Sweet FA

A nation of overweight children too fat
to play football? Certainly sir, would you
like fries with that?

I was perusing the appointment pages of the Sunday Times last week, and came across a cushy little position at the FA. The job title was ‘Chief Executive’ or something; must be important, because they took out a half page ad, and in colour too. Now I read the blurb, and as far as I can gather, the main goal for the successful applicant is to sort out this failing enterprise, and point it in the right direction so that ultimately, the English can win some football matches. At least that’s what I gleaned from the particularly convoluted language used in the ad. They make it sound easy; anyone can achieve co-ordinated synergy whilst maintaining traction to gain leverage in a competitive and ever changing dynamic sector, right?

I was just about to apply, when my mind was unexpectedly cast back to a balmy summer’s evening in 2006, when having obtained the telephone number for FA’s Soho square offices from directory enquiries, I drunkenly called them to demand an explanation for Mr Eriksson’s choice of formation during the group stages. I left my name on that answer phone message, and so considered my hopes of becoming incumbent in the chief exec’s suite dismal at best.

Whatever the eventual candidate decides to do down there at the nation’s most overpaid and under worked office building will be entirely irrelevant. Yes, he (or she, but we’ll safely assume he for now) might change the stationery or sack some people, but there is not much that can be done about the overriding task that has dogged the organisation for over 42 years now; winning something football related. There is the youth training stuff to deal with, but all that needs to be done there is to say ‘yes’ and part with some cash for the seemingly ill fated national football academy in Burton (which at present is occupied by sheep) and put a stop to the ridiculous (but lucrative) sponsorship deal that sees the FA working in conjunction with McDonalds, of all people, to promote grass roots level coaches and facilities. No, the main task lies beyond the CEO’s control; the management of the national team. To inflict further ignominy on the previous director, that task was given to Steve Mclaren, to whom I am not prepared to give the credit of my precious words to insult. Oh, ok then. Wanker. Anyway, he was sacked and went off to learn to speak English in a Dutch accent, and now we have Fabio Capello, who looks equally as clueless if we’re all honest, but has a glittering managerial career behind him. So far it seems to be going ok, but there is still plenty of time for his players to trip over their own egos and end up in a big heap somewhere at the bottom of the world cup qualifying group. We’ll see.

This week, Capello has expressed his desire to coach the British Olympic team in 2012, describing the opportunity as his ‘dream’. We can only assume with his limited grasp of English that by ‘dream’ he meant ‘waking nightmare’. The whole affair will be a disaster from start to finish. It’s hard enough to get one country to play to a decent standard, let alone four. I am also doubtful if the respective FA’s of England and Scotland will ever actually agree to the terms and conditions that will see the first coming together of the home nations for a competitive tournament. Capello has a significant rival in his bid to coach Team GB; a grimly visaged Scotsman who hangs around Manchester a lot. Alex Ferguson is also in the running, presumably so he can pick 11 Scottish players and stick two fingers up at the English as his swan song before retiring to a yacht in the Caribbean.

Whilst I am on the subject of the Olympics, it seems that staging a multi billion pound event smack bang in the middle of the worst financial crisis since the last one is finally beginning to induce some headaches. It has been confirmed that fewer new homes will be built on the Stratford site than originally planned, and the state of the art Media Centre will now be a not so state of the art ‘temporary’ structure, or portacabin. One can only assume that this downscaling will continue and gather momentum as time passes, although you can bet that the final bill will not drop with it. At this rate, we are potentially looking at staging the athletics on the playing fields at Lewisham College and the diving competition on a plank of wood nailed to Blackfriars Bridge.

Back at the FA, there is no obvious resonance of a recession, with a six-figure salary plus benefits awaiting the successful applicant at Soho Square. A wage befitting of the task at hand I would say. If the new CEO can drag English football out of the doldrums and put in place a mentality that leads all the way to the world cup final and the Olympic gold medal, I’d give him a blank cheque. And a knighthood.

New World Order?

Karl indicates how many major
banking corporations this week alone
could have benefitted from having a
large grey beard.


I’m so glad that things are finally settling down and becoming normal again. There was, for a time, the pervading feeling of impending doom, that not even the politicians in the highest positions of authority knew how we as a developed world would pull together and see out this tumultuous time. But rest ye worried minds, for all is well. The world’s biggest superpower is due to implement a new regime, and will draft its unbridled genius and vision from either a corpse assisted by a crazed Alaskan armed with a hockey stick used for smashing the brains from polar bears, or a thin man with little experience but a smile that transcends his face, taking his financial advice from an unqualified, tax dodging plumber. Phew, that’s America sorted then.

And fret not either, for another major player, everyone’s favourite vodka swilling racists Russia, remains fronted by a man who is capable, if not liable, as his recent instructional video shows, to judo chop his way through the entire United Nations security council. Meanwhile, back home, British level headedness and calm resolve prevails, with the new head of the British armed forces doing the sensible thing in the current economic downturn, and pledging 30,000 fresh troops to various suicide missions across the globe whilst we devise a new sub zero graph to chart the demise of the FukTSE share index.

It would seem then, if I were to obey the countless posters in London’s subways and on boarded-up shops that the only realistic option left open to us in this current climate of disarray and uncertainness is to grow a beard and become a socialist. Fine, I like beards, and I hear the Marx look is very in right now. There is a problem however; the slight niggling drawback that Socialism could never work here in the UK in 2008.

If we were all at university, then it would work like a dream. It is in some way admirable that students are the only demographic that seem to actually want to change the world. I have regularly been accosted in the street by shabby politics students who, having entreated me to become a socialist and subsequently received my polite declination, have each launched into a tirade of righteous dogma and suggested that my decision is obviously based on my ignorance to their ideals and could not possibly be a result of my own independent thinking.

Their activism is largely due to youth, enthusiasm and a fresh perspective on the world, as well as having too much time on their hands, but the main reason for their relentless mission to alter the course of human civilisation lies in the fact that the majority have never stepped foot into the real world; that crushingly difficult, austere and soul destroying ocean that millions of us share, and in which it takes the maximum of effort just to maintain one’s heads above water. Spend a couple of years getting battered by its waves once the harbour wall of university has been removed, and one can be excused for getting less than feverishly excited about organising a revolution for a new world order.

Ironically, if these same politics student succeeded in their utterly futile mission, then life would probably be more pleasant for a large proportion of the population. Despite my cynicism, I would love to see a switch in western values with the introduction of a government attempting to break down class barriers and oversee the equal distribution of wealth for the people of Britain. Call it pessimism, pragmatism or just weary disbelief, but I can’t see it any anytime soon. Especially with the seemingly inevitable onset of a Conservative government to brighten the lives of everyone but the normal man. Still, stranger things have happened. Derby County won away from home the other week, for instance.

On a totally different note, I would like mention how wonderful I think it is for Guy Ritchie that he no longer has to take orders from the repressive and toothy old monster that has dogged him for the best part of a decade. It is no coincidence that the man has not been able to produce a decent movie since he married the cadaverous troll, as all the while he has had to endure the interminable embarrassment of seeing his elderly wife writhe around in a leotard on television with dancers whom she is old enough to have mothered in her late 30’s. It must also be hard to knuckle down to work when the other half, having ostensibly nipped out to get bread and milk, returns each week with another new child stolen from Africa. Get out Guy, get out, and whilst you deserve at least a few million quid for your troubles, you probably won’t get it, because you’re a man (and your wife is in league the devil).

Axe Factor?

Simon adopts the default position after
advisors suggest he lowers mobile phone
voting fees for this year's X Factor


I envy Simon Cowell. The majority of Britain and America realise he is a power-crazed evil genius who truly only gives a shit about himself, and yet he still manages to front TV shows that pull in millions of viewers from both sides of the Atlantic on a regular basis. He is the totalitarian dictator of the phone-vote show format, responsible for millions of eyebrow raising telephone bills and despite his programmes being implicated (and eventually acquitted) in the fiasco that was the ITV phone-in scandal, his reputation has escaped relatively unscathed.

Cue the new series of X Factor then, and strap yourself in for a predictable and totally choreographed few months. We all remember last year’s winner, well, um, we all remember the winner from two years ago, one Leona Lewis. In her, Cowell finally found a contestant worthy of exploiting on the other side of the pond, rather than just dumping in it, and so we will probably not see Ms Lewis again for some time until she returns from America an emotional wreck with a cocaine habit. By which time, there will be a new one.

The first episode was the usual affair; the inevitable sob story of a woman who ‘wants this more than anything’, aiming to overcome the adversity of her terribly unfair upbringing in which she chose to have seventeen children. You could almost see the Pound signs in Simon’s eyes as this, lets face it, crack whore was given the opportunity to show how singing a few lines on TV is seen as an acceptable alternative to education and hard work when aiming to succeed in life in 2008. Then, there was the unbridled hilarity of two Welsh half-wits who stumbled their way through a Peter Andre song in the most excruciating way since Peter Andre. Like I said, the usual drivel.

The lucrative presenting role has been reprised by Dermot O’Leary, who, whilst being immeasurably more bearable and far less irritating than Kate Thornton, has some way to go before he masters the false sympathy for contestants and obsequiousness towards the judges that is required for the role. Annoyingly, he also insists on wobbling his head around like he is being controlled by Jim Henson. The other big change sees Cheryl Cole replacing Sharon Osbourne, to which I have no objection. You will not hear complaint from Ashley Cole either, who must presumably be overjoyed that he will not have to book a hotel room to conduct his affairs now the wife is out filming.

Over on the other side, the BBC’s latest attempt seems to be in full swing. If ‘Last Choir Standing’ were not the fourth of fifth incarnation of the Beeb’s ‘perform-vote-perform-for- survival’ reality format then it would surely be laughed off the airwaves. I was not a regular viewer of any of the other shows, and so I cannot fairly compare or contrast this one, but it works a hell of a lot better than it sounds.

Of the two presenters, Nick Knowles looks he longs to be back on a show about knocking down walls, whilst the ever smiling Myleene Klass has evidently just graduated from presenting school. The slightly odd pairing presides over a show in which a series of amateur choirs from around the country battle it out to become, you guessed it, ‘Last Choir Standing’. The name suggests that the disqualified are put to death in a gladiatorial manner, but my suggestion to the BBC that this may be a worthwhile addition to the post watershed results segment in subsequent reality shows has been sadly ignored.

This week, singing for survival were Bath Male Voice Choir and Revelation, a gospel choir from a paradoxically joyous and soulful part of East London. Their choice for the showdown was the gospel classic, ‘Love The One You’re With’; although I’ve leafed through my Bible and I can’t find the books of Crosby, Stills, Nash or Young anywhere. Despite this, it was enough to see off the boys from Bath in the judges’ opinion, although I do believe Russell Watson and the other two adjudicators were acting under duress following the projected costs of keeping the eventual losers in the competition. Not even the BBC can run to dressing 32 ageing tradesmen in new suits time after time, not to mention footing the hotel bills having ferried them up and down the M4 every week.

The BBC’s entertainment programming ideas may vary from the sublime to the ridiculous, but credit must go to their ability to think even a little bit innovatively. I thought the days of reality phone-in shows must have been nearing an end after last year’s tired X Factor format but, like an untreated genital wart, it has come back bigger and bolder than ever. As much as I hate to admit it, this is testament to Cowell’s canny ability to assess when a duck becomes a dead one. He proved this by axing Pop Idol and replacing it at just the right time with X Factor, and will doubtlessly do the same again once he has squeezed every last penny from the show, and when he judges his reputation to be waning. Channel 4 could use his vision, with Big Brother currently limping pathetically home in the ratings race. In fact, if it were a Greyhound, it would have long since been shot and tossed in the Thames.

There may be many (myself included) who are screaming out for a fresh approach to entertainment television, but for now it seems we must resign ourselves to at least another year’s onslaught from Cowell & Co, happily duping millions of overweight women into pausing from their takeaways long enough to pour their money down the telephone lines in voting for the biggest thing since the last big thing. What was last year’s winner called, anyway?

What's The Story (Olympic Glory)?

The Tibetan Shot Put hopeful
demonstrates his technique ahead
of next week's Olympic event.


And so the Olympics are upon us again. It doesn’t seem like five minutes since the last one, but mankind’s largest cock measuring contest is back. This time, it is the turn of Beijing to spend a fortune for the privilege of housing a million foreigners for a month.

There have been doubts as to this vast industrial city’s suitability to host the games. The kayakers for instance, have been warned not to submerge themselves in the river unless they welcome the idea of glowing radioactive green, and the marathon runners have been preparing for the air quality with a strict regime of 20 Marlboro a day.

Niggles aside, China has really pushed the boat out for this year’s games, spending more than is conceivable on a stadium that is supposed to resemble a bird’s nest, and which unfortunately for them, has turned out to look just like a bird’s nest.

Much has been said in the run up to the games regarding China’s woeful human rights record, at home and abroad, and many politicians spoke hopefully after Beijing was awarded the games that we may see changes in the communist nation, with the softening of some of their policies and ideals now the world was looking on.

This was wishful thinking of the highest order, and as Amnesty international’s 2008 report shows, has done nothing to alter the behaviour from the ultra restrictive communist government towards freedom of speech and forced labour. No doubt on the surface it will be all smiles in Beijing during the course of the games, and it is doubtful whether despite the inevitable protesting, the Chinese silencing committee will be seen or heard with the world’s eyes fixed on the country; it would after all be a PR nightmare. As for the potential for unrest, one needs to look no further than the farcical torch rally to see the weight of opinion against Chinese human rights policy, and not even with their huge resources can the government replace the entire city with secret service men as seen alongside the flame procession.

As for the sports themselves, China will be hoping to do rather well. Like any communist state, the Chinese government holds its own country in massively high regard, and likes nothing more than revelling in the achievements of China on the world stage. And what achievements they are. Twenty years ago in Seoul, they took home just 29 medals, falling way short of the podium. By 2000, they were third with 59, and last time around in Athens, were pipped to the post only by the ever-omnipotent USA, who took home only 4 more golds than the Chinese. This year, they will be certainly hoping to keep the Americans on their chubby little toes.

Part of the reason for their success is obvious. If the world were a school playground, the Chinese team captain would have far more kids lined against the fence to pick for his team. To put this metaphor into some kind perspective, by comparison Britain would be left with the fat kid and the nerdy one with glasses.

However, sheer population does not automatically denote success. What you need is a system, and that’s one thing the Chinese are rather good at. You see there isn’t many sports that China has great tradition in. Given that re-educating Tibetans is not yet officially recognised as an event at the games, they are left with only a couple of historical specialities. Martial arts are the main one, for which the rest of the world turn up every four years for a total pasting, and the other for some bizarre reason is table tennis. So instead of the British approach; training up anyone who shows promise in their chosen discipline, the Chinese do it the other way round and find sports, however alien, and make people good at them. This explains the production line of freakishly talented (if in many ways totally abused) young gymnasts we have seen over the past few decades.

I read a news piece recently concerning the Chinese rowing team. The government were looking for a sport that had the maximum number of categories, (i.e potential medals) and decided that rowing was it. They set aside a pile of cash, hired one of Europe’s best coaches, picked out 10,000 men and women and put them in a camp for a year and hey presto, a world beating rowing team is born. A little soulless yes, but a winning formula nonetheless. This strategy has enraged the rowing world and put more than one nose out of joint in Henley-On-Thames. In fact, in a television interview recently Steve Redgrave, the sort of Olympic hero whose life you just know is an empty void since his retirement, said that it just wasn’t on that the Chinese rowing team had come from nowhere, and what’s more, they must probably all be on drugs anyway. Nothing like embracing new competition eh Steve?

As for team GB's chances, Redgrave will be happy to know that rowing is amongst our top sports, with experts predicting a gold medal or two despite the challenge from the potentially chemically enhanced Chinese robots he seems so concerned about. We also have a small boy hoping for diving success, which angers me somewhat, because when I was young the swimming pool staff never let me on the high board. He must have his own pool.

Elsewhere, we’ve shot ourselves in the foot by disqualifying our best sprinter, tennis’s Andy Murray will be hoping nobody good shows up so he can bag a medal and the badminton mixed doubles pair who claim they aren’t a couple, but everyone knows are at it, are aiming to go one better than the silver of four years ago. Sadly, there is no GB football team, and the absence of such a squad entering the games looks set to continue after the Scottish FA refused to participate, claiming their independence would suffer as a result. Hmm, I really think they have missed the point.

There is little doubt that Beijing will be a success, from a logistical point of view anyway. The IOC will be hoping for a peaceful few weeks, with sporting prowess taking the headlines, but the games may be remembered from a far more political standpoint. ‘One World, One Dream’ is the maxim under which the 2008 Olympics are being played. Quite whose world, and what dream are unclear, but one thing is for sure, if you are anywhere near Tibet or Darfur, it certainly isn’t yours.

Shiver Me Timbers...

Jack felt he had been discriminated
against after his broadband provider
accused him of piracy.


When I think of pirates, my mind is transported to some far away ocean, in which sails a ship full of drunken men with eye patches, wooden legs and questionable attitudes towards women. Quite how, given their crews’ sensory and mobility impairments, these ships struck fear into other sea-going vessels is a mystery. Who knows, perhaps the parrots bore the brunt of the labour. What is not in doubt however, is the enduring legacy of such ships and their law-shy inhabitants. Piracy therefore, unlike most crimes, has been granted a legendary status, and its memory somehow seems to absolve its perpetrators of all wrong doing; namely the murder, rape and theft they were so fond of.

Why then, in today’s society, do we reserve the term of piracy with all its swashbuckling imagery, to describe some Japansese student copying music and movies, which he then sells down the local boozer? As far as I am concerned, this is a tame employment of the word. Yes, piracy is a serious issue, and as we are constantly reminded, is more or less destroying the entertainment industry with its impact growing exponentially each year. Despite this, I prefer to think of it as changing it, as opposed to destroying.

Of course, as everyone knows, the Internet has facilitated an alarming amount of piracy, and the illegal downloading of music and films is no longer the exclusive domain of hi-tech nerds operating empires from their parent’s loft. Within today’s Internet savvy youth culture, programs like LimeWire are commonplace, and most think nothing of downloading albums for free with the click of a mouse; I am guilty myself. Part of the problem, other than the ease of doing so, is that obtaining content in this way is not perceived by the majority as wrong. This is despite relentless attempts to convince us of the fact. Take cinema advertising for example, that likens the downloading or purchasing of pirate material to stealing a car or a handbag. ‘It’s not though, is it?’ is most people’s response.

This is partially due to the perception of those we are ‘stealing’ from. People do forget that the entertainment industry extends way beyond the artists or actors themselves, and some can see no further than the overpaid stars, believing their money can be more ethically spent. It is this Robin Hood mentality makes it much easier to justify the ‘theft’ of a movie or album. I spoke to a woman once who honestly thought she was helping Robbie Williams by choosing to illegally download his album rather than buy it. As a die-hard fan she was, in her twisted logic, cutting his profits in a bid to prevent him coming to a grizzly, Elvis-like end whilst eating cheeseburgers on a solid gold toilet in his LA mansion. For fear of her reaction, I stopped short of telling her that it is much, much too late to avert that particular inevitability.

Let us not forget though, that piracy has existed in some form for decades. Much of my childhood was spent happily sellotaping over the tabs on cassettes in order to copy my friend’s NOW 17, or recording songs directly to tape from the radio. Admittedly, before that vinyl was difficult to pirate, but that period saw the birth of illegal broadcasting with Radio Caroline taking to the seas in 1964. Much later, after CD’s has consigned the cassette tape (and annoyingly, most car stereos) to the dustbin, it became apparent that they could be copied cheaply and easily on any half decent PC, giving rise to the explosion in library attendance amongst the student population, raping and pillaging their CD collections in a manner faintly reminiscent of the original pirates, albeit with more government assistance and less work ethic.

The late nineties saw the beginning of the Internet generation, and piracy made a jump into the mainstream. Napster was the pioneer, enabling its members to ‘share’ files between themselves, and boasted 26 million users before it was shut down after a court injunction in 2001. Since that time, countless other sites have sprung up. Record companies have been accused of burying their heads in the sand when it comes to lost revenue through illegal downloads, and seem to be no closer to a resolution. Last week, Virgin announced that it was clamping down on file sharers, threatening to disconnect users from their Virgin Media service unless their illegal activities ceased. This worried precisely nobody, given that according to Virgin, no prosecutions will be made on the back of the investigation. Ironically, Virgin Media are currently introducing a new fibre optic broadband service which will mean increased download limits, and ensure that the very same pirates can access their loot much more quickly and easily than before.

With regards to music, the increase in pirate activity is forcing a change of tack within the industry. In certain cases, they are aiming to beat the pirates at their own game by offering free downloads, as seen with the recent cases of Coldplay and Radiohead, two of the biggest bands on the planet. Increased live performances and more frequent tours are becoming the norm as a result of the changing face of the music scene, and is becoming more and more important. For instance, there are more festivals this summer than ever before, as bands and artists look to claw back the lost profits from recordings to keep them in the lifestyles they have become accustomed. I often wonder whether if placed in today’s climate, the Beatles would have ceased touring as early in their career as they did.

The entertainment industry is resilient though, and whether it be through live shows, merchandise or public appearance, they will no doubt find other avenues in which to make their exorbitant sums of money. So do not fret; the age of the spoilt, overpaid pop star is far from over, and whether we like it or not, with today’s ubiquitous mass media, the likes of Winehouse and Spears will continue to haunt us whether we are stealing their albums or not...

Anyone For Tennis?

Britain's new national tennis centre has
received a mixed response from players
and coaches alike


I ate a bowl of strawberries and cream this evening, which can only mean that Wimbledon has started. Or that Sainsbury’s had them on special offer. Either way, they were ok, but as is the case with all British fruit, they were just not as sweet or inviting as the continental stuff. The same is true of most of our tennis players; not that they are bitter (although I’m sure a lot of them are), but rather that they are just a little disappointing. I do not wish to write another article centred totally on the failings of British athletes, so I will pick on the ex-athletes. Like Tim Henman. The Prince of over-hype and under-achievement decided last year that he had perhaps put the British public through too much pain and chucked in the towel. It is exclusively within the domain of British tennis that any half decent player can hang up his boots, or plimsoles, and sit back, relax and to wait for the inevitable call from the BBC. There are so few successful pros that tennis on television simply must contain every single one of them. Or at least, that is the only way they can hope to justify the inclusion of ‘Tiger Tim’ on this year’s Wimbledon coverage. You could ring out more charm from a used sweat towel than from Henman and his strange, gormless smile. He promised before the tournament that he would prove to the nation that he possesses a sense of humour, although his insistence on entering Wimbledon each year with the hope of winning revealed this years ago.

My hope is that they will break him in gently by plonking him on some outside court to commentate on ball girl vs tennis ball machine on the ill-conceived ‘BBC interactive’ service, where it is poossible to simultaneously watch pictures of nine tennis courts with their rain covers on. When there is play, being given a choice in this way can be counter-intuitive; I remember last year being completely unable to choose between two live matches, flicking feverishly from one to the other until I had lost the plot of both and said bollocks to the whole thing, returning instinctively to the comforting default position on the sky box that shows non-stop Top Gear.

The great news this year is that they have finally shelled out for a new scoreboard on the centre court. It was long overdue, and must be a relief to its sponsors Rolex, who have been lucky to stay in business by associating with the local railway station standard of the previous one. I think the new colour display even has the facility to play back pictures of Cliff Richard singing in the rain, which bizzarely the BBC seem to find infinitely fascinating.

As for the sport itself, in recent years the men’s draw has been dominated by the world’s only famous Swiss man, with Roger Federer taking the honours in five consecutive tournaments. The final has been contested for the last two by the oxymoronically floppy haired yet ferocious Spaniard, Rafael Nadal, who has only relatively recently learnt how to play on grass, on account of his lack of practise due to the rain falling mainly on the plain in his native Spain. The women’s game on the other hand is harder to call, mainly because of the frightening quantity of super talented blonde girls with an ‘ic’ at the end of their names that are emerging from behind Europe’s old iron curtain.

And so to British hopes. Or hope. The ever petulant Andy Murray will be hoping to avoid injuring his nostril hair, little toe nail or whatever it was that kept him out of contention in the last tournament so he can be free to shout, swear and generally disgust his opponent into submission. Good luck to him I say. ‘Tiger Tim’ could have done with a bit of Murray’s Scottish beligerance in his playing career. The only emotion we got from him was the now famous clench fist motion he performed after a particularly crucial point, which always looked more like he was very constipated. The thing is, Andy Murray is actually quite good, and is only 21 so has some time before his career reaches its peak. This is in stark contrast to Henman, who didn’t so much peak as continue on a semi competent plateau, and was arguably prevented from climbing to the top of the metaphorical mountain by the constant gale force wind of public expectation that blew him back down again. Hopefully, unlike deluded football fans, tennis enthusiasts will have learnt not to pin such unrealistic hopes on our current number 1, and just let him get on with it.

Incidentally, Murray’s brother Jamie is rather good too, and actually won the Wimbledon mixed doubles title last year, although in my eyes doubles tennis doesn’t actually count. It’s tennis’s ‘special’ younger brother, with learning difficulties but a ‘real zest for life’.

The figures reveal for themselves how far behind the British lie in terms of competitive tennis players. France and Germany, two comparable countries in terms of affluence, population and climate, have 15 and 12 players respectively featuring in this year’s men’s draw, and Britain a measly 4. The same goes for the women, with only 5 due to turn up for a battering. Interestingly enough, I cannot name a single female British tennis player. Come back Sue Barker, all is forgiven.

The only conclusion that can be drawn is the lack of available coaching at grass roots level. Tennis has long been the domain of the upper middle classes, with club snobbery ensuring that cash, rather than talent, be the deciding factor in membership. It means simply that there is no talent without coaching, and no coaching without cash. As for tennis in schools, everyone knows that the courts only exist to provide a place to conduct fire drills, and from memory, rarely even have nets.

Funding is a real problem too. Every time I see British athletes fail at something, my mind is cast back to a wonderful segment of a documentary that was aired just before the last Olympic games. It charted the progress of two similar athletes, both swimmers. One was from the UK and the other from Australia, and in a similar situation to Rocky IV, the Australian had wires protruding from him and was plugged into about five beeping machines whilst he trained in a specially climate controlled glass box. Whilst his every movement was being charted by a computer to highlight any minute areas for improvement that might shave a thousandth off his personal best, our guy was in a public pool in Luton with his trainer pulling along what looked like a fishing lure on some wire through the water for him to chase. This, the Olympic hopeful revealed, was the full extent of government funding for the swimming team.

Given that we are hosting the games in the not too distant future, should we not throw some cash behind finding and training the very best athletes? Not necessarily becuase we want to win everything like the Americans, but instead because it is almost guaranteed that in 2012, London’s infrastructure, transport system, crime levels and cost of living will be embarrassment enough, without our athletes showing us up further...

And now for the Sport...

During the 70's, Des managed to juggle
his work as both sports presenter and
porn star quite respectably.



Imagine yourself in B&Q looking for paint. If you didn’t see the colour you wanted, you would go and see the man in the apron behind the paint desk. He would know more than is healthy on the subject, and you would leave satisfied with your choice of elaborately named colour. Suppose that the man behind the paint counter was not in fact a paint expert, but had been drafted in from the gardening section and couldn’t tell his Cumulo-Nimbus White from his Sratus grey. You would probably feel a little inconvenienced. Now suppose you learnt that potted plant man was not simply covering for his friend whilst he attended a paint-related emergency, but was a permanent fixture behind that counter and would not be replaced. In that instance, you may want to tell him where to stick his paintbrush and go to Homebase instead. I know I would.

This is exactly how I feel with BBC sport coverage. A perfect case in point occurred a couple of weeks ago, when BBC2’s live coverage of the PGA golf championship was anchored by none other than everyone’s favourite crisp-eating goal poacher, Gary Lineker. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Lineker, he is a fine presenter and professional to boot. MOTD is just not the same when he is absent, though admittedly that could have something to do with his stand-in Ray Stubbs, who would be more at home presenting the World Darts championship with a beer in his hand every week. But surely Lineker is the football guy right? Wrong. For some reason, the Beeb consider Leicester’s silver fox to have reached a plateau in his career, where he now transcends football and can be used generically. This as may be, but it did not stop my mother, with whom I watched the golf coverage, uttering his name most incredulously as the program was introduced. The Lineker rule also applies to Sue Barker, who has risen to a level that (thankfully for Sue) seeks to erase the memory of her many years spent in tennis-playing mediocrity.

The BBC has a particular penchant for these sport-hopping impostors, and some are frankly ridiculous. For instance, I laughed out loud when I saw a red-faced John Parrot jogging over Tower Bridge during the London Marathon, struggling to keep up with the man dressed as a giant vegetable that he was interviewing. I am dubious as to whether he has run 26 miles in his life, never mind an afternoon. Similarly incongruous is the sight of half the 1992 British Olympic team wandering around for the BBC with microphones at any given sporting event and interviewing anything that moves. What next, the woman from the racing show presenting Crufts? Oh no, wait…

Specialist, ex-professional sports star presenters are all very well and good, but they must be confined to their respective field of play. The problem is that the BBC lacks a pool of quality, multi purpose presenters. You could draft them in from other genres, but it wouldn’t work. Richard Hammond cannot present everything on television after all, and I wouldn’t trust Graham Norton anywhere near a program involving the word balls. Titchmarsh would make things difficult by turning the six yard line or fairway into a herbacious border, and Adrian Chiles is problematic too; not even the most serious and tactical sports are beyond his relentless, sarcastic dismantling.

Oh, how they miss Steve Ryder with his beautiful mane of greying blond and a manner slicker than James Bond, who can now be seen weekly on ITV delivering his smooth, calm and English-gentleman approach to the Formula 1 championship. I have fond memories of his days on Grandstand, holding links together like the exquisitely groomed glue that he is. It is no wonder Grandstand was canned not long after his desertion to ‘the other side’.

My suggestion is for the BBC to run a major reality show in a similar style to ‘I’d Do anything’, dedicated to finding the next great sports presenter. It would be named after and adjudicated by the godfather of British sporting broadcast himself, with Des taking Lloyd Webber’s seat as the Beeb take contestants and begin to ‘Lynam Up’. You saw it here first…….