Author: bowlingatvincent

Wales win, the Game wins.

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It would be unfortunate if my recent critique of Martin Johnson’s England – full of dispiriting observations as it was – drew attention away from the gathering triumph of the Welsh. Because Gatland/Howley and their fiery English right-hand man have led their team to the brink of something remarkable. They are now favourites to beat France next weekend and go on to face Australia or hosts New Zealand in the World Cup Final. Let me repeat that; Wales… in the World Cup Final… unarguably on merit. (Okay, okay – they’re not there yet, but please…)

What is special, particularly against the backdrop of England’s humiliating exit, is the manner of Welsh progress through the tournament. They began, way back when, with one of those poisonously rosy Almost
Days when they nearly-deservedly beat the South Africans. At the time I may have danced rather close to a kind of bitterness in my description of what felt pretty close to a Welsh Choke. Suffice to say that it was a game they should have won; again.

Many teams may have been demoralised by such a massively expensive, failed effort. Wales, no doubt led by their management posse, have responded with perverse magnificence, by visibly cranking up belief in their singularly positive vision. They have re-launched with a fierce and often brilliant combination of brave defence and shimmering attack; playing a brand of rugby that antidotes and puts into perspective the dull cynicism of Johnson era England. Surely the world has been smiling as Roberts, Phillips and North have burst through the allegedly inviolable defensive walls of the modern game? After all this talk of flair and expansiveness and pace on the ball, to actually see it so thrillingly and winningly enacted has been the highlight of the World Cup.

I would go further even than this. Whatever happens from here forward – and please god let us have a Wales / New Zealand Final* – I am clear that the abiding memory of the tournament will be that Wales showed us again that success can come from a liberal dollop of faith in talent. Fearless confidence facilitates brilliance – it may even be a pre-requisite for it. So yes, prepare your team in terms of tactical awareness, attack and defence; but mostly inspire them, unleash them, invite them to stretch not merely appear. My personal view is that the two most complete performances of the World Cup have both come from Wales – against Fiji (66- 0) and now against Ireland over the weekend. However disproportionate or naive this may sound, that feels like a triumph for joy over pragmatism.

So much for the general waffle. In the matrix of faithful and often heroic team effort, individual performances call out for further celebration. This is something I wish to address, after an admittedly tortuous diversion.

I am one who has long felt that James Hook has been unfortunate to say the least to remain on the fringe.  It seems odd, frankly and contradictory, that Wales’ most obvious talent at fly-half has not, it seems, been encouraged or supported enough to make the Magic Man berth his own. (I am reminded of what has I’m sure in the past been called Glenn Hoddle syndrome).  And 18 months ago Lee Byrne was close to being the best number 15 in the world. Neither Hook nor Byrne started; instead Half-Penny, more generally used on the wing was piloted in to full back. He proceeded to give an almost faultless display of courage and focus and relentless busy-ness, pausing only to slot a kick from halfway. It compels those of us who aim to describe these matters to wheel out phrases like “in a masterstroke from the coach”…

Warburton has been rightly lauded and applauded for his energetic contribution as skipper and breakdown maestro. He was outstanding again against a strong Irish back row. Priestland – though possessing substantially fewer of the lustrous gifts genetically programmed into the average Welsh 10 than Hook – gave another remarkably mature performance. But as a soppily passionate supporter of The Lions, I confess to being most substantially hoiked towards the edge of my seat by the sight of Jamie Roberts back to his barnstorming best. Perhaps only occasionally, but that surely is merely the nature of the game, which will always put some frustrating limit on a centre’s influence.

When he got it, however, Roberts had that look of old about him. Unstoppable; unplayable; at the limit of control; blowing holes selflessly; still holding the dynamite. His spirit – so perfectly expressed in the tight kaleidoscope of Lions Tests and now coupled to that of an effervescent backline – is rising. It is a spirit which denies the practice of the ordinary and the over-rehearsed. It is a particularly traditional craft of the inspired Welsh and it reminds us and them I think, of a kind of freedom. So come next weekend, with this righteous notion flaring in all of our nostrils, could it be, is it too much to hope that sport – beautiful and ludicrous as it is – might coincide with justice?

*Actually, and for the record, both my hunch and my preference is for Wales / Australia.

Shooting…

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Predictability is a kind of death, is it not, in sport? If your opposition knows what you’re up to; if you ‘telegraph’ things. Practice and conditioning and the set plays or grooved moves of the training pitch are rendered meaningless if they are expressed poorly, robotically. Fans detest and are actually depressed I think, by what they feel to be insultingly obvious routines transferred moronically into the real-deal arena; we hope for some liberation from our sporting heroes rather than mere regurgitation.

Following a clump of disappointments for the English I propose to heroically subvert the prevalence, the dominance of dull order and drudgery by throwing a few wild passes into the mix. Not for me (on this occasion) the considered appreciation hitherto expected of the mature journalist. I’m bullet-pointing you towards my gut. And – even though Capello’s arrogant, undisciplined, unprofessional rabble have again infuriated us – let’s start with the rugby.

  • England went out of the Rugby World Cup at the Quarter-Final stage, in humiliating fashion.
  • Clearly we can blame both the players and the management team; they both failed. Failed to contribute enough.
  • Martin Johnson must surely be sacked. For an age ‘his side’ have been dull, crude, uninspiring, rudderless. It’s his job to facilitate the expression of their talents.
  • Instead he has aimed cynically low – at a kind of “winning rugby” that has won neither admirers nor a particularly high percentage of big games.
  • Against France his players were almost uniformly shockingly poor. They appeared strained rather than energised, wooden rather than dynamic. Being that uncomfortable is a clear failure of preparation, of culture. Johnson takes the blame for that.
  • The central place that Mike Tindall has played in Johnson’s squad is a depressing symbol of their failings. Tindall is surely the most perfectly one-dimensional centre in international rugby. He is allegedly a solid defender but he rarely carries the ball with pace, grace or menace. He rarely passes the ball sharply or with imagination. Contrast his alleged presence and influence with that of Tuilagi, who moves powerfully, sinuously, alarmingly, beautifully even. How obvious does a profound dearth of talent need to be before it is pulled?
  • England have real rugby footballers in different areas. Foden, Ashton, Tuilagi most significantly and perhaps Lawes from amongst the pack – most of whom are legitimate international players but not more than that. Their failure has been largely a thing born of ugliness beyond pragmatism; unambition masquerading as tactical minimalism. This is a central cause for the contempt with which they have understandably been held in the hearts of rugbyfolk worldover. They have largely chosen to deny the beauty and lifeblood of the game by opting for monotones. It is therefore appropriate that the manner of their defeat by an awakening but hardly inspired French side was chastening to the point of embarrassment. People feel that it is just.
  • Aside from this thin tactical meanness now exposed, surely Johnson’s inability to truly motivate his players was also reflected through a lack of leadership on the pitch. Lewis Moody was crippled but was more of a loose cannon by nature. Tindall… ’nuff said. There was a core of very senior players who despite their undoubted honesty lacked belief. If that was because they understood the shallowness of their plans, I look forward to hearing their liberating dissent.

Next up… we sling mud at the footballers.  Or… we revel in the brilliance of the Welsh.

I’m not joking…

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The mother-in-law – sorry, my mother-in-law, if that’s less Les Dawson – has been almost worryingly poorly lately. She needs to do less, without question. (I think) she certainly needs to do less of the rather bitter and energy-sapping judging of things that is absolutely, on one level essential to her. And – because I understand most of the difficulties I am heading for with this foolish and dangerous gambit in a post about World Cup Rugby– I want to try and explain what I mean by that.

I am not trying to deny Edna any of her human rights; or in any way undermine the authenticity of her near-biblical rages against the inevitable offences of modern life. (I am clear that I disagree with the overwhelming number of her positions on politics/race/ethics/sport but I am mostly concerned that her piping hot expressions will render her ill or iller than is presently, almost worryingly the case). Last night, though looking a tad peeky at our daughter’s 9th birthday tea, Edna managed an arch-typical outburst on the subject of the England rugby team. She thinks they should be sent home.

Now it may be the case that there have been ‘issues’ with behaviour which have not reflected well on Martin Johnson’s boys – or, by implication, on the Suited Lamp-post himself. You may or may not be relieved to know that I have no intention to revisit in detail the various alleged misdemeanours and either discard them as minor or calibrate their seriousness. Edna, however, has made it her business to roll deeply in the fox-pooh that is Tindallgate etc etc. using The Daily Mail as her trusty guide. Or should that be bloodhound?

She now passionately believes that the one-dimensional England centre and sometime skipper is up there with Ashley Cole in the reprehensibility stakes. (Funnily enough, I’m pretty much with her on this one but where we differ is in the weight of punishment for the man – I would settle for less than the hanging in the White Tower that Edna holds out for.) I am more interested in the general question arising from Edna’s belligerent investo-journalism; namely Is England RUFC becoming (as bad as) England FC? Now that’s a substantial as well as a flippant question.

Rugby people are largely and understandably scathing about the coiffured ponces of the Premier League, writhing about, as they do, in swiss chocolate-style decadence, with no sense of what they owe to the game, to the fans. Rugby players, they argue, are manifestly better than this. Now it sounds like Tindall may have been a drunken arse possibly prepared to be unfaithful to his new wife. It sounds like 3 other players may have been disgracefully rude or worse to a female member of staff at their hotel. It sounds like drink has been an unhelpful lubricant in the various situations slavvered over by the press. This perhaps is disturbing in the sense that it may in two ways separate players from fans

  1. Because the players may no longer be able / be allowed to mingle with their fellows
  2. Because those offending players have been unworthy / have been behaving more like… footballers?

Many of us have been present when the What Goes On Tour Stays On Tour banner has been quietly unfurled over an appalling or sometimes hilarious incident. Often the mischief shrouded in this way is insignificant, or at least the machinery of society remains sustained, for better or worse, in sickness and in health despite it. But not always; sometimes it’s serious and it has consequences; I remember a 9 year match being squished after a team-mate successfully Tindalled a young lady in Holland. That’s not funny.

Not that I want to get too drawn into the morality tale end of the market here, but clearly high profile young men (like an international Rugby Team on tour – like England) who are likely to be horny and fit and even on occasion attractive either have to be good, careful, or abstemious. They are pretty likely to get lucky with young members of the opposite (or the same) sex; but they are not likely to get lucky with the press. It is therefore incumbent upon them to contemplate their responsibilities or their exit strategy. What would be a shame is if in a perfectly reasonable hitching of tour perameters players went missing from social intercourse entirely. (Rugby players I mean).

Because therein surely lies one of the keys to that which is most precious – and I use the word in all innocence – in the game. In the knowledge that I repeat myself the general level of honest respect between and for players, fans and the game of rugby itself really is different; it is better than that brittle, ring-fenced arrangement surrounding high-ranking footballers. There is almost no link between Adebayor or Van de Vaart and the fans other than the one-way adoration expended for 90 minutes on a Saturday. Ungentlemanly conduct is massively present in top level soccer. In contrast the commonalities between Chris Ashton and Toby Flood and their respective home fans and the general conduct of rugby ‘stars’ is of a substantially fairer tone. They are still in reach; they still respect the game, the ref. Which is why it is disconcerting that folks like Edna now perceive no meaningful difference. She thinks that like politicians… they’re all the same.

Enter the North?

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The foibles and fateful wotsits have begun to weave their magic and so, in truth , have the Celts. The World Cup Draw, that dull calendar formerly only notable in terms of the scramble to avoid the All Blacks, is now animated; a northern beacon being run across its landscape. Following just a few tweaks of the original presumptions – Ireland and Argentina and Tonga having been arguably the chief protagonists – firstly the balance of the draw and now we hope its democracy, its capacity to permit open challenges has been transformed.

Because Wales should have beaten South Africa; because Ireland did beat Australia and Tonga did beat France, the possibilities swung wide as the draw narrowed against the Tri-Nations. Australia’s defeat effected an unfortunate consequence; they joined South Africa and the home nation in the Quarters. With the Wallabies facing the Springboks for a place in the semi’s and the All Blacks facing Argentina not Scotland (no great surprise, that one) only one of the great Southern powers can reach the final. One the one hand this is a clear affront to sporting justice – the Tri-Nations still providing 3 of the top 4 rugby-playing nations – but on the other this also means that a Six Nations side must make the final, thereby providing a true all-world centrepiece.

I imagine the residents of Sydney or Darwin and possibly Jo’burg berating this freak of fortune; but the truth is a) if the Aussies had beaten Ireland they would have faced Wales not the Springboks and b) Wales punctured most of the arguments for Southern superiority during their group match against the ‘boks, which they contrived to lose (again) from a position of clear … superiority. Wales have now gone on to produce the most fluent and complete performance of the tournament by annihilating Fiji – Fiji, mark you, not Russia or Namibia! – 66 points to nil. In doing so, the names of Warburton and North have been beamed powerfully into the consciousness of the event; Warburton for his inspired leadership and supremely athletic presence all round the pitch and North for his joyful bursts to the line. Wales suddenly have a right to believe they may earn a place in the final. Only Ireland and then perhaps England stand in their way.

The Irish have risen from nowhere to join their Celtic brothers in the Quarter-final. For a year or more prior to this tournament, despite the presence of powerful and experienced players throughout their squad, the Irish have seemed frankly a bit lost. Unable to convincingly raise the traditional fires or play expansively with any consistency, it seemed they arrived in New Zealand as makeweights. But the outstanding win against the Wallabies, plus today’s pasting of the Italians makes a nonsense of former blandness. They may be only muttering quietly and darkly in the corner, but Ireland too believe.

England remain both an enigma and a bore. Miraculously shapeless and uninspired – given the awesome proportions and reputation of the Man (very much) At The Top – they have bundled through like the Leeds United of old, knowing they are generally loathed but, unlike Revie’s mob, unable to use that for motivation. But they are immensely durable. Their recent World Cup history is of impeccable over-achievement. They really might play near-shocking ‘winning rugby’ to another final, having bored France and Wales out of the way; a sort of dull parity around the pitch followed by rare interventions by Foden or Ashton really might do it. Possibly even with Wilkinson miscuing – although I fancy his position may genuinely be under review. As should the manager’s, if France beat them.

France have been more French than the French, having gone largely and directly from worse to worse. And this time their propensity for gallic squandering seems likely to fully express itself; following a dour defeat by England they will surely miss the flight home and be found sobbing in isolated clumps in the cheapest of local nightclubs. There to be hugged generously by Mike Tindall.

So – sticking my neck out – New Zealand or Australia or South Africa will meet Wales or Ireland or England for ultimate glory. It’s as simple as that. That, mind you, is discounting the Pumas. But surely the All Blacks couldn’t..? No… no… no.

Listen face-ache…

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Before this broadside gets into full flow may I note to you, sagacious reader, that yes I am aware that there were times when Carlos Tevez was pretty much adored by fans of West Ham/MU, amongst others. And yes I am also aware that this was because of his near magnificent levels of honest commitment to the cause, to the shirt (or so it seemed) – a phenomenon that endears players to fans more than virtually anything else. He could actually play a bit too. However… yaknow… things change but don’t mess with the fans, right…

Listen face-ache, we’ve just about had enough. It was okay ferawhile you moving from club to club every new moon, or whatever it is meks ya skidaddle – ‘ang on, correction, I know exactly what it is but you only got away with that whilst you were patently the best player/most loved scuttler abart the park(er) at West Ham. Now you’re not. Scuttlin’. In fact ya flat refused to scuttle you overpaid scumbag and you are history mate, as far as we are concerned. Ahem.

Us fans – us City fans anyroad – have been absolutely buzzin’ with the way things have gone for us after all the crap we’ve ‘ad to put up with fer decades and you, you come over ‘ere and… first of all… yer unbelievable, ta be fair. But then, then ya get restless or whatever and start fallin’ out and whatever and the club, the club gets… like forgotten! I’ve never seen anybody playin’ fer ’emselves and nobody else so obvious man. You’ve not passed to nobody for twelve month! Embarrassin’! Sub or not; ya’ve played like my nephew’s lot – chase the ball an’ never f***in’ pass!! Ever! What’s all that lot about? It’s not on. Even us stupid fans know when things aren’t right and this started months and months ago and ya could see it on the pitch months and months ago. One ball for yoos and another for the team? Not on mate.

Dunt madder about the money – the money’s just a joke we all know that – but ‘s a team f***in’ sport innit? Ya don’t do that; ya don’t shit on yer mates. However good you are ya don’t shit on yer mates.

An’ now this is like another level innit. Champions League – ya know ‘ow long we been waiting fer Champions League? Need a massive effort from all of us and… to actually refuse to come on, no matter ‘ow much right, ya hate the manager, is unf***ingbelievable. The jury’s still out on the manager, we know that . But there’s no way back from that – there shouldn’t be anyroad. Frannie Lee and Micky Summerbee and all these people are all like… standin’ about in shock I think. Thinkin’ this is like the end… for anybody to do that.

I can’t imagine how anybody – any player, least of all a City player would do that. An there’s no kinda racism in this, we don’t give a f*** where Tevez comes from. If any ar British players – if say Milner had done this – same thing. Sack him now; get ‘im out the club. ‘E’s a greedy, stupid man and we just want rid of ‘im. It’s just sick that he can think he can do that; be bigger than everything. It’s mebbe a sign of the times but… anyway… gizzafag Jordie…

Na wunda there’s riots; ‘cosa twats like ‘im oo’re only thinkin’ me me me. An’ ‘e’s got f***in’ everything; an’ ‘e wants more. It’s just sick in the head that. We’ve been givin’ ‘im two hundred grand a week an’ ‘e wants… wassie want, really, to run the f***in’ club or wha? Get him artof’ere… we’ll pay – dunt madder about the money…

Keep banging the door

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Through the lightly steamed mirror that is my perception – a plane currently chiefly obscured by rapid successions of phenomenal sports images – I am trying to get certain things clear. These things are to do with politics, or political structures I guess, rather than the broader heavystuffs I dabbled with in Birds Of Prey… a recent blog, which was more personal. I am talking, along with half the known universe, about what can be done to address issues around dissatisfaction (isolated or widespread) and the perceived drift from community wellbeing or consciousness. Why people are selfish/greedy/stupid/scared/bitter/confrontational/narcissistic/’mindless’ and what might be done.

Naturally therefore, what follows may be said to be a response to ‘the riots’, that lurid expression of … you help me choose...absence?  Depressing lowness?  Vacancy?  (I’d argue for lowness from dull but momentarily energised perpetrators and vacancy in terms of the absence of a sustained intelligent response from the Left as well as the Tea Partyesque morons of the Right). But lowness too from cheap, disproportionate courtroom judgements, perhaps? And vacancy in terms of political will to get past joining-the-dots; thinking outside and beyond loyalties and prejudices. And… perhaps before we venture any further we need to flag up the fact(?) that these riots or, more exactly, some of these incidences may have meant almost nothing. They were apolitical in the sense that minimal cerebral activity was detectable; people just did stupid stuff because it became possible and maybe rather exciting. Causes may or may not have been present in the moment. But surely they are present?

It may be clearly unwise to invoke the need for civilised anything, but clearer still that we need, in a matrix of blanket and diverse bankruptcies, an urgent and a charged but civilised debate about values. We had people we cannot simply categorise as ‘poor’ looting in a manner that varied from the absolutely opportunistic, through to the relatively planned, often via blackberry. (Can I at this time venture the thought that I personally have no smartphone/iphone or similar piece of essential urban kit because… I feel like can’t afford one).

My sense is the thefts were not characteristically driven by need or hunger, although some definition of need may be a requirement here. Because whilst the ‘need’ for new trainers may rightly be generally snorted upon, the need to pinch something to fund the purchase of diesel or gas due to a real lack of money might be something different. And probably some ‘rioters’ stole with needs of this sort in mind. I don’t condone this but I do suggest that if some people, even people we judge may not ‘deserve’ our consideration, lack basic household goods or necessities in 2011 this reflects unhealthily on all of us. Cornball but probably true?

This is one of many (post-riot?) dilemmas with something pretty crass and unappealing at its root. That we have to confront certain social complexities to move forward should be no original hardship, but perhaps it feels difficult to get past general condemnation of the rioters and thereby into constructive reflection because of

  • emotive coverage
  • attitudes towards urban youth/gangs
  • evidence they were mainly criminals
  • racism
  • a suspicion that most of those involved spend the bulk of their time lounging about/being anti-social or worse.

Let’s maybe compare and contrast this with a list of assumptions on reasons why those involved may have looted or in some way acted ‘anti-socially’…

  • because they were bored and they were there
  • because they aren’t very clever
  • because they hate the police
  • because they hate society and they want to strike back
  • because they have a deeply-felt longing to undermine capitalism
  • because they got a call from their mates/they were dared
  • because they needed stuff (even if they didn’t)
  • because they really did need stuff.

Speculations. That we may be familiar with. We may in a fringe event to this Judgementfest have heard X or Y arguing that a significant issue is an accelerating awareness of what constitutes proper clobber for young people; the rise of another kind of worryingly dumb material obsession – dumb but screaming or maybe whining, constantly. Pitching, after a fashion, the kind of thing society is geared to do – sell/promote – even if the product is an offence, because it’s cool or it’s good or local or sustainable or whatever the pitch is. And we’re mostly listening but maybe not being encouraged to discern much? Because we’re consumers. And is there then a circle of ironies, most of which return us to notions around needing to consume, perhaps even only understanding ourselves in those terms?

I really buy into the idea that despite the abundance of goodness abroad there is a killing, unthinking, inhumane addiction to the drug of material goods. And most specifically worrying perhaps, that the next generation is being locked in to a faux-community individually fixated upon whatever their laptop or phone is trying to sell them. Otherwise they simply can’t ‘compete’ – exist even. Few of us know what need really is amidst the swirl and the intoxicating what next? of this cartoonised brief. Reality’s so hard and so unattractive and one-dimensional in comparison. So flick channels to a more highly coloured version. Easy.

My central point, after noting the prevalence of this delusional flux, is to re-affirm my belief in the need to dissent from capitalism of this pitch. We must protest and we must begin again; learn again – make it thinkable again – to cherish political inspiration.  Engage with a profound debate, especially those of us happy and occasionally proud to align ourselves with the Left; that’s our job. The leading and the creating and the renewal of faith and ideas will surely come from Big Hearted Lefties amongst the artistic/philosphic community; it always does.

I know the scale of this challenge given the estrangement of people from politics; it’s a long haul. But it is neither ludicrous nor hopeless to commit to the ambition for a degree of fairness and optimism and yes an increase in Gross National Happiness. Imagine what could be done, in the age of messaging and 24 hour news, by a magnificently, manifestly good man or woman at the top. Someone who was real. Someone worth listening to and following. Someone who cut the crap and the asphyxiating party loyalty right out. Maybe that’s all we need?

Oh Fernando

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A few days ago I spoke of the acute tensions affecting that formerly boyish, now visibly creasing with world-weariness, Signor Fernando Torres. His is a story absurdly, almost hypnotically full of the contradictions of celebrity life. He is outrageously wealthy and talented; he is handsome, personable and has – unusually for a togger player? – the look of a sensitive human about him. But quietly, for a near-worryingly long period of time, he has been …shredded.

By that I mean that his confidence has been denuded to a mesh-like frailty. I have speculated – as a formerly prolific inside-forward/centre midfielder – that the principal emotion betraying the striker in mid-strike is a kind of glassy-eyed succumbing to a need for things to be over. Over for better or worse. Therefore, rather than showing either devastatingly confident instinct or devastating composure (this latter for me the absolute sign of class as well as goalscoring proficiency) the centre-forward does the difficult bit…but apocalyptically misses the yawning net. Receiving, in the process, a terrifying challenge to his previously invincible belief as well as the bitter mockery of the opposition support.

In the last week or two the cruel peaks and troughs of Fernado’s being – him being a top level footballer player and all – have been as publicly excruciating as the most exploitative X Factor audition. His level of performance has lurched from the sharp and instinctive (occasionally) to the raw embarrassing. But Fernando we know, we understand, should be passed fluffing his lines completely, right? He’s so been there, with all that pressure, all that expectation and worship because he has been brilliant, he has been as good as there is… which makes it news, which makes it poignant.

Today Torres again showed what are destined to be labelled ‘flashes’ for the second game on the trot. And crucially, perhaps, he scored. But then he lunged into a poor challenge – following, we presume prolonged verbals from opponents, who had no doubt quoted observations from my previous blog – and was summarily despatched from the proceedings.

It was an almost inevitably tragic (with the usual caveats) event in the accelerating sequence of almost cartoon-like Fernandoslots we have all been seeing and hearing on hourly sports bulletins for the last several months. And it makes us wonder what comes next. After the ban.

Will it be a prolonged period on the bench? Will it be, given football’s propensity for exposing the sensitive, a gift to heartless centre-halves the Premiership over? Will it be a catalyst for further dissent amongst fellow players, only some of whom are likely to have been truly supportive during Torres’ difficult times at both Liverpool and now Chelsea. We can’t know. But it seems beyond unlikely that Fernando will simply be spurred by a sending off into getting a grip. I wonder if or how he will do that, at all.

Birds of Prey Swoop Down on Our Shadows

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Doing a lot of necessary thinking about purpose. What constitutes …and which branch to clasp hold of as the river in spate bristles past. Whether there is any hierarchy in action/engagement/habit/belief. Whether anything’s worth anything. And when material ‘health’ is a clear absurdity, does everything become an opportunity for real expression? Is this expression a fraud, an indulgence, or a necessity ordinary life – measured in terms of buoyancy – denies us? Heavystuff, springing from maybe too much time and too much reading and a rumble towards life-change.

But how crazy-real-philosophic is this? Earlier, Russia v Italy in the Rugby World Cup, now becoming – like some absurdist shipping forecast – a kindof spiky Catalunyan idyll. Courtesy Joan Miro – Selected Writings and Interviews (Margit Rowell). Making empty hours full.

How wonderful to feel lifted by colours of such vastly different origins this day. A heartening reminder that perhaps there are no hierarchies, no high art /low sport ‘realities’ to be hastily despatched to safely demarcated brain-zones for judgement. It’s been perfectly agreeable and possible to drift from sport to art – as indeed this blog habitually does. Why deny or fail to appreciate the diverse beauties of spin passes and inspired art? Can I be the first(?) to argue for equanimity between the two, as gestures from the soul?.

(Answer – I could, but I might be talking bollocks).

Again Miro, that believer in the wondrous and the possibly divinely energising has stuck me on the spiritual ski-lift to Montjuic. Because he was absurdly poor most of his working life; because he knew his purpose was to make a poetic response to experience. And he did it, for decades. Call me an old tart, but I find that inspiring.

You banker

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Recently I indulged in a little open description of my family finances. It may have appeared (as) some kind of cheap exorcism but as always the aim was to document how things are and how they feel. I stand by it as a social document and have been touched by responses to it. In the current lather that is my sports-blogging it feels appropriate to transport back and briefly revisit the real world but fog-bound motorway pile-up that is ‘the economy’ – everywhere.

This review is not, I promise you, in order to further bore you with developments –hah!- on our own situation, but rather to step into line with Deborah Orr’s “Children are unhappy…” piece from last Thursday’s g2, which deals with this notion that an economy must grow, or else die.  (Another UNICEF Report has looked at child well-being, in particular in relation to ‘quality time’/material things, suggesting to some that a) Money Can’t Buy You Love b) Buying Things is No Substitute for Love etc.etc).

I have to declare an interest here, having written a prophetically colourful play about a North European Protest Group who respond to an earlier UNICEF Report by committing rather wonderful acts of subversion and dissent; a play that was soundly rejected by The Sherman Theatre, Cardiff.

Orr speaks inevitably of the links between the rat race and the accelerated pressures on good consumers/parents resulting in conflict between the “growth agenda” and human satisfaction. And this leading to unhappy children. She talks persuasively and broadly around and about issues of time/satisfaction/purpose, believing that our capitulation to a belief in growth as god is a cheap and inadequate response to the structural and philosophical challenges we face. She argues for a new socio-political conversation, as do I, as did Tony Judt, whose work has been something of an inspiration in these politically and arguably morally vapid times.

Deborah Orr wonders at the irony of Cameron being more engaged with the satisfaction agenda than Miliband. Judt calls on The Left to re-engage – on all of us to have a spirited debate – with political issues crying out to be addressed articulately. Issues like happiness, worth, proportionality, citizenship. Can we be bothered, we are asking rhetorically, to get past Daily Mail level exchanges in order to approach fairness and yes responsibility and wellbeing as a huge disparate group? It may take some thinking about.

As will the role of the City, the banks. I am one who is prone to judging bankers en masse as a bunch of reasonably dense, morally bankrupt parasites on the whale-like body of the economy. (Clearly it’s just most of them who fall into that category).

Once my prejudices have cleared, however, I remain with those who find it beyond belief that nations like ours have fallen under the spell of a handful of banks/global companies who have not and will not be held to account for their lack of intelligence/regulation/professionalism. It may be stupid of us to mindlessly serially abuse bankers… but they and the government(s) need to feel our hot breath, our verbal pitchforks, our gathering focus, our passion for that which is better.

Should we see this as an opportunity for an Arab Spring equivalent or a mere fiscal tightening, the point may be that we, the people are seeing that things demand our attention. People have been and may soon again be ‘on the streets’ – though clearly that fact is not necessarily a reflection of increased political intelligence in any quarter. Many of the rioters were criminal opportunists, or were caught up in something that felt exciting; it was hardly activism of any cerebral breed. Strikes may be different but in order for them to improve the general lot, let’s hope our Trade Unionists are quoting Judt and Orr as well as football songs when they stride purposefully out.

A Word about Torres…

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Let’s in a moment get slightly past the obvious; Torres is a formerly brilliant central striker – at one fairly recent stage arguably the best in the world – but he was not worth £50 million when purchased by our Russian friend. Aside from any legitimate argument about whether that fee may be obscene – let’s pretend there is a ‘real’ market price for his value as a player only – there could be no justification for a fee of such magnitude for a player so apparently physically and psychologically damaged.

That may in fact be a rather melodramatic description of where the player is at but surely it’s fairly representative of the feeling around him, following maybe 2 years of admittedly injury-linked frustration, poor goal returns and occasional (out-of-character) petulance at Liverpool. Torres the magnificent and the fluent had become a tetchy, visibly unhappy individual and a player fortunate to be getting regular football at the top level. It was and is questionable whether the toll repeated injuries and surgery had taken on his movement and consequently his form would and will preclude re-capture of the original precious gift for electrifying impact.

Ask Nemanja Vidic – in a few years time perhaps – to honestly assess where Torres ranked, how brilliantly he shone. Ask the average Liverpool fan to describe the relationship that fizzed between the Koppites and the player in his unassailable pomp and the scale of The Fall would be revealed. He was hugely loved, both for his scampering expression of the team ethic and for his exuberant talent. But that was, in football terms, a long time ago. When the fleet-footedness and the confidence petered away Fernando was rather depressingly different. He was not worth a place in the team.

Extraordinary then, that at this time of near-poignancy for the Spanish superstar, Abramovitch stepped in. I myself hope that he put an arm round Torres, told him he believed in him and would guarantee him a chance to gather and then express his deadly genius once more. (I suspect that the money was less an issue for Abramovitch than it would be for most minor nations but let’s assume the best and applaud the Russian for his faith – generosity even. Doubly so if we imagine the purchase as a reflection that he really does want to excite the Chelsea support on the way to the next level of glory). Torres may have seen the move more prosaically, as a step closer to silverware, rather than an opportunity to nestle under the warm wing of the owners’ casual jacket. Whatever, the blonde former bombshell moved south.

To further difficulties. A spiky or likely surly dressing-room, a club perennially now in flux. Ego’s the size of the Ivory Coast/France maybe. A new, sharp and pressing need to show that the Price Tag was irrelevant and the gift alive. Impossible? Could any manager build a side around this particular striker – let alone, after a series of underwhelming early performances, justifiably pick him?

A new season brought certain signs that key instincts may be returning… but not, sadly, the essential goals. And then there is today, and an absurdly wonderful, open game at Manchester United. Some of the movements – the commitments – are back. In a game brimming with opportunities and space, Torres scores a fabulous goal with an expressive flick of the right foot; it’s a trademark, top of the range finish; it’s beyond encouraging. But tomorrow’s papers I fear will be more likely to concentrate on the stomach-churning miss achieved shortly afterwards; the Sunday League miss, the one executed surely by an interloping donkey from park football, who, having rounded the keeper with contempt, stabs it laughably wide. To world-wide disbelief.

Cruelly, this one is right up there with the very best open goal misses. Massively saleable and destined to be forever referenced by fan and pundit alike. How did he miss? Because suddenly, he wanted the moment to be over. Over for better or worse. As a consequence, if Fernando is the sensitive boy many believe, he is going to have to disconnect his capacity to feel for some time. I wish him luck and the mental and physical wellbeing to recover.