Author: bowlingatvincent

The slaying of our dreams…

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I was thinking of compiling a list of the players who have ‘deserted’ Wales in the last two years; I stopped – too depressing. I may be wrong but this doesn’t feel like a case where the devil is in the detail. I’m not going to check who was first or last to go – although I know Osprey’s Ian Evans (… but that could soon change) was the most recent to enrol in French-for-Incoming-Giants classes. Before him that near-complete exponent of the midfield arts Mr Jonathan Davies muttered a shy bon
d’accords, tragically, for Scarlets fans. Details are for the Regional clubs and the WRU to grapple with. Fans meanwhile are just hurting.

We/they squirm and tut and alternate, I think between the volatile poles of stomach-churning disappointment and anger. Anger in the abstract, most often, unfocussed but nonetheless real and spleeny and deep. Rugby is the national game of Wales. Something essentially Welsh is expressed through the playing of this game, week after week, generation after generation. The notion that playing rugby for Wales is the absolute peak of life’s possibilities courses through every vein, every stream, every street. No wonder then there is the sense some dislocating robbery is underway. What with pathologically red-blooded icons of the sort of Mike Phillips and Gethin Jenkins amongst those who have departed – temporarily, admittedly, in their case. How on earth… why on earth…why can’t somebody do something? Stop it! STOP IT!!

I’m hearing volleys fired off against the WRU and the regions more than the players. The chief complaint being that there appears to be no sign at all that action is being taken by the alleged rugby authorities to fight the exodus. Traumatised hands are been thrown up in the air month after month across the nation as star player after star player leaves. Then somebody else does – another total hero for dads who should know better or for young Dafydd or Ffion who just can’t understand… why it’s still happening.

I’m pretty clear that both clubs and the WRU must be frantically working on plans from the immediate and spookily seat-of-pants variety to the long-term and deeply considered category to get the thing sorted. If not we must disembowel them immediately. But these fuzzily impotent pen-pushers – that’s surely how they’re seen/not seen by the majority? – can’t get it done. Because they are simply fighting against overwhelmingly sexier (and bigger) piles of moolah. If ever there was a time for men from the Grey Committees to break out of their anti-dynamic mould now is surely it?

Certain French – and English – clubs have private jet kind of money rather than the private bar (in-the-chavvie-nightclub) kind wielded by the Welsh Regions. It’s no contest. If players – like Hook, perhaps? – feel somewhat unwanted by Wales and they can quadruple their money… it’s the proverbial no-brainer. Even if some players then struggle to ‘adapt’ (Jenkins? Phillips?) the compulsion will surely be to go try it for a bit and bank the euros. I have it on good authority that Jonathan Davies is a lovely but quietish lad, something of a home-bird but given that he has quite rightly played his way into that very elite group of world-renowned players – and given that his club Scarlets are chronically strapped for cash and under-supported in terms of numbers – why wouldn’t he feel it’s both a healthy challenge and a financial godsend to flit to Clermont? I don’t blame him and neither I think do many Welsh fans. He may be playing with Wesley Fofana every week, fer gawd’s sakes. But… we are gutted.

Most supporters here endure the double frustration of us being powerless (obviously) and the rugby authorities appearing frustratingly un-able too. (Meaning somewhat worse than powerless, if you get my drift.) We hope for some gathering in of resources that might deny the attractions – or at least the financial attractions – of a cross-channel switch. But we can’t see it coming. There appears little prospect of either monumental support being air-freighted in to the Regions or from or to the WRU. No sign of a spondoolie-rich central contract system that players would be happy to bind themselves into. No sign of anything much. Could the Welsh Assembly intervene and cover itself in glory by funding a dramatic reversal of the currently Toulon-friendly status quo? Such a moment of inspiration seems unlikely; it would after all be arguably undemocratic and irresponsible – yet great ballot-box? Regrettably, the chief nail in that particular coffin would appear to be that it might require a significant dollop of imagination… meaning little chance then.

So the trauma continues. It may not be strictly accurate to say that most ‘top top’ players have already either left or have a pen twitching over some proposed mega-euro deal but that is how it seems. We await bad news on Warburton/Hibbard/Halfpenny. Perhaps Mike Phillips next club might be a Welsh club, who knows? But don’t go banking on it. In his case (‘scuse the pun) once the legal wrangling over his alleged boozing is sorted, expect to find him holding out the shirt of some other European Giant – be that English/French/Irish? (Weirdly, I slightly favour Leinster/Munster but… discuss?) Even in the twilight of his career, I’m not thinking the bristling scrumhalf will be settling for West Wales and home. Hope I’m wrong. And if either Warburton or Halfpenny do flit… the phrase ‘Nation in Mourning’ might justifiably be daubed across the Severn Crossings.

The pain is on that scale. We need something to turn, something to change. Might there be hope in the developing fable that is the Mike Phillips Story? Could the Bayonne estrangement be the catalyst for a soaring of hearts in the homeland? Hmmm.

Both Mike Phillips and Jonathan Davies were raised close to where I live in the Carmarthenshire/Pembrokeshire borders – Scarlets/Ospreys territory. The possibility that the older geezer might return might make sense if money and recognition and that miserably modern concept awareness of profile meant nothing. But profile, in the age of agents and mega-dosh, is big, right? I can barely imagine that sentiment or loyalties of a local or national nature will trump the irresistible allure of big(ger) crowds and big money for Phillips, even now – maybe especially now, in his playing dotage. And whilst Scarlets and Ospreys are proper PROPER rugby football clubs, they are currently a shade second-tier in the European context.

Meanwhile Scarlets fans more or less ‘devastated’ by the Davies move will trudge a little more wearily to the Parc. Let’s hope that few of them actually stop going because their Foxy genius – a central attraction surely, at the club? – has ‘gone over’. Crowds are small enough in Llanelli as it is. So losing players of this calibre is … in the land of the bard and the windbag… like the slaying of our dreams.

World Cup Ready?

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England’s second home defeat on the bounce clearly underlines where we’re at – we are middling rather than fair. Beaten with relative comfort by both Chile and Germany. Chief worries include the fact that the German B team unpicked the England defence with pretty alarming regularity and that Chile played at a pace that laughed in the face of our stodginess. Plus I don’t recall a single shot on target from England last night – other than Townsend’s post-doinking drive.

I have been critical of Hodgson before and I will be again – believing him to be a thoroughly decent, articulate man entirely lacking the dynamism and motivational skills England need at this obviously lowish point. As a side we remain locked for the most part in the 4-4-2 culture –or certainly unable to play with pace, fluidity and imagination – and some of this is due to poor management. The only way for us to find some belief seems to be via isolated outbreaks of brilliance from certain individuals. Whilst these may come, that ‘environment’ is… where, exactly?

Player’s World Cup Readiness assessments, following the Germany game –

Hart    – nip and tuck whether he still retains the ‘Our Best Keeper’ tag. If he does then there will be little confidence from us fans or – more significantly – centre-halves wondering if they should clear the lines themselves… or expect him to come thundering out the box. Don’t rate him but we’ve seen too little of Forster in an England shirt. (Mark that down as an error against the manager.)

Walker     – swift and sometimes penetrative going forward, consistently poor defensively. Awareness and possibly temperament simply not good enough to see him through. A weakness. The gallivanting outside Townsend may pay off but good international wingers will have a field day against him.

Smalling – may be getting there as a developing player (at Manchester United) but hardly the lynchpin of any international defence. Has some composure but lacks stature. We don’t have time to wait for him to fill out into the role, so a likely squad player and decent back-up.

Cole     – for me our second best left-back, but still good enough. Authoritative and hugely experienced. Personally, think Baines has more fizz going forward and can also defend. Not much in this – and one of few positions where we have adequate cover.

Townsend – will now be a starter at the World Cup, having earned that right. Consistently positive – even when he fluffs his lines – and therefore genuinely likely to make something happen. We’ve already seen he can shoot as well as dribble… and teams will fear his running power.

Cleverley – has work to do to convince, having gone backwards in the last twelve months. At one stage looked bright and comfortable at elite level – must return to those heights to compete for a slot in the side.  Have previously admired his dynamism and wonder if he might provide balance, centrally.

Gerrard – increasingly looks our most influential player (imagine if he took a knock!!) Pinging passes all over and prompting to good effect. But he could do that stuff in his sleep and I still wonder if he was slotted into a relatively unambitious role too early. He is, after all, rarely a threat around the box these days and whilst it may be the case that his Roy of the Rovers days are over I might have preferred to have seen him further up the park, for longer. Perhaps that argument has now passed its sell-by-date but when Gerrard’s passing is off – and it sometimes is – he really does seem a pale shadow of a once rampaging force. But still a top top player and a worthy skipper.

Lallana – hmmmm. Offers balance and as yet only hints at the nature of his sphere of influence. Wellbeck ahead of him, currently in that wide left berth but… hmmm. Club form will be vital now. If he truly shines then a possible. The lack of fireworks not a concern if he links beautifully and nicks a goal or two. Again – arguably – should have had game-time earlier?

Rooney – an automatic choice either playing off the striker or right up front. His heart, consistency and ability not in question other than in tournaments (which may or may not prove anything.) But he has had two shocking major champs and will need to show well in Brazil. Thrives on possession, which is why I favour dropping him into advanced midfield/inside forward type role – but must play where we need him most…

Sturridge – which leads me to Sturridge. Was poor last night, reverting to that slightly laboured/out of touch mode he looked to have dispensed with early this season. Could well have been a function of playing slightly hurt but such is his current supremacy in the pecking order that Hodgson felt he must play against the Germans – understandably, given the relative lack of alternatives. England need him in poacher and swaggerer mode a.s.a.p. Then, he’s a handful and a genuine threat; last night, he wasn’t.

Subs who played some part:

Gibbs – still feels something of a rookie – and a distant third choice at left-back… but likely to be a realistic option in the future. Have some concerns about his awareness.

Henderson – returning from the ‘dead’ – very much to his credit – after poor start at Liverpool. Is now an option as midfield anchor and is beginning to thread a few meaningful passes as well as jog round and share possession.

Wilshere – injuries have cruelly undermined him. Has looked like our Great White Hope, being assertive, sharp and fabulous on the ball but niggling injuries are robbing him and us of something pretty special. Will he ever get the rest that seems necessary for a full recovery? If not, will we ever see him fulfil that promise?

Lambert – goodish journeyman but frankly barely an England international. Has neither the presence nor the killer instincts; can hold the ball up and links well enough but we simply need more than that. May make World Cup if options remain limited.  Obviously lacks pace.

Barkley – early days but has talent. Is he yet the man to come on and change the course or momentum of an international match though? If not, will he be going to Brazil for the ‘experience’? Answer yes – probably. But do rate him.

Fall into the ashes.

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The issues. Whether or not Tremlett and Prior are ‘risked’. Whether or not Carberry makes a doughty seventy-something in the first test (and Root either triumphs or drops anchor at six). And –surprisingly? – whether or not rain spoils Brisbane. Job done. No dramas. End of column.

Yeh right. Too much fun to be had to get that focussed. Too much atmosphere to stage-dive into. So, of course, I will.

It’s not, at the time of writing, totally clear what the England side will look like. Who will represent us in that gladiators-in-white flannels thing soon to flutter into our consciousness via some barely-credible signal bounced off the moon/Ayers Rock and Kylie Mynogue’s left nipple. Who exactly will that be? And how much does the finer detail matter? When it’s actually all about a blur of our lot steaming in to scud cherry-red grenade-replacements at a couple of isolated Aussies performing defiant shuttles across the transported village green? Do we care who (exactly) does the slaying – which symbols come to hold aloft the severed heads? Do we?

‘Cos it’s all a bit – in fact remarkably, is it not? – tribal? And therefore both appalling and wonderfully of us. And given that this (cricket) us is maybe more… well, middle-class and allegedly therefore able to simultaneously walk, talk and think than the footie us (for example) this does make the ashes yet more extraordinary, huh? And anthropologically hilarious? I think so too.

But enough of the painstakingly researched detail. We need to talk about the forty-four limbed monster that is the team. Because despite my hunch that Broad is so pumped with Vitriopomp (available from all good pharmacists now) that he might win the first test within the first ten overs, there is likely to be a contest of sorts thereafter. Maybe a brilliant one. The poutingly punchy non-walking blonde may well reaffirm that what really matters is more about transcending lust than technical nuance but he may not. In which case we are drawn in to the myriad confrontations – the chess match of it, the bit for brainy blokes who say things like fascinating and I dunno… read the Telegraph. Here the microweb of bluffs, plans and sledgeo-funk may yet entrap us, enthral us even in our starlit vigil. Thus, if ‘nothing’s happening’, the coach and the expert in all of us will come out to play.

We’ll bang on to the sleeping dog about why that third seamer question will be so pivotal. How reckless it was for Flowers – that i-i-diot Flowers! – to have left out the season’s leading wicket-taker. How we always suspected Finn’s temperament just wasn’t up to it. How Tremlett’s such a li-a-bility – can’t get him on the park without pulling an eyelash. How Onions would have mopped up the last three no problem, ‘stead of them getting a hundred and forty bloody runs!! In short, our knowledge will grow in direct proportion to the drift against us.

But will there be drift? Or rather when is it most likely to hurt us?

Feels to me like there is more class in the England side – Cook, Trott, Pietersen, Bell, Prior, Swann, Broad and Anderson falling into the Top Player category – but how much of this is an anglo-centric view? For the Aussies Watson, Clarke… Siddle maybe for his fire? Then I’m either not convinced or not familiar enough, or just biased. Others feel more like good players (Finch?) with a tad more to prove.

But where – if these things turn out to be in any way predictable – are the likely chinks in the armour for England? Obviously the promotion of Carberry may be something of a gamble which conceivably could undermine them from ball one – meaning the scramble could start early. The contrary view is of course that Carbs may be brilliant and that if he isn’t the inclusion of Root at six will compensate – may even prove a masterstroke. How great would it be if Root came in and absolutely destroyed a tiring Australian attack?

I also love the idea that Carberry may go from part-time electrician to ashes god but am unable to expect it just now. The first test is hooooge for him and I genuinely wish him well; signs were encouraging when finally England got some meaningful practice recently but I was frankly not struck on him when I saw him dab and feel unconvincingly at the Swalec in August. (And I fully accept this was a very different form – and a very different form of event – to Brisbane.) Carberry’s temperament however appears to be good; if that holds he may not need to be special to be effective.

That third paceman call for England feels like it may be most central. And most likely to get us armchair cricket-rocket-scientists animated. Putting aside the Finn/Tremlett/Rankin conundrum, I have a certain sympathy for the pro-Onions faction. Right at this moment (and in this weather?) yonder Graham of Durhamshire has a particular appeal as safe-pair-of-hands-plus option. In fact he is palpably a whole lot better than that; his classic seamerness, that subtler timbre to his threat (compared to the robotic violence of the other candidates) plus his broader range of questions asked may not be the photofit for hard, dry Australian pitches but is not multidimensionality in a side generally advantageous? In his absence I slightly favour Rankin – strong unbreakdownable action.

The Prior situation is less fraught with choices. If he is fit (and not likely to break down and bugger up his series) he plays. Otherwise it’s the Yorkie lad. Might actually be good to have two keepers comfortable – or at least experienced – in ashes-style conflict.

But it’s the craic and the sledging and the rivalry that’s special. Us growed up folks regressing into that diabolical/essential/childish(?)/politically indefensible world of disproportion.

Don’t tell me you’re unfamiliar with this falling – so inevitable, so natural – into hallucinatory mode? Combining palpitating nationalism with higher-planed, weirdly supra-personal capacity to judge? Where the default position is (in this case Arm’s Length) Intermittently-Frantic Bolshie Interventionism. As though we too, are both satellites – omnipotent, circling at some supremely discreet but advantageous realm and then zooming in madly to bawl, or throw fruit – and (I guess) The Barmy Army on the ground. In their faces. Us.

Why so cruel for Foxy, eh?

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Let’s start with the obvious. Whether we attribute it to epic ‘modern’ levels of attrition, bursts of off-the-scale intensity, act of god or a poor surface simply may not matter. The fact is many supporters – not just those wiping away a tear post ‘Wlad’ – felt the premature exit from the fray of Williams, Davies and Adam Jones was both pivotal… and a crying shame. The fact that Jonathan Davies will now apparently miss the entire Autumn Series is so bleakly dispiriting I myself may need to either go into hibernation or drink myself into a November stupor. (Or a four- monther if prospects for the Six Nations are no better for the lad. Too cruel! Just too cruel!!) In short, rightly or wrongly, there was a sense that we were all denied a contest of equals.

‘Foxy’ – very much This Year’s Model for the rugby cognoscenti, following some sublime work for club, country and The Lions – departed on 13 minutes, after Williams. If something in my own heart felt that with his departure went Wales’s principal hopes those were words best not spoken – not then – in that crowded bar, full of red-scarfed womenfolk and red-faced husbands. Come the slow march of Adam Jones, however, seditious grumblings, counter to the general pre-match upfullness, openly spread. Before thirty minutes were up the flying wing, the pretty close to incomparable centre and the much-loved and respected prop had all departed with their various pains. Davies, for one, reflecting the cruel enormity of that period, welling up as he left the pitch. What could the nation do but stoically drink?

That the Williams/Davies trauma came immediately after a Springbok try is of course noteworthy – as is the slightly reckless nature of William’s attempted tackle – but Davies had already shown something of the quality which may yet have unpicked the massive and massively indomitable Springbok rearguard. The Scarlets man is surely now into the world-class category and I for one was looking forward to a fabulous midfield contest including Whitland’s finest and the fella De Villiers – a man with similar gifts and an even finer pedigree. Sadly, ’twas not to be.

The re-shuffle for the Welsh backline was particularly significant in that the best full-back in the world (discuss, with reference to Dagg and Folau?) was shifted out to the wing and the gifted but possibly not so aerially well-equipped Hook slotted in behind, with Beck coming into centre. (So three changes rather than the strictly necessary two.) Now Jimmy bach is a fine player still, one arguably better-suited to the 10-berth than the one-dimensional Priestland but alarm bells rang when he and Faletau made a nervy, communication-deficient balls-up of a fairly straightforward catch. Whilst Hook was by no means to prove a weak link, the ‘boks certainly profited by hoisting high and often into the heart of the home defence – a point Gatland returned to in his post-match reactions. No surprise that the South Africans were awesomely physical but mildly shocking for the Kiwi coach to see his home side exposed as mediocre under or indeed hoisting the high ball.

The first half, however, despite the stoppages and enforced changes, was nearly a classic; a typically wonderful pre-match atmosphere – hwyl set to its sanguine maximum – insinuating its way into the fibre of the game. Hibbard was at full throttle, visibly feeding off the energy in the ether… but he was matched rather magnificently by the beefsteak in green. The focus and level of ferocity amongst the visitors was every bit as impressive as expected but this should not deflect us from offering credit to a South African unit showing barely a glimmer of either physical or psychological frailty in the Taff-side cauldron.

Before the break the Springboks both danced towards the line – a try then, for De Villiers – and they smashed a way in for Du Plessis. Meaning they brought their A Game alright – their powerful, all-court, relentless Bigness and Strongness and Run Like Bloody Rhinos-ness. Wales responded with spirit; fire, even at times, notably from Phillips, who trod that familiar line between rage and control to good effect – especially in that testing period when Welsh bodies were being winched from the pitch. In such a batterfest, discipline would clearly be key.

Through the match there were few significant lapses… but plenty of penalties. Rolland contrived to be centre of attention by binning two props for persistent failure of the scrum, though the suspicion lurked that he had no idea which of the props (if either) was actually responsible for the difficulty. To great cheers a certain giant ‘bok flanker was dispatched for ten for swinging too Luow over Hibbard (oops – sor-ree!) but given the elite levels of violence involved the game was contested in remarkably good order. Set-pieces offered neither side a huge or decisive advantage; tackling was brutal as was ‘clearing out’ around the rucks but a sort of parity of legitimate rampage existed – again to the credit of all concerned. Gatland may have been right when he said the kicking game was most influential and this may imply some criticism of Priestland – whom many in the province think fortunate to occupy pivot.

The most delicious moment of irresistibly flowing rugby came via a kick-chase from the Springboks, extending the visitors lead to 22-15 (at that point.) Fourie du Preez and Jaque Fourie contrived a stunning try featuring a superb and mildly outrageous flip inside from the centre. Du Preez merely had to be there then leg it – but he was there, having sprinted fifty metres. The conversion was a gimme, and no further points were gained by either side ’til Rolland’s terminal toot some thirteen minutes later. Watching ‘live’ it was not immediately clear that Fourie had been clearly offside when the ball was first hoofed into the danger zone – and thus the try should never have stood. In ‘moral’ terms though, the score was about right.

A depleted Wales then, got beat. If that has a familiar ring – and I fear it does – this might undermine any defiant talk of a meaningful Welsh threat at World Cup 2015. Comparisons or extrapolations around relative consequences from the loss of allegedly key individuals are so spurious you’d think I just wouldn’t go there. But imagine we’re all in the pub, post-match – let’s deal in those hunches, eh?

For me Davies is a beautiful (now brawny) wunderkind-of-a-player. One who had (even by the thirteenth minute) shown he was already on it, bigtime. One who through his fabulous mixture of running and composure and deftness might be expected to make some real impact. Why? Because he’s done all that, on a stage of similar if not greater stature – the Lions tour – when the Aussies could barely live with him. So Foxy would have won the game for Wales.

Jones is an altogether different kind of icon; a man who manages to be somehow quietly, implacably, almost invisibly gargantuan and carry off a worryingly retro barnet. Feeling reassuringly like one of us – a monosyllabic but good-natured plumber, perhaps? – he is simply adored for his unchangingly sacrificial shoulder-work. Despite the absurd continental bulk that is the Springbok front row, Jones would have won the game for Wales.

I kindof jest. Perhaps wiser and fairer to say that if there are indeed, equivalents to these two in England, France, Ireland – are there, I wonder? – they too might well be thought of as irreplaceable on the big occasions, even allowing for righteous talk of the squad being everything. Hence any speculation re the summiting of that Southern Hemisphere mountain Wales keep neglecting to climb will come back to minutes 13 and 30-odd of that first half.

Your own… personal… Mu-nich.

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The Munich Trove. What a great story. The spiriting away of proper high-end modern art – Chagall/Picasso/Dix etc etc – by sleeping cohorts of either greedily ambivalent or conflictingly discerning Nazis, bearing canvases through dark tunnels in hay-carts or on dark, dark trains. Or by packing them on reluctant mules for clandestine hikes over the Schwarzwald. Or somewhere – somewhere misty. This is surely so-o fabulous we may have to wheel out the You Couldn’t Dream It Up subheading. More fun though, methinks, to dream up our own, life-changing stash…

Except maybe not a stash; not something the buggers could legitimately take back. No – NO – a gift, a spectacular, real, fuck right off GIFT that The Authorities could gawp at all they liked but never take away. So you can choose to openly display it – put one in the conservatory dwarling, put one right there in the front fucking window!! Wherever you want. And there’s no denying it’s yours. Phew. Woddablast that would be. In my head now it’s already sorted.

So yeh My Inheritance of absurdly wonderful art-stuff happens thissaway – in a whirl. I’m in Venice… and there’s a mighty storm… and everything must surely be lost ’til I swallow up the sea and spit it back out, harmlessly into er… The Dalmatians. And the Richest Man Ever Ever –who has been watching from an unsinkable mega-schooner thing, whilst supping fine Prosecco – sees, and promptly magics up, without my knowledge, the following. For me. To keep.

(If that was all a bit urgent it’s because I just want to get to the bit where I think about which paintings really quick, okay?) Because, yeh, it feels like I kindof get to choose… or does the Rich Bloke like … read my mind?

Hmm. Not clear on that. But whatever, suddenly, they’re all there! On the carpet. With the dog still sleeping under-neath! WOW!! Or should that be POW!!?!!

You Couldn’t Dream It Up But…

The first thing I see is yeh – the biggest. Back there, behind the dog, the parcels and everything. Parked against the wall but taking up half the goddam room. A ginormous box-like rectangle, like a fish-tank only I don’t know yet what’s in it because it’s wrapped in stuff. If I unwrap it now… OMG!! Shark!!

Settle down and think.  And try to be articulate.

Never known how much I like this but ‘The Impossibility of Death or Whatever Thingy’ – Damien Hirst. Bloody great shark in the living room. And what’s the label saying? Oh yeh. Maybe the title is massive on this one. ‘The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living’. How brooding and primeval and slow (actually) and bewitching and swallowing and challenging is that? Great work, RB and thanks for the early monster red-herring curve-ball. It’s awesome. I know that’s a totally naff and inadequate word for it but close up, that is awesome. And yeh – a surprise.

Whoa. Okay so clambering into this pile here now and… it’s hilarious this. Propped against each other. Just plonked down, pretty much.

Oh, okay – this is great. This is great. This I’ve always loved or been drawn to; David Bomberg – The Mud Bath. Always just thought it’s remarkable and somehow has so many levels, only about half of which I’m getting. But it really pays to look. Nationalism and chaos and blood/mud, I imagine… but there’s something both kinetically charged and sophisticated going on here. It’s a radical British treasure; absolutely e-ssen-tial. Nice one – great start.  Chuffed with that.

Just realised we’re effectively into a Desert Island Discs thing here. How groovy is that? 20-odd artefacts here though, by the look. And they’re all ‘modern’, I think. So it is my Munich.

I’m just going to pull them out and see what’s here. Almost brutally. Line them up or separate them. Jesus. Be careful enough Vinnybach.

Okay, this is really interesting because RB has obviously caught hold of something here; my sense of what’s bloody magnificent or powerful or attractive, rubbing up against conflicting (used that word already I know but it’s right, again) emotions around the artist. Lucian Freud. Part of me thinks genius, part of me thinks brute. The flesh and the eyes; painted or flippin’ ravaged? Incredibly sexual workings-over of the subjects – the people. Unbelievable – no! Corporeal/supra-believable. Hugely, intimidatingly present bodies… and those eyes.

Brilliantly, this one’s a subtler variation. Girl in bed, 1952. But it’s still all eyes. Beautiful. Welling. Meaning (I’m guessing) this man can’t have been a complete brute; there’s just too much poignancy here. What’s next?

Okay. So we’ve gone back a bit. Vlaminck. And I saw a painting of his in Helsinki, I think… but was it this one? No. But it was… it made me think, it made me re-appreciate Vlaminck, position him way higher. This isn’t it. This is ‘Under the Bridge at Bezons’, 1906 and it’s strong again – from that heavy-daubed fauve scene. Colourful ,obviously. Strongish whiff of Van Gogh maybe. Wouldn’t immediately have chosen that. Maybe that’s the point? Move on.

Now this is fantastic. Inspired work by the RB Geezer. A Rothko, but one of the earlyish ones, before he really got going on the Universal wotnots – the ‘mausoleums’ and all that. (Which I love.) Untitled (Subway) c. 1937. Saw this on ‘Power of Art’ – the Simon Schama thing – which I also loved. Weirdly seductive crazee-mirror people on a platform which is also a trance… deeply fascinating. And so, so hinting at the godlike free-form genius to come; a revelation because of the contrast with Seagram murals and all that. A much littler story but a wonderful one. 

And now immediately a BI-IG Print. Of a Richard Deacon sculpture/installation. Whorls of bentwood. Okay… and this would really be about the object’s presence in the room, in the space. But I’ve got it in the two dimensions. Interesting. ‘What Could Make Me Feel This Way 2’. Airy and modern and kindof unstill in a way I’m still trying to get to grips with. Wouldn’t fit so in cibachrome.  Top choice again – think something about the beauty of diversity and open-mindedness is being suggested here. Fabulous.

How many things do they get on Desert Island Discs? Is it eight? And two luxuries? Well I’ve got more than that here but for my next gift (or choice) I have… something again I recognise but which is reduced (as it were) from installation to print form. Judy Chicago’s ‘Dinner Party’. Epic and genuinely significant feminist statement from the seventies – still major now. A table laid in celebration and observance of brilliant (largely forgotten) women, controversially featuring ‘vaginal forms’ as plates. Iconic. Massive. Demanding. Demanding recognition. Stunning. If the original installation is still in the Brooklyn Museum(?) let’s us blokes hire a plane and go pay homage. Seriously. Flog a painting or two and go. Onwards.

Last of my eight for now (I’m saving a shedload for private viewing)is… a Miro. A Miro because I love his range. From surreal poetry to polemicist to farm-boy naif to metropolitan boxer. With that particular Catalonian angle, broiling with heat and deftness and parochialism and utopian heart. ‘Constellations’. Symbols that I can’t yet read. Wow, wadda gift. What a mixture of gifts we have. What are yours like?

… But don’t call this a steppingstone…

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

After all the talk of key steps towards (you know) 2015 or psychological plusses or markers, England get their win. And Geech puts on record the blandly positivist view – that Lancaster should and would be pleased with how they came through. Fair enough. Except that other than the admittedly reasonably significant fact of the scoreline, very little suggested a further gearing up towards any realistic or legitimate challenge for the World Cup on home soil. In fact much of it felt like a reverse. England were ordinary; disjointed, lacking in dynamism and organisation, unimaginative.

In a relatively poor game in which the opposition’s finest asset – Genia – was barely visible, Australia were still able to coast for the first hour. Only in the final period did England in any sense test the Wallabies defence through fleetness of foot, phases, angles or width. Even then it was hardly fluent and only via a couple of contentious decisions did the critical points come. The whites were lucky and no more than about three of them could feel satisfied with their own contribution. Lancaster would surely be more concerned than pleased.

If that’s a downer then I feel it too. I anticipated the occasion – the series! – in my usual juvenile froth, with the vinnytwinkle on fast-fibre alert. I was, believe me, more than ready to leap off me barstool. I’ve binned most of that in favour of a column on… Match One.

England then – wisely in my view – booked a slot against Australia first up. Certainly it made sense to schedule in at least one All Black warm-up game – and yes, I know that may offend… but surely there is some truth in that wicked suggestion? – Oz being pretty fine but a whole lot more beatable than the AB’S.

Pre-match I expressed concerns about the balance of the pack and the load on youngish/newish partnerships at halfback and centre particularly. I waffled on about Dickson’s lack of presence and that hunch I had that the forwards simply might not achieve – did not feel like a unit. (True I did also admit to worries about Vunipola at eight but he proved a real success – if a semi-detached one.) Some of this I had right.

Dickson was picked a) on form b) to get the ball out and about sharpish. He did that okay but between him and the oddly out of sorts Farrell there was little or no genuine urgency; passes manifestly did not fizz; breaks were rarely engineered, much less inspired. They were ordinary; even Farrell’s goal-kicking was a let-down, as he found a groove three feet west of the posts. To his credit, the stand-off stood and fought his way to more meaningful contributions late in the game – long after he might reasonably have been withdrawn, in fact. Dickson, as previously for England, failed to make a persuasive argument for his retention but he is likely to get a further opportunity, I suspect. Too many changes and all that. The question remains; he can play but can he fire things up at international level?

At centre Tomkins announced himself with a technically ragged but telling early tackle on Folau, before slightly disappearing into the muddle of midfield. Within this zone of disquieting under-achievement we might I imagine still find a forlornly felled Twelvetrees – was it simply nerves? – sucking his thumb beneath a security blanket name of er… Blankey. If both the half-backs and centres are kindof out of sorts, it simply ain’t possible to play, right?

Rarely have I seen so many plop-passes or flop-passes or stationary receivers – all signs that people don’t feel comfortable, don’t want the responsibility of leading or making something happen themselves. Having hoped for some flair and some brightness from form players, we got mainly a bit of A Flap. Meaning that in a game that England won and which Australians will say they stole, few in white lived up to their billing.

Mike Brown was the notable exception. He was almost faultless, projecting forth beyond that typical coolness into an elsewhere rarely-troubled land of creativity, via leggy but balanced surges into space. Only he and possibly Vunipola B looked remotely like disturbing the Wallabies’ calm. Australia may bawl at him all it wants but the full-back can hardly be blamed for his skipper’s dodgy try – scored painfully soon after Brown stood clearly in touch whilst gathering a punt deep in his own territory. And overall, following superb presence and quality under the high ball from the kick-off, England’s guardian was a shoe-in for the home side’s Man of The Match, whilst further cementing his place in the side. That he will justifiably keep the gifted and arguably more elusive Foden out speaks volumes for the incumbent and releases (or confines?) a proper talent to the bench.

A word on the captain. Robshaw apparently has his critics; but once again in a match where his side were underperforming around him, he led. This is not to say he was as outstanding as he often has been… but he was present and he played with intelligence and commitment. I rate him for his consistency and his knack for an important intervention – like that snaffled try, or, more often, the key bridging or protection of the ball come the ruck. Often when something good gets done by an England forward, it’s by him.

Lawes I wonder about. Clearly a tremendous athlete and a force of nature at times, I simply don’t see it happening for England. More a hunch than an observation perhaps but he seems to me too hot/too cold. In this encounter he took about an hour to get going and I sense this may be because he daren’t free himself up for fear of infringement. His natural mode would appear to be rampage rather than cruise control; I may be wrong but this suggests to me that he has both some significant maturing to do to (for example) play a central role in line-out calls and that edginess is essential to his game. Reined in, he loses a lump of his value. (Line-outs, by the way were a shambles.) Courtenay could be a world-beater but can he stay in the team while we wait?

I’ve said the Aussies had every right to be aggrieved at the Brown/Robshaw ‘incident’. Less clear perhaps was the other major beef – Hartley’s blocking of their defender as Farrell darted in to score. Certainly the Saints hooker denied passage to the tackler but some have said he would never have gathered in the England 10 and that therefore it was fairly judged. Personally, in the moment, it seemed a home decision – one swayed by a Twickenham crowd eventually finding some hope out there in the action – but one that will add further to the list of historic grievances between these deliciously, sometimes brutally keen rivals. Oh… and it decided the match.

In short, can I please be both underwhelmed (by England) and remain jig-ready, then? With multifarious and multicoloured flyers and dancers yet to engage, the juices will be flowing yet.

Carnival time?

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Yes, surely, in an ‘everything’s relative’ kindofaway. England’s qualification for the Brazil finals will justifiably set one or two congas swaying – and why not? Hodgson’s team (if that’s what it is?) certainly succeeded (if that’s what it was?) by saving up or inventing their best two performances of the group stages for the consequently notably un-jangling end . As though all along they just maybes had a better sense of theatre than we did. Well good on ’em.

Over a genuinely entertaining and sometimes spicily competitive 90 minutes, a full England side did effectively on this occasion rise to the challenge presented by a thoroughly committed Polish group and their likeably raucous supporters. The atmosphere was palpably that of a proper game of footie, largely, it has to be said, because of the volume of – I think we’re talking nearer 25,000 than the 18,000 generally quoted pre-match – and the hearty defiance emanating from (if my translating skills serve me well) Lech Walesa’s Red and White Army. There was that pulse here; the thing that sets us aflutter. And god it was good to have that back.

In the first half in particular, this was an old-style ding-dong; a spectacle and a frightening test for the cardiac health of the management teams. Ludicrously open – with Cahill and Jagielka apparently only communicating via carrier pigeon – and with Townsend or a Lewandowski or two quick to exploit retreating space. To everyone’s credit – players, managers and fans in the ground – this had knock-out excitement and the feel of a knock-out match. (Which it wasn’t, remember, for the Polish contingent.)

The now local or visiting Poles brought into the thing a charge whose only negative was the predictable but clearly unnecessary whistling of the home team’s national anthem. Beyond that, they made a magnificent contribution to the evening’s sport. Including, perhaps, raising the tempo as well as the atmosphere of the game to a level that may have suited the England players: in particular the thought strikes that given the sense that the only viable mode of operation was via high octane engagement, the traditional retreat into hesitancy and plodding predictability was denied to the fellahs in white. A lovely thought that; who knows, or could know how much the nature of the game was determined by tactical preparation… as opposed to beery Central European breath?

Afterwards a dramatically shorn, former trawler skipper name of Keano again belied his national stereotype for waxing lyrical by soberly deadpanning stuff about ‘big players in big matches’ – meaning Gerrard and Rooney. And he was largely right. Those two will gather most of the plaudits for a performance that generally kept the English Disease – of coming over all donkacious and crap when the pressure’s on – at Kenny Dalglish-style (i.e. palming the bear-like defender) arm’s length. In interview, the England skipper may be as dull as the brilliant Scot but last night his relentlessly omnipresent force probably was the difference between the sides. Whilst Rooney’s influence gathered slowly, Gerrard was simply there – everywhere – from first to last. Without being exemplary or truly inspired he more than anyone delivered the victory.

Pre kick-off, a disproportionate lump of our time/airtime had been snaffled up by a certain WBA fan casting around blindly for meaningful/topical subject matter and alighting on the subject of Hodgson’s alleged bravery. Apparently the Brainy But Dour one (twice) threw off the shackles in choosing Townsend. I don’t quite see it that way, not buying (myself) the notion of significant cultural change in the soul of the England Manager implied by the esteemed Mr Chiles’ line of thought. Ar Andros clearly has the potential to be that boldest of choices but softest of targets – The Luxury Player – but the now pretty standard inclusion of six defensively-minded players plus the creaking port-cullis that is Hart allows for a certain slack in the girlie attackers capacity to protect the castle keep.

For those who haven’t got it, the inclusion of two holding midfield players as the hardcore lance-merchants in the central-but-deepish areas of the pitch enables or licenses dafter, more frivolous stuff up the pitch. Like Townsend gambolling or Rooney flashing and flicking; Sturridge loping and loosing that shimmy-stepover; the riskier, bamboozle-heavy and ideally more penetrative offensive stuff. Lampard and then Carrick, therefore, made Townsend possible agin Montenegro and Poland. It was relatively pragmatic decision-making, seen in the whole – a whole where Wellbeck’s lack of goal-threat but tremendous willingness and Rooney’s ability to chase were acutely factored in to Hodgson’s careful pattern. Roy hasn’t, in my view, converted.

And I don’t fully accept that the fact of the qualification following two goodish performances vindicates Hodgson. Whilst this may be the start of something, it may also be another in the series of perceived new dawns which have directly contributed to English complacency around the game. We remain – as surely evidenced by the bulk of this qualifying campaign and certainly by the tournaments that have preceded it – a fascinating but dreadful example of the proud fool, unable and unwilling to actually adopt patently more skilled and successful and downright necessary strategies from elsewhere. Because we never quite accept we have to learn that (foreign) stuff. Because (I suspect – hilariously) we still think there’s something worryingly unmanly about being able to twinkle or caress, or just be comfortable in possession of the ball.

But that’s again the Wider Issue. One which can only be addressed over years and following the radical overhaul of the coaching system. Being undeniably pessimistic about this particular matter, I intend to simply skirt past this one as though it fails to intrude with any relevance. (But man it does… and it is relevant… bigger, for me than the World Cup. I just don’t want to depress either myself or you by going there again this morning. Let’s get back to last night.)

For now we can enjoy – and I do mean that – the sense that our lot not only turned up but played. Played a 65/35 part, I reckon, in a bloody good game of football. And showed some promise – through Townsend’s directness and will to engage and Rooney’s returning quality and Baines’ brightness and busy-ness. Through a much-needed display of convincing collective spirit. They’ll need all that in Brazil.

I’ve now seen all manner of cobblers and conjecture over the possibles and the ‘realistic targets’ for England in South America next year.  The Telegraph even had a ‘Can We Win the World Cup?’ thing going on!?!  Jaysus!! 

I return to my earlier point about radical and meaningful reform of coaching nationwide and throughout the age-groups being substantially more vital than a decent showing by our First XI in Brazil.  Even if Rooney and co had an inspired outing there.  Yes, there is some hope that the younger guys in the squad might yet thrive, despite conditions and the likely spookily alien walk-dart character of the games.  It is also true I think that the general standard of play is relatively ordinary at tournament level – sometimes even through to the defining stages. 

So there is some hope – there is some real hope that an energised, positive England side may perhaps over-achieve in the manner of an England rugby team of recent vintage, rather than bomb out amid the usual ignominy.  If this sounds a weary sort of optimisim then maybe… that’s what it is.  I hope the attacking players in particular fizz with confidence and belief; I just don’t see Hodgson facilitating that because I fear he lacks generosity, dynamism, inspiration – deep awareness even.   These things the English game itself clearly lacks.

We’re left with issues we cannot and should not duck.  Yes England had a real good night last night.  But the football matrix here is still a shocking and pretty depressing mess.

Ratings; England- Montenegro.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

To complement – or contradict – my earlier blog and prove – or disprove – the fact that I actually watched the game… some thoughts and some numbers.

Hart – simply very fortunate to be in the side. Close to chronic poor form but has almost no meaningful competition. Almost completely untested tonight and only one clear error – when he made a duff clearance in the first half that might have led to a forty yard goal. But didn’t. 6/10.

Walker – likewise lucky to be in the side (and possibly any England side?) following his most recent England performance. Linked reasonably well with Tottenham partner Townsend but showed intelligence-deficit (again) to get booked. Defensively, barely good enough at this level. 6/10.

Cahill – athletic and often composed – or has the appearance of composure. Has most of the necessary attributes but distribution not top drawer. Perhaps the major disappointment is his failure to get more goals from set-pieces. Cruised it, mostly tonight – as he should have done, 7/10.

Jagielka – journeyman, with decent pace but would not feature in a strong England side. Honest enough but can’t pass beyond about ten yards and not likely to either calm things or prompt things. Okay tonight. 6/10.

Baines – especially good modern fullback, who can both defend and attack – and strikes a dead ball beautifully. One of the opposition’s successes tonight was that they cramped his attacking style almost completely. He will be a worthy successor to Cole, whose days in the job are surely numbered. 7/10.

Townsend – decent opening, sporadically effective with comparatively little end product. Then – with the universe quite rightly moving for him, following his sustained attempt to do something positive – he unleashes a stunning right-foot shot for the third goal. Man of the Match for his directness and his energy, no argument but does not look, to me, like a consistent world beater. (So file alongside the other frenetic fliers.) But buy the lad a pint tonight. 8/10.

Lampard – still playing slightly depressingly within himself and… think about it… if he can’t unpick that defence with that much time and space (and against that midfield) then his noble but ultimately slightly underwhelming contribution to the national side is drawing to a close. (Which it surely is). Did little more than water-carried tonight. 6/10.

Gerrard – showed – was often available – but very often disappointed, I thought? Like Lamps, the lights – the Roy-of-the-Rovers fires, in fact – are barely lit these days. Stevie G being merely competent is the rather sad symbol of the England side for the last several years. 7/10.

Wellbeck – another good athlete who can seem really at home in both the MU and the England shirt– deft and bright, even. However…tonight he was sloppy and a little wasteful… and he does unfortunately lack threat, being quite obviously not a goal-scorer. His linking and ‘assisting’ (and – okay then – his defensive work) therefore needs to be absolutely top-drawer to justify a place. Not sure it was tonight. 6/10.

Sturridge – a real striker who was pretty ineffective, tonight, I thought. Again, given the opposition and his form, might have expected more. Can be genuinely elusive and has great instincts but it didn’t quite come off for him – admittedly under close attention. Slightly careless re his awareness of offside, 6/10.

Rooney – had an average game at best, being particularly ropey in the first half. Few if any moments of brilliance, too many miss-controls or poor flicks or dodgy passes. But grabbed a goal. And am pleased to see him sprinting – if only on rare occasions. Confidence clearly not fully there… and he needs to spark up that electric charge. 6/10.

Hodgson – have to give him credit for the Townsend call. But another unconvincing performance, with little in the way of (remember this) verve? It’s not like the lads looked inspired. (See previous blog!) 5/10.

Neville – good bloke and brilliant pundit who seems to be failing almost entirely to shape or motivate the group. But how much scope does he have. Some, surely? 6/10.

Whilst you were watching England…

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So was I, ultimately. Having side-wound my way round the kitchen – faffing, cooking – whilst still ‘protecting’ a certain #tinnasardines (see previous blog) I did, indeed sit and watch. Didn’t really intend to. Not with friends arriving/rugby on/@tate channel to draw me in/dog to walk. But you just do; when once it really was the biggest and most important and exciting thing.

Now it’s not. Not with these players, this gaffer, the pervading sense of gaudy amorality; the Premiership milieu wavering between maxoffense and dangerousshitmeltdown on the ECG that is my/our(?) heartfelt response to stuff.

Setting aside any nationalistic lunacy (which I tend to) there’s very little in the way of pull. I’m kindof way beyond the gut-churning anguish that traditionally accompanies moments of national embarrassment and almost post intellectual-botheration entirely but if pushed to offer a diagnosis on the Tight-arsed Donkeyism served up by the heroes in white for the last 40 years my doctorly sprawl would look something like this;

  • ’tis a function of dullish and limited coaching and shortage of both top-tier talent and comfort within the territory that perennially sucks the expressive life (and therefore the viewing pleasure) out of the ‘occasion.’
  • In tournaments especially, chronic lack of belief oozes out of the pores of even the better players so that time after time we (England) offer little more than responsibility-shirking, eyes-glazed, allegedly hard-tackling unambition.
  • Meaning players daren’t do stuff; and managers daren’t change things.
  • In short the technical inadequacies of our players are utterly exposed when they show (alongside the presumed skill-deprivation) a depressing lack of fibre. And time after time, they do.

Who’s actually flourished in an England shirt, in the last… in your memory? Rooney, certainly, about five years ago; when he was young and didn’t know any better. When he grew up and the pressures and knocks got to him, he became – symbolically, almost – the worst of the lot, his performances on the Big Stage having been nigh-on insultingly poor. The formerly brilliant scally became some depressed Sunday League would-be-10, joylessly shinning when he should be caressing. I think we may go back to the Bobby Robson era before we find players fulfilling themselves, expressing themselves – outliving themselves as I like to think of it.

Unfair? Possibly. Clearly we do have talents – players who can play. Ironically, one of the very best – Wilshere – has this week exchanged ciggie-in-mush for a boot by sadly confirming he too has fallen for the conceptual footie-norm of Englishman-as-yeoman. How lovely it would have been to have heard him purr about Iniesta. Instead he brought us back to the Stoke City School of Allegedly Fixed Realities, where, as we know, conceptual appreciation of the bravery of ball-retention as an art-form is absent from the curriculum. (Even now, under Hughesy.) Wilshere then, sounded dumb, which was a shame… and to be fair, it contradicts his metier on’t park.

But this is all medium-eloquent rehashing of stuff we already know. What I need to do (I know, I know) is take yoga-size breaths and say something meaningful about what’s to be done, right? Here are some thoughts – again, bullet-pointed to make it look like I’m presenting something kosher. They’re general – because depending on the presence or absence of Better Offers, I may even write about The Match (tonight!)

  • Let’s start with England. The boy Hodgson has merely continued the deathlike suffocation of Braver Thoughts by actually shoring up(!) the tradition 4-4-2 bullshit-bulwark. He should take no credit – and get little sympathy – for ‘leading’ the team through yet another appalling Euro Championship in which his side played pathetically little football and appeared yet another bunch of fearful and insipid non-individuals. He needs to go and World Cup qualification or otherwise should not deflect us from that truth.
  • Management is about inspiring as well as organising; in fact if you inspire you may not need to organise half as much! Brilliant free spirits – or even bighearted brotherly ones – can be propelled through sheer force of personality towards triumph (and I choose that word over success, here.) They may vanquish in a glorious flux of energy, despite being theoretically vulnerable in their ‘openness.’ Think about momentum; think about the role supporters play; picture players bristling and sprinting – living (or outliving) off the fuel of inspiration. Hodgson may have whispered the occasional word of wisdom but he patently has failed to inspire anybody. There is no pretence, even, that he has or could.
  • The current retreat to formulaic Englishness may mean that only Brit managers might be considered as a replacement for Hodgson. This is as ridiculous as the failure of the FA to even discuss ways forward with the willing Guardiola. There are few candidates. Possibly, in a year or two, the Liverpool manager but even ar Brendan might be diverted from the path of knowledge by the pressures of the job.
  • So we probably need to bin these and most other nationalistic notions and… get patient. And get another foreign manager. And let him manage – absolutely.
  • Clearly the development of St George’s Park has potential. Even if the fascists running the Premiership fail to slacken their asphyxiating hold on who plays ball in their league – specifically, how many locals get a kickabout. If the culture of coaching does continue to move towards small-sided games on small pitches where keepers cannot hoof the ball 40 yards up the field and centre-halves learn how to pass and control there may be an improvement, in a decade or so. Or so. But only if the coaches believe in the culture-change.
  • If we continue to get bullish irriots bawling ‘show me some aggression!’ (Jack Charlton, circa 1970) at shell-shocked kids from the touchlines then our magnificent and epic Donkeyhood will continue to thrive at all levels.
  • On a personal note – and I do think this is relevant – I have captained and selected football teams and grew up with footie as the most stable and central staple of our relatively few life staples. Had little else to play or play with, wanted nothing else. But despite being temperamentally suited and probably intellectually equipped, I have not been inclined, for many a year, to get actively involved in football coaching. (Cricket and rugby – yes.) This is undoubtedly partly because the game itself – both on and off the pitch – has changed. Whilst on the one hand the fabulous pre-eminence of Barca and Bayern in recent years has invigorated the spectacle and arguably the nature of the sport, the new squishy chestnuts (greed/diving/contempt for fans and/or authority etc etc) are spoiling the taste of it.
  • Closer to home, contemplation of this unhealthy but bourgeoning empire – The Prem – Premier or Family-Sized bucket of fodder that it is, does for me what a huge tub of KFC or popcorn might. Makes me turn pretty instantly away. And, as I’ve opined before, I know I’m not alone on this. So the cultural imperative to watch and to support the game – let alone Engerland FC – ain’t quite the same. (No matter what any figures may say to the contrary.) The quality of people’s loyalty (to the game, to England) is fraying.
  • To the point that only a genuinely radical and sustained and visionary transformation of all levels of football in the UK will a) put a smile back on my/our faces b) lead, in time, to our wee boys and girls (and thus eventually our representative sides) playing the same game, with the same degree of skill and ambition, as our Dutch, German, Spanish and Italian counterparts. And we’re not big on visions, are we?

Blimey. Off on one again. Did the game start yet? Did I dream all that? What time is it?

More of this? I did write an ebook – well appreciated, as’it’appens by Hayward/Mason/Moore.  It’s here at amzn.to/SSc9To

Sweet Dreams (Vinny and the Pacemakers.)

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Look I’m going to go off one about myself here, something which may get your indulgencometers twitching pretty fiercely but I’ll risk that. (I generally do, right?) Because I’m hoping to say stuff which may encourage. And because space has opened up into which I can shake out some subversively anti-macho belief. Forgive me.

Seven years ago I went clunk; meaning that one minute I was standing calmly in my mother-in-law’s porch, contemplating that which needed to be gathered before driving the seven miles home, the next I was coming round on her cool floor, having slumped. Pre the faint, I was aware of a few seconds of building nausea, after it I emerged immediately, as if from a sweet dream to be fully conscious of an understandably shrill voice – one which I answered calmly, having already computed the need to gather and stand in as reassuring a way as I could. This was the first time my heart stopped on me.

About forty minutes later, with apparently great comic timing, I went again, mid-sentence, in my local surgery. This – and the third loss of consciousness which happened ten minutes afterwards – was significant because I was sitting/lying down at the time and therefore the body was effectively at rest… and yet clunk. I was well looked after (transferred by ambulance to hospital and monitored heavily for days) but at no stage had a renegade bleep been recorded on electrocardiograph or similar. So we knew bugger all.

Bizarrely, that day was my birthday and since that November 24th 2006 I have been well. I charge about the place and do sporty stuff. I climb mountains and throw myself about in the sea. I am either solidly philosophical or I fizz. It’s great.

Then Thursday night I am in my kitchen and suddenly there is the clear feeling I may be sick. I process the thought and the desire to walk to the back door to get some air or barf copiously over the honeysuckle. I don’t get there. I come out of another sweet dream, with my head ringing and my wife’s voice distant then near. “Rick? Oo bloody hell.” I am quite comfy, thanks but I am indeed sprawled on my back on the wooden floor, weirdly flattened out, a traumatised dog having vacated the space at my side. I am actually fine.

We call an ambulance, because of the history (my own, and the fact of my mighty father succumbing to cardiac arrest at 44.) Two friendly blokes in green medical overalls soon come and we fill them in, including the bit about not really ever getting a diagnosis previously. They listen politely enough, but fail to shake off the impression that some doctor’s lumped another waster upon them. The wife skilfully makes the case for a hospital transfer, however and they fall for it, eventually. I get in the bus happily, under my own steam, am wired up (fortunately) and promptly adopt ex-parrot mode. I come round to a triumphant grin from paramedic A, who froths with the following revelations;

“I know exactly what it is now mate! And it’s all on here!” (He points at the ECG.)

Being immediately again fully marbled-up, I am bloody chuffed. He begins to unravel the mystery but I go again, into that rather nice land – fecund and walnutty and shorn of advertising as I remember – where I nearly cobble together a worthwhile dream, I think… before coming back. By the time I am installed in Withybush Hospital, Haverfordwest, Paramedic A has reported that a) I went 4 times altogether b) my record ‘pause’ was sixteen seconds and that c) he has never seen anything like it in 26 years. (Pride!)

Within two shakes, it is clear to all and sundry that I have something with a pet name of sick sinus syndrome (I think) and that this describes a failure of the sinoatrial node: fortunately a remarkable and temporary failure, as this aforementioned node is the baby that clicks its fingers to start the heartbeat. And mine er… like every seven years or so… takes a break… then comes back magnificently in sequence and in time. So it’s a no-brainer, apparently, that I get an ‘at rest’ pacemaker. I’m booted to Morriston, in Swansea and kitted out.

The procedure – like everything else, honestly – was fine. Except the surgeon geezer was a Bolton fan(!) and the radiographer Chelsea. Foolishly I joke throughout. This Bloke Who’s Hand My Life Is In a Bolton supporter? Bllood-dee Hell! So dodgy judgement and pitifully unable to hit the proverbial barn door from ten paces. How’s that gonna work? I expect to wake up with a sardine tin stapled to me chest and BWFC in four-inch stitches. In short, we ‘ave a laff. And on a more serious and genuine note, there is NO WORRY.

So look I’m a fit bloke for my age who suddenly has a pacemaker that rests at 50 per minute, will probably do bugger all for years but may save my life and/or the lives of those (god help them) within my sphere of influence. It kicks in if my heart suddenly kicks out. I will be able to get back to cricket coaching in about a month, once the wires from the sardine tin to the heart are embedded and unpulloutable. I will be able to do nearly everything; from the Vinny Wish List, only a Lions call-up is likely to be permanently struck. (But we’re okay in the half-back dept, anyway.) Things will again be wonderful. So… can I get to the girly bit now please?

If things had been just slightly different I coulda beena gonner, right? And I want to abuse the freedom that gives me to lecture you, sagacious reader, about deep, personal, meaningful shit. Like the fact(!) that I am clear that I have made it impossible for me to die Way Too Young because my dad did; and therefore I have been invincibly certain ever since the moment of my first difficulty that this cannot and will not happen either to me or my family. You can label that what you want; I call it belief.

Further, I don’t mind sharing the fact with you guys that I have spent more time kissing and holding my wife in the last 48 hours than I have for years. And that I have cuddled my daughter more. That I am refreshingly clear that my gals and my son (and our friends) are to be treasured every moment – every moment where possible – and that I urge you to let it be known and felt to all of those that you love that they are the essence of your life. Because they are. And that therefore life is wonderful. Do not make the mistake of assuming they know; show them/tell them and do it now… and now again. We all underachieve as givers-out of love; and there is nothing more urgent than that passing – that exchanging – of the pulse. Take it from me.

I am an atheist but this is by no means the main reason for living in the now. The moment is to be cherished and shared and pumped full of the pinky-reddiest goodwill we can muster. I reckon we know this, most of us but we are shamefully ungenerous or hesitant – especially us blokes, perhaps – when it comes to love.

It really is simple; we don’t need to get lost in shyness or neurosis; we just need to shove it out there! Gert big honest lumps of it. Warming swirls of it. Hilarious piles of it. There’s no great mystery or challenge – it’s only in Art that we rate it, dwarlings. So free yourselves. Love just needs to be real and to be out there. Go spread it.