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June
Heavy, oppressive humidity welcomed me onto the downs, my progress all the slower for the millstone of residual guilt hanging around my neck. Yesterday’s blow-out was my first this year – at least, the first time I’d laid out my running kit the night before only to walk past it the following morning without so much as a glance.
Now, toiling under charged thunderheads through fields of nervous grass, I sought to rid myself of sin, as if the sweat rolling off my reddening face would carry the badness out of me, unshackling my joyful will to run. I was rewarded with some cracking tunes, the mercurial Mr Cooper reaching to all corners of his musical larder; Radar Love, the full album version of Pink Floyd’s Another Brick In The Wall, a pinch of Tom Petty, a dash of ZZ Top.
Track du Jour was a shoo-in though; those wicked Stones boys with Sympathy For The Devil. I’ve always loved this song; it swims with murky malevolence, wreaking of voodoo, dancing into your head to play in the dark pools of your soul. The Evil One looks back over past deeds, asking for . . . not forgiveness, understanding. It sounded all too familiar this morning. As Jagger wove the tale so my mind conjured a morphing graphic; Satan, in the guise of the magnificent Tim Curry in Ridley Scott’s Legend, morphed into George W Bush, mean, beady-eyed stare slipping seamlessly into the grinning, sickly righteousness of the Blair Witch. The final change saw Blair’s features melt, dripping into the doleful, Eeyore-esque countenance of Britain’s current bungler-in-chief, Gordon ‘Butterfingers’ Brown.
I got to thinking about the dichotomy of views where the Stones and their Liverpudlian rivals are concerned. I don’t see the need for any mutual exclusivity; I’m comfortable with both shades of rock and roll, earthy voodoo sharing the paddock with Lennon and McCartney’s carefully crafted guile and intricate, polished melodies. As I flung myself off Blackcap, hurtling up the long pull of Mount Harry, the thought came full circle, Bono’s heinously criminal soundbite of a few years ago clanging horribly in my head. The glibly-shaded Celtic world-saver dubbed Gordon Brown and Tony Blair the ‘Lennon and McCartney of global development’. The man who urged us to give Peace a chance is no doubt still doing about 5000 rpm in his heaven-slung hammock. Blair, and to a marginally lesser extent Brown, are blood-lusting vampires compared with that gentle soul; murder and mayhem in name of world security? Alistair Crowley and Charles Manson more like.
No traps for the troubadours of Esapana last night. Electric Torres, unlucky Villa (he'll miss the final), the pasty Iniesta finally showing what all the fuss has been about, the redoubtable Senna, out-Viera-ing Patrick Viera with a none-shall-pass display, they all stepped up last night, whirling and dancing through the Russian ranks, cutting and thrusting, letting blood without mercy. The much-celebrated Arshavin looked a pale (if red-cheeked) imitation of the real thing, that contrast magnified by Fabregas, the magnificent Matador. Never mind all the Premiership-centric twaddle espoused on TV and radio during this tournament. I don’t care where Fabregas plies his weekly trade he was simply masterful last night, swirling his creative cape, providing penetration, guile, vision and drive. Aragones would be a fool to discount him for the final; the real star of these championships has finally been given the chance to stand up.
He crept at dusk to rancher's fields where fighting bulls are bred,
To practice skills with which his strong desire could be fed;
His sinews toned and prowess honed in those clandestine nights,
He toiled toward the cherished right to wear the "suit of lights".
[SIZE="1"]Robert G. Shubinski – The Matador[/SIZE]
The spikey-quaffed maestro put Russia to the sword; Death by a Thousand Passes. It was as beautiful to watch as it was ruthless and, at times in the second half, cruel. The will to win visibly drained from Hiddinks men, the incessant rain washing away their competitive spirit as the Spaniards twirled and skipped through their dishevelled ranks. It proved a game too far for the brave Cloggie-killers. They simply came up against a Spanish side who, at long last, believe that this is their destiny. The explosive celebration on the Spanish bench as the wonderfully-named Guiza (Geezer!) struck the inevitable Death Blow was remarkable, a great rush of National relief at the realisation that the habitual major tournament stumblers have finally thrown off the burden of expectation and slain their Dragon.
Like many Englishmen watching I muttered into my beer as the pundits pronounced Spains’ ascension to a major final as their 'first since 1984’. Hah! Call that a long wait? We've lost count.
I truly hope Spain fulfil their destiny on Sunday. To do so sensational Ces must surely get the nod.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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