Canary (noun) definitions- 1) - Small yellow bird sent down mines to test the quality of the air before the big boys get going. Any sign of danger, gets in a flap, curls up and dies. 2) - Small yellow team sent down divisions to test the quality of the football. Any signs of danger, gets in a flap, pisses in goals, and curls up and dies.
Depending on what flavour you take your football, you could be anywhere between one and three games into your season.
It's early doors, but they're doors that someone has pissed on, superglued the lock, and shoved shit through the letterbox.
I really have the deepest sympathy with my Naardge friends. When you let in enough goals on the first day of the season to almost start needing to use the fingers on the other webbed hand, things are not good.
Only one thing to do when you get beaten 7-1 by Colchester. Nick their manager. I can't help but wonder if Paul Lambert will still be happy with his decision at the end of the season, with the U's continuing their undefeated start tonight, and Norwich losing again.
Elsewhere in the Premiership, we see Tottenham top after beating Liverpool in the opener, and spanking Hull 5-1 tonight, who themselves didn't look that bad against Chelsea - the only other team to have won 2 from 2. Several have still only played the once, but Man Utd somehow managed to get beaten by Burnley tonight, so no perfect start from them, nor points for me from their players.
It's playing merry hell with my Fantasy Team. Whilst picking Jolene Joleon Lescott seemed like a good idea pre season, what with him being touted by Man City, he helped Everton let in 6 goals at the weekend, has been refused a transfer, and has now been dropped following an incident involving a pram, some toys, and a passable Monty Panessar impersonation.
Most importantly of all, Grimsby have got off to a typically heroic start, with three straight defeats. This puts me in a great position to slag off or take the piss out of any other team in the league, because there is nothing that anyone can say or do that can make anything worse that what we are doing to ourselves.
Yazz would say 'the only way is up'. Not true. Okay, we can't move very far in the downwards direction for several months, but after that, there's a fucking huge drop.
At least there's still some Cricket to be enjoyed. I completely expect England to win the last Ashes Test, and therefore retain that magic little urn. And we've got tickets to one of the one dayers to look forward to as well.
But after that it's just the slow inevitability of the days getting colder, the nights drawing in, and Saturday afternoons of despair and despondency as nothing goes right.
As the nights draw in, and the air starts to feel like winter is just around the corner, my mind turns to football.
Hell, it may only have just turned August, but it is a bit nippy out, and having done the necessary research (ie been watching Sky all day), the Premiership season does indeed start next weekend - or sort of. It's the Charity shield or whatever they're calling it this year, and a full fixture list for The Championship and leagues 1 and 2.
So all of a sudden it's time to think long and hard about fantasy teams.
My first foray into Fantasy sport was way back in the early nineties, with cricket. I'm pretty sure The Daily Telegraph was the first place to do it, and as the years have gone by, there is a Fantasy version of everything. I was even asked to sign up for a Fantasy Tour de France this year - sorry Matt - I didn't even reply, having no knowledge or interest in the sport.
Football soon followed suit, courtesy of The Sun. In the early days, you paid to submit a team, and then got updates and scores printed in the paper. To check out your own team, or have a mini league with friends, you had to all add up your own scores and compare.
My early attempts were ok. Not winning amongst my peer group, but still doing myself proud. Scoring was pretty basic too. Points if your player scored a goal, minus points if a defender or goalie let them in. Points for a clean sheet for defenders, and minus points for cards.
As the years have gone by, and the advent of OPTA statistics, scoring has become more convoluted, and more websites have sprung up running similar style competitions.
A few years ago I was running a league based out of the Sun for colleagues at work - this time just for The World Cup, with £10 in for each team - winner takes all. It was starting to get a bit easier to manage leagues, as The Sun was publishing all the players scores on line, so sticking everyone's teams in a spreadsheet and then just copying and pasting the pages from The Suns website meant I could produce a new league table in a matter of minutes after each evenings games, rather than scouring the papers hours on end for each individuals players and scores.
I was planning on distributing the scores as I had done with the previous years Premier League - via works email.
Shortly before the tournament was due to start I received an email from a very senior member of management, entitled 'Fantasy Football'.
'Shit', thought I. I'm going to be told not to do this on work time. I can explain away that all I do is send an email with the scores in, because not all the players have a home email address. I don't do any of the updating or preparation of tables at work (but only because the website is blocked by works firewall). I'm not making any money out of it, It's not gambling, it's just a friendly sweepstake.....
As it turned out it wasn't an email telling me to cease and desist, rather one asking me very nicely if he was allowed to play, and if so, here was his team, and to whom should he give his £10?
Fucker went on to win it too. Very begrudgingly I had to go to the Management Suite to hand over the cash.
"Have you got an appointment" said the receptionist.
"No" said I, "but I think he'll want to see me if you just buzz to let him know I'm here. I have his gambling winnings for him".
Now the multitudes of websites are free, and the game play even more sophisticated. You can start with a whole squad rather than a team, and pick which 11 actually play each week, allowing you to swap your keepers if your 1st choice is going to be playing against Man Utd, or drop players if they are injured. That is if you can be bothered to log in everyday and micro manage your team. I had Torres captaining (double points) my team for around 6 weeks last year before I decided that I should probably log in and make some substitutions being as he was injured and not playing.
Team selection can take hours, as you decide whether to blow your cash on a killer strike force, or go for a balanced approach.
You ca spend a fortune on 'big players' who either get injured and score nothing, under perform, or who everyone else has bought anyway, so you gain nothing by having them, but lose everything if you don't. Do you save fuck all for defenders so you either have cheap players from big teams who never get off the bench, or whatever you can afford from Fulham, and then just hope that the amount of goals they let in is offset by the millions that Anelka and Berbatov are going to score?
I've decided that most of it is down to a little bit of common sense, and a lot of luck. It's that £4.5 million that you have left to spend on a defender or midfielder. You can't afford anyone you want, so you just look at the price list and pull someone at random, and then they go on to bag up hundreds of points for you. That was JoleonLescott for me last year. This year he's £7.5, but because he did well for me last year, I've stumped up the cash - as have 16% of other people who have registered at the official website.
I've spent a grand total of 10 minutes and £100 million selecting my squad, and as usual, I hope for success, but expect mediocrity.
If you want in, I'm playing at The Barclays League site. If you want to join my mini-league, contact me via email, FB or Twitter for the pin number. The more the merrier, and the further down the points table I can slide.
Not, as some readers might assume, the method your significant other uses to prevent you watching The Premiership on Sky, because they have to watch Coronation Street, and then the continuing adventures of Inspector Morses brickie turned detective sidekick.
Nor the method of calculating the target score of the second cricket team to bat following a break in play due to rain.
But very much cricket related, for Duckworth and Lewis are the alter egos of one Thomas Walsh (whom I've never heard of), and Neil Hammon - he of The Divine Comedy, Father Ted theme tune, and seminal work for the aforementioned show, My Lovely Horse.
With the Ashes just 4 days away, it's perfect timing for an album based around the joys of Cricket. There are dozens, if not hundreds of football related songs, with a couple coming out each year for the domestic finals, and then countless others at every Euro and World Cup, but when it comes to cricket, there are woefully few.
There's 10ccs Dreadlock Holiday, and Rory Bremner had a stab with n-n-nineteen
By far my favourite was one that my friend Nick brought back from Australia entitled 'Come on Aussie Come on'. I managed to find a copy of it on YouTube, but it was it's B-side 'Lah lah la la laaaah West Indies' that was the real crowd pleaser. Nick, if you've still got it on vinyl, and have the ways and means to digitise it, I'd love a copy.
But back to present day, and a whole album of cricket.
Piss take, parody, or pop gold? Lets find out.....
1) The Coin Toss - Set's the mood nicely. Let's play.
2) The Age of Revolution - It's got a 20's baseline, modern electronica, and conjures up the modern history of the game nicely. Duckworth and Lewis' first delivery finds line and length, but doesn't really challenge the batsman.
3) Gentlemen and Players - A bit like if 'Love' had put down their spliffs and knocked the ball about a bit. Wistful and summery. Just how village cricket should be, but not the Ashes. No balls to it, a no ball it is.
4) The Sweet Spot - Glam-rock-tastic. Hits the sweetspot, and it's over the pavilion and out onto The Edgware Road.
5) Jiggery Pokery - The tale of the First Test 1993 as told by Mike Gatting. An easy first innings target at Old Trafford. Merv Hughes, Ather's, Dickie Bird, and the debut of a certain young leg spinner taking him for a duck. I remember Gatts, and I hate Shane Warne too. We all do.
6) Mason on the Boundary - Delightful. Dreams of long summer days, and having a little sit down in the outfield. Just how fielding should be.
7) Rain Stops Play - Instrumental break in the proceedings, pull on the covers and go and make a cup of tea, it's only a shower....
8) Meeting Mr Miandad - Hannon/Lewis at his witty best. Off to Pakistan in a VW Camper Van. An historical, phantasmagorical destiny. I'm going to be humming this for days. It's another six.
9) The Nightwatchman - The melancholy song of the fall guy brought up the batting order at the end of the day so one of the big hitters doesn't lose his wicket to failing light. I remember Jack Russell coming on as a nightwatchman against Sri Lanka in the 80's and still being there the following lunch time, nearly making a century. Not bad for a banana eating, floppy hatted, wicket keeping Derek Smalls lookalike.
10) Flatten the Hay - Still full of whimsy. Duckworth and Lewis clearly like their cricket in the cucumber sandwiches and tea in the pavilion variety.
11) Test Match Special - Who doesn't love a bit of TMS.
12) The End of the Over - The official end of the album on the sleeve, but as I bought it from itunes, it's patently obvious that there's a hidden bonus track....
13) Pedalo - The funky misadventures of a man on a pedalo in the Caribbean. What on earth could this have to do with cricket?
All in all it's quite a nice little listen. As expected from Neil Hannon, it's clever lyrics and generally full of optimism for an idyllic English (or Irish) summer, watching gentleman players as the sun goes down on the village pitch. Neither piss take nor parody. He proper likes cricket, alhough his glasses are rather more rose tinted than the sporty wraparounds favoured by players these days.
I will be mostly watching the games finish via a pop up window on my pc at work Ball by ball scores, praying for a miracle. And that's provided each Test isn't all wrapped up in 4 days...
You never know, Australia might lose.
Because that's what it will take, not England winning - we're clearly not good enough for that, Australia need to lose. But given their (Andrew Symondsless) showing in the Twenty20, anything is possible.
At least we won't be beaten by Duckworth-Lewis in the event of rain (unlike Twenty20), because in Test Cricket you can still play for 5 days and come away with a draw.
There - I just came straight out with it. I just served you a literary ace. No returning that one.
15- 'love' to Slippymark.
Maybe I'm being a little harsh. It's a popular enough sport, so I'll settle for I find it boring and shit.
Every year I dread Wimbledon coming round, with it's monopolising of the TV schedules, and the countries obsession with strawberries and cream, and the next British (not English anymore) superstars gallant, yet inevitable failure to lift whatever trophy they give out there.
I just don't get it. I'm sure there must be some pleasure in playing it - I know I never found it - but to actually watch it? I just find it tedious.
I like my sport to have a preordained end time. True, some football matched end up going to extra time, but you know it's going to be 30 minutes, plus possibly a few more for penalties, but never hours and hours and hours of 2 men hitting a ball back and forth.
It's played all year, at tournaments all over the World and the majority of the country doesn't bat an eyelid, yet once we're hosting it, it's stop everything (except 'breaking news' of a man who's already been dead for 4 days - how it can break any further I'll never know), because Tiger Tim or Morose Murray is on.
Be honest Wimbledon fans. When, other than now do you take the slightest bit of interest in tennis? Who did Murray lose to in the quarter final in this years Dubai Championship?
If you guessed nobody, because he withdrew through illness, please carry on enjoying your sport, but please don't try to explain it's finer points to me because I really can't be arsed.
If you guessed it was a trick question, and he wasn't knocked out in the quarters, or named another player -BOOOOOOOO! Shame on you! You know fuck all!
Now stop cluttering up my ears with tales of how 'exciting' last nights match was. The only time my pulse raced was when I thought Mrsslippy screaming from the living room was some kind of emergency, only to discover it was her reaction that 'Super Sizers go Medieval' had been cancelled as Murray was dragging his heels finishing off some fella I've never even heard of.
So not an emergency, but certainly a fucking tragedy.
There was probably a time when I would have heard of his opponent, back in the day when there were characters like Conners and Nastase. I couldn't care for the games, but the post match interviews were a bit more amusing.
Now we just have homogeneous serving machines who make Gordon Brown look like the life and soul of the party. Commentators bemoan the lack of British talent, and implore the Government to invest more in getting youngsters playing, but if Murray is the product of intensive training, then there's no way I'd let a kid of mine even look at a tennis racket, let alone pick one up.
If kids are interested in a sport, they'll play it themselves. They just need a role model. Look at the influence Beckham has had on getting girls and boys worldwide to play football. Every boy in India wants to play cricket like MuraliVijay. Who wants to be Henman or Murray? A posh boy from Oxford, or a miserable Scot?
You can force them to train and play, and you might get a result. China had unprecedented results at the Bejing Olympics, largely due to it's 'interesting' coaching techniques. Is this what we want of our children? An army of miserable automatons? Not me.
We may not win Wimbledon this year, next year, or for 100 years, but what does it matter? We don't have to be the best at everything. And even if we win, how much credit can you take for it?
None. It matters not a jot where the player comes from. It's a solo effort. They take the glory, not just whatever piece of the globe their mother happened to pushed them out onto.
So last night we had nearly 4 hours of Murray blocking up BBC1. It wasn't exciting and atmospheric. It was disruptive, and had all the atmosphere of a fart in a spacesuit.
Now center court has a roof, they can play for ever, long into the evenings TV. I thought the roof would be a good thing, as it would stop Wimbledon dragging on for weeks, and Sir Cliffaroke whenever the brollies come up. Now I'm not so sure....
I guess I should be grateful that the BBC, and 'tennis fans' up and down the country forget all about it as quickly as the strawberries turn and the Pimms goes flat. Two weeks and it's all over for another year.
As people who read their newspaper from the back page will be very much aware, the country is currently gripped in the excitement of the ICC World Twenty20.
For those who take their sport only when forced upon them like sprouts at Christmas, the World Twenty20 is a cricket tournament where the games aren't longer than the lifespan of a small rodent, you don't have to stop for tea, and there is a definite winner at the end of it all.
Twenty overs (that's 120 balls) for each team, to either bowl the other team out, or score as many runs as possible by smacking the ball out of the ground at every opportunity, rather than just tapping it to the ground and wondering if the cucumber sandwiches have got the crusts cut off them.
No white flannel shirts and woolly jumpers, its all snazzy colours and floodlights.
They've even tried to make the name more exciting by shortening it to T20, possibly so it's not confused with 'Mad Dog 20/20', a drink so rough it will turn you blind, not give you the 20/20 vision you need to play this lightening fast game.
They could have shortened it even further to TT, but that's already been taken, and the last thing you want tearing up and down the wicket is a hoard of touring bikers, or some cock in an Audi.
Now I love a Test Match, but anyone who watched Chris Gayle batter the Australian attack out of the ground (and I'm talking to you weaselly faced Brett Lee), could not help but delight in how good a game it is to watch, especially as now they can't take the piss out of us too much for our woeful display against the Netherlands.
But is this enough to entice the casual viewer, and will it be enough to contain my rapidly depleting attention span?
Fear not, for I have a solution.
T-2000
With it's increasing global domination, SkyNews/SkySports is clearly a front for bigger things to come.
Skynet.
And with Skynet, comes Terminators, most importantly the T-2000 - a shape shifting metal motherfucker with the ability to turn into anyone it has sampled the DNA of.
Given the number of cricketers who've had hair transplants, there must be mountains of DNA floating around the worlds changing rooms and pavilions.
Imagine the terror seeing an amorphous silver silhouette bounding down the pitch towards you, suddenly to morph into ShoaibAkhtar and nearly take your head off. Next ball you're ready for him, only now it's Shane Warne - out of retirement with a deadly leg break.
Metal Billy Bowden stood near the wicket, just waiting to extend that crooked finger..... and extend....and extend....imagine what he'd do with a six?
I'd love to see it, and shall pen a missive to Rupert Murdoch as soon as I'm done here.
And if you think it might all be a bit easy on the bowlers in my thrilling upgrade of the game, don't worry, I've got a little plan up my sleeve for the batsmen.
Sometimes we all have to do things that we find distasteful, amoral, and just downright shameful.
I could list many, but tonight I stoop to an all time low on my social barometer of what is a VERY BAD THING as I find myself faced with a decision that I find thoroughly unpalatable.
I'm supporting Manchester United.
It's not really that I want them to win, it's that I don't want Barcelona to.
Just like Meryl Streep in Sophie's choice, neither going is not an option. It will only prolong the inevitability of a firing squad, so I must choose who to lose, and after weighing up the alternatives, with a heavy heart it is Manchester I cling to as Barcelona are dragged off crying for their mothers.
*GOAL FLASH* Eto for Barca. Bollocks.
It wasn't an easy choice, and I've mentally gone through the pro's and cons of a decision I'm going to have to live with for the rest of my life.
Against Manchester United
They are Manchester United
Ronaldo is a slimy, cheating cunt
Winning two on the bounce will make them so smug
They are Manchester United
They've won enough this year already
They are Manchester United
For Manchester United
They are not Barcelona
They are an English team
They are not a Spanish team
I've got the teeniest amount of respect for Giggs, who maybe deserves it before he retires
I hate Puyol more than Ronaldo (he fucked up a potentially winning World Cup fantasy team for me, and I have never forgiven him. And he has shit hair.
Some of my friends are real Man Utd fans (ie never been there), and the philanthropist in me wouldn't begrudge them a little bit of pleasure.
Twenty five minutes in and it looks like Barcas goal was against the run of play...oh oh..Xavi free kick..........and safe....., so things may turn out right in the long run.
For now, I think I'd better go and get myself a stiff drink. It might make it a bit easier to cope with what I'm doing with a bit of dutch courage and beer goggles.
But when I wake up tomorrow, all bleary eyed and unsure of what I got up to the night before, I'll be able to look back on this blog, and all the shame will come flooding back.
Am I getting into bed with a stunner, or a munter?
By the time you read this letter you will have hopefully had time to wake up and face the realisation that you no longer have a Premiership team.
For the first time in twenty years, you're in the second tier, and I'm sure there are plenty more tears in your Newckie Brown.
You gave Mr Shearer his millions, with the promise of more if he kept you up, but to what point? He may walk on water, but he can't polish a turd.
I'm glad Manchester beat Hull, despite me cheering for the Tigers all the way, because I know if you'd gone down due to Mr Ferguson playing his second team you'd have cried 'foul'.
But if Hull had won, it would not be because of a team of teenagers that you went down, it was simply that you weren't good enough.
Mr Ferguson had 38 league games to pick teams that would give him enough points to win the league, and get to the Champions League final with a fit, winning team.
He only needed 37 games.
You had the same opportunity, without the added pressure of Europe, and you fucked it up.....
Blame Mike Ashley.
Blame King Kev for walking.
Blame Owen for always being injured.
Blame whoever you like if it makes you feel better, but just face facts, you played shit all season.
Now you can stop telling us about how you're too big a club, and there's too much history, and you've got the best fans in the world, relegation could never happen.
Go ask Leeds, Norwich, or God forbid, Notts Forest.
Spend the next season with your heads down learning some humility. Don't expect to win every game. WANT to, then be grateful when you do.
Do not gloat when you wallop Scunthorpe 5-0 at home, because if you get complacent they might just return the favour on a cold December midweek game.
You still get to enjoy a local derby with Boro, but try not to get too nostalgic as you see the Macams team bus heading off to Manchester...
Now back to your bottle of dog to have a good hard think about what you've done(or rather not done) - I'm off to enjoy my moment of Zen.
I'm facing an almost exciting prospect. Cambridge United are through to the play off finals for promotion back to Division 2, and thanks to some end of the season heroics (and Luton starting the season on -30 points), Grimsby Town have somehow avoided the indignity of non-league football next year, and I could once again see the Mighty Mariners play at the Abbey Stadium.
You can call me a fair weather fan, because in all truth the weather's got to be a damn sight better than 'fair'. It's got to be abso-fucking-fabulous weather for me to drag myself any further than a couple of miles down the road.
I'll stand in the driving rain at the Abbey, safe in the knowledge that a hot bath is only 15 minutes away, but a cold Tuesday evening in Peterborough? Stevenage? Even Histon is an extra 20 minute drive away. Fuck that for a game of soldiers, I'll watch Grimsby if they come to see me, but not the other way round. Not until they buck their ideas up a bit and start playing some decent football anyway.
And because of this disparity of leagues, I'd not been to watch a game for a couple of years, and then all of a sudden, I get 2 games almost back to back, and they couldn't have been more dissimilar.
What did you do for Valentines day this year? I went on a stag do to London, and part of that Weekend jaunt was a trip to see AFC Wimbledon play Bath at Kingsmeadow.
I was stood at the back of the terrace - but not a problem, take 5 steps forward, and I was at the front. Most of the party were so bored by half time that they disappeared into the bar and never came back.
The half time entertainment consisted a keepy-uppy competition in which the Stag participated, but was beaten by a ringer who was ex pro.
His other excuse being, that in keeping with the Blue Square League, the ball was blue and square, which the pedant in me insisted was blue and cuboid. A square ball would not be a ball, it would be a 2 dimensional shape. I'm such a fucking geek.
They did serve some particularly lush bacon sandwiches, and the stall was a little shed in the ground so you would,'t have to miss any of the game. You can just about make it out just at the very left of shot, whilst Matt does a big fat FAIL.
The bar was pretty good too, and very organised for getting pints out swiftly. When with 5 minutes to go , and the score 1-1 following 2 shots all game, the brave few who stuck out the second half rejoined the wanderers in the bar for a swifty before heading out to find a titty bar/muff club, and to watch the rest of the days results stream through courtesy of Jeff Stelling on a big screen.
Turns our Wimbledon won 3-2. We must've missed a pretty exciting 5 minutes whilst getting pints, but I think the call for beer was the correct one at the end of the day.
Roll on 8 weeks and again I'm at a football match, but this time I'm still waiting for Matt, and we're a little out of our comfort zone.
Mrsslippy and I have caught a taxi to the Maracana in Rio to watch the semi-final of the Carioca Cup between arch rivals Flamengo and Fluminense.
Matt said he'd meet us at this statue at 3 o'clock.
If I look a bit hungover it's because I am. It's the day after the wedding and I suspect I drank at least a bottle of Scotch, and god knows how many ciaparinhas and how much champagne. At 6 in the morning I didn't think I'd ever be able to lift my head from my pillow, but then my gut forced my hand, or rather it's contents, in a glorious fountain that I only just managed to get to the bathroom on time for.
So half past three, still no sign of him. We'd positioned ourselves near some friendly looking policeman, and were thick in the Flamengo stronghold. We'd seen a few thousand all come running towards us, hemmed in by mounted police. I bit of pre match banter I'm sure, but still a bit daunting. They were also accompanied by the real police.
The ones we stood near had guns and batons, but these guys were in full body armour, and packing 5 foot bats, shotguns, automatic rifles, and grenade launchers (which I'm sure were just for tear gas canisters, not real grenades, but still pretty hardcore).
As we stood watching, mouths agape, the newly married Matt arrived, apologised for being late, and told us that we were probably standing around at the wrong area (despite it being his idea, what with him having all the local knowledge and that), as the Flamengo fans are 'fucking nutters'. So hyped up for aggro, if they haven't got any rival fans to fight with, they'll fight amongst themselves. If we went in the Fluminense end we'd be much safer,as they only fight other supporter...
....and Gringos....
Still, as the lesser of two evils, and with Whiggy for added security we went round to the other side and entered what is the most remarkable ground I've ever seen.
Built for the 1950 World Cup it held 200,000 before it went all seater, but now holds a rather more sedate 100,00 - and none of them were sitting today.
There were parades of gigantic flags, fireworks, smoke bombs, but not a single safety steward to tell you to stop blocking the aisle, sit down, and stop letting off rockets in peoples faces. The only security was those impressive policeman who had now formed a loose perimeter around the pitch (which in itself is protected by a dry moat). I got the distinct impression that they didn't really care what we did to each other, just as long as nobody got near the pitch or the players.
I'd like to say it was a great game, but sadly, it was pretty run of the mill. The Flamengo players were all very proficient at the dive that's fortunately rarely seen in the Premiership now (although Ronaldo used to try it on). You know the one I mean, the one where the defender doesn't make contact, but somehow manages to apply backspin onto the opposing player, so after rolling over three or four times in one direction, he suddenly reverses polarity and starts spinning back towards the defender again.
Both teams had a player called Everton, which left me pondering why anyone would choose that as a nickname. Presumably because they have a twin brother who plays more attractive football, and is far more successful.
Despite it being perhaps the widest pitch I've ever see (either that or the shortest - it's almost a perfect square), both team seemed to have forgotten about the 15 yards of grass either side of the central strip, and just hoofed and fell and rolled and protested all over the same little bit of real estate.
Flamengo's goal was lame; a tame shot that the Flu keeper pushed under his own arm and into the net as he fell to the ground. Very poor.
In the second half a shot that he managed to deflect, and was then cleared off the line by a defender was met wit such jubilation that the pair of them had this whole bromance thing going on for the next two minutes. Sorry to break up the love-in boys, but you've saved fuck all. You're still 1-0 down, and would be better advised to stop going down on each other and paying attention to whats happening elsewhere on the pitch. That equaliser isn't going to score itself - and it didn't....
It's pretty clear that although Brazil may produce some of the best footballers in the World, they don't play over there. We've got them all in Europe.
And for all the pomp and circumstance, posturing and bravado, fireworks and spectacle, the football itself is not a patch on the Premiership. We've got the best league in the World. Love it.
So hopefully next season I can again go and watch Grimsby play again. I can't say it'll be anything like the experience of 100,000 nutters at The Maracana, but the football might be of a similar standard, and certainly better than a Valentines Day watching AFC Wimbledon and Bath.
"I say, I don't like cricket - oh no, I love it, I don't like cricket - no no, I love it, Don't you walk thru my words, You got to show some respect, Don't you walk thru my words, 'Cause you ain't heard me out yet."
Or so said 10cc back in 1978.
Once wise words, but tonight, I'm pretty sure if I don't like it, in fact I'm rather disgruntled with the whole sorry affair.
Home from work with a couple of brews on board I fancy watching a bit of the second One Day International between the proud inventors of the game, and the Windies.
And what do I find? England all out for 117, and Windies sailing on 91-0
When did we get quite so shit? (Australians need not answer, it was a rhetorical question - however you may need to look up 'rhetorical' in a dictionary)
I know we did very poorly in the Test series, but I blame the pitches (or lack of). When we could bat, so could they. The only reason we won the first one dayer was because their coach (an Aussie), failed to understand the Duckworth-Lewis system (something to do with how many Coronation Street/Inspector Morse DVD's the opposing team can get through whilst it's either pissing it down, or too dark to be able to see which part of he seam to rub grit into), and pulled the Windies off (stop sniggering at the back) before they'd seen all the directors commentaries and making of featurettes.
WICKET!!!......oh fuck, what does it matter.....98-1.....
Mrsslippy has cunningly managed to procure tickets for an England v Australia one dayer, and I am already very afraid of the potential humiliation that we will be able to witness first hand.
A quick look at the BBC website informs me that Freddie was C&B for a duck on his return from injury, and KP only made 3. If memory serves, that's 17 in the first ODI and 12 in the second. If plotted on a graph, I reckon next time he'll score -1. Good luck with that Kev.
WICKET!!!...last chance recovery! They've only got 27 overs and 8 wickets spare to beat us...
Or not. All over before I could even be arsed to look back at he keyboard.
I don't like cricket - oh no
I despise it to the very core of my blackened, disillusioned heart.
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