It’s not every day you bump into Alan Shearer on the frozen streets of Oerlikon, the slightly seedy suburb of Zurich we’re living in at the moment.
Shearer is followed a moment later by Boris Johnson.
Then Fabio Capello.
No, this isn’t the consequence of too much Gruyere before bedtime.
It really happened.
I think.
But to illustrate the scarcity of the experience, I have to admit it’s never happened to me. The story belongs to my wife, and to yesterday.
As a footnote to the anecdote, she added casually that she’d also come up against “that bald bloke”. Via a variant of Twenty Questions, I was able to establish that the bald bloke was Sir Bobby Charlton.
Instead of glowing with celeb-spotting pleasure, she preferred to stay crestfallen about not seeing Prime Minister David Cameron, Prince William, or, most regal of all, King David Beckham. All were present, but presumably too important to openly walk down Binzmuhlestrasse.
Of course, this was the FIFA party to reveal the identity of the countries who’d offered the biggest, most dollar-stuffed brown envelopes in the auction for the 2018 and 2022 World Cups. As posterity will know, the winners of the MAFIFA prizes were Russia and Qatar, those famous hotbeds of football tradition.
Well, to be fair to Russia, they do have a mild footballing heritage. Here’s a question to sift the men from the boys: remember Lev Yashin? The mysterious Russian goalkeeper always clad in black? And these were the days when goalies ALWAYS wore green shirts for league games, and yellow for internationals. Black shirts were seen only on referees and latter-day Mosleyites. So he was a pretty cool cat for a young kid in the sixties.
But the great Black Spider isn’t reason enough. And as for Qatar, I can feel my cheeks reddening just to think of the rationale behind that choice. It was a bit like Robinho arriving at Manchester City, when he appeared to have little idea which club he’d signed for. All he knew is that they’d paid the most.
Infamously, England’s bid for 2018 was defenestrated in the first round, with just 2 votes from the 22 (one of which was their own). The culmination of the bid, clearly modelled on the successful stage-management of the London 2012 Olympics presentation, now seems like an embarrassment. The final couple of days, so deeply carpeted in A-List celebrity, just adds to the sense of humiliation. Prior to the vote, some commentators took heart from Putin’s non-appearance, thinking this showed a lack of confidence from the Russians. No, it was probably the precise opposite, the deal having been secured long before the Beckham and Wills Circus rolled into town.
I’ll admit to mixed feelings.
Much has been made of England’s early exit, but this actually makes me feel better. I’d have felt more disheartened if we’d lost by a vote or two. At least we were spared the crippling tension. Better to lose the way we did to Germany in South Africa, thoroughly outplayed, than to go out in a cushion-chewing penalty shoot-out.
Also, it’s often been said (usually with a Scottish accent) that England won the World Cup in 1966 only because we had home advantage, and played all our games at Wembley. Had the unthinkable happened, with England winning in 2018, again in England, the sarcasm would have increased exponentially. If we are ever to win it again, it has to happen somewhere else. Surely Russia would be the sweetest of venues?
Another consolation is that this is another, and I hope fatal, kick in the nuts of the Football Association. I’m all for beautifully toasted tradition, heavily buttered with sentiment, and topped off with a spoonful of honeyed nostalgia, but really, England must have a footballing authority suited to the 21st century. Dragging them into the 20th would be a good start. Perhaps this latest failure will help to bring about the end of the shuffling, blazered attitudes of our FA. Mind you, how many kicks up the jacksie do these geriatrics need, and how many have they already had? Why should this one be the tipping point?
After work yesterday, I called in at the local ‘English pub’ for a quick pint. Or rather, for a quick demilitre. (Doesn’t sound quite the same, does it?)
The bar is right round the corner from the hall where the World Cup announcement was made. Surely the place would be rammed with growling British hacks and has-been footballers? I could see them now: bottle of lager waving in one hand; chest-poking finger in the other.
But nah. Almost empty. Just a bunch of IT contractors suffering Branston Pickle cold turkey which, to anyone skim-reading that sentence, is nowhere near as delicious as it might have sounded .
I ordered my Hoegaarden. I even added a bag of Walkers crisps, in the hope it might draw Gary Lineker from the shadows. The snack voodoo didn’t work, but something did cheer me. How’s this for a piece of poignant symbolism?
It wasn’t just that it was on a bar, next to an empty Boddington’s pint glass. And it wasn’t just that it was a spent packet of tissues. That combination would have been enough. What made me chuckle was the advertising on the packet, for a Swiss mortgage company. In big letters, this empty tissue packet, next to the empty glass, in the empty pub, around the corner from the empty FIFA venue, said simply: CASHGATE.
Beautiful.
Hugely cheered, this Englishman grins, drains his glass, zips his coat against the razor blast of a foreign winter, and wanders off home to watch the highlights of The Ashes.
Lads, it really isn’t so bad.
Just think. We could have been born Australian.
6 comments On Putin the boot in
Ah, two heavyweights of Scorn doing battle. Always a fearful but impressive sight. Reminded me of this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CYHuJayozus
Not sure Alistair ‘series average +200’ Cook’s ever been to SA but hey ho. Ancestrally speaking at least half your team are British so we’re about even on the origins front. Beer for Bollinger is inspired, leading a suffering nation away from the poncey pretence of light, bubbly sophistication and back towards the earthy comforts of a real man’s drink. A tonic for the troops?
Let’s hope your boys turn up in Perth and make a contest of it, otherwise we’ll have to turn to Strictly Come Dancing for some proper sport. As for the weather down there I agree it was jolly nice to see the currant bun shining over Adelaide on day five just long enough for the hosts to revive memories of those historic capitulations to the Windies.
By the way England’s sun-and-fun-loving text-happy nemesis Warnie has elected to visit London this week. I hear he fancies citizenship and might apply for a full pardon. Probably fed up with all that hot weather.
Aussie sporting stocks may be suffering a bit of a lull at the moment, and I concede that the inclusion of an unknown called “Beer” in the third test squad is a case of utter, utter desperation on the part of the selectors … and the offers to Shane Warne of a cool million or so to stick his hand up for selection again are the final lights-fading thrashings of an entity approaching death, BUT let me say this. After each and every sporting disaster, Australians adopt the time honoured ocker demeanour that has made this country great: we don an appropriate hat, grab a cold one from the fridge and head outside to enjoy the warmth of the sun and to fire up the barbecue. We get together with a few mates, share a few laughs over the latest tragedy as we realise it can never be worse than our total humiliation at the hands of Clive Lloyd, Viv Richards et al in the 70s, and revel in a climate that you can only dream about up there in your snow-encrusted, liver-freezing ice box you call “summer”.
It’s true we may now be crap at cricket, football, rugby, hockey and a myriad other sports we used to be pretty bloody good at. But we don’t care, because we live in Paradise. Ask your cricketers – they love it here too. For many of them, it reminds them of home in South Africa. Ooh, that was almost petulant of me, wasn’t it?
Hehe.
Well, I’m off to the beach.
Check out this David James article
http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/blog/2010/dec/05/world-cup-2018-england-russia
In Spain the bullish UK media campaign was commented on, propaganda and mud-slinging a plenty. I think it might have irritated more than a few…
Enjoying these blog entries Andy!
Aye, a rum do. Spot on re: the fish being sold long before the trawler reached the shore. Our delegation arrived seeking to saddle horses only to find the gate flapping mournfully against the unchained FIFA gatepost. Well, that’s enough mixed metaphors to make anyone queasy, especially after a turkey & pickle sandwich.
The Kaiser is talking about shifting the 2022 finals to January/ February to take advantage of more suitable conditions. Why stop there? Let’s have quarters, half-time cheer-leaders and gay clowns unleashed on the pitch (one each per quarter). Oh, hang on, best not use gay clowns – they’re a bit sensitive about that sort of thing in otherwise uber-friendly Qatar.
I feel less upset about the 2018 result. The FA displayed an air of appalling arrogance in assuming that if you assemble enough glitterati you’ll walk away with the gold. Their misreading of FIFA’s mood following England’s poor behaviour during previous bids (the FA are alleged to have reneged on a deal with Germany over the bid for 2006)and recent revelations of corruption (albethey little more than recycled old hat) belies an incompetance that screams for change. Word is Arsenal’s David Dein may step up. He’s well thought of internationally but rather than woo FIFA perhaps the FA ought to look out for the game in England for a while. Address the subject of winter breaks, eschew meaningless (vote-begging?) friendlies for the national side, stop trying to propogate politically-correct soccer schools across Africa and focus on building a state-of-the-art technical academy here in the homeland.
In other words, fuck FIFA and the gold-laden saddlebagged horse they rode in on.
Now the Ashes … oh dear Lord, that’s another story. I doubt I’ll get much kip this weekend.
I confess I was one of those calling for Cook to be dropped two short months ago. He couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo, contriving to find ways of getting out barely heard of in the hallowed halls of Wisden. Now here he is grinding Australia into the sun-parched dust. His series average if he goes first ball tomorrow will be 219 compared with his Ashes average before last week’s first test of 26.
Strauss needs to relax, spend some time at the other end watching Cook and keep smiling serenely at an increasing ragged, irascible Ricky ‘Gollum’ Ponting. The bad news for Australia is that the one player in better form than Strauss, Cook or Trott has only had one knock: Ian Bell. Could be a long third day in the field for the hosts.
A word of caution. Lovely as these big totals are, and as much joy as I get from seeing Ponting chew on his own regurgitated stomach lining, England have won nothing yet. Thier obvious advantage must now be driven home. In the spirit of the game of course, but as the Aussies would have it were the boot on the other foot: without a shred of mercy.
Pingback: Tweets that mention Putin the boot in | RunningCommentary -- Topsy.com ()