“The strongest principle of growth lies in the human choice.” George Eliot.
At this moment, the world cricketing authorities have the choice whether or not to
allow Zimbabwe and Bangladesh to maintain their Test status. Both countries have
struggled to adapt to Test level, while pressure mounts on the International Cricket
Council to take action. Should these fledgling cricketing nations be allowed time to
blossom, or will staying at the highest level stunt their growth?
The reasons for the precarious position of each country’s cricket differ, with
Bangladesh’s problems more straightforward than Zimbabwe’s. “My mum would
have scored runs and taken wickets against the Bangladeshis,” blasted ex-England player Geoffrey Boycott. “She’d have wanted to bat and bowl at both ends!” (Boycott, 2005) Bangladesh simply don’t have enough top quality players to compete at Test level. Given Test status in November 2000, they’ve won once in 40 Tests – against a depleted Zimbabwe side.
Scyld Berry bemoans Tests against Bangladesh lacking “tension and drama, which are…the essence of sport.” (Berry, 2005) Here lies the root of the problem. Test matches involving Bangladesh can spiral into farce, such as when they lost an incredible seven wickets for seven runs against West Indies in 2002. The value of Test cricket is denigrated when matches deteriorate from contests into practice games. For instance, when England met Bangladesh this summer Mike Atherton believes “Marcus Trescothick deliberately gave his wicket away.” It would “be considered bad form” (Atherton, 2005) to score too many runs against such poor opposition claims the ex-England captain.
This makes a mockery of cricket, as ex-Australia bowler Dennis Lillee argues:
“players see matches against Bangladesh as nothing more than an opportunity to get
some easy runs and easy wickets.” (Lillee, 2003) This leads to false averages being created - Ian Bell’s was 297 after playing Bangladesh!
Repeated heavy defeats for both Bangladesh and Zimbabwe reinforce the
argument they should be stripped of Test status; as Boycott explains “it destroys
morale and talent to keep getting hammered.” (Boycott, 2005) They may grow in stature quicker if allowed time to improve outside of the Test stage. This would lead to Tests again becoming tests of ability for players rather than tests of patience for spectators.
The test for Zimbabwean cricket is merely to survive. The sport has been the victim of
political interference to such an extent that the very existence of high-level cricket in
the country is under threat.
However, when Zimbabwe were granted Test status in 1992, they were a
revelation. They drew their first Test match, against India, becoming the first new
member of the Test-playing community to avoid defeat in their inaugural match. Soon
to follow was their first Test win, coming against Pakistan in their eleventh match.
This compares extremely favourably with other Test nations, such as New Zealand
who took 45 Tests and 26 years to achieve a win. Also, world-class players were
coming through their ranks, with Andy Flower reaching number one in the batting
rankings and Heath Streak four in the bowling. Potential for the future was also there
with rising prospect Tatenda Taibu.
Nevertheless, their impressive start is now irrelevant. They haven’t won
against anyone, except Bangladesh, since 2001. But this isn’t the main issue. Political
subplots have punctured the heart of Zimbabwean cricket. Under the leadership of
Peter Chingoka, the Zimbabwe Cricket Union has been hit with allegations of racism.
In 2003 players Andy Flower and Henry Olonga wore black armbands in a World
Cup match to mourn “the death of democracy in our beloved country.” (Flower, 2003)
This highlighted the appalling racism in Zimbabwean cricket, and human rights
record of Zimbabwe under President Robert Mugabe. This has caused huge
controversy over fixtures with Zimbabwe. England refused to play them in Harare in
the 2003 World Cup, while ECB spokesman Des Wilson asked “Can we tour this
country knowing what we do about its stance on human rights and the suffering of its
people?” (Wilson, 2004)
Comparisons can be drawn with South Africa’s 20 year exclusion from world
cricket from 1970-1991 because of racist political policies. Then, “the battle cry of
apartheid’s apologists was ‘Keep politics out of sport!’” (Marqusee, 1994, p184)
This naive outlook has allowed Zimbabwean cricket to continue where South Africa
wasn’t.
However, this may soon change. Chingoka has been accused of mismanaging
the team’s finances, with players currently owed around US$200,000. Subsequently,
37 players have been on strike since November, demanding their money and
Chingoka’s dismissal. Captain Taibu retired (aged 22!) in November and is adamant
that without change “there will be no cricket to talk about in this country.” (Taibu, 2005)
Taibu’s plea for change has indeed been answered, but has had detrimental
effects. An interim board made up of government officials headed by Chingoka has
taken control of Zimbabwe Cricket, removing all white and Asian members from
office. Spokesman for the striking players Clive Field summed up this takeover: “I
think we’re stuffed,” (Field, 2006) he stated, giving voice to the views of many worldwide.
The ICC has made no comment over Zimbabwe or Bangladesh’s status, except
that a “review of the structure of international cricket is ongoing.” (Richardson, 2004) Meanwhile, cases for the defence have grown. “World cricket needs more countries playing, not fewer,” argued Zimbabwe’s Convenor of Selectors Steve Mangongo, “it would be retrogressive to kick Zimbabwe out of Test cricket.” (Mangongo, 2004) He appeals for the need to globalise cricket in order to stop its stagnation. This is a key objective, as decreasing the number of Test teams would undoubtedly hinder the spread of world cricket, especially in the affected countries.
In Bangladesh, where cricket is enormously popular, removal of Test status
would see a downturn in interest and therefore the possibility of future improvement,
as fewer youngsters would play the game. This is why ex-Australia captain Steve
Waugh believes “Bangladesh need to keep developing.” (Waugh, 2005) This can only be achieved by maintaining Test status. It is only short-term that poor performances are a problem. Other countries were given far longer than five years to establish themselves.
This would also be true for Zimbabwe, if matters weren’t complicated by
politics. “They should not mix sport and politics” (Mugabe, 2004) said Robert Mugabe. His government now runs Zimbabwe Cricket, claiming “We are prepared to be chucked out of Test status…We are not bothered.” (Mashingaidze, 2006) The ICC declared suspension from Test status would occur if “the integrity of the international game” (Mani, 2006) is in jeopardy. Next move ICC.
Tuesday 27 March 2007
Monday 19 March 2007
Andy Bishop Profile
Not many 22-year-olds would name Lionel Ritchie and Jamie Oliver as major influences on their life, but Andy Bishop is a man with an old head on young shoulders.
His formative years have seen the Leicester lad take in the sights of Europe, attend two major football tournaments and embark on two university degrees.
Andy’s passion for travel was ingrained into him from his father, who moved to Leicester at 18 from his home in London’s East End. “I support West Ham because I wanted to be like my dad, he was a bit of a trailblazer. I want to see where the journey takes me too.”
So far, Andy’s journey has taken him to both Newcastle and Brighton Universities. “I studied Economics at Newcastle, but realized within 10 minutes of my first lecture that it wasn’t for me. I have no regrets though, just more experience.”
This led him to make a more informed decision when he came to Brighton University, choosing to study Sport Journalism. Here, he is able to satisfy his major passion – sport and letting people know his opinions on it.
“I’m quite chilled out, but Frank Lampard wearing an England shirt really gets me angry. Tottenham get me angrier than anything else, especially if they beat West Ham!” Andy clearly cares about his football.
This has seen him globetrot around some of club football’s most respected teams, from AC Milan to Real Madrid, Ajax to Barcelona. “I took a gap year after A Levels, and traveled around Europe. The whole experience was incredible, experiencing different cultures, meeting new people.”
The continent made such an impression that Andy would consider moving abroad. “I am up for trying anything, and would definitely do it. Italy really appeals to me, mainly because I love Serie A!”
Leaving his roots behind wouldn’t be too challenging for somebody with experience at passing himself off as a fanatical Dutch supporter, like Andy did in Frankfurt last year. “I went to Germany 2006; one night after a few too many beers we decided to pretend we were from Amsterdam and adopt Ruud Gullit’s accent. The only ones not convinced were the actual Dutch fans, they saw straight through us!”
This is typical of Andy’s attitude to life, finding fun wherever he can. “The simple things in life make me happy – Jamie Oliver is an inspiration to everyone! But a good night out, lovely girls with cheeky smiles, they make me happy.”
However, the student has a moral conscience, which has seen him become involved in schemes such as Football For Peace, an organisation that uses football to offer hope to children in places torn apart by war and conflict. “I would like to use my skills as a journalist to get more publicity for the scheme; I think it’s a really worthwhile cause.”
Making a difference like this is central to Andy’s own personal philosophy on life. “As Desree said, ‘Money don’t make my world go round, I’m reaching out to a higher ground.’ But no, seriously, having good people around you and being happy, they are the truly important things.”
Though this isn’t a clear vision of the future, Andy is sure he is on a journey somewhere. “Maybe I won’t know where I’m going and what I want to achieve until I’ve done it.” This happy-go-lucky approach to life seems to suit a man who cites Lionel Ritchie as a hero.
Nevertheless, Andy does worry about the future like anybody else. “In 10 years time I want to be settled down. I don’t want to end up a lonely old man.” But right now, sipping on a pint with a wry smile on his face, Andy thinks everything is easy like a Sunday morning.
Greg Rose
His formative years have seen the Leicester lad take in the sights of Europe, attend two major football tournaments and embark on two university degrees.
Andy’s passion for travel was ingrained into him from his father, who moved to Leicester at 18 from his home in London’s East End. “I support West Ham because I wanted to be like my dad, he was a bit of a trailblazer. I want to see where the journey takes me too.”
So far, Andy’s journey has taken him to both Newcastle and Brighton Universities. “I studied Economics at Newcastle, but realized within 10 minutes of my first lecture that it wasn’t for me. I have no regrets though, just more experience.”
This led him to make a more informed decision when he came to Brighton University, choosing to study Sport Journalism. Here, he is able to satisfy his major passion – sport and letting people know his opinions on it.
“I’m quite chilled out, but Frank Lampard wearing an England shirt really gets me angry. Tottenham get me angrier than anything else, especially if they beat West Ham!” Andy clearly cares about his football.
This has seen him globetrot around some of club football’s most respected teams, from AC Milan to Real Madrid, Ajax to Barcelona. “I took a gap year after A Levels, and traveled around Europe. The whole experience was incredible, experiencing different cultures, meeting new people.”
The continent made such an impression that Andy would consider moving abroad. “I am up for trying anything, and would definitely do it. Italy really appeals to me, mainly because I love Serie A!”
Leaving his roots behind wouldn’t be too challenging for somebody with experience at passing himself off as a fanatical Dutch supporter, like Andy did in Frankfurt last year. “I went to Germany 2006; one night after a few too many beers we decided to pretend we were from Amsterdam and adopt Ruud Gullit’s accent. The only ones not convinced were the actual Dutch fans, they saw straight through us!”
This is typical of Andy’s attitude to life, finding fun wherever he can. “The simple things in life make me happy – Jamie Oliver is an inspiration to everyone! But a good night out, lovely girls with cheeky smiles, they make me happy.”
However, the student has a moral conscience, which has seen him become involved in schemes such as Football For Peace, an organisation that uses football to offer hope to children in places torn apart by war and conflict. “I would like to use my skills as a journalist to get more publicity for the scheme; I think it’s a really worthwhile cause.”
Making a difference like this is central to Andy’s own personal philosophy on life. “As Desree said, ‘Money don’t make my world go round, I’m reaching out to a higher ground.’ But no, seriously, having good people around you and being happy, they are the truly important things.”
Though this isn’t a clear vision of the future, Andy is sure he is on a journey somewhere. “Maybe I won’t know where I’m going and what I want to achieve until I’ve done it.” This happy-go-lucky approach to life seems to suit a man who cites Lionel Ritchie as a hero.
Nevertheless, Andy does worry about the future like anybody else. “In 10 years time I want to be settled down. I don’t want to end up a lonely old man.” But right now, sipping on a pint with a wry smile on his face, Andy thinks everything is easy like a Sunday morning.
Greg Rose
Sportspeople In The Media
The Role of Sportspeople in the Media: ‘Broadsheet’ Newspapers
The ‘quality’ newspapers have experienced an increasing tabloidisation within the past decade. This is most pointedly seen in the adoption of ‘compact’ size newspapers, or ‘Berliners’ in The Guardian’s case. The desire for increased readership is depicted by the gap in sales between the tabloids and broadsheets. While The Sunday Times can boast sales of 1.35 million, its tabloid competitor The News of the World dwarves this with 3.6 million sales. Obviously, tendencies to move towards the most popular ways of selling newspapers are likely to occur.
One way to achieve this is to use current and ex- sports stars as not just interview fodder, but to compliment the journalists who have taken a more traditional route to sports writing as columnists. This is seen at The Times, where, of 14 regular sports columnists, half are currently ex-professionals. These include Matthew Hoggard, Michael Owen and Martin Johnson.
The story is similar at The Independent, which runs a weekly column with Sheffield United manager Neil Warnock aptly titled ‘What I’ve Learnt This Week.’ What Warnock has learnt this year is that signing exclusive deals with newspapers for columns is easy money, while the newspaper has learned that the people involved in the game are welcomed by readers as knowledgeable ‘inside men’ who can give insight that journalists cannot.
However, in this case the column writer ranges from the self-indulgent to the downright patronising. Written from the angle of showing readers the life of a manager, it allows Warnock to preach numbered pearls of wisdom, such as “Growing up is hard to do”, which refers to his enjoyment of the latest Harry Potter film. The tragic situation of Mike Baldwin in Corrie is dedicated two paragraphs in the same article, which occupies a full page directly next to the weekend’s fixtures and tables.
Nevertheless, with the increasing number of sports pages for editors to fill, new and innovative ways of achieving this are required. As our trip to Colindale Newspaper Library showed us, as recently as 1989 the Times contained just two pages of sport. This has increased six-fold, giving scope for more sports stars to find niches in newspapers. Columns like Warnock’s do not require news to make them worthwhile, and no story needs to be generated. The life and experiences of the celebrity sports stars are deemed interesting enough to fill pages.
Mark Galli, writing on sports journalism blog collective www.sportswritingediting.blogspot.com, explains this. He alludes to sports writing becoming increasingly soap-operatic, though the possibility of Warnock’s tributes to Mike Baldwin provoking this is unlikely. Galli explains that “the game story is no longer about the game.” Due to such an overload of media coverage of sports, by the time newspapers come to cover events, their readers generally already know what has happened. They are looking for new angles and interpretations of what has happened rather than to simply read a report of what has happened. This is where columns like Warnock’s are invaluable, as they provide an added, more personal perspective.
Providing perspective in this manner is extremely worthwhile, especially when examining sports which the general readership do not consider themselves experts on – namely all sports except football. The Guardian’s daily 12-page sports section on average contains 7 pages devoted to football, with the remainder covering everything else: cricket, golf, horse racing and rugby, as well as events such as the Snooker World Championship, and the Masters at Augusta.
For coverage of events like this, the opinions of specialist sports star columnists is extremely insightful. This is why the Guardian and Observer always have at least one sports star opinion. Over a two-week period, in 13 of the 14 days articles from the likes of David Pleat, Bob Willis, Steve Cram, David Lloyd, Aravinda De Silva, Tomas Castaignede and Niall Quinn gave each sports pullout the presence of a sports star writer. For example, a journalist would fail to create the same impact as Aravinda De Silva does when discussing Sri Lanka’s chances in their upcoming Tour of England.
De Silva, who played for Sri Lanka between 1984 and 2002 gives the viewpoint of the opposition, and is a man who has been there and done it. He discusses Chamara Kapudegera, whose “straight drives will have the purists purring with pleasure.” It would be difficult for a journalist to discuss this technical aspect of Kapugedera’s game, as he has yet to play a Test match for Sri Lanka. This inside information is of interest to the reader, who will then look out for the youngster once the Series begins. This example shows that broadsheets often use sports stars for the improved situation they have to write an insightful piece in comparison to a journalist. De Silva is included because his column, not his name, gives the newspaper added value.
Thomas Castaignede is another example of this. His column works in a differing manner from De Silva’s but is equally effective. Playing rugby union in England, for Saracens, we get the view of a foreigner discussing the English in his April 10th column. This removes feelings of patriotism and bias, allowing more clarity of thought. Also, by playing with and against the players he is discussing, a sense of realism is created in the piece. While a journalist could only observe the incidents Castaignede reveals, the Frenchman lives them.
However, this can work in the opposite way. If still playing or involved in sport, people are often apprehensive about criticising their peers – there can be repercussions. This occurred when Kevin Pieterson called for the reinstatement of Darren Gough to England’s ODI squad. Pieterson was severely reprimanded for showing a lack of respect to the selectors.
This results in many dreary pieces by players like Michael Owen in The Times, which wish to give away nothing and upset nobody. This is a drawback of sports stars in broadsheets. However, this does mainly occur in football, where a saturation of coverage robs sports stars of any real opportunity to reveal anything new.
Chief Cricket Writer for the Daily Telegraph Derek Pringle commented on this. Pringle is a former England International, now occupying one of the most prestigious roles on sports writing. “It is very odious, people like Gary Lineker and Alan Hansen getting credited for columns they didn’t write, and things like that. It brings us down, gives us a bad name.”
However, he defended sports stars’ right to be in the media. “Certain people want to hear from sports stars. I didn’t appoint myself, and I like to think I do a good job. And anyway, we’ve got thick skins, we can take the criticism. We were professional sportsmen for God’s sake!”
It appears sports stars do have a role to play in the broadsheet newspapers. All senior sports journalists, such as Richard Williams and Kevin McCarra in The Guardian’s case, are allowed to voice their opinions in columns; all regular reporters, well, report, and the sports stars by and large are supplementary distractions. Of course, their presence is shouted from the rooftops with back-page Standfirsts and picture bye-lines; many help sell the newspapers with star quality. But many more in the broadsheets merit their inclusion. In reality they are additional to the sports journalists, not replacements.
Greg Rose
Book Review - Laptop Dancing....
Laptop Dancing and the Nanny Goat Mambo by Tom Humphries
“ABSOLUTE truth,” said Hunter S Thompson, “is a very rare and dangerous commodity in the context of professional journalism.” Tom Humphries hunts for this virtue amongst a maze of media frenzies, teenage millionaires and fellow dissilusioned hacks. Welcome to the life of a sportswriter.
Humphries, a journalist for the Irish Times, complains frequently about his bad timing. “Day after day of never being in the right place.” However, Humphries times this book like a fairway-bound drive from his hero Padraig Harrington. Within twelve months, he reports on the Ryder Cup, Winter Olympics, All Ireland Finals, New York Marathon, Champions League Final and World Matchplay Golf in California.
Oh, and the World Cup. Humphries spends seven eventful weeks in Japan and South Korea, reporting on The Republic of Ireland’s campaign and contributing to the biggest football story of the year. An interview with Roy Keane for his paper is the catalyst for the Manchester United captain’s unceremonious departure from the tournament. This provides the story within a story which is the book’s main selling point.
Nevertheless, it is Humphries prose which moves the book from newsworthy territory to noble terrain. Self-depracation oozes from the pages, as the disgruntled Humphries maligns his place in the world. “Call home. Turns out it’s my birthday.” His dry references to his own deficiencies – from describing himself as Shrek to his daughter succeeding in speaking to Mick McCarthy where he failed – create a caricature equally amusing and endearing.
Regardless, Humphries teeters on the edge of smugness when discussing the problematic nature of his job. The murky profession of a sportwriter is painted as “a disease rather than a trade.” Our plucky hero has no choice but to plod on, from one disappointment to another. He points out the steady decline in standards, the lack of respect, the removal of access given to the press, the poor pay. “Why do I feel so tired? Is this my life?” This is all rather self-righteous, even obnoxious, considering many of Humphries’ target audience would swap places with him in an instant.
He manages to maintain a likeable charm despite this, mainly through his understated comic talent. Wit and sarcasm are spread generously through the pages, the glue holding intertwining anecdotes and musings together. When trying to gain access to a Military Sports Facility, he hands a Kalashnikov-toting guard a letter written in Korean. “It may say, ‘I am an Irish journalist. Shoot me.’ Whatever.” Humphries notes the absurdity of situations with a knowing wink.
When commentating on the state of the media, Humphries is equally philosophical, but far more considered. The book is secretly a gritty portrayal of the fickleness of media, hidden beneath a façade of light-heartedness. The author astutely deconstructs the functions of the press, lamenting their role as witch-hunters-in-chief.
A scandal at the Winter Olympics provides context for Humphries to illustrate sportswriters’ abhorrent ability to create sensation. “You want a different ending? We, the media, will go and fix it.” The elegance and dignity of sportswriting seem to be subverted in an age of Google and tabloidisation.
Humphries detests this, pointing to past journalistic greats who researched widely, created balanced views and were true experts in their fields. Annoyance at the loss of innocence in sport being mirrored in sportswriting is clear.
There are lessons to be learned for budding journalists within the text. Humphries attempts at securing interviews are enlightening, practical problems are described acutely. Also, his moral stances upon issues like libel and writing for the reader not the athlete give insight into the mindset of the typical sportswriter.
However, he is passive in his acceptance of the ills of modern sportswriting. This is because, quietly, Humphries loves it. For every grumble is a moment of joy, for every sleepness night of work is a sleepness night of fun.
An example of this can be found in the book’s title. The often pointless gathering of quotes after sporting events is satirised expertly. The Nanny Goat (meaning quote) Mambo refers to shuffling press pack attempting to prize publishable utterances from pampered stars. Yet, while the mindlessness of this is mercilessly exposed, one such occasion brings Humphries the highlight of his working year.
Standing in the dressing room after the All Ireland hurling finals, the author is touched by the purity of the scene: “that sense that sport isn’t just sport anymore, is pervasive.” These are the moments that Humphries lives for; simultaneously they are the moments that give the book its heart.
As he hilariously vilifies footballers talking in cliché and the media choosing sensation over substance, it seems the truth is eluding him equally in other respects. His “war with sport” is steeped in valiant failure. In the end, there is no war – Humphries needs sport and needs sportswriting. That’s why he will keep doing the Nanny Goat Mambo, and why his book sparkles with a vibrancy only possible from a man who loves what he is doing.
Greg Rose
“ABSOLUTE truth,” said Hunter S Thompson, “is a very rare and dangerous commodity in the context of professional journalism.” Tom Humphries hunts for this virtue amongst a maze of media frenzies, teenage millionaires and fellow dissilusioned hacks. Welcome to the life of a sportswriter.
Humphries, a journalist for the Irish Times, complains frequently about his bad timing. “Day after day of never being in the right place.” However, Humphries times this book like a fairway-bound drive from his hero Padraig Harrington. Within twelve months, he reports on the Ryder Cup, Winter Olympics, All Ireland Finals, New York Marathon, Champions League Final and World Matchplay Golf in California.
Oh, and the World Cup. Humphries spends seven eventful weeks in Japan and South Korea, reporting on The Republic of Ireland’s campaign and contributing to the biggest football story of the year. An interview with Roy Keane for his paper is the catalyst for the Manchester United captain’s unceremonious departure from the tournament. This provides the story within a story which is the book’s main selling point.
Nevertheless, it is Humphries prose which moves the book from newsworthy territory to noble terrain. Self-depracation oozes from the pages, as the disgruntled Humphries maligns his place in the world. “Call home. Turns out it’s my birthday.” His dry references to his own deficiencies – from describing himself as Shrek to his daughter succeeding in speaking to Mick McCarthy where he failed – create a caricature equally amusing and endearing.
Regardless, Humphries teeters on the edge of smugness when discussing the problematic nature of his job. The murky profession of a sportwriter is painted as “a disease rather than a trade.” Our plucky hero has no choice but to plod on, from one disappointment to another. He points out the steady decline in standards, the lack of respect, the removal of access given to the press, the poor pay. “Why do I feel so tired? Is this my life?” This is all rather self-righteous, even obnoxious, considering many of Humphries’ target audience would swap places with him in an instant.
He manages to maintain a likeable charm despite this, mainly through his understated comic talent. Wit and sarcasm are spread generously through the pages, the glue holding intertwining anecdotes and musings together. When trying to gain access to a Military Sports Facility, he hands a Kalashnikov-toting guard a letter written in Korean. “It may say, ‘I am an Irish journalist. Shoot me.’ Whatever.” Humphries notes the absurdity of situations with a knowing wink.
When commentating on the state of the media, Humphries is equally philosophical, but far more considered. The book is secretly a gritty portrayal of the fickleness of media, hidden beneath a façade of light-heartedness. The author astutely deconstructs the functions of the press, lamenting their role as witch-hunters-in-chief.
A scandal at the Winter Olympics provides context for Humphries to illustrate sportswriters’ abhorrent ability to create sensation. “You want a different ending? We, the media, will go and fix it.” The elegance and dignity of sportswriting seem to be subverted in an age of Google and tabloidisation.
Humphries detests this, pointing to past journalistic greats who researched widely, created balanced views and were true experts in their fields. Annoyance at the loss of innocence in sport being mirrored in sportswriting is clear.
There are lessons to be learned for budding journalists within the text. Humphries attempts at securing interviews are enlightening, practical problems are described acutely. Also, his moral stances upon issues like libel and writing for the reader not the athlete give insight into the mindset of the typical sportswriter.
However, he is passive in his acceptance of the ills of modern sportswriting. This is because, quietly, Humphries loves it. For every grumble is a moment of joy, for every sleepness night of work is a sleepness night of fun.
An example of this can be found in the book’s title. The often pointless gathering of quotes after sporting events is satirised expertly. The Nanny Goat (meaning quote) Mambo refers to shuffling press pack attempting to prize publishable utterances from pampered stars. Yet, while the mindlessness of this is mercilessly exposed, one such occasion brings Humphries the highlight of his working year.
Standing in the dressing room after the All Ireland hurling finals, the author is touched by the purity of the scene: “that sense that sport isn’t just sport anymore, is pervasive.” These are the moments that Humphries lives for; simultaneously they are the moments that give the book its heart.
As he hilariously vilifies footballers talking in cliché and the media choosing sensation over substance, it seems the truth is eluding him equally in other respects. His “war with sport” is steeped in valiant failure. In the end, there is no war – Humphries needs sport and needs sportswriting. That’s why he will keep doing the Nanny Goat Mambo, and why his book sparkles with a vibrancy only possible from a man who loves what he is doing.
Greg Rose
Gig Review - The Twang
The Twang
Engine Rooms, Brighton
Sunday 11th March 2007
Stepping into Engine Rooms is like being transported to another era. Where are all the women? It’s a gentlemen only club, except the men are all drinking Stella and there isn’t a cigar in sight.
There’s more band members than girls watching them. The simple explanation is The Twang’s music targets blokes like The Angling Times targets anglers. It’s loud, brash and uncomplicated. But is it any good?
Saying the band draw heavily on their influences is understatement. Either Way recalls The Stone Roses without the melodic grace, while singer Phil Etheridge stalks the stage doing his best Shaun Ryder impression. The Happy Mondays imagery is completed by the presence of a Bez figure.
However, Martin Saunders doesn’t have Bez’s comic gift, instead resembling a clapping seal. The only explanation for Saunders membership in the band is friendship; the others discovered they had talent and he’s along for the ride.
Despite the annoying pointlessness of Saunders’ onstage presence, The Twang remain compelling viewing. Etheridge delivers lines with a menacing vitality that draws the attention, snarling at the rowdy crowd. There’s an honesty within lyrics like “It’s getting late, you’re in a state” that excuses their basic nature.
Nevertheless, songs like The Neighbour are laughably undemanding. A looping riff underpins a tale of fighting that fails to succeed as either social comment or a decent tune. While “whoa-oh” sounds echo around the room, all that is provoked is uncomfortable feet-shuffling.
Speaking of the venue – there’s tape everywhere. It’s holding the microphones in place, on plugs above the stage, even keeping a urinal on the wall in the gents. It all adds to the character of this ramshackle setting, making it feel intimate and unpolished.
The Twang tap into this spirit, building their set to an almighty climax. Shouting “You’re much better than London!” goes down well, as does mild mocking of a ginger-haired barman. After the Salt n Pepper-sampled Push The Ghost gets people dancing, a manic atmosphere takes over.
Suddenly, The Twang seem a defiant gang – the audience are the newest members. A U2-esque riff sparks riotous scenes as working-class anthem-in-waiting Wide Awake is unleashed. Etheridge is hit with his own microphone as he leans too close to the unruly crowd. Blood-splattered, he launches into Cloudy Room. A foot-stomper with a riveting bass line, it concludes the 50-minute set of in tumultuous fashion.
However, the euphoric finale masks the shortcomings of much of the night. The Twang make up for their lack of originality with a primal charm and edgy attitude. Still, more songs of higher quality are needed if they are to become the band of the people they hope to be. Plus a few girls taking an interest…
Greg Rose
Engine Rooms, Brighton
Sunday 11th March 2007
Stepping into Engine Rooms is like being transported to another era. Where are all the women? It’s a gentlemen only club, except the men are all drinking Stella and there isn’t a cigar in sight.
There’s more band members than girls watching them. The simple explanation is The Twang’s music targets blokes like The Angling Times targets anglers. It’s loud, brash and uncomplicated. But is it any good?
Saying the band draw heavily on their influences is understatement. Either Way recalls The Stone Roses without the melodic grace, while singer Phil Etheridge stalks the stage doing his best Shaun Ryder impression. The Happy Mondays imagery is completed by the presence of a Bez figure.
However, Martin Saunders doesn’t have Bez’s comic gift, instead resembling a clapping seal. The only explanation for Saunders membership in the band is friendship; the others discovered they had talent and he’s along for the ride.
Despite the annoying pointlessness of Saunders’ onstage presence, The Twang remain compelling viewing. Etheridge delivers lines with a menacing vitality that draws the attention, snarling at the rowdy crowd. There’s an honesty within lyrics like “It’s getting late, you’re in a state” that excuses their basic nature.
Nevertheless, songs like The Neighbour are laughably undemanding. A looping riff underpins a tale of fighting that fails to succeed as either social comment or a decent tune. While “whoa-oh” sounds echo around the room, all that is provoked is uncomfortable feet-shuffling.
Speaking of the venue – there’s tape everywhere. It’s holding the microphones in place, on plugs above the stage, even keeping a urinal on the wall in the gents. It all adds to the character of this ramshackle setting, making it feel intimate and unpolished.
The Twang tap into this spirit, building their set to an almighty climax. Shouting “You’re much better than London!” goes down well, as does mild mocking of a ginger-haired barman. After the Salt n Pepper-sampled Push The Ghost gets people dancing, a manic atmosphere takes over.
Suddenly, The Twang seem a defiant gang – the audience are the newest members. A U2-esque riff sparks riotous scenes as working-class anthem-in-waiting Wide Awake is unleashed. Etheridge is hit with his own microphone as he leans too close to the unruly crowd. Blood-splattered, he launches into Cloudy Room. A foot-stomper with a riveting bass line, it concludes the 50-minute set of in tumultuous fashion.
However, the euphoric finale masks the shortcomings of much of the night. The Twang make up for their lack of originality with a primal charm and edgy attitude. Still, more songs of higher quality are needed if they are to become the band of the people they hope to be. Plus a few girls taking an interest…
Greg Rose
Pointless Football Friendlies
England International Football Friendlies – What Is The Point Of Them?
“Pavarotti is not judged by how he sings in the shower.” Barcelona coach Frank Rijkaard makes the point that people shouldn’t be evaluated unless they are giving it their all. This clearly doesn’t happen in international friendlies.
The ever decreasing relevance of international friendlies has been illustrated by the FA’s decision to reduce their schedule of friendly matches from 20 to 18 over the four-year period from 2008. England Assistant-Coach Terry Venables believes this is a positive step. “You end up concentrating on a match that isn’t important rather than one that is.”
A recent example of this is England’s 1-0 defeat by Spain. “As much as we needed to prepare for our qualifier against Israel we had to ensure we did not leave ourselves too open to a beating by Spain.” The weight of expectation for England to win every game they play means that room for experimentation is small; results are still important – especially if the manager is under pressure.
This defeats one of the main objectives of friendly matches – to trial ideas. Too much experimenting is often lamented – making eleven substitutions isn’t going to benefit anyone. This stops any possibility of a credible simulation of a competitive game. Nobody can be expected to hit peak form in just a portion of a match.
Owen Hargreaves rise to prominence depicts this. His virtues of a relentless engine, combative nature and all-action style were never expressed by cameo appearances in friendlies. Given numerous 90 minutes to display his qualities, he has become one of England’s most respected players. Friendlies simply don’t allow for freedom of expression as time is always running out.
Gareth Barry argues: “In friendlies, fringe players are given the chance to impress.” The case for this is strong, as players on the verge of the national team gain valuable experience which helps them bridge the gap between club and competitive international games.
Joe Cole was used sparsely in competitive matches as he developed, yet regularly appeared in friendlies. His flourishing into an automatic pick for all games was confirmed by an impressive World Cup. This improvement can partially be explained by Cole feeling accustomed and comfortable on the international stage due to friendlies.
However, for every Cole there is five Seth Johnson’s. Numerous players have been capped and achieved little more than devaluing the prestige of playing for England. Francis Jeffers, John Scales, Mike Phelan; all have represented England for pointless, painful periods of friendly matches before drifting back into the international wilderness where they belong.
Conversely, playing friendlies with players who will actually play in competitive games could be enormously beneficial. Allowing Lampard and Gerrard time to gel in less intense situations could result in a more mature understanding between the two when the pressure is on.
Equally, developing alternative systems and innovative tactics could prove fruitful preparation for facing teams of differing styles. Friendlies could be used to create a Plan B other than hoofing the ball long to a certain giraffe-like Liverpool striker.
They could also be interesting for the spectator. Without fans friendlies would be obsolete; providing entertainment should therefore be a key aim. This doesn’t mean they have to become circus sideshows with tricks and flicks instead of substance. One of international football’s most thrilling elements is the clashing of cultures - tactical battles between the sport’s elite.
This cannot happen when personnel are changed so often and so many key players are missing. Here lies the root of the problem. “We were missing half a squad,” complained Steve Mclaren after the Spain defeat. “It is difficult to get any cohesion.” The strategic battles so prevalent in competitive games are replaced by managers effectively becoming nannys; minding players don’t play for too long and risk injury is prioritised over expanding knowledge of the squad.
Club football overwhelmingly takes precedence. Players don’t take games as seriously, clubs are positively hostile to them, while fans just become bored. England have won just 13 of their last 30 friendlies, but a far more healthy 20 times in their last 30 competitive fixtures. This displays the irrelevance of the events – nobody is really that bothered.
Except the FA of course, who make vast amounts of money. Arsenal Vice-Chairman David Dein slammed this, bemoaning friendlies are “not being played for sporting reasons, but for financial gain.” This money is possibly used to pay ex-Coach Sven Goran Eriksson’s astronomical wages, summing up the ridiculous nature of the situation.
Gabrielle Marcotti’s belief that “most international friendlies are just exercises in futility,” is accurate. However, a viable alternative is yet to be found. Training camps instead of matches has been muted as a possibility. Still, the risk of injuries remains high and the loss of revenue would hit the FA hard. Instead, friendlies appear here to stay - along with wasted evenings watching the England debuts of players like Seth Johnson.
Greg Rose
“Pavarotti is not judged by how he sings in the shower.” Barcelona coach Frank Rijkaard makes the point that people shouldn’t be evaluated unless they are giving it their all. This clearly doesn’t happen in international friendlies.
The ever decreasing relevance of international friendlies has been illustrated by the FA’s decision to reduce their schedule of friendly matches from 20 to 18 over the four-year period from 2008. England Assistant-Coach Terry Venables believes this is a positive step. “You end up concentrating on a match that isn’t important rather than one that is.”
A recent example of this is England’s 1-0 defeat by Spain. “As much as we needed to prepare for our qualifier against Israel we had to ensure we did not leave ourselves too open to a beating by Spain.” The weight of expectation for England to win every game they play means that room for experimentation is small; results are still important – especially if the manager is under pressure.
This defeats one of the main objectives of friendly matches – to trial ideas. Too much experimenting is often lamented – making eleven substitutions isn’t going to benefit anyone. This stops any possibility of a credible simulation of a competitive game. Nobody can be expected to hit peak form in just a portion of a match.
Owen Hargreaves rise to prominence depicts this. His virtues of a relentless engine, combative nature and all-action style were never expressed by cameo appearances in friendlies. Given numerous 90 minutes to display his qualities, he has become one of England’s most respected players. Friendlies simply don’t allow for freedom of expression as time is always running out.
Gareth Barry argues: “In friendlies, fringe players are given the chance to impress.” The case for this is strong, as players on the verge of the national team gain valuable experience which helps them bridge the gap between club and competitive international games.
Joe Cole was used sparsely in competitive matches as he developed, yet regularly appeared in friendlies. His flourishing into an automatic pick for all games was confirmed by an impressive World Cup. This improvement can partially be explained by Cole feeling accustomed and comfortable on the international stage due to friendlies.
However, for every Cole there is five Seth Johnson’s. Numerous players have been capped and achieved little more than devaluing the prestige of playing for England. Francis Jeffers, John Scales, Mike Phelan; all have represented England for pointless, painful periods of friendly matches before drifting back into the international wilderness where they belong.
Conversely, playing friendlies with players who will actually play in competitive games could be enormously beneficial. Allowing Lampard and Gerrard time to gel in less intense situations could result in a more mature understanding between the two when the pressure is on.
Equally, developing alternative systems and innovative tactics could prove fruitful preparation for facing teams of differing styles. Friendlies could be used to create a Plan B other than hoofing the ball long to a certain giraffe-like Liverpool striker.
They could also be interesting for the spectator. Without fans friendlies would be obsolete; providing entertainment should therefore be a key aim. This doesn’t mean they have to become circus sideshows with tricks and flicks instead of substance. One of international football’s most thrilling elements is the clashing of cultures - tactical battles between the sport’s elite.
This cannot happen when personnel are changed so often and so many key players are missing. Here lies the root of the problem. “We were missing half a squad,” complained Steve Mclaren after the Spain defeat. “It is difficult to get any cohesion.” The strategic battles so prevalent in competitive games are replaced by managers effectively becoming nannys; minding players don’t play for too long and risk injury is prioritised over expanding knowledge of the squad.
Club football overwhelmingly takes precedence. Players don’t take games as seriously, clubs are positively hostile to them, while fans just become bored. England have won just 13 of their last 30 friendlies, but a far more healthy 20 times in their last 30 competitive fixtures. This displays the irrelevance of the events – nobody is really that bothered.
Except the FA of course, who make vast amounts of money. Arsenal Vice-Chairman David Dein slammed this, bemoaning friendlies are “not being played for sporting reasons, but for financial gain.” This money is possibly used to pay ex-Coach Sven Goran Eriksson’s astronomical wages, summing up the ridiculous nature of the situation.
Gabrielle Marcotti’s belief that “most international friendlies are just exercises in futility,” is accurate. However, a viable alternative is yet to be found. Training camps instead of matches has been muted as a possibility. Still, the risk of injuries remains high and the loss of revenue would hit the FA hard. Instead, friendlies appear here to stay - along with wasted evenings watching the England debuts of players like Seth Johnson.
Greg Rose
Book Review - The Secret Life of Tony Cascarino
“The sportswriter from Dublin had arrived to paint his shiny, happy portrait of a perfectly balanced life.” (1) But Paul Kimmage didn’t find what he expected. The result is Tony Cascarino’s autobiography. Cascarino manages to reminisce past glories and failures, though the football pitch isn’t always the setting. By letting readers into his head, Cascarino recreates the image of footballers as men, not stars. Vast amounts of money and leisurely lifestyles don’t stop footballers like Cascarino suffering and failing like everyone else. In fact, as Cascarino explains with such brutal honesty, it often means the opposite.
The book strives to move away from the usual formulated style of football autobiographies and give an account of Cascarino’s life, not a sugar-coated version of his career. He’s “not interested in talking about games I’ve played or wankers I’ve met in dressing rooms.” (1) At the end of his career with nothing to lose, he paints a self-portrait of a flawed man, both professionally and emotionally. This creates depth and provokes sympathy and ultimately respect in readers. He realises that he’s always thought about “My feelings. My needs. My world. Me.” (1) Through the book he tries to explain and apologise to those he has hurt and exorcise his own demons, rather than reveal those of others: “I’m not interested in hurting anyone but me.” (1)
Cascarino does fall into the footballer’s stereotype of exposing others faults when railing about Glenn Hoddle, a man he has little time for. “If he was an ice-cream he would lick himself,” (1) he recalls of his former Chelsea manager. Even with the emergence of New Sportswriting, autobiographies still sell on these revelations, easily serialised by newspapers to increase sales. For instance, Robbie Fowler’s autobiography was reliant on dirt-dishing on Sven-Goran Eriksson’s “negativity” (2) to boost profits.
However, Cascarino’s book rises above this mediocrity, partly due to its style and structure. ‘Told to Paul Kimmage’, the book’s lack of chronology and unconventional manner can be credited to the former professional cyclist. He won 1990’s William Hill Sports Book of the Year with Rough Ride, and writes with warmness that reveals his fondness for Cascarino. The book is also written in 1st person; these factors combine to make readers share Kimmage’s affection for Cascarino despite him admitting “I was a total shit,” (1) and his actions throughout the book persuading them to concur with this assessment. We are swept into Cascarino’s world by the varying writing techniques. Kimmage tantalises the reader by giving glimpses of future revelations but not exploring fully. This grips the reader, enticing them to read on. Flashbacks, chapters written as day-by-day diaries and large amounts of dialogue generate a wide scope of personality traits. We see Cascarino’s “contempt” (1) for football, his selfish treatment of his family, his womanising nature; but the book’s depth allows the resounding image become that of a caring, funny, remorseful man.
Cascarino is a product of football culture. He lives up to the footballer stereotypes of drinking, gambling and womanising. However, his honesty allows readers to see problems within this dream lifestyle. “Success isn’t easy when you see what it does to people.” (1) Cascarino doesn’t complain though. He realises he is privileged, echoing Jimmy Greaves, who said in his autobiography “I’m sorry, but earning 50 grand a week, doing what you enjoy, I can’t see where the pressure are.” (3) Simultaneously though, Cascarino explains where they are. He divulges how much he earned from football - “Total career earnings since 1982: £2,314,700…. Where the hell has it all gone!” (1)This is followed by a list of where it’s all gone. Now, “everything we spend is budgeted for,” (1) and the money “hasn’t insured my happy-ever afters.” (1) Cascarino doesn’t brag about his money, he shares the reader’s astonishment.
Uncommonly known, Cascarino rebuilt his career in France. Playing for Olympique Marseilles and Nancy FC, he enjoyed an “Indian summer!” (1) This illustrates football’s globalisation. How can someone who admitted to manager Liam Brady while at Celtic “I’m a bad player. I’m crap,” (1) move countries to play for “the biggest club in France”? (1) It shows football is a universal language, which can transform ordinary lives. Cascarino’s transition from hairdresser to France’s Ligue 1 top-scorer via building work and lower-league football is a story that inspires, capturing the romance of sport. He went from living in England to the culture of the French Riviera, finding form and a new wife in the process.
The details of the Marseille move reveal how politics affects sport. Marseilles needed players on free transfers due to sanctions placed on them restricting deals after they were found guilty of bribery. Had this sleazy business not been exposed, Cascarino would never have signed!
Furthermore, if it wasn’t for political meddling in sport, Cascarino wouldn’t have been an international. Recounting the books conception, he’s told he’s “not exactly David Beckham!” (1) He manages to get his book written by disclosing he wasn’t qualified to play for Ireland. (His Irish grandfather wasn’t biologically related to him.) Cascarino stresses that without Passport rules changing, he wouldn’t have found out he was “A fake Irishman.” (1)
This raises questions of national identity. How can he suddenly not be Irish due to a technicality? Cascarino notes “all the Irish-born lads….never regarded us as inferior Irishmen. We were always a team.” (1) This taps into the togetherness and unity sport can evoke.
This is especially relevant in terms of fan culture. Ireland was immersed in Ireland’s success under Jack Charlton. Cascarino captures this, telling tales of “fending off girls.” (1) He shows genuine affection for his celebrity, reminiscing about “when we were kings” (1) and handshakes in the street.
He also exposes the other side of fans from a player’s perspective – the abuse they receive. “Get your finger out you fat-arsed Irish cunt” (1) is just one example, while his son asks him “You’re not very good, are you Dad?” (1) after being teased at school. The passion fans feel about teams is recounted in many books since New Sportswriting’s rise, but Cascarino delves into the joy and misery this passion can provoke in players. Sport is an escape from everyday life for fans. For players it is life.
Full Time shows us footballers aren’t all spoilt prima-donnas, but they’re occupation doesn’t allow for normality either. For every David Beckham there is a Tony Cascarino. Full Time shows this is a good thing.
Greg Rose
The book strives to move away from the usual formulated style of football autobiographies and give an account of Cascarino’s life, not a sugar-coated version of his career. He’s “not interested in talking about games I’ve played or wankers I’ve met in dressing rooms.” (1) At the end of his career with nothing to lose, he paints a self-portrait of a flawed man, both professionally and emotionally. This creates depth and provokes sympathy and ultimately respect in readers. He realises that he’s always thought about “My feelings. My needs. My world. Me.” (1) Through the book he tries to explain and apologise to those he has hurt and exorcise his own demons, rather than reveal those of others: “I’m not interested in hurting anyone but me.” (1)
Cascarino does fall into the footballer’s stereotype of exposing others faults when railing about Glenn Hoddle, a man he has little time for. “If he was an ice-cream he would lick himself,” (1) he recalls of his former Chelsea manager. Even with the emergence of New Sportswriting, autobiographies still sell on these revelations, easily serialised by newspapers to increase sales. For instance, Robbie Fowler’s autobiography was reliant on dirt-dishing on Sven-Goran Eriksson’s “negativity” (2) to boost profits.
However, Cascarino’s book rises above this mediocrity, partly due to its style and structure. ‘Told to Paul Kimmage’, the book’s lack of chronology and unconventional manner can be credited to the former professional cyclist. He won 1990’s William Hill Sports Book of the Year with Rough Ride, and writes with warmness that reveals his fondness for Cascarino. The book is also written in 1st person; these factors combine to make readers share Kimmage’s affection for Cascarino despite him admitting “I was a total shit,” (1) and his actions throughout the book persuading them to concur with this assessment. We are swept into Cascarino’s world by the varying writing techniques. Kimmage tantalises the reader by giving glimpses of future revelations but not exploring fully. This grips the reader, enticing them to read on. Flashbacks, chapters written as day-by-day diaries and large amounts of dialogue generate a wide scope of personality traits. We see Cascarino’s “contempt” (1) for football, his selfish treatment of his family, his womanising nature; but the book’s depth allows the resounding image become that of a caring, funny, remorseful man.
Cascarino is a product of football culture. He lives up to the footballer stereotypes of drinking, gambling and womanising. However, his honesty allows readers to see problems within this dream lifestyle. “Success isn’t easy when you see what it does to people.” (1) Cascarino doesn’t complain though. He realises he is privileged, echoing Jimmy Greaves, who said in his autobiography “I’m sorry, but earning 50 grand a week, doing what you enjoy, I can’t see where the pressure are.” (3) Simultaneously though, Cascarino explains where they are. He divulges how much he earned from football - “Total career earnings since 1982: £2,314,700…. Where the hell has it all gone!” (1)This is followed by a list of where it’s all gone. Now, “everything we spend is budgeted for,” (1) and the money “hasn’t insured my happy-ever afters.” (1) Cascarino doesn’t brag about his money, he shares the reader’s astonishment.
Uncommonly known, Cascarino rebuilt his career in France. Playing for Olympique Marseilles and Nancy FC, he enjoyed an “Indian summer!” (1) This illustrates football’s globalisation. How can someone who admitted to manager Liam Brady while at Celtic “I’m a bad player. I’m crap,” (1) move countries to play for “the biggest club in France”? (1) It shows football is a universal language, which can transform ordinary lives. Cascarino’s transition from hairdresser to France’s Ligue 1 top-scorer via building work and lower-league football is a story that inspires, capturing the romance of sport. He went from living in England to the culture of the French Riviera, finding form and a new wife in the process.
The details of the Marseille move reveal how politics affects sport. Marseilles needed players on free transfers due to sanctions placed on them restricting deals after they were found guilty of bribery. Had this sleazy business not been exposed, Cascarino would never have signed!
Furthermore, if it wasn’t for political meddling in sport, Cascarino wouldn’t have been an international. Recounting the books conception, he’s told he’s “not exactly David Beckham!” (1) He manages to get his book written by disclosing he wasn’t qualified to play for Ireland. (His Irish grandfather wasn’t biologically related to him.) Cascarino stresses that without Passport rules changing, he wouldn’t have found out he was “A fake Irishman.” (1)
This raises questions of national identity. How can he suddenly not be Irish due to a technicality? Cascarino notes “all the Irish-born lads….never regarded us as inferior Irishmen. We were always a team.” (1) This taps into the togetherness and unity sport can evoke.
This is especially relevant in terms of fan culture. Ireland was immersed in Ireland’s success under Jack Charlton. Cascarino captures this, telling tales of “fending off girls.” (1) He shows genuine affection for his celebrity, reminiscing about “when we were kings” (1) and handshakes in the street.
He also exposes the other side of fans from a player’s perspective – the abuse they receive. “Get your finger out you fat-arsed Irish cunt” (1) is just one example, while his son asks him “You’re not very good, are you Dad?” (1) after being teased at school. The passion fans feel about teams is recounted in many books since New Sportswriting’s rise, but Cascarino delves into the joy and misery this passion can provoke in players. Sport is an escape from everyday life for fans. For players it is life.
Full Time shows us footballers aren’t all spoilt prima-donnas, but they’re occupation doesn’t allow for normality either. For every David Beckham there is a Tony Cascarino. Full Time shows this is a good thing.
Greg Rose
Film Review - The Hurricane
Review of ‘The Hurricane’
“Here comes the story of The Hurricane,
The man the authorities came to blame
For somethin’ that he never done.
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world.” (4)
Bob Dylan
The Hurricane is a film that dramatically unravels sport’s role in the wider contexts of politics and the human spirit. Rubin ‘Hurricane’ Carter, a promising boxer with a troubled past, falls victim to political and racial prejudice. After a night out, he finds himself framed for a triple homicide and facing life in jail. As the film progresses, the portrayal of Carter’s fights is surpassed by the greater fight for freedom. However, the primal fighting instincts of a boxer are central to his resistance and eventual conquering of all restraints. “Knocked down….never knocked out.” (1)
The role of boxing in the film is vital, despite only three boxing matches being shown, for relatively short periods of time. Similarly to prototypical boxing film Raging Bull; it attempts to portray the anger, rage and potential of its title character through the medium of boxing. This creates a more complex understanding of their personas. While Jake La Motta’s ability to absorb punishment underlines his self-inflicting nature, the machine-like, incessant barrage of blows Carter unleashes reveals his drive and single-mindedness. When boxing he would “take all the hatred and skill I could muster and send a man to his destruction.” (1) He uses the sport to remove frustration, and is efficient and methodical in doing so, so as to achieve maximum fulfilment from it.
This ability to absolutely immerse himself is apparent later in the film when Carter shuns everything except intellectual fulfilment. “I will live only in my mind and my spirit.” (1) This is to combat feelings of contempt for his situation, anger at his imprisonment and longing for the things he loves. By shutting himself off from anything that provokes emotion Carter deals with his unjust circumstances.
This takes total dedication, just as Denzel Washington showed in portraying Carter in the film. Director Norman Jewison believes “He literally became a good fighter” (2) through his year-long pre-production intensive training regime. This was compulsory in order to create realism and an essence of drama in the fight scenes. Washington went beyond this though. Rubin Carter himself commented: “He is as dedicated now as I was then.” (2) This is evident in the film, as it captures the frightening prospect of Carter in the ring. Jewison’s decision to show fights in black-and-white adds authenticity, while the sight of blood and sweat oozing from fighters’ bodies increases belief in the reality of combat occurring. Though these techniques can be seen in 1980’s Raging Bull, they still manage to affect viewers 19 years later in The Hurricane.
Carter’s performances in the ring were always going to provoke outrage from some groups. Carter had a World Middleweight Title fight just months after the passing of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Being black and successful was a dangerous combination at the time, with racism rife.
The film shows this through Detective Della Pesca, an amalgamation of the lifelong resistance and racism Carter has been subjected to. Della Pesca is portrayed as a sneering bigot whose vendetta against Carter is personal. As Mike Tyson said, “Anybody can be a good fighter, but to be a great fighter you have to know hardship.” (3) This is certainly true of Carter, who recalls of his childhood “The kindest thing I can say is that I survived it.” (1) After protecting his friend, an 11-year-old Carter is shown to stab a man in self-defence. Della Pesca sees to it personally that he is severely punished, stating “It’s a nigger with a knife. Don’t care how old he is.” (1) By 29 Carter is a boxing star, which appals Della Pesca. Opportunity presents itself when Carter is suspected of committing three murders, and Della Pesca seizes it: “I’m gonna take your black ass down, Mr Fucking Champion of the World.” (1)
Della Pesca effectively represents prejudice and politics as key reasons for Carter’s imprisonment. With one nemesis, it seems more definite that Carter has been framed, making it easier for the viewer to be compassionate towards him. Also, it highlights the impact sporting success can have. When Carter speaks out over his disdain for “nigger hatin’ cops” (1), a brick is thrown through his family’s window. As a figurehead of black accomplishment, he becomes a target.
This continues inside the ring. Corruption in boxing is exposed when Carter is shown to dominate Joey Giardello in a Middleweight World Championship bout. After 35 minutes deliberation, the judges’ decision goes against Carter; as a pundit complains, they “must’ve been watching a different fight.” (1) In Bob Dylan’s song, which popularised Carter’s case and soundtracks the film, he reasons “He ain’t no Gentleman Jim.” (4) This refers to respected white fighter Jim Corbett. Unlike him, Carter is threatening to white society, so is criminalised.
Once in jail, Carter stands by his convictions, refusing to wear prison clothes. This results in him receiving 90 days solitary confinement. It is here the limitations of Carter’s self-characterisation as a “fighting machine” (1) are exposed. On the verge of madness, he becomes schizophrenic, with one personality ready to “kill somebody” (1), the other scared and tearful. Becoming suicidal, he asks “How about it, Rube?” (1)
Pivotally, after coming through this hour of darkness, Carter turns inwards, seeking to emancipate his mind from imprisonment despite his body’s incarceration. He finds hope through correspondence with Lesra, a 15-year-old boy who has read Carter’s autobiography, The Sixteenth Round. Inspired by the book, Lesra is determined to help Carter, as are many others. Footage of Mohammad Ali and other luminaries is shown to depict this. All of this support is represented by Lesra and his guardians, three Canadians, who are central to Carter’s eventual release from prison.
However, Carter’s realisation that he can be set free through the mind is vital. When participating in a life of boxing, Carter meets repeated obstacles that he cannot overcome – corruption, racism, cheating. His eventual replacement of this physicality with intellect leads to his rising “above the walls of this prison.” (1) The Hurricane displays the impact sport can have in society, and how it can empower the human spirit to survive. However, this ‘boxing film’ eventually shows some things can even transcend sport.
Greg Rose
References:
1 - The Hurricane - directed by Norman Jewison – 1999 - Touchstone
2 - The Making of ‘The Hurricane’ - executive producer Colleen A. Benn – 2000 - Universal Studios
3 - The Fight: Rules of the Ring – BBC - 2004
4 – ‘The Hurricane’ – written by Bob Dylan and Jacques Levy – Performed by Bob Dylan – 1976 - Columbia
Gig Review - Prinzhorn Dance School
Prinzhorn Dance School
Funktion Rooms, Eastbourne
Tuesday 6th March 2007
Sometimes a band can be so exciting they just inspire people to pick up an instrument and play. This band does exactly that, but only because you know you couldn’t possibly be any worse than the noise heard tonight.
Battling rain and street cleaners to make it through Eastbourne’s town centre, an upbeat mood encircles the 100-plus people inside Funktion Rooms. Hey, it’s Tuesday night, a fair few people have turned up and the DJ’s spinning The Strokes. What’s more, cutting edge New York label DFA’s newest signings are playing live.
DFA have released danceable rock by the likes of The Rapture, Hot Chip and LCD Soundsystem, operating with a small collection of bands equally inspiring and innovative. Now they’ve signed Prinzhorn Dance School. Why they have done so is as incomprehensible as the reasons a bloke at the bar is dressed as a ballerina.
Prinzhorn Dance School are a three-piece made up of a bland singer-guitarist, a competent bass player and a ‘drummer’ who plays like Animal from The Muppets but with far less talent. The band crash through a set that divides the audience into two: those who walk out and those who stay and wish they had walked out.
Rhythm is seemingly a dirty word as the Brighton-based band begins Black Bunker. A harsh, raw sound ensues, dominated by shouted boy-girl repetitive vocals. A mumbled thank you at the end of the din informs the bemused crowd this was actually a song and not the soundcheck. Three tracks later, the crowd has halved as many find the eclectic DJ set down in the Subclub far more appealing. Having said that, sawing your ears off with a rusty spoon is also a more attractive proposition.
Bassist Suzi Horn’s unrefined bass lines underpin the sound, but aren’t strong enough to carry such basic songs. Past single You Are The Space Invader shows promise, with a deep, dirty riff recalling The Black Keys’ blues-tinged rock. Yet the drummer continues to crash about like a baby with a rolling pin in each hand, undermining any signs of melody.
Of course, this is the point. The band attempts to capture the stripped blueprint of The White Stripes, the aesthetic that less is more. However, they haven’t mastered the intricacies of making sparse music sound full, coming across amateur and laughable.
Despite the disappointment of seeing a band play like they’re deaf, many of Eastbourne’s aficionados of alternative music make their way downstairs to the Subclub, finding a room filled with dancing, happy people. The potential of Funktion Rooms’ alternative nights is considerable – provided they don’t book more bands like Prinzhorn Dance School.
Greg Rose
Funktion Rooms, Eastbourne
Tuesday 6th March 2007
Sometimes a band can be so exciting they just inspire people to pick up an instrument and play. This band does exactly that, but only because you know you couldn’t possibly be any worse than the noise heard tonight.
Battling rain and street cleaners to make it through Eastbourne’s town centre, an upbeat mood encircles the 100-plus people inside Funktion Rooms. Hey, it’s Tuesday night, a fair few people have turned up and the DJ’s spinning The Strokes. What’s more, cutting edge New York label DFA’s newest signings are playing live.
DFA have released danceable rock by the likes of The Rapture, Hot Chip and LCD Soundsystem, operating with a small collection of bands equally inspiring and innovative. Now they’ve signed Prinzhorn Dance School. Why they have done so is as incomprehensible as the reasons a bloke at the bar is dressed as a ballerina.
Prinzhorn Dance School are a three-piece made up of a bland singer-guitarist, a competent bass player and a ‘drummer’ who plays like Animal from The Muppets but with far less talent. The band crash through a set that divides the audience into two: those who walk out and those who stay and wish they had walked out.
Rhythm is seemingly a dirty word as the Brighton-based band begins Black Bunker. A harsh, raw sound ensues, dominated by shouted boy-girl repetitive vocals. A mumbled thank you at the end of the din informs the bemused crowd this was actually a song and not the soundcheck. Three tracks later, the crowd has halved as many find the eclectic DJ set down in the Subclub far more appealing. Having said that, sawing your ears off with a rusty spoon is also a more attractive proposition.
Bassist Suzi Horn’s unrefined bass lines underpin the sound, but aren’t strong enough to carry such basic songs. Past single You Are The Space Invader shows promise, with a deep, dirty riff recalling The Black Keys’ blues-tinged rock. Yet the drummer continues to crash about like a baby with a rolling pin in each hand, undermining any signs of melody.
Of course, this is the point. The band attempts to capture the stripped blueprint of The White Stripes, the aesthetic that less is more. However, they haven’t mastered the intricacies of making sparse music sound full, coming across amateur and laughable.
Despite the disappointment of seeing a band play like they’re deaf, many of Eastbourne’s aficionados of alternative music make their way downstairs to the Subclub, finding a room filled with dancing, happy people. The potential of Funktion Rooms’ alternative nights is considerable – provided they don’t book more bands like Prinzhorn Dance School.
Greg Rose
Michael Johnson - The Greatest Sportsperson Ever
MICHAEL Johnson sums up everything a sporting hero should be. A record-breaker. A role model. A revolutionary.
He achieved extraordinary feats in a ground-breaking way. Nobody ran 200 metres and 400m; Johnson was ranked number one in the world at both distances four times. Johnson won Gold at both events in the same Olympics.
The man in the golden shoes also won an incredible nine World Championship Gold medals, the most in history. At Seville 1999, he broke the 400m World Record. At Gothenburg 1995, he won nine races in nine days to win Gold at 200m, 400m and 4 x 400m relay. Winning 58 consecutive 400m Finals over eight years confirmed his domination.
His unique running style captured the imagination of the world. “He runs like a statue” said coach Clyde Hart. With upright back and high knees, Johnson was nicknamed ‘The Duck.’ Five Olympic Gold medals later, the nickname had changed to ‘Superman’, such was his invincibility.
When questioned about his innovative method, Johnson stated "If I ran like all the other runners, I would be back there with them." The ultimate testiment to Johnson is his lack of imitators – everybody admired him but nobody could reproduce his pioneering technique. The one of a kind cliché was created to describe Johnson.
Although obviously blessed with supreme natural talent, the Dallas native was no cowboy – his preparation and focus was so meticulous that error was never allowed to creep into his performance. A model professional, he was never involved in any scandal. “There is nothing controllable that he will fail to control," wrote Sports Illustrated’s Gary Smith. “He is the tortoise and the hare.”
Since retiring Johnson works as a fitness consultant, even managing to get Andy Murray fit - a truly impressive achievement.
However, the moment he broke the 200m record at the 1996 Olympics defines Johnson as an athlete and a character. He ran 19.32 seconds, breaking his own World Record by 0.34 seconds.
The magnitude of this time is difficult to comprehend. Sprinting records are broke minor decimals, not bettered by over one third of a second. Many compare the event to Bob Beamon’s record long jump in 1968; such was the enormity of the improvement.
The US Track and Field Hall of Fame voted the achievement the greatest for a quarter of a century. Fellow sprinter Ato Bolden gasped, “19.32? That’s not a time, that sounds more like my dad’s birthday!”
This wasn’t merely winning; it was dominating, destroying all opposition. “The only one who can beat me is me,” admitted Johnson. Unbeatable and incomparable, he is the greatest sportsperson ever.
Greg Rose
He achieved extraordinary feats in a ground-breaking way. Nobody ran 200 metres and 400m; Johnson was ranked number one in the world at both distances four times. Johnson won Gold at both events in the same Olympics.
The man in the golden shoes also won an incredible nine World Championship Gold medals, the most in history. At Seville 1999, he broke the 400m World Record. At Gothenburg 1995, he won nine races in nine days to win Gold at 200m, 400m and 4 x 400m relay. Winning 58 consecutive 400m Finals over eight years confirmed his domination.
His unique running style captured the imagination of the world. “He runs like a statue” said coach Clyde Hart. With upright back and high knees, Johnson was nicknamed ‘The Duck.’ Five Olympic Gold medals later, the nickname had changed to ‘Superman’, such was his invincibility.
When questioned about his innovative method, Johnson stated "If I ran like all the other runners, I would be back there with them." The ultimate testiment to Johnson is his lack of imitators – everybody admired him but nobody could reproduce his pioneering technique. The one of a kind cliché was created to describe Johnson.
Although obviously blessed with supreme natural talent, the Dallas native was no cowboy – his preparation and focus was so meticulous that error was never allowed to creep into his performance. A model professional, he was never involved in any scandal. “There is nothing controllable that he will fail to control," wrote Sports Illustrated’s Gary Smith. “He is the tortoise and the hare.”
Since retiring Johnson works as a fitness consultant, even managing to get Andy Murray fit - a truly impressive achievement.
However, the moment he broke the 200m record at the 1996 Olympics defines Johnson as an athlete and a character. He ran 19.32 seconds, breaking his own World Record by 0.34 seconds.
The magnitude of this time is difficult to comprehend. Sprinting records are broke minor decimals, not bettered by over one third of a second. Many compare the event to Bob Beamon’s record long jump in 1968; such was the enormity of the improvement.
The US Track and Field Hall of Fame voted the achievement the greatest for a quarter of a century. Fellow sprinter Ato Bolden gasped, “19.32? That’s not a time, that sounds more like my dad’s birthday!”
This wasn’t merely winning; it was dominating, destroying all opposition. “The only one who can beat me is me,” admitted Johnson. Unbeatable and incomparable, he is the greatest sportsperson ever.
Greg Rose
Gig Review - The Killers
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and The Killers
Brighton Centre, Brighton
Saturday 3rd March 2007
Sam’s Town rolls into Brighton, a juggernaut of glitter and glam. This isn’t a gig, it’s a concert; a carnival of showbiz fresh from the Las Vegas strip the band calls home.
Entering the usually uninspiring vacuum of the Brighton Centre eyes are drawn to a theatrical stage setup, complete with a dazzling logo just in case anybody wandered in oblivious to who was playing. This is unlikely – tickets were changing hands for £280 outside.
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club provides support, seeming out of place in this spectacle. Launching into Spread Your Love, they combine the vitality of Kasabian with a soulful groove. There’s an affecting urgency to their music as Punk Song’s arresting bass line stirs the attention of a thousand apathetic people.
Debuting numerous new songs is astute. Few audience members seem to know any of the material so true reflections of the songs’ quality can be gaged. New single Weapon of Choice fares well, provoking foot-stomping with a chorus just desperate to be sung along to.
The band looks insouciant in black leather jackets, but matches their swagger with skill, swapping instruments regularly. The setting just doesn’t suit their sound, but they battle against the indifferent crowd admirably. Another time and place, BRMC could be breathtaking.
The Killers are in their element. Two short years since witnessing them in a modest hall, they have transformed into a stadium band, complete with Brian May and Freddy Mercury look-alikes on guitar and vocals. The crowd is covered in confetti as Brandon Flowers stands assertively stage central.
Flowers’ voice sparkles as brightly as his silver jacket, displaying the strength to roam over the wails of fans retorting every word. When You Were Young lands with an uplifting squeal of guitars, rock star posing aplenty. From here the set’s pacing grabs the attention. It is unrelenting, hit following hit in a blur of electrifying showmanship.
Read My Mind stands out, the reticent Flowers communicating with shuddering body language, possessing a nervous energy that gives the track an aura of grandeur. On Top is ablaze with jingly synths, while a haunting cover of Joy Division’s Shadowplay is delivered with a brooding sincerity.
Mr Brightside shifts the mood from jolly to jubilant, as girls literally faint at the combination of heat and that blistering riff. As the band return for an encore (the first of two) flatness seeps in momentarily. Brandon awkwardly plays bass on For Reasons Unknown, while My List gets too close to 80s rock balladry for comfort.
Nevertheless, as Flowers orchestrates All These Things I’ve Done like the leader of a cheesy cult, the band’s triumph is complete. Many bands forget that punters pay money to be entertained. The Killers put on a show that, while not life-affirming, is the most enjoyment to be had for £25 – or £280 if the touts had their way.
Greg Rose
Brighton Centre, Brighton
Saturday 3rd March 2007
Sam’s Town rolls into Brighton, a juggernaut of glitter and glam. This isn’t a gig, it’s a concert; a carnival of showbiz fresh from the Las Vegas strip the band calls home.
Entering the usually uninspiring vacuum of the Brighton Centre eyes are drawn to a theatrical stage setup, complete with a dazzling logo just in case anybody wandered in oblivious to who was playing. This is unlikely – tickets were changing hands for £280 outside.
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club provides support, seeming out of place in this spectacle. Launching into Spread Your Love, they combine the vitality of Kasabian with a soulful groove. There’s an affecting urgency to their music as Punk Song’s arresting bass line stirs the attention of a thousand apathetic people.
Debuting numerous new songs is astute. Few audience members seem to know any of the material so true reflections of the songs’ quality can be gaged. New single Weapon of Choice fares well, provoking foot-stomping with a chorus just desperate to be sung along to.
The band looks insouciant in black leather jackets, but matches their swagger with skill, swapping instruments regularly. The setting just doesn’t suit their sound, but they battle against the indifferent crowd admirably. Another time and place, BRMC could be breathtaking.
The Killers are in their element. Two short years since witnessing them in a modest hall, they have transformed into a stadium band, complete with Brian May and Freddy Mercury look-alikes on guitar and vocals. The crowd is covered in confetti as Brandon Flowers stands assertively stage central.
Flowers’ voice sparkles as brightly as his silver jacket, displaying the strength to roam over the wails of fans retorting every word. When You Were Young lands with an uplifting squeal of guitars, rock star posing aplenty. From here the set’s pacing grabs the attention. It is unrelenting, hit following hit in a blur of electrifying showmanship.
Read My Mind stands out, the reticent Flowers communicating with shuddering body language, possessing a nervous energy that gives the track an aura of grandeur. On Top is ablaze with jingly synths, while a haunting cover of Joy Division’s Shadowplay is delivered with a brooding sincerity.
Mr Brightside shifts the mood from jolly to jubilant, as girls literally faint at the combination of heat and that blistering riff. As the band return for an encore (the first of two) flatness seeps in momentarily. Brandon awkwardly plays bass on For Reasons Unknown, while My List gets too close to 80s rock balladry for comfort.
Nevertheless, as Flowers orchestrates All These Things I’ve Done like the leader of a cheesy cult, the band’s triumph is complete. Many bands forget that punters pay money to be entertained. The Killers put on a show that, while not life-affirming, is the most enjoyment to be had for £25 – or £280 if the touts had their way.
Greg Rose
Anything Ricky Can Do...
Amateur boxing bouts at Audience With Ricky Hatton, Eastbourne Winter Gardens, 17/02/07
Body-blowing Buchannon puts on a show for his hero Hatton
Hastings Westhill’s Barry Buchannon stole the show in Eastbourne at the top of an entertaining bill. With Ricky Hatton as well as undefeated IBF World Light Welterweight Champion Terry Marsh in attendance, the local fighters were determined to put on a show.
Buchannon fought Guildford City’s Stacey Ayers in an explosive 4 x 2 bout. The window cleaner stopped his opponent in the second round after a barrage of body-blows knocked Ayers down for an eight-count. Buchannon’s relentless all-action assault allowed no respite for Ayers, whose corner threw in the towel.
“That was the biggest buzz of my boxing career, fighting in front of Hatton;” said Buchannon. “I look up to him, especially for his body-blowing style.”
Earlier, Jimmy Davis defeated Moulescoomb ABC’s Jason Harman in a fiercely contested fight. Both boxers began in conservative fashion, but Davis looked dangerous when getting close to the burly Harman. A vicious right from Davis found Harman’s chin in the third, helping the Hailsham & Eastbourne ABC man earn a majority decision.
Fellow Hailsham & Eastbourne fighter Af Panjalizadeh couldn’t match Davis’ performance, getting stopped in the second by menacing Crawley ABC boxer Ross Payne. A combination of speed and fast hands ensured Payne was in control from the start. A blistering left-right combination to Panjalizadeh’s midriff forced the referee to end the contest.
This result was mirrored when Ben White beat Scott Mayer (South Norwood and Victory) to give Hastings Westhill their third win of the evening. The 16-year-old boxed intelligently, persevering with a contained approach before landing a haymaker which visibly shook Mayer. Stuck on the ropes, the referee had no choice but to stop the fight.
An engrossing junior bout was won by Chloe Winter. Her attacking attitude ensured a unanimous decision over Berinsfield’s Jade Clarke. Ben Watts (St. Gerrards) also claimed a victory, helping himself to a unanimous decision win over Bognor’s Jonathon Fry. Despite Fry’s dogged determination, Watts’ height and reach advantage were too much to overcome.
Greg Rose
Body-blowing Buchannon puts on a show for his hero Hatton
Hastings Westhill’s Barry Buchannon stole the show in Eastbourne at the top of an entertaining bill. With Ricky Hatton as well as undefeated IBF World Light Welterweight Champion Terry Marsh in attendance, the local fighters were determined to put on a show.
Buchannon fought Guildford City’s Stacey Ayers in an explosive 4 x 2 bout. The window cleaner stopped his opponent in the second round after a barrage of body-blows knocked Ayers down for an eight-count. Buchannon’s relentless all-action assault allowed no respite for Ayers, whose corner threw in the towel.
“That was the biggest buzz of my boxing career, fighting in front of Hatton;” said Buchannon. “I look up to him, especially for his body-blowing style.”
Earlier, Jimmy Davis defeated Moulescoomb ABC’s Jason Harman in a fiercely contested fight. Both boxers began in conservative fashion, but Davis looked dangerous when getting close to the burly Harman. A vicious right from Davis found Harman’s chin in the third, helping the Hailsham & Eastbourne ABC man earn a majority decision.
Fellow Hailsham & Eastbourne fighter Af Panjalizadeh couldn’t match Davis’ performance, getting stopped in the second by menacing Crawley ABC boxer Ross Payne. A combination of speed and fast hands ensured Payne was in control from the start. A blistering left-right combination to Panjalizadeh’s midriff forced the referee to end the contest.
This result was mirrored when Ben White beat Scott Mayer (South Norwood and Victory) to give Hastings Westhill their third win of the evening. The 16-year-old boxed intelligently, persevering with a contained approach before landing a haymaker which visibly shook Mayer. Stuck on the ropes, the referee had no choice but to stop the fight.
An engrossing junior bout was won by Chloe Winter. Her attacking attitude ensured a unanimous decision over Berinsfield’s Jade Clarke. Ben Watts (St. Gerrards) also claimed a victory, helping himself to a unanimous decision win over Bognor’s Jonathon Fry. Despite Fry’s dogged determination, Watts’ height and reach advantage were too much to overcome.
Greg Rose
Hitman Hatton Comes To Town
Ricky Hatton climbed under the ropes, the crowd erupted, anticipation reached fever pitch. But something wasn’t right quite right.
Introduced as “Britain’s fifth ugliest sportsman” rather than his usual ‘Hitman’ moniker, Britain’s most exciting boxer was in the seaside town of Eastbourne instead of the glitz of Las Vegas. Hatton was wearing a suit and shoes, not shorts and gloves. Finally, the man himself explained the key difference: “It’s nice to be stood in a ring without somebody trying to punch you in the face!”
No, Hatton wasn’t boxing tonight. Instead there was a seven-fight bill of amateur bouts, with Hatton and fellow undefeated Light-Welterweight World Champion Terry Marsh watching on intently.
The pick of these three-round contests was a punishing battle between Stacey Ayers and Barry Buchannon. Ayers’ considered approach contrasted with Buchannon’s all-action style, with the latter emerging victorious in the second round after a barrage of body-blows left Ayers unable to continue.
“That was the biggest buzz I’ve had in boxing, fighting in front of Hatton;” said Buchannon. “I look up to him, especially for his body-blowing and aggression.”
After the boxing, Hatton took to the ring to give a 30-minute talk, to the delight of a packed Winter Gardens. Earlier, the 27-year-old had signed autographs and smiled for photographs. He was even stalked into the men’s toilet, posing for a photo by the urinals as a gang of fight fans sang his praises.
When at the microphone Hatton pulled no punches, describing career highlights such as his victory over Kostya Tszyu and his annoyance at having to give up world titles. “It would be nice to win a world title and keep it for more than a fortnight,” he mused.
The Manchester City fan found time to poke fun at Cristiano Ronaldo, arguing the Manchester United winger goes down so easily he should be Audley Harrison’s next opponent. But he reserved his most merciless attack for himself, answering recent criticism over his weight. “Maybe I should be called Ricky Fatton,” he laughed, swigging from a bottle of Budweiser.
Hatton stepped into the role of after-dinner speaker as effortlessly as he dispatched many opponents on his way to a record of 42 fights, 42 wins. He promised to return to Eastbourne in the summer after his fight against Jose Luis Castillo. “You’d better all turn up again though!” he demanded. Who’s going to argue with Ricky Hatton?
Greg Rose
Introduced as “Britain’s fifth ugliest sportsman” rather than his usual ‘Hitman’ moniker, Britain’s most exciting boxer was in the seaside town of Eastbourne instead of the glitz of Las Vegas. Hatton was wearing a suit and shoes, not shorts and gloves. Finally, the man himself explained the key difference: “It’s nice to be stood in a ring without somebody trying to punch you in the face!”
No, Hatton wasn’t boxing tonight. Instead there was a seven-fight bill of amateur bouts, with Hatton and fellow undefeated Light-Welterweight World Champion Terry Marsh watching on intently.
The pick of these three-round contests was a punishing battle between Stacey Ayers and Barry Buchannon. Ayers’ considered approach contrasted with Buchannon’s all-action style, with the latter emerging victorious in the second round after a barrage of body-blows left Ayers unable to continue.
“That was the biggest buzz I’ve had in boxing, fighting in front of Hatton;” said Buchannon. “I look up to him, especially for his body-blowing and aggression.”
After the boxing, Hatton took to the ring to give a 30-minute talk, to the delight of a packed Winter Gardens. Earlier, the 27-year-old had signed autographs and smiled for photographs. He was even stalked into the men’s toilet, posing for a photo by the urinals as a gang of fight fans sang his praises.
When at the microphone Hatton pulled no punches, describing career highlights such as his victory over Kostya Tszyu and his annoyance at having to give up world titles. “It would be nice to win a world title and keep it for more than a fortnight,” he mused.
The Manchester City fan found time to poke fun at Cristiano Ronaldo, arguing the Manchester United winger goes down so easily he should be Audley Harrison’s next opponent. But he reserved his most merciless attack for himself, answering recent criticism over his weight. “Maybe I should be called Ricky Fatton,” he laughed, swigging from a bottle of Budweiser.
Hatton stepped into the role of after-dinner speaker as effortlessly as he dispatched many opponents on his way to a record of 42 fights, 42 wins. He promised to return to Eastbourne in the summer after his fight against Jose Luis Castillo. “You’d better all turn up again though!” he demanded. Who’s going to argue with Ricky Hatton?
Greg Rose
Gig Review - The Rakes
The Rakes
Audio, Brighton
05/02/07
There’s a peculiar sensation down by the sea tonight. Seeking solace from a miserably wet Monday, those in the know gather in the wondrous underground cavern that is Audio. This is a specially arranged gig to see a band that is rather specially arranged itself.
The excitement brewing inside is partially extinguished by a drab support band. The Social’s moody, melancholic sound borrows heavily from Joy Division; their singer looks like an outside bet in a Morrissey look-alike competition and sounds as awful as said fictional contest. The queue for the bar swells somewhat.
By 9.30 though, London’s finest architects of spiky, surprisingly clever post-punk amble onto the stage. The World Was A Mess But His Hair Was Perfect opens both the set and new album ‘Ten New Messages’ with a nervy surging quality that manages to sound simultaneously serious and inane.
New single We Danced Together is aired early, revealing four minutes of sparkling escapism. “We danced together on the roof at the party/five stories removed from the troubles on the street.” Lyrics of charming simplicity glide over jagged guitar, while smiles appear involuntarily throughout the venue.
As new songs Trouble and When Tom Cruise Cries are played the crowd listens politely, struggling to hear singer Alan Donohoe’s words over chugging bass lines. The positive of Audio’s intimacy is counteracted by a lack of clarity to the sound created.
However, this is irrelevant when tracks like 22 Grand Job transform the crowd from courteous viewers of the gig to a rabble of flailing limbs. Onstage, Alan’s dance moves are inexplicably fascinating. He manages to seem suave despite floundering both arms in the air and looking like a manic accountant.
Bassist Jamie Hornsmith’s glazed relaxation contrasts to Alan’s almost menacing twitchiness, fittingly displaying the dimensions of The Rakes’ music. Terror is a frantic burst of agitated paranoia; follow up Work. Work. Work. (Pub. Club. Sleep.) has a dreamy quality buried underneath its ode to modern life’s intricacies.
The contradictory nature of the band is expressed further tonight when the brooding sentiments of Open Book gain slapstick value as the microphone breaks. This is appropriate for The Rakes - their music is intelligent but rooted in fun. They plod a well-trodden path of art-rock commentary on everyday life, yet manage to bring a sense of authenticity and wry wittiness that resounds throughout the set.
This distinctly understated mirth gives way to unadulterated joy as the electrifying assault of Strasbourg closes the set. But it’s the inconsistencies, the quirks, of both the band and the gig that make them, well….special.
Greg Rose
Audio, Brighton
05/02/07
There’s a peculiar sensation down by the sea tonight. Seeking solace from a miserably wet Monday, those in the know gather in the wondrous underground cavern that is Audio. This is a specially arranged gig to see a band that is rather specially arranged itself.
The excitement brewing inside is partially extinguished by a drab support band. The Social’s moody, melancholic sound borrows heavily from Joy Division; their singer looks like an outside bet in a Morrissey look-alike competition and sounds as awful as said fictional contest. The queue for the bar swells somewhat.
By 9.30 though, London’s finest architects of spiky, surprisingly clever post-punk amble onto the stage. The World Was A Mess But His Hair Was Perfect opens both the set and new album ‘Ten New Messages’ with a nervy surging quality that manages to sound simultaneously serious and inane.
New single We Danced Together is aired early, revealing four minutes of sparkling escapism. “We danced together on the roof at the party/five stories removed from the troubles on the street.” Lyrics of charming simplicity glide over jagged guitar, while smiles appear involuntarily throughout the venue.
As new songs Trouble and When Tom Cruise Cries are played the crowd listens politely, struggling to hear singer Alan Donohoe’s words over chugging bass lines. The positive of Audio’s intimacy is counteracted by a lack of clarity to the sound created.
However, this is irrelevant when tracks like 22 Grand Job transform the crowd from courteous viewers of the gig to a rabble of flailing limbs. Onstage, Alan’s dance moves are inexplicably fascinating. He manages to seem suave despite floundering both arms in the air and looking like a manic accountant.
Bassist Jamie Hornsmith’s glazed relaxation contrasts to Alan’s almost menacing twitchiness, fittingly displaying the dimensions of The Rakes’ music. Terror is a frantic burst of agitated paranoia; follow up Work. Work. Work. (Pub. Club. Sleep.) has a dreamy quality buried underneath its ode to modern life’s intricacies.
The contradictory nature of the band is expressed further tonight when the brooding sentiments of Open Book gain slapstick value as the microphone breaks. This is appropriate for The Rakes - their music is intelligent but rooted in fun. They plod a well-trodden path of art-rock commentary on everyday life, yet manage to bring a sense of authenticity and wry wittiness that resounds throughout the set.
This distinctly understated mirth gives way to unadulterated joy as the electrifying assault of Strasbourg closes the set. But it’s the inconsistencies, the quirks, of both the band and the gig that make them, well….special.
Greg Rose
Gig Review - The Holloways and The Wombats
The Wombats and The Holloways
Concorde 2, Brighton
Wednesday 21st February 2007
One of these bands has a critically acclaimed album and two top thirty singles under their belt. They sound like every other band from London since Pete met Carl. The other band doesn’t even have a record deal. They sound like your radio will all year. 2007 could be Year of the Wombat.
Having released material solely in Japan, The Wombats have kept under the mainstream radar until now. A stunning six song set, plus the upcoming release of the ridiculously captivating Backfire At The Disco suggests an invasion on Middle England’s consciousness is underway.
Being from Liverpool, a lazy Beatles comparison could be forgiven. In reality they owe more to the Fab Four’s contemporaries The Beach Boys, blending sun-kissed harmonies with choruses just destined for festival sing-alongs. You can almost taste ice-cream in your mouth; such is the luscious nature of every ‘Waa-ah’ and ‘Oooh-oh.’
The witty juvenility of lyrics like ‘Short skirts, long hair, hormones flying everywhere,’ points to the humour and common touch of that other animal-related northern band, Arctic Monkeys.
There is depth to the song writing though, as Moving To New York confirms. A Shins-esque lullaby to sleepless nights, it sounds equally anthemic and nonchalant. The dumbstruck crowd doesn’t know the words but bellow along incoherently anyway, carried by the effortlessly infectious rhythm. Oh, and they have a cuddly wombat named Cherub on stage with them. What more can you ask for?
As The Holloways surface the crowd quickly divides into two camps. Those happy to sweat and shout descend to the front; those a little despondent amble to the back, heads still in a Wombat-induced wonderland. The ice-cream fantasy is quickly replaced by the sticky dancefloor imagery of The Holloways, cans of Concorde’s finest Red Stripe held like beacons of lad culture membership.
New single Dancefloor is a riot of jerky vocals and rabble-rousing choruses, while Two Left Feet takes The Stones’ Start Me Up, adds a harmonica and results in a three minutes of funk and fun. At their best, such as during signature tune Generator they recall the ska-infused rock of The Ordinary Boys first album, (a good thing, honestly!)
Songs waft along too often though, scuppered by throwaway lyrics like ‘She said why do you care? I said because I did.’ Obviously, profundity isn’t The Holloways strong point. They don’t try to alter the pace of their set, seemingly aware of their limitations.
Yet they remain jovial, creating an inclusive feeling to the gig, pulling a fan onstage and joking with the audience. Their enthusiasm is contagious and effort admirable; sadly the depth needed to make the leap to real success is lacking.
Concorde 2, Brighton
Wednesday 21st February 2007
One of these bands has a critically acclaimed album and two top thirty singles under their belt. They sound like every other band from London since Pete met Carl. The other band doesn’t even have a record deal. They sound like your radio will all year. 2007 could be Year of the Wombat.
Having released material solely in Japan, The Wombats have kept under the mainstream radar until now. A stunning six song set, plus the upcoming release of the ridiculously captivating Backfire At The Disco suggests an invasion on Middle England’s consciousness is underway.
Being from Liverpool, a lazy Beatles comparison could be forgiven. In reality they owe more to the Fab Four’s contemporaries The Beach Boys, blending sun-kissed harmonies with choruses just destined for festival sing-alongs. You can almost taste ice-cream in your mouth; such is the luscious nature of every ‘Waa-ah’ and ‘Oooh-oh.’
The witty juvenility of lyrics like ‘Short skirts, long hair, hormones flying everywhere,’ points to the humour and common touch of that other animal-related northern band, Arctic Monkeys.
There is depth to the song writing though, as Moving To New York confirms. A Shins-esque lullaby to sleepless nights, it sounds equally anthemic and nonchalant. The dumbstruck crowd doesn’t know the words but bellow along incoherently anyway, carried by the effortlessly infectious rhythm. Oh, and they have a cuddly wombat named Cherub on stage with them. What more can you ask for?
As The Holloways surface the crowd quickly divides into two camps. Those happy to sweat and shout descend to the front; those a little despondent amble to the back, heads still in a Wombat-induced wonderland. The ice-cream fantasy is quickly replaced by the sticky dancefloor imagery of The Holloways, cans of Concorde’s finest Red Stripe held like beacons of lad culture membership.
New single Dancefloor is a riot of jerky vocals and rabble-rousing choruses, while Two Left Feet takes The Stones’ Start Me Up, adds a harmonica and results in a three minutes of funk and fun. At their best, such as during signature tune Generator they recall the ska-infused rock of The Ordinary Boys first album, (a good thing, honestly!)
Songs waft along too often though, scuppered by throwaway lyrics like ‘She said why do you care? I said because I did.’ Obviously, profundity isn’t The Holloways strong point. They don’t try to alter the pace of their set, seemingly aware of their limitations.
Yet they remain jovial, creating an inclusive feeling to the gig, pulling a fan onstage and joking with the audience. Their enthusiasm is contagious and effort admirable; sadly the depth needed to make the leap to real success is lacking.
Greg Rose
Gig Review - Bloc Party
Bloc Party
Folkestone Leas Cliff Hall
03/03/2007
Since I last saw Bloc Party they have released a greatly acclaimed debut album, flirted with chart stardom and then attempted to subvert this mild fame by disappearing somewhere in deepest, darkest London. Tonight, they're back.
Beginning the set with new album opener Song For Clay (Disappear Here), the band set their stall out. Starting delicately with heartfelt lyrics, it erupts into a raucous chorus that ploughs Arcade Fire's field of making depressing lyrics curiously uplifting.
During old favourite Blue Light singer Kele's peculiar voice is at its most mesmerising. There is a fragility that oozes from his every utterance. "If that's the way it is, then that's the way it is," he ponders. The crowd divides: those entranced watching Kele's internal fight between shyness and star power stare avidly; others wait to hear a huge chorus and jump around lots.
This moment arrives as guitarist Russell launches into Banquet, riff as angular as fringe. The crowd jubilantly energises itself after listening intently to new tracks, wishing they knew all the words.
Only when Helicopter lands does mayhem truly ensue. The Leas Cliff Hall wasn't built for crowd-surfing and hundreds of people screaming "Are you hoping for a miracle?" but it gets it anyway.
Matt Tong's drumming surges the set on, ensuring more whimsical numbers like Waiting For The 7.18 maintain a drive to compliment their sentimentality. During Positive Tension he achieves a pace so rapid it appears to the inebriated eye that he has grown an extra arm.
It is in calmer moments that Bloc Party set themselves apart. So Here We Are carries a fuzzy joy within its jangling musings that dissolves any pretensions in the room, as cool kids enthusiastically sing along with middle-aged couples.
When Kele sings This Modern Love, elation appears all-encompassing in this quirky old hall. Reflective and sublime, it sits the right side of contrived. Surely they can't top this, can they?
Quite simply, no. When they return for an encore it is strangely subdued considering the vitality of the set preceding it. After playing the dull meanderings of Compliments, the uninspiring Sunday cannot be saved by Gordon swapping his bass for drum sticks.
She's Hearing Voices confirms Bloc Party's ability to make a crowd dance as it's frenetic repetition eats into the crowd's consciousness. They can do more though, make you think as well as move, which makes final track Two More Years so disappointing. A harmless pop moment completes the night, when the set and the crowd deserved epic closure.
Nevertheless, tonight's formula of urgency blending with thoughtfulness showed why they are one of Britain's most exciting bands. Judging by the satisfied faces filing out into the Folkestone night, they will soon be one of the biggest too.
Greg Rose
Folkestone Leas Cliff Hall
03/03/2007
Since I last saw Bloc Party they have released a greatly acclaimed debut album, flirted with chart stardom and then attempted to subvert this mild fame by disappearing somewhere in deepest, darkest London. Tonight, they're back.
Beginning the set with new album opener Song For Clay (Disappear Here), the band set their stall out. Starting delicately with heartfelt lyrics, it erupts into a raucous chorus that ploughs Arcade Fire's field of making depressing lyrics curiously uplifting.
During old favourite Blue Light singer Kele's peculiar voice is at its most mesmerising. There is a fragility that oozes from his every utterance. "If that's the way it is, then that's the way it is," he ponders. The crowd divides: those entranced watching Kele's internal fight between shyness and star power stare avidly; others wait to hear a huge chorus and jump around lots.
This moment arrives as guitarist Russell launches into Banquet, riff as angular as fringe. The crowd jubilantly energises itself after listening intently to new tracks, wishing they knew all the words.
Only when Helicopter lands does mayhem truly ensue. The Leas Cliff Hall wasn't built for crowd-surfing and hundreds of people screaming "Are you hoping for a miracle?" but it gets it anyway.
Matt Tong's drumming surges the set on, ensuring more whimsical numbers like Waiting For The 7.18 maintain a drive to compliment their sentimentality. During Positive Tension he achieves a pace so rapid it appears to the inebriated eye that he has grown an extra arm.
It is in calmer moments that Bloc Party set themselves apart. So Here We Are carries a fuzzy joy within its jangling musings that dissolves any pretensions in the room, as cool kids enthusiastically sing along with middle-aged couples.
When Kele sings This Modern Love, elation appears all-encompassing in this quirky old hall. Reflective and sublime, it sits the right side of contrived. Surely they can't top this, can they?
Quite simply, no. When they return for an encore it is strangely subdued considering the vitality of the set preceding it. After playing the dull meanderings of Compliments, the uninspiring Sunday cannot be saved by Gordon swapping his bass for drum sticks.
She's Hearing Voices confirms Bloc Party's ability to make a crowd dance as it's frenetic repetition eats into the crowd's consciousness. They can do more though, make you think as well as move, which makes final track Two More Years so disappointing. A harmless pop moment completes the night, when the set and the crowd deserved epic closure.
Nevertheless, tonight's formula of urgency blending with thoughtfulness showed why they are one of Britain's most exciting bands. Judging by the satisfied faces filing out into the Folkestone night, they will soon be one of the biggest too.
Greg Rose
The Predicting Power of Playstation
The Predicting Power of Playstation
Can a computer game and a bunch of students really change the way we predict the outcome of this year’s World Cup?
IN THE AGE of technology, where blogs and downloads rule over old-fashioned methods of information-spreading, everybody is in an almighty rush to know everything. Patience is no longer a virtue, but a sin. Even this very article is available for your reading pleasure online – bothering with all that printing business is just too slow! So why should football be any different? The 2006 World Cup is upon us, yet we are no closer to knowing who will emerge victorious. Surely technology can help us find an answer….
Enter Sony Playstation game Pro Evolution Soccer. Playing every World Cup fixture on this computer game will result in an estimate of this summer’s events. With the same matches, actual possibilities for repeats in Germany are possible. So, one games console, 16 men’s temporary adoption of each World Cup competing nation, and one night of competition is all that is needed. Once the matches are played, we would know the stars of the forthcoming World Cup, the upsets, the goal-scorers, the losers and, ultimately, the World Cup winners….wouldn’t we?
The group stages had already been completed by the time 16 men entered the arena with the weight of their countries on their shoulders. Sadly, the Halls of Residence bedroom that was the host stadium for the tournament has a capacity crowd of 20, so to say the atmosphere was electric would be hyperbolic. Nevertheless, by the time Germany got the 2nd Round under way by beating Sweden, there was a definite aura of expectation swirling around the air.
With spirits high, England went into their clash against Poland full of confidence. However, they stuttered to a 1-0 victory, not boding well for their quarter-final clash with Holland, who had looked powerful in their defeat of Portugal.
Elsewhere, there was Brazilian flair aplenty in their 5-0 demolition of USA, while Spain were embarrassed by the lesser-fancied South Korea. Andriy Shevchenko scored twice to take Ukraine past the French, as the crowd kicked every ball, or pressed every button, as it were.
Many readers will recall simulating World Cups in days gone by with the classic football game, Subbuteo. However, the decision to update the age-old tradition of mimicking our footballing heroes to the computer console was proving successful. So far, the ball hadn’t once been lost under the sofa after a particularly wayward shot, and nobody had called their mum to help iron out the creases on the long-neglected artificial pitch. It appears the undoubted charm of flicking little men at a miniature plastic ball has been replaced by the excitement of hitting little buttons as hard as one possibly can.
Exciting it was though; Germany and Argentina had both cruised through to the quarter-finals, and fireworks were expected when they met – or at least enough stimulation to keep the notoriously lazy student participants of this World Cup simulation awake. Argentina didn’t disappoint, as Hernan Crespo and Juan Roman Riquelme produced graphical poetry to inspire the South Americans to a 4-1 humbling of the host nation.
Wayne Rooney fired England in front in their quarter-final with Holland, scoring a dipping shot from 30-yards. Pro-Evolution’s inability to account for injuries was certainly working in the Three Lions’ favour. However, this just enraged the Dutch, who went on to score three times against a disappointing English side.
The other quarter-finals were images of the World Cup’s most successful nations failing to translate this pedigree onto the computer screen. Brazil paid the price for accommodating all of their star forwards as they were caught on the break twice by South Korea. Could it be a similar story for Ronaldinho and co. this summer? Meanwhile, Italy were unlucky to lose out in a thriller against Ukraine as Shevchenko helped himself to another brace in a 3-2 triumph.
This set up two semi-finals pitting the Dutch and Argentine footballing superpowers against the surprise packages of Ukraine and South Korea. The progress of these two unfancied countries suggests the form book could be about as reliable as Jonathan Woodgate. Argentina left it late to sneak through 3-2 against battling Ukraine, snatching a 90th minute winner. South Korea attempted to stifle the creative talents of the Dutch, but the Europeans held their nerve in the penalty-shootout to book their place in the Final.
This meant that Holland met Argentina in a repeat of 1978’s World Cup Final. With both teams playing fluently, Ruud Van Nistelrooy gave Holland the lead with a characteristic close-range effort. However, Argentina made it 1-1 with a header from Javier Saviola. With extra-time looming, Arjen Robben and Philip Cocu produced some incisive combination play (I think it was Square, Circle, R1, Circle, X) and Cocu drilled the ball home to spark wild celebration from the Dutch contingent that had travelled to Flat 10 to witness the game.
Holland were crowned World Cup champions amid joyous scenes, as the country who so often underachieve on the big occasion came through to take the biggest prize of all. Will this be the outcome this summer? Will England and Brazil flounder so disappointingly? Maybe, maybe not. Technology, or anything else, can’t give us the answers to football, which is part of the beauty of it. It seems we will all have to wait with baited breath until the World Cup begins. In the meantime, Pro Evolution anyone?
Greg Rose
Can a computer game and a bunch of students really change the way we predict the outcome of this year’s World Cup?
IN THE AGE of technology, where blogs and downloads rule over old-fashioned methods of information-spreading, everybody is in an almighty rush to know everything. Patience is no longer a virtue, but a sin. Even this very article is available for your reading pleasure online – bothering with all that printing business is just too slow! So why should football be any different? The 2006 World Cup is upon us, yet we are no closer to knowing who will emerge victorious. Surely technology can help us find an answer….
Enter Sony Playstation game Pro Evolution Soccer. Playing every World Cup fixture on this computer game will result in an estimate of this summer’s events. With the same matches, actual possibilities for repeats in Germany are possible. So, one games console, 16 men’s temporary adoption of each World Cup competing nation, and one night of competition is all that is needed. Once the matches are played, we would know the stars of the forthcoming World Cup, the upsets, the goal-scorers, the losers and, ultimately, the World Cup winners….wouldn’t we?
The group stages had already been completed by the time 16 men entered the arena with the weight of their countries on their shoulders. Sadly, the Halls of Residence bedroom that was the host stadium for the tournament has a capacity crowd of 20, so to say the atmosphere was electric would be hyperbolic. Nevertheless, by the time Germany got the 2nd Round under way by beating Sweden, there was a definite aura of expectation swirling around the air.
With spirits high, England went into their clash against Poland full of confidence. However, they stuttered to a 1-0 victory, not boding well for their quarter-final clash with Holland, who had looked powerful in their defeat of Portugal.
Elsewhere, there was Brazilian flair aplenty in their 5-0 demolition of USA, while Spain were embarrassed by the lesser-fancied South Korea. Andriy Shevchenko scored twice to take Ukraine past the French, as the crowd kicked every ball, or pressed every button, as it were.
Many readers will recall simulating World Cups in days gone by with the classic football game, Subbuteo. However, the decision to update the age-old tradition of mimicking our footballing heroes to the computer console was proving successful. So far, the ball hadn’t once been lost under the sofa after a particularly wayward shot, and nobody had called their mum to help iron out the creases on the long-neglected artificial pitch. It appears the undoubted charm of flicking little men at a miniature plastic ball has been replaced by the excitement of hitting little buttons as hard as one possibly can.
Exciting it was though; Germany and Argentina had both cruised through to the quarter-finals, and fireworks were expected when they met – or at least enough stimulation to keep the notoriously lazy student participants of this World Cup simulation awake. Argentina didn’t disappoint, as Hernan Crespo and Juan Roman Riquelme produced graphical poetry to inspire the South Americans to a 4-1 humbling of the host nation.
Wayne Rooney fired England in front in their quarter-final with Holland, scoring a dipping shot from 30-yards. Pro-Evolution’s inability to account for injuries was certainly working in the Three Lions’ favour. However, this just enraged the Dutch, who went on to score three times against a disappointing English side.
The other quarter-finals were images of the World Cup’s most successful nations failing to translate this pedigree onto the computer screen. Brazil paid the price for accommodating all of their star forwards as they were caught on the break twice by South Korea. Could it be a similar story for Ronaldinho and co. this summer? Meanwhile, Italy were unlucky to lose out in a thriller against Ukraine as Shevchenko helped himself to another brace in a 3-2 triumph.
This set up two semi-finals pitting the Dutch and Argentine footballing superpowers against the surprise packages of Ukraine and South Korea. The progress of these two unfancied countries suggests the form book could be about as reliable as Jonathan Woodgate. Argentina left it late to sneak through 3-2 against battling Ukraine, snatching a 90th minute winner. South Korea attempted to stifle the creative talents of the Dutch, but the Europeans held their nerve in the penalty-shootout to book their place in the Final.
This meant that Holland met Argentina in a repeat of 1978’s World Cup Final. With both teams playing fluently, Ruud Van Nistelrooy gave Holland the lead with a characteristic close-range effort. However, Argentina made it 1-1 with a header from Javier Saviola. With extra-time looming, Arjen Robben and Philip Cocu produced some incisive combination play (I think it was Square, Circle, R1, Circle, X) and Cocu drilled the ball home to spark wild celebration from the Dutch contingent that had travelled to Flat 10 to witness the game.
Holland were crowned World Cup champions amid joyous scenes, as the country who so often underachieve on the big occasion came through to take the biggest prize of all. Will this be the outcome this summer? Will England and Brazil flounder so disappointingly? Maybe, maybe not. Technology, or anything else, can’t give us the answers to football, which is part of the beauty of it. It seems we will all have to wait with baited breath until the World Cup begins. In the meantime, Pro Evolution anyone?
Greg Rose
Gig Review - Iris & The Wolves and Glavion
Iris and the Wolves & Glavion
Bar Blue, Eastbourne
Thursday, 30th November
A packed house at Bar Blue witnessed sets from two of Eastbourne’s most promising bands. Iris and the Wolves opened up proceedings, the combination of Iris on keyboard and Dan on guitar and singing duties.
The latter’s voice is the main draw for this duo, booming with a commanding character that dominates the room. Opening acapella, she demonstrates range and gracefulness that demand attention.
However, too many in the bar miss out on this, as the band struggle to win over a chatty crowd. Introducing Stolen Kiss, Iris lies “This one is about kinky sex!” as she fights to tame the talkers. They create a subtle sound which carries an endearing gentleness to it.
Singing the line “You play me like a movie, you see right through me,” it is clear this is a band that needs to be watched like a film – if you don’t listen intently you can miss the plot and the set can drift past. Like all great films, they may just get better with every repeat viewing.
When Glavion take to the stage they waste no time raising the tempo with their angular-edged electronica. Looking Glass fuses bouncy keyboard with jagged guitar, constructing a texturised feel to the song.
Frozen is more expansive, the power of the synths filling the venue and grabbing attention upstairs and down. Bar Blue may be small in size, but an intimacy is easy to achieve because of this.
The four-piece band never fully capitalise on this, maintaining an element of mystery that is alluring yet stops the seated crowd feeling involved. Fine is as its title suggests - there is nothing to dislike but it doesn’t excite. Suze’s vocals whirl around but fail to govern the weighty sound of her band, blending in rather than leading.
My Life is the set’s standout track, stomping along like a James Bond theme tune to a pulsating bass line. Glavion certainly entertain, with guitarist Mike’s Graham Coxon-esque style of playing and dressing a highlight.
They have developed an individual sound to be commended, yet somehow fail to sound different. Nevertheless, they cap off a night of free music in Eastbourne that showcases the talent in the area and whets the appetite for the future.
Greg Rose
Bar Blue, Eastbourne
Thursday, 30th November
A packed house at Bar Blue witnessed sets from two of Eastbourne’s most promising bands. Iris and the Wolves opened up proceedings, the combination of Iris on keyboard and Dan on guitar and singing duties.
The latter’s voice is the main draw for this duo, booming with a commanding character that dominates the room. Opening acapella, she demonstrates range and gracefulness that demand attention.
However, too many in the bar miss out on this, as the band struggle to win over a chatty crowd. Introducing Stolen Kiss, Iris lies “This one is about kinky sex!” as she fights to tame the talkers. They create a subtle sound which carries an endearing gentleness to it.
Singing the line “You play me like a movie, you see right through me,” it is clear this is a band that needs to be watched like a film – if you don’t listen intently you can miss the plot and the set can drift past. Like all great films, they may just get better with every repeat viewing.
When Glavion take to the stage they waste no time raising the tempo with their angular-edged electronica. Looking Glass fuses bouncy keyboard with jagged guitar, constructing a texturised feel to the song.
Frozen is more expansive, the power of the synths filling the venue and grabbing attention upstairs and down. Bar Blue may be small in size, but an intimacy is easy to achieve because of this.
The four-piece band never fully capitalise on this, maintaining an element of mystery that is alluring yet stops the seated crowd feeling involved. Fine is as its title suggests - there is nothing to dislike but it doesn’t excite. Suze’s vocals whirl around but fail to govern the weighty sound of her band, blending in rather than leading.
My Life is the set’s standout track, stomping along like a James Bond theme tune to a pulsating bass line. Glavion certainly entertain, with guitarist Mike’s Graham Coxon-esque style of playing and dressing a highlight.
They have developed an individual sound to be commended, yet somehow fail to sound different. Nevertheless, they cap off a night of free music in Eastbourne that showcases the talent in the area and whets the appetite for the future.
Greg Rose
Gig Review - Ben Kweller
Ben Kweller
Concorde 2, Brighton
Tuesday, 21st November
A slice of the Big Apple cut through the chill as anti-folk troubadour Ben Kweller breezed into town. The singer-songwriter is difficult to define, but on this showing he is impossible to dislike.
As punters stream into the venue they find solace from the storm raging outside in a heart-warming set of authenticity and creativity. It is the last night of Kweller and his band’s world tour, and they seem determined to enjoy it.
As Kweller tears into Penny On The Train Track, he gleefully screams, “B-B-B-B Brighton! One, two, this one’s for you!” This sets the tone for a highly personal night, as Kweller repeatedly invites the crowd for requests. He seems determined to live up to his crowd-pleaser tag.
The main reason for this label’s accuracy, along with Kweller’s contagious enthusiasm, is the spontaneity of the evening. Sombre ballad Believer is transformed into a rolling juggernaut of heavy blues, while I Gotta Move becomes more funk than folk.
Kweller’s scope of musical ability is integral to this, as he switches from full band to acoustic mode, over to piano and back again with self-assurance. Equally adept at changing roles are Kweller’s band; keyboards, three-pronged guitar attacks and even a kazoo are introduced at different stages.
Mid-set, a spine-tingling acoustic rendition of the anthemic On My Way raises smiles and voices throughout Concorde’s narrow passage. Following this with an improvised piano version of Chug-a-Lug, a song high in cheeriness but low in emotional depth could enervate the impact of the previous song; yet somehow Kweller’s irreverent charm carries it off.
Charisma exudes from the Brooklyn boy, becoming all-encompassing during Hospital Bed. The infectious rhythm of the song throttles the audience into a mass sing-along - despite the likelihood many of the audience don’t know the words.
This possibility is assumed due to the anonymous profile of Kweller in Britain. While the likes of fellow songsmith Paolo Nutini ride high in the charts, Kweller remains off the radar. Maybe it’s because he looks worryingly like a skinny version of Tom Chaplin from Keane.
Regardless, returning for encore Wasted and Ready, the grin on his face suggests the same contentment in Kweller he is inspiring in the crowd. With honesty and talent he has carved a niche in music’s credible realms. As hundreds of satisfied faces depart into the night, the niche swells a little bit more.
Greg Rose
Concorde 2, Brighton
Tuesday, 21st November
A slice of the Big Apple cut through the chill as anti-folk troubadour Ben Kweller breezed into town. The singer-songwriter is difficult to define, but on this showing he is impossible to dislike.
As punters stream into the venue they find solace from the storm raging outside in a heart-warming set of authenticity and creativity. It is the last night of Kweller and his band’s world tour, and they seem determined to enjoy it.
As Kweller tears into Penny On The Train Track, he gleefully screams, “B-B-B-B Brighton! One, two, this one’s for you!” This sets the tone for a highly personal night, as Kweller repeatedly invites the crowd for requests. He seems determined to live up to his crowd-pleaser tag.
The main reason for this label’s accuracy, along with Kweller’s contagious enthusiasm, is the spontaneity of the evening. Sombre ballad Believer is transformed into a rolling juggernaut of heavy blues, while I Gotta Move becomes more funk than folk.
Kweller’s scope of musical ability is integral to this, as he switches from full band to acoustic mode, over to piano and back again with self-assurance. Equally adept at changing roles are Kweller’s band; keyboards, three-pronged guitar attacks and even a kazoo are introduced at different stages.
Mid-set, a spine-tingling acoustic rendition of the anthemic On My Way raises smiles and voices throughout Concorde’s narrow passage. Following this with an improvised piano version of Chug-a-Lug, a song high in cheeriness but low in emotional depth could enervate the impact of the previous song; yet somehow Kweller’s irreverent charm carries it off.
Charisma exudes from the Brooklyn boy, becoming all-encompassing during Hospital Bed. The infectious rhythm of the song throttles the audience into a mass sing-along - despite the likelihood many of the audience don’t know the words.
This possibility is assumed due to the anonymous profile of Kweller in Britain. While the likes of fellow songsmith Paolo Nutini ride high in the charts, Kweller remains off the radar. Maybe it’s because he looks worryingly like a skinny version of Tom Chaplin from Keane.
Regardless, returning for encore Wasted and Ready, the grin on his face suggests the same contentment in Kweller he is inspiring in the crowd. With honesty and talent he has carved a niche in music’s credible realms. As hundreds of satisfied faces depart into the night, the niche swells a little bit more.
Greg Rose
Interview - Jon Cook
Jon Cook Interview
“If a light bulb lit up on a map to represent every speedway fan, the whole country would light up. People don’t realise how popular it is.” If a light bulb went off at Eastbourne Eagles, Jon Cook would probably fix it.
The speedway club’s co-promoter also manages, picks the team, signs the riders, deals with the press, arranges the program, liaises with the authorities and looks after the stadium. There is little Mr. Cook doesn’t know about Eastbourne speedway.
Yet change is afoot at the Arlington Stadium. A new owner from the world of entertainment has taken over and a brave new era has begun. “I’ve got a gut feeling this is an extremely positive move for the club” said Cook.
Bob Brimson has taken over from Terry Russell as owner. His background is with a media consultation company, who work with music labels including Sony. “He has more flair than myself, and will be 100% involved. He will take a share of the burden from me; many decisions will be Bob’s to make, and he is full of ideas.”
After 15 years of involvement, Mr Cook could be forgiven for being relieved at this release. Yet he is keener than ever to move his club forward. “We regard ourselves as the top sport team in the area. We’re not big-headed, but we have national exposure and are one of the top ten teams in the country. But we don’t want to rest on our laurels.”
When considering exactly how improve the club, Mr Cook speaks animatedly. “We are working on an idea to increase our fan-base through a new bus service with all-inclusive travel, entry and programmes.” He is keen for both attendances and community spirit to grow.
Yet it is the advertising of the sport that Mr Cook thinks is vital. “We need to make speedway a great night out. A family night out. Speedway has been guilty of concentrating too much on results, not on the event itself.”
This notion encourages Mr Cook to reminisce about how he became involved in the sport. “My first meeting was in 1978, it was something the family did all together – like sitting in the pub on a Sunday afternoon with a bag of crisps. By ’84 though, I’d discovered girls and going out.”
A familiar tale of losing interest in sport once drinking age was reached could have commenced. Yet it had the opposite effect. “I met Martin Dugard (an England international speedway rider) in a nightclub, and within months was riding for Eastbourne’s second string. In 1990 I became Martin’s his mechanic. By 1992, I was promoter of the club.”
Mr Cook, from Hove, has been involved ever since. He dismays at how many people have moved away from the sport. “In the 1950s, people went to football in the winter, speedway in the summer. Bobby Moore talked about how he used to spend the off-season at speedway tracks around the East End. Now we’re a minority sport; it’s time we moved back into the majority.”
There has been much progress in this respect, from a five-year television deal with Sky Sports, to the success of the individual world championship Grand Prix series. However, Mr Cook is lukewarm towards these events. “The Grand Prix are the emperor’s new clothes. Too much money has come in. It is a thorn in the side of British speedway.”
The reasons behind Mr Cook’s disdain for an influx of money into speedway lie in another sport – football. “The Abramovich effect happening in speedway would be the end of it. Why doesn’t he just buy himself the biggest trophy in the world? There is no real achievement unless the whole club is built up. Then it matters more to everyone: from promoters, to riders, to fans.”
It is clear that professional fulfilment is Mr Cook’s main motivation. “I get more joy when I spot something in a rider nobody else did, and help nurture them to success. You have to have guts and determination like the riders, and for every kick in the teeth the satisfaction will follow.”
While speaking, Mr Cook’s mobile rings twice. Both times he politely asks to speak at another time – when talking speedway he transmits a passion it would be difficult to extinguish.
This extends to speedway riders. “They put their life on the line day after day. Prima-donnas are few and far between, they are generally some of the nicest people you could meet.”
There is clearly a respect held by Mr Cook here. For the sport as a whole, this also rings true. “We are custodians of speedway. Sport is always only a whisker away from the winter of discontent.” With this man in a position to help ensure this doesn’t happen to Eastbourne Eagles, the club’s future looks bright.
Greg Rose
“If a light bulb lit up on a map to represent every speedway fan, the whole country would light up. People don’t realise how popular it is.” If a light bulb went off at Eastbourne Eagles, Jon Cook would probably fix it.
The speedway club’s co-promoter also manages, picks the team, signs the riders, deals with the press, arranges the program, liaises with the authorities and looks after the stadium. There is little Mr. Cook doesn’t know about Eastbourne speedway.
Yet change is afoot at the Arlington Stadium. A new owner from the world of entertainment has taken over and a brave new era has begun. “I’ve got a gut feeling this is an extremely positive move for the club” said Cook.
Bob Brimson has taken over from Terry Russell as owner. His background is with a media consultation company, who work with music labels including Sony. “He has more flair than myself, and will be 100% involved. He will take a share of the burden from me; many decisions will be Bob’s to make, and he is full of ideas.”
After 15 years of involvement, Mr Cook could be forgiven for being relieved at this release. Yet he is keener than ever to move his club forward. “We regard ourselves as the top sport team in the area. We’re not big-headed, but we have national exposure and are one of the top ten teams in the country. But we don’t want to rest on our laurels.”
When considering exactly how improve the club, Mr Cook speaks animatedly. “We are working on an idea to increase our fan-base through a new bus service with all-inclusive travel, entry and programmes.” He is keen for both attendances and community spirit to grow.
Yet it is the advertising of the sport that Mr Cook thinks is vital. “We need to make speedway a great night out. A family night out. Speedway has been guilty of concentrating too much on results, not on the event itself.”
This notion encourages Mr Cook to reminisce about how he became involved in the sport. “My first meeting was in 1978, it was something the family did all together – like sitting in the pub on a Sunday afternoon with a bag of crisps. By ’84 though, I’d discovered girls and going out.”
A familiar tale of losing interest in sport once drinking age was reached could have commenced. Yet it had the opposite effect. “I met Martin Dugard (an England international speedway rider) in a nightclub, and within months was riding for Eastbourne’s second string. In 1990 I became Martin’s his mechanic. By 1992, I was promoter of the club.”
Mr Cook, from Hove, has been involved ever since. He dismays at how many people have moved away from the sport. “In the 1950s, people went to football in the winter, speedway in the summer. Bobby Moore talked about how he used to spend the off-season at speedway tracks around the East End. Now we’re a minority sport; it’s time we moved back into the majority.”
There has been much progress in this respect, from a five-year television deal with Sky Sports, to the success of the individual world championship Grand Prix series. However, Mr Cook is lukewarm towards these events. “The Grand Prix are the emperor’s new clothes. Too much money has come in. It is a thorn in the side of British speedway.”
The reasons behind Mr Cook’s disdain for an influx of money into speedway lie in another sport – football. “The Abramovich effect happening in speedway would be the end of it. Why doesn’t he just buy himself the biggest trophy in the world? There is no real achievement unless the whole club is built up. Then it matters more to everyone: from promoters, to riders, to fans.”
It is clear that professional fulfilment is Mr Cook’s main motivation. “I get more joy when I spot something in a rider nobody else did, and help nurture them to success. You have to have guts and determination like the riders, and for every kick in the teeth the satisfaction will follow.”
While speaking, Mr Cook’s mobile rings twice. Both times he politely asks to speak at another time – when talking speedway he transmits a passion it would be difficult to extinguish.
This extends to speedway riders. “They put their life on the line day after day. Prima-donnas are few and far between, they are generally some of the nicest people you could meet.”
There is clearly a respect held by Mr Cook here. For the sport as a whole, this also rings true. “We are custodians of speedway. Sport is always only a whisker away from the winter of discontent.” With this man in a position to help ensure this doesn’t happen to Eastbourne Eagles, the club’s future looks bright.
Greg Rose
The World At Their Feet
THE WORLD AT THEIR FEET
This summer, football’s young pretenders have the chance to join an illustrious group of players to excel at the World Cup before reaching maturity.
Greg Rose reflects….
It is every youngster’s dream; growing up to play in a World Cup and taking it by storm. But imagine achieving this dream before growing up! A select few players have gone to World Cup Finals as relative unknowns and returned as household names, all in their formative years. To achieve this, players need an exceptional temperament, a prospering team, natural talent in abundance – and luck.
The special players who managed to leave their mark in their inaugural Finals appearances are a rare breed. Pele’s position as the archetypal World Cup prodigy illustrates this. Aged just 17 years 235 days old, he made his debut on the biggest stage against the USSR in 1958. Having been a reserve for Brazil’s first two games, he burst onto the international stage, scoring six goals in four games and inspiring his country to victory.
Pele’s emergence as a central figure in Brazil’s success seemed pre-destined. In 1958 World Cup rules changed so that players had to be assigned individual numbers for the entire tournament; previously they could change from game-to-game. The Brazilians overlooked this, so it was left to tournament officials to assign the numbers at the last moment. While goalkeeper Gilmar was designated number 3, the inexperienced Pele was given a starting striker’s shirt – number 10. The number is now synonymous with the icon.
Eight years later in 1966, another player now regarded as one of football’s all-time greats took the World Cup by storm – Franz Beckenbauer. For most, 1966 is remembered, rightly so, as England’s finest hour. However, this has led to Beckenbauer’s emergence being largely forgotten. ‘The Kaiser’ scored twice on his World Cup debut against Switzerland and commanded his side with authority beyond his years. The 20-year-old occupied a traditional central-midfield position; it wasn’t until later in his career that he adopted his trademark sweeper role.
Beckenbauer was a revelation, scoring four goals to become the tournament’s third-highest scorer. The Times, reporting on West Germany’s group match against Spain, commented on “Beckenbauer surging through the middle” and highlighted his “magic feet.” This attacking approach was vital to his team. “West Germany’s problem was that their attack is only dangerous when Beckenbauer moves up.” This exposes the centrality of Beckenbauer’s performances to West German aspirations of victory.
In the Final, where England famously defeated West Germany, Beckenbauer was again notable, perhaps more through his absence from the centre of action. Showing typical maturity, Beckenbauer manfully shackled Bobby Charlton, seen as England’s main threat after a majestic two-goal display in England’s semi-final. However, with Germany’s most creative influence concentrating on defensive issues, England went on to carve out the chances that earned them a 4-2 win. Despite the loss, Beckenbauer’s place on the world stage was assured, a position he was to confirm over the ensuing decades.
At Mexico1970 an unknown Peruvian called Teofilo Cubillas was the player who forced his way into the consciousness of football fans the world over. Peru reached the quarter-finals for the first and only time in their history, with Cubillas scoring five goals in four games to help achieve this feat.
More than anything, it was the style in which Cubillas played the game which endeared him to the footballing public. In a World Cup containing arguably the most gifted and expressive side in history, the eventual winners Brazil, Cubillas epitomised this embracing of attacking tactics. He was affectionately known as ‘Nene’ – meaning ‘The Baby’, due to his youthful exuberance and boyish looks.
‘The Baby’ grew up during Peru’s quarter-final encounter with Brazil at the Guadalajara stadium though, as both teams produced a carnival of attacking football which ebbed and flowed throughout the 90 minutes. The clash between Pele at one end and the young pretender Cubillas at the other created a resounding respect between the two. Although Peru lost the game 4-2, Cubillas went on to secure a lucrative move to FC Porto, while in 2004 Pele named him in his FIFA 100 list of the greatest players of all time.
Pele, Beckenbauer and Cubillas went on to have long and distinguished careers after their initial meteoric rises. The man who stole the show at World Cup 1998 is still in the throes of his, being key to English hopes of victory in Germany this summer. He only played two full matches, but installed himself as the new star of international football. His name is Michael Owen.
Owen didn’t start England’s first two fixtures, playing just 22 minutes. Nevertheless, the 18-year-old made an impression, poaching from close-range against Romania. He forced himself into the starting eleven against Argentina, against whom he scored the goal that established him worldwide. Deftly controlling a pass on the run, Owen accelerated past two defenders before rifling a diagonal shot into the top-left corner. England went on to lose this game, meaning Owen’s World Cup was over. However, his impact was so monumental he has been a regular for England ever since, scoring 35 goals in 75 games.
The chance is there for another youngster to make the giant leap from promising talent to international superstar. Many have shown the potential with their club sides to leave their mark on Germany, but the difficulty in achieving this is shown by the omission of Diego Maradona from Argentina’s 1978 World Cup squad. The player who would inspire Argentina to victory in 1986 was not risked aged 18; this decision seems wise as the South Americans lifted the trophy for the first time.
Maradona had become Argentina’s youngest ever international, aged 16, while in 1978 he captained his country to the World Youth Cup. This didn’t deter coach Cesar Luis Menotti from leaving the blossoming Argentinos Juniors player out of his squad. Similarly, 16-year-old revelation Freddy Adu will watch the World Cup at home this year, despite strong support for his inclusion in USA’s squad. Both players were deemed too young and inexperienced to handle the pressures of a World Cup.
Nevertheless, there are numerous footballing sensations vying to light up Germany 2006. Lionel Messi, Argentina’s 18-year-old attacking midfielder, is a possible candidate. He forced his way into the full national squad in August 2005 after some mesmerising performances for his club, Barcelona. Tipped to win a place in Argentina’s side come their opening fixture against the Ivory Coast, Messi has already been hailed “the best player in the world” by Maradona.
Another whose club form has rocketed him into the international setup is Spain and Arsenal’s Cesc Fabregas. If Spain are to fulfil their potential this summer Fabregas will need to dominate midfields in the manner he has in the Premiership. His comfort on the ball and cultured passing could set him apart this summer. However, England fans will be hoping Fabregas’ Arsenal team-mate Theo Walcott will outshine all and repay the faith shown by Sven-Goran Eriksson following his shock inclusion in the Three Lions’ squad.
These players are well established names within the European game despite their young ages and inexperience at international, and in Walcott’s case, club level. However, many players could emerge this summer that are relatively unknown to the general football fan. This is the magic of the World Cup; it provides a truly global stage to perform on. It is up to one youngster to impose himself on this stage and emulate the greats of the past who have arrived at World Cups with everything to prove – and left with the world at their feet.
Greg Rose
This summer, football’s young pretenders have the chance to join an illustrious group of players to excel at the World Cup before reaching maturity.
Greg Rose reflects….
It is every youngster’s dream; growing up to play in a World Cup and taking it by storm. But imagine achieving this dream before growing up! A select few players have gone to World Cup Finals as relative unknowns and returned as household names, all in their formative years. To achieve this, players need an exceptional temperament, a prospering team, natural talent in abundance – and luck.
The special players who managed to leave their mark in their inaugural Finals appearances are a rare breed. Pele’s position as the archetypal World Cup prodigy illustrates this. Aged just 17 years 235 days old, he made his debut on the biggest stage against the USSR in 1958. Having been a reserve for Brazil’s first two games, he burst onto the international stage, scoring six goals in four games and inspiring his country to victory.
Pele’s emergence as a central figure in Brazil’s success seemed pre-destined. In 1958 World Cup rules changed so that players had to be assigned individual numbers for the entire tournament; previously they could change from game-to-game. The Brazilians overlooked this, so it was left to tournament officials to assign the numbers at the last moment. While goalkeeper Gilmar was designated number 3, the inexperienced Pele was given a starting striker’s shirt – number 10. The number is now synonymous with the icon.
Eight years later in 1966, another player now regarded as one of football’s all-time greats took the World Cup by storm – Franz Beckenbauer. For most, 1966 is remembered, rightly so, as England’s finest hour. However, this has led to Beckenbauer’s emergence being largely forgotten. ‘The Kaiser’ scored twice on his World Cup debut against Switzerland and commanded his side with authority beyond his years. The 20-year-old occupied a traditional central-midfield position; it wasn’t until later in his career that he adopted his trademark sweeper role.
Beckenbauer was a revelation, scoring four goals to become the tournament’s third-highest scorer. The Times, reporting on West Germany’s group match against Spain, commented on “Beckenbauer surging through the middle” and highlighted his “magic feet.” This attacking approach was vital to his team. “West Germany’s problem was that their attack is only dangerous when Beckenbauer moves up.” This exposes the centrality of Beckenbauer’s performances to West German aspirations of victory.
In the Final, where England famously defeated West Germany, Beckenbauer was again notable, perhaps more through his absence from the centre of action. Showing typical maturity, Beckenbauer manfully shackled Bobby Charlton, seen as England’s main threat after a majestic two-goal display in England’s semi-final. However, with Germany’s most creative influence concentrating on defensive issues, England went on to carve out the chances that earned them a 4-2 win. Despite the loss, Beckenbauer’s place on the world stage was assured, a position he was to confirm over the ensuing decades.
At Mexico1970 an unknown Peruvian called Teofilo Cubillas was the player who forced his way into the consciousness of football fans the world over. Peru reached the quarter-finals for the first and only time in their history, with Cubillas scoring five goals in four games to help achieve this feat.
More than anything, it was the style in which Cubillas played the game which endeared him to the footballing public. In a World Cup containing arguably the most gifted and expressive side in history, the eventual winners Brazil, Cubillas epitomised this embracing of attacking tactics. He was affectionately known as ‘Nene’ – meaning ‘The Baby’, due to his youthful exuberance and boyish looks.
‘The Baby’ grew up during Peru’s quarter-final encounter with Brazil at the Guadalajara stadium though, as both teams produced a carnival of attacking football which ebbed and flowed throughout the 90 minutes. The clash between Pele at one end and the young pretender Cubillas at the other created a resounding respect between the two. Although Peru lost the game 4-2, Cubillas went on to secure a lucrative move to FC Porto, while in 2004 Pele named him in his FIFA 100 list of the greatest players of all time.
Pele, Beckenbauer and Cubillas went on to have long and distinguished careers after their initial meteoric rises. The man who stole the show at World Cup 1998 is still in the throes of his, being key to English hopes of victory in Germany this summer. He only played two full matches, but installed himself as the new star of international football. His name is Michael Owen.
Owen didn’t start England’s first two fixtures, playing just 22 minutes. Nevertheless, the 18-year-old made an impression, poaching from close-range against Romania. He forced himself into the starting eleven against Argentina, against whom he scored the goal that established him worldwide. Deftly controlling a pass on the run, Owen accelerated past two defenders before rifling a diagonal shot into the top-left corner. England went on to lose this game, meaning Owen’s World Cup was over. However, his impact was so monumental he has been a regular for England ever since, scoring 35 goals in 75 games.
The chance is there for another youngster to make the giant leap from promising talent to international superstar. Many have shown the potential with their club sides to leave their mark on Germany, but the difficulty in achieving this is shown by the omission of Diego Maradona from Argentina’s 1978 World Cup squad. The player who would inspire Argentina to victory in 1986 was not risked aged 18; this decision seems wise as the South Americans lifted the trophy for the first time.
Maradona had become Argentina’s youngest ever international, aged 16, while in 1978 he captained his country to the World Youth Cup. This didn’t deter coach Cesar Luis Menotti from leaving the blossoming Argentinos Juniors player out of his squad. Similarly, 16-year-old revelation Freddy Adu will watch the World Cup at home this year, despite strong support for his inclusion in USA’s squad. Both players were deemed too young and inexperienced to handle the pressures of a World Cup.
Nevertheless, there are numerous footballing sensations vying to light up Germany 2006. Lionel Messi, Argentina’s 18-year-old attacking midfielder, is a possible candidate. He forced his way into the full national squad in August 2005 after some mesmerising performances for his club, Barcelona. Tipped to win a place in Argentina’s side come their opening fixture against the Ivory Coast, Messi has already been hailed “the best player in the world” by Maradona.
Another whose club form has rocketed him into the international setup is Spain and Arsenal’s Cesc Fabregas. If Spain are to fulfil their potential this summer Fabregas will need to dominate midfields in the manner he has in the Premiership. His comfort on the ball and cultured passing could set him apart this summer. However, England fans will be hoping Fabregas’ Arsenal team-mate Theo Walcott will outshine all and repay the faith shown by Sven-Goran Eriksson following his shock inclusion in the Three Lions’ squad.
These players are well established names within the European game despite their young ages and inexperience at international, and in Walcott’s case, club level. However, many players could emerge this summer that are relatively unknown to the general football fan. This is the magic of the World Cup; it provides a truly global stage to perform on. It is up to one youngster to impose himself on this stage and emulate the greats of the past who have arrived at World Cups with everything to prove – and left with the world at their feet.
Greg Rose
Gig Review - Chloe Du Pre
Chloe Du Pre
Eastbourne Winter Gardens
Wednesday 15th November 2006
There may be more famous names in pop right now, but few can claim to have more talent than this soulful Seaford singer.
The area’s biggest hope of national success delivered a performance of striking maturity. With a set dominated by original compositions, she managed to stamp her own mark upon proceedings.
Support band Slack Alley showed promise, with an energetic singer confidently racing through a cover-based set. Including Blur and Razorlight classics as well as their own tracks injected enthusiasm into the growing crowd.
Once Chloe and her band arrive onstage, the 18-year-old wears her soothing R&B influences, from Aretha to Mariah, on her sleeve. However, self-penned tracks such as This Time Around radiate pure pop sentiments, sparking much toe-tapping amongst the audience.
In Never Go Astray, Chloe’s taste for Motown is apparent. A smooth, sunshine-tinged melody effortlessly translates to a windy Wednesday in Eastbourne.
Nevertheless, the setting’s suitability is debatable. The enormous size of the Winter Gardens removes much of the show’s intimacy, despite much of the crowd leaving their seats to stand closer to the stage.
Conversely, the spacious surroundings provide a fitting setting for Chloe’s full, powerful voice. Most young singers would be overpowered, especially when fronting such an accomplished band. Yet the pounding drums and silky guitars provide an assured platform, accompanying and complementing her voice without overwhelming it.
It is in calmer moments that Chloe shows off her exemplary range to full effect. During a cover of Bryan Adams’ Heaven, she excels in combining the sheer power of her voice with a delicacy reminiscent of Ella Fitzgerald.
She also plays keyboard on this track, as she does when showcasing the stripped-down Open You Eyes. With the spotlight solely on her, sultry vocals resonate all around. The polished arrangements of Chloe’s renowned producer Pip Williams harmonises seamlessly with the attractive simplicity of the song-writing.
Despite the feel-good factor within the Winter Gardens, the set lacks a standout track which could elevate Chloe above the average and into the national consciousness. Still, the feel-good factor all around suggests this might be just around the corner.
Greg Rose
Eastbourne Winter Gardens
Wednesday 15th November 2006
There may be more famous names in pop right now, but few can claim to have more talent than this soulful Seaford singer.
The area’s biggest hope of national success delivered a performance of striking maturity. With a set dominated by original compositions, she managed to stamp her own mark upon proceedings.
Support band Slack Alley showed promise, with an energetic singer confidently racing through a cover-based set. Including Blur and Razorlight classics as well as their own tracks injected enthusiasm into the growing crowd.
Once Chloe and her band arrive onstage, the 18-year-old wears her soothing R&B influences, from Aretha to Mariah, on her sleeve. However, self-penned tracks such as This Time Around radiate pure pop sentiments, sparking much toe-tapping amongst the audience.
In Never Go Astray, Chloe’s taste for Motown is apparent. A smooth, sunshine-tinged melody effortlessly translates to a windy Wednesday in Eastbourne.
Nevertheless, the setting’s suitability is debatable. The enormous size of the Winter Gardens removes much of the show’s intimacy, despite much of the crowd leaving their seats to stand closer to the stage.
Conversely, the spacious surroundings provide a fitting setting for Chloe’s full, powerful voice. Most young singers would be overpowered, especially when fronting such an accomplished band. Yet the pounding drums and silky guitars provide an assured platform, accompanying and complementing her voice without overwhelming it.
It is in calmer moments that Chloe shows off her exemplary range to full effect. During a cover of Bryan Adams’ Heaven, she excels in combining the sheer power of her voice with a delicacy reminiscent of Ella Fitzgerald.
She also plays keyboard on this track, as she does when showcasing the stripped-down Open You Eyes. With the spotlight solely on her, sultry vocals resonate all around. The polished arrangements of Chloe’s renowned producer Pip Williams harmonises seamlessly with the attractive simplicity of the song-writing.
Despite the feel-good factor within the Winter Gardens, the set lacks a standout track which could elevate Chloe above the average and into the national consciousness. Still, the feel-good factor all around suggests this might be just around the corner.
Greg Rose
Gig Review - We Are Scientists
We Are Scientists
Rock City, Nottingham
Saturday 4th November
Rock stars aren’t funny. Sure, Noel Gallagher’s latest outburst or Pete Doherty’s most recent brush with the law/press/pavement can raise a smile, but there hasn’t been a comedian in music since John Lennon chose to marry a short, crazy woman named Yoko. Enter We Are Scientists.
Tonight, this New York band showcase their catchy, quirky sound as well as their unique sense of humour. Mixed in with the sharp, tight style of this accomplished three-piece are covers of none other than Phil Collins and Boyz 2 Men – yet they feel right at home. Indie-by-numbers this isn’t.
Opening with the aforementioned Collins cover - Against All Odds – the band bewilder by making a song also covered by Westlife sound both innovative and fun. They don’t even need to sit on stools.
This opening statement cajoles the kids crammed inside this grandiose venue into loosening up somewhat. The stand-offish cool radiating from the stylish audience is soon replaced by a sweating mass of smiles as the band tears through single It’s a Hit with aplomb.
This assurance surges through the set, elevating middling tracks such as Can’t Lose into purposeful, swaggering statements. Scene Is Dead positively oozes confidence, from its throbbing bass line to its knowingly self-deprecating lyrics.
Nevertheless, despite the throng of devotees singing every word and laughing at every (pretty hilarious) Borat reference, We Are Scientists haven’t discovered the perfect formula just yet. Wittiness and catchy songs impress, but the lack of depth is striking.
The similarity of numerous songs creates a one-dimensional feel to the set, comedy covers aside. For a prolonged shelf-life, We Are Scientists need to concentrate on song-writing as much as slapstick.
However, in The Great Escape, they possess a song of such vigour that resisting the urge to flail your arms around and dance badly becomes impossibility. Such is the giddy joy of the tune even good dancers are predisposed to lose all rhythm and control.
Leaving the stage to this indie bookmark, the crowd is left happy. Returning to sing a triumphant rendition of Boyz 2 Men’s End of the Road, the crowd is ecstatic. Hands held aloft, throats stretched to breaking point, Rock City’s audience burst their lungs for a mock-R&B scream-along. The band simply orchestrates this sheer unadulterated merriment.
It’s easy to over-elaborate on limitations and faults, but We Are Scientists don’t allow time for this. Frenetic pacing, memorable pop and laughter – why aren’t all gigs this much fun?
7 out of 10
Greg Rose
Rock City, Nottingham
Saturday 4th November
Rock stars aren’t funny. Sure, Noel Gallagher’s latest outburst or Pete Doherty’s most recent brush with the law/press/pavement can raise a smile, but there hasn’t been a comedian in music since John Lennon chose to marry a short, crazy woman named Yoko. Enter We Are Scientists.
Tonight, this New York band showcase their catchy, quirky sound as well as their unique sense of humour. Mixed in with the sharp, tight style of this accomplished three-piece are covers of none other than Phil Collins and Boyz 2 Men – yet they feel right at home. Indie-by-numbers this isn’t.
Opening with the aforementioned Collins cover - Against All Odds – the band bewilder by making a song also covered by Westlife sound both innovative and fun. They don’t even need to sit on stools.
This opening statement cajoles the kids crammed inside this grandiose venue into loosening up somewhat. The stand-offish cool radiating from the stylish audience is soon replaced by a sweating mass of smiles as the band tears through single It’s a Hit with aplomb.
This assurance surges through the set, elevating middling tracks such as Can’t Lose into purposeful, swaggering statements. Scene Is Dead positively oozes confidence, from its throbbing bass line to its knowingly self-deprecating lyrics.
Nevertheless, despite the throng of devotees singing every word and laughing at every (pretty hilarious) Borat reference, We Are Scientists haven’t discovered the perfect formula just yet. Wittiness and catchy songs impress, but the lack of depth is striking.
The similarity of numerous songs creates a one-dimensional feel to the set, comedy covers aside. For a prolonged shelf-life, We Are Scientists need to concentrate on song-writing as much as slapstick.
However, in The Great Escape, they possess a song of such vigour that resisting the urge to flail your arms around and dance badly becomes impossibility. Such is the giddy joy of the tune even good dancers are predisposed to lose all rhythm and control.
Leaving the stage to this indie bookmark, the crowd is left happy. Returning to sing a triumphant rendition of Boyz 2 Men’s End of the Road, the crowd is ecstatic. Hands held aloft, throats stretched to breaking point, Rock City’s audience burst their lungs for a mock-R&B scream-along. The band simply orchestrates this sheer unadulterated merriment.
It’s easy to over-elaborate on limitations and faults, but We Are Scientists don’t allow time for this. Frenetic pacing, memorable pop and laughter – why aren’t all gigs this much fun?
7 out of 10
Greg Rose
Gig Review - Ryan Adams & The Cardinals
Ryan Adams and the Cardinals
Shepherds Bush Empire, London
Saturday 30th September
For Ryan Adams, the line between inspiration and lunacy is often thinner than his jeans. Tonight, it is apparent he intends to blur it further. From a monologue on digestive biscuits to a rap about a ghetto Shakespeare, alt-country’s brightest light ensures this night will live long in the memory.
By the time either of these amusing incidents took place, Adams had already blasted through songs as memorable as Cold Roses and My Winding Wheel. Live, the songs acquire a bite that cuts away at any doubts of Adams ability as a performer. There is a kaleidoscope of personality standing in front of you; the leather jacket-clad epiphany of New York rock n roll one moment, the bone-achingly vulnerable representative of broken hearts everywhere the next.
Magnolia Mountain aptly merges these traits, sweeping from straight up rock to blues-tinged ballad and back again within the confines of one song. Most bands can’t master such versatility in a whole career, let alone a verse.
Adams’ uncanny eye for melody creates this space within his numbers to expand and explode once placed onstage. Under the premise of old favourite To Be Young, he launches into a foot-stomper the Rolling Stones should have written 35 years ago. The unpredictability Adams thrives upon means no two songs sound the same, while weaker tracks from recent flop albums 29 and Jacksonville City Nights are breathed new life.
The key to this lies within the Cardinals. They aren’t accompanying musicians to Adams’ overbearing presence – this is a band. A band that plays like nobody’s watching. Songs that drift past on record stand out like Adams’ cookie monster t-shirt once the Cardinals put their indent on them. Of course Adams is the star, but his band gives a power to proceedings that perfectly contrasts the fragility Adams radiates.
They even join in on his eccentric antics, wearing balaclavas and spaceman suits at one point. Still, once you’ve played an impromptu rap called Shakespeare in da Bronx, putting a helmet over your head and strumming a ballad seems almost normal.
Ryan Adams and the Cardinals proved that toughness and tenderness can exist in one place. Sometimes Adams’ songs veer towards corniness on record, but once you see the feeling and the fire put into them, it’s difficult not to believe in the band in front of you. Besides, how many people can make McVities biscuits sound cool?
8 out of 10
Greg Rose
Shepherds Bush Empire, London
Saturday 30th September
For Ryan Adams, the line between inspiration and lunacy is often thinner than his jeans. Tonight, it is apparent he intends to blur it further. From a monologue on digestive biscuits to a rap about a ghetto Shakespeare, alt-country’s brightest light ensures this night will live long in the memory.
By the time either of these amusing incidents took place, Adams had already blasted through songs as memorable as Cold Roses and My Winding Wheel. Live, the songs acquire a bite that cuts away at any doubts of Adams ability as a performer. There is a kaleidoscope of personality standing in front of you; the leather jacket-clad epiphany of New York rock n roll one moment, the bone-achingly vulnerable representative of broken hearts everywhere the next.
Magnolia Mountain aptly merges these traits, sweeping from straight up rock to blues-tinged ballad and back again within the confines of one song. Most bands can’t master such versatility in a whole career, let alone a verse.
Adams’ uncanny eye for melody creates this space within his numbers to expand and explode once placed onstage. Under the premise of old favourite To Be Young, he launches into a foot-stomper the Rolling Stones should have written 35 years ago. The unpredictability Adams thrives upon means no two songs sound the same, while weaker tracks from recent flop albums 29 and Jacksonville City Nights are breathed new life.
The key to this lies within the Cardinals. They aren’t accompanying musicians to Adams’ overbearing presence – this is a band. A band that plays like nobody’s watching. Songs that drift past on record stand out like Adams’ cookie monster t-shirt once the Cardinals put their indent on them. Of course Adams is the star, but his band gives a power to proceedings that perfectly contrasts the fragility Adams radiates.
They even join in on his eccentric antics, wearing balaclavas and spaceman suits at one point. Still, once you’ve played an impromptu rap called Shakespeare in da Bronx, putting a helmet over your head and strumming a ballad seems almost normal.
Ryan Adams and the Cardinals proved that toughness and tenderness can exist in one place. Sometimes Adams’ songs veer towards corniness on record, but once you see the feeling and the fire put into them, it’s difficult not to believe in the band in front of you. Besides, how many people can make McVities biscuits sound cool?
8 out of 10
Greg Rose
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