is important, preserving as it does my self-diagnosed status as detached and sceptical commentator.

Thus far I have avoided the World Cup in these mental peregrinations and I must confess that I had not watched any match in its entirety until England met Colombia, preferring highlights and/or repeat showings. The denouement of that Colombia game was almost too painful to watch particularly once Henderson had missed his penalty. Yesterday's victory over Sweden was easier on the nerves although I don't quite buy into the total dominance narrative that seems to have found favour - no match that you win 2-0 and in which your keeper makes three fabulous saves can be a procession. So now I am all up for the semi-final - dare I watch it other than on my own, that having been the 'lucky' formula for the two knock-out matches thus far? To paraphrase Ray Prosser - it's only a game, well what the f*** do we have goals for?

My mate Donald Trump will be in this country later this week. I have seriously toyed with the idea of joining a peaceful demonstration against the wanton vulgarity of his presidency but I'm afraid the thought of breaking bread with the daft left has put me off.  Anyway it's too hot for demonstrating. On which front (weather front - geddit?) my precious lawn is burnt to straw but, always look on the bright side, the weeds have retreated completely and I can postpone the need to buy a new mower, perhaps getting one last season out of the old faithful - a man can attach the same emotion to his first petrol mower as to his first car.

The heat makes of me a sluggard - I can function well in the perishing cold but extreme heat gets the better of me. Nonetheless I have had to abandon my usually effective plan of waiting for cooling rain and instead set out for a run in the broiling weather yesterday morning. To the usual and absurd get-up of lycra and Oakleys I added a cap. Only shuffled a couple of miles but must admit I feel the better for it.

In addition to the football I have also enjoyed the Irish Open golf from the magnificent looking links at Ballyliffin. Seaside golf, either playing or spectating, can't be beaten. Oh to be in Northumberland hacking up the course at Goswick, the day ended by a walk on the sands at Bamburgh.

A Day To Be From Somewhere

Let us for once forget the loathsome fabulations of Trump, let us also forget the inanities foisted upon us in the name of Brexit 'debate'. Let us instead be English and wallow in a weekend of unaccustomed sporting triumph. South Africa have been beaten at Rugby Union, New Zealand at Rugby League, Panama at football, and Australia at cricket. I've already had a G&T to celebrate and now I've moved on to a South Australian Shiraz.

England, three cheers for the losers

Let us (as we say in thesis land) interrogate the merit of certain of these triumphs. Well, the defeat of South Africa was in a dead rubber but England did show some much needed gumption and we do seem to be witnessing the emergence of a class performer in Johnny May. In League, downing the Kiwis is not to be sniffed at but Australia remain the class of the pack. Nobody should dissolve into raptures over the 6-1 demolition of Panama at the World Cup but let us just pause and think how we would react to, say, Germany achieving such a result. We would exult at their professionalism. So for now let's bask in this unfamilair warm glow.

Which leaves only the cricket. Today's thriller was in the defensible (as opposed to the bastard child that is T20 - see too many previous posts) ODI format. It capped a 5-0 series win for England over a confused and under strength Aussie lineup. Shame. Poor little cheating sods. Bit strong? Maybe but, come on, they have earned opprobrium surely. And don't be fooled by the good losers/nice chaps mask they are wearing - they'll be back and ferocious in no time, so enjoy it while we can. Please also take note that as a curtain-raiser for the series against Australia, England conspired to lose to Scotland.

This Shiraz is jolly nice you know.

I played golf for the first time in more than ten months on Thursday. I was shit. It is golf tour this coming week. Bridgnorth is the venue under the tender stewardship of my little brother. One of the rewards for winning on tour is that you have to organise the next celebration. Heat wave predicted. Fun times. Back me to lose - with style. Hey ho, it's sunny.

Good news for you sports fans - now that the knock-out stages are on the horizon I promise to turn my mind to the World Cup. Bet you can't wait.

Sport, Bloody Hell

I've been musing on a weekend of rather pleasing sporting drama. On Friday night an inspired Llanelli eviscerated Bath on the rugby field. Simply beautiful. And rugby was not finished with us, still to come was a bloody-minded Harlequin victory over Wasps - Quins had nothing to play for whereas their opponents could keep alive their prospects of qualification for the European Cup quarter-finals. The explosion of delight from the Quins players when they scored the late and decisive try was a perfect illustration of the joy that is to be had from spoiling a rival's party. Cherishable even if it does leave us perilously close to there being no English team left in the competition. Hey ho, a bit of humility never goes amiss in English rugby.

Moving on to football, of the association ilk. The January transfer window is open so we are constantly reminded of the quite obscene bucketloads of cash that players and their agents take out of the game. But Sunday also saw lambent evidence of why this is the 'beautiful game' - Liverpool - 4, Manchester City 3. Beautiful, skilful, joyous.

And on again - the NFL play-offs, that mixture of ballet and brutality. Did you see the final and decisive play of the New Orleans/Minnesota match? Thrilling.

R.I.P

Finally a mention for an old hero who has died too young. Cyrille Regis was a muscuar Christian who graced the West Bromwich Albion shirt. In an age before footballers made millions, he lived round the corner from us and used to nod to me when he was out washing his car as I ran by on a Sunday morning. Football was played at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, end of.

Advent 10

A great pub debate is to name the best player you ever saw playing. ICW and I have played this game about the best players we saw playing for West Bromwich Albion. For him it is the late Laurie Cunnigham. I think that's a good call but there is one even better in my mind. Bryan Robson was athletic, ridiculously brave and, like Martin Johnson in a different sport, a leader by example. He might, in my view, have been England's greatest centre back had he been deployed there but instead he dominated the hub of midfield and scored a lot more than his fair share of goals. He may be best remembered for his Manchester United achievements but he remains my favourite Albion legend.

  

Advent 7

A picture tells a thousand tales. Here is the image that has come to haunt English football. Today's choice, Bobby Moore, holds aloft the unprepossessing Jules Rimet Trophy. Moore was an elegant and unhurried defender who was judged the player of that World Cup of 1966. Arguably he touched even greater heights as a player in Mexico four years later. Take a look at that photograph - not a splash of branding on show. We've never had it so good?

Lions 2017: 3

It's back on track. Not a try in sight but a potent Crusaders team successfully strangled. Still not much sign of Howley's chaos theory but we can wait. More of chaos theory below.

The Stuart Hogg Bloke Having A Mare Award sadly has to go to Hogg himself once again - not his fault this time but he had to be helped from the field after colliding with a stray elbow from his own scrum-half. As for those emerging with plaudits it is good to report quite a few. People are gratifyingly starting to get just how good a player George Kruis is. The front five all shone and behind them Murray and Farrell at half-back were effective. When Watson came on for the unfortunate Hogg, he too was impressive. The wagon rolls on to Dunedin with all its wheels intact. Just.

friendly fire

As for chaotic rugby, did you see the Argentina v England match on Saturday night - England (missing thirty players to a combination of the Lions and injury) won by the stupefying scoreline of 38-34, the final decisive try being scored by a Rugby League convert winning his first cap whose only prior contribution had been two missed tackles. He was one of ten debutants on the night, one of them an eighteen year old flanker. Bloody impressive. Bloody chaotic.

Adding to a somewhat surreal atmosphere of English competence, the country seems to have found a half decent cricket team (albeit coached by an Australian and led by an Irishman), and we have just won the Under 20 World Cup at football. Who needs a functioning government? Given that the opposition to our footballers came from Venezuela, the answer would appear to be no one.

That London; Hell Is Other People; Lives Of The Rich And Famous

An interesting and, on balance, most enjoyable Sunday. On the train to That London with Joey Barton sitting in our carriage, presumably en route to watch his boyhood team, Everton, who were at Arsenal. He behaved himself. So did I. Tempting to know what the odds on that double would have been. Should have asked him.

Rather bloody lovely

Once in That London we went for a longish walk on Hampstead Heath in the company of Daughters One and Two (I say that as if there might be more - there aren't). Now, I'm ashamed to admit it but notwithstanding my time at university in the Big Smoke, I'd never made it to Hampstead before. Rather bloody lovely - the sort of place where people can afford to be liberal. I pinched that line from an old friend from college days.

We rewarded our exertions with a late lunch at The Holly Bush: nice pub, good food, notably good service. recommended.

Hell is other people, most particularly on crowded trains going back to Liverpool full of football fans. At least they don't smash the trains up like they used to. Joey Barton was in our carriage again. What were the odds? Oh sorry already done that gag. Is Barton stalking me? Am I stalking him? He was not the only footballer on the train - two coaches of first-class had been commandeered for the Everton team and sundry hangers-on. They denied entry to autograph seekers but Barton duly signed for two youngsters. good on him.

A prejudice confirmed by yesterday's lunch: fish and chips should always be haddock rather than cod.

Tidy

Well who would have known it. It was as recently as 28 June that I was owning up to my Icelandic forebears and my lifelong support of the Icelandic football team. Of course what I omitted to say was that my full name is Dagbor Dafydd Overgraduatesonn, the middle name down to the strong Welsh lines in my heritage. Wales: 3 Belgium: 1. Enough said. Cymru am byth indeed. Next up the Portugese and, in particular, that preening twit Christiano Ronaldo. Is it vulgar of me to hope he gets kicked up in the air?

Mind you I have to confess that I didn't watch the game live. Instead we were binge watching the first series of Happy Valley. Very good.

Pretty good I thought was American Sniper when I watched it earlier this week. Bradley Cooper gives a monosyllabic and muscular performance as the decorated crack-shot Navy SEAL, Chris Kyle, fighting his personal battle with Iraq. Clint Eastwood directs. Some have damned the film as propoganda. That misses the point. It is about war and its after-effects on those who fight and those who stay at home. It is a tauter, less histrionic cousin to The Deerhunter. Not great but certainly not bad and Cooper is impressive. 6.5/10.

It's Only A Game

Dear Reader,

what a shameful (yes I think shame does just about come into it) performance by the glorious multi-millionaires carrying the proud name of English football last night. A memorable 1-2 defeat at the hands of the mighty Iceland, population about the same as Leicester.

Whoops

 So it is with some modest joy that I confess to my Icelandic heritage and will today use my actual name - Dagbor Overgraduatesonn. Watch us as we go forward to topple yet more giants of the game. Afram Island (look  it up).

We Icelanders don't really play rugby so my favourite team is England and, wouldn't you know it, they have just won a series in Australia 3-0. All hail Sir Eddie Jones. I've been reading the Welsh message boards which are cheerfully fatalistic about the tanning they took from the All Blacks, and even on those forums there is grudging praise for what England have done, interspersed, of course, with some complaints about Australia scoring more tries and the unreliability of the referees - even including some carping at the special one, Nigel Owens. Steady on chaps.

I've been down in that London for a long weekend and I'll shortly let you have some thoughts on that and the general madness of the post-apocalyptic world of the Brexit referendum. But first I've got to go and get that three lions tattoo removed.

Yours in sport,

Dagbor.

Holidays 16.5.1 - Familiarities

Rather than watch England play football (although I caught the last quarter so saw our brave millionaires surrender a lead and draw with Russia) Groupie and I watched a familair film last night. I may nave reviewed it on here before but I make no apology for again recommending The Dish. It is sweet and nice and completely without cynicism - sometimes that is the sort of gentle familarity one needs. 7/10.

A much less welcome familiarity comes with the pictures of English football fans rioting in Marseille. I really don't care that the Russians and the French seem also to be implicated. This is and always has been our disease - search out the pictures and you will see the ugly truth in the shaven heads, tattoos, pot bellies and blood stains. Scumbags - Hitler (whom some of them affect to admire) had a word for them: untermensch.

The English abroad