Sir Alex vs. Sir Alan

There are a number of reasons why I absolutely loved watching the Man United vs Roma match on television last night.

Firstly, Man U were absolutely phemomenal. Roma are second in the Italian league, which not long ago was considered head and shoulders above the Premiership in terms of technique and skill. Last night, they were totally annihilated. The speed and penetration of United's forward play was genuinely incredible to watch, and Roma just couldn't cope. Had this been a boxing fight, the referee would have stopped it after 20 minutes. The full-time score, in case you haven't heard, or have heard but were too dumb-struck to believe it, was 7-1 to Man U.

Secondly, Cristiano Ronaldo. Yes, he behaved badly at the World Cup last summer. Yes, he has an occasional tendency to dive and play-act, and yes, there's a reasonably good chance that he is a bit of a prima donna. But he is also the best football player I think I've ever seen. Watching his step-overs, feints and dummies is just bewildering, even on the television. I can't even begin to imagine where you'd start if you had to defend against him. Several times last night, I found myself actually laughing in amusement and admiration when he was on the ball. Even if you're not a football fan, you really should watch a Man United game when he is playing. There is every chance that, in twenty years time, his name will be mentioned alongside Pele, Maradonna and Best.

Apart from the brilliance of the football, the general spirit of the occasion also made it a game to remember. The players behaved themselves impeccably. Roma were gracious and magnanimous in defeat - not easy when you've been annihilated at something you consider yourself to be exceptionally good at. There were a few ugly scenes outside the stadium in the early evening, but during and after the match there were no signs of trouble, and the police and stewards seemed to handle things very well. Let's hope that the Italian police were watching, and might have learned something about the importance of appropriate and proportionate action.

Perhaps most encouraging of all, for me, was the sight of a group of Asian men in turbans cheering along with the Man United supporters. It has often been noted that Asian people, considering the proportion of the population they represent, are massively under-represented in football stadiums. They are seen as being hostile, unwelcoming environments, and people who might otherwise be dedicated supporters decide to stay away. Professional sport, when undertaken with the excellence and honesty displayed last night, has the ability to break down prejudice and remove hostility. Football has been responsible for more than it's fair share of violence and nastiness over the years. Well done to the players, staff and supporters of Man United for reminding us all that, when done properly, it is still The Beautiful Game.

Going to the dogs

The following post is largely for the benefit of those fool-hardy folk who kick a ball with me on a Saturday morning, and specifically those who attended our social last night, although other readers who know Ross Caws may also want to read on.

It is not often that my blog entries, let alone any comments that are made about Saturday morning football, are sombre and serious in tone, but there were a number of very worrying things that took place at the Dogs last night, and, in all seriousness, I would like to relate them to you so that together we can help the individual concerned.

For those unaware of the basic facts: a number of us from the football crew had a social at the dog-racing track in Brandon last night. In different circumstances, I would totally recommend it: three course meal; £10 worth of free bets; your own table from which all races can be viewed, and waiting service throughout. Our experiences, however, were not at all pleasant, and as a regular Saturday morning player I feel quite strongly that we need to rally round and do what we can to support a fallen comrade, Mr. Ross Caws. I am genuinely fearful for him.

Early in the evening, Ross was his usual, chirpy self - lots of banter, plenty of jokes and a plastic wallet full of pound coins. It was a genuine pleasure to see Ross back a winner in the first race. His little face lit up at the prospect of not only collecting his winnings, but also enjoying the bragging rights that he would have for the rest of the evening. Whilst the rest of us were discussing what food to order, Mr. Caws was sitting quietly, grinning to himself, clearly relishing his beginners' luck.

It was not long after this that things took a turn for the worse. Ross backed another winner, and another, and, inexplicably, another. As the winnings came pouring in, I began to notice some (initially) subtle changes in Ross's body language, demeanour and general attitude. All banter began to subside, and anyone wanting to make a friendly joke would be countered with a frosty stare. Whilst placing bet number three, his hands were visibly shaking, and when I tried to have a look at his ticket, merely to see which dog he had gone for, he snatched up his fork and slammed it down, sharp end first, missing my hand by a whisker. Shocked, I looked up at him, and was horrified by what I saw. His eyes, usually so bright and full of energy, were cold and dead, and his face had turned a deathly white. Clearly struggling to keep his voice under control, he whispered - "Don't...touch...the...Master's... ticket".

If all of this was alarming, then what followed was almost too distressing to relate. Ross's luck began to disappear, and after three wins on the trot, he then had three consecutive losses. After loss number three, his head slumped to the table, shoulders heaving, breathing erratic and irregular. His whole body was shaking, and by this point our entire party had become very concerned. A lady on the table opposite ours was talking quietly to her friend, and announced that, as she had run out of money, she would be making "no more bets". Upon hearing this, Ross jumped up, screaming in a way that was just not human:

"NO!" he cried. "I CAN TURN IT AROUND, I KNOW I CAN! PLEASE, YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'LL DO TO ME!"

As a silent and horrified restaurant turned to stare at him, Ross realised his mistake. Looking more deathly pale than ever, he mumbled something about "should be more careful" and sat down.

By the time we reached the final race, Ross had, to some extent, regained control of himself, although he was still uncharacteristically silent. As we made our way back to the cars, he walked, head down and shoulders hunched, some ten yards ahead of us. Just as we reached the exit, he suddenly spun round and confronted me.

"When's the next meeting here?"

"I'm not sure Ross, I'll have to..."

"WHEN'S THE NEXT MEETING HERE?!"

"Ross...please! Just let me look..."

"I'VE GOT TO KNOW! MY HEAD'S SPINNING, I...please, Joe, I'm sorry for shouting. I just need to know."

"Tomorrow, Ross. 7.30."

No sooner had I finished speaking than he ran past me, back onto the dogs track, and disappeared into the darkness, ignoring our shouts and pleas.


That was the last any of us have seen of him. We spent several hours searching, and even got some of the staff involved, but, apart from the occasional guttural scream echoing down the corridors, there was neither sight nor sound.

As you can imagine, I had a sleepless night, and was roused from a state of disturbed slumber at 7am by the manager of the track. He told me that a few minutes ago one of his cleaners had reported seeing a young man lying, foetal position, in the middle of the track, eyes wide and blood-shot, stroking an old tote card and repeating over and over "twelve and a half hours...twelve and a half hours...twelve and a half hours..."

I am planning to drive over there this afternoon. I'm not sure if I'll make it back again. I fear him, for here, truly, is a great mind overthrown.

Vitriol

Found myself in the belly of the corporate beast this afternoon - went to Starbucks for an end-of-term-celebratory Latte and piece of cake (neither of which were 'skinny', give me strength!) and had a good read of The Times.

My first port of journalistic call, as always, was the sports pages. I had always thought of Simon Barnes, one of the paper's chief sports writers, as a bit of a twat. Some years ago he wrote a very scathing piece about Middlesbrough FC, in which he was highly critical and patronising towards not just the football team but the place and people as well. I may have to revise my opinions, however, in the light of the article I read this afternoon. I'm marching shoulder-to-shoulder with him on this one:

'I am a Steve Mclaren fan. I shall sing his praises wherever I go...He is a hero of the beautiful game. I shall hang on his every word...Steve, I am your man.

Anything, rather than be counted with the England fans...

It began within fifteen minutes (of England's qualifying match against Andorra in Barcelona on Tuesday night). There was no thought of encouraging the players...This was a group of people hungry for hate, waiting for the first moment in which they could legitimately express their hatred. It was an absolutely poisonous occasion...If I were a player, I would wish never to play football for these people again.

(This) is considered a basic human right in football..."They've paid for their seats, they have a right to their views." A right to views, yes, but do they really have a right to hideous, violent and personal abuse?

I'll support him for evermore. I am prepared to believe that he walks on water. I want Mclaren in - if only to spite the poisonous bastards of Barcelona.'

Joe vs the System

Damn, blast, and eternal hellfire!

Stupid, PATHETIC, bloody machine hasn't let me sign in for AGES!!

Seriously, to all those more technically clued up than me (most, if not all of you), WHY would this evil Machine stop me from getting onto the Blogger sign-in page, when all other websites seem to have been working fine? For the last few weeks, I've waited for as long as 30, 40, 50 minutes for Blogger to load up, but it just hasn't. I have, in that period, become even more of a neo-Luddite than I was before. To the Devil with computers and everything asociated with them! I have nothing but admiration for my good friend Paddy, who seemed to bear very patiently with his machine when it wasn't working properly. Nothing irritates me more than a PC with attitude!!

Right, rant over. What's been going on over the past FOUR WEEKS!! (bl#*!y, f#*$ing, t#!*ing machine) A fair bit, actually. In a continuation of the rebellious technology theme, my mobile phone was broken whilst sledging. A friend had it in his pocket, and at some stage crash-landed on top of it, smashing the screen. Have a new one now but have lost all my numbers. If you are a person who likes to think of me as a 'contact', firstly my commiserations, and secondly please text or call my mobile so that I have your number again. Thanks.

Car broke down as well on Wednesday night. Very exciting. It just packed in while I was driving slowly past a group of hoodies. Very pleasant, helpful hoodies, actually, but all quite embarassing as they spoke to me in a language I didn't quite follow:

Hoody: You alright mate.

Me: Fantastic. Car's broken down.

Hoody: F***in' hell. Open the f***in' bonnet mate.

Me: Okay.

H: Where's the f***in' pump, mate?

M: The what?

H: The f***in' pump, mate.

M: I didn't know such a thing existed.

H: F***in' there it is mate. F***in' looks alright.

(H enthusiastically pumps)

H: Not f***in' working mate. We'll have to jump the f***er.

M: I'm not into that kind of thing.

H: We need to jump the f***in' f***er mate. The f***in' car.

M: Right. How do I do that?

H: Get in the f***er mate. Clutch down, into second, I'll give it a f***in' push, when I shout, clutch up.

M: Okay.

(Jump attempted)

H: Didn't f***in' work mate.

M: No, I noticed that too.

H: Got f***in' breakdown mate?

M: Yes.

H: Give the f***ers a call mate.

M: I will. Thank you.


Seriously, I was very grateful to this scary-looking stranger for doing what he could. I dutifully gave the f***ers a call, and they couldn't sort it out either. Had to have it towed to a garage on Thursday morning. Got the day off school, but ended the day £120 worse off. Still, I feel like the whole experience has been a bit of a rite of passage. I hope it doesn't happen again, but if it does I won't be as pathetic and stressed out as I was this time.

Oh, and for the literary types out there, I've just finished reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Absolutely brilliant. Totally recommended for anyone who likes their novels.

Right, I feel 'purged'. This entry had to be a long one to help appease my frustrations of the past four weeks. You watch, I won't be able to post it now...

Up the Boro

As previously stated on this blog, the most masochistic and self-degrading aspect of my character is my inability to stop supporting Middlesbrough FC. I moved away from the town eight and a half years ago, have been back only twice since, and don't really know anyone who lives there anymore, but for some reason (and despite a few conscious attempts) I can't seem to shake the feelings of despondency when they mess up (often) and elation when they succeed (rare).


I have found in recent weeks, however, that supporting the Boro has been a less debilitating condition than usual. During all the long years that I have taken an interest, their most infuriating characteristic has been the ability to play well and get good results against the big teams, only to slump to standards of unbelievable mediocrity against the lesser ones. In recent seasons this has been particularly evident. Last season, we beat Chelsea, Man Utd and Arsenal at home, but were also the only team in the entire league to lose a match against Sunderland, who finished bottom of the table with a record-lowest points total.

During the first half of this season, we once again beat Chelsea at the Riverside, and drew our away games against Arsenal and Liverpool, but guess what?! We were beaten by all three of the newly promoted teams, (Reading, Sheffield United and Watford) two of whom are currently languishing at the bottom of the league. This can all get very frustrating. If you had told me two months ago that Middlesbrough's next two games were away to Man Utd, then at home to Charlton, I honestly, honestly would have been more confident of a victory at Old Trafford.


However, as mentioned, I have noticed a rather subtle and very pleasing change in recent weeks. On Tuesday night, we battled to victory in an FA cup tie against lowly Bristol City, of League One. The score after extra time was 2-2, and we needed a penalty shoot-out to beat them. An embarassment for the Premiership side, then? Not at all. That was exactly the kind of game in which, until recently, Middlesbrough would have caved in, stopped trying, and allowed the lower-league boys to record a famous win. We had a similarly scrappy, roll-up-your-sleeves-and-fight type win against Hull City in the previous round of the FA Cup. In the league we have, since Christmas, beaten Sheffield United, Charlton and Bolton Wanderers, and got a point away to Portsmouth (read it and weep, Bastable!). Most, if not all of these games would normally have resulted in humiliating failure.


Even the recent 3-0 defeat against Chelsea didn't dampen my spirits - it's Chelsea, for goodness sake! We shouldn't be beating a team who have become to professional football what Tesco is to retail. We should be able to pick up points against the likes of Charlton, Sheffield United and Portsmouth (weep again, Bastable!), and recently, that's exactly what we've been doing.


Of course, no fan is more familiar with false hope than a Boro fan. Let's wait and see where we finish this season. For the time being, though, Gareth Southgate seems to be successfully motivating the likes of Viduka, Xavier and Yakubu (one last sob, Andy) to actually bother to try, and the enthusiasm of local young players like Stewart Downing, James Morrison and Andrew Davies bodes well for the future.


It is only fitting for me to conclude with one of the wonderfully inventive terrace refrains I remember from my boyhood days:

You are my Boro, my only Boro.

You make me happy, when skies are grey.

You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.

Please don't take, my Boro, away.

Unsuitable for children

Macavity's a mystery cat,

He's called the Hidden Paw.

For he's a master criminal,

Who can defy the law.

He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard,

The Flying Squad's despair.

For when a crime's discovered, then

Macavity's not there.

(T.S. Eliot)

I was simultaneously amused, inrigued and terrifed when, pulling into my parking space behind the house a few weeks ago, I saw this monstrosity staring down at me from the neighbour's garage roof. I immediately dashed into the house to get the camera, certain that never again would I get such a good opportunity to capture purest evil in photographic form.

I mean, what the dickens is THAT??! I would be too terrified to sleep at night if I was the owner of that thing! I am tempted to use the picture as a disciplinary tool at school. Even the rowdiest class would be reduced to silent whimpering by the sight of such a hideous monster.

I have not seen this cat near the house either before or since. Perhaps it was a visitation from the Underworld. Perhaps it never existed at all, and was some form of nightmarish apparition. Either way, I hope that, whilst staring at it in a state of morbid, transfixed awe, it didn't steal my soul.

Blood Diamond

Went to see this movie with Paddy, the Cooks and Chris Redstall last night.

I think the most satisfying movie experience you can have is going to see a film that you've never heard of, have no pre-suppositions about whatsoever, and then get blown away by. That's exactly what happened with this little gem (pardon the pun!).

Firstly, let's get one thing straight. Leonardo di Caprio is a flippin' good actor. His reputation seems to have been forever tainted by Titanic, and yet anyone who has seen What's Eating Gilbert Grape?, The Avaiator, The Departed, and now this movie can surely have no doubts about his talent. He has a magnetic screen presence, and almost always brings a real depth of understanding and emotion to the variety of characters he has played. His South African accent was (almost!) impeccable in this film, even including the quirky 'hm?' at the end of every statement!

In Blood Diamond, he plays a diamond smuggler based in Sierra Leone, who teams up with a native fisherman (Djimon Hounsou - also fantastic). Hounsou is searching for his son, who has been kidnapped and brainwashed by the RUF, an army of brutal guerrila rebels who trade diamonds for arms. Whilst working as a slave for the RUF, Hounsou had found and hidden a huge diamond, and in return for helping him find his son, Di Caprio insists that Hounsou show him where the stone is hidden.

Although at times quite sickening in its portrayal of hideous violence, the movie is full of hope. Shots of RUF members gunning down women and children are counter-balanced by panoramic views of stunning African scenery, and Di Caprio's character, whilst unquestionably portrayed as a crook at the beginning of the film, goes through a moving and entirely believable process of redemption and repentance.

The only problem with the film is that it uncovers the horrific realities of a trade which most of us never have anything to do with. I wish I was a regular diamond buyer, so that, out of protest, I could stop! I don't think I've seen anything that has so convincingly tugged at the heart-strings since The Lion King, at the age of 13! The scenes between Hounsou and his son almost moved me to tears, and honestly that doesn't happen often - I think my resistance would have broken entirely if I hadn't had Alex Cook on one side and Paddy on the other!

One warning: I could watch this with a (relatively) clear conscience, because I don't own and have never bought a diamond. If you do, or if you have, then just be aware that you may be tempted to throw it away or sell it after seeing this!

It's only words...

When I was younger, I used to get into trouble for using words and phrases that I had heard on the playground or in the classroom, but didn't have a clue what they meant. I would hear an insult, jibe, or colourful adverb that I thought sounded quite cool, remember it, use it in conversation, and inevitably land myself in a lot of grief.

I remember calling a boy at church a 'sex maniac' on one occasion. On the playground at junior school I approached a dinner-lady and told her that my friend was being a 'cunt', and I'll never forget the occasion when, at the age of 5, I announced to my family at the dinner-table that I'd had a hard day and was feeling 'fucking tired'.

I had thought that I'd left this undesirable trait behind, but in recent weeks it has reared its ugly head. A friend at work referred to me as a 'numpty'. I thought it sounded like a quirky little insult so have been using it myself. Problem is, I have no idea what a 'numpty' actually is.

Could anyone enlighten me? I really don't want to offend anyone!

Hail to the Cafe.

In recent blog entries, Rich and Steve Tilley both eulogised Cafe Create, and wrote about how much they had enjoyed taking part and helping to organise it. After having thoroughly enjoyed last night's Create, I'd like to give the event a similarly glowing reference.

Performing in front of people is something that's very hard to get into. If you want to learn to play the guitar, then buy (or lend) one, get yourself a book (or DVD) and have a go, in the privacy of your own home. If you want to get into football, or martial ars, or dancing, or story-writing, or a whole host of other things, you can usually find some kind of beginners class or introductory course which will allow you to explore and get a 'feel' for it in a friendly, non-judgemental environment.

However, if you fancy having a go at engaging an audience, at standing up in front of a crowd of people and either entertaining them or holding their attention, opportunities to do so can be very thin on the ground. The general consensus is that if you want to stand up and command the undivided attention of a large group, you'd better have something worthwhile - or funny - to say. Someone wanting to explore a potential gift or talent in this area will always have difficulty finding an audience that is sympathetic, generous in its response, and willing to forgive novice mistakes.

This is where Create comes into it's element. I've seen some great acts there, and some not so great ones, but the quality of the act is not really what it's about. Everyone and anyone is encouraged to have a go at, well, whatever they fancy having a go at. Last night there was a stand-up comedy routine: the chap who did it was seriously brave for having a go, and he did have some genuinely funny gags. Overall, I'd say the standard of his act was round about 7 out of 10, but nobody was remotely concerned about occasional lapses in comic timing, or the odd punchline which didn't quite hit the mark. Everyone appreciated the fact that he'd had a go, gave him a warm response, and really enjoyed the performance.

Having an event like this, in which people can perform and feel 'safe', makes for a great social occasion and is also of spiritual benefit, I think. If your act is average, no-one's going to criticise you and good on you for having a go, but if it's seriously good (and they often are) then it might give you the confidence to pursue and develop the talent. You might uncover a gift for stand-up, or poetry reading, or acting, or just for public speaking. The Church is always going to benefit from knowing about people who can engage an audience, and I bet that Cafe Create has uncovered a few spiritual gifts in its time.

The next one is towards the end of March (forget what date exactly) so if you can, come along, and better still, get yourself on stage. You'll not find a better place in which to have a go!

Mingin'!

One of the guests on Andrew Marr's 'Sunday AM' programme this morning was Sir Ming Campbell, leader of the Lib Dems.

Marr asked a question that went something like this:

"Having been very critical of the Labour government over the Iraq war, and publicly attacked them for sleaze, corruption and authoritarianism, there is presumably no chance of your party making any kind of coalition with them after the next election?"

Sir Ming's answer?

"We want maximum votes, maximum seats and maximum power. We have already started drafting our Referendum. When the election comes, we'll be ready."

Come on, Ming! You can avoid a question better than that!

Oh Goody!

Political correctness and reality television (unless it's The Apprentice) are two things not at all close to my heart, but this week they have joined forces to give me some encouragement about the way the world is going.

The allegations of racist bullying on Celebrity Big Brother have dominated the headlines recently. I haven't watched more than 30 seconds of the show, and so can't give any kind of opinion on whether or not Jade Goody has a genuinely xenophobic dislike of her fellow house-mate Shilpa Shetty, or whether she's just an ignorant twit. Regardless of motives and prejudice, however, I think that the CONSEQUENCES of the whole affair are really quite pleasing. Jade's eviction last night was not attended by a live audience. The media and the public, in large numbers, have turned against her, and she is quite likely to be a taboo subject for the gossip mags and tabloid papers which have previously helped her milk the celebrity band-wagon.

Call me vitriolic or scathing, but this makes me happy. The likes of Jade Goody, Abi Titmuss and James Hewitt have sullied and cheapened the word 'celebrity' to an unbelievable extent. They have become famous either for who they know, or the extent of their ignorance, or the size of their breasts. They have nothing remotely interesting to say, have achieved very little, and are often not very nice people (it seems certain that Shetty HAS been bullied on the programme, whether for racial reasons or not). Jade Goody's fall from grace, and her banishment from the world of C-list fame, may be the beginning of the end for our fame obsessed culture. Hopefully, people will start to realise that these 'celebrities' really have nothing to contribute, and the word itself will actually become meaningful again. And that would be one less thing that's wrong with the world.

Beckham inc.

Check out 'Beckham - the Stateside reaction' to read some insightful, and some typically American reactions to young David's transfer to LA Galaxy.

On the whole, I'm a fan of Becks. There are several reasons for him to be an idiot: he and Posh are international A-listers; (right up there with Tom and Katie, Brad and Angelina and Chris and Gwyneth) he is fantastically wealthy; and has had a very successful career in the world's biggest sport. Despite all this, however, he seems (and is widely reputed) to be a very decent, well-grounded and down-to-earth individual, who is genuinely committed to his family and loyal to his friends.

I don't quite buy the claim that he is going to LA for purely footballing reasons, though: the boy has obviously just got stars in his eyes. When he signed for Real Madrid in 2003 they were known as FC Hollywood, due to their abundance of footballing superstars. Four years down the line, and David is swapping Real Hollywood for the real Hollywood. He has said in the past that after retiring from football, he would like to get into movie acting. Where better to be based? He and Victoria count Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes as close friends, and it won't be long before they are sharing front-cover space with them on all the US tabloids and gossip mags. Posh and Becks know this, and I bet they can't wait.

Beckham will, I'm sure, give everything he's got on the field of play: football was his first love, and it was as a top class player that he first came to international fame. Over the years, however, his love of the celebrity limelight has become more and more significant, and this latest transfer suggests that it has overtaken footballing success as his main motivation. The move to Madrid, despite all the glitz and glamour, at least made professional sense - he was being courted by arguably the best team in he world. LA Galaxy, as a football squad, cannot even begin to compare, and Major League Soccer is hardly the right environment for anyone interested in retaining their status as a world-class player. Beckham knows that the chances of him winning back his England place will be very slim if he leaves the big European leagues.

Good luck to him, I say. He has been a super player and a gentleman. He's not going to be the former for very much longer, but I do sincerely hope that, amongst the pouters and prima-donnas of LA, he can continue to be the latter.

The worst thing that could have happened...

So that's it then. 17 months after a thrilling Test-series victory which gripped the nation, our boys have been given an almighty mauling by the Aussies, and become the first side since 1921 to suffer an Ashes white-wash. Shane Warne can retire in peace.

It would seem illogical that England could fall so far from the glory of September 2005 in such a short space of time, especially when you consider that their personnel has remained largely unchanged. It should perhaps not surprise us too much, though, as this does seem to be a very English phenomenon: namely, the inability to cope with success.

We have certainly seen it before. Take our Rugby Union team. In 2003, they couldn't lose. Ever since, and throughout 2006 in particular, they have found it very difficult to win. Injuries and retirements have not helped the cause, but these things happen all the time and are part of the natural process for any team: England have used them as a convenient excuse. Clive Woodward built a side who simply refused to accept defeat, and victory at the World Cup seemed almost inevitable. From the moment that Jonny Wilkinson kicked his winning goal, however, that aura of invincibility has slowly but surely been laid to waste. England's performances in the last six months have been dreadful, and the label of world champions has become an embarassment.

There have been other, less conspicuous examples in recent years. Jonathan Edwards was so far ahead of the rest of the triple-jumping world in 1995 that he seemed to be some kind of Superman, at least equally as dominant as Michael Johnson was in the 200m and 400m. Over the course of the following four years, however, he failed to win any major international titles. Now, whatever psychological demons Edwards was battling, he eventually managed to get the upper-hand, because he won the Olympic title in 2000 and the world title in 2001, and is rightly considered to be one of our greatest ever athletes. From 1996-99, however, something was clearly not right.

Sporting excellence is quite rare in this country, and it would seem that many of our top competitors find success, on the rare occasions that they achieve it, difficult to cope with. I remember reading Linford Christie's autobiography, in which he wrote that getting to the top is hard, but staying there is even harder. One of the things that really sets apart the likes of Michael Johnson, Tiger Woods, Roger Federer and Man United FC is their ability to sustain the hunger and determination over many years, regardless of how much success comes their way. Can you imagine Federer winning Wimbledon one year, then going out in the 2nd round to Tim Henman the next?

For many, the sporting Holy Grail is victory in the football World Cup. Maybe, though, the best thing for England would be to NOT win the competition. Maybe a never-ending sequence of quarter-final and semi-final eliminations is the only way to keep the players motivated. If Rooney, Gerrard, Lampard and company follow the example of our cricket and rugby union teams, then they may well win the World Cup. In the months and years that follow, though, it might end up being another case of ashes to ashes.

Many thanks to sibling Anna, who has forced my thinking cap on by 'tagging' me, and obliging me to come up with five interesting facts about myself. Here goes;

1. Although almost always polite and well-spoken around other people, my language, when I am alone, can be quite shockingly obscene. Outbursts tend to occur when I am either driving, or using technology which is not doing what I want it to! Not something I am very proud of.

2. Whilst being observed by the Deputy Head last year, I got into an argument with the children in my class about whether it was appropriate to talk about 'breasts' or 'boobies'. What exactly came over me I don't know. Even the five year olds could see I was digging myself a hole!

3. In Year 10, I once locked myself in a props cupboard at school (inadvertently) and was stuck in there for about two hours. I tried climbing through the tiny manhole-size window in the roof, and picking the lock with a zip, before eventually hitting on a successful method of freeing myself; banging on the door and shouting for about 15 minutes before a teacher came and let me out.

4. My first encounter with alcohol was a rather intense one. During an orchestra tour to Catalonia at the age of 16, an older lad recommended that I try tequilla. I dutifully asked for one at the bar. Having never heard of tequilla, and having no idea how strong it was, it didn't strike me as being at all odd that the barman gave me half a pint of the stuff. The first sip was foul, but not wanting to appear soft, I drank the lot - then did the same thing with a couple of Baileys. As Burley would say - wicked!

5. On a rather more sombre note (apologies!) whilst living in Middlesbrough I was attacked on the street twice in the space of four months. Once outside school by about ten lads, and once on the way into town. Delightful place!

Right, who to tag. Problem is, most bloggers I know have already been done, so I'm going to be rebellious and only tag two. I'll go for;

• Martin
• Caroline
  

Anti-resolutions

In previous years, I have been all caught-up in the 'new lease of life' spirit and set myself some New Years' Resolutions. With age, however, comes cynicism. I now know that these resolutions are likely to last until about mid-afternoon on January 3rd, by which time my self-discipline will have cracked and I'll be doing the exact things that I had resolved not to. With this in mind, I have decided to formulate 5 'anti-resolutions'. If I can keep these up for a few days, then lose all willpower and ignore them for the rest of the year, then 2007 will indeed be healthy, happy and prosperous.

1. Eat five portions of fish and chips each day, with extra grease and germs on a Friday.

2. Ignore my family and friends.

3. Try to make at least one child cry every day.

4. Rake up as much personal debt as possible, then give the nice people at Ocean Finance a call to see what they can do to help.

5. Instead of the desired six-pack, endeavour to have obtained a generously proportioned 'mono-pack' by October.


I know I can do it this year!!