June 2010

[Sweder]

Flaming June.
Not much flaming running going on, that's for sure.

[Sweder]

There's been no running to report, here or in many other pages on this forum, of late. I guess it's that time of year again.
Congratulations to the B&H men and women who swept the board at the South Downs 100 mile Relay last weekend. A magnificent effort in warm conditions. It's pretty warm here in Valencia right now, though I'd rather have been with the guys 'n' gals as orignally intended. Needs must when the Devil drives and that cloven work-hoof has the pedal to the metal just now.

I had a dream last night.
I'm driving along an un-named road in the twilight. Tired, focused on the continuous white line in the centre of the road (to my right, so I'm driving on the left like I do at home). The road is shiny, reflecting the lights from fast-moving traffic coming in the opposite direction. Try as I might I can't stop myself wandering across the white line, forcing the oncoming traffic to swerve out of my way. There's no blaring of horms or angry curses, just the incessant rush of fast-moving rubber on tarmac.

As portents that go bump in the night go it's a fairly crude, obvious message.
Time to slow down, perhaps even take a break.

[Sweder]

Finally hauled my corpulence off of the World Cup sofa to embrace the daylight this morning. My post-Valencia Lager-belly was in full wobble, an ugly, miniature Mexican wave of blubber circumnavigating a well-covered waist. The day met me with a warm wet kiss, humidity rising off the hills as I chugged wearily up towards Blackcap.

Pausing at the top of the sheep field I looked back to see Tess stood on the track. She was looking back towards home and we both knew who she was looking for. I called her on and she came willingly, bounding with all the vim and vigour of a dog half her age. Whilst Willow wallowed in the sheeps' trough I pondered last night's tale of woe from the hinterlands of Rustenberg. England got their 2010 World Cup campaign off to the best possible start; an early goal, lots of possession, a gently impressive display despite the best efforts of a well-drilled American team and the inept coverage of ITV HD - yes, they really flashed up a commerical precisely as Gerrard pounced, returning only to see him rubbing Wayne Rooney's stubbly noggin in a most unpleasant way. 'We' had the game in the bag.



USA! USA! had possesion in senna-field; the quarterback crossed the line of skirmish to the twenny, fired in a straight-shot at the UK goal-tender .... fumble! Touchdown! Touchdown USA at the end of the second kwarda! We are TIED in Roostenberg!!! and we're back after this word from your inept broadcaster ... Hoots of derision drowned in a sea of Vuvuzelas, disbelief writ large on the non-plussed UKGB DE-Fence. You gotta be fuckin' KIDDIN me. At least, as Vasos Alexander offered this morning on a subdued radio Five Live broadcast from the Highveld, Rob Green put his hand up after the match. Shame he didn't try that last night. Hello hubris my old friend ...

Of course it'll mean bugger all when (John Terry) (Rio Ferdinand) Stevie MBE raises that little gold statuette in July, hoisted onto Emile Heskey's impossibly broad shoulders moments before Mr Em stumbles sending another team-mate to casualty... Last night was doomed, condemned to failure before a ball was kicked by previously trustworthy presenter Adrian effing Chiles. Having traded in the divine Ms Bleakley (nay Lampard) for three ghosts of football past - Gareth Southgate (currently unemployed) Edgar Davids ( hopped up on a combination of Wacky Baccy and weapons-grade valium) and the recently exhumed corpse of former rant champion Kevin Keegan - the affable Everyman uttered the immortal line 'what could possibly go wrong now'.
As Don Fabio would surely have screamed in his face: 'Why, Chiles, Why? WHY??'

We'd hate it if it were all plain sailing. We'd have nothing to moan about, no wailing, no gnashing of teeth, no endless rounds of navel-gazing and self-flagellation. The hope matches the hype and we suck it all up to blow it out in great clouds of super-heated exasperation. Last night, right on 40 minutes, another tranche of polar icecap melted into the ocean as a gulf stream of exhaled disbelief laced with expletives rushed out of England. It's just like this in other countries you know. Oh yes, in Spain last week I watched a detailed catalogue of horror on Channel Dos, all the twists of fate that have denied Espana their moment of ultimate glory in the Beautiful Game. Bizarre goalkeeping exploits from countries without so much as a blade of grass to their name, goal-posts moved via telekenesis to intercept certain winners, shocking penalty misses, inexplicable collapses inches from the goal-line and that bloody linesman against South Korea in 2002. The program was in Spanish so I missed the poignancy of some of the interviews conducted with former players and managers all bearing the haunted look of people just returned after an alien abduction. It was the underlying score that really drove home the pain of a nation, a rolling dirge that would have been equally comfortable playing under the most distressing scenes from Schindler's List. I swear one montage, beautifully crafted in sepia, featured a lone red & yellow scarf pulled over a young lad's face as the final whilst blew on another failed campaign.

Our '44 years of hurt' may indeed weigh heavily around the necks of our 'Golden Generation', but at least we have a star above our badge. England is one of only seven countries to have won the competition since its inception in 1930. There's a long way to go in this tournament. Many a Vuvuzela will have been rudely shoved up a local backside before we're done and one of the 'same old faces' walks off with the gold. A sense of perspective is required, as it is amongst the fleet street rats intent on watching Robert Green’s skinned hide flap fly-bitten and mangy from the gates of the England hotel.



As many of us have cried at the telly this week (in an effort to ward off the incessant buzzing that drowns out the jingoistic singing and xenophobic cheering that are de rigueur at these gatherings) enough already. I don't care if is culturally sensitive or if they do provide a cheap way for impoverished locals to feel part of the event. I don't give a flying fuck. FIFA must act and act swiftly, else they may face a tsunami of claims for tinitus that even their swollen coffers can't handle. I'm done with the endless blowing of the bloody horns thing.

Speaking of tellies I need to get a new one. Try as I might I could not make myself heard above the infernal din. The players clearly couldn’t hear me, something my wife pointed out continuously in between unhelpful questions such as 'why are we so rubbish' and 'are the USA any good then?'

Wringing sweat and beer out of my recently-acquired lard was a good way to exorcise the demons and prepare for more football this afternoon. By the time I reached home I felt a good deal better, if completely knackered. Back to the sofa it is then.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

At least England are in with a chance (as long as you don't face USA in the final of course ) ... Australia (as I gloomily but confidently predicted) were thrashed by a German side looking as untroubled as Gebrselassie on a warm-up jog. I really do think Australia qualified for the World Cup this time almost by accident - we were never really that convincing, and now that mediocrity is being severely tested.

Next up Ghana, then Serbia ... will we even score a goal before catching the plane home? Well, I wouldn't be putting money on it.

Thank God we at least beat your lot in the rugby. Otherwise...


P.S. As a completely unrelated aside, a bass-playing friend found this in a pizza place... and I of course immediately thought of your belly you...

[Sweder]

Fear & Loathing in the Cape: A Nightmare on Table Mountain


One of my first cinematic experiences haunts my dreams. It has done since, aged seven, I gazed in wide-eyed wonder at Disney’s meisterwerk, Fantasia. This cutting-edge (made in 1940) feast of animation ends with a haunting rendition of Mussorgsky’s magnificent Night On Bald Mountain over scenes of translucent spirits rising from murky graves to swirl and dance around the Beast that dwells atop the looming crag. This imagery left a lasting impression on my young, malleable psyche, one that’s encouraged my exploration of the dark, macabre corners of our world for over forty years.



Last night another kind of darkness entered the hearts of youngster all across the country. Tuned in to cheer on their heroes in the FIFA World Cup millions were left traumatised by the horrific scenes unfolding in the shadow of Table Mountain. Clueless, formless, rudderless, useless. I cannot convey the depth of ineptitude displayed against a plucky, hard-working Algerian side who looked increasingly surprised at the lack of fight in the lauded opposition. Algeria were unlucky not to win. One can forgive bad luck or even incompetence. What is unforgivable is the apparent lack of cohesive effort. The English players looked pale, frightened rabbits caught in the stadium floodlights. Lampard was anonymous, limp, lacklustre, lost; Rooney inept, ranting and, finally, rabid. Gerrard charged around the pitch like a starving dog let loose in a henhouse, dashing from one opponent to another without effect. By the close of play the screen was filled with close-ups of world-famous megastars shrugging and frowning at one another, dreadful theatrics presumably designed to deflect attention from their own abysmal ‘performance’.

Heart of Darkness, the non-fiction account of the making of Coppola’s brilliant Apocalypse Now tells the tale of the film crew’s descent into madness as they struggled with a monster of a movie in the depths of the Philippines jungle. Mistrust and paranoia ran rife, uncertainty and fear as ubiquitous as malaria. Martin Sheen (Willard) suffered a heart attack; Marlon Brando (Kurtz) swept in with a raft of unreasonable demands, improbably overweight, incoherent and quite possibly off his trolley. The late, great Dennis Hopper was … well, Dennis Hopper. It’s a spine-chilling documentary leaving the viewer wondering how any of them got out alive never mind finished the film. Watching the England players stumbling about in Cape Town last night I couldn’t help but wonder at the parallels. There’s something rotten in the state of Rustenberg. Rooney’s remarks to camera as he left the field, chiding the ‘home’ support for booing the dire fare on offer, were disgusting. He’ll come to rue those words in the coming days and I hope he’s dropped for what could well be Englands’ final humiliation. The much-loathed Vuvuzelas will sound like comedy kazoos if it all goes the shape of the pear against a sharp Slovenia. Divisions are appearing in the camp, the disconnect between the steely Capello and his bemused charges as clear as the night skies above the Hiveld. The players look frightened, unsure of their positions, duties or required method of play. They lack spirit, fight, inspiration or a sense of purpose. We laughed at the French getting hammered by Mexico yet the parallels with that dysfunctional family and our own are sobering. These are teams crammed with ‘stars’, players whose egos are fed by the litany of crass advertisements and endorsements that have so obviously blunted their hunger and desire, guilty of believeing their own PR hyperbole. The curse of that Nike ad has well and truly struck. Ribery looks rubbery, Rooney’s been rubbish. We can only hope that Ronaldo get’s sent off for diving before ripping off his diamond earing in a fabulous fit of pique.



As in movies a stellar cast is not enough. You need a coherent script and a strong director with a vision and the human skills to communicate that vision clearly to each and every player. At this moment the England ‘team’ is lost, adrift on an ocean of hubris. Out of form, out of fight, out of ideas … out of Africa?
The horror ... the horror ...

[Bierzo Baggie]

Still reckon England will get through and might even go all the way. It's the Fabio Capello way.

At Real Madrid (first spell) his side won the league but he wasn't popular for his style of play and left after criticism from the club's president.

Then he came back 10 seasons later, did exactly the same, won the league, and was sacked!

If John Terry keeps his gob shut and lets Fabio get on with it, England should scrape a one goal victory against Slovenia (a side captained by a bloke who struggled to hold a place in the West Brom side last season) before boring us all to death on their way to the final.

It has been a dull world cup so far and anything could happen....like Kaká getting sent off

[marathondan]

BB, you're an incredible optimist, but I hope at least that the players can, as EG might put it, get their knockout competition heads on for the Slovenia game.

Genius from Disney; thanks for sharing. If the composer was still alive at the time, he might even have said that the animation was a greater work than the music. But that would just be him being Modest.

[Sweder]

I can't help feeling Cappelo has cocooned himself in a layer too far.
The Joe Cole ommission is baffling - why take him if you won't use him as a game-changer?

The Kaka thing was bizarre. At the time it looked as if he raised his arm to stop the IC player running in to him but he clearly did not strike the guy in the face. Parallels with Rivaldo's disgraceful dive in 2002 are obvious; I guess you reap as you sow. I found Fabiano's double handball for the second Brazil goal (the second was premeditated) equally unacceptable. The ref asked him is he'd used his arm and he said 'no, my chest'. So, he knows the TV cameras will show him to be a liar and a cheat but he also knows there's nothing to be done about it. That goal changed the nature of a hitherto tight contest (I think Brazil would probably have won but we'll never know). As long as this goes unpunished you can expect plenty more, including from our own players.

I take a deep breath before I say this: well done John Terry.
He stood up yesterday and in a clear and coherent manner expressed what many of us are thinking. I doubt anything will change, but Terry's candour was refreshing.

[Sweder]

But that would just be him being Modest.

Thrrrrrrrumb-tish!
Ee's 'ere all week laydeez an gennamun ...

[Sweder]

Almost forgot in all this World Cup hilarity - I got out for a plod yesterday. A five mile barefoot scrape across my local route. Bloody hell I've lost some fitness, not to mention barefoot hardiness. Several times I landed on a sharp rock only to hop and curse my rusty radar. I really must get out more.

[Bierzo Baggie]

BB, you're an incredible optimist,

Optimist? depends which way you look at it. I seriously think that England are capable of winning the world cup playing excruciating shite...it's the Capello way. Haven't seen anything else to convince me otherwise except Germany against... Australia

It's been a dire world cup so far for almost everybody (wonder how much that dodgy ball has to do with it, is it making teams more conservative?)... but the opening round always is, isn't it?

And Joe Cole? Fabio's saving him as an impact sub for the semi-final!

P.S. Sweder, I've just noticed there's another World Cup thread that you started .. maybe we should move this over there.

[Sweder]

In Florida for Children with Diabetes Friends for Life conference. Jet lag had me wide awake at 05:30 so I hauled on the boots and head for the golf course that circumnavigates our hotel. You can't beat a firey red sunrise over a deathly still golf course, mist rising from the lakes, herons snoozing on the handrail of bridges and alligators lounging at the waters' edge.

Even before breakfast the humidity was tangible. Within 10 minutes I looked like I'd taken a shower with my clothes on. I managed 30 minutes of dutiful plodding before heading back in. I stood in the freezing (air conditioned) lobby, arms outstretched, sweat splashing on the freshly-polished marble, looking for all the world like an ice scuplture at Satan's wedding.

I'll try and get out a couple more times this week. The cheeseburgers here are the size of a small child's head (and delicious with it, draped in tequila lime onions, avacado, bacon and swiss) so running is essential if I'm to avoid sleeping 15 hours a day to digest my food, coiled up in the corner of the exhibit hall like a boa constrictor digesting my prey.