text:
tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19694245481719597502016-08-29T11:30:58.598+01:00Sport Is A TV ShowWe just do what we do and if anyone else likes it that's a bonus.Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-14379329488459280432016-06-13T00:30:00.000+01:002016-06-13T14:21:03.668+01:00How to pronounce Irish footballers' namesWe Irish have long had to suffer the indignity of our names being twisted, rolled and inaccurately gobbed out by mean, unworthy tongues. It's almost as if the names were artificially converted from one language to another and rendered in an unsuitable orthography or something. If you possess such a tongue and wish to atone for the offence it's caused all those Morans, Keowns, McGraths, Cahills, Dohertys, Costellos, Kinsellas, Gallaghers, O'Rrarcis and Kellys, here is a guide to the pronunciation of the names of players and key staff of the Republic of Ireland European Championship squad. (I believe Northern Ireland also have a team and good for them.)

*O'Shea: oh-shee-AH

McCarthy: mack-ur-TEE

Quinn: Keane

Keogh: kyuck

Duffy: doo-FAY

McGeady: mack-a-DEE-dee

Ciarán: see-air-AAAAAAAAAAN

Coleman: first syllable is actually pronounced 'coal'

Randolph: was originally Ralph until he added a silent 'ndo' in honour of Cameroon's finest

Cyrus Christie: Chris Christ

Robbie Keane: BOB-let KANE

Long: lung (from the Irish Mac Long, son of Boatface)

Shay Given: oh fuck, Ralph's holding his hamstring

Jonathan: FRANK-and

Wes Hoolahan: Wes

Hendrick: Hendrix

Daryl Murphy: WUR-fee (the 'M' is an upside-down 'W' in Irish (except for exceptions)); 'Daryl' contains one-and-a-half syllables

Westwood: o-ho, Given's holding his hamstring

Glenn Whelan: Glenn "Leave 'Em Bealin'" Whelan

Robbie Brady: Dead-Ball Specialist OR Dead-Ball Specialist Me Arse

Stephen Ward: Stephenward (hence "the winger's headed Stephenwardward")

James McClean: on-a-YELL-oh

David Meyler: Ireland's Unlikely Hero

Martin O'Neill: Michael O'Neill, I mean Martin O'Neill

Roy Keane: Distraction?

Athenry: ath-HEN-ree, definitely ath-HEN-reeFredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-14651707294231190752016-06-12T16:38:00.000+01:002016-06-12T17:07:23.229+01:00Fur, fox, ache (or: Perfection is everywhere)They, the fools, say that perfection is impossible. That's because they set their standards too high.

Take two incidents from the France-Romania game. The first came in the opening ten minutes, when this kitten:

Kitten
was threatened by this fox:

Fox — note how the image is magnified, making it grainy and bringing to mind a picture in a newspaper of a gangster or paedophile
The kitten's mother (I can't afford the image rights) got herself between the fox and the kitten, seemingly dissuading the fox from its evil scheme. But the fox had merely skulked away under the hedge to next door's, no doubt waiting for its opportunity to ... well, one daren't say. But the mother is a tough, rural cat, as opposed to the glorified draft excluders that populate city dwellings. She's dealt with worse in her time. She briskly walked to the hedge to keep watch. The fox would move along the hedge; the cat would move with it. Back and forth they went. Eventually the fox realised it had lost, and stayed away.

Meanwhile, I tended to the kitten:

Sleeve supplied by photographer
Now, certainly, this scene could have been improved — had, say, the cat mauled the fox, reached into its ribcage and grabbed the beating heart to take back to the kitten for something to play with. Which she could have done, if she'd fancied it. But what is she: a dog? Away and shite witcha. And anyway, just because it could have been improved doesn't mean it could have been made any better. It was perfect as it was. The cat's control of the situation was masterful, and I got to spend some quality time with the kitten. Nothing more was necessary. Anything more would have been wasted embellishment: a ribbon that falls off and gets kicked aside unnoticed.

I did miss a good part of the opening quarter of the actual football, though*. Thankfully, good old (29) Dimitri Payet waited until late to score a goal you've probably seen by now**. It was perfect. It wasn't perfect if "perfect" is taken to mean an ideal form of a goal, an unsurpassable standard all other goals can only fail to match. Such a goal is inconceivable, and a century and a half of football has failed to deliver it in practice. There are too many ways to score to allow it, and appreciation of such things in football is so subjective anyway — so open to taste, whim, perversity, fetish, and the unsolvable mysteries of the mind — that a consensus is impossible. Even a run-of-the-mill goal-of-the-month problem has about four plausible solutions (apart from when an Arsenal goal is involved, as Gooner vote riggers have so competently proved).

* Oh aye, nearly forgot: SHE DOES A HELL OF A LOT BETTER DEALING WITH FOXES THAN MOST OF THE PREMIER LEAGUE DOES HAH? DIDJA HEAR ME I SAID

** If not, you'll have to go picking through the leftovers from UEFA's copyright trawling by yourself. Tell me if you find a good copy of Aiden McGeady's goal against Georgia while you're at it.

Let's play God, albeit a God who hasn't blown His post-production budget by splurging on the pyrotechnics. How can Payet's goal be improved? How can we make it sparkle? We could have him dribble past a player beforehand. But why stop at one? Or two, or ten? Is he only going to beat each player once? Could we have him flick it over the head of a defender, Gazza-style? Blanco hop? Some kind of Gazzablanco combo? There we are! Visionary! Needs work, though. Also, there's not enough of a team element to the goal. Can't we have them, you know, weave patterns or some shit? Shouldn't a great goal have a few dozen passes beforehand? There we are. Cracking. No, a few dozen more. No... Och, we'll come back to that. Now, let's move the shot back a few yards: twenty-five yards out, thirty, forty... How far out's the halfway line at that point? Can we have him nutmeg the keeper at some stage as well...

Payet's strike, made at a moment of high tension, was as pure as a strike can get. Or so it appears. It probably could have been improved — but by unimaginably minute degrees only a cruel, cruel bastard could enforce. It was already as good as it could be. It could have been improved, but not made better. No universal perfection being possible, the goal created its own perfection. It temporarily obliterated all other considerations, striking you with full force there and then***. You take such moments when you can find them****.

*** Thus leaving behind the "ache" in the title of the post. Such rare craft!

****

↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓
↓

(Asleep, in case you were wondering)Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-89091234013052047572016-06-09T22:45:00.000+01:002016-06-09T22:48:12.309+01:00Just a moment, please

There's John O'Shea scoring an equaliser in the European Championship qualifier away to Germany with the last touch of the game (bar the resulting kick-off). And there's Shane Long scoring the only goal in the return a year or so later. Although the goals weren't scored by him, they made you feel like Robbie Keane: they gave you the urge to perform cartwheels even though you have no clue how to do them.

It's the type of thing you'll often hear said is what football's all about, a belief only tenable in the grip of the buzz, or while enviously witnessing others as they so buzz. In reality, football is mostly about things like learning geography from league tables, nurturing a healthy lust for floodlight pylons, musing about pitch mowing patterns, going wheeeeeyyyyy when the opposition keeper slices a clearance out of play, and the conversation as you pass the time while crossing long pontoons of nothing happening — or worse than nothing. Never trust anyone who tells you that football is all about any one thing.

But that sober advice can go to hell when the narcotic hope looks like it might actually deliver a favourable payoff*. While the Euro finals tournament will be full of delightful details incidental to fattened narrative, even in its newly distended 24-team form (man, John) it dispenses with the steady beat of the season and shortens the distance between the peaks and the troughs. Everyone will get squeezed into bottlenecks: some will be crushed and some will be sent soaring. The tournament fizzes with the certainty that some people are going to get loaded**.

All I hope is that Ireland have a moment like that in the Euros. The benighted Euro 2012 campaign had some dreary, duly-noted landmarks. Once the immediate pleasure of qualification waned, it felt like an adminstrative mistake by UEFA: like an ATM erroneously paying out tenfold, the episode discovered and repayment demanded the following June. Let's instead have some pure sensation, something that can't be revised downwards after the inevitable anti-climax of elimination, something that creates a memory that stays live and lights itself rather than relying on the dim, coloured bulb of nostalgia, something you watch over and over until you've convinced yourself Long meant to control the ball with his knee in exactly the way he did. The qualifiers gave us a few moments like that, and asking for more might be greedy, but look: we're here now.

Let it not be total shite, is what I'm saying.

-
* Not to be confused with a favourable playoff, which it also rarely delivers.

** Not in the sense embodied by the "we've come here to get langered" crowd, may God preserve their internal organs before the drink does.Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-32814715406361134542016-06-07T22:18:00.000+01:002016-06-07T22:18:32.235+01:00Chriiiiiiiiis Waddlllllllllle

Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-88402584097976543592016-04-07T19:44:00.000+01:002016-04-07T19:49:37.432+01:00Real Madrid/The Fall jokeCarvajal in the rain for ya
prev in JOKES: ...Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-21942052795837669152016-01-31T17:05:00.000+00:002016-01-31T17:05:45.742+00:00The Past of Football: England win the World CupIntroducing The Past of Football, a new magazine devoted to football's past. In each issue, Professor Frank Lazarus, famous football historian from the future, brings to life a great name or memorable episode from football history. PLUS with each issue you get a FREE part of the body of Herodotus. With all ten thousand parts, you can create a full-scale working model of the Roman god of football history! First issue 99c. Each subsequent issue €99.99.

In 1953, genial gentleman amateur football side England sportingly allowed genial Communist amateur football side the Magical Magyars to beat them in a game at Wembley. This would have been no big deal, you would have thought, especially since crack waterpoloists the Wolverhampton Wolves sportingly assaulted the nonsense out of the Magicals in Melbourne later that day, this being the times when men were men. But no! Radical young progressive journalists such as Geoff "Love Machine" Green and Brian Granville (whose father may have been Hungarian, so he was probably biased) argued that it was all very well exchanging the limp handshake of Corinthianism when out foreign, but that when in the home of football (the one that isn't Scotland or Chirk), visitors should be thrashed for their arrogance in challenging one of the finest elevens in all the Home International Championship. England, said foreign gurus like author of Soccer Revolution in the Head Jimmy Hogan, must beat everyone all the time and do fancy flicks and shit. The very next day, a cadre of revolutionaries interrupted the coronation of Queen Of England of England and demanded change very politely. They were swiftly arrested and hanged, but many common Englanders watching the proceedings on their brand new flatscreen wirelesses started to wonder whether those plucky young dead people might not have had a jolly good point. Meanwhile, Africa took advantage of the confusion to declare independence. England went totally rent-a-sunder! If it had had had a constitution, it would have been in crisis!

 Then nothing much happened for a few years. Then Winston Churchill said to Watney, Earl of Football, chairman of the Football Association, "Good Gertrude, have you noticed that the manager of our great English football side has the word 'bottom' in his name?". Watney had someone check, then slovak. That out of the way, he bought a copy of Rothmans and discovered that it was indeed true. How Nate "Bottoms" Keister-Pratt had been allowed control of the Queen's footballers for so long was a mystery, especially considering the well-known fact that no one with a name hinting at the human fundament could succeed in management (which was proven true three decades later when Monaco sacked Arsene Wenger). The matter was swiftly dealt with, but the matter of how to wipe Bottoms from people's memories was another matter.

To clear his mind, Watney decided to embark on one of his occasional crime sprees in remote parts of the kingdom. This time, he opted to take a hovercoracle to the Isle of Man, where to his dismay he happened upon a game of that horrid business, league football. Watney had inherited his loathing of professional players all the way down the line from his great-great-grampaps, the first Earl, who was in favour of punishing them by forcing them to spend the winter lying on football fields to ward off frost, and he would have had the men and the firepower to get it done too if that lightweight Wellesley hadn't chickened out by dying that time. Still, the second Earl had legalised the ghastly business and more or less signed the game's death warrant, so it was Watney's grim duty to bear witness to its ongoing bemaggoted putrefaction.

This, at least, was one of the better matches of the English BPL (or the Barclaycard Old Old First Division as it was known at the time): a title decider between local Manx heroes Peel Inconsequentials and the mighty Town United from a town somewhere. As it was, it was, it was the Quentials who took first prize after a cat with no tail and three legs ran onto the pitch and licked visiting goalkeeper Chic "Chick" Chikk's knee, tickling him into a distracting cardiac arrest which allowed hot scoring ace Kermit Hogsquhart to tap the historic winner into an empty goal.

The Consequs were a revelation. They exhibited the perfect balance between modernity and tradition required for the new setup of the Three venerable old Lions. On the one hand, they represented the vigour of the go-go-go twentieth century by sometimes apparently playing as many as three backs. On the other hand, they were astonishingly boring. Upon further investigation, Watney discovered that they were bossed by none other than good old Alfbert, Lord Ramsey: crofting magnate, player in that 1953 game everyone overreacted to, and all-round reliable chap. Surely he could take charge of the national side! Watney immediately had a local orphan boy dispatch a handwritten note personally to the Queen Herself in London: I HAVE SEEN FOOTBALL FUTURE AND ITS NAME IS ALFBERT, LORD RAMSEY DO YOU REMEMBER MA'AM HE PLAYED IN THAT 1953 GAME EVERYONE OVERREACTED TO PS I STILL LOVE YOU OH DO PLEASE LEAVE THAT GREEK NIT MEET ME IN THE STABLE AT LANCASTER GATE AT DUSK TOMORROW

As it turned out, the boy couldn't swim, so Watney had to use the telephone, which is so much less personal wouldn't you agree. He then got down to the business of negotiating with Lord Ramsey, which nearly foundered on Ramsey's outrageous demands. First, he insisted he be allowed to pick the team. Such radicalist nonsense was a step too far for Watney, and he pointed out that England's innate superiority had allowed them to win many games without picking any players at all. But Ramsey was firm, and he also demanded that Watney get the FIFA, to who'm the FA had subcontracted the running of the game outside the United Kingdom and her Dominions, to stage their 1966 World Cup competition in England. The World Cup was designed as a sop to underachieving foreign teams, but had for some reason become quite popular amongst the la-dee-da so-called offioncianandos of the hip new swinging football. "If you want to shut them up," Lord Ramsey explained, "bring the World Cup here where we simply cannot be beaten unless we play Hungary (or possibly Eire, although we've kept so quiet about that game that I'm pretty sure everyone has forgotten about it, thank the Lord for sparing us from such embarrassment)." It, said Ramsey, was, as it were, the, so to speak, only, he continued, way, full stop.

Reluctantly — his mind filled with a vision of the enormous portrait in his office of the first Earl becoming animated: the jowls quivering disapprovingly, rage turning the cheeks from a deep shade of purple to a deeper shade of purple, rivulets of pure giant tortoise gravy streaming from his baggy eyes — Watney bowed his head in what seemed to him to be some kind of defeat, and shook Lord Ramsey's hand.

The story of England winning the World Cup continues after this picture. Who will win the World Cup?

So Lord Ramsey got on with the task of assembling a crack squad. That out of the way, he picked his team. And what a team! It was built around the noble Sir Bobert Moore, who could win a tackle using only the power of his mind. Then there was Nobert Wilde-Styles, who could also win a tackle without touching the ball. Ramsey recruited fearsome defender Wor Jackie, as well as his brother, the gentle genius Peace Jackie. Jim Greavsie was the absolutely unquestionably indispensable sharpscoring spearheader. You knew Stanislaus "The Manislaus" Wallace was an amazing player because his quiet, dutiful work went practically unnoticed. The team was given an element of danger by goalkeeper Banksy, a loose cannon whose graffitos had brought down the Macmillan government. There were also other players, plus some full-backs.

Watney having successfully bullied the FIFA into handing over their pitiful World Cup tournament, the stage was set for England to establish itself once more as the undisputed bestmost country out of those who footballed, which was all of them except the usual few who didn't matter. So confident were they of making the World Cup a triumph that they entrusted custody of the trophy to a great British dog called Pickle. The border collie, 4, even recorded a rousing World Cup theme song: "Back home, the World Cup is back home, and I don't mean Scotland or Chirk, thirteen years of hurt, it's L.S.D. for 'longstanding soccer dynasty', ie England..." (In a sad coda, Pickle found himself unable to cope with his new fame and later hanged himself.) The newspapers called for the entire team to be knighted in advance. They knew that England's tactic of kicking the football into the opponents' goal more often than the opponents kick the ball into their goal could surely outfox even the wiliest of contintental foes such as Cyprus or Mexico. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing could go wrong. By which I mean

All was set for the opening game against some glorified parish that didn't even have a name until they had to think of one for the World Cup — Switzerland or France or one of those. However, tragedy struck as England lost 0-0. The nation was devastated at the apparent death of England's World Cup dream. The London Times of London printed a front page bombshell headline YOU DAFT ROTTERS with a picture of Lord Ramsey's head superimposed on what might have been a rotting apple only it was hard to tell given the quality of image reproduction in newspapers of those days. Nevertheless, the message rang through true threw loud and clear. Riots ensued. Thousands were killed. People even said nasty things about Peace Jackie!

Something had to be done. Luckily the FIFA were the numero number one at doing scandals. The English head of the FIFA and member of shock rock outfit Cerberus & The Purple-Headed Bishop, Sir Stan Aroused, decreed that England should get two more goes at qualifying for the knockout rounds. Such a move was almost certainly unprecedented. This appalling decision has never been revealed ... until now.

So England made the quarter-finals after all, where they would play the fearsome Argentina. Knowing his side had had a lucky escape, Ramsey disappeared for a couple of days to contemplate how to proceed. He returned with two boffo ideas. Firstly, the undroppable striker Jim Greavsie would strike no more, his place to be taken by Paul Warhurst, a defender who had never before strucken. (Greavsie was inconsolable, but found comfort in the arms of Ian St. Greavsie, with whom he would go on to form powerhouse Vegas magic duo Greavsie & St. Greavsie.) Idea number two was to talk up the Argentines' brutality and then knock it down like a piddling skittle. After the anthems, he raced towards the Argentine players screaming "COMEANDGETMEYOUHORRIBLEANIMALSI'LLTAKEYOUALLONIDON'TCRRRNNGNGAANGRNG", and as he slid into incoherence, he attempted to rip the striped jerseys from the player's' backs until restrained by the tournament mascot, a lion-shaped genital called the World Cup Willy. Thus inventing mind games, Lord Ramsey inspired his team to a magical 1-0 win during which no England player committed any fouls whatsoever.

Inevitably, England lost the semi-final on penalties to the Germans. Yet when the draw was made for the the final, England were yet again paired with the Germans. No one quite knows what went on closed doors to bring this about, although the FIFA are naturally suspected. This is thought to have been one of the causes of the Falklands War.

Little is known about what happened in that final. Only two pieces of footage survive. One shows a failed attempt on goal by Warhurst; the other has Warhurst striking the ball into the goal, although it was presumably disallowed owing to the pack of rioters by then streaming from the stands onto the field. What is known, however, is that Stanislaus Carter's winner gave England the World Cup Winner's Trophy as World Cup Winner's Trophy winners, their status never to be challenged again.

And there Lord Ramsey should have left it. However, driven by a lust for glory, he had his eye on the ultimate prize: the 1967 Home Internationals. But on the eve of the Scotland game, Scottish paper the Daily Wrecker published a revelating devastation. Under the headline WINGLES WONDERS, they claimed that Ramsey had gotten most of his ideas about managing from one Spencival Wingles, a self-styled spiritual guru who lived as a tax exile in the sky above Rowton, Shropshire. Mr. Wingles claimed to commune with the ancients through a gnome called Eric who was visible only to him. He also believed that anyone who was unkind to him would be reincarnated as a big baldy twazzock. The Wrecker alleged that far from being the management genius of newly-minted legend, Lord Ramsey had actually received his tactical ideas for the Argentina game from 6th-century theologian Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, as relayed to Wingles via a gnome Ramsey couldn't see who seemed to say things like "gottle a geer" and "grok at gas'ard Greezy" a lot.

Ridiculed and demoralised, England succumbed meekly to the Scots. The Tartan Army occupied Wembley and refused to leave until the Queen brought them some scones, although when they got home they discovered them to be made of stone. Lord Ramsey was immediately hounded out of office seven years later.

In 1977, The Clash released a song, "1977", about 1977, the year of the song's release, 1977, in which they sang of how everything in 1977, the then-current year, was rubbish. In it, they counted backwards from the eponymous year, 1977, until they got to 1966, at which point the song came to a dead halt. Critics agreed that it was probably highly symbolic of something.

Fredorrarcihttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-13475178237296324322015-10-13T16:52:00.000+01:002015-10-13T18:19:42.620+01:00Dropping a Poetry CornerSinking through the archives for the forthcoming opening of the Fredorrarcian Library, I noticed some orphaned jottings that have never found a home in any of the nonsense blebbed out here- or otherabouts. To save them going horribly to waste, I present them here in the form of what might incorrectly be called a poem. It's an impressionistic impression of how a lot of the American sports media appears filtered through thousands of miles. Or it's an example of staring too long at something and seeing patterns that don't exist. Only God can judge me. By the way, the title nods Manicward. (Funnily enough, the US mix of that song is the better one...)

*
Ifamericansportswritingstoppedusingthewordlegacyforonedayit'sworldwouldfallapart

even if you make it through
the selection committee speculation
a broad side of broadsides
impossible feats of athletic prowess
a pundit looking right down the camera
"Coach" for life
BRING BACK FRESHMAN INELIGIBILITY SAY BIG BAD MOTHERFUCKERS
quickness if not speed
Skip-To-My-Lobotomy Bayless
"I'll tell you the unwritten law, you dumb son of a bitch"
that video of the guy trying to finish an alleyoop
 and getting his head wedged in between the rim and the backboard
the timeout in the age of anxiety
shaking off that brain damage
rivers of numerals
a bat flip
a bat-flip tut
a power rankings

you can't escape the grave:

what does that seventh overthrow mean for Peyton Manning's
legacy?
does this suspension destroy the nineteen-year-old sophomore's
legacy?
how does my scorching take on something LeBron said affect his
legacy?
I seem to have landed awkwardly and broken my
leg
 acyFredorrarcihttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-27396219719849423512015-06-11T20:03:00.000+01:002015-06-11T20:19:29.703+01:00Penelope shootout
In which Ireland playing a crucial qualifier so close to Bloomsday does odd things to the head

No because I never did a thing like that before as head down the pub to watch the game since the Germany one a few years ago the six one I mean no the one one wouldve been grand pleasant probably couldnt complain much no the stench of whingeing during the six one was noxious gets up a momentum a mind of its own one fella starts then another and another and didnt I join in at first but two hours or more of that Jesus wept bealin it had me head in the end Im not superstitious no theres enough misery out in this country as it is best keep it confined have a routine I watched the Cameroon game with three others the Germany game with two and better it got you see the Saudi game with one and the Spain game on me own and I couldnt even watch the pennos you have to be committed I dont know though how much does it matter anymore do you feel anything off this team anymore really sure lets go I suppose the tellyll be turned down that should put a bit of distance plausible deniability of the heart as yer one sang look at them there at the bar all shiting away about nothing its into their pints they may as well be talking into their scoops through their hoops  isnt it well for them they have something to pass the hours all the same the boys on the panel Lord help us cant hear them thank God no do you need the gloom the drooooooooooooooone of the national treasures going honesty of effort this and Aidan O'Brien that and Chippy being chippy might be a fight between him and Sadlier though thatd be worth watching even with the sound turned low youd get the gist crap the teams I havent seen the teams theres the Scotland one there to be honest I cant tell the Scots apart these days theyre no better than us no jinkin Jimmy thats for sure though we got their amblin Aiden in fairness our amblin Aiden I should say theyre showing clips from the last game at Celtic Park would you look at them all them and us running around like thick dogs over a manky oul bone itll be the same today unless they spent big in the transfer market this morning or something last game of the season by rights every player should drop half dead on the final whistle all the slagging we used to take about the granny rule and what part of Ireland do the O'Cascareens come from he said I declare to God weve been exporting our best the whole time theres your man Maloney there and theres Rooney and Cahill and that American lad with the steel face and ah heres our lineup wait for it wait for it wait for it no no Wes no Wes would you be surprised but its disappointing at the same time wait till you see hell come on and save us and the interviewer will be saying oh what an inspired substitution Martin give me strength sounds gone up now on the telly no control over the remote thats another disadvantage havent we a grand anthem mightnt persuade you to kill anyone necessarily but youd at least give an arms smuggler some supper and a bed to hide under for the night the craic we had the day we died for Iiiirrrreland I hate this feeling when theyre all in position ready to get going like staring into the void and yet if you could bottle it Id spray some around the place once a day here we go here goes nothing literally probably if this becomes an embarrassment I wonder can O'Brien take out an injunction to stop anyone talking about it go on Shaney chase it no hard luck Jaysus head down already Shane cop on now it wasnt a foul youll be a grand player when youre old enough to vote Strachan reminds me of that oul one who used to sit on the steps outside the flat beside Boylesports and challenge everyone coming out to a fight its dragging already this oof thats a hefty one book the fucker ref ref come on och he thinks hes in the Premier League no yellow cards in the first twenty minutes without a broken leg as proof great ref great now youve turned on the tap now itll be bumper cars from now on you know what this game needs Wes I hear a voice on the breeze of a Guinness burp saying yer man only said to him I hope your bollocks get clamped yeh rotten fuck yeh and the ref picks up the ball and walks off going on about his human rights or something called the game off so he did its ridiculous sure you need to be able to talk to the ref I dont know whats going on political correctness probably shit shit Given was nowhere we got away with one there why is he still here can we never escape our past in this country him and Keane and O'Shea God forgive me but theyd all remind you of the glory days of drawing with Switzerland apparently Westwood had a great season with whos this hes with these days in fairness to the ref he hasnt an ounce of fat on him but sure you never see a fat ref these days not even in the League of Ireland maybe we all take this game too seriously thats it Shayser wave them upfield thatll work would you get out of that Scott Brown at one point I think I was the only one in the ground clapping I thought it was a nice bit of skill meself worth encouraging the lad I took it as a mark of sophistication on my part but its a thin line sometimes ah McGeady what are you waiting for are you waiting for them all to get back so you can do a head count or whats the story theres Wes warming up like a tiny fawn bounding merrily across a meadow while the doe looks on and ah here how do people be coming up with images like that theres no fawns around here and whats a meadow only a got up field the best you might get is a calf falling over into a cowpat or something the notions people have sometimes member the time the League prize money went up five million all of a sudden no exactly yer man theres having chips Im hungry now that I think of it but I cant not during the game hsssssssssssssss O the sizzle of vinegar on hot chip it carries the smell of malt and salt salt and malt Gary Mackay was standing outside his hair blowing in the North Channel wind or was he baldy looking it was a few years ago now youd nearly forget fellas like him might have to take the Cairnryan ferry too like normal people like I once saw that fella Chico from was it Popstars or Pop Idol in Golden Discs I think he was about to do an instore but I was heading off anyway there was Mackay I didnt want to go up to him you dont want to disturb people he probably cant walk down the street without some Irish bowsie coming up to him but there he was and there I was and I called out Gaaaarrrryyyy I did it before I thought of it and again Gaaaarrrryyyy but he didnt hear me Gaaaarrrryyyy I was the only one to recognise him I had chips that day too no cant be eating them now and a game on dont know how you could you might miss something and the stomach wouldnt take it anyway suppose when the yanks take over FIFA and send Haliborange in to run it and make it all compulsory hotdogs and all those feckin timeouts how many pitching changes do you really need get rid of the coaches and managers from the game from all the games let the players play itd make sport better at a stroke ah Brady where are you where are you you cant leave O'Shea to deal with ah shite shite no theres the ball in our fucking goal it makes you sick just before half time worst time to concede a goal or is it the best I cant remember theres this oul goat of a fella at the bar and he starts on would you look at them there he says all kissing and cuddling notorious sodomite race the Scotch and the men all in skirts theyve been letting the gays get married this donkeys and look at them now thatll be Ireland soon enough may the Lord have mercy on me and take me to His side ere I see the day and everyones just sort of ignoring him because do you tell him hes lost the war or do you let him figure it out himself like those Japanese soldiers in the Malay jungle no wouldnt it be great to score a goal away from home nothing but the sound of your own supporters at one end or one wee corner of the ground even and the silence all around of everyone hating your guts theres the whistle forty five minutes closer to the grave me bladders full enough but Ill hold off and let the early pissers go ahead of me avoid the rush Delaneys neck is thicker than Barry Bonds they should bring out a book the Wit and Wisdom of Scaldy Delaney Going Forward surprised he hasnt done it himself following on from the words of my esteemed colleagues I would like to propose that the outgoing board be reelected en bloc if we dont get something from this game were focáilte thats all I know still if Gary Mackay taught us anything its that theres always hope okay so off I go for a slash Jesus arse fucking shitehawks the bang off these jacks like being punched to the back of your throat no fucking fuck shit no youd think theyd invent a gents that didnt smell like Satans arsewipers cursèd discharge no compo cultures a myth if these cunts havent been sued no God no it makes the air in the bar seem like pure oxygen such relief no remind me to hold it in if Ive to go again after the match weve the hope of the hopeless anyway a punchers chance if we can figure out how to punch who turned it on to RTE One has someone sat on the remote or have they actually switched it for the Angelus fecks sake they justify keeping it by saying that if youre of the atheist persuasion you can stop for a minute and solemnly contemplate what trawlers or someone drawing a picture on the footpath with chalk or I dont know what but sure howre you meant to solemnly contemplate anything with a bloody great bell ringing in your feckin ear eighteen times in a minute theyve switched it thanks be to God off we go again is that Wes ha ha no of course not I love the sound of bells though when you hear them rung properly melodic like it reminds me of my childhood when youd hear those beautiful bells in Gibraltar because youd be across the street from the old church and twice a day theyd ring them for no reason at all it seemed to me except the beauty of the music as it hung in the still summer air and spread its warmth across the whole town it was enough to make a believer out of many a heathen Im sure of it that was before the Gibraltar was turned from a chipper into a Chinese and the name was changed of course crash bang wallop whoops you had your thumb over the lens ah well this game has all the flair and finesse of an Ulster championship match and all the joy and relevance of a Leinster championship match what times The Sunday Game on oh wait its Saturday bring on Hoolahan someone shouts at the telly cos its not only me you see and that goat pipes up again Hoolahan sure whats he gonna do I said it back when he played for Pats that he was overrated and I say it again now buck useless thats what he is and yer man three fellas down from him says Pats sure Hoolahan never played for Pats and the goat says I mean eh well you see that was the name of the youth team he played for as a youth you know and yer man three fellas down says I thought he was with Belvedere and the goat says I eh yeah he was but the name of the fella who was over the team his name was Pat so everyone used to just call them Pats if you were talking to anyone who was in the schoolboys scene and you said Pats they knew who you were talking about yeah you wouldnt know and you thinking it means that chicken league shite Im telling you Hoolahan was useless from the very start the very start he couldnt pass the salt and he couldnt trap a snail useless altogether and yer man three fellas down says sure my das from round the corner from Belvederes pitch he might know this Pat whats his surname and the goat goes ah he wouldnt know him hes eh dead so he is died young and all terrible so it was and yer man three fellas down goes ah go on just tell us what was his surname and the goat says his name was Pat Pat Mac Mackattack McIntaggart yes Pat McIntaggart that was his name Pat McIntaggart God rest his soul and yer man three fellas down says Pat McIntaggart must ask da in that case and yer man four fellas down goes was the manager of the next age group up called Kevin by any chance and the goat says I cant remember and this other fella giggles and I swear the goats face turns as red as youve ever seen a face turn well in fairness it was red already probably permanently like that with the drink and the choler but now I swear to God its gone totally Johansson I wonder do footballers actually go to the opticians or does a fella come over to their gaff the fuck referee come on youve been letting Brown away with murder literally I dont think Ive seen Long since Brown dealt with him that time come on Walters get in there and tell him whats what or what are you there for you feckin Tory bollix might waken up the crowd all the same it sounds as dead as Mass there I dont know how you can really get into a game if youre at the ground or the stadium I do beg its pardon and you sitting down UEFA fine me hole Ill stand if I want to and Ill tell you something else they can send me a bill for my share and Ill send back a bit of card with 30c in the form of a twenty and a ten taped to it and away and shite written on it in all the living languages of Europe and ancient Sanskrit just to be sure its not sitting down the supporters will be wanting to do its lying down a sleeping bag and a reclining seat its the least they deserve this team seems so distant from you sometimes though theyre all so tentative prepare to stop stop to prepare theyre so nice you wish at least that if they arent going to play football they might have some horrible bastard thuggery in them no here we are with the hoofing again I wish McCarthy would run back there push the oulfla over and take the ball off him and start passing wouldnt it be gas a watershed the dawn of a new era the subject of future song and documentary dont get me started on Keane and Overmars sure didnt Overmars make Kelly cry that day they shouldve had ten good times though good times a million years ago now and you wouldnt go back to the Trap days at least these days we know were crap and theres no codding best to be sure youre going to fail in advance if youve read this far fair fucks to you oh here we go now here comes Wes go on Robbie off you get why am I nervous all of a sudden maybe it wouldve been better if he hadna come on so I could say afterwards we need to play Wes more I mean it worked for me during the Trap years at least I can say if only wed started him aye that covers all bases will we ever move on at all all this Italia 90 nostalgia just comes back in endless waves and the tide is high again the games about being effective being aggressive winning the ball getting on with the play youd think people wouldve gotten over it with the tenth anniversary or the seventeenth or the big two three and the thing is you groan when you see it because its all been said before weve seen all the footage we can recite Hamilton better than Heaney we know the story of every single bleeder who was over there but still the nation holds its breath it was true so true was there ever a time when the whole lot of us were doing the same thing at the same time and us not killing each other no we were all exhaling together and it was like a giant explosion of just just glee as pure as youll ever get it and it was everyones first time at the same time and no one had a fucking clue what to do so they just turned into three and a half million eegits vinceròòòòòòòòòò and youll never get that again unless we dont qualify for another couple of generations or if we do dont even think it if we do a dont dont if we do a Greece slash Denmark no fat chance but the football the grand slam Sonia Dennis Taylor Katie Taylor McGuigan Carruth Delany no relation different spelling sure Waterford Crystal who was framed Chippy God bless him though Royston too ah go on God love him Thin Lizzy on Top of the Pops Dave Allen just to shine something of ourselves out to the world and to see a glint of a reflection back heaven is Houghtons lob dropping over Pagliuca forever that fella who tried to tell me Dublins some great global hub of this thing or that thing he made me laugh no Ireland is to the world as I dont know Ballina is to Ireland its the young people I feel sorry for listening to the rest of us bang on about the olden days as if they can never feel what we felt of course they can if we can actually get our acts together but sure were still a goal down no wonder theyre all emigrating no Ill say this much were world beaters when were in a panic theres hardly a team that can live with us when were completely fucking desperate how can we get them feeling this way all the time remember that dream where I was doing my Leaving and I realise I havent studied one jot of whatever the subject is and I think well this is a bit of a pickle and then it occurs to me sure I did my Leaving years ago so I just say fuck the Leaving Cert to meself and walk out the room fuck the Leaving Cert why are those lads looking at me shit did I say fuck the Leaving Cert out loud and then Wes makes the most of a bad pass and look at him go past one past another hes beaten fourteen if hes beaten one the Bill McKaig of the greensward Wes how much youd want to be him right now if your nerves could take it and then he plays the most perfect through ball a winger has ever been given Wes and McGeady crosses first time first time I swear and theres Shane rising like a Tipperary salmon do they have salmon in Tipp theyre bound to Wes and its a cracker of a header but the keeper stretches and tips it away probably not even with his fingertip but the the tip of the finger of the glove and the chance is gone its all over but whos that running in its only Wesley Hoolahan of Norwich City and the Republic of Ireland and he strikes it softly enough that keeper thinks he has a chance but he never has and its there in the net in the Scotland net Wes and I thought well as well them as another and the whole place is gone mad Wes everyones leppin around like I dont know what Wes and that oul goat of a fella he put his arms around me Wes and drew me down to him so I could feel his breasts all the whiff of stout Wes and his heart was going like mad and Wes he said Wes I will Wes.

Prediction: Ireland 1-1 Scotland

-
Image by Viewminder on Flickr (Creative Commons licence)Fredorrarcihttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-82344840336685694082015-05-21T19:32:00.000+01:002015-05-21T19:33:57.695+01:00Goal by Galeano

Football has many histories. For the recently deceased Eduardo Galeano, the history of football was "a sad voyage from beauty to duty". His book Football in Sun and Shadow is a lament for a game adrift.

In Sun and Shadow, the physical pleasure in playing the game is its very core. It's where true joy and freedom are to be found — "that crazy feeling that for a moment turns a man into a child playing with a balloon, like a cat with a ball of yarn". (The translation from the original Spanish is by Mark Fried.) And if you're not so good at playing, you can still feel the sympathetic resonance of a fellow unit of your species performing physical feats the urge to perform which lies deep within you yourself, grateful for a surrogate through which it can actually be expressed in flesh, bone and air.

In its parade of vignettes celebrating the enactment of this feeling throughout football's history, Sun and Shadow is shot through with nostalgia. The only stories more vivid than those that date from Galeano's youth (he was born in 1940) are those that date from before his time and passed through the hands of many master embroiderers before reaching his. Or perhaps they were distillers, boiling away the unwanted until a pure essence remained. The stories capture an innocence that diminishes from childhood until in adulthood it only occasionally flickers in the gloaming. It's a loss of innocence mirrored in football itself. The further it's pulled from that pure motive, the worse it gets. "Professional football," writes Galeano, "does everything to castrate that energy of happiness".

My own view on football, bless you for asking, is not so purist. There exists a duality aside from that of sun and shadow. One part of it is that instinct for play and the deeper-than-vicarious connection between the player and the spectator. The other is a collision of impulses and desires that one might call (with apologies to Bertie Wooster) serious purpose: a desire to fight and be fought, to confront failure and try to escape intact, to feel fear and anxiety so that relief may be pursued; individuals trying to find their way in a society; societies trying to find their way within a larger society; violence as the game's tell-tale heart. It stirs and awakens pride and other sinful virtues. Like any human endeavour that holds people's interest for more than a moment, this serious purpose exerts a tenacious pull. More than that: it's something people seek. Some people, anyway. It is as fundamental to the game as the weightless arc of a chip.

JB Priestley put this duality as "Conflict and Art". Arthur Hopcraft saw in football "conflict and beauty", the "art" being a product of the combination of the two. Whatever the terminology, football is such an apt medium for expressing the two sides that any attempt to account for the feeling of football must reckon with both. They may often be in opposition, but they also complement each other. One person's moment of sheer delight leaves another on his arse. Either way, they tumble on together, inseparable. Galeano's vision of a paradise lost renders one an agent of the dilution of the other and sometimes makes Sun and Shadow seem like an engine steaming down the railway of declinism, as quick and banal as Parkinson on Football.

Although it's simplistic to say the football industry kills joy, it is a harbour for those inclined to take serious purpose to a very serious level indeed. Those who operate on that level do a good job arguing that football is about either winning, finding ways to win, or naively wasting your time. It makes those successful at navigating the game's waters look better if they can amp up the choppiness in recounting the tales of their voyage. (The really dedicated invest in a good, realistic wave machine.)

The opposite of this kind of anxiety is probably contentment, but for some reason, contentment doesn't sit well with football. Lacks toughness, no doubt. So in a game on which a worldview of convulsion and flak-dodging settles heavily and isn't easily shifted, the view presented by Galeano is crucial. It's about moments of elation that arrive unexpectedly and can blow away like a feather. It's a view that needs tending and guarding. It needs to be continually proved, lest it be seen as just a lapse from a default sense of solemn gravity. In stacking these moments high — in creating a fiction — Galeano shows that the paramountcy of serious serious purpose is just a consensus. Football is made up of too many strands for one to be pulled out and held up as the golden thread.

Curse, you bastards, my cold concrete heart poured somewhere off the north coast of the north (and bless the Uruguayan Galeano's ability to turn on their sides the histories that proud European fools write for each other) but football has never existed the way Galeano dreamt it, and if it did, it would disintegrate and disappear into the blue sky. But Galeano's dreams are beautiful, and the history of football they tell is as essential to the overall story as South America itself. Whether Football in Sun and Shadow the best football book is an open question. (My vote would go to my forthcoming volume Are You Sure It's No Thicker Than Five Inches?: A Compendium Of Humorous Pitch-Marking Anecdotes.) But it might be the one that most needed to be written.
Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-18082265023365882132015-04-24T16:53:00.001+01:002015-04-24T16:53:46.871+01:00McIlvanney on Best
A film on George Best from 1970, written and narrated by Hugh McIlvanney. It contains this quote from Best:

I know players that try to hurt me. I've even heard trainers from the bench shouting 'Break the bastard's legs' ... They say afterwards that it's during the game, they didn't really mean it. But when they said it, they meant it. It makes me feel the only way to get back at them is to make them feel so inferior that they'll never want to play another game of football again in their lives.
Uploaded to YouTube by Seb PatrickFredorrarcihttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-39728385279328177742015-03-17T17:13:00.000+00:002015-03-17T17:13:55.134+00:00Trust
Footballers: you can't trust a bastard of 'em. Give them a ball and a yard of grass and they might well do something so extraordinary that you won't quite know what it is — but they probably won't. They'll probably fail to do even the ordinary. (Amongst other things, natch,) a game is a litany of failures: earnest attempts to perform those simple and difficult acts that everything complex and easy-looking depends on, not coming off. The spectator's hopes are repeatedly raised, giving rise to a basic constant apprehension. Even a really good player, someone who will be tremendously dear to you in a few minutes' time if he does something exceptional, as he may have been many times thitherto — even he's likely to screw this up and ruin it for you. If you know you might react to his endeavours with anything from a brush of regret to a sincere cursing of his bloody inept excuse for an immortal soul, it's hard to let him do his thing without at least a ventricle being in your mouth.

Sometimes, though, a player is far better than he actually needs to be, and your (your?) privileged position as the spectator who knows what should happen next; the idea that this is a hell-sent obstacle to your contentment rather than a craftsperson possessed of an expertise that really is beyond the last confused and embarrassed mutterings of your ken — that shite no longer applies. You're not going to succeed in second-guessing the really good stuff. There comes a stage when the only thing to do is to let a player be with no interfering from that poor forsaken heartlet of yours. When Sergio Agüero set off for the Bayern Munich goal, you had to trust him to take you wherever he was going. And if you didn't get it the first time, he repeated it for you a few minutes later. He's nice like that, so he is.

Watching Mesut Özil demands this trust. The typical Özil pass looks like it's been played too gently to reach its destination on time, but turns out to have the perfect weight; it makes every other player's passes look off, over-eager to be correct. He floats between positions no else can see. He creates passing angles that briefly seem like they can't be feasible, and yet.

Özil's game is full of personality, but has no charisma. It has no interest in selling itself — it just is. It says the most amazing things, but at such a low volume that you have to lean in to hear.

But a big fat transfer fee precedes him wherever he goes and barks a hype-crammed announcement of his greatness. It gives off notions. For that sort of outgoing, shouldn't he be more ... well, outgoing? Shouldn't he personally greet each supporter with a smile and a quip as they walk in? Why is he so reticent? Why is he playing that way? What's he hiding?

Alexis Sánchez can play badly (as he has done quite a bit lately) and still get a brilliant report from Generic Co-Commentator because of his workrate. Özil can play well and still get convicted on the evidence of his body language. Even television's Mr. Analysis, Gary Neville, can't help spiralling downward in his assessment of Özil before touching down on the feeling that he just doesn't look right.

Early on against West Ham at the weekend, Theo Walcott was put through on goal, and instead of shooting first time, he waited for something or other and was tackled. In the second half, Özil was put through on goal, inside the penalty area and outside the left-hand post. It looked like he was lining up to shoot, availing fully of the couple of minutes' worth of space he had. Instead, he played a high pass across the goal, and the chance was lost. It would have been the most Özil move ever had the pass been any good. After Walcott, I struck the furniture. After Özil, I laughed. That's our Meslington.

-
Image by MiikaS on Flickr (Creative Commons)Fredorrarcihttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-28033367859127998822014-08-30T19:57:00.000+01:002014-08-30T19:57:41.055+01:00Gaelscoil jokeGafa le MataFredorrarcihttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-46722867123436578302013-10-25T17:04:00.000+01:002013-10-25T17:04:06.944+01:00Keeping It Peel

For Keeping It Peel Day, in honour of the Word spread by the Rev. John, thanks to the unique way the BBC is funded (ta, the British!), we present a special mix. Every second of every last track has been lovingly, tenderly, gorgeously hand-picked from the archive of sessions performed for Peel's programmes, spanning [counts] thirty-four years of broadcasting excellence? Bloody hell, even if we do say so ourselves. Our dedicated team of expert music-listening technicians has curated this unique blend especially for your aural delight and, possibly, oral ensquealment. (Side effects may vary. By reading this, you waive all statutory rights.) And because we have total faith in the quality of our product, we believe in being completely transparent with you, our trusted client, about the ingredients that have gone into this unique, one-off, unique, special and unique one-time unique podcast, including the date each was recorded:

(0:00) Ivor Cutler, "Life in a Scotch Sitting Room, Volume II, Episode 10" (15/7/1985)

(0:35) The Delgados, "Last Rose of Summer" (16/10/2002)

(3:25) Dawn of the Replicants, "Windy Miller" (28/4/1998)

(6:01) David Bowie, "Moonage Daydream" (23/5/1972)

(10:52) Supergrass, "Pumping on Your Stereo" (23/7/1999)

(14:02) Dick Dale, "Surf Trip" (28/8/2002)

(16:47) Bhundu Boys, "Ndoita Sei" (17/1/1987)

(21:27) Dexys Midnight Runners, "Tell Me When My Light Turns Green" (26/2/1980)

(24:38) The Fall, "He Pep!" (7/12/1995)

(28:44) Public Image Ltd., "Poptones" (10/12/1979)

(33:12) The Auteurs, "Buddha" (20/2/1996)

(37:29) Eric Bogosian, "The Coming Depression" (10/8/1983)

(39:17) Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band, "Give Booze A Chance" (5/5/1968)

(41:51) Super Furry Animals, "Fragile Happiness" (12/7/2001)

(44:10) Boards of Canada, "Olson (Version 3)" (16/6/1998)

(46:32) Half Man Half Biscuit, "Song for the Siren" / "Vatican Broadside" (3/9/2002)

(49:36) Young Marble Giants, "N.I.T.A." (18/8/1980)

The mix is 53 minutes long, and will take up no more than 49 of your hard-earned megabytes should, as we hope, you choose to load it down (or "download" it) to your digital datum storage unit. Sound quality varies because of the nature of these things and because what do we look like, some kind of professional Audacity users or something, geddouttahere.

Listen. Enjoy. Treasure. And sing along! The singer out of Slipknot went to Rome to see the Pope, everybody!, the singer out of Slipknot...

Visit the Keeping It Peel site for more Peel-related wondrousness from around the web.

Fredorrarcihttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-82605327163060671212012-10-16T15:55:00.000+01:002012-10-16T17:08:54.555+01:00Trapattoni's team talks: Germany and the Faroe Islands

(The above in words here.)Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-12651325508233460382012-08-24T19:30:00.000+01:002012-08-24T19:30:02.330+01:00The Normanthology may or may not save your lifeNews for you, darlings. Those of you who have hung around hereabouts since days of yore, God love you, will remember that I occasionally contibuted to Norman Einstein's, a monthly online sports magazine. It went for 21 issues, and it was bloody good. Now, the editor, Cian O'Day, has picked some of the best pieces and arranged them in book form. There's something of mine in there, but if that doesn't put you off, please consider giving something to the Normanthology's Kickstarter drive. $10 will get you a copy of the book; more dollars will get you more stuff. Give $150 and I will write that article of mine on Venezuelan winter league baseball you've fantasised about for so long.

Some of the Einstein's crew can be found at Steven Lebron talking about the book and the site and whatnot. Cian and Einstein's contributor Graydon Gordian do likewise with David Roth at that Classical.

You have two weeks to give give give — even less if you're reading this after I write it. We'll be forever grateful if you do, and you'll be one great book to the good. Go raibh míle!Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-60281518223320553812012-07-26T15:55:00.000+01:002012-07-26T21:43:36.708+01:00John the Baptist knows the score<object height="94" width="422"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE5MjAwNzA4IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE5MjAwNzA4LTc1MCI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzNDMzMTEyNTU7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="94" width="422" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE5MjAwNzA4IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE5MjAwNzA4LTc1MCI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzNDMzMTEyNTU7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

Something new from me at The Classical. It's a companion to this. Both were basically inspired by the fact that the imminent departure of my favourite player from Arsenal doesn't overly bother me. This is a sign of either my growing maturity, my conquering of optimism, or the faint possibility that [BENDTNER JOKE].

Above is a song by Laughing Clowns to accompany your reading. What if football clubs split up like bands do?

In other news, here's a nice bit of video in which Nigel Half Man Half Biscuit and Geoff Probe talk about John Peel.Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-62807226991450359772012-06-30T18:06:00.000+01:002012-06-30T18:06:28.919+01:00Sport good, says Partridge

So what had happened to me? How had I gone from the cossetted glamour of Our Price radio to the snarling, balls-out toughness of sports reporting? Well, I'd always been a keen sports fan. It seemed to me that the world of sport – with its reliance on stats, facts, trivia and rules – provided modern man with certainty and structure. Just as a well-fitting jockstrap cups the cock and balls of a sportsman, so sport cradled me. You know where you are with sport. It's good.

And it's all so logical. Watch a play by Shakespeare or go to a modern art gallery, and no one has the faintest idea what the hell is going on.

Take Shakespeare. Not a play goes by without one character whispering something about another character that is clearly audible to that character. By virtue of the fact it has to be loud enough for the audience to hear it, it's inconceivable that it can't also be heard by the character in question. It's such an established technique in Shakespeare's canon people just think no one will notice. Well I've got news for you – this guy did.

Sport, on the other hand, is straightforward. In badminton, if you win a rally, you get one point. In volleyball, if you win a rally, you get one point. In tennis, if you win a rally, you get 15 points for the first or second rallies you've won in that game, or 10 for the third, with an indeterminate amount assigned to the fourth rally other than the knowledge that the game is won, providing one player is two 10-point (or 15-point) segments clear of his opponent. It's clear and simple.
Alan Partridge there, from his second volume of autobiography, I, Partridge: We Need to Talk About Alan.

For other views on what sport is and what you get out of it, you should read this by Richard Whittall and this by Terry Duffelen. You could even read this by me. If you want. You don't have to, like. Just, it's there, is all I'm saying.
Fredorrarcihttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-59887945445515604722012-06-27T16:58:00.000+01:002012-06-27T16:58:31.608+01:00Bonus batter<object width="480" height="360"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/6sJ9fvbnI8k?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/6sJ9fvbnI8k?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="480" height="360" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>
Oh, hey there. From the looks of you — your eyes weighed down with hope betrayed, your face deadened by months of uncaring and ceaseless weather, your split ends really acting up — it seems that you have been waiting here like a dog lying by his master's grave, his ever-dimming yearning for said m. to reappear forming an ever-weakening web of love keeping his heart from sinking past its terminal point, somewhere between six feet under and Hell itself.

But what's this you see? What's making your eyelids audibly creak open, your tail wag so furiously it might send you into orbit? Could it be...

No. I'm not really here. I'm afraid that if you're that keen to look on my works and, who knows, maybe despair a little, you'll have to go to The Classical, which is where you'll find (amongst other delights) a piece of mine on Spain in their Imperial Phase. In it, I touched upon the "are Spain, like, actually dead boring? And stuff?" argument that has gone on for ... well, a couple of years now, but especially strongly since their win in their Euro 2012 quarter-final against France's formation genuflection team. But it's crying out to be touched upon even more, so here are my thoughts on the subj. Apologies in advance for using forty-nine words where fifty would do. Good dog.

*
People are entitled to their boredom. Some less lovely than me might say that being offended by how boring a game is is like sitting out in the rain for an hour and a half and raging against the disgraceful water cycle. But hey, sometimes complaining is fun. And I don't think those who found themselves in the warm embrace of tedium on Saturday were necessarily being contrary. I'm inclined to give people the benefit of whatever doubt there may be in such things, and assume that these feelings are sincere.

Naturally, it's easier to do that when you have some sympathy for them. For my part, I did find the game a bit on the leadránach side. In fact, most of the time that I watch Spain, I find myself having to admire what they do more than being thrilled by it.

Now, there's an odd strain of criticism about Spain and Barcelona** that they are somehow meek, airbrushed, "frictionless", when in truth, they are badass to the core. It's one thing having the technical ability to play their kind of possession football. It's another to actually do it, and do it so comprehensively that it becomes you, and not just dominates the match itself but invades your opponents' dreams beforehand. Its practitioners may be self-confident to the point of self-righteousness, but they haven't just happened upon their superiority; there weren't born with it. And their style may seem dainty at times, but it's mean as hell. They may have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but they have the heart and the stomach of a concrete elephant.

(**Yes, no, Spain ≠ Barcelona, but there's an undeniable overlap both in the teams' respective styles and the criticism — positive and negative — of those styles.)

The trouble, so to speak, is that they can deal so easily with teams who play them almost entirely reactively. Which is most teams. They won a World Cup by dealing with that sort of thing time after time. They don't even flinch anymore. So unless a team is willing to dare (as Italy were in the opening Group C game), you pretty much know what the outcome is going to be**. All you can do is appreciate what Spain are doing. You won't be falling to your knees thanking the god you don't even believe in for what you have just witnessed. So there's no tension. And I love me some tension.

(**See? Badasssss.)

But there are two points to make here.

Firstly, it takes two to tango, and it's no good when one partner lets their body go limp. Of course, Spain are always going to dictate terms to a great extent, but some teams who should know better (les enfants de la patrie amongst them, I'd say) make it too easy for them. If Spain games are boring, their opponents are complicit. Grumbling about how boring Spain were while ignoring the other lot is weird.

Secondly, when Spain do take wing, it is incredible. Infuckingcredible. I'm willing to sit through (almost?) any amount of eleven-man, full-size-pitch rondo because I know that if I wait long enough, something mad will happen that you'd think you'd have seen coming given that you've seen it so often before, but somehow never do. And besides, even if it doesn't happen, there's always Andrés Iniesta and David Sliva to watch. That's some consolation prize.

But then, I love that kind of football. Not everybody does, nor is it compulsory for them to do so, nor does a failure (probably not the right word) to do so indicate some lower status of football love. As if that's the point, anyway: fans aren't, or shouldn't be, in competition with one another. I would find it strange if anyone with a feel for the game doesn't at least appreciate the greatness of what Spain do, but if you don't love it, you don't love it, and that's fine. Those of us who do love it should do those who don't the courtesy of not presuming them to be deficient.

But so too should those who don't get it do everyone else the courtesy of not parading their boredom as if they've uncovered a conspiracy. It may be frustrating to hear people bang on how great Spain are and how if you don't like them, you don't like football, and similar guff. That doesn't mean you have to take them at face value. Which is often the problem with debates like these. We're really talking about matters of the heart, but discussing them as if they were completely rational. So when someone strikes a blow against what we feel on such matters, we're apt to take it personally. God knows that's true when it come to football. In the glossary of the first FreeDarko book, soccer is described as "a sport [...] whose cult of style puts the NBA's to shame". That seems about right. As I say in the piece, if something bores you, then to you, it's boring. If it doesn't, then it's not. "Everyone thinks they have the prettiest wife at home," Arsène Wenger once said. Arguing over whose is the prettiest might be even fun, for a while.Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-16249381334059261962011-12-10T00:54:00.003+00:002011-12-10T03:05:04.228+00:00Parish newsletter<object width="515" height="379"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/bytoID_SNnE?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/bytoID_SNnE?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="515" height="379" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>

Two quick bursts of info before we lose our breath and look plaintively in the direction of the subs warming up by the touchline:

The Classical is live. See my piece on the clash between José Mourinho's josemourinhoness and Real Madrid and Barcelona's realmadridandbarcelonaness, SIATVS contributor Elliott Futfanatico's article on how José Mourinho and Pep Guardiola manipulate their respective clubs in order to secure their status (his take on Guardiola is particularly perceptive), and a whole bunch of other lovely stuff we've been putting together since November.

The Supermassivoclásico is not the only big game this weekend, no sir. A bunch of gamers from Cork will be trying to set a world record by playing FIFA 12 for 2,012 minutes (that's over 33 hours, time fans). In doing so, Fi-Fa-4-Fun hope to raise €2,012 for Children in Hospital Ireland, a charity dedicated to making life easier for sick children and their parents by organising play sessions, advocating for their welfare, and doing lots of other good stuff. You'll be able to watch the lads via webcam from this morning until the conclusion tomorrow evening. If you donate, you can even play against them online. Even if notching easy wins against sleep-deprived opponents isn't your thing, do head over and consider giving to this deserving cause.Fredorrarcihttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-88452560161881928052011-10-27T15:04:00.002+01:002011-10-27T15:11:43.573+01:00Keeping It Peel 2.2: the podcast
So you've read the Keeping It Peel post, marvelled at our exquisite taste (and Peel's, of course), but thought to yourself, "Y'know, there's an awful lot there — I wish there was some kind of digest of all this: perhaps a 48-minute podcast including a track from each of the artists featured, some of which tracks were included in the post, others of which are different Peel session tracks from the artist in question. It would be nice if it included a few extras as well. Yes, that'd do juuuuuuust nicely."

Well, quite. Presenting: that thing you were wishing for:

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDQ2NjEyIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDQ2NjEyLTBmMyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk3MTgzOTg7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="500" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDQ2NjEyIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDQ2NjEyLTBmMyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk3MTgzOTg7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

You can download all 43.9 MB-worth of it here. The way of these things dictates that the sound quality varies between songs, and sometimes within a song, but I hope it doesn't detract from your listening pleasure. I mean, I've even made some of the songs fade in and out of one another, all posh like.

The tracklist is:
(0:00) Jimi Hendrix, Radio 1 'jingle' — 15/12/1967
(1:15) Half Man Half Biscuit, "Uffington Wassail" — 25/08/1999
(4:24) Elvis Costello & the Attractions, "Less Than Zero" — 25/07/1977
(7:48) John Cooper Clarke, "(I Married a) Monster from Outer Space" — 03/10/1978
(10:13) Datblygu, "Baban, Nerfau Mor Rhydd"
(12:20) Viv Stanshall, "In the Final Analysis" — 16/10/1975
(15:44) The Symbols, "Last Rose of Summer"
(17:47) Laura Cantrell, "Indoor Fireworks" — 08/05/2003
(22:07) Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, "Better Rooms" — ?
(24:33) McCarthy, "An MP Speaks" — 07/10/1986
(26:26) Manic Street Preachers, "Been a Son"
(28:52) The Delgados, "Accused of Stealing" — 29/03/2000
(34:43) The Fall, "Winter" — 26/08/1981
(42:47) Pulp, "I Love Life" — 12/08/2001
The dates are when each song was recorded. Those tracks without dates come from sources other than Peel sessions:
"Baban, Nerfau Mor Rhydd" comes from the Datblygu album Wyau;

"Last Rose of Summer" was covered by the Delgados at Peel's request in a 2002 session;

I thought that "Better Rooms" was from a Peel session, but after putting it on the podcast, I couldn't find any info on it. So it's most likely for another show altogether (The Evening Session, maybe?). Ah well. It's good, though!;

"Been a Son" (a cover of the Nirvana song) was recorded for Radio 1's The Evening Session (I think!).
Note: when you load this gem of a thing onto your music-spraying machine of choice, the "album cover" accompanying it will be that for the BBC 5 Live World Football Phone-in. I do not know how this happened.

Enjoy!Fredorrarcihttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-38996632696457611622011-10-25T20:24:00.006+01:002011-10-25T21:13:35.559+01:00Keeping It Peel
Welcome to the second annual Keeping It Peel, a celebration of the music brought to us by the late John Peel (although he wasn't "the late John Peel" when he doing the bringing, of course. Just in case there was any confusion, like). I and like-minded souls are commemorating the man by posting Peel session tracks and various related goodies on our internetted medium of preference (check out the Keeping It Peel site to see what others have been doing). Below is our selection, chosen at random by 's-Hertogenbosch, the SIATVS blind lots-drawing dog.

(Here's how we did it last year.)

Thanks, as so often, go to Webbie, for the whole thing is his doing; and, of course, to John Peel. He may only have been a conduit, but what a conduit.

Onward!

<object width="515" height="379"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/NYXjFXvDtNI?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/NYXjFXvDtNI?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="515" height="379" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>

Elvis Costello & the Attractions — "Less Than Zero"

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDIyNjUzIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDIyNjUzLTdhMiI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDM5NTA7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDIyNjUzIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDIyNjUzLTdhMiI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDM5NTA7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

Deco is more associated with Charlie Gillett, who was the first DJ to play his demos. But he actually did four sessions for Peel. This version of "Less Than Zero" is taken from the first of those, in 1977. This would, I suppose, be one of the first recorded appearances from the Attractions (perhaps the first?).

Also, for no extra cost, have "Shipbuilding". It's actually from a session for Peel's Top of the Pops co-presenting bud David Jensen (see above), but it's irresistible.

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI3MDUwIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI3MDUwLTQwZiI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDM5NzQ7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI3MDUwIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI3MDUwLTQwZiI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDM5NzQ7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

Laura Cantrell — "Indoor Fireworks"

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI3NTY5IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI3NTY5LTZmZCI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQwMDA7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI3NTY5IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI3NTY5LTZmZCI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQwMDA7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

And here's a Costello song performed by Laura Cantrell. The sound quality takes a dip in the middle of this, but the performance more than compensates.

McCarthy — "An MP Speaks" — from That's All Very Well, But...: The Best of McCarthy

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI5NTMxIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI5NTMxLTRmZCI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDM4OTI7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI5NTMxIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI5NTMxLTRmZCI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDM4OTI7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

A rumour that McCarthy were actually from Barnsley and named themselves after Mick was started by me earlier in this sentence, and flatly denied by me in this later section of same.

The Manic Street Preachers covered a couple of McCarthy songs: "Charles Windsor" and "We Are All Bourgeois Now". Strangely, they never did a Peel session. However, in their early days, they sent Peel a letter whose revolutionary brio so impressed him that he gave them their first airplay. The band were prolific letter writers at that time, as they aimed to spread the word. My parents even got some:

"Beauty exists only in struggle. There is no masterpiece that has not an aggressive character. Poetry must be a violent assault on the forces of the unknown, to force them to bow before man.": F. T. Marinetti

Dear Mr. and Mrs. O'Rrarci,

We suffer from the putrid stench strangulation of the aristocratic hegemony. Ours is a culture of underclass barricade rust death. The QEII futurepast atrocity spectacle rains down on our boredom like Chapterhouse's piss. It's time to fill the galleries with slurry. It's time to blow up the museums, rebuild them from their own rubble, then blow them up again. It's time for a new art stance. Our single New Art Riot is out next Monday on Damaged Goods.

Love,

The Manics

PS. Belated thanks for the Monopoly game you got us for Christmas. I (Nick!) like to play as the iron (natch), James likes to be the car, Richey uses a scab he picked off his arm and Sean plays as the hat, which he sometimes wears on his head!

<object width="515" height="379"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/am1XLWVhmmY?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/am1XLWVhmmY?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="515" height="379" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>

Viv Stanshall — "In the Final Analysis"

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDMzNTc2IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDMzNTc2LWVmYyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NjA1MzA7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDMzNTc2IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDMzNTc2LWVmYyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NjA1MzA7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

"An Absence of Whelks" (Parts 1-4)

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDMzNjIwIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDMzNjIwLWQwOSI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NjA2MTY7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDMzNjIwIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDMzNjIwLWQwOSI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NjA2MTY7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDMzODc5IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDMzODc5LWFiZiI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NjA2NTU7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDMzODc5IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDMzODc5LWFiZiI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NjA2NTU7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDMzODkzIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDMzODkzLTI2MyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NjA2NzU7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDMzODkzIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDMzODkzLTI2MyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NjA2NzU7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDMzOTM2IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDMzOTM2LWY1MyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NjA2ODg7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDMzOTM2IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDMzOTM2LWY1MyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NjA2ODg7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

"English as tuppence, changing yet changeless as canal water, nestling in green nowhere, armoured and effete, bold flag-bearer, lotus-fed Miss Havishambling opsimath and eremite, feudal still, reactionary Rawlinson End..."

Leader of the Bonzo Dog Band, eccentric, and lifelong Viv Stanshall, Viv Stanshall was ... Viv Stanshall.

<object width="515" height="379"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/3hcZ4s9cvpw?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/3hcZ4s9cvpw?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="515" height="379" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>

The Fall — "The Mixer" — from The Complete Peel Sessions 1978-2004

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI5MTc1IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI5MTc1LTA4MyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQwMzA7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI5MTc1IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI5MTc1LTA4MyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQwMzA7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

The Fall, The Fall, The Fall, The Fall, The Fall.

"He Pep!"

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI4NzkxIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI4NzkxLThlMiI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQwNTU7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI4NzkxIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI4NzkxLThlMiI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQwNTU7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

The Fall, The Fall, The Fall, The Fall, The Fall, The Fall, The Fall, The Fall.

<object width="515" height="379"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/yE-6xoh1khg?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/yE-6xoh1khg?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="515" height="379" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>

The Fall.

John Cooper Clarke — "Readers' Wives"

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI4ODk5IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI4ODk5LWUyOCI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQxMTM7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI4ODk5IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI4ODk5LWUyOCI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQxMTM7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

I don't think Clarke sounded as good with a band behind him as he does on his own. But it's all relative, is it not?

Those of a certain tendency may listen to the following and come away singing "C-O-R-G-IIIIIIIII..."

<object width="515" height="379"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/pknxs9l4f08?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/pknxs9l4f08?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="515" height="379" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>

Pulp — "I Love Life" — from The Peel Sessions

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI3NzM0IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI3NzM0LWFhNSI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQwODE7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI3NzM0IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI3NzM0LWFhNSI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQwODE7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

From Pulp's last Peel session proper, in 2001.

Datblygu — "Baban, Nerfau Mor Rhydd" (Baby, Nerves So Loose)

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI4MDA2IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI4MDA2LTlhOCI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQxNTI7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI4MDA2IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI4MDA2LTlhOCI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQxNTI7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

"Rhawt" (Rout)

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI4MDk0IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI4MDk0LWNhMSI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NzE1MDQ7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI4MDk0IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI4MDk0LWNhMSI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1NzE1MDQ7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

I'm cheating a bit here. Neither of these are session tracks; I'm not that sold on most of that album, to be honest. But there's some cracking stuff on the Wyau, Pyst and Libertino albums, which are available on a 2-CD collection. The tracks above are from Wyau and Pyst respectively.

Half Man Half Biscuit — "Uffington Wassail" — from hmhb.co.uk

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI5MDAyIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI5MDAyLTQyZiI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQyMzA7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI5MDAyIjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI5MDAyLTQyZiI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQyMzA7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

"A Country Practice" (live)

<object height="28" width="335"><param value="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI5MTE0IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI5MTE0LTFhYyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQyNTU7fQ==&autoplay=default" name="movie"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed wmode="transparent" height="28" width="335" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" src="http://www.divshare.com/flash/audio_embed?data=YTo2OntzOjU6ImFwaUlkIjtzOjE6IjQiO3M6NjoiZmlsZUlkIjtzOjg6IjE2MDI5MTE0IjtzOjQ6ImNvZGUiO3M6MTI6IjE2MDI5MTE0LTFhYyI7czo2OiJ1c2VySWQiO3M6NzoiMTU3Nzk4NSI7czoxMjoiZXh0ZXJuYWxDYWxsIjtpOjE7czo0OiJ0aW1lIjtpOjEzMTk1MDQyNTU7fQ==&autoplay=default"></embed></object>

Yeah, yeah.

Also, some studio "cuts", as I'm totally sure Nigel Blackwell calls them:

<object width="515" height="379"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/Jl3g7eYLnek?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/Jl3g7eYLnek?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="515" height="379" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>

<object width="515" height="379"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/HP2TxPY3TX4?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/HP2TxPY3TX4?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="515" height="379" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>

The Delgados, "Pull the Wires from the Wall"

<object width="515" height="379"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/lM_dSxnzAgQ?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/lM_dSxnzAgQ?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="515" height="379" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>

I've misplaced my Delgados Complete Peel Sessions, so you'll have to make-do with a YouTube upload. (Make do, says he!)

And on that note: till next year...

<object width="515" height="379"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/t2YQALYkLUM?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/t2YQALYkLUM?version=3&hl=en_GB&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="515" height="379" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-63250456662836160142011-10-21T01:18:00.002+01:002011-10-21T01:25:07.362+01:00Up-tiddly-up-updates

So, The Classical has reached its funding target. As we prepare to blow the lot on fine cheeses and rare 7" singles we'll buy but never actually listen to, before working out another Kickstarter pitch get the site started, we thank those who donated, spread the word, or psychically willed us to succeed.

At the moment, some fellow Classicists are over at Deadspin, discussing in the demotic American tongue the National Series: a based-ball competition of such repute that even I know of it. This year's Autumn Classical is a repeat of last year's epic struggle between the fearsome base-scoring machine of the Oklahoma Polar Bears and the fearsome base-preventing machine of the Tallahassee Wowz (formerly the Tallahassee Wowzer, formerly the Tallahassee Wowdoggzz, formerly the Kentucky Jolly Cowboys). The Polars stormed to victory in the Duke of Wellington Conference, defeating the venerable Virginia Based-Ballers in the Based Bowl by 89 bases to 2. Meanwhile, the Wowz claimed the Philadelphia Hot Jackets as their victims in the dramatic deciding rubber of the Dick's Sporting Goods Division of Glory. The aggregate score in the two-legged affair was tied at 5.2 bases each, and the extra third innings failed to separate the sides. The decision thus went to the panel of judges: fifteen-time All-Star Jimmy "Fingers" Jones, eighteen-time National Series loser Harry "Thumbs" Kopaszewski, and star of TV's Who's the Boss? Tony Danza. After their deliberations, they decreed that the Wowz's sliding had been considerably more awesome than that of the Hotsies, and awarded Tallahassee the pennant (the trophy having been stolen the previous day). The Wowz celebrated with the traditional mass brawl. Watch out in the Nationalies for Terence Lovely VI, their mighty short-step: he bowled one of the all-time great strikes against the Buffalo Assclowns in game 19 of the 2007 Snapple Division of Glory repechage round, a feat people won't shut the fuck up about to this day.

In other news...

Last year, we joined in with the Ravenscroft commemoration fest Keeping It Peel, and we're doing it again this year. It's next Tuesday, and we'll most likely be posting way too many Peel session tracks and various other stuff. If you want to take part, go here.

Webbie, the footballomusical expert behind Keeping It Peel, has made it a year-round concern with a series of Peel-related podcasts. I had the honour of selecting the choons for a Half Man Half Biscuit pod. Even better was the HMHB playlist chosen by Danny Last of European Football Weekends. And there's more where that came from. Go see!

Which leads us on to the happy news that, for the first time in the wretched history of this place, a new Half Man Half Biscuit album has been released!(!!!!!) It's called 90 Bisodol (Crimond), and don't even try guessing how good it is. God knows what the korfball enthusiasts will make of it, though. Above is the Marc Riley session version of one of its tracks, "Tommy Walsh's Eco House". Three verses, three deaths: can't say fairer than that.

Taylor Parkes, who you may know from When Saturday Comes and elsewhere, has written a great piece at The Quietus on Half Man Half Biscuit. Any article on HMHB which acknowledges that there's something more to them than slagging off Una Stubbs is already doing better than average, but Parkes nails the essence of the band better than anyone else has. Last year, also at The Quietus, he wrote a terrific piece on Mark E Smith as a narrative lyric writer. We want to write things like that when we grow up.

You'll be relieved to know (Nigel Blackwell must read the HMHB Lyrics Project) that the embarrassing error in the Riley version of "Left Lyrics in the Practice Room" by which reference is made to "Martin" Poom has been corrected on the album. Phew!

<blink>SEGUE</blink>
Speaking of which, Ireland play Estonia in next month's Euro 2012 play-offs. Hurrah for us! But our qualifying campaign has left the royal us feeling a smidge uneasy. Indulge us for a few moments as we tell you why over at The Run of Play.

I have also cleared the way for my becoming a grumpy old man by waxing nostalgic for the days of mass three o'clock kick-offs in English football over at TheScore's Footy Blog, which is now under the stewardship of old friend and, if I recall correctly, third ever SIATVS reader, Richard Whittall.

All that, plus Elliott's post hereabouts this week, is enough to be getting on with, you greedy sods.Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-55646966675388909522011-10-17T20:49:00.000+01:002011-10-17T20:49:23.878+01:00The Manchester City Dilemma - What Happens When the Novelty of Hating the New Rich Rubs Off?Please welcome once more Elliott from Futfanatico. You only hate him because you're jealous.

Part of you has to love the verve of our billionaire plutocrat overlords. Otherwise, your actions would make very little sense according to conventional logic. Weekly, you pump gas into your fine horseless carriage and thereby donate to City's next blockbuster signing, right? Gas prices go up, but you sleep easy knowing that Sergio Agüero's paycheck won't bounce this week. Granted, these funds do eventually trickle down to important benevolent causes, like the Adebayor Charity for the Advancement of Live Music and the Roque Santa Cruz Designer Low-Cut Gray Shirt Foundation. None of this would be possible without your regular petroleum patronage. Right? RIGHT?

Well, I am not you. I detested Chelsea when Abramovich arrived with his wheelbarrow of shady roubles. However, Chelsea is more a billionaire's plaything, an overpriced toy with defective penalty-kick-taking appendages. I don't detest City, though: I hate them. I hate the nascent Sheik empire at Eastlands, but I hate them for the right reasons. You, however, hate them for the wrong reasons. And that is why my hate will burn eternal, while surrounding flames eventually extinguish.

Your basic and fleeting reasons for hating them? Jealousy. Envy. These are the most common reasons to detest City. Did you realize you were such a boring conformist? Me neither. These reasons, sadly, are also the worst. Allow me to regurgitate some oft-vomited sports writing ink. Did City just sign one of your key players? Shocker! Anger! Do you wish your team had a transfer kitty half the size of City? Envy alert! Everybody, including you, secretly (or openly) wants the new Financial Fair Play rules to put an end to "Financial Doping". I just don't want to hear any more of your middle-class moping. The plutocrat billionaires with lobbyists and CEO chums will find an end-around, so don't hold your breath. Instead, take a step back and genuflect. Look at both thyself and thy plutocrat.

Why is the Sheik pumping so much cash into City? Is it to win titles? Is it to find a high revenue & low profit venture to wash some sticky cash? These are ancillary motives. The real reason the Sheik is cashing in his chips on the Blues is you. Yes, you read that correctly. You. Your fine self. And you are playing right into his diabolical hands.

I note at this point that OPEC is so 1970s. Basically, the Russian Arctic is the new oil-rich desert. Ergo, those OPEC folks have lost their monopoly. They don't even have the clout anymore to control prices and squeeze out small-time American businesses. Pathetic. Yet, at the same time as this decrescendo, businesses from the Gulf bought a FIFA World Cup, Málaga, Manchester City, and the front of Barcelona's jersey. Coincidence? Casualidad? Nein.

In sum, the Sheik wants your love. The Gulf is diversifying and attempting some serious PR to try and steer away from an unsustainable business model. And you? You? You were probably too busy singing offensive songs about Emmanuel Adebayor to notice. Not only can you not see the woods for the trees: you see the leaf and scream to high heaven. Yet your jealous hatred sends mixed signals. Hatred demands attention. Hatred requires an emotional connection that the Sheik mistakenly interprets as love. You are gasoline to his flame. The Sheik is a screaming teenager with a new tattoo, and you salivate at the expensive butterfly tramp stamp. Disdain for the new rich is also a passing emotion. Eventually, the new rich lose the "new" tag. And then what?

My hatred burns an eternal, focused blue because I hate the Sheik for a permanent character flaw. I hate the Sheik because he seeks your love. He is needy. He is clingy. He paid a lot of money for Adebayor just because he wanted you to look at him paying a lot of money to buy Adebayor. And you looked. And you raged, your mouth agape. The more the Sheik seeks your petty eyeballs, the more I hate him. And when he doesn't unabashedly seek them, I construct a mental image of him secretly plotting his next grand "look at me right now" move. You must get over your own pettiness. Get over the transfers, the designer watches. Learn to hate in the purest form, or risk finding yourself watching City on Saturday mornings and applauding that dashing duo of Agüero and Silva. And then crying uncontrollably in a locked bathroom.

So the next time a petro-based Gulf business buys the club down the street, don't complain about new signings. Simply shake your head in disgust and mutter "Pathetic." If you do anything else, you play into their plans...

Elliott blogs about soccer at Futfanatico.com. His soccer eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available for only $5.99 on the Amazon Kindle. Check out a free preview here.

Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-41968507409472605922011-10-17T20:37:00.000+01:002011-10-17T20:37:54.879+01:00!
sunderrvpshoty57 by arsenalist
Via 101 Great Goals.Fredorrarcihttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1969424548171959750.post-45685988711061410152011-09-30T16:26:00.000+01:002011-09-30T16:26:30.316+01:00Every scratch, every click, every heartbeat
To choose Tevez over Berbatov - to prefer the insistently effective to the evidently beautiful - is to embrace the kind of mindset that fills lakes with concrete, grinds trees into mulch, and crushes rare birds under the tracks of bulldozers. It is a prioritisation of the ends over the means, an acknowledgement that it is better to win than to smile.
Andi Thomas, gaffer at the excellent Twisted Blood, has a piece at SB Nation on the idleness of Dimitar Berbatov — the enforced idleness, that is, as Alex Ferguson prefers to pick a combination of Wayne Rooney, Javier Hernández and Danny Welbeck in his stead. Thomas' love for Berbatov is infectious, if you're not already infected; you can practically feel his beating heart refusing to be still. But I wonder about some of the terms in which he expresses this. Specifically, I question the opposition he posits between the respective styles of Berbatov and Carlos Tévez.

Of course, perhaps I'm just touchy on this matter, being one who has frequently thrilled at Tévez's play. "Thrill" and variations thereon are probably overused — they certainly are by me — but it seems perfectly apt here. Thomas is onto something when he identifies the widespread approval of Tévez (before recent antics) with the anglocentric* tendency to value activity for its own sake. It is more important to make a show of being busy than it is to actually do something; the key coaching mantra is "Look lively!" It may be that Tévez's in-the-style-of-Taz play chimes most resoundingly with this mindset, but that does not invalidate it. Tevez's play has nothing to do with looking lively: he just is lively, and this liveliness has underpinned all the success he's had.

* (I use "anglocentric" here because what goes for English football goes too for its broader sphere of influence, for good and ill.)

Or, to change the focus, he's effective. So is Berbatov: both players scored twenty league goals last year, topping the scoring chart. It's impossible to imagine that Berbatov is any less obsessed with ends than is Tévez. Like any game, football is a puzzle its participants try to solve, and in learning to do so arrive at their own idiosyncratic means of doing so. It is always shaped by the aim of the game. This isn't a mark of a brutalising calcio moderno: this is sport. It's not a corruption, recent or otherwise. Beauty and efficacy may sometimes clash, but they are far from mortal enemies. Much of the beauty of football happens by the by; some even has ineffectiveness at its core. But it is impossible to fully separate the beauty from the goal, so to speak, whether we talk about Berbatov, Tévez or anyone else. The pursuit of that goal can leave a trail of magic, and so can its fulfillment. In fact, the difficulty of the fulfillment lends it a beauty of its own. "Simple, brute efficacy"? Well, "brute" is a question of taste; "simple" is wrong.

Thomas writes:
In a world as results-obsessed as modern football, the appreciation of the beautiful is one of the few avenues left for a fan to express a simple and innocent humanity.
But there is as much humanity in the play of Carlos Tévez — in a slashing run into the box, in an unstoppable finish, even (yes) in his industry — as in any of the more subtle moves pulled by Berbatov. Tévez may appeal mostly to those possessed by the mania for running around like an eegit, but for one thing, his appeal is broader than that; and for another, he represents the obverse of that mania. It is unfair to suggest that because this mindset can have negative consequences, it can't have positive, even beautiful, ones; it is unfair to thus write off an entire swath of sincerely felt experience as a willing extension of "the usual subjugation of [the fan's self] to the grind". It's too narrow a view of beauty to be getting on with, to pit these styles as irreconcilable opposites. It goes against the experiences of many: I for one would feel impoverished were I forced to make a choice. Thankfully, I don't have to. To say otherwise is to elevate a matter of taste to a level of absolutism it can't maintain.

As I say, I wouldn't like to make a choice between Berbatov and Tévez; nor do I like having the choice taken out of my hands. Tévez's absence from the football field for the foreseeable is in large part self-inflicted, and any sadness in the face of it is thus tempered, or at least complicated. Berbatov's current absence is down to the whim of his coach, setting our desires against "the unbeatable slow machine that brings you what you'll get", and so making it all the more keenly felt. It's been fun watching Manchester United make opposing defences take on the integrity of wet kitchen towel (except for you know when), but there's something missing. Going by Thomas' piece, he (if he'll forgive the comparison) feels about Berbatov like I feel about Robin van Persie. I could watch van Persie forever, even if all he did was fail to bring the ball onto his left foot. Today's reports that Manchester City are interested in him are speculative, but even the thought of him leaving Arsenal makes the blood chill, as do the frequent injuries that beset him. Just as I hope you don't have to be a Gooner to appreciate this, I know you don't have to be a United fan like Thomas to feel the pain his Berbalove is bringing him. Berbatov reminds me of Gavin Henson, another for whom the word "languid" has been used as a backhanded compliment. Thomas again:
Johan Cruyff once pointed out that any player who was sprinting had probably set off too late.
Henson and Berbatov look lazy because they're already in the right place, and can afford to take their time over what they do. And they do it well (or in Henson's case, perhaps, he did it well). They're not lazy — they're just punctual. Fredorrarcihttp://firstname.lastname@example.com