July 2009 Archives

Who can forget England's 1990 World Cup Semi-Final exit on penalties to Germany, or West Germany as it was then. Waddle hitting the bar, Psycho's penalty miss and of course Gazza's tears that endeared him to the nation. Possibly the strongest England side since 1966, they didn't deserve to lose that match.

However, they almost didn't make it that far. In fact they were 8 minutes away from going out in the quarter finals to Cameroon, the first African nation to reach the final eight. Thankfully Gary Lineker's 82 minute penalty and a second in extra-time carried England through. Bobby Robson, England's beloved manager commented after the game;

'We didn't underestimate them, but they were a lot better than we thought'.

Aside from his astute footballing brain and commitment to the nation's team, part of what fans love about Bobby is his forgetfulness and clumsiness in interview.

Take this example of Sir Bobby's greeting to namesake Bryan Robson on the training ground;

'Good morning Bobby'.

To which Bryan kindly reminded him;

'You're Bobby, I'm Bryan!'

 Or my favourite annecdote;

Reporter to Newcastle's Shola Ameobi: 'Do you have a nickname?'
Ameobi: 'No, not really'
Reporter: 'So what does Bobby Robson call you?'
Ameobi: 'Carl Cort.'

An extraordinary man on and off of the pitch, Sir Bobby has battled cancer five times. It seemed fitting then that today the players from that historic World Cup Semi-Final loss and their German counterparts, reunited in a game at St James' Park to raise money for Sir Bobby's cancer charity- The Sir Bobby Robson Foundation.

The pain of nearly 20 years was eradicated and English pride restored as England this time had Lady Luck on their side, winning 3-2.

Whilst all this was happening in Newcastle, H and I were at Wembley watching Barcelona, Celtic, Tottenham and Al Alhy battle it out for the Wembley Cup, a newly created pre-season tournament.

H sat thrilled in his Barcelona shirt watching his heroes demolish the African champions Al Alhy 4-1. Lots of goals, but the game lacked the passion and spirit that a crowd can create. After a rather expensive lunch, proper service was resumed as Spurs played Celtic, their fans lifted the stadium with songs and banter.

Poor Alan Hutton, Tottenham's right-back, was booed every single time he touched the ball, it turns out that he played much of his career at Rangers, Celtic's oldest adversary. The boos rang around the stadium, the volume not lost despite the fact that most of the Scottish supporters seemed to be seated in the upper tier, the seats that just so happen to be the least expensive!

It didn't take long before a chant broke out;

'Alan Hutton is a w**ker, is a w**ker...'

I stifled a laugh.

'Why are they singing 'Hallelujah'?' H asked.

Bless his poor innocent ears I thought.

'Well they are a Catholic team.' I offered.

'Oh'. H pondered.

Upon refection, perhaps it is my world-weary ears that are to blame, rather than H's unacquainted hearing. Maybe the Celtic fans were singing 'Hallelujah'. I mean, sitting high up, 'in the gods', they may well have been overcome with religious affectation! 

My passion for watching England play cricket has reached fever-pitch. Having been in my element watching the first two tests of this year's Ashes series, I find myself in a state of mourning awaiting the third test. The first two tests were played with a short gap between them, 2 or 3 days. This time the gap is 10 days!

My behaviour, worryingly, is having a knock-on effect on the house and in particular my 7 year old son. H came into the lounge yesterday dressed in full cricket whites, pads, helmet and carrying his bat.

'Why are you wearing all that? There's no cricket on today.' I lamented.

'I just wanted to remember that it is one week until the third test starts.' H enthused, wincing as he adjusted his cricket box.

To fill the gap between tests I have been reading everything and anything cricket. One of my favourites was an article about 'sledging'- the art of verbally insulting or intimidating an opposing batsman. According to the BBC's Pat Murphy: "My understanding is that it came from the mid-sixties and a guy called Graham Calling, who used to open the bowling for New South Wales and Australia... apparently the suggestion was that this guy's wife was [having an affair] with another team-mate, and when he came into bat [the fielding team] started singing 'When a Man Loves A Woman', the old Percy Sledge number." 

There are differing stories about how the term 'sledging' came about, but the practice itself has been around forever. The thing with sledging is that you need to be able to back it up. It's like a boxer telling everyone at the press conference how he is going to destroy his opponent, only to be knocked out himself in the first round. 

Take for example Greg Thomas, a genuinely quick bowler, but erratic. Greg was bowling at the great Sir Viv Richards- voted by Wisden as the greatest One Day International batsman ever and third greatest test batsman.

Having beaten Viv's bat on two successive bowls Greg got a bit over excited and in doing so over-extended himself by offering the following advice to Sir Viv: 

"It's red, it's round and it weighs about five ounces, in case you're wondering." Greg announced smugly.

Now that is exactly the wrong thing to say to a batsman of Sir Viv's quality. On the next ball Sir Viv hit the ball out of the ground and into a nearby river.

 "Well Greg, you know what it looks like. Go and find it."  Sir Viv retorted.

There is a family run delicatessen within walking distance of my home that has a sign at it's counter that reads, 'To my customer: I may not have the answer, but I'll find it. I may not have the time, but I'll make it.' A warming, friendly statement that reflects the old adage that the customer is always right.

Imagine my concern then when I entered the Mitcham depot of the 'Home Delivery Network' this morning to be greeted by a sign that was clearly meant for employees only to read, but had been sellotaped to the wrong side of the window,  ' The Sainsburys account goes live today, we must ensure that this customer enjoys the very best service'.  In other words, sod everyone else, Sainsburys pay us more!

Last week was my birthday, a date which I share with my best mate whose birthday is the day before mine. Imagine my suprise when we swopped presents to find that we had bought each other identical gifts- a white England Cricket Test Shirt, size medium. My friend had sensibly ordered my gift well in advance, where as I had arranged for the shirt to be delivered to his workplace, a school, on his actual birthday. There was a premium to pay for this service, but I felt it was a nice touch.

The disappointment with the service began when the company, the aforementioned Home Delivery Network, failed to deliver on the arranged day. After a few phone calls it was agreed that the package would be collected from the depot. So this morning, as he was passing my house anyway,my friend collected me and we drove to the depot together.

Upon arrival at the Home Delivery Network, we were told that the parcel wasn't ready for collection and wouldn't be for another 24 hours. After some grumbling the employee, who resembled Manuel from Fawlty Towers, went off through a side door to look for the parcel.

15 minutes later he returned empty handed, spoke to his female colleague and she trudged off in the direction from which he had just returned.

Whilst waiting patiently for the lady to return, another customer arrived to collect a parcel. A well- groomed man in his thirties, clearly gay, a Mr Rogers. He handed the card to Manuel through the security hatch, Manuel smiled turned on his heels and disappeared through the magic door. He returned 30 seconds later and asked Mr Rogers what was in the parcel. Confused and slightly irritated the customer replied,

'It's a bathroom cabinet, why? Are you going to open it?'

Manuel smiled again and off he went, returning very quickly with a large box which he carried into reception and placed at the customer's feet.

'It's been well looked after then!' Quipped Mr Rogers pointing at a very large dent in the box.

'I think I'll open it before I leave here, to check if it's damaged,' continued Mr Rogers as he began to unwrap the parcel. He slid the cabinet from the box to reveal that the mirrored doors were not just cracked, but completely samshed to smithereens!

'Well I'll be refusing that parcel then!' He sniffed, turned and minced out of the depot. Manuel was left with the opened, broken package and tried very hard to act surprised but succeeded only in appearing indifferent.

At this point the female colleague returned, whispered to Manuel, and approached my friend and I. For some reason she was putting on a male voice, speaking like hardened criminal you might find in an east-end pub.

' Right mate, I'm affraid the van that your parcel was in has not been returned to the depot, it was broken into last night and is being held somewhere.' She grunted.

'Well where is it? When will it be back?' I queried.

'It's broken down,' She continued, 'The manager's trying to find your parcel at the moment.'

Completely non-plussed I tried to make sense of what the geezer-bird had just spouted. I was still shaking my head when the next customer walked in, a squat man who was dressed like a gang member. He saw me shaking my head in despair-

'Tell me about it bruv, this is the third time I've been here to get my package- all because they can't be bothered to press the bell to my flat.' He sneered at the hatch and passed through his collection card.

'Good morning and welcome to Home Delivery Network!' Manuel chirped, 'Can I ask what is in the parcel?'

'It's a dressing gown,' Squat responded, immediately he turned to my friend and I and made sure that we knew that the dressing gown was a gift for someone else!

Manuel scurried off through the magic door. The geezer-bird took over the hatch, looked over at my friend and I and asked if she could help us.

'You said that the manager was trying to locate our parcel.' I reminded her.

Right on cue another door at the back of the office opened and in walked a teenager with severe acne and a flourescent waistcoat, he muttered to geezer-bird and she pointed at my friend and I.

'Good morning, I'm Paul, the manager. You know it has been some difficulty for me to locate your package as the details have not been inputed into the system. But I've finally found it- it was delivered yesterday to the church opposite the school.'  Paul was very pleased with himself, but frowned as he tried to read from our faces if we were as pleased as him.

Dumbfounded, I attempted to speak, but failed. A whole hour we had spent in the depot, only to be told that the parcel had been delivered to another address.

Then, from behind the magic door came a large crash of boxes and in staggered Manuel balancing four or five boxes that reached up beyond the top of his head. As he lowered the packages to the floor it became clear that he had opened all of them.

Manuel stood there triumphant, wearing a ladies mauve towelling bath robe! He beamed at Squat,

'Is this your parcel?'