Saturday's Portugal v Turkey game set up the fireworks - I carry my grudge from Istanbul still so was delighted to see the Turks fall to the enterprising Portugesers - but tonight's game lit the touch-paper. You can argue the Dutch got lucky with their first goal but I'd say they got nothing for Horse van Nistelrooy staying on his feet minutes earlier. He was probably entitled to go down for what would have been a nailed-on penalty but uncharacteristicly stayed upright.
The breakaway goals were breath-taking; Italy looked stunned at the end, unsure of what had happened to them. The appalling negativity of France v Romania hints at more attrition in the Group of Death; we can expect a good deal more rolling around and shaking of foppish hair before big lass starts warbling. My hunch would be Italy to sneak second place with France and Romania missing out. Can the Cloggies keep their team spirit, or will they implode as they so often do? Van Basten seems to have them focused on the matches (well you have to light your Schpliffs somehow) - if he can keep that going the future may well be Orange. I only wish I'd nailed my colours to the mast publicly before tonight. With ten days working in Amsterdam starting on Thursday I may well be going Dutch very soon.
Hup Holland!
Meanwhile, a televisual pattern is emerging. BBC kick things off with a dull afternoon snoozefest, ITV follow on with blood-and-thunder excitement in the evening. These things have a way of sorting themselves out but with Steve 'Where's My Cravat' Ryder barely repressing a chuckle as he slipped in a gem - 'we struggled to find them but here are the highlights (from France v Romania)' - the Channel 3 boys are clearly enjoying the best of it so far.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The Greeks are on the whole an affable bunch, infinitely more loveable than their Turkish counterparts. I say this without a trace of irony or bias, basing my conclusions on cold hard fact. But lets not dwell on my prejudices; lets talk about football. Or rather, lets talk about tonight, when a group of affable, loveable Greeks got together to collectively trash their proud heritage, their reputation for unparalleled valour on the field of battle in ugly, tear-stained tatters.
Jose Mourinho once said that Spurs 'parked a bus in front of the goal' playing against Chelsea. Tonight the Greeks went one better, diverting a few of the Spanish blockage lorries to jam the thoroughfare of Swedish footballing endeavour. The commentator on Five Live warmed to this theme, saying the Greeks had deployed two double decker buses right across the pitch. The only thing that tempered my enjoyment of the analogy was the horrible sound of that duplicitous weasel Second Choice Steve chortling in the background. One could almost hear his ludicrous quiff bobbing up and down as he shook with relief at not being exposed to the thousands of irate England fans stuck at home when they should have been out in Austria or Switzerland. To add sharp insult to burning injury my license fee has in some part found its way into his pocket, no doubt nestled alongside a weather forecast and a partly-sucked boiled sweet.
During one of the timeless lulls in the action McLaren was asked about Chelskis pursuit of Big Phil Scolari.
Reckon you might nip in ahead of him again this time? quipped the sycophantic Man from the Beeb. Mr Umbrella chuckled again and I'm sure I could actually hear the blood rushing into his hamsterish cheeks as he blushed like a teenage boy caught with a waterproof playboy and a bottle of Jurgens lotion. Yeah, right; as if. Abramovich might be a wealthy fool but hes not a complete idiot.
As I drove home after a long tiring day I listened to this pair continue to whine at the Greek intransigence and the inability of the Swedes, hampered by age and fragility, to break the deadlock. Its weird (not to say nauseating) listening to Second Choice waffle on about a lack of pace and creativity. Well, I suppose he did shadow Lord Ferg in 99, so he has seen decent football at some point.
Needless to say in the five minutes it took me to park up, shed my suit, wrestle the remote from my horrified daughter and find ITV Sweden had bagged a brace and the unadventurous Greeks were now the sorrowfully dejected unadventurous Greeks. They deserved nothing less in fact they deserved nothing at all. They should, to a swarthy, bearded man-jack of them, be beaten like red-headed stepchildren and put on the first bus heading south. This none shall pass nonsense is nothing short of robbery. The Greeks are thieves; they stole from the paying public and the watching millions. Happily they were caught with their ambition tucked into the back of their shorts and sent packing by the Yellow Peril. England dont deserve to be in this tournament because they werent good enough to qualify; QED, ipso facto. And Greece are? Give me a break.
Czech Republic v Portugal tomorrow; expect more.
Elsewhere the BBC TV crew were having a happier day, sticking rusty pins into their grinning Steve Ryder dolls after his saucy swipe at the feast of futility that was their coverage of the France v Romania wake. Having bought the thin end of the wedge several days running, their matches proving a good deal less enagaging than those on The Other Side, Team Auntie were positively cock-a-hoop to have hosted Spains' demolition of woeful Russia. Jonathan Pearce rose, in the case of his voice literally, to the occasion, sounding like a demented Dalek (sans gargle) as he shreiked along with David Villa's beautifully crafted opener.
I find it hard to warm to Pearce. Many regular match-goers - I am by admission an armchair follower, one or two visits to the Dripping Pan notwithstanding - reckon him to be the real deal. Something to do with his unashamed love for an unfashionable Bristol club and so-called humble background. For me he lacks guile or the wit to stay quiet when no words are needed, as some of the finest exponents of his art, men like Brian Moore and Brian Butler, instinctively knew. There's something of the Walker about Pearce, a foaming, raging maelstrom of verbostity waiting to burst its banks at the first sign of anything. Still, you can't say the man's not enthusiastic.
I am warming to Fernando Torres though. He's one to watch, you mark my words. I'll be on to Lord F in the morning to see if he can't tap him u . . er . . . investigate his availability through entirely fair and equitable channels. Who does he play for again?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I think everyone's being a little hard on the Greeks. It's not like they won last time with sparkling, flowing football. They were the unsophisticated underdogs, and they showed, as the saying goes, that the quality teams don't like it up 'em. Now, thanks to the Euro 2004 trophy and a solid performance in a fairly easy qualifying group, expectations are high, and everyone seems to have forgotten that they are a relatively weak team who can grind out results by hard work and nicking set pieces. (Neither of which were much in evidence last night.)
That's not to say that their tedious gameplan was fun to watch. I was reminded of Liverpool in the early 80s, before the backpass rule, who used to do just the same until their opponents abandoned their shape and gave them a way in. Of course the media loved it then, and called it "possession football".
Re the commentary - the simple rule is to mute the TV and put 5 Live on the stereo. Similarly, all arty-arsey titles, preamble, anal-ysis and reaction may be muted, to allow the viewer to form his/her own opinions instead. Shouts of "die, scum!" as the mute button is pressed are optional.
marathondan Wrote:Re the commentary - the simple rule is to mute the TV and put 5 Live on the stereo.
Normally I'd agree whole-heartedly with you MD. I think the Beeb have a Red Button option that allows you to bring on the 5Live commentary. Sadly my usual radio station of choice for these games has employed the aforementioned wastrel of inept management, rather-better-at-rain-dodging fame
Comparing Greece to Liverpool in '80s is pretty funny, especially given some of the fashion/ facial hair stereotypes linking the two. I can't and won't forgive the Greeks (or the Romanians for that matter. I mean, what have the Romanians ever done for us? Not a road or an aquaduct in sight); with Ingerluund out of the way I want entertainment, not second-rate lower-division dross.
As for punditry I'm with you there. Much better to tune in to the original 606 maestro, back by unpopular demand - master of the surreal, opinions delivered with indiscriminate machine-gun speed; stand up for Danny Baker.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Much better to tune in to the original 606 maestro, back by unpopular demand - master of the surreal, opinions delivered with indiscriminate machine-gun speed; stand up for Danny Baker.
I agree - a true class act, curly-mopped head and shoulders above most of the pack. I heard a rumour that he was back on the breakfast show, but a quick check of the schedules shows that's just wishful thinking on my part.
Re GRE-SWE, let's take the positives... one cracking finish, one goalmouth scramble unlikely to be bettered for comedy value, and a fair result.
marathondan Wrote:Re GRE-SWE, let's take the positives... one cracking finish, one goalmouth scramble unlikely to be bettered for comedy value, and a fair result.
Done!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Not sure if anyone's noticed but so far (half time Swiss v Turks) every match has had 1 minute added at half-time and 3 minutes added at the end. Another edict from the would-be UEFA puppeteer Mr Platini?
Great piece in today's Lahn Eehen Staanard by none other than David Mellor - remember him? He took time off from Rowdy-bashing to rail against Platini's views on English clubs 'cheating' by playing whilst neck-deep in debt. The erstwhile Chelski-kitted bedroom dribbler reminded Michel that when he (Platini, not Mellor) turned out for Milan (irony anyone? Frenchman playing in Italy, too many foreign players . . . oh, please yourselves) he played in a stadium that was, along with most other top flight Italian grounds, built with public money. Do we hear Monsieur Egalité warbling on about the unfairness of plundering the public purse? No, nor do we hear about how Real Madrid have lived off the support of the Spanish banks for decades. If they do stump up a squillion Euros for You Know Who you can bet the money won't have come out of club funds.
Hmm . . . judging by the apocalyptic deluge in Basle tonight the Wally with the Brolly may yet find gainful employment at this tournament.
Regulars will well know my paranoia when it comes to Radio 5 and Alan Green in particular. No surprise then for me at least to hear Greenie gleefully tagging Ronaldo a flop for his 'lack-lustre' display today against the Czech Republic. Chris Waddle seemed happy to play parrot to Big Al's pirate until that man broke free to create Portugal's third and wrap up the points. Waddle couldn't resist a shot of irony.
'You're right Al; he's scored one, made the third but apart from that he's had a poor game.'
Less amusing were the reports of blatant Portuguese diving, a loathesome epidemic and, quite simply, cheating. UEFA announced 'tough measures' to tackle 'simulation' at this tournament; sounds like today's ref missed the briefing.
Last mention of the Show Pony for a while. It seems that Big Phil Scolari, the boy's national coach, suggested a couple of weeks ago that Ronaldo 'should go to Madrid'. This would be the same Big Phil that Even Bigger Roman is in all likelyhood about to employ as coach of Chelski.
No conflict of interest there then
. . . and finally . . .
watching under pressure Turkish manager Fatih Terim bellow instructions at his players tonight I was minded of another international manager known for openly expressing his opinions on the touchline. Looking closer I wonder if they might have been separated at birth? I think we should be told, Tel.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Not sure if anyone's noticed but so far (half time Swiss v Turks) every match has had 1 minute added at half-time and 3 minutes added at the end. Another edict from the would-be UEFA puppeteer Mr Platini?
M. Platini presumably read your post during half-time and issued a quick counter-instruction for the second half. (If he wasn't too busy basking in the BBC's round-up of all-time Euro finals hat-tricks.)
On the other hand, maybe said edict doesn't apply to water polo? What a game.
Typical. Ah well, like the proper pundits when they make a rickets I'll tread boldly forward without shame never to mention it again . . . it was fun to watch though eh? Even if the dastardly Turks twisted the knife right at the last knockings to send the host nation into . . . well, mild disappointment laced with nonchelant indifference probably :o
I'm off this evening to the Land of the Clog. I intend to purchase some form of tacky 'Hup Holland' shirt at Schipol to ingraciate myself with my hosts and to enable access to the most crowded and riotous bars. In some ways I hope Horse van Nistelrooy gets to miss a penalty (though obviously not a vital one) just so I can share an old cheap gag with my fellow Orangemen. 'Hey Rude! Why the long face?'
Seen in a recent edition of the EuroFiver:
'I wonder if Christano Ronaldo has one more vital penalty miss left in him?'
Harsh but fair
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sorry to be so dull as to report on the reporting, but I must comment on this piece of crap sensationalism by the BBC:
"Co-hosts Austria were given a Euro 2008 lifeline when Ivica Vastic scored a stoppage-time penalty against Poland.
English referee Howard Webb ruled that Mariusz Lewandowski hauled down Sebastian Proedl and substitute Vastic slammed the penalty past Artur Boruc."
- BBC website
He didn't rule that "ruled that Mariusz Lewandowski hauled down Sebastian Proedl", he ruled that he grabbed his shirt, which is against the rules. Since when did the BBC have to resort to Sun-esque reporting to misinform their readers?
Great pen though.
Also interesting that Graham Pole on 5 Live congratulated Webb (at half time) on a good first half, despite the obvious glitch of giving an offside goal.
Anyway, good to see that the previous comment "one goalmouth scramble unlikely to be bettered for comedy value" is under threat, both from the Swiss' "assist for M. Puddle" and Croatia's deflected snooker cross around Lehman.
The Croatia result has gone down rather well in Holland
I had occasion to prop up a bar last evening with a number of gentlemen from Croatia. One of them wore the weird chef-style chequered shirt and they were liberally imbibed by the time I strolled in. The best thing was they didn't know about Mr Webb's excellent decision (as fully supported by UEFA I see) and so thought Poland had won, leaving the Croats needing a draw to ensure qualification.
When I told them about the last minute equaliser, how it came about and the nationality of the referee involved they became rather animated, insisting that I receive the heartfelt thanks of a grateful nation by way of a tankerload of Guinness. Naturally I declined - the tankerload, anyway - settling for a single pint and a combined toast to Der Nederlands spanking the French tonight.
Apropos of nothing football-related I must share the following.
I've been waiting all day for a wide load - that's Convoi Exceptional, not SP after a night out . I'm building a Reachstacker (a 70-ton forklift that stacks containers in port) outside the Amsterdam RAI for a show next week. The vehicle arrives like a monstrous airfix kit - body/ chassis, boom arm and spreader. You need a 120 ton crane (and a Liebherr mechanic) to lift and assemble the pieces. The trucks were stuck outside the city for several hours this morning waiting for their official escorts to guide them through the narrow streets.
The crane driver, an affable fellow who spent much of the morning leaning against his huge crane tires, enquired as to the reason for the delay. When I told him about the problem he smiled ruefully, focused on rolling a smoke.
'You'd think they could find an escort in Amsterdam, eh?'
I love the Dutch.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I promised myself I wouldn't post whilst under the influence - but man, this was some crazy night in the garden of good and evil weed. The City of the Dam'd's usual kalaidescope of colours fused into a blinding flourescent orange tonight as the Dutch came out in force to back their boys. It's nights like these that not only remind Englishmen of what they're missing but make you realise that the Netherlands, with all their disparate, paradoxical juggling of colours, creeds and lifestyles, is a place fuelled by bon homie, good pharmaceuticals and lustrous passion.
The first half of Holland v France, a tense affair helped by a stunning header from Dirk Kuyt and one in which Les Bleus rallied to rain attack waves on the inspired Vvan der Sar's goal, found me parked in a hostilry a few hundred metres from the Amsterdam RAI. As gametime approached Thomas, the Austrian Liebherr engineer with whom I'd worried and worked all day, and I were joined on our pavement perch by a gaggle of semi-stoned, liberally attired women of various indeterminate age. We were quizzed on our origins and subsequently welcomed as honorary Oranges.
When the first Dutch goal went screaming into Coupet's net I noticed a new (to me) pheonomenon. When it's your team that scores, when it really matters, there's a minute moment lost in time from when you see the goal scored to when you react, an interlude when disbelief momentarily supresses celebration. It's best summed up as a sharp intake of breath, time standing still. It certainly happened this evening. Unbound by national allegience, immune to the organic pessimism which strikes the committed fan, I saw the goal even as the Liverpool striker streched his neck to hammer the ball into the onion bag, rising from my seat and bellowing at the screen. As I did so I realised for a split second that I was alone; the raucous pub crowd had frozen, not daring to believe the evidence of their own eyes. The spell broke a heartbeat later, the unEarthly cacophony of screams, howls, hooters and cheers filling the air.
I had to bail at halftime. I'd arranged to meet my crew, arrived hot-wing from Birmingham this evening, to outline a few things for the morning. I grabbed a cab to my hotel, dumped my files and set off across the Red Light District towards Centraal Station and the Blarney Stone public house. Strolling through deserted cobbled canal-side streets I marvelled at the eerie scene; this could be a set from Day of the Triffids - there were even a few unusual plants to be seen. Barely a soul stirred. Most of the infamous windows, picked out by their red lamps, were vacant. Not daft these ladies; besides, most of them were probably crammed into the bars with the rest of the populace. If you can't fleece 'em . . .
As the second half goals rained in to drown spirited French resistance huge cheers rang out, muffled explosions of joy echoing through the city. An hour later I hurried home through streets packed with cavorting Cloggies draped in orange, the colour steeped in history now hijacked as a modern metaphor for multiculturalism, the city in delerium, a few unsteady steps from full-blown madness. Hooting revellers swarmed the crowded towpaths, many more cycle-mounted, barely a lantern in sight, weaving through the madding crowd. It's a crazy melting pot, Amsterdam; recreational drugs, alcohol, prostitution redressed as tourism - full-on head-on-ism. Filled with Gothic splendour, cramped cobbled streets brimming with wonderful art, modern and historic. Rattling trams and endless streams of sit-up-and-beg bicycles compete in the rush through urban arteries day and night, bringing the place to vibrant, impossible life, a helter-skelter heartbeat that just won't quit. The bike park at Centraal Station numbers bespoked residents in the tens of thousands. How could you possibly remember which one, never mind where, was yours?
Goodness knows how much we'll all get done on Saturday. Any locals expected to perform any kind of co ordinated task may wilt horribly but then I'd have to say fair play to them; we're only jealous. Hup Holland!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Brilliant Cloggy Madness - I tipped Holland for the cup from the start, mainly because of being a lifelong fan of Ruud - how about a Portugal/Hollad final :-)
I though it was all about kicking a ball about and falling over a lot...
The Netherlands have won Group C and will play the Group D runners-up in the quarter-finals.
Romania will qualify for the quarter-finals if they beat the Netherlands, eliminating France and Italy.
If Romania fail to beat the Netherlands, the winner of France v Italy will go through.
If France and Italy draw, a point against the Netherlands would be enough to send Romania through. France must win to have any chance of qualifying.
If France and Italy share a score draw (1-1, 2-2, 3-3 etc), Italy will go through if Romania lose (by any score). In this scenario, Italy, Romania and France will be level on two points each but Italy would have scored more goals in games between the 3 teams.
Romania will finish bottom of the group if they lose and France and Italy draw 2-2, 3-3 or 4-4. France will finish bottom if they draw 1-1 unless Romania lose 3-0 or by a four-goal margin.
If France and Italy draw 0-0, Romania can lose by one goal, two goals or by a three-goal margin other than 3-0 but still qualify. In this scenario, Italy and Romania would have identical head-to-head records, but Romania would have better goal difference in ALL group matches or, in the case of the three-goal defeats, goals scored. France would finish bottom, having scored fewer goals head-to-head v Italy and Romania.
If Romania lose 3-0 to the Dutch, Italy would qualify with a 0-0 draw against France because of their superior coefficient points. France would finish bottom as they would have scored fewer goals head-to-head v Italy and Romania.
If Romania lose by four goals or more and the other game ends 0-0, Italy would proceed with a better overall goal difference than Romania. France would finish bottom as they would have scored fewer goals head-to-head v Italy and Romania.
If France and Italy draw AND Romania avoid defeat, then Romania go through.
stillwaddler Wrote:Brilliant Cloggy Madness - I tipped Holland for the cup from the start, mainly because of being a lifelong fan of Ruud - how about a Portugal/Hollad final :-)
I think The Cloggies have peaked too soon SW. Croatia are one of a number of sides looking good though.
Sharp observation, Lardy One.
On the basis that fast starters rarely finish first in football tournaments I have to concur. Equally, as Germany show time and again, teams that limp into the knock-out stages seem to develop a resilience that's hard to shake. It was inevitable that France, aged and dogged by misfortune, would miss out. Last night was like a mercy killing; tough to watch, leaving you thankful it was finally all over.
I have a sneaky feeling both Holland and Portugal will come a cropper with the aforementioned serial winners vying with Italy for least popular yet horribly familiar name-on-the-trophy merchants. Italy have built a never-say-die spirit, though Luca Toni needs to make sure he has his boots on the correct feet in his next match.
Croatia have a wonderful piratical attitude personified by a crafty, artful leader. Like his racket-wielding countryman Goran Ivanisovic he rides a tsunami of fanatical support in a nation craving international recognition and success. Swarthy, twinkle-eyed, sporting a bold earring and looking like he'd slit your throat as soon as concede a point Slaven Bilic appears to be charging towards the final like a man possessed. I like the balance of Croatia; no superstars, just a well-drilled machine playing with one mind and one heart. I hope they succeed but my head tells me it'll be Italy or Germany sneaking off with the spoils this time.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
And so it seems it shall come to pass that the early leaders will fall and fall hard.
Croatia failed to live up to their billing, losing to the never-say-die Turks who one has to concede made and then rode their own good fortune. It wasn't pretty but then quarter finals rarely are. Bilic looked like a man disposessed, harranging the fourth official to explain the arrival of the fateful second minute of added, added time. My heart went out to him; he looked distraught, conscious even at that moment that his team would be unable to overcome the crushing blow dealt by the late Turkish strike.
The true winners last night were of course Germany. Had Croatia triumphed its unlikely they would have turned in as insipid a performance again. Trust me Joachim Low is on a high to see a Turkish team depleted by suspensions and injury limping towards his fit, vibrant side. Ballack is on fire, living up to his pre-Chelski hype and running the show, perhaps reaping the benefits of an injury-dogged club season. Who made that famous quip about football that ends 'and then the Germans win on penalties'?
Tonight sees the unexpected Dutch masters take on fellow countryman Guus Hiddink and his team of steady Russian workhorses. Another win for the pragmatists or is there still room for romance in this tournament? I hope so. Last night I left Amsterdam bathed in a neon glow of optimism and belief, football frenzy coursing through the city as the Dutch planned to party like it's 1974. The dream final for the Cloggies would be the Old Enemy, a chance for revenge; of course we all know the most likely outcome of such an encounter, yet where there's life there's hope. There's danger in looking beyond the immediate challenge and Hiddink will feel no lasting sting should he burst the orange bubble. Should that happen I fear the fun will have been beaten out of Euro 2008, but then this is the serious bit and we should expect no less.
Just a thought; the sides who qualified from their groups with a game to spare- Holland, Portugal, Croatia - rested key players for their third match. Two of those fell, seemingly unable to pick up their early momentum. I hope that doesn't happen tonight.
Last word to Rick Wakeman and his terrible joke series on Planet Rock. I know a bloke who met a Dutch bird with inflatable shoes.
He rang her up for a date but unfortunately she'd popped her cloggs.
Hup Holland, Hup.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Last word to Rick Wakeman and his terrible joke series on Planet Rock. I know a bloke who met a Dutch bird with inflatable shoes.
He rang her up for a date but unfortunately she'd popped her cloggs.
I'm sorry mate, you're going to have to explain that one to me.
Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:I'm sorry mate, you're going to have to explain that one to me.
It's really not worth it . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . but I'll give it a go.
Dutch people wear wooden shoes known as cloggs.
To 'pop one's cloggs' is a slang term for death - like kicking the bucket, shuffling off this mortal coil, pushing up daisies etcetera.
It was a poor joke to start with; it's even worse in translation
But it won't stop me sharing another
Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sylvester Stallone, Jean Claude van Damme and Steven Segal are sharing a beer in a Hollywood tavern discussing a possible joint venture.
'Y'know' grunts Stallone 'I'd like us to make an action movie based on the lives of four famous composers. For example, I've always wanted to play Beethoven.'
Van Damme chimes in. 'Great idea! I could play Tchaikovsky!'
Seagal is quick to follow. 'And I turn in a mean Rimsky-Korsakov!'
They turn to Schwarzenegger.
The big Austrian sets down his beer, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, looks each of them in the eye and says;
'I'll be Bach.'
I know, but it's not like you haven't been warned.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
One more for my Dutch friends who are no doubt tottering off home after watching their team ruthlessly outplayed by Russia. If it's any consolation we understimated Hiddink's lot to our cost in the qualifiers. No, thought not.
Here's a true story that always makes me smile.
ON JULY 20, 1969, AS COMMANDER OF THE APOLLO 11 LUNAR MODULE, NEIL ARMSTRONG WAS THE FIRST PERSON TO SET FOOT ON THE MOON. HIS FIRST WORDS AFTER STEPPING ON THE MOON, 'THAT'S ONE SMALL STEP FOR MAN, ONE GIANT LEAP FOR MANKIND,' WERE BEAMED LIVE TO EARTH AND HEARD BY MILLIONS.
BUT JUST BEFORE HE RE-ENTERED THE LANDER, HE MADE THE ENIGMATIC REMARK 'GOOD LUCK, MR. GORSKY'
MANY PEOPLE AT NASA THOUGH IT WAS A CASUAL REMARK CONCERNING SOME RIVAL SOVIET COSMONAUT. HOWEVER, UPON CHECKING, THERE WAS NO GORSKY IN EITHER THE RUSSIAN OR AMERICAN SPACE PROGRAMS.
OVER THE YEARS MANY PEOPLE QUESTIONED ARMSTRONG AS TO WHAT THE 'GOOD LUCK, MR. GORSKY' STATEMENT MEANT, BUT ARMSTRONG ALWAYS JUST SMILED.
ON JULY 5, 1995, IN TAMPA BAY, FLORIDA, WHILE ANSWERING QUESTIONS FOLLOWING A SPEECH, A REPORTER BROUGHT UP THE 26-YEAR-OLD QUESTION TO ARMSTRONG. THIS TIME HE RESPONDED. MR. GORSKY HAD RECENTLY PASSED AWAY, SO NEIL ARMSTRONG FELT HE COULD AT LAST ANSWER THE QUESTION.
IN 1938 WHEN HE WAS A KID IN A SMALL MIDWEST TOWN, HE WAS PLAYING BASEBALL WITH A FRIEND IN THE BACKYARD. HIS FRIEND HIT THE BALL, WHICH LANDED IN HIS NEIGHBOR'S YARD NEAR THE BEDROOM WINDOW. HIS NEIGHBORS WERE MR. AND MRS. GORSKY. AS HE LEANED DOWN TO PICK UP THE BALL, YOUNG ARMSTRONG HEARD MRS. GORSKY SHOUTING AT MR. GORSKY.
'SEX! YOU WANT SEX?! YOU'LL HAVE SEX WITH ME WHEN THE KID NEXT DOOR WALKS ON THE MOON!'
Tot ziens mensen, betere geluk volgende tijd.
Iedereen maar de bloedige Duitsers!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Done!
. I'm building a Reachstacker (a 70-ton forklift that stacks containers in port) outside the Amsterdam RAI for a show next week. The vehicle arrives like a monstrous airfix kit - body/ chassis, boom arm and spreader. You need a 120 ton crane (and a Liebherr mechanic) to lift and assemble the pieces. The trucks were stuck outside the city for several hours this morning waiting for their official escorts to guide them through the narrow streets.
