Medalling

The party is almost over and as befits two weeks of almost non-stop entertainment, I am due an almighty hangover. I’ve enjoyed the Olympics so much that a verbing medal no longer perturbs; though a podium probably would; small steps and all that. So good, I couldn’t manage the upset required at Aiden Burley’s asinine comments on multiculturalism during the opening ceremony, nor the daft notion that ‘super Saturday’ - a day on which Team GB won six gold medals - somehow proved the Conservative MP wrong. He was wrong, but the ‘proof’ was equally silly.

So many sports, some of which I was only barely aware, yet sensible to this: whilst it has been fun, I am no more motivated to get on my bike, take up running, dive back into the pool or punch or kick someone for sport; at least, no more inclined than I was before all this started. Many I know, will be; some of whom may medal in the future. You see, I am trying.

Four years ago

Because four years ago I took my then six-year-old daughter swimming, having had to drive to Bradley Stoke rather than walk to our local swimming pool. Back then there was no family changing at Thornbury Leisure Centre; even now, if the plans are accurate - and I should check this - it’s not much better. I suppose it’s logical; any refurbishment not involving a 100% conversion to family changing will result in a bias towards the female changing rooms; which is a shame as I’d like to take my daughter more often.

Four years ago, on a Friday evening, we jumped into the Bradley Stoke pool and before I can make my usual suggestion of warming up with a couple of lengths, she’s off. Flying along with a ragged front crawl she’s half way before I can even respond, turning back she switches to the breast stroke. Then again, this time more streamlined - she always was the better swimmer; lessons, you see - and I have to make an effort to keep close. On this occasion there was no letting her touch home first, and when she did so my daughter looked back at me with a big smile. “You’re keen!” I said on catching up. “I’m Rebecca Adlington” she replied, “and I’ve just won the gold medal.”

Whine like you mean it

The anti-Olympic dirge has lessened from its opening crescendo of complaint aimed at Olympic traffic lanes, they’re back to whining about everything - truly this is the age of social media. There are times you have to throw your hands in the air - exasperation, not surrender - I get it, you don’t like the Olympics. And fair enough, the heavy-handed enforcement of commercial rights has been unedifying, the level of security frightening; it is, I find, a little too close for total enjoyment; I’m one of those hoping it can go off without anything really bad happening.

But my daughter doesn’t see this, she’s really excited, and one who doesn’t normally care for sport. Her attention is drawn to whether Usain Bolt is still the fastest man in the world, whether her original inspiration, Rebecca Adlington, will win again. And the enthusiasm of one ten year old trumps the practiced cynicism of countless others every time; the rest of you can shut up, I’m going to enjoy myself too, or at least try.

Bella bella

In sports journalism parlance the only difference between “honest” and “crap” is the result. Last Tuesday England put in one of their more honest performances; one suspects they’ll need an extraordinarily sincere performance to come through against the Italians on Sunday; applause for the Italian player who claimed - with a straight face - that England would start as favourites. If by some miracle England beat Italy they meet Germany in the semi-final, and we all know what happens then. Yet there’s always hope, were Italy really that good against Spain or were Spain starting slow? And when I think about it, for 60 or so minutes Germany didn’t look too convincing against the whipping boys Greece until, remembering they were “in it to win it”, they started to play like their usual selves. But first things first, let’s concentrate on tomorrow’s game; I find England are ranked sixth and their opponents twelfth... that makes us twice as good... we ARE the favourites. These are the FIFA world rankings - where dreams can come true.

Not totally crap

Spot the difference.

It must have been the excitement of Sunday’s Netherlands versus Portugal game, a game where I found myself hoping both protagonists would lose; the Netherlands because they’re the Netherlands and Portugal because they’re Ronaldo, and for a short time - when Denmark took the lead against Germany - this was possible. Or maybe it was confusion from all the above. I put them on the chair, went into the kitchen (I can’t even remember what for), returned to the living room and sat on my glasses. They’re ‘designed’ to come apart when pulled out of shape but I'm a little too much. Anyway, I am several years late to the opticians; thanks to the adjustable font size on my Kindle it wasn’t until I read The Handmaid’s Tale in classical format (previously known as a book) that I realised quite how bad my eyesight had become, or rather it was then I resolved to do something about it. That was several months ago, to leave it any longer would be pushing it; there’s only so much trust I can place in Sellotape.

And if I thought two teams I don’t care for was exciting, how exciting will it be to see England beat Ukraine tonight? They are fighting, lest we forget, for the right to be beaten by Spain or Italy in the quarter-finals. England have impressed by being not totally crap, except for 15 minutes in the 2nd half against Sweden when they were totally crap. Not even Harry Redknapp’s desperate attempt to keep himself on the back-page - by mouthing off even more than normal and getting himself fired - can deflect from the euphoria of still being in a competition over a week after it’s started.

Our Lord, Ferguson

Whereas I can easily pin-point the moment when athletics died, with Ben Johnson in 1988, football isn’t so easy to discard - the nonsense off the field is part of the drama, hell I miss Jose Mourinho, but I doubt I’ll ever miss Alex Ferguson. I couldn’t care less about mind games, they’re puerile and a fall-back for lazy journalism, but I do care about the use of debatable decisions to question the integrity of others.

…you want a fair referee. You want a strong referee anyway and we didn't get that. I don't know why he's got the game. I must say that when I saw who was refereeing it, I feared the worst.

Last season Ferguson received a two match touchline ban (with another two suspended) and a £20,000 fine for questioning the fitness of the referee Alan Wiley. Doubtless the defence for his attack on Martin Atkinson will be a couple of controversial incidents that went against Manchester United, a defence that is completely irrelevant. It’s OK to say the referee made a mistake, but it is simply not acceptable to say the referee made a mistake and from this insinuate that he is corrupt. More than that, it’s pathetic. Doubtless he’s already forgotten Wayne Rooney’s deliberate elbow in the head of Wigan’s James McCarthy – the assertion that there “was nothing in it” was absurd. One hopes the Football Association will pull their finger out, put the boot in, and inflict a punishment appropriate for a repeat offender.

Three

This weekend I managed three. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, so good they split it into two films. Well… it was better than most of the Potter films (Azkaban being the best) though still a little too long. Also, and I only realised this after the film, it is dominated by Harry and/or his two chums appearing in nearly every scene, normally you bring in other characters if only for dramatic relief. I wonder if that’s really the case or my memory playing tricks? All will be forgiven if they address the balance in part two, but long emotional farewells will not be tolerated.

The Iron Giant on the other hand is a short film that could have been longer. Easily one of the best animations around, it may not have the technological marvel of a Pixar production but like that studio it understands that a good story is the key.

However the worst film of the weekend - by far - was Goal! I can think of only three decent films on football. One is The Damned United, which I saw recently. Another is Fever Pitch, which culminates with a famous Arsenal victory over Liverpool; I remember watching that game and the Michael Thomas goal which stole the title away. The other film is Mike Bassett: England Manager, a none-too-subtle but very funny satire on the state of the English game; almost as funny as the running joke in Goal! where we’re supposed to believe in a Newcastle team challenging for a place in the Champions League. Comedy gold!

Run for your lives!

So when did they start allowing girls into the Scouts? For some reason I haven't quite fathomed I'm quite pleased that Little Miss R decided on Cubs rather than Brownies. Having said that I've noticed each meeting is preceded with the boys having a game of god-only-knows-what, usually involving a ball, whilst the girls choose to take the register. Oh well, small steps. It was 'science night' on Monday and I was the designated parent helper for the evening. Simple things such as the demonstration of air pressure with a piece of paper and an upside down jar of water; I'd forgotten how much fun science could be. I'd also forgotten how frightening children can be, especially when they run in packs.

Then there's been the World Cup. I love how you can say 'World Cup' and unless you're American you know it means football and the biggest single sporting event on the planet. England are out - deep breath - there I got that out the way and managed to avoid swearing. Naturally I'm disappointed; as I was four years ago and four years before that. It's inevitable. We were dreadful from the start but whilst we limped on there was always hope. Thankfully Little Miss R remains interested due in no small part to the dedication of her teacher who organised the sweepstake at her school. I'm told he supports West Ham. A teacher and a West Ham supporter - how brave is that?

The boo Rooneys

Actually, no, I don’t care that you’ve travelled thousands of miles or how much the objects of your derision earn. How does spending any amount of money afford the right to treat other people like shit? It’s not only an inability to tell the difference between not trying and not being any good, it’s the endemic response to failure that irritates. It’s the culture that celebrates bullying chefs, which encourages us to dispense with those who fall short of another’s subjective view of perfection; they’re only human beings, plenty more where they came from. Shout abuse at those who disappoint and applaud the arrogant but talented pricks, ability is all that matters… when I see all this it reminds me that sometimes I don’t like you very much.

What a difference a week makes; 168 little hours

At the end of one holiday it’s cliché to comment that one feels like another but… perhaps I should take two weeks out next time around. So what difference does a week really make? I’ll tell you; four films, two guinea pigs, a couple of days out and the BBC iPlayer… and I really regret the guinea pigs, though I had little say in the matter. However the BBC via their iPlayer enabled me to catch up on back episodes of The Street, and a week where I can watch a few films, all for the first time, could never be classed a write-off.

I have a weakness for American sports dramas though I am guilty of neither appreciating the sport nor understanding the rules. Baseball is a statistical cul-de-sac, rounders with a bigger bat, yet we have The Natural. Basketball is despite the points utterly pointless, yet we have Hoop Dreams - one of the best documentaries I’ve ever seen. American gridiron football yesterday provided me with Friday Night Lights. Living in the UK I can’t vouch for accuracy, but it felt real. It helps knowing that this particular film was based on a real life season of the Permian Panthers, the football team of Permian High School in Odessa, Texas. Elements are shot in a documentary style yet it also includes the formulaic father-living-on-past-glories and the cocky-yet-likable athlete who you know is going to come undone. Perhaps the best sports dramas are really human dramas. It’s rather like an intelligent compassionate love story set in Paris; I can’t vouch for accuracy but if it feels real it doesn’t make me feel so bad - sometimes quite the opposite.

Let the wookie win

I'm going to say something terrible… Winning isn't that important. Shocking isn't it? Come London 2012 and you'll probably get arrested for saying things like that. It's not that I'm going to stop trying; it's just that I can't seem to summon the interest. Hmmm, maybe that DOES mean I'm going to stop trying? I'm not going to survive with that kind of attitude.

I'm being a little disingenuous here. A month or so ago my brother won a badminton game against me for the first time. I was shocked to discover how much that hurt but resolved to be the gracious loser I'd always supposed myself to be; and since he's won several games since then that's probably just as well.

Nevertheless I stand by my original statement. I'm beginning to think we should all become a bit more… well… British – wherever you happen to live in the world.

However, though this may be my belief on how things should be I still have to recognise how things are. So I attempt to balance my daughter's competitive behaviour with that more humane (and I use to think more British) belief that it's not the winning but the taking part that counts. 'Loser' talk as my brother would put it.

But it's not easy. If you're playing a game with your children you let them win, don't you? It's not only because you want to see them happy - it's also to do with self preservation. It's O.K. to win against your wife because she won't try to pull your arms out of their sockets if she loses, seven year old children have been known to do that.

Reality 3 – 0 Romance

After waxing lyrical to a friend the other day on the current state of Newcastle FC (it was more of a grind than a wax), they duly completed the story by getting whooped 3 – 0 by Arsenal. I never was any good at stories. Never mind, there are a number of factors that mitigate this disappointment. One being that they were beaten by a fabulous team; Arsenal play football the way you dreamt about it being played as a kid.

There is another game starting shortly (in about 15 minutes), Manchester United versus Tottenham Hotspur. Good people the world over will be saying a prayer (and it will probably take a prayer) in the hope that Tottenham can somehow overcome their opponents. Bad people the world over will be praying for another victory for the red menace so that darkness can descend upon the land.

But in the interests of fair play, and also because I'm a Liverpool FC fan and can't take any more disappointment, I shall remain neutral...

Bad sport

East European countries of the old Soviet bloc could be distinguished from the rest of Europe in three key ways.

• First was the use of the word 'democratic'; as in 'German Democratic Republic'. Was it irony or were they just taking the piss?

• Second was their love for the colour grey, putting aside the issue of whether grey is a colour.

• Thirdly was the highlighting of any sports related triumph to mask their own failure.

An obsession with sporting success has been a feature common to all manner of unsavoury regimes so it's somewhat unsettling to find organisations in Britain fixating in the same way. Whatever happened to the belief, dare I whisper it, that winning isn't nearly as important as 'being the best that you can be'. This noble ethos has long since been corrupted to 'being the best no matter what'; a belief that leaves many feeling impotent in their ability to effect a worthwhile change in the lives of others.

Sport used in such a way, instead of inspiring people to lead more active lives, pushes them further back into their comfortable sofas whilst they no doubt bemoan the lack of sporting success.

What time's the football on?

No "high-fives" please, we're British

And another thing I find disturbing about volleyball players is their need to perpetually slap each other on the back and high-five each other at every opportunity. I was playing badminton last night and witness to a gratuitous display of affection on the volleyball court next to me. Unfortunately none of them looked like the lady in the picture.

At one point, in the middle of their game, somebody must have discovered the secret to harnessing fusion power as they suddenly began to circle each other, like Nike sponsored Morris dancers, "high-fiving" each other as they went. I'd have said something only I don't like to complain.

Forgive me for mixing my sports, but give me the Bjorn Borg approach any day. Yes, I know women prefer the McEnroe type but isn't it the silent ones you have to look out for? Admittedly after forty years I've yet to see this theory proven.

The match

Last year in a freak occurrence I managed to pull a muscle in my shoulder by sneezing - no really. This morning I managed to do the same again and having lost the ability to easily turn my head left and right it made driving into work a painful experience.

More painful is the thought that I may have to withdraw from the badminton showdown with my younger brother this evening. It's time to exact revenge for all those 'old man' comments. Unfortunately this sad spectacle will, if last week is anything to go by, be sandwiched between a volleyball match populated by loathsome (I.e. fit) people in their twenties/thirties, and another badminton match played between a couple of teenage girls who make my brother's 'old man' comments seem more than appropriate.

Concentration could prove to be the key.

Loser talk

After watching Liverpool FC lose the Champions League final last night I reflected that they had at least made a game of it and done themselves proud. At times like these I believe it's perfectly acceptable to indulge in a little clichéd football talk. Actually when it comes to football it seems any time is O.K. The other week for instance I was discussing the merits of Garcia with a Spanish colleague of mine and mentioned, without the slightest hint of embarrassment, that the "trouble with Garcia is he does blow hot and cold". My English isn't the best but when it comes to football my brain does seem to take a vacation for the duration.

I remember one meeting with admin (rumour has it work is more important than football) the day before a crunch match where my mind went wandering; only to be brought back to the real world when the manager said "what do you think Phil?". Fair play (there I go again) I did manage to side step the question brilliantly with a "hmm..." and a slight shrug which seemed to do the trick.

All of which rather detracts from the main point that terms such as "gave a good account of themselves" and "they did well to get that far" are apparently, my football loving brethren inform me, "loser talk". It turns out I'm not showing a level of maturity or perspective at all. There I am worried that I may be getting a little slower (a lot slower if my recent football performances are anything to go by) and, dare I say it, old, and it turns out that all I am is a "loser". If you'll forgive one last cliché... result!