Author: bowlingatvincent

Hirst; they think it’s all over- is it, now?

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Damien Hirst has continued his druggie/pardee/easy-teasy relationship with the unfortunate non-Damien Hirst World this week by – as is his want? – TAKING OVER.  He has gone smotheringly, ballistically wider and in your facier than his previous bigtime best, by commandeering space in 11 Gagosian galleries around the world simultaneously.  As always with the regal brit-popper, beneath this cultural blitzkrieg there is that subversive prickle within the detail – some of the works being provocatively titled, with hallucinogenic associations

Paintings being exhibited are entirely appropriate to the Hirst-obsession with WHAT THE MARKET WILL TAKE.  So this current ruse of (imagined?) flooding or testing our/THE MARKET’S capacity to engage is what it’s about.  As much as the paintings are.  Again.  Arguably.

This may on the one hand be a perfectly acceptable creative response, honourably reflecting Hirsts’s entirely legitimate and punkily energised worldview; (that) the Art Market is obscene/absurd/necrophiliac and it must be defrocked, demystified and disembowelled in a creative and entertaining way.  Or it may be another lazy spin of another formula designed at the Hirst Ruse Emporium, centreing again on his own importance; or does it challenge that too?

Hirst knows that the scale of the project and of his celebrity tanks these paintings in formaldehyde.  Indeed if a shocking generalisation were to crop up here it might be that Hirst’s ouevre is relentlessy concerned with his knowingness.  But in my view it would still be foolish to underestimate either his integrity or his concern with the making of worthwhile art.  Thus my own sloganeering is more in sympathy than in irony.

Interestingly, Adrian Searle in today’s Guardian seems clear that there is no discernible benefit to looking at these paintings as individuals – suggesting I think that this offers little reward, or no individual unique viewing experience, even though they are hugely different in dimension and subtly different in colour(s).  I disagree.  (If you are unaware of the nature of the paintings, now might be the time for me to tell you that they are all ‘spot paintings’ – arrangements of coloured dots along an imaginary grid system.  ‘Traditionally’, they are the kind of (arguably) abstract or conceptual painting that might demand a degree of contemplation from the viewer.)

I think the artist may argue that it is a travesty to suggest these paintings are in any way ALL THE SAME.  I think, however, that he seeks to lever out that very response, at whatever level, from his punter.  Hirst is standing again on the chest of the Market, crow-barring open its ribcage for fleeing or inveigling opinions – offensive or otherwise – to worm a way in or out.  The paintings – all made by assistants, I believe – are both a challenge as an understood group AND as individuals AND as a relevance (or otherwise.)  They are not to be dismissed without due consideration because that is a purpose of all art; to demand or engineer consideration.

So look at these paintings.   Allow yourself to feel them.  Is there anything there for you?  If so, what?  Have fun trying to work that out!  If nothing alights, firstly look some more then consider whether they make a contribution – uplifting/degrading or bland or quietly humming? – to an individual moment, or to an easy or a teasy conversation you might have… after too much wine, or some drugs maybe, at a noisy metropolitan party.

Sniffing out the truth of it…

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Like some modern Allan Clarke, the much despised ‘sniffer’ of yore, I am instinctively and with some unattractive predatory gubbins well aroused, returning to the box.  The Pandora’s Box; the penalty box – the Rooneybox – the mad as a box of frogs box, in order either to wring my hands of its luridly signalled rubber-roominess, or say something intelligible.  About its abstracted bitterness, its high-octane mad-but-vulnerable surrogate violence, its derby-day realities.  United City; or more correctly – and here endeth the pretence towards accurate reportage – City United.

Having for scientific reasons (ahem; that would be a necessary family walk then) swerved the live coverage so as to benefit from cooler appraisals of what would inevitably be an emotional carnage-fest, I submit the following truths/untruths for your inspection.  They are based on a little knowledge and understanding of the game and absolutely no alcohol.

It strikes me firstly and often during this game that Manchester is helpfully keen to wrap us tightly into some symbolically drenched, mythologically scaled flood-scenario, where the protagonists slide tackles and gleeful victorious scoots towards ecstatic fans are beautifully facilitated by what can only be described as pissing rain.  Fortunately there were 5 scoots total, as United contrive to beat City 2-3 in what was without question an extraordinary match.

But the larger questions – about Rooney, about the side’s respective qualities – remain airlocked in the stormy organ-music of the affair.  Am I alone in thinking that although Rooney showed willingly and scored twice, his mixture of affectedly casual but often unproductive cuties and poor penalty are still indicative of a superlative player still rather unconvincingly egging on his own self-confidence.  Trying – maybe just slightly forcing – those sparks?  The purity of his attack for that thudding header notwithstanding, there were too many moments where I for one, felt he was seeking comfort on the ball rather than purring with it.

His exaggerated smacker on the badge in celebration of that first, illogical goal was similarly surely a kind of stage-managed theatre rather than some hearts-truth; Rooney having been led too far into the panto that is our lives to genuinely, genuinely move us with that one.  Yet score he did (twice!) and far be it for me to begrudge him that.  My cynicism or criticism is again more of a reflection of the lurv-deficit I feel exists between my own idealised Rooney and this current incarnation.

There was likewise something about the shortfall in real quality on show in this fantastic football match that disappointed.  Aguerro showed quality, I thought, and commitment – indeed much of the most convincing movement and passing came from City early in the game.  But Aguerro was guilty of a shockingly cheap clasp to a negligibly contacted face late in the game that again, for me, undermined his contribution.  This poorly refereed game, played in admittedly testing conditions, did not need rank drama of that order from one’s of its generally more highly performing combatants.

And so, regrettably, we turn to the ref.  And that sending-off.  The defender – Kompany – jumped in somewhat and two feet were unjustifiably raised, raising the possibility of a red.  However, it was a poor, ill-advised decision with significantly damaging consequences; namely that the game was obviously and unreasonably skewed against the home side from that moment forward.  Why oh why the 57 cameras attending these matches cannot be put to productive use for contentious decisions such as these is a mystery those allegedly running the Premiership avoid like … like politicians – it’s that bad and that mindless.  Twenty something seconds of reviewing gives us good quality decisions 90 something percent of the time; as opposed to the 41% currently imagined.  End of.

The fixture – if not the quality of the football – deserved better.  Instead Giggs was able to stroll absurdly through the match, relatively unchallenged, as City dropped deep, coiled into counter-attacking mode.  United disappointingly contrived to allow their ten opponents to boss both territory and possession in the second half, so that the homesters developed a real and threatening momentum towards the climax.  Thus Ferguson’s (disappointing?) shallow holding position almost embarrassed him.  For me, Phil Jones, Nani, Evra and Lindegaard were all poor and the performance itself was mediocre, unlike the result.

City, I suspect, will likely be more buoyed by what happened today than their rivals.  An irate Mancini can and will motivate his classy troops with that ole chestnut “Imagine what we’d have done if the ref hadn’t robbed us?”.  Silva though, may be more personally distracted by grief over his withdrawal for the second half – a half notably again unlit by his colleague Nasri.  And Hart will surely wonder quietly (or otherwise) at his manager’s decision to rest him for this, arguably the meatiest if not the most meaningful confrontation of the season so far.

Sad, in conclusion, that in a situation so gloriously stuffed with stories – the mighty Scholes revisiting, the cruelly crocked Hargreaves popping in – witless ‘authority’ pastes the headlines across its own, impervious brow again.  There is something of the dumb animal about this, or the drunken party game, where, glazed-eyed, Bigwigs paste miscellaneous notes above the eyes of those to the left.  Only here, we the fans can read what is written; it says “Don’t be such a donkey- REVIEW!!”  Then we get a proper, proper game of football.

Where’s yer Rooney gone? Far, far away?

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I’ll level with you.  Dumbly pondering my next missive, quill caught expertly between the furrows of my brow as the everlasting gale flings assorted twigs, small birds and occasional tourists against the windows, the last thing I wanted to do was add to the absurdly humungous pile of speculative cobblers about Rooney.  On the one slightly spiteful hand it feels like the boy barely deserves it – him being arguably the clunky epitome of the (crass?) ‘top Premiership player’ – and on the other, frankly, his slightly porky-sulky moodiness becomes a significant turnoff.

But how often do talents turn out this way?  Initially magnificent in their raw state, soon to be either worn down or spoiled by pressure/age/duff life-choices/questionable commitment.  How often do we as fans, find ourselves disappointed by their easing out of love with the game?  Personally I have near run out of patience with player’s inability to appreciate what they got.  So I’ll write, in the abstract, I suppose, about that.

And no, I can’t pretend to write from some passionless state of authority; I’m on a rumble and a hunch here, feeling something between concern about Rooney’s trajectory and near-bitter disappointment with how things turn out when big money, monumental exposure and lowish intelligence coincide.   Unlike the tabloids, I have no new facts to offer.  I merely fear that this quite recently brilliant and natural talent is in real danger of a premature fade.

The Rooney of his last Premiership outing – the humiliating defeat at Newcastle – had more in common with his desperate World Cup self than with the young buck who for two years plus (from the moment of his international debut) carried England with his fearless, intuitive brilliance.  That young innocent played with a revelatory sureness and confidence; he had everything – superb touch and vision, pace and aggression, that gift of knowing without thinking.  In contrast, the Geordies were left mocking a man seemingly (and I hope not to offend by this…) depressed by the kind of theatre and challenge once embraced with a fearsome, wholehearted verve.

Often lately, Rooney has looked this way to me; either sluggish, or unfit, or under-motivated.  As if he no longer really wants to play.  Or maybe things turn that way, if the touch isn’t there, or colleagues maybe aren’t, in his view, up to it in the way United players – Champions League players – ought to be.  Perhaps I exaggerate; perhaps it’s not fair or right to criticise his body language so when the side itself is plainly vulnerable and lacks cohesion.  Clearly struggling is as infectious as scoring and it may therefore be unreasonable to expect anyone to remain immune; but such is the apparent depth and even emotional weight of Rooney’s difficulties (intermittent as they are) that many of us feel for him, I think.

Whilst I don’t expect too many heads to be nodding in Liverpool when I speak of some minor sadness at the sight of the former Toffeeman’s plight, I stand by that particular emotion.  Given what Rooney has shown us – that extraordinary spirited expression of his toggergift – a slide towards the everyday, the workmanlike, the ordinary would be a matter of regret for all who appreciate the game.

We might go on endlessly about the whys.  The cogs now grinding rather than purring so slickly and easily.  The ease itself turning to unease.  For this young man there are so many possible causes for distraction or worse that any cod-psychologist could rapidly formulate a viable hypothesis.  Too much pressure/too much indulgence/dodgy family/delusional fame-obsessed wife/prozzie guilt. Common pubtalk.

I hasten to add that I propose none of these – or certainly none of these individually, or even chiefly.  (And I make this point not just for legal reasons) but because actually it strikes me that without hugely patronising the young man, Rooney is not designed to cope with anything very much other than being – when fit and happy – a magnificent and natural footballer.

So wipe the slate clean again – every word.  Let’s all retreat to some quietly pre-glorious, unselfconscious day.  Let’s speak again of Rooney but more simply; don’t ask him to be a diplomat/orator/pundit/policeman/politician or nuclear physicist.  Give him a ball… and a pitch.   Then, without too many distractions, he might make sense of this ludicrous world – his and ours.

BOD or BOFG? Silly to compare!

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There is something alarming about Paul O’Connell’s forearms; or at least I think there is.  I hope this has nothing whatsoever with prejudices I may have against Irishmen, Ginger Monsters or ham, but there is something in the club-like nature of that leading section of his limbs which has the worryingly hypnotic power normally associated with unhinged propellers.  Or – I suppose – mad, ginger-haired Irish hams.

Not that the recently reappointed skipper is himself either fully or sectionally unhinged – far from it.  In fact, on the contrary, there is something (else?) both powerful and controlling about the Second Row’s clasping gear.  It appears – it feels – as though he has uncommonly massive forearms; forearms with an extra dimension.   One where even extraordinary physicality is only part of the bundle.

This potential for extra-curricular stature is essential to O’Connell’s appeal.  As a captain – of both Lions and Ireland on occasion, remember – and as a standard-bearer leading the charge.  For a man who lacks pace, he picks and goes as effectively as any Front Fiver, having a weirdly unassuming relentlessness that smacks of indomitable courage rather than extroverted heart.  Again and again, O’Connell leads; again and again – whether in the lineout or into contact – he is present.  Such is the rather wonderful and possibly anti-heroic nature of his contribution.

Being myself mercifully six or seven inches shy of the typical Second Row’s elevation I can only speak from a respectful distance of the frequency and abrasiveness of the clashes of these titans.  O’Connell has had his share.  But what strikes me generally of the man – in particular the later vintage (Limerick)Munsterman – is the degree of control he retains whilst either being, or being in, a tide of hyper-conflict.   The temptation towards devilry when confronted by the likes of … name your most feared or revered international 4 or 5 (Botha?)… has been known to be challenging to the point of decisive – particularly in the modern era – where yellow cards for cynicism, slackness or raw violence do occur.

Paul O’Connell, though I suspect not remotely fazed by the thought of succeeding Brian O’Driscoll as captain of Ireland, is nevertheless succeeding a man who by common appreciation is one of the greats of the game.  O’Connell is not, he will know, quite in that highest echelon – though this is certainly partly a matter of differences in gearing.

O’Connell epitomizes that low-diff grungy but rangy Land Rover thing whereas BOD has the possibility for thrilling, fuel-injected glory.  The Lock, who I am tempted to burden with the BOFG moniker (Big Occasionally Friendly Giant) will never electrify us; 4 and 5 don’t do that stuff.   He will however make us roar, us Lions fans, with an imperious catch and subsequent drive, or a low-slung but vital scurry for yardage as a 10 waits dry-lipped for a drop attempt.

In addition, the aforementioned catch/drive/scurry is likely to be repeated with an efficiency destined surely to grind down or erode the confidence of the opposition.  Thus O’Connell executes.

O’Driscoll and O’Connell; two good Irishmen and true who unquestionably share a capacity to absorb or inflict pain for the cause.  As a result they’ve shared injuries and the breaks in continuity they bring.  But such is the influence both exert that they tend to feature pretty much immediately upon teamsheets at every level, right up to those conferring preciously regarded Lionhood.

As the one (BOD) steps away from some of these privileges, few would question that Paul O’Connell – magnificently armed specimen that he appears – is entirely equipped to be a worthy successor, captain or not.  And that brilliant, thunder-stealing but short-arsed centre cannot, in all likelihood rob him of one particular accolade – that of being the B.O.F.G.

In Between Days?

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Don’t know ‘bout you guys but despite the seasonal arrival of well… mainly socks to up the sartorial ante, I’m both looking and feeling a tad dishevelled; peeky; and a tad bloated.  The dog-walking has been an essential antidote to pies and puddings and the occasional pint but not, in truth, sufficient.  I’ve needed a dive in the ocean or a game of rugby or something to truly de-cobweb  or detox the overwhelmed pipework.  Haven’t had it though.

Following this week of lacklustre engagement with either/neither the coalface or the sporting widescreen j’accuse – I accuse myself actually – of a kind of proportionate indolence that prematurely factors in all the really active stuff I have lined up and thereby gets me off the hook.  (Pass that pie, please?)  I accuse moreover, the Mother-in-Law of baking far too much.  Generally, I accuse the calendar of being too Christmassy; but I need to move on.

To the sport.

Kauto Star may well be the real story over the Xmas period but he is an athlete I am barely familiar with.  I can more honestly comment therefore, on the gallop towards the Premiership title, now featuring just the two legitimate Mancunian thoroughbreds.  If that’s what they are?

Manchester United have eased into a position of some control, despite a brief period where they were utterly exposed  -chiefly by City but then in their poor European campaign – as only mediocre pretenders to the title.  Ferguson will know that his side have barely improved of late and will be conscious of the need to maximise psychological capital from criticism of  The Reds from perceived traitors (Roy Keane) and around issues both for and against the strength of his squad – now being tested to the limit by injuries.

United certainly do need players to compete with authority and confidence in the Champions League next year; some added brilliance in midfield and some fit defenders may help.  And yet, domestically, almost independent of any assets the team may have or lack, results come.   The defining quality, the defining force of the Premiership itself still being that fierce Scottish fire smouldering beneath this extraordinary club’s belief.

Mancini, on the other hand, enters a period where both he and the widely imagined disunity within his starry group will be tested.  Are they – in particular these disproportionately remunerated foreigners – able to show real Premiership grit when the squeeze is suddenly applied?  If fluky things suddenly start to go against them, will the likes of Balotelli and Aguerro rally round some newly pressurized core?  (Given that for me both are already showing if not outright selfish tendencies then certainly an awareness of a need to make a personal impact, I do wonder how emphatically City will respond as a team to an allegedly inevitable ‘bad patch’).  We may learn a great deal about the legitimacy of any sky-blue badge-kissers in the next period, methinks.

Crucially, perhaps, now that City have finally faltered – only drawing at West Brom, being held by Chelsea – allowing United to draw level on points, will Silva flow so freely and with such influence?

So results (or something) conspired almost miraculously in the last 48 hours or so to re-hoist United, whilst undermining the Chelseas and Liverpools of this world.  Arsenal too, despite playing consistently well are coming from too far back.  Tottenham – lovely, pacy, Redknappy Tottenham – are bursting brilliantly but likely to be less durable, I would argue, than the Northern Bootboys.  The sensational Bale is quite possibly the single most exciting footballer on the planet, currently; he is the antidote to Lucas and to Cattermole and to the often outstanding but unsprinting Barry.  By sweeping past people in a way that seemingly owes more to childish expressionistic glee than to any football coaching book, Gale is capable of bursting through cynical or disinterested hearts.  Even my marzipan bubble was disturbed by the flying Welshman.

But a passing and respectful nod to Kauto Star and at least a mention of the magnificent, record-breaking crowd of 82,000 for the recent Harlequins v Saracens match at Twickenham are in order.  As is a further airing for the name Farrell (junior), with which some time in February the sporting population may again become generally familiar.

Perhaps though not before your currently sedentary scribe has actually done a substantial amount of running, throwing, batting, bowling; developing his How To Coach as well as his What To Coach skills.  Is there I wonder a workshop out there on How To Shed That Seasonal Lethargy-Thing?  If so, put my name down… immediately.

A (really crap) Lancashire Panto

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It might be nice if life was simple; if I could talk about say… Patrice Evra in all innocence.  If I could simply idle through the only mildly offensive theories generated by my good self regarding his almost unbelievable inability (or will?) to defend.  Likewise, if only I could rave naively about Luis Suarez’s rare gift of inventing space within and around the box, his utter confidence, his unbelievably seamless transition into Premiership groovyhood.  But I can’t – not now, not today.

Stuff’s really gotten in the way.  To the point where the foul blood already slapping the sides of the Manchester Ship Canal collects, minute by minute, further cheap flotsam – further ammunition.  And then it gets lobbed at the other side.

Such is the feeling between Manchester United and Liverpool Football clubs.  Clubs whose realness and greatness in footballing terms is beyond dispute.  Yet the epic scale of their one-eyedness, their capacity to brutally reduce pretty much everything they have in common to a seething conflict currently excels itself.  The annual home and away contest the watching world is exposed to – itself a thing of little beauty – has been further deflowered through the ‘conviction’ of Liverpool’s Uruguayan striker in the matter of alleged racist comments made against Evra (United’s left back.)

At the moment of writing there is a depressingly self-righteous gale of protest and allegation blowing east and west.  Hot on the heels of a strongly worded statement from the club following the Football Association’s decision to substantially (hah!) fine and ban Suarez, the Liverpool players have released a strongly worded message of support for their man.  United meanwhile have spent the recent period belligerently backing Evra.  At no time has it seemed likely that anyone from either side would step forward or, more ideally remain quietly in the background whilst advocating calm.

But what might we expect?  (And this, for me, is the depressing bit…)  The context is generally close to disgraceful.

United-Liverpool games have been effectively brain-dead for ages.  There are almost no moments of class in a matrix of brittle abuse.  Abuse of the spirit of the game; abuse of the ref; abuse of the real, footballing loving fan.  The players almost to a man apparently utterly lack the discipline or will (again) to avoid getting sucked into the ‘heat of the battle’.  They aren’t, frankly, big enough to deny the fraud that is the tackle from behind, the accidentally flailing elbow, the ‘follow through’.  Season after season – even with the influx of allegedly technical players from around the world – the same violent pantomime persists.

So in one sense maybe Suarez has been either unlucky, or miscast as villain of this piece?  For every ‘derby’ match between these two since about 1970 has surely offered up some genuine candidate for an 8 week ban?  Sir Alex, burning with furious and career-long need to outdo his rival from Merseyside is certainly culpable in this general amorality – as, of course, are a series of Liverpool managers.  Don’t tell me that the players are typically eased into the bear-pit without some reminder of ‘what this one means?’   And whilst I concede the likelihood of a caution that all 11 must remain on the pitch… what we used to call “kick-ball-fly” generally ensues; with malevolent knobs on.

Regrettably and shockingly and predictably, the logical extension of this milieu of Vinny Jonesesque lowest-common-denominator clatteration is mere footballers getting themselves or allowing themselves to get twisted up into a cheap, worrying and important controversy.  Difficult to be sure if Suarez dealt in supra-offenses or just the ordinary offensive comments that the derby situation pathetically fosters.  If he has racially abused Evra and he and his clubmates are pinched along a scale between outright lies and loyal delusion, it’s outrageous.  To me it seems very unlikely that he has done nothing for which he might justifiably be ashamed.   However, I am clear that this is no one-sided issue.

Evra, fascinatingly, has previous in the shape of his involvement in a brawl (effectively) at Chelsea, involving a non-playing member of that club’s staff.  Ultimately, after investigation, the word “unreliable” was one of many used to describe his evidence on the matter.  This may, naturally mean nothing whatsoever; I merely take it as a further sign of the disappointing level of understanding and commitment to responsibilities within the beautiful game.

Returning to my own fanlike/fanlit flames of controversy, I have I confess been more than distracted by Patrice’s extraordinary absences or meagre contributions to United’s defending over a period of about eighteen months.  The conclusion has been drawn here that he can’t really be arsed much with stuff happening in the left back zone.  Which is strange, surely, for a no. 3?

Returning to er… the letter of the law, I am clear that this whole, unappealing episode may not tell us much more than this – the obvious.  That a reasonable judgement might be critical of both protoganists – who seem representative of their colleagues in many respects? – plus both clubs, for their unstinting and continuing work towards undermining our faith.

A Knight in Shining Foil?

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There’s been a whole pile of stuff written about JW this week, following his typically understated exit from international rugby.  Paul Hayward of the Daily Telegraph wrote with notable insight and sensitivity to the various and often conflicting Wilkobsessions, offering a real sense of the uncalm crypto-buddhism thing haunting or guiding the extraordinary Englishman.

For Jonny was/is at once the least fly of fly-halves, the most lion-hearted mute, the most innocent and most experienced body.  He is special and yet magnificently, unchangingly doubty; robotically brave and yet disappointingly free of ambition.  We’ve seen a knight in shining foil – often cruelly exposed to the lances of Backrow Baddies or occasionally brittle self-confidence.  And yup; Jonny’s been kinda DEEP.

And that’s hugely rare for a really top level sports-guy, right?  (Or maybe not?)  But peculiarly, Jonny has enjoyed or endured almost Beckhamesque levels of interest and exposure during his decade of world domination; being in relative isolation the single most obvious rugby player on the planet for a good deal of that time.  And being handsome and beautifully mannered and loyal and utterly worthy and yes… impervious and deep.

England’s World Cup winning side were the only team for decades to really break the Tri-Nations stranglehold on the number one slot in the global game.  For maybe 2 years they were the unlovely best – but they were the best.  During and after this period a frequently less than fully fit Wilkinson deconstructed all-comers with a stunning if relatively narrow mixture of tactical and goal kicking.  Combined with the likes of Hill, Johnson, Back, Dawson, Greenwood he threw a blanket over any ambition the opposition might have had… then punished them.  England should have won the tremulous final against Australia by 15 points, such was their superiority but it was entirely right that Jonny coolly – with his weaker foot – slotted the deciding kick.  Entirely right.

What we need to do perhaps is look at his gifts – what he offered – as well as calibrate his undoubted efficiency.  Foremost amongst these was/is surely a kind of ultra-honesty; an elite selflessness.  Jonny gave massively to the cause. He was central rather than sensational. Indeed, the somewhat brutal truth may be that he was simply not extravagantly gifted; therefore we do revert, rightly, to prosaic assessments of his legacy; to points.

I mistrust records – points on any board always being a function of external qualities – era/opposition/position/role etc etc – but in Wilkinson’s case it is his metronomic facility to punish and reap from infringements and opportunities presented that describe him most fully.  For years he was the most feared accumulator in world rugby.  You went off your feet – he punished you.  You encroached at re-alignment – he punished you.  It’s therefore perfectly appropriate rather than begrudgingly limiting to describe him as an Ice-Cool Points Machine.

As is now being acknowledged widely, he mattered, had to be factored in to every game plan – not because he was Barry John (and therefore he might feint and dance mercurially through you) – but because he would punish you if you offered him 3 points.   This may mean that he is less great than some members of the Gene Kelly School of outside halves; but in the modern game, where it feels as though preparation (mind games) and Game Management (Mind Games on a White board?) play an arguably disproportionate role, Wilkinson has really mattered.

That iconic moment when he finally slotted the World Cup winning drop was, for me, mostly memorable as a uniquely liberating moment of personal triumph for ‘Jonny’ – Jonny personally.  When have we seen him so purely ecstatic?  When else has the responsibility of Wilkohood slipped  so deliciously away?  And how long after did he leave it before trudging out again to practice?

Perhaps he’s entrapped me here, through that punishing introspection of his, into indulgence, navel-gazing; but I find myself wondering how lovely it might have been for us to see him enjoy things more, ‘express’ himself more.  However this probably misjudges him.  He more than anyone has personified a kind of streamlined, ineffable but heroic purpose.  He wants to get the team through.  In game mode, he would rarely – very rarely – contemplate beyond the necessary, the management of the game, the kicking of the kick.

So pointless – hah! – to judge him as though he is capable of going beyond his remit, which was what, again?  Oh yeh… to be perfect.  To be ludicrously brave in the tackle (braver than any 10, ever); to be the best kicker in the world to the extent that Games Were Won Almost Always By Him Alone.  And, incidentally, to be uniquely, hair-shirtedly whiter than white.

Don’t ask him to be Carter or even Contemponi.  He is not.  Jonny Wilkinson is, iconically, a great sportsman and appropriately in an age of highly-crafted Business Bull, a Team Player Extraordinaire.  Respect!

Saatchi and me…

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Is the currently invigorating air of free-market/un-market revolution swirling and beeping its way into the contemporary art scene, I wonder?  Is it even being blackberried by its very own, from within its very own hub, rather than from without, by militant techno-geeks or the Urban Poor?   What, in fact, is occurring bro’?

If Charles Saatchi (himself) is sending out the incendiary messages – whilst presumably firing up on latte and danger-muffin in some metropolitan caff – then maybe, on this occasion, the New Disillusioned are superfluous.  The art scene may implode without recourse to occupation/immolation from uncutters or black blockers or almostinnocentbystanders.com.

Those of you who missed the minority interest hoohaa not kicking but maybe shuffling off last week following Saatchi’s Guardian article please sign on here; for another thoroughly modern story is being (un?)told.  Here is the alleged figuration thing … the facts as recognised or… performed.

The boy Saatchi – actually too super-annuated to be coolly associated with rebellion, despite his impressive record for supporting Wacky New Stuff – has really launched one, really gone off on one against his fellow contemporary art enthusiasts.  (And frankly – good on ‘im!)  The essence of what he says is that being a buyer amongst the current crop is “comprehensively and indisputably vulgar”.

He goes on

It is the sport of the Euro-trashy, hedgefundy Hamptonites; of trendy oligarchs and oiligarchs; and of art-dealers with masturbatory levels of self-regard.

He goes on again

Do any of these people actually enjoy looking at art? … Do they simply enjoy having easily recognised big-brand-name pictures, bought ostentatiously in auction rooms at eye-catching prices, to decorate their several homes, floating and otherwise, in an instant demonstration of drop-dead coolth and wealth?

It is, therefore a pretty spiky appraisal of those he rubs shoulders with.  Surprisingly, I have no direct contact with either Mr Saatchi or the average oiligarch, so please take any remarks I contribute with a substantial pinch of something that may or may not be actual salt or a symbol of salt.

However, Charles and I are alike in that we do have a certain general respect for contemporary artists, whilst knowing that this goes against the grain of popular understanding.  He has I think genuinely supported – arguably ‘made’ – substantial British artists such as Hirst and Emin through a belief that they say something real and important about now as well as because of their capacity to excite coverage.  He (no doubt having read my authoritative material on the subject) fully understands the difficulty many folks have with Modern Art; namely that they just don’t get it because it either doesn’t look like what it’s supposed to or ‘any fool could do it’.

Saatchi has put a considerable wedge behind the argument that c’mon, you just really have to look – engage – a bit more and other things become apparent.  For art is no longer (just) about how masterfully you can draw or paint.  It may now be the case that is essential to enter the construct that is the painting/photo/video/performance in order to make judgement upon it.  This might admittedly be more ‘difficult’ than was historically the case but THAT IS PROGRESS.  You, the viewer, have been having it too easy and you may now have to a) gawp for longer and b) even earn the right to make a decision about the artist’s talent and authenticity.

Okay I’m offering a lot given my unfamiliarity with Charles’s everything but these are surely logical extensions, or possibly prefixes, to where he ends up – i.e. IN DEFENCE OF THE REAL ARTIST – who may, surprisingly, be alive now, making art through signs or symbols or soundscapes rather than with lines we immediately recognise.

It may be argued that a leap of faith is necessary to accept some contemporary art as ‘real’, as ‘true’.  That’s maybe fair.  However it has always been the case that critical faculties must be exercised in order to appreciate.  Allow the artists to work.  Do not mistake lack of figuration for lack of quality or integrity.  Contemporary artists are making a massive and honourable contribution to our cultural lives – to our lives.   That’s not a quote from Charles Saatchi but I tell you what I think it could be.  And that’s why the presence of so many wealthy airheads on the floors of major gallery openings offends him.

Saatchiandme.co desperately oppose both the cheap assumption that contemporary art is mainly crap and the notion that it’s okay for the inevitable art market to be populated by phonies.  We are together on the barricade – his a Sheraton Bureau, mine a shopping trolley – lobbing respectively cut glass and potato peelings at the barbarian hordes.  Shouting “Love Not Money!”

So… in this cultural riot… are you with us?

Kicking.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

If I say that we are living through extraordinary times it seems blandly, even arrogantly obvious.  But unquestionably historic stuff is “kicking off” – to appropriate Paul Mason’s stunningly appropriate term – all over.  A kind of us-centric response might proffer the Eurozone as exhibit A here, but large and hairy as that problem seems, perhaps it is right to acknowledge the proper, i.e. life and death stuff going off in say Syria/Egypt, for example. Oh and say Afghanistan/Iraq/Pakistan – remember them?

But I’m being perverse, right?  What I should be saying is something about Russia – that being the real news story of the moment.  And I should headline it with something like ‘Black Belt Bear Wakes With Sore Head’ so as to respectfully treat the issue.

If there is a point to this here outbreak of acerbic indulgo-cobblers, it is that news – that sensationally important backcloth to our mortal uncoilings – is often Naughtily Non-Representative of Anything Very Much.  Or at the very least we should be looking very carefully at its proportionality, its real import, its meaning.  In short, I’m not clear that enough of our news enlightens us to the story that makes the events.

It may be that all this vinny-mithering is a function of my disillusionment with our understanding of Euro-issues following our friend Mr D Cameron’s recent summit  performance.  Maybe I’m blaming the tabloids for the nation not getting it.  But getting what?

  • That IT’S NOT JUST ABOUT THE ECONOMY, STOOPID
  • That surely the arguments against not joining with our European soul-brothers are much more about democracy than money.
  • That apparently there is still only black or white in all things because… because grey is just too difficult to contemplate.

I nearly, for one moment, asked if I was making sense but that’s not really what I’m seeking here.  I’m unravelling stuff; I seeketh not the crystalline – or at least I’m not in the position to make anything explicit.  Because there’s loads of stuff I don’t know.  However I do have some bloody good questions.

Like is it not perfectly acceptable to make an anti-thatnewtreatything argument on the grounds that tying so much in to one notion of (allegedly necessary) financial stability in such a draconian way is fascistically myopic.  You telling me that it’s not anti-democratic to disallow the possibility that individual governments, mandated to carefully stimulate their own economies, might act to promote recovery through prudent spending?

Bluntly, you saying that Leftism of any degree is kindof illegal?  Then I think, in the technical jargon of the financial industry, that you are jack-bootingly MENTAL.

Politics and the media seem to have colluded again in the exclusionment of ideas of this nature.  I wonder to what degree this is a function of the absolute stranglehold the god of economic growth has on legitimate debate.

So who’s having those important discussions about how new understandings of the essence of co-existence amid denuded ‘buoyancy’?  Who’s brave or stupid or smart enough to relegate mere matters of financial fact to item four or five of the real agenda?  Behind sustainable truths – behind the structural need for generosity.

I may have wandered again from the initial question of what is historically meaningful.  On the other hand, maybe I haven’t?

It’s all happenin’ boys…

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Is it just me or are there more real rugby stories about than usual; things that properly prickle the attention.  Like how about these, for example?

The Wales thing; i.e. the legacy of a pretty outstanding World Cup, where they corralled most of the goodwill a game can generate through outliving glorious Welsh stereotypes.  In other words they were often crowd-pleasingly brilliant and brought a dynamism that lit up the tournament.  Now they have to follow that.

The Kiwis thing; the laying of the albatross/monkey hybrid-demon thing, whereby the best team in the world finally gets to drink in the glory earned by generations of mighty All Blacks.

The England thing; where a recently utterly disgraced, stodgy but undeniably large and hairy beefcake begins to roll back its sleeves and get ready again.

The North American thing; where we hope shiny, happy and unself-consciously new peeps get seriously into this other oval obsession (man.)

And as babyplots, how about the Ashton Hairpulling Atrocity/McCaw Gouging Inquisition/Harlequins-Scarlets New World Order?

Living in Wales, forgive me for starting there.

Most of us are clear that Wales did bring something more than slightly wonderful to a relatively ordinary World Cup.  It was a particular belief as much as anything – a Brotherhood of Redness – a triumph for their coaching staff, who simply had the players brimful of uncluttered purpose.  They played almost without fear, knowing they were in magnificent condition, believing in the rightness of their boldness, drawing on tradition, emotion and gloriously disproportionate expectation rather than shrinking into easy conservativism.

Speaking as a coach from a laughably lower athletic stratum, it struck me that what Wales achieved was a kind of perfection in terms of expressing the wholeness that is team sport.  As well as propelling them irresistibly forward, this touched the hearts of the watching world.  One less toot from the referee and who knows – they might even have won it.

Now the trick is to sustain that aura and replicate that level of dynamism going into Six Nations.  Even the supreme Gatland/Howley/Edwards triumvirate may find that a stretch.  One argument says an expansive game is contingent largely upon pace on the ball, which needs… ‘a platform’.  Better rugby minds than my own have recently questioned whether Wales’s front five can or have generally delivered that sufficiently convincingly and express doubts about the looming 6 Nations.

Ideally Warburton and Faletau might tear teams to pieces once parity in the lumps is achieved and games are prized open.  However, I do wonder how things might look if say Jones and Jenkins and Wynne-Jones are either absent entirely or merely inconspicuous?  It’s just hard to play without the ball.  And teams – other teams – will chiefly seek to deny Wales the ball.

On the positive side, I genuinely believe that the presence of a truly competitive Wales team is hugely beneficial to the world game – and always has been.  Support for and understanding of the game in Wales is extraordinary.  Importantly and recently, neutrals around the world received a colourful reminder of what rugby means when the Brotherhood of Redness stepped out.

There are parallels between Welsh Fire and All Black Magisterial Pomp.  The nations are united in a profound link to the unique and mostly honourable physicality of the game.  If it is ever appropriate to talk of a nation’s psyche then something meaningful may likely be said of Kiwi or Welsh expression through rugby.  But it is better felt, or heard, in the national thrum that precedes glorious success.  The difference between the 2 mighty-mouse nations is arguably that the All Blacks are almost always the best side in the world; this dominance has not, however been registered at World Cup level.

So this home victory – the agony of it, the joy of it – was understood to be ‘massive’.  Kindof trans-generationally earned, it was not merely a triumph for McCaw and his fierce leonine posse; it was for all All Blacks – all those who deserved but failed in the 20-something lean years when they merely battered everybody out of sight, but failed to find that most significant of trophies lying at their feet.  I think the watching world understood that too – even or most especially the near-heartbroken Welsh.

England, following the kind of tournament that seemed previously to belong solely to their footballing equivalents, are, I suspect, gently gathering.  The new Temporary Coaching Combo (is that what we should call them?) of Lancaster, Rowntree and Farrell – apart from sounding like a trustworthy and long-established Solicitor’s practice from a pleasantly leafy market town – seems a decent mix.  Farrell and Lancaster have worked successfully together at Saxons, where it appears Lancaster’s talk complements the former league god Farrell’s walk.

Rowntree, the bull-like Forwards Coach is virtually the only sentient being to emerge unscathed – in fact, possibly even with reputation enhanced! – from the World Cup debacle. His understanding of the dark arts and his personal likeability make him central to any resurgence. I do fancy England might be reasonably formidable opponents sometime quite soon, as both Lancaster and Farrell have shown they can manage and motivate – something sadly Martin Johnson failed to achieve.

Lastly I was pleased to deal in some depth with the rise of North American rugby in my last blog.  Pleased because there is a sense of some likeable distant cousin arriving and joining in with one of ‘our’ games; and being pretty good.  And then persuading half his mates to give it a crack.  Before we know it we’re taking club tours to each others countries/watching them develop, excitingly quickly/watching them get a Pro game going/stage a flippin’ World Cup!  Crazy and wonderful stuff like that.

Yesterday a US 7’s side competed with some distinction in the ongoing IRB Sevens in South Africa.  A strong England side beat them reasonably comfortably but they ran a highly fancied Samoan side very very close.  ‘T was another stepping stone towards being competitive.

In passing it strikes me that Northampton’s Chris Ashton’s 4 week ban for stupidly re-arranging Alesana Tuilagi’s ample barnet (even allowing for the fact it sparked an unseemly brawl) seems harsh.  The McCaw story accusing the French of gouging and other ‘filth’ is unfortunate and possibly serious.  The resurgence of both Harlequins and Scarlets – my (reasonably) local club, however, I welcome!