This World Cup is "a time to make friends", according to the tournament's sentimental slogan.
It also appears to be a time to dispel a few German stereotypes - including that old image of ruthless efficiency.
Not that this has been a badly-run World Cup, judging by the first wunderbar week. Yet a few backstage niggles and amateurish asides have caused surprise - without threatening to become a time to make enemies.
On the ladder of public affection, journalists hang a few rungs lower than politicians, estate agents and armed robbers.
But a little sympathy seems due to those wrongly named and shamed by Fifa for failing to take up their England-Paraguay tickets.
Some 250 were given "yellow card" warnings which could rule them out of future allocations.
Yet most of those British hacks on the hitlist were at the game, and had taken up their tickets - though probably wished they hadn't, long before the final whistle.
If Fifa really wanted to punish people who were expected to show up but didn't, perhaps they should have started with Michael Owen and Ashley Cole.
The England games have seen the most chaos in and around the always-spectacular stadia.
But haphazard public transport arrangements brought the surreal sight of furious Swiss queuing up to harangue German officials in Stuttgart, late into the night.
Utterly unhelpful directions also sent hordes of Australians and Japanese the wrong way through Kaiserslautern, before even starting the mountainous climb to the stadium.
No wonder there were a few raised eyebrows when the stadium announcer proudly revealed the match had "sold out", as the banks of empty seats suggested a different story.
Still, once inside, the views are immense and the atmosphere enthralling.
Even the chuckling announcers can be endearing, despite making Motty sound dynamic.
The mascot Goleo may wear a costume seemingly raided from an infant school's dressing-up box.
But Germany is joyous, from the streets ribboned in colours to the stadia mocking those old promises of a Wembley World Cup this summer instead.
Oh, and there's also the little matter of some exciting, attacking football from the world's finest players. And Togo's.
Somehow it feels all the more charming, to also discover even Germany has a few people you couldn't trust to organise a beer festival in Bavaria.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
"It's not often easy and not often kind - did you ever have to make up your mind...?"
Obviously I'm pretty much clueless as to how this summer's selection of BBC and ITV pundits are coming across, though I gather - and am not at all surprised - that Big Mart has been a bit of a star. ("So, Martin, are the Ukrainians still playing 4-3-3?" "Well, no, that would be imposschible schinsche they're down to ten men" sounds a fair enough schample, sorry, sample so far...)
But even Motty at his most tediously chucklesome would have been an improvement on my stammerings into a Russian radio microphone after last night's France-Switzerland game, challenged in the media centre for a view on French appeals for a handball in the Swiss penalty area - not given by local-boy Russian ref Valentin Ivanov.
Suddenly, all semblance of intelligent thought flew into the ether like a Paul Robinson goal-kick, and instead I found myself mouthing the most banal of identikit, rentaquote cliches, as seen and heard on TV...
"Well, was it ball-to-hand, or hand-to-ball...? ... I've certainly seen referees give them... You'd have to think the Swiss would have felt aggrieved, though... The referee was certainly close to the incident..." And on, and on, and so unilluminatingly on.
Until my docile-looking questioner suddenly turned justly sharp, demanding: "Yes, but should it have been a penalty? What do you actually think?"
"Yyyyyyy..... Nnnnnnnn.... Yyyyyyy...... No. No, I don't think so. No."
"Thank you very much for your thoughts, sir."
Bang goes that dream career as Eastern Europe's answer to Alan Hansen, then.
Alan Partridge instead, perhaps...
But even Motty at his most tediously chucklesome would have been an improvement on my stammerings into a Russian radio microphone after last night's France-Switzerland game, challenged in the media centre for a view on French appeals for a handball in the Swiss penalty area - not given by local-boy Russian ref Valentin Ivanov.
Suddenly, all semblance of intelligent thought flew into the ether like a Paul Robinson goal-kick, and instead I found myself mouthing the most banal of identikit, rentaquote cliches, as seen and heard on TV...
"Well, was it ball-to-hand, or hand-to-ball...? ... I've certainly seen referees give them... You'd have to think the Swiss would have felt aggrieved, though... The referee was certainly close to the incident..." And on, and on, and so unilluminatingly on.
Until my docile-looking questioner suddenly turned justly sharp, demanding: "Yes, but should it have been a penalty? What do you actually think?"
"Yyyyyyy..... Nnnnnnnn.... Yyyyyyy...... No. No, I don't think so. No."
"Thank you very much for your thoughts, sir."
Bang goes that dream career as Eastern Europe's answer to Alan Hansen, then.
Alan Partridge instead, perhaps...
"There was no hope, no reasoning - this rainy day in June..."
Well, one England excuse may be about to be washed away if all goes badly tomorrow.
After a week of scorchingly hot sun across Germany, Dortmund has just dispensed a drenching to me and many more, sent scuttling through the puddles to wring ourselves out in the media centre hours and hours ahead of Germany and Poland kicking off tonight.
I had arrived surprisingly early in the city, despite a four-hour rail journey from Stuttgart (only just leaping on board with seconds to spare), but my ambitions of filling in some of the hours ahead of tonight's game by seeing a bit of the city were quickly abandoned as the heavens opened.
If a similar soaking hits Nuremberg tomorrow, at least England can't claim to be unfamiliar with such conditions.
Apparently a friend told his wife who England were playing tomorrow, and she paused for thought before replying: "Trinidad and Tobago? Two games in one night?"
After a week of scorchingly hot sun across Germany, Dortmund has just dispensed a drenching to me and many more, sent scuttling through the puddles to wring ourselves out in the media centre hours and hours ahead of Germany and Poland kicking off tonight.
I had arrived surprisingly early in the city, despite a four-hour rail journey from Stuttgart (only just leaping on board with seconds to spare), but my ambitions of filling in some of the hours ahead of tonight's game by seeing a bit of the city were quickly abandoned as the heavens opened.
If a similar soaking hits Nuremberg tomorrow, at least England can't claim to be unfamiliar with such conditions.
Apparently a friend told his wife who England were playing tomorrow, and she paused for thought before replying: "Trinidad and Tobago? Two games in one night?"
"Help me, information, more than that I cannot add..."
Three free tickets for England’s game against Trinidad and Tobago are going spare – somewhere in Germany.
A Memphis family on a European holiday told me today they were offered the gold-dust tickets gratis by a self-confessed Chelsea hooligan.
Despite a banning order, he claimed to have sneaked his way into Germany using a friend’s passport.
His three fellow cons had managed to make it there using their own – before being collared in Munich and deported.
Now he has been punting the spares as he drinks his way from Frankfurt to Nuremburg.
Eventually, the visitors from Memphis were persuaded by their “suspicious minds” to politely decline, fearing guilt by association.
But someone less scrupulous, somewhere in Germany, might just get lucky – if the Chelsea chav’s luck doesn’t run out first.
A Memphis family on a European holiday told me today they were offered the gold-dust tickets gratis by a self-confessed Chelsea hooligan.
Despite a banning order, he claimed to have sneaked his way into Germany using a friend’s passport.
His three fellow cons had managed to make it there using their own – before being collared in Munich and deported.
Now he has been punting the spares as he drinks his way from Frankfurt to Nuremburg.
Eventually, the visitors from Memphis were persuaded by their “suspicious minds” to politely decline, fearing guilt by association.
But someone less scrupulous, somewhere in Germany, might just get lucky – if the Chelsea chav’s luck doesn’t run out first.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
"Il faut oublier, tout peut s'oublier..."
The last – and indeed, first – time I visited Stuttgart was in February 1995, as a 16-year-old preparing for imminent German A-levels on a hurriedly-organised Sixth Form “field trip” – though somehow, a few friends not taking German managed to inveigle their way along as well.
When we weren’t dancing ironically to Whigfield on a nightclub dancefloor the size of, ooh maybe, four postage stamps, we were being taken on tours of such illuminating attractions as Stuttgart’s proud Mercedes factory (not interested in cars), a brandy distillery (couldn’t then hack the taste, and still can’t, or don’t want to) and a large lab specialising in certain obscure medicinal compounds (as intriguing as it sounds – or perhaps even less). In fact, perhaps the most memorable moment of these experiences was the end of the lab tour, when our unflaggingly-enthusiastic guide promised us a free lunch on the Pfizer-like company – but reminded us to “take your tablet on the way in”…
Cue: a moment of minor, “what-are-they-planning-to-do-to-us?” panic.
Before, simultaneously, us A-level students remembered “Tablett” is German for “tray”. Phew.
So, as I suggested, fairly dull. The Spurs fans among us wanted to veer the tourbus towards the Stuttgart backerei where the Klinsmann family made (and still) make a living before young son Jurgen decided to further his football career in search of greater riches.
Well, his family did need the dough… (Sorry.)
At about the same time, a young French boy by the name of Zinedine Zidane was emerging through the Bordeaux football academy, to rave reviews from his coaches and peers.
He and bosom buddy Christophe Dugarry were offered a trial across the Channel at Spurs – only for then-manager Gerry Francis, so to the story goes, to reject Zidane as “too wooden”.
Of course, since then said Pinocchio has scored two goals in a winning World Cup final, scored one of the all-time great Champions League final goals to clinch that trophy, been named World Footballer Of The Year three times and generally become a football legend.
No, it wasn’t Gerry, who has since settled into retirement without clubs clamouring for his return, happy sidelines of antique dealing and pigeon-breeding, and the occasional head-twitching stint as a pundit on Sky Sports.
As for the Zidane-less Spurs…
I spent the night of the World Cup Final in 1998 on the streets of St Denis, a Fabien Barthez goal-kick from the Stade de France where Zizou scored those two thunderous headers in a 3-0 triumph over France. The sight and sound of thousands of delirious French fans spilling tumultuously from the square where we watched the final on a big screen, then dancing through the night and all down the Champs Elysees as the team paraded in triumph the next day… It was all glorious to behold, even with the disappointment lingering from England’s sad St Etienne departure a fortnight earlier.
Just as Zizou at his best has always been a delight to see (well, okay, maybe the appreciation was delayed the night two years ago when he turned England’s Euro 2004 scoreline from 1-0 to 1-2 in the final moments of the match).
But glimpses of him this past season have been sad and depressing, as the old master became simply old and past-it, Real Madrid’s matches passing by this greatest and most graceful of Galacticos – those training-ground performances against youthfully, upwardly-mobile A*senal especially.
Like a great old actor who won’t admit they can no longer remember their lines, a comic who’s lost his timing, a Rolling Stone still trying to pout and strut and corrupt the youth of today (not in a coolly rebellious way, but a seedy and sordid way)… Maybe it was just time to bow out in style. And soon.
But don’t bow out, only to return – surely that way only lies greater, shuddering embarrassment? Yet last year Zidane returned to the French fold, having previously declared the early exit from Euro 2004 was his sad adieu to internationals.
Yet tonight, for any trepidation surrounding Zidane’s World Cup 2006 arrival with France, against Stuttgart, he certainly didn’t hold up badly.
Okay, so he wasn’t grasping hold of the match at key moments with the cool dynamism of old. The probing passes of the first half became more sporadic in the second.
But, the 90 minutes were enough to suggest he still had sufficient of that old Zizou class still - he hadn’t declined so much after all.
Sadly for him, it seems the rest of the French team has.
This was dreary, oh so dreary. A goalless draw unhappily worthy of the name, unlike the Sweden-Trinidad and Tobago stalemate the other night which was – eventually – abrim with goalmouth action.
Perhaps tonight’s boredom was inevitably born of boredom. France and Switzerland met in the Euro 2004 group stage – and twice more, during qualifiers for this tournament.
But still… Why, when Zidane returned, did Lilian Thuram too? He was living – just about – on what remains of his wits tonight, but more often dependent on luck. When recklessly playing attackers onside, he was misplacing passes or trampling his way through clumsy fouls – sometimes spotted by the ref, sometimes not.
Patrick Vieira was even worse, miskicking away possession and dithering over perfectly-good shooting chances in a way which suggested this was an imposter, cloned from the former A*senal powerhouse but with a technical fault which left just the appearance, none of the talent.
These players are not only several years older than their glory years. They are also players who have achieved that glory in the first place – earned the right to be rightly acclaimed as legends – and, and, and… what now? Where’s the motivation to do more – beyond, well, inherent motivation itself?
Once, Vieira was an unstoppable force of inspiration – and woe betide anyone who even suggested thinking of trying to somehow stop him. Tonight he was being casually dispossessed and outpaced by Swiss veterans and callow kids with little to live up to – but at least putting in the effort and focus.
Yet the most baffling of French under-performers was that man, that magician, Thierry Henry. I heard someone say the other day that Henry had never scored for France from a Zidane assist, amazing and probably-inaccurate as that sounds. He certainly should have done tonight – at least three times, set free to run onto a delicate Zizou through-ball, only to send the ball once wide, twice into the grateful arms of Zubabuehler with all the pace and venom of a backpass.
Henry’s performances in the Champions League this season provided a great response to allegations of being merely a flat-track bully, a flashy striker who can score against Sunderland, Portsmouth and Middlesbrough at a canter, but freezes in the big matches.
Well, sure… But to be World Footballer Of The Year, or at least unofficial “greatest player on the planet today”, he surely can’t misfire at another major international tournament, can he? What’s going on?
Of course, there is plenty of time and action to go. And first matches aren’t the be-all and end-all upon which to base World Cup forecasts and verdicts – right, Sven?
But tonight… Well, the boos and whistles greeting especially-slow periods of play tonight, and the final whistle, were the first I’ve heard this tournament for anything other than perceived diving or a poor refereeing decision.
England-Paraguay finally has a rival for Worst Match Of The Tournament So Far. At least there was an exciting atmosphere in Frankfurt!
Still, what better panacea, then, than the long-awaited introduction to Weltmeisterschaft 2006, of those boys from Brazil.
Even better, I’ve managed to end this entry just in time to tune in!
When we weren’t dancing ironically to Whigfield on a nightclub dancefloor the size of, ooh maybe, four postage stamps, we were being taken on tours of such illuminating attractions as Stuttgart’s proud Mercedes factory (not interested in cars), a brandy distillery (couldn’t then hack the taste, and still can’t, or don’t want to) and a large lab specialising in certain obscure medicinal compounds (as intriguing as it sounds – or perhaps even less). In fact, perhaps the most memorable moment of these experiences was the end of the lab tour, when our unflaggingly-enthusiastic guide promised us a free lunch on the Pfizer-like company – but reminded us to “take your tablet on the way in”…
Cue: a moment of minor, “what-are-they-planning-to-do-to-us?” panic.
Before, simultaneously, us A-level students remembered “Tablett” is German for “tray”. Phew.
So, as I suggested, fairly dull. The Spurs fans among us wanted to veer the tourbus towards the Stuttgart backerei where the Klinsmann family made (and still) make a living before young son Jurgen decided to further his football career in search of greater riches.
Well, his family did need the dough… (Sorry.)
At about the same time, a young French boy by the name of Zinedine Zidane was emerging through the Bordeaux football academy, to rave reviews from his coaches and peers.
He and bosom buddy Christophe Dugarry were offered a trial across the Channel at Spurs – only for then-manager Gerry Francis, so to the story goes, to reject Zidane as “too wooden”.
Of course, since then said Pinocchio has scored two goals in a winning World Cup final, scored one of the all-time great Champions League final goals to clinch that trophy, been named World Footballer Of The Year three times and generally become a football legend.
No, it wasn’t Gerry, who has since settled into retirement without clubs clamouring for his return, happy sidelines of antique dealing and pigeon-breeding, and the occasional head-twitching stint as a pundit on Sky Sports.
As for the Zidane-less Spurs…
I spent the night of the World Cup Final in 1998 on the streets of St Denis, a Fabien Barthez goal-kick from the Stade de France where Zizou scored those two thunderous headers in a 3-0 triumph over France. The sight and sound of thousands of delirious French fans spilling tumultuously from the square where we watched the final on a big screen, then dancing through the night and all down the Champs Elysees as the team paraded in triumph the next day… It was all glorious to behold, even with the disappointment lingering from England’s sad St Etienne departure a fortnight earlier.
Just as Zizou at his best has always been a delight to see (well, okay, maybe the appreciation was delayed the night two years ago when he turned England’s Euro 2004 scoreline from 1-0 to 1-2 in the final moments of the match).
But glimpses of him this past season have been sad and depressing, as the old master became simply old and past-it, Real Madrid’s matches passing by this greatest and most graceful of Galacticos – those training-ground performances against youthfully, upwardly-mobile A*senal especially.
Like a great old actor who won’t admit they can no longer remember their lines, a comic who’s lost his timing, a Rolling Stone still trying to pout and strut and corrupt the youth of today (not in a coolly rebellious way, but a seedy and sordid way)… Maybe it was just time to bow out in style. And soon.
But don’t bow out, only to return – surely that way only lies greater, shuddering embarrassment? Yet last year Zidane returned to the French fold, having previously declared the early exit from Euro 2004 was his sad adieu to internationals.
Yet tonight, for any trepidation surrounding Zidane’s World Cup 2006 arrival with France, against Stuttgart, he certainly didn’t hold up badly.
Okay, so he wasn’t grasping hold of the match at key moments with the cool dynamism of old. The probing passes of the first half became more sporadic in the second.
But, the 90 minutes were enough to suggest he still had sufficient of that old Zizou class still - he hadn’t declined so much after all.
Sadly for him, it seems the rest of the French team has.
This was dreary, oh so dreary. A goalless draw unhappily worthy of the name, unlike the Sweden-Trinidad and Tobago stalemate the other night which was – eventually – abrim with goalmouth action.
Perhaps tonight’s boredom was inevitably born of boredom. France and Switzerland met in the Euro 2004 group stage – and twice more, during qualifiers for this tournament.
But still… Why, when Zidane returned, did Lilian Thuram too? He was living – just about – on what remains of his wits tonight, but more often dependent on luck. When recklessly playing attackers onside, he was misplacing passes or trampling his way through clumsy fouls – sometimes spotted by the ref, sometimes not.
Patrick Vieira was even worse, miskicking away possession and dithering over perfectly-good shooting chances in a way which suggested this was an imposter, cloned from the former A*senal powerhouse but with a technical fault which left just the appearance, none of the talent.
These players are not only several years older than their glory years. They are also players who have achieved that glory in the first place – earned the right to be rightly acclaimed as legends – and, and, and… what now? Where’s the motivation to do more – beyond, well, inherent motivation itself?
Once, Vieira was an unstoppable force of inspiration – and woe betide anyone who even suggested thinking of trying to somehow stop him. Tonight he was being casually dispossessed and outpaced by Swiss veterans and callow kids with little to live up to – but at least putting in the effort and focus.
Yet the most baffling of French under-performers was that man, that magician, Thierry Henry. I heard someone say the other day that Henry had never scored for France from a Zidane assist, amazing and probably-inaccurate as that sounds. He certainly should have done tonight – at least three times, set free to run onto a delicate Zizou through-ball, only to send the ball once wide, twice into the grateful arms of Zubabuehler with all the pace and venom of a backpass.
Henry’s performances in the Champions League this season provided a great response to allegations of being merely a flat-track bully, a flashy striker who can score against Sunderland, Portsmouth and Middlesbrough at a canter, but freezes in the big matches.
Well, sure… But to be World Footballer Of The Year, or at least unofficial “greatest player on the planet today”, he surely can’t misfire at another major international tournament, can he? What’s going on?
Of course, there is plenty of time and action to go. And first matches aren’t the be-all and end-all upon which to base World Cup forecasts and verdicts – right, Sven?
But tonight… Well, the boos and whistles greeting especially-slow periods of play tonight, and the final whistle, were the first I’ve heard this tournament for anything other than perceived diving or a poor refereeing decision.
England-Paraguay finally has a rival for Worst Match Of The Tournament So Far. At least there was an exciting atmosphere in Frankfurt!
Still, what better panacea, then, than the long-awaited introduction to Weltmeisterschaft 2006, of those boys from Brazil.
Even better, I’ve managed to end this entry just in time to tune in!
Monday, June 12, 2006
"More I cannot wish you, than to wish you find your Love..."
Previous tournament tantrums have come from the likes of Roy Keane, Stefan Effenburg and Edgar Davids.
It seems we’re still waiting for the first major bust-up of Germany 2004, ending in either the walk-out or explusion of an influential but troublesome player.
So far, only Togo’s manager has thrown up his hands and decided the World Cup “Fussball-fest” isn’t worth the fuss.
Hopefully, though, Angola will set a good example – they do, after all, have Love on their side – on the bench, anyway.
Not to mention Goliath, who I was disappointed not to see starting in goal, and who would be a headline-writer’s dream if his side came up against Beckham’s England.
Other lovely names in the Togo squad include Jamba, Loco and Lebo Lebo.
Had he only been able to turn in a late chance last night, things could have turned out rosy for Mateus.
How sad they decided to leave at home, however, the likes of Freddy, Jo-Jo and Rats, who sound more like wiseguys shooting dice in a Damon Runyon story.
It seems we’re still waiting for the first major bust-up of Germany 2004, ending in either the walk-out or explusion of an influential but troublesome player.
So far, only Togo’s manager has thrown up his hands and decided the World Cup “Fussball-fest” isn’t worth the fuss.
Hopefully, though, Angola will set a good example – they do, after all, have Love on their side – on the bench, anyway.
Not to mention Goliath, who I was disappointed not to see starting in goal, and who would be a headline-writer’s dream if his side came up against Beckham’s England.
Other lovely names in the Togo squad include Jamba, Loco and Lebo Lebo.
Had he only been able to turn in a late chance last night, things could have turned out rosy for Mateus.
How sad they decided to leave at home, however, the likes of Freddy, Jo-Jo and Rats, who sound more like wiseguys shooting dice in a Damon Runyon story.
"Sleep for a while and speak no words..."
Lose your opening World Cup game and you face an uphill struggle to extend your stay beyond the group stages. It may be a cliché, but it’s the message both Australia boss Guus Hiddink and Japan coach Zico have been relentlessly drumming ahead of today’s match in Kaiserslautern.
They were right to be worried. But the first uphill struggle came even before the kick-off.
Yes, it’s not just a cliché, but a tortuously forced reference to the equally-tortuous clamber asked of everyone making their way to the stadium from the Hauptbahnhof.
Kaiserslautern seems a rather compact little city, with streets quickly clogged by the exuberant Aussies and Japanese ambling along… and along… and along.
And then up, up and away. And still not a glimmer or glimpse of the stadium appeared above the “Fussball-Fest” filling the alleyways with merchandise stalls and the air with chants of “Ole, ole, ole…Aussie, Aussie / Nippon, Nippon…” (delete as appropriate).
You could barely incline your head one way without banging into one inflatable kangaroo or another.
One group of Aussies even seemed to show slight confusion about what this World Cup is all about, by swinging around an inflatable David Boon.
Come to think of it, that may just have been David Boon.
Finally, the minimalist signs to the stadium seemed to suggest we were finally there.
Only to reveal an intimidating set of spiral staircase pointing the way, only still the stadium remained out of sight, out of reach.
Finally, the peak was reached, ready to join the chaotic queues for the media centre and doled-out tickets, continuing a trend of very unGerman, unruthless inefficiency.
I can understand the home country wanting to do away with outdated stereotypes, but still…
All were eventually rewarded for their patience, however, with an absorbing game and a dramatic climax.
The sides seemed well-matched for most of the game, the brute strength of Mark Viduka up-front for the Australians admirably met by the solid assurance of Japanese captain Tsuneyasu Miyamoto.
Celtic’s Shunsuke Yakamura in midfield, dropped for the 2002 World Cup in his homeland, was making up for lost time by pulling all the strings for Japan.
He offered deft control, sharp changes of pace and tackles which looked gossamer thin but succeeded in winning the ball back every time.
He was free to roam thanks to the gritty probings of Takashi Fukunishi and craftiness of Hidetoshi Nakata, only allowing Harry Kewell glancing contact with possession.
The opening goal was a bit of a fluke, however, and the first significantly controversial call this tournament.
Nakamura delicately worked himself a little space on the right wing, cutting in to chip a hopeful cross into a crowded penalty area – only for the ball to loop over everyone and drop daintily into the net.
The Australians were incensed, claiming goalkeeper Mark Schwarzer had been unfairly bundled over.
Yet replays suggested he was already on his way down without contact from Atsushi Yanagisawa – even if the muscular Naohiro Takahara did then blunder in with arms raised.
A ‘keeper of Schwarzer’s strength and experience shouldn’t really be blowing over quite so lamely, though.
Not surprisingly, Hiddink started to make changes soon into the second half – most notably introducing prolific goalscoring midfielder Tim Cahill.
More eye-opening was the fact he replaced Parma’s Marco Bresciano, who had seemed the most progressive of Australia’s midfielders in the first half, coming close with two mid-range efforts.
Somehow, Bristol City’s Luke Wilkshire managed to remain on the pitch for 70 minutes – though you’d have been hard-pushed to notice. Clinging to the right-flank touchline, he must have touched the ball five times, maximum.
It even looked like Kewell, Viduka et al, when finding themselves facing the right wing, would espy Wilkshire and promptly turn back on their heels the other way.
Far from looking like an authentic World Cup competitor, Wilkshire had the air of a little lad in the park, desperate to join in the bigger boys’ game, hoping they’d ask but too shy to speak up.
Japan’s relentless charging and mopping, especially as Australia introduced a four-man attack, finally began to wear them down.
Yet even as they visibly flagged, it looked like they might just hold on – especially as ex-Pompey ‘keeper Yoshikatsu Kawaguchi was in inspired form.
Time and again he stretched his tiny frame to beat away fierce free-kicks, snapshots and volleys.
Perhaps he got too carried away, for it was one spectacular parry from a John Aloisi free-kick that unfortunately led to his downfall.
As the resulting throw-in launched the ball back into his area, Yamaguchi went inexplicably walkabout – going to punch, yet missing.
As he tumbled head over heels, taking a clump of Japanese defenders under him, that man Cahill was quickest to notice the ball emerging from the melee, and swept it into Yamaguchi’s unguarded net.
The manic celebrations on the Australian touchline suggested they had won their first World Cup, rather than simply scoring their first World Cup goal in three tournaments’ attempts.
Cahill then got lucky again, this time in his own penalty area, as a late and ball-missing, man-playing challenge on Yuichi Komano went unpunished.
Three minutes later, he was back in the action – teed up by Jason Culina and Aloisi after a weak header by Yuji Nakazawa, and sending a 22-yard drive past the this-time-blameless Yamaguchi, ricochet-ing off both posts and over the line.
Aloisi, another ex-Pompey flop, cruelly but fairly exploited Japan’s crumpling limbs and morale by easily stepping over Komano in injury-time to sweep a third past Kawaguchi.
And that, all of a sudden, thanks to a seven-minute turnaround, was that.
A pity for the Japanese, but at least we avoided yet another 1-0, a scoreline in danger of becoming a frustating pattern already.
So… the Aussies think they can play football now too, do they? We’ll see about that.
At least the US lost comprehensively tonight, 3-0 to the ever-dangerous, free-scoring Czechs, with A*senal newbie Tomas Rosicky scoring two contenders for goal of the week.
Hmm. That’s a worry for another season (though, of course, John Jensen and Junichi Inamoto both scored impressive goals in major tournament, too…)
Still, for the time being – for all those who hope to keep the one prime sport of football, at least, free from Aussie and US dominance: this early leg ends a creditable score-draw.
They were right to be worried. But the first uphill struggle came even before the kick-off.
Yes, it’s not just a cliché, but a tortuously forced reference to the equally-tortuous clamber asked of everyone making their way to the stadium from the Hauptbahnhof.
Kaiserslautern seems a rather compact little city, with streets quickly clogged by the exuberant Aussies and Japanese ambling along… and along… and along.
And then up, up and away. And still not a glimmer or glimpse of the stadium appeared above the “Fussball-Fest” filling the alleyways with merchandise stalls and the air with chants of “Ole, ole, ole…Aussie, Aussie / Nippon, Nippon…” (delete as appropriate).
You could barely incline your head one way without banging into one inflatable kangaroo or another.
One group of Aussies even seemed to show slight confusion about what this World Cup is all about, by swinging around an inflatable David Boon.
Come to think of it, that may just have been David Boon.
Finally, the minimalist signs to the stadium seemed to suggest we were finally there.
Only to reveal an intimidating set of spiral staircase pointing the way, only still the stadium remained out of sight, out of reach.
Finally, the peak was reached, ready to join the chaotic queues for the media centre and doled-out tickets, continuing a trend of very unGerman, unruthless inefficiency.
I can understand the home country wanting to do away with outdated stereotypes, but still…
All were eventually rewarded for their patience, however, with an absorbing game and a dramatic climax.
The sides seemed well-matched for most of the game, the brute strength of Mark Viduka up-front for the Australians admirably met by the solid assurance of Japanese captain Tsuneyasu Miyamoto.
Celtic’s Shunsuke Yakamura in midfield, dropped for the 2002 World Cup in his homeland, was making up for lost time by pulling all the strings for Japan.
He offered deft control, sharp changes of pace and tackles which looked gossamer thin but succeeded in winning the ball back every time.
He was free to roam thanks to the gritty probings of Takashi Fukunishi and craftiness of Hidetoshi Nakata, only allowing Harry Kewell glancing contact with possession.
The opening goal was a bit of a fluke, however, and the first significantly controversial call this tournament.
Nakamura delicately worked himself a little space on the right wing, cutting in to chip a hopeful cross into a crowded penalty area – only for the ball to loop over everyone and drop daintily into the net.
The Australians were incensed, claiming goalkeeper Mark Schwarzer had been unfairly bundled over.
Yet replays suggested he was already on his way down without contact from Atsushi Yanagisawa – even if the muscular Naohiro Takahara did then blunder in with arms raised.
A ‘keeper of Schwarzer’s strength and experience shouldn’t really be blowing over quite so lamely, though.
Not surprisingly, Hiddink started to make changes soon into the second half – most notably introducing prolific goalscoring midfielder Tim Cahill.
More eye-opening was the fact he replaced Parma’s Marco Bresciano, who had seemed the most progressive of Australia’s midfielders in the first half, coming close with two mid-range efforts.
Somehow, Bristol City’s Luke Wilkshire managed to remain on the pitch for 70 minutes – though you’d have been hard-pushed to notice. Clinging to the right-flank touchline, he must have touched the ball five times, maximum.
It even looked like Kewell, Viduka et al, when finding themselves facing the right wing, would espy Wilkshire and promptly turn back on their heels the other way.
Far from looking like an authentic World Cup competitor, Wilkshire had the air of a little lad in the park, desperate to join in the bigger boys’ game, hoping they’d ask but too shy to speak up.
Japan’s relentless charging and mopping, especially as Australia introduced a four-man attack, finally began to wear them down.
Yet even as they visibly flagged, it looked like they might just hold on – especially as ex-Pompey ‘keeper Yoshikatsu Kawaguchi was in inspired form.
Time and again he stretched his tiny frame to beat away fierce free-kicks, snapshots and volleys.
Perhaps he got too carried away, for it was one spectacular parry from a John Aloisi free-kick that unfortunately led to his downfall.
As the resulting throw-in launched the ball back into his area, Yamaguchi went inexplicably walkabout – going to punch, yet missing.
As he tumbled head over heels, taking a clump of Japanese defenders under him, that man Cahill was quickest to notice the ball emerging from the melee, and swept it into Yamaguchi’s unguarded net.
The manic celebrations on the Australian touchline suggested they had won their first World Cup, rather than simply scoring their first World Cup goal in three tournaments’ attempts.
Cahill then got lucky again, this time in his own penalty area, as a late and ball-missing, man-playing challenge on Yuichi Komano went unpunished.
Three minutes later, he was back in the action – teed up by Jason Culina and Aloisi after a weak header by Yuji Nakazawa, and sending a 22-yard drive past the this-time-blameless Yamaguchi, ricochet-ing off both posts and over the line.
Aloisi, another ex-Pompey flop, cruelly but fairly exploited Japan’s crumpling limbs and morale by easily stepping over Komano in injury-time to sweep a third past Kawaguchi.
And that, all of a sudden, thanks to a seven-minute turnaround, was that.
A pity for the Japanese, but at least we avoided yet another 1-0, a scoreline in danger of becoming a frustating pattern already.
So… the Aussies think they can play football now too, do they? We’ll see about that.
At least the US lost comprehensively tonight, 3-0 to the ever-dangerous, free-scoring Czechs, with A*senal newbie Tomas Rosicky scoring two contenders for goal of the week.
Hmm. That’s a worry for another season (though, of course, John Jensen and Junichi Inamoto both scored impressive goals in major tournament, too…)
Still, for the time being – for all those who hope to keep the one prime sport of football, at least, free from Aussie and US dominance: this early leg ends a creditable score-draw.
"Stop right now, thank you very much..."
Surprisingly, amid all the city swells, there haven't been as many outlandish outfits as you might perhaps expect - save for a couple of England fans inexplicably turning up in Frankfurt in skimpy, pink babydoll skirts.
Instead, supporters are tending to stick to tried and trusted methods such as dyeing their hair, or painting small flags on their cheeks.
One accessorising German follower seems to have misunderstood the message, however. Ralf Kendzia has allowed that opening-day win to go not to his head, but his bottom – having the national flag tattooed to his right cheek, and yet at the same time, the wrong cheek.
His bare behind now bares the rather presumptuous, premature message: “Deutschland – Weltmeister 2006”.
Victoria Beckham’s rather more pert posterior, imprinted with the England flag though only trouser-deep, has understandably stirred more passion - in the papers and on TV, anyway - than flabby 41-year-old Ralf's.
And after seeing Paolo Wanchope saunter so simply through the hosts’ hopeless defence, any Germans tempted to copy Ralf's idea are advised to sit on it awhile.
Instead, supporters are tending to stick to tried and trusted methods such as dyeing their hair, or painting small flags on their cheeks.
One accessorising German follower seems to have misunderstood the message, however. Ralf Kendzia has allowed that opening-day win to go not to his head, but his bottom – having the national flag tattooed to his right cheek, and yet at the same time, the wrong cheek.
His bare behind now bares the rather presumptuous, premature message: “Deutschland – Weltmeister 2006”.
Victoria Beckham’s rather more pert posterior, imprinted with the England flag though only trouser-deep, has understandably stirred more passion - in the papers and on TV, anyway - than flabby 41-year-old Ralf's.
And after seeing Paolo Wanchope saunter so simply through the hosts’ hopeless defence, any Germans tempted to copy Ralf's idea are advised to sit on it awhile.
Look back in Angola...
It can probably be safely said, we won’t see another team quite like Angola this summer.
For much of last night’s first half against Portugal, at the very least, they offered football as farce – haphazardly haring, scaring and simply bewildering their opponents.
This was Hackney Marshes stuff, somehow replacing the pristine pitch of Cologne.
Angola, making their World Cup debut, looked like they had no better clue than the rest of us as to how they managed to qualify at the expense of Nigeria or Cameroon.
They almost went behind direct from kick-off, the unreliable Pauleta steering wide when put through after just 12 seconds.
Minutes later, he atoned by tapping in from a cross by the supposedly past-it Luis Figo, who had been quickest to react to a loose ball and strongest in muscling past heavy-footed Jamba.
Angola were all over the place – attempts to work out what formation they were playing had to be abandoned, such was the apparent tactical indiscipline.
Eventually it was pointed out they appeared to be trying to man-mark the Portuguese midfield – interesting. If desperately brave.
Slice. Slalom. Clatter. No wonder mistakes began to creep into the play of the more eminent Portuguese opponents.
It must have been tricky – mind-bogglingly confusing, more like – to know how to counter such hapless tactics.
Luis Goncalves, the Angolan manager who had risen through the youth coaching ranks, looked to be struck dumb with shock on the touchline.
He gave the impression of a humble PE teacher suddenly, astonished, thrust into an arena well beyond his station and expectations – while also resembling the bewildered Guy Goma, perhaps.
Yet somehow, equally surprisingly, Angola started to find a little fluency, some neat passing movements, the odd crossfield sweep from veteran Figueiredo or burst of pace by Ze Kalanga.
Invariably, the effect would be suddenly spoiled by a wild, panicky scoop into the stands.
They even might have had an equaliser just before half-time, when rich playboy captain Akwa gave up on the forlorn idea of scoring the perfect bicycle kick.
Instead, he fended off Meira in an absorbing wrestle-dance out of the penalty area, eventually teeing up a fierce drive by Andre tipped aside by Ricardo.
That is, Portugal’s goalkeeper Ricardo, as opposed to Angola’s keeper, Joao Ricardo.
Angola had started the game with four players who earn their living in Portugal, and another four on the bench.
The former colonial power had, naturally, been the dominant party again in the first half, with the infuriating Ronaldo taking time off from extravagant dives to thunder a header against the crossbar and a right-foot shot to sting Joao Ricardo’s palms.
But he also took a verbal slapping from Tiago for too often abandoning his place on the wing, and was angrily substituted early in the second half. An infuriating player to play against, surely – and alongside.
Despite weighing in early – albeit later than he should have done – with a long-awaited major tournament goal, Pauleta was as ineffective as he was isolated.
Most of the time the Anthony Perkins lookalike simply stood insincerely grinning, like Norman Bates trying to assure suspicious visitors everything’s all right, yet deep-down knowing he’s in for a ticking-off – at the very least – later.
All the while, Scolari glowered in the dug-out.
Like the England-Paraguay game, this one petered out somewhat in the second half, as the hearty Angolan section of the stadium upped the tempo and the volume while the Portuguese jeered their own.
We were willing Angola to snatch a dramatic equaliser, but they could claim a kind of moral victory when the final whistle went and the score was just 1-0.
After all, their first match against Portugal had ended in a 6-0 drubbing.
The follow-up was abandoned after 70 minutes with Portugal cruising at 5-1, after Angola had ben reduced to seven men – four red cards and one injury.
Things could only get better, I suppose.
As his players hailed their fans, they strolled off down the tunnel, Goncalves sat alone in his dug-out.
Soaking up the atmosphere of his, and his country’s, first World Cup Finals experience?
Or simply stunned?
Their next two games should be fun.
Enjoy them while you can – Angola may not be back on the big stage for a while.
For much of last night’s first half against Portugal, at the very least, they offered football as farce – haphazardly haring, scaring and simply bewildering their opponents.
This was Hackney Marshes stuff, somehow replacing the pristine pitch of Cologne.
Angola, making their World Cup debut, looked like they had no better clue than the rest of us as to how they managed to qualify at the expense of Nigeria or Cameroon.
They almost went behind direct from kick-off, the unreliable Pauleta steering wide when put through after just 12 seconds.
Minutes later, he atoned by tapping in from a cross by the supposedly past-it Luis Figo, who had been quickest to react to a loose ball and strongest in muscling past heavy-footed Jamba.
Angola were all over the place – attempts to work out what formation they were playing had to be abandoned, such was the apparent tactical indiscipline.
Eventually it was pointed out they appeared to be trying to man-mark the Portuguese midfield – interesting. If desperately brave.
Slice. Slalom. Clatter. No wonder mistakes began to creep into the play of the more eminent Portuguese opponents.
It must have been tricky – mind-bogglingly confusing, more like – to know how to counter such hapless tactics.
Luis Goncalves, the Angolan manager who had risen through the youth coaching ranks, looked to be struck dumb with shock on the touchline.
He gave the impression of a humble PE teacher suddenly, astonished, thrust into an arena well beyond his station and expectations – while also resembling the bewildered Guy Goma, perhaps.
Yet somehow, equally surprisingly, Angola started to find a little fluency, some neat passing movements, the odd crossfield sweep from veteran Figueiredo or burst of pace by Ze Kalanga.
Invariably, the effect would be suddenly spoiled by a wild, panicky scoop into the stands.
They even might have had an equaliser just before half-time, when rich playboy captain Akwa gave up on the forlorn idea of scoring the perfect bicycle kick.
Instead, he fended off Meira in an absorbing wrestle-dance out of the penalty area, eventually teeing up a fierce drive by Andre tipped aside by Ricardo.
That is, Portugal’s goalkeeper Ricardo, as opposed to Angola’s keeper, Joao Ricardo.
Angola had started the game with four players who earn their living in Portugal, and another four on the bench.
The former colonial power had, naturally, been the dominant party again in the first half, with the infuriating Ronaldo taking time off from extravagant dives to thunder a header against the crossbar and a right-foot shot to sting Joao Ricardo’s palms.
But he also took a verbal slapping from Tiago for too often abandoning his place on the wing, and was angrily substituted early in the second half. An infuriating player to play against, surely – and alongside.
Despite weighing in early – albeit later than he should have done – with a long-awaited major tournament goal, Pauleta was as ineffective as he was isolated.
Most of the time the Anthony Perkins lookalike simply stood insincerely grinning, like Norman Bates trying to assure suspicious visitors everything’s all right, yet deep-down knowing he’s in for a ticking-off – at the very least – later.
All the while, Scolari glowered in the dug-out.
Like the England-Paraguay game, this one petered out somewhat in the second half, as the hearty Angolan section of the stadium upped the tempo and the volume while the Portuguese jeered their own.
We were willing Angola to snatch a dramatic equaliser, but they could claim a kind of moral victory when the final whistle went and the score was just 1-0.
After all, their first match against Portugal had ended in a 6-0 drubbing.
The follow-up was abandoned after 70 minutes with Portugal cruising at 5-1, after Angola had ben reduced to seven men – four red cards and one injury.
Things could only get better, I suppose.
As his players hailed their fans, they strolled off down the tunnel, Goncalves sat alone in his dug-out.
Soaking up the atmosphere of his, and his country’s, first World Cup Finals experience?
Or simply stunned?
Their next two games should be fun.
Enjoy them while you can – Angola may not be back on the big stage for a while.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
So, to Cologne...
For a brief breakaway from only visiting Germany’s temples of football (sorry), this morning allowed time to take in a real cathedral – Cologne’s imperious presence, which stayed standing even as the rest of the city was reduced to rubble by a British riposte to those “ten German bombers” and the like which people certainly – or hopefully – shan’t be singing about this summer…
A packed cathedral for Sunday morning service let in a few of us tottering at the back, picking up dim and distant, tremulous echoes of “Alleluia” and “Im Namen des Vaters, Sohns und heiligen Geistes” from somewhere within the vast and sparse setting.
Back to business this afternoon and evening, of course, and tonight’s enticing clash between Portugal and Angola awaits. Ex-colonial master versus ex-colonial servant, as both sides kick off their World Cup campaigns – Angola’s first – in what should be an enjoyable game – and comfortable victory for Portugal and the object of England’s unrequited affections, Luis Felipe Scolari.
Well, it should be comfortable, for a side containing such attacking verve as offered by Deco, Figo and Ronaldo.
Still, memories linger of the otherwise-prolific Pauleta’s profligacy in front of goal throughout Euro 2004. Unhappier memories still persist of the hat-trick of one-on-ones wasted by Helder Postiga during a North London derby at Highbury – before he later scored an inevitable equaliser against England, as we exited that same Euro 2004.
He should be on the bench again this evening, despite long since departing White Hart Lane in igmominy and not faring much better in France. Bemusing.
Earlier today, Holland looked astonishingly pacy and powerful in the early afternoon heat – certainly much more so than sluggish England yesterday. Arjen Robben, in particular, was exhausting just to watch, dominating both flanks and even emerging ahead of Ruud van Nistelrooy up-front on many occasions.
Most notably, he latched onto a precise pass through defence from Robin van Persie, outsprinted the defence and struck past the ‘keeper for the deciding goal against Serbia and (for now, anyway) Montenegro.
Holland’s match against Argentina in Frankfurt a week on Wednesday becomes more mouth-watering by the minute.
Argentina looked ominously-assured last night, in their 2-1 win over energetic yet sloppy Ivory Coast. Juan Roman Riquelme could emerge as the outstanding performer of the tournament if he continues to lay on such impeccable, defence-slicing passes as those setting up Crespo and Saviola in the first half.
Abdelkader Keita, at the other end, made a memorable mess of two shots on goal, but Didier Drogba deserved his consolation strike – finely, trickily-taken – after working impressively hard across the attack.
He even leapt immediately, instinctively to his feet after a tumble in the penalty area, scrapping to win the ball back without any acrobatics or indigant appeals for a spot-kick.
Perhaps he momentarily forgot who he was. Or perhaps he becomes a different person when not sporting (or un-sporting) Chelsea blue.
The so-called “group of death” has come to life, and looks like it should live up to all of its intriguing promise.
A packed cathedral for Sunday morning service let in a few of us tottering at the back, picking up dim and distant, tremulous echoes of “Alleluia” and “Im Namen des Vaters, Sohns und heiligen Geistes” from somewhere within the vast and sparse setting.
Back to business this afternoon and evening, of course, and tonight’s enticing clash between Portugal and Angola awaits. Ex-colonial master versus ex-colonial servant, as both sides kick off their World Cup campaigns – Angola’s first – in what should be an enjoyable game – and comfortable victory for Portugal and the object of England’s unrequited affections, Luis Felipe Scolari.
Well, it should be comfortable, for a side containing such attacking verve as offered by Deco, Figo and Ronaldo.
Still, memories linger of the otherwise-prolific Pauleta’s profligacy in front of goal throughout Euro 2004. Unhappier memories still persist of the hat-trick of one-on-ones wasted by Helder Postiga during a North London derby at Highbury – before he later scored an inevitable equaliser against England, as we exited that same Euro 2004.
He should be on the bench again this evening, despite long since departing White Hart Lane in igmominy and not faring much better in France. Bemusing.
Earlier today, Holland looked astonishingly pacy and powerful in the early afternoon heat – certainly much more so than sluggish England yesterday. Arjen Robben, in particular, was exhausting just to watch, dominating both flanks and even emerging ahead of Ruud van Nistelrooy up-front on many occasions.
Most notably, he latched onto a precise pass through defence from Robin van Persie, outsprinted the defence and struck past the ‘keeper for the deciding goal against Serbia and (for now, anyway) Montenegro.
Holland’s match against Argentina in Frankfurt a week on Wednesday becomes more mouth-watering by the minute.
Argentina looked ominously-assured last night, in their 2-1 win over energetic yet sloppy Ivory Coast. Juan Roman Riquelme could emerge as the outstanding performer of the tournament if he continues to lay on such impeccable, defence-slicing passes as those setting up Crespo and Saviola in the first half.
Abdelkader Keita, at the other end, made a memorable mess of two shots on goal, but Didier Drogba deserved his consolation strike – finely, trickily-taken – after working impressively hard across the attack.
He even leapt immediately, instinctively to his feet after a tumble in the penalty area, scrapping to win the ball back without any acrobatics or indigant appeals for a spot-kick.
Perhaps he momentarily forgot who he was. Or perhaps he becomes a different person when not sporting (or un-sporting) Chelsea blue.
The so-called “group of death” has come to life, and looks like it should live up to all of its intriguing promise.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
"It don't come easy, you know it don't come easy..."
Two cracking games to kick off the World Cup – so trust England come along to help drag things down a level in the third one.
Perhaps that’s not quite fair, though the second half of the 1-0 win over Paraguay was especially laboured and leaden.
But take the positives – England, indeed eventual winners, rarely start the tournament in top gear, and although this was a heat-sapping toil in the sizzling Frankfurt sunshine, there should be plenty more to come from the likes of Lampard, Gerrard and Beckham.
The goal was a dream start, catching unawares several of us who had only just completed the epic clamber to the heights of the stadium. Paraguayan captain Gamarra certainly took his glancing header goal well – shame for him it was past his own ‘keeper, the unfortunate Villar – unused sub at the 2002 tournament – whose 2006 efforts may well have ended with his injury a few minutes later, forcing him to limp off the field in tears.
England will no doubt take a fair heft of criticism tomorrow, but in the first 20-25 minutes they looked full of fizz and invention, with Beckham and Gerrard offering intelligent movement and incisive, quick passing. Sadly, Michael Owen looked well off full fitness, stumbling over the ball when put clean through, and often over-shadowed by the sharper Peter Crouch – who was unlucky to be penalised quite so often by an over-fussy Mexican referee, but who weighed in with several crucial defensive headers and clearances from Paraguayan corners.
Sadly, the second goal didn’t come – and Gerrard’s dominance began to quickly fade once he took a headbutt to the knee from the prima donna-ish Peredes, allowing Paraguay to start probing back at us – with Nelson Valdez upfront in particular looking dangerous, and certainly trickier than the more-hyped Roque Santa Cruz.
The second half was appallingly scrappy, though, from both sides as England again over-indulged in too-hopeful, long-range potshots at goal – Gerrard and Lampard were the guiltiest, though Lampard did almost atone for his uncharacteristic wasteful passing with two crisper shots which tested the replacement ‘keeper. Beckham was nowhere near as influential after half-time, though throughout the game his corners and crosses seldom beat the first Paraguayan head - which wasn't such a bad thing for the goal, but rather frustrating otherwise...
The replacement of Owen with Stewart Downing in the 55th minute exposed the folly of Sven’s decision to take only four strikers, two unfit and one woefully inexperienced. To accommodate Downing on the left flank, he pushed Joe Cole into the role of support striker – yes, after all the tinkering in pre-World Cup friendlies, here was an attacking tactic Sven hadn’t even attempted. Genius, well worth every penny of £4million each year… Pah.
Downing was disappointing, failing to deliver a single cross – but one wayward shot – but then again, he is very raw himself. The arrival of Hargreaves for Joe Cole may have been meant to shore up England as they saw out the last few minutes, holding on for the win, but if anything the side looked even more ragged, the closer the final whistle came.
Still – while they may have been turgid on the pitch, off the pitch England were triumphant again. What an atmosphere, what an appearance, what a sound – even when baffled slightly by the PA system playing the German version of Three Lions described below.
Fifa’s eccentric allocation policy may have suggested an England turnout of just 14,000, but such stats can be left to the realms of ludicrous fancy. There looked to be at least 14,000 flags alone – always providing a pleasure, scanning the unlikely alliances, the juxtapositions of THFC, Newcastle United, Manchester City , Aston Villa and Liverpool, with humbler lower-division sides such as Stockport County, Huddersfield Town (very proudly educating the Germans with the tagline: “Champions 1924-25-26”), Wycombe Wanderers and Bristol City (Bristol had a few flags out there in fact, a good showing!), down to pretty obscure towns and villages including Treeton, Crook Town, Frodsham, Matlock and the “Oyster Boys On Tour” from Whitstable Town.
My favourite flag of them all, though?
A giant St George’s banner bearing the plangent message: “Claire – don’t give birth yet.”
Now there’s a man with his priorities bang-on.
Perhaps that’s not quite fair, though the second half of the 1-0 win over Paraguay was especially laboured and leaden.
But take the positives – England, indeed eventual winners, rarely start the tournament in top gear, and although this was a heat-sapping toil in the sizzling Frankfurt sunshine, there should be plenty more to come from the likes of Lampard, Gerrard and Beckham.
The goal was a dream start, catching unawares several of us who had only just completed the epic clamber to the heights of the stadium. Paraguayan captain Gamarra certainly took his glancing header goal well – shame for him it was past his own ‘keeper, the unfortunate Villar – unused sub at the 2002 tournament – whose 2006 efforts may well have ended with his injury a few minutes later, forcing him to limp off the field in tears.
England will no doubt take a fair heft of criticism tomorrow, but in the first 20-25 minutes they looked full of fizz and invention, with Beckham and Gerrard offering intelligent movement and incisive, quick passing. Sadly, Michael Owen looked well off full fitness, stumbling over the ball when put clean through, and often over-shadowed by the sharper Peter Crouch – who was unlucky to be penalised quite so often by an over-fussy Mexican referee, but who weighed in with several crucial defensive headers and clearances from Paraguayan corners.
Sadly, the second goal didn’t come – and Gerrard’s dominance began to quickly fade once he took a headbutt to the knee from the prima donna-ish Peredes, allowing Paraguay to start probing back at us – with Nelson Valdez upfront in particular looking dangerous, and certainly trickier than the more-hyped Roque Santa Cruz.
The second half was appallingly scrappy, though, from both sides as England again over-indulged in too-hopeful, long-range potshots at goal – Gerrard and Lampard were the guiltiest, though Lampard did almost atone for his uncharacteristic wasteful passing with two crisper shots which tested the replacement ‘keeper. Beckham was nowhere near as influential after half-time, though throughout the game his corners and crosses seldom beat the first Paraguayan head - which wasn't such a bad thing for the goal, but rather frustrating otherwise...
The replacement of Owen with Stewart Downing in the 55th minute exposed the folly of Sven’s decision to take only four strikers, two unfit and one woefully inexperienced. To accommodate Downing on the left flank, he pushed Joe Cole into the role of support striker – yes, after all the tinkering in pre-World Cup friendlies, here was an attacking tactic Sven hadn’t even attempted. Genius, well worth every penny of £4million each year… Pah.
Downing was disappointing, failing to deliver a single cross – but one wayward shot – but then again, he is very raw himself. The arrival of Hargreaves for Joe Cole may have been meant to shore up England as they saw out the last few minutes, holding on for the win, but if anything the side looked even more ragged, the closer the final whistle came.
Still – while they may have been turgid on the pitch, off the pitch England were triumphant again. What an atmosphere, what an appearance, what a sound – even when baffled slightly by the PA system playing the German version of Three Lions described below.
Fifa’s eccentric allocation policy may have suggested an England turnout of just 14,000, but such stats can be left to the realms of ludicrous fancy. There looked to be at least 14,000 flags alone – always providing a pleasure, scanning the unlikely alliances, the juxtapositions of THFC, Newcastle United, Manchester City , Aston Villa and Liverpool, with humbler lower-division sides such as Stockport County, Huddersfield Town (very proudly educating the Germans with the tagline: “Champions 1924-25-26”), Wycombe Wanderers and Bristol City (Bristol had a few flags out there in fact, a good showing!), down to pretty obscure towns and villages including Treeton, Crook Town, Frodsham, Matlock and the “Oyster Boys On Tour” from Whitstable Town.
My favourite flag of them all, though?
A giant St George’s banner bearing the plangent message: “Claire – don’t give birth yet.”
Now there’s a man with his priorities bang-on.
"Stand and deliver..."
It's chaos here in Frankfurt, where I've just managed to struggle my way through the queuing crowds and zealous security checks, albeit now carrying a (slightly) lighter load: after a search of the travelbag I've had to bring with, my deodorants were confiscated.
Perhaps they were seen as a potentially offensive weapon.
Oh, for a bit of joined-up thinking. With plenty of the tournament, and travelling, left, the absence of deoderant could prove to be even more offensive...
Two years ago, when Catherine and I were going into Porto's stadium for the Euro 2004 qualifier between Greece and the Czech Republic, the security staff were very insistent on confiscating her cheese baguette.
I think it was the lack of meat inside which worried them...
Still, some confiscations are clearly necessary.
Take another friend, Nick, for example - who delayed a group entrance to Loftus Road to see QPR play Everton, when the stewards started emptying his pockets to reveal such contraband as a Swiss army knife, a screwdriver, and a dog lead...
He doesn't even have a dog.
Perhaps they were seen as a potentially offensive weapon.
Oh, for a bit of joined-up thinking. With plenty of the tournament, and travelling, left, the absence of deoderant could prove to be even more offensive...
Two years ago, when Catherine and I were going into Porto's stadium for the Euro 2004 qualifier between Greece and the Czech Republic, the security staff were very insistent on confiscating her cheese baguette.
I think it was the lack of meat inside which worried them...
Still, some confiscations are clearly necessary.
Take another friend, Nick, for example - who delayed a group entrance to Loftus Road to see QPR play Everton, when the stewards started emptying his pockets to reveal such contraband as a Swiss army knife, a screwdriver, and a dog lead...
He doesn't even have a dog.
"Son of a gun, we'll have big fun in the Bayern..."
“So far, I’ve been in a train and a room, and a car and a room, and a room and a room.” So scowls Wilfrid Brambell, as Paul McCartney’s grandfather in A Hard Day’s Night, and while a moan could not be further from my lips, or indeed fingertips, there could be a similar feeling at parts of this World Cup.
Only with extra, extravagant stadia, high-scoring football entertainment, and all-surrounding fans’ fervour, of course.
Ah yes. The next month or so may take me to most, maybe all, of Germany’s major cities without actually seeing much of them apart from the stadia, the media centres, the football pitch and the saying-farewell train-window peers through bleary eyes.
But if the tournament itself kicks on as it should from yesterday’s kick-off, then who cares?
The highest-scoring opening match in World Cup Finals history may not have been the most beautiful, but it was good to see the hosts get off to a decent start – at least two of Germany’s goals were of the highest quality, Philipp Lahm showing how a right-footed left-back can surprise and torment in a special way, Torsten Frings putting the icing on the cake with an unstoppable late, long-range swerver – while also suggesting, through two horrific defensive lapses, that the old German reputation for ruthless efficiency at the back may no longer be such a worry for future opponents. Per Mertesacker had a nightmare – surely even Robert Huth can’t be worse than this flat-footed lumberer? Hmm, maybe…
Interesting to see Jens Lehmann rooted to his spot as Costa Rica’s Paulo Wanchope advanced unopposed both times – you’d almost imagine something had happened recently to make him wary of rushing out of goal in characteristic style…
Despite having arrived at our Munich hotel after 4am, the intention was to get to the Munich Arena as early as possible, expecting lengthy queues for the boring practicalities such as media accreditation, broadband access, hiring a German mobile… In fact, contrary to my dad’s experience when checking in a few days earlier, it was a breeze for me – although the first hordes surrounding the accreditation centre were disorienting. Thankfully, they turned out to be queuing to pick up tickets – with signs advising no returns were on offer. No chance. Even Costa Ricans appeared to have turned out in force, early on even seeming to outnumber the German shirts on display. Not for long, however…
The new Munich arena – sponsors’ names are disallowed, officially, during Fifa tournaments – is a wonder on a crest, looking like a spaceship or a giant bubble from the outside, a three-tiered soaring amphitheatre from inside. The old Olympic Stadium, where Sven’s England famously triumphed 5-1 five years ago, is no longer used for top-class football – its athletics track unpopular for forcing fans a fair distance from the field.
Having settled myself surprisingly early – for both such an event, and my own knack for panicking – there were several hours to kill in the media centre, before the scheduled opening of the opening ceremony at the odd time of 4.23pm. The prospect of Bavarian bell-ringers, thigh-slappers and Seeed (sic), supposedly the “phattest” beats band on the German music circuit, was not precisely what had attracted 66,000 people to converge on the same place together just now, but the chance to see a World Cup opening ceremony in all its odd “glory” does not come around too often either, so…
In fact, some of it was rather spectacular, and certainly colourful, and it was a nice move to bring on many previous World Cup winners – including the old England boys, plus an impressive collection of Brazilian codgers, and familiar faces such as Ricky Villa. Plus, of course, the inevitable Pele – and, I suppose, inevitable Claudia Schiffer – marching onto the pitch the chunky solid gold bauble we all want: the World Cup itself.
Perhaps most stunning, however, was the effect achieved by placing strategically-coloured flags upon each seat, so when brandished they managed a swirling pattern around the whole stadium – including the German flag depicted in one stand, Costa Rican colours in their section. A similar colour coup was mustered for the 1992 European Cup final at Wembley, when sheets on seats were so arranged, that both the Barcelona and Sampdoria ends were each able to conjure giant badges to eye-catching, spine-tingling effect.
Opening games are often dour and cautious, so the early flurry of goals here was a pleasant surprise – and the “Ticos’” reluctance to give up until Frings’s clincher helped, albeit with even more assistance from what inspired the Bildung Zeit’s headline this morning: “This defence is a nightmare!”
Bastian Schweinsteiger on the German left-wing – or “Schweiny” as a particularly plangent fan sitting behind me so tenderly, repeatedly hailed him – was perhaps player of the first half, the highlight his perfectly-timed link-up with the clever, persistent stand-in captain Bernd Schneider on the right flank. Schneider tussled his way past a defender by the right corner flag, with all expecting a hefty cross only for him to weigh the ball back to where, unspotted by many, Schweinsteiger ghosted from nowhere, pushed the ball past the nearest defender with one deft touch then speared it goalwards for Klose to jab easily in. He could hardly miss for his second goal, either, though Costa Rican ‘keeper Porras was unfortunate on the rebound after an acrobatic save from Klose’s first header.
The final whistle brought a rendition of “Stand up for the Champions” over the loudspeakers – a little premature and presumptuous, perhaps, considering it was merely a firsr-game win over unfancied Latin American outsiders, but still… “Wir fahren, wir fahren, wir fahren zu Berlin” appears to have become the favoured, basic chant of Germany’s optimists – in France eight years ago, especially as the hosts edged towards the final, the ubiquitous holler was: “Allez les bleus, allez les bleus.”
The Germans were certainly in good – well, loud – voice throughout, even if their fondness for Three Lions as an adoptive national anthem is rather bemusing.
The 1998 version by Frank Skinner and David Baddiel was briefly played before the match, while a slightly-amended version was performed by German “pop stars” on a bemusing TV programme we caught after returning to the hotel last night. They kept the first verse intact, so the “tears for heroes dressed in grey, no plans for finals day” came across less as lachrymose self-pity, but bare-faced gloating… The new chorus, however, runs: “Heroes in the shirt, everybody gleaming, no more years of hurt, no more need for dreaming…”
A message to the land of Beethoven, Wagner and, er, Kraftwerk: Get your own tune!
Diamond Lights by Glenn Hoddle and Chris Waddle, or Gazza’s Fog On The Tyne may be famous (or infamous) English attempts at fusing football and pop music, but Germany certainly appears to have the upper – or lower – hand.
Or maybe it’s just that football and pop music really shouldn’t mix – in any language.
A show called Kultnacht revisited official German World Cup anthems through the ages – including excruciating turns by a tuneless Berti Vogts, in a top-hat-and-tails Astaire-esque duet from 1976 (even more embarrassing than his spell in charge of Scotland), and a Village People-aping song for USA 94 – in which, among the besuited German squad dutifully mumbling along behind the obligatory cop, cowboy, Red Indian and the rest, the most enthusiastic swayer was a certain Jurgen Klinsmann. Surely even the fake Sheikh couldn’t have been a more cruel humiliation for a national coach…
Still, at least Jurgen’s old enemy Lothar Matthaeus shared in the shame, with footage of him performing a very reluctant rap, also ahead of that American adventure. Did he learn nothing from John Barnes four years earlier?
Klinsmann was in typically, tiptoeing-between-chirpy-and-chippy mood in yesterday’s post-match Press conference, hailing his players in that strange blend of German sharpness and transatlantic corporate jargon – save for when he brusquely dismissed an English reporter’s attempt to have him criticising the new, extra-light Adidas footballs. “No, I don’t have any concerns,” he retorted with a contemptuous flash of his hands, before lightening and laughing: “Put the ball in the goal – that’s all I care about.” The German FA’s lucrative sponsorship deal with adidas perhaps weighed heavier than the balls themselves – more so for Klinsmann, perhaps, than recently for Lehmann who was more outspoken (Nike-sponsored Lehmann, of Nike-sponsored Arsenal, of course!)
After the ceremony’s oddly-tasting starter, and the fast food main course of the German game, the Ecuador-Poland evening match was an agreeably tangy dessert which went down nice and light – though it must have left the Poles furious at a night when nothing went their way, and what they would have expected to be a breeze became a disastrous 2-0 defeat.
I wonder what Gordon Strachan made of it. His Celtic striker Zurawski was so effectively marshalled out of the game I had to check and recheck the line-ups to whether he was meant to be on the pitch or not.
At the other end, ex-Southampton striker Agustin Delgado – more AWOL than on-fire for Strachan on the South Coast despite his £3.5million price-tag – set up Ecuador’s first for Tenorio and, with obvious relish, tucked away the second. You really shouldn’t underestimate a team which can claim victories over both Argentina and Brazil during qualifying – albeit at rather a lofty altitude, of course.
Strachan's claims for Zurawski?
“He’s not going to be a good player. He’s going to be a great player”.
His thoughts on Delgado, when asked about the player at Southampton?
"I've got more important things to think about. I've got a yoghurt to finish by today, the expiry date is today. That can be my priority rather than Agustin Delgado."
His time at Saints turned sour, but Delgado could now find himself up against English opposition for a change, in the second round. We do, of course, also have the tasty prospect of a clash with the hosts – either in the second round or the semi-finals. But we’re getting predictably ahead of ourselves already…
Ah yes, England. Today should be rather intriguing – both on the pitch and off. Other than the host nation, no country ever sends more supporters to a tournament than England – and not simply for our games, but avidly lapping up the entertainment, atmosphere and sheer experience of even the most unprepossessing tussle of minnows. Sadly, my friend Dazza, after all his giant flag planning and PR, has been denied entry for the 6,000sqft flag at Frankfurt’s Kommerzbank Arena – sorry, Waldstadion – no, sorry, that’s no longer valid since the rebuilding, so we’ll have to stick with the prosaic World Cup Stadium, Frankfurt. Anyway, a safety officer at the stadium broke the news to the FA yesterday – and flags draped over balconies also face being forced down, though I’d like to see the brave steward taking it upon him/herself to drag them all down…
England’s record in opening games is not great – the last they won was in France 1998, a 2-0 triumph over Tunisia I previously described here – but we really, really should prove too artful and strong for the decent-ish Paraguayans today, even Rooney-less… shouldn’t we?
A Japanese reporter sitting next to me in yesterday’s Klinsmann Press conference was very eager to engage me in detailed dissections of England’s tactics, feverishly scrawling diagrams of each Plan B, C, D and threatening to go all the way to Z, before being sidetracked by a reverie about the dangers of “lovely player” Cardozo, his ability to trap a ball with head or chest when defenders would be expecting a foot, and how he would cause terrible worries running diagonally at vulnerable right-back Gary Neville.
He did indeed sound frighteningly good, even for a 35-year-old.
Good job, then, the sadly-injured Cardozo had already returned home to Paraguay. Phew.
Only with extra, extravagant stadia, high-scoring football entertainment, and all-surrounding fans’ fervour, of course.
Ah yes. The next month or so may take me to most, maybe all, of Germany’s major cities without actually seeing much of them apart from the stadia, the media centres, the football pitch and the saying-farewell train-window peers through bleary eyes.
But if the tournament itself kicks on as it should from yesterday’s kick-off, then who cares?
The highest-scoring opening match in World Cup Finals history may not have been the most beautiful, but it was good to see the hosts get off to a decent start – at least two of Germany’s goals were of the highest quality, Philipp Lahm showing how a right-footed left-back can surprise and torment in a special way, Torsten Frings putting the icing on the cake with an unstoppable late, long-range swerver – while also suggesting, through two horrific defensive lapses, that the old German reputation for ruthless efficiency at the back may no longer be such a worry for future opponents. Per Mertesacker had a nightmare – surely even Robert Huth can’t be worse than this flat-footed lumberer? Hmm, maybe…
Interesting to see Jens Lehmann rooted to his spot as Costa Rica’s Paulo Wanchope advanced unopposed both times – you’d almost imagine something had happened recently to make him wary of rushing out of goal in characteristic style…
Despite having arrived at our Munich hotel after 4am, the intention was to get to the Munich Arena as early as possible, expecting lengthy queues for the boring practicalities such as media accreditation, broadband access, hiring a German mobile… In fact, contrary to my dad’s experience when checking in a few days earlier, it was a breeze for me – although the first hordes surrounding the accreditation centre were disorienting. Thankfully, they turned out to be queuing to pick up tickets – with signs advising no returns were on offer. No chance. Even Costa Ricans appeared to have turned out in force, early on even seeming to outnumber the German shirts on display. Not for long, however…
The new Munich arena – sponsors’ names are disallowed, officially, during Fifa tournaments – is a wonder on a crest, looking like a spaceship or a giant bubble from the outside, a three-tiered soaring amphitheatre from inside. The old Olympic Stadium, where Sven’s England famously triumphed 5-1 five years ago, is no longer used for top-class football – its athletics track unpopular for forcing fans a fair distance from the field.
Having settled myself surprisingly early – for both such an event, and my own knack for panicking – there were several hours to kill in the media centre, before the scheduled opening of the opening ceremony at the odd time of 4.23pm. The prospect of Bavarian bell-ringers, thigh-slappers and Seeed (sic), supposedly the “phattest” beats band on the German music circuit, was not precisely what had attracted 66,000 people to converge on the same place together just now, but the chance to see a World Cup opening ceremony in all its odd “glory” does not come around too often either, so…
In fact, some of it was rather spectacular, and certainly colourful, and it was a nice move to bring on many previous World Cup winners – including the old England boys, plus an impressive collection of Brazilian codgers, and familiar faces such as Ricky Villa. Plus, of course, the inevitable Pele – and, I suppose, inevitable Claudia Schiffer – marching onto the pitch the chunky solid gold bauble we all want: the World Cup itself.
Perhaps most stunning, however, was the effect achieved by placing strategically-coloured flags upon each seat, so when brandished they managed a swirling pattern around the whole stadium – including the German flag depicted in one stand, Costa Rican colours in their section. A similar colour coup was mustered for the 1992 European Cup final at Wembley, when sheets on seats were so arranged, that both the Barcelona and Sampdoria ends were each able to conjure giant badges to eye-catching, spine-tingling effect.
Opening games are often dour and cautious, so the early flurry of goals here was a pleasant surprise – and the “Ticos’” reluctance to give up until Frings’s clincher helped, albeit with even more assistance from what inspired the Bildung Zeit’s headline this morning: “This defence is a nightmare!”
Bastian Schweinsteiger on the German left-wing – or “Schweiny” as a particularly plangent fan sitting behind me so tenderly, repeatedly hailed him – was perhaps player of the first half, the highlight his perfectly-timed link-up with the clever, persistent stand-in captain Bernd Schneider on the right flank. Schneider tussled his way past a defender by the right corner flag, with all expecting a hefty cross only for him to weigh the ball back to where, unspotted by many, Schweinsteiger ghosted from nowhere, pushed the ball past the nearest defender with one deft touch then speared it goalwards for Klose to jab easily in. He could hardly miss for his second goal, either, though Costa Rican ‘keeper Porras was unfortunate on the rebound after an acrobatic save from Klose’s first header.
The final whistle brought a rendition of “Stand up for the Champions” over the loudspeakers – a little premature and presumptuous, perhaps, considering it was merely a firsr-game win over unfancied Latin American outsiders, but still… “Wir fahren, wir fahren, wir fahren zu Berlin” appears to have become the favoured, basic chant of Germany’s optimists – in France eight years ago, especially as the hosts edged towards the final, the ubiquitous holler was: “Allez les bleus, allez les bleus.”
The Germans were certainly in good – well, loud – voice throughout, even if their fondness for Three Lions as an adoptive national anthem is rather bemusing.
The 1998 version by Frank Skinner and David Baddiel was briefly played before the match, while a slightly-amended version was performed by German “pop stars” on a bemusing TV programme we caught after returning to the hotel last night. They kept the first verse intact, so the “tears for heroes dressed in grey, no plans for finals day” came across less as lachrymose self-pity, but bare-faced gloating… The new chorus, however, runs: “Heroes in the shirt, everybody gleaming, no more years of hurt, no more need for dreaming…”
A message to the land of Beethoven, Wagner and, er, Kraftwerk: Get your own tune!
Diamond Lights by Glenn Hoddle and Chris Waddle, or Gazza’s Fog On The Tyne may be famous (or infamous) English attempts at fusing football and pop music, but Germany certainly appears to have the upper – or lower – hand.
Or maybe it’s just that football and pop music really shouldn’t mix – in any language.
A show called Kultnacht revisited official German World Cup anthems through the ages – including excruciating turns by a tuneless Berti Vogts, in a top-hat-and-tails Astaire-esque duet from 1976 (even more embarrassing than his spell in charge of Scotland), and a Village People-aping song for USA 94 – in which, among the besuited German squad dutifully mumbling along behind the obligatory cop, cowboy, Red Indian and the rest, the most enthusiastic swayer was a certain Jurgen Klinsmann. Surely even the fake Sheikh couldn’t have been a more cruel humiliation for a national coach…
Still, at least Jurgen’s old enemy Lothar Matthaeus shared in the shame, with footage of him performing a very reluctant rap, also ahead of that American adventure. Did he learn nothing from John Barnes four years earlier?
Klinsmann was in typically, tiptoeing-between-chirpy-and-chippy mood in yesterday’s post-match Press conference, hailing his players in that strange blend of German sharpness and transatlantic corporate jargon – save for when he brusquely dismissed an English reporter’s attempt to have him criticising the new, extra-light Adidas footballs. “No, I don’t have any concerns,” he retorted with a contemptuous flash of his hands, before lightening and laughing: “Put the ball in the goal – that’s all I care about.” The German FA’s lucrative sponsorship deal with adidas perhaps weighed heavier than the balls themselves – more so for Klinsmann, perhaps, than recently for Lehmann who was more outspoken (Nike-sponsored Lehmann, of Nike-sponsored Arsenal, of course!)
After the ceremony’s oddly-tasting starter, and the fast food main course of the German game, the Ecuador-Poland evening match was an agreeably tangy dessert which went down nice and light – though it must have left the Poles furious at a night when nothing went their way, and what they would have expected to be a breeze became a disastrous 2-0 defeat.
I wonder what Gordon Strachan made of it. His Celtic striker Zurawski was so effectively marshalled out of the game I had to check and recheck the line-ups to whether he was meant to be on the pitch or not.
At the other end, ex-Southampton striker Agustin Delgado – more AWOL than on-fire for Strachan on the South Coast despite his £3.5million price-tag – set up Ecuador’s first for Tenorio and, with obvious relish, tucked away the second. You really shouldn’t underestimate a team which can claim victories over both Argentina and Brazil during qualifying – albeit at rather a lofty altitude, of course.
Strachan's claims for Zurawski?
“He’s not going to be a good player. He’s going to be a great player”.
His thoughts on Delgado, when asked about the player at Southampton?
"I've got more important things to think about. I've got a yoghurt to finish by today, the expiry date is today. That can be my priority rather than Agustin Delgado."
His time at Saints turned sour, but Delgado could now find himself up against English opposition for a change, in the second round. We do, of course, also have the tasty prospect of a clash with the hosts – either in the second round or the semi-finals. But we’re getting predictably ahead of ourselves already…
Ah yes, England. Today should be rather intriguing – both on the pitch and off. Other than the host nation, no country ever sends more supporters to a tournament than England – and not simply for our games, but avidly lapping up the entertainment, atmosphere and sheer experience of even the most unprepossessing tussle of minnows. Sadly, my friend Dazza, after all his giant flag planning and PR, has been denied entry for the 6,000sqft flag at Frankfurt’s Kommerzbank Arena – sorry, Waldstadion – no, sorry, that’s no longer valid since the rebuilding, so we’ll have to stick with the prosaic World Cup Stadium, Frankfurt. Anyway, a safety officer at the stadium broke the news to the FA yesterday – and flags draped over balconies also face being forced down, though I’d like to see the brave steward taking it upon him/herself to drag them all down…
England’s record in opening games is not great – the last they won was in France 1998, a 2-0 triumph over Tunisia I previously described here – but we really, really should prove too artful and strong for the decent-ish Paraguayans today, even Rooney-less… shouldn’t we?
A Japanese reporter sitting next to me in yesterday’s Klinsmann Press conference was very eager to engage me in detailed dissections of England’s tactics, feverishly scrawling diagrams of each Plan B, C, D and threatening to go all the way to Z, before being sidetracked by a reverie about the dangers of “lovely player” Cardozo, his ability to trap a ball with head or chest when defenders would be expecting a foot, and how he would cause terrible worries running diagonally at vulnerable right-back Gary Neville.
He did indeed sound frighteningly good, even for a 35-year-old.
Good job, then, the sadly-injured Cardozo had already returned home to Paraguay. Phew.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
"Are you here for my pleasure, or are you going for gold...?"
Nine months on from that glorious July 6 decision, and London's successful bid for the 2012 Olympics and Paralympics has now given birth to... the first official International Olympic Committee visit to make a check-up on our preparations.The most fun I've had in my current, limited job was steering all our 2012 bid coverage, and especially trailing round behind IOC Evaluation Commission members on their tour of the Stratford scrublands and just-about-beyond in February last year.
I didn't bother to follow them up to the top floor of a Newham sheltered housing block today, having already enjoyed the view last time.
That was indeed an entertaining day.
The delegates had started that drizzy February Thursday driven by coach through the unprepossessing streets of Tower Hamlets and Newham.
Dingy brown-brick houses, sorry shops and rusty industrial outposts outnumbered the occasional flashes of colour, including an unlikely Porsche dealership.
But once they reached the top floor of the 20-storey sheltered accommodation block, Holden Point, the delegates could goggle over what would become London's 500-acre Olympic Park.
Coloured blimps perched above where the 80,000-seat Olympic Stadium, the Olympic Village for 17,000 athletes, and hockey, swimming and cycling arenas would grow.
The existing 'wastelandscape' of goods yards, unsightly university halls of residence and East End Blitz debris would be cleared for a thriving Olympic park, restocked River Lea and figure-of-eight railroad.
Okay, you needed a Jonathan Edwards-style leap of imagination to picture what it could - would - become by 2012, but it was - and will be - well worthwhile.
The finest piece of writing since joining my current paper was the lengthy, impassioned document I put together for my editor, desperately striving to convince him why I should be sent to Singapore for the July decision, but sadly our company finances didn't stretch quite deep enough.
Instead, I spent the day in Trafalgar Square, enjoying the tension while remaining convinced throughout we would get the nod.
Actually, amend that. I had bullishly believed all through the bid process that London could and would triumph, despite the all-surrounding scepticism. It was only on the Wednesday morning itself, as I awoke, that I suddenly thought: "Wait a minute - maybe we're not going to do this after all!"
Thankfully Jacques Rogge came out with what the following day's Guardian front-page wrongly described as: "One sweet word: London".
Not quite. It was, in fact: One sweet syllable - "Lon-", all that was needed to send the sardine-packed Trafalgar Square crowds somehow manouevring enough room to joyously punch the air.
Sadly, we weren't to know the following day's tragedy so sharply to taint the triumph. At the time, the only downside seemed to be the inevitable, incessant repeats of Heather Small's awful anthem, "Proud".
I still can't quite believe how five of the world's major, most glamorous and significant cities were all vying for the prize at the same time, anyway.
Surely there would have been a good case for all of London, Paris, Moscow, New York and Madrid being given the Games, sealing up five consecutive host cities in a row.
But then again, it was very odd seeing so much effort and expense being spent on sucking up to the creepy IOC itself, the closed-shop club which just can't lose - the host city does all the work, picks up all the tab, yet everyone fawns over the 117 magic members of this overarching elite.
As I wrote at the time, albeit-inevitably just failing to find space among the pieces I did get printed...
ONE has been jailed for plotting to kill his country's leader, another narrowly escaped jail for bribing his government with £600million.
One is on trial for allegedly taking thousands of pounds in political kickbacks - another led Idi Amin's murderous army in Uganda.
Several have survived being found guilty of corruption in one of sport's greatest scandals.
A few are international nobility, including a Crown Prince, a Grand Duke and our own Princess Royal.
And others are undisputed kings and queens of track and field, boasting a glittering haul of Olympic gold medals.
Yet all 117 members of this very motley crew will have all the importance of aristocracy to London's Olympic hopefuls.
For they make up the International Olympic Committee, who decide on July 6 which city will host the 2012 Summer Olympics.
The IOC nowadays is keen to be seen as cleaner than clean and expelled ten members who took bribes to back Salt Lake City's bid for the 2002 Winter Olympics.
New IOC president Jacques Rogge has since barred members from visiting candidate cities and was quick recently to stamp on London's offer of free flights for athletes.
But as London, Moscow, Madrid, Paris and New York spend millions fighting for the IOC's favour, it is worth considering how tainted the organisation remains.
Six members implicated in the Salt Lake affair are still on board, while another four have survived a similar investigation surrounding the 2000 Sydney Olympics.
Even post-Salt Lake, the IOC very nearly elected not Rogge, but a man now languishing in jail for embezzling £1.85million.
Helpful Salt Lake contacts put Un Yong Kim's son John Kim on the payroll of an American firm to get a green card, while the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra organised rehearsals for his pianist daughter.
But ex-secret service head Kim was given 'the most severe of warnings' but stayed on the IOC until his forced resignation last month.
This came almost a year after he was given a two-and-a-half year sentence in South Korea for embezzling corporation donations to the World Taekwondo Federation.
Another South Korean, Samsung boss Kun Hee Lee, is still on the IOC despite a suspended sentence in 1996 as part of a group bribing the country's government with £600million.
The IOC similarly retained Lassana Palenfo, jailed for a year in July 2001 for plotting to kill Ivory Coast leader, General Robert Guei.
Another jailbird, Ivan Slavkov, at least is expected to be sacked next week for telling undercover Panorama reporters he could help 'buy' IOC members' votes.
The Bulgarian member was unable to make the 1993 vote on the 2000 Games because he was under house arrest on fraud and firearms charges.
He had also spent 44 days in prison on 1990 for illegal ownership of firearms and foreign currency, and missed the 1992 Barcelona Olympics after Bulgarian police seized his passport.
Sydney organiser John Coates admitted offering fellow IOC members Charles Mukora and Frances Nyangweso £19,000 each and free stays at London's Dorchester Hotel if they backed his city's bid.
Mukora was sacked from the IOC, Nyangweso reprieved - despite being the barbaric Idi Amin's defence chief throughout the 1970s.
Finnish member Peter Tallberg refused to quit despite all three of his sons receiving jobs in countries seeking to host the Games between 1996 and 2004.
Sydney also arranged a job interview for the son of Tunisia's Mohamed Mzali,
And Sydney was also forced to drop Australian member Phil Coles, who received holidays, ski lessons, equipment and Superbowl tickets from the Salt Lake organisers.
One letter from Salt Lake president Tom Welch even promised Coles: 'Fresh snow will be ordered for your forthcoming visit.'
The IOC ordered him off the Sydney organising committee and the Australian Olympic Committee - but kept him for themselves.
Other surviving members mired by Salt Lake include Holland's Anton Geesink, severely reprimanded after an academy bearing his name was paid £3,500.
Panama's Meliton Sanchez Rivas was caught red-handed when arrested for touting 300 tickets outside the main stadium of the Barcelona Olympics.
The IOC has also been shaky on drugs - independent inquiries have criticised Holland's Hein Verbruggen and Italy's Mario Pescante for covering up doping scandals in cycling and football, respectively.
And while France's IOC members will not vote unless or until Paris is eliminated, the country has been embarrassed by Guy Drut's trial for alleged fraud.
The former sports minister is one of 47 defendants accused of receiving kickbacks from contractors renovating schools in Paris.
And then there is Fifa president Sepp Blatter and his predecessor Joao Havelange, both immensely controversial football figures who have faced - and denied - widespread allegations of sleaze.
Yet for the next week or so, they are the 'special ones' who the candidate cities dare not criticise - explaining why Sebastian Coe was so quick to withdraw London's mild funding incentives.
Michael Liebreich, who represented Britain at the 1992 Winter Olympics, warned: 'There is nothing wrong with the idea of offering financial support to athletes from poorer countries. The problem is with the wider Olympic family, which contains some very unsavoury people indeed.
'The IOC are not people who look good under scrutiny. The Olympic movement will lurch from scandal to scandal until there is root-and-branch reform.'
Friday, April 07, 2006
"Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book? It took me years to write, will you take a look...?
Ever since the nine-year-old me sat through a long-ish drive to Woburn Safari Park, with my parents pushing Rock'n'Roll Music - Volume One into the cassette player, there have been four people who have meant more to me than anyone beyond family.Their names are John, Paul, George and Ringo.
And, yes, there was a "One-two-three-FOUR!" introduction involved.
I'm always instinctively suspicious of people who claim they don't like The Beatles.
Like grown men who insist they're not football fans, can't and won't understand the game indeed...
Weirdoes...
But since I started straggling together every stray copper, until I had enough to pay £5.99 for Rock'n'Roll - Volume Two or Beatles Ballads or - soon enough - proper, original albums-as-first-released, the Fab Four and pretty much all they spawned has been my happiest obsession.
I will even hurl myself into fevered defences of "Frog Song" Macca on occasion, though I shall restrain myself now.
But I did wonder, about a year-and-a-half ago, when ponderously moving home from Worthing to Barnet, whether my too-hefty book collection was perhaps a little too Beatle-heavy.
I could, in fact, fill a whole bookshelf with Beatles tomes, distinct entirely from the CD cabinet stuffed with Please Please Me to Abbey Road, Live At The Star Club to Anthology 3, All Things Must Pass to Chaos And Creation In The Backyard, Bossa Nova Beatles to The Rutles: All You Need Is Cash, bootlegs taking in Wings, the Travelling Wilburys, the All-Starr Band and etcetcetcetcetera...
And yet, and yet... I can't let any of them go.
And indeed, I can't keep adding to them.
My brother Noel, as part of his valedictory bridgegroomly speeches, handed each of his siblings a book token (nicely-judged - I'd have been desperately disappointed with flowers), and I set off for Waterstone's a few days later with full intentions to finally buy the Peter Cook anthology, Tragically I Was An Only Twin.
And yet, and yet... what catches my eye but a glistening silver Beatles book which has somehow evaded my attention for - the inside page incredibly tells me - almost two whole years...?
The Beatles: Ten Years That Shook The World - a collection made by Mojo magazine, trawling together features, reviews and interviews by some of the most venerable music hacks around. Oh, and plenty of gorgeous glossy photos, too...
It's not really a handy book to browse on the daily commute, but since buying it - within about seconds of spotting - I've had it propped up on my dinner table for every evening's entertainment...
And still been surprised by some of the insights, despite an adolescence often spent poring over that monthly pedants' special, The Beatle Book magazine (having convinced the local newsagent to order in copies, with a stern astonishment he didn't stock them already...)
For no reason other than, well, I dunno, here are a few of my favourite Beatle books...
* The Beatles, The Beatles Anthology: Well, of course... 367 pages of riches which, were they not of such shiny silver, you'd swear were solid gold in all essences...
The TV series itself was a revelation, even for the most knowledgeable Beatles obsessive, purely for the special aura each interview carried, the rarest of rare tapes and footage somehow unearthed beyond the call of duty - and the lavish loving care and attention given to each second. Though I did feel slightly sorry for the sole stooodent who was turfed out of our hall's TV room for the first episode, having happily booked the video to watch a tape of some old "Hitchhiker's Guide" episode only for a band of us Beatle-niks to march in and brook no argument...
But the CDs. And the DVDs. And, oh yes, the book too...
Random highlight: (When the Hell's Angels invaded an Apple Christmas party in 1968)
NEIL ASPINALL: "They did get asked to leave Apple. I asked them, but they got into that hippy language: 'Well, you didn't invite us, so YOU can't ask us to leave...' In other words, as George had invited them, so George was going to have to ask them to go. I think George did it very well - I can't remember exactly what he said, but it was like: 'Yes/no - Yin/Yang - in/out - stay/go. You know - BUGGER OFF!' And they said: 'Well, if you put it that way, George, of course...' and left."
* Geoffrey Stokes, The Beatles - 25th Anniversary Special: The first glossy silver Beatles hardback I owned, and proudly autographed and addressed by myself, I now discover... Large print and double spaced, but tells a very straight, comprehensive story with plenty of appropriately-sepia prints and a 1979 introduction by Leonard Bernstein.
Random highlight: Bernstein eulogising "the frabjous falsetto shriek-cum-croon, the ineluctable beat, the flawless intonation, the utterly fresh lyrics, the Schubert-like flow of musical invention and the Fuck-You coolness of these Four Horsemen of Our Apocalypse".
* Ian MacDonald, Revolution In The Head: The Beatles' Records And The Sixties: Perhaps the most readable and reasonable of the many pseudish, detailed analyses of each and every Beatles song, bar-by-bar, by the late great NME historian. The closing chapter writing off the sheer evilness of ALL modern pop music is perhaps a little unnecessary and heavy-handed, but even at its most technical, the insights into each song - and, indeed, recording - manages to throw fresh light on even the most familiar pleasures.
Random highlight: "Conceded by Lennon to be the best song on Abbey Road, SOMETHING is the acme of Harrison's achievement as a writer. Lacking his usual bitter harmonies, it deploys a key-structure of classical grace and panoramic effect, supported by George Martin's sympathetic viola/cello countermelody and delicate pizzicato violins through the middle eight. If McCartney wasn't jealous, he should have been."
* Michael Braun, Love Me Do! The Beatles' Progress: Perhaps the most cherishable, underrated Beatle book, this was published in 1964, the full flush of Beatlemania and yet full of both transient, off-the-cuff commentary and lasting insights into the madness which would actually endure... Jelly babies, Elvis, hysterical to-ing-and-feverish-fro-ing of the world's Press, and that famous Fab Four hack-charming wit - as actually experienced, not told from afar with nostalgianecdote-ishness at its most avariciously "whimsical"... Braun should have been what Hunter Davies became.
Random highlight: "Before the reception the Beatles met the Ambassador and Lady Ormsby Gore at the Embassy residence. When John is introduced to him Sir David says: 'Hello, John.'
'I'm not John,' says John. 'I'm Charlie. That's John,' and he points to George.
'Hello, John,' says the Ambassador, turning to George.
'I'm not John,' says George, 'I'm Frank. That's John,' and he points to Paul.
'Oh, dear!' says the Ambassador. 'I'll never get these names right. My wife is much better at remembering names.'
...
Several hours later, Sir Alec Douglas-Home met President Johnson. The President remarked, 'I liked your advance party, but don't you feel they need haircuts?'"
* William J Dowling, Beatlesongs: A curio, both slapdash and comprehensive in its own strange way, running down every song officially issued by The Beatles and running extracts from many other books and magazines under the various categories "AUTHORSHIP", "RECORDED", "INSTRUMENTATION", "CHART ACTION", "MISCELLANEOUS" and "COMMENTS BY BEATLES". Hardly definitive, but a fun, browse-able beginning.
Random highlight: The way it splits each song's authorship into constituents of "1.00" (eg. "Birthday" is 0.7 McCartney and 0.3 Lennon), so credits are calculated for George's sister Louise Harrison (0.05 of "Piggies"), Yoko Ono (0.25 of "Revolution #9") and Thomas Dekker (0.3 of "Golden Slumbers"), for example...
If you don't want to know the overall result, look away now...
Lennon wins, with 84.55 to McCartney's 73.65... So now you know.
* James Henke, Lennon Legend: An Illustrated Life Of John Lennon: The book's basic text adds little new to the familiar story, but the additions are stunning - removable replicas of Lennon's old school reports, his Lewis Carroll-esque self-produced school magazines, A Hard Day's Night and How I Won The War posters, handwritten lyrics sheets, Ed Sullivan Show tickets, avant-garde artwork, scrawled-across Press releases... For the inner light, the inner child in every Beatles fan!
Random highlight: (From his school report) "French: A disappointing result. He is so fond of obtaining a cheap laugh in class that he has little time left for serious concentration.
Mathematics: He is certainly on the road to failure."
(From his school-scribbled publication, "The Daily Howl") "News about Firework Night (Fred's birthday) - The sad news has just come through that only 80 people above the age of 76 were killed. Most of the spoilsports just lost their sight, and maimed for life. And it wasn't for want of trying."
* Tony Barrow and Robin Bextor, Paul McCartney: Now And Then: Seemingly inessential yet glossy 2004 hardback, split into two sections for former Beatles Press officer, the garrulous Tony Barrow, and Sophie Ellis-Bextor's documentary-making dad to record their various impressions of the man Macca, but manages to be throw in plenty of little gems of fresh observation - especially the homely descriptions of Robin'n'Paul sharing pints of home-brew (made by Macca, and bottled with his own home-printed label) as they look out over the Sussex Downs from Paul's Peasmarsh pad, before the old man moves to the piano to bash out a tipsy Long And Winding Road...
Robin - lovely chap, one lucky sod nevertheless...
Random highlight: (Robin Bextor) "George Martin once said to me in an unguarded moment that I should imagine for a moment getting up in the morning determined to spend as much money as I could. Buy a car in the morning, walk down Bond Street and stop in every shop and buy more clothes, records, watches, anything, dine in the best restaurants and go to the best clubs and then get home laden down with wordly goods late in the evening to realise that you had earned far more than you spent that day - that is what it is like being McCartney. Finance simply isn't an issue with Paul now."
* Andrew Solt and Sam Egan, Imagine: John Lennon: A hefty paperback released to accompany the skilful 1988 film, this deftly collates a load of Lennon quotes alongside plenty of photos from Yoko's private collection - especially homely and emotional as the 1970s move on and especially in the final, poignant 1980 chapter.
Random highlight: 1980 - "We're not selling ourselves as the perfect couple. We have our problems, we've had our problems, but when I was singing and writing this and working with her, I was visualising all the people of my age group and singing to them. I hope the young kids like it as well, but I'm really talking to the people that grew up with me. I'm saying, 'Here I am now, how are you, how's your relationship going, did you get through it all, weren't the seventies a drag, here we are, well, let's try and make the eighties good, you know.' It's not out of our control, I still believe in love. I still believe in peace... Where there's life, there's hope."
Of course, there are many many more - for example, Hunter Davies's workmanlike authorised biography from 1968, updated in 1985. Philip Norman's fizzier account, Shout! Albert Goldman's compelling, yet over-reachingly scandalous The Lives Of John Lennon. Blackbird, Geoffrey Giuliano's pale photocopy of a Goldman-job on McCartney. John's joyous "Daily Howl" updates In His Own Write and Spaniard In The Works. George's own intriguing indulgence, I Me Mine, Ringo's homely Postcards From The Boys. Mark Lewisohn's chronicles of every "day in the life" of every Beatle or Beatle-associate you could ever imagine...
And new, newer releases a-plenty...
I might just get through a few more book tokens yet...
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Get your kicks on Route 66... or else rock with me on the A23?
(from The Argus, Brighton - Saturday, September 6, 2003)
Lou Reed has done it for New York, Bruce Springsteen has done it for New Jersey and Ray Davies has done it for London.
All have immortalised their home territories in pop music, from Reed’s Greenwich Village bohemia to Springsteen’s desolate factories and docklands to the Kinks’s Carnaby Street dedicated followers of fashion.
Sussex has its share of rock’n’roll connections and not just as a comfy country retreat for wealthy megastars such as Sir Paul McCartney, Keith Richards and Brian Ferry.
Brighton has long been a hotbed of up-and-coming talent, as well as a favourite haunt for rockers - and, of course, mods, most famously portrayed in The Who’s film Quadrophenia.
But Worthing, Eastbourne and Shoreham will never evoke the same aura of rock history, glamour and edge as the likes of Detroit, Harlem and Seattle - or even Liverpool, London and “Madchester”.
So surely anyone hoping to compile an album of pop songs inspired by Sussex might struggle to fill even an EP?
Actually, no.
Even without radio DJ Terry Garoghan’s Brighton-championing songs which, while popular with fans, fail to meet my criteria of troubling the Top 75.
Anyone who is not a pop music anorak may care to turn the page now.
But in the spirit of the king of home-taping obsessive featured in Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity, a track listing for a notional Now That’s What I Call Sussex!-style album could look a little like this.
Every DIY rock compiler knows two of the most important elements to a proper mix tape is the title and the opening track.
Brighton Rock is an obvious name - and a predictable one.
Perhaps, with hat tipped to Ian Dury, Sussex And Drugs And Rock’N’Roll would suit instead.
And who better to usher the listener into this sonic tour of the South Coast than the unofficial king of Brighton and Hove, Fatboy Slim?
The Hove-living-and-loving DJ, real name Norman Cook, included the celebratory track YOU’RE NOT FROM BRIGHTON on his 1998 album, You’ve Come A Long Way, Baby.
The lyrics may not give Bob Dylan any sleepless nights, consisting merely of four phrases repeated: “Funk as we used to play”, “Said check baby, check baby, check one-two”, “Here we go, now here we go” and “You’re not from Brighton”.
But the sound, and the spirit suggested by that taunt to those unfortunate to be from elsewhere, would get things off to a flier.
Following one of Brighton’s trendiest stars would be a famous son of Sussex who hit the big time long before Norm was even crooning with The Housemartins.
Seventies star Leo Sayer was born in Shoreham and, according to his song writing partner David Courtney, the town was a key influence on his early material.
THE BELLS OF ST MARY’S, from his 1974 album Just A Boy, was inspired by the church in Shoreham and his experiences playing at a nearby folk club.
It includes the lyrics:
“He used to play mouth organ in a folk club they called the Lady Jane,
All the sounds as his friends and he would holler:
Songs of love and songs of pain…
And so he listens to the bells of St Mary’s and so their echo haunts him every day.”
Courtney said: “All Leo’s early stuff was written around here - Leo was a Shoreham boy and that really comes across, especially on Just A Boy.”
Before Leo launched his own singing career, he and Courtney wrote songs for Roger Daltrey’s solo LPs.
And no Brighton album would be complete without a contribution from the band he fronted, The Who, a key part of Brighton’s reputation as a Mecca for mods.
PINBALL WIZARD, from 1976, is a rare example, though, of a Who track that actually mentions Brighton:
“Ever since I was a young boy
I played the silver ball,
From Soho down to Brighton
I must have played them all.”
The kids pulling levers, pressing buttons and emptying their wallets in Brighton’s amusement arcades of today would probably better recognise the opening riff from ‘Let Me Entertain You’ by Robbie Williams.
But in the battle to get on this play list, Robbie loses out on two counts.
One, he has no Brighton connection.
And two, his riff-ripping-off song is quite frankly nowhere near as good. But you all knew that anyway...
Paul Weller, however, has plenty of connections to Brighton.
He has paid frequent visits, including his last gig with The Jam at the Brighton Centre in 1982.
However, it is to two more unlikely Sussex locations that he refers in SATURDAY’S KIDS, from the 1979 Jam album Setting Sons.
The song paints a picture of late-Seventies working-class youth culture.
The tone may seem sympathetic but their apparent lack of ambition is nailed in the lyric:
“Save up their money for a holiday
To Selsey Bill or Bracklesham Bay…”
Now Selsey Bill certainly isn’t very rock’n’roll.
But somehow it has managed to find its way into two notable pop songs.
Madness, contemporaries of The Jam, had a more familiar - and cheerier - hit with 1982’s DRIVING IN MY CAR, in which Suggs sings:
“I drove up to Muswell Hill,
I’ve even been to Selsey Bill.”
Well, good for him.
David Bowie may be one of the world’s biggest, most acclaimed stars but he is not universally popular down this way.
Worthing poet Shuna Shelley believes his 1977 single ‘Heroes’ plagiarises a poem called ‘The Heroes’ Epistle To Bowie’ she sent him in 1974.
Her poem included the lines:
“Well, we can be heroes
Just for our day
I, I will be king,
And you,
You will be my queen
And I wish,
I wish you could swim
Like the dolphins, like dolphins can swim”.
Bowie’s song includes the words:
“I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen.
We can beat them, just for one day.
I, I wish you could swim like the dolphins,
Like dolphins can swim.”
But Bowie, who denied the plagiarism claims, is included here for a different crime against Sussex - and against music itself.
His 1973 children’s song THE LAUGHING GNOME contains the lyrics:
“Well I gave him roasted toadstools and a glass of dandelion wine,
Then I put him on a train to Eastbourne.”
This namecheck, and the fact the town gave the world Toploader, are Eastbourne’s two claims to rock’n’roll fame - or, perhaps more accurately, infamy.
Suede front man Brett Anderson, an ardent Bowie acolyte, grew up in Lindfield, near Haywards Heath, but his band seemed to have a rather stronger fixation with Worthing.
Anderson once nominated the place as one of his favourite two in the world - along with London.
The seaside resort gets mentioned in THE NEXT LIFE, from Suede’s eponymous debut album in 1993:
“Stars in our car we can drive away from here,
Far away, so far away,
Down to Worthing and work there.”
The more geographically-ambitious track, Europe Is Our Playground, features the reference: “From Spain to Camber Sands”.
Like Selsey Bill, Camber Sands has two bites at the pop cherry, cropping up at the very start of PULLING MUSSELS FROM A SHELL by Squeeze in 1980:
“They do it down in Camber Sands,
They do it in Waikiki.”
You don’t often hear those two places mentioned in the same sentence.
Queen included a song called BRIGHTON ROCK on their 1974 album Sheer Heart Attack, telling of two lovers called Jimmy and Jenny who presumably meet in Brighton though it is not mentioned by name.
Another track called BRIGHTON ROCK featured as a B-side for Nineties Britpoppers Elastica, whose bassist Annie Holland came from Brighton.
It begins:
“We were sauced right there on Brighton beach,
You a Goth and I was such a peach,
I sought to be the best at it,
PC Plod he still arrested it…
Your name is carved on my Brighton rock,
My name can be your mental block.”
It may be significant that singer Justine Frischmann - Anderson’s ex - reportedly began her romance with Damon Albarn when Blur performed at Brighton’s Zap Club.
Though it is admittedly difficult to imagine even the changeling Damon as a Goth, it must be granted.
The spirit of Brighton Rock - Graham Greene’s version - is summoned by Morrissey’s lovely NOW MY HEART IS FULL, from 1994’s Vauxhall And I LP.
In a lyric which appears a trawl of Moz obsessions and impressions, he name checks “Dallow, Spicer, Pinkie, Cubitt” - the hoodlums from Greene’s 1938 novel.
Indie pop intellectuals Black Box Recorder closed their 2000 album The Facts Of Life with with the elegiac GOODNIGHT KISS, which swoons:
“From Blackpool tower, to Brighton Pier,
Turn the lights off, we know there’s no one here -
Goodbye, goodnight.”
Contuing the link between the two far-apart beach resorts beginning with B, The Beautiful South’s 1989 track ON BLACKPOOL claims:
“I wasn’t sure if it was Marx or Hitler that was in this year,
I hadn’t been to Brighton for a while so it wasn’t clear.
So imagine my surprise when I opened my eyes to find
It was the liberals who were hip to sloganeer.”
No prizes for guessing who turns up in SHERIFF FATMAN, Carter USM’s 1989 rant against ruthless slum landlords:
“Now he’s moving up on to second base
Between Nicholas Van Wotsisface.”
Equally splenetic is SO WHAT, recorded first by late-Seventies punks The Anti-Nowhere League and covered more recently - and improbably - by American heavy-rockers Metallica.
The song begins:
“Well, I’ve been to Hastings, and I’ve been to Brighton,
I’ve been to Eastbourne too.
So what? So what?
Who cares? Who cares what you do?
Yeah, who cares? Who cares?
About you, you, you, you, you?”
It then descends into a feast of filth hardly suitable for a family newspaper such as this - even if the album could claim perhaps some much-needed streetcred with one of Tipper Gore’s stickers warning of bad language herein….
For achieving the unlikely union of Metallica and Sussex, the cover version deserves its places and the album’s final say.
Now all we need is a record company willing to take Sussex And Drugs And Rock’n’Roll from the bedroom to the boardroom to a music store near you.
So, who wants it?
Don’t all rush at once…
Quite astonishingly - and depressingly - we somehow managed to put together a 'follow-up' album for an even more desperate follow-up feature a few months later: crowbarring in alternate versions of PINBALL WIZARD and SO WHAT by Elton John and The Anti-Nowhere League respectively; ONE WAY by The Levellers (it seems fairly clearly to be about their hometown of Brighton, without actually namechecking the place - good enough for me); MARIO'S CAFE by St Etienne (it may be about a diner in Camden but it does mention, er, Chris Eubank...); RUMBLE IN BRIGHTON by The Stray Cats; ROBOT HOLIDAY by The Spizzles ("No more work for one whole week, oil my joints so they don't squeak, I'm going to Brighton in the sun, I sit in deckchairs, have some fun" - amazing these boys aren't megastars by now, isn't it...?); Al Stewart's NOT THE ONE set in The Lanes, and also his MANUSCRIPT tripping to Worthing, where "it rained and rained" - yep, from my 18 months living there, that seems accurate...; the poignant WWI ballad MAGINOT WALTZ by the underrated Ralph McTell...
Oh, and one track I'm half-glad, half-somehow-sad never to have actually heard, only read of: the seminal I'M GOING TO BRIGHTON by those early-Eighties legends Renee and Renato.
If anyone does indeed have a copy... I'd advise you to keep it very, very and, indeed, very quiet...
Monday, March 27, 2006
Odette arrives...
Occasionally, just occasionally, amidst all the everyday trivialities, my job allows me to feel some (very) small involvement in something worthwhile. Last Friday I travelled to the Holocaust Centre, in the middle of Nottinghamshire-nowhere, to speak to a survivor of the Rwandan genocide who, following a story I wrote last December, has finally been brought to Britain for - hopefully - life-saving, transforming surgery.Odette Mupenzi - half her face blasted away by gunmen and now shrouded under a thick black scarf, her spindle-thin body shivering and tottering in the British chill - has suffered 12 years of agony, which can hopefully now be redeemed thanks to the efforts of determined charity workers, generous public donors - and her own astonishing fortitude...
A bit of a humbling experience, really...
A YOUNG woman whose face was shot away in the Rwandan genocide has arrived in Britain hoping her nightmare will soon be over.
Odette Mupenzi will this week start the surgery which could free her from pain and give her a new face - thanks to Metro readers.
Their donations could now pave the way for many more casualties of the genocide to receive life-changing help and treatment.
The 30-year-old Rwandan, wracked by starvation and infection, was brought to Britain after a Metro appeal helped raise more than £50,000.
As she prepares for a long-awaited lifeline, Odette said: 'I'm so grateful to everyone who's helped. I want to thank every one.
'I didn't think I would ever get well again - then I saw all these efforts people are putting in, which have made a big big difference. Now I have hope.'
Odette was horrifically disfigured when Hutu militiamen burst into a school where she and her family were hiding in 1994.
She saw her father hacked to death by two soldiers and old friends who betrayed the family, while her mother was beaten and had an ear sliced off.
One of the troops found Odette and fired a barrage of bullets into her jaw, arms and chest, before the whole gang hacked at her with machetes.
Somehow she survived, and was found among the corpses by one of the religious brothers running the school.
A courageous Hutu doctor helped her escape to a hospital where her infected wounds were dressed and she was fed a paste of milk and biscuits through a syringe.
But attempts to restore her face, with trips to Switzerland, Germany and South Africa, all foundered for lack of funds.
Charity workers fear she could soon die due her to plummeting weight and frequent infections in her wounds.
She cannot eat properly through his misshapen mouth, and suffers constant headaches and spinal pain.
When the Aegis Trust and Metro appealed for help last December, it had been hoped that £10,000 might be raised.
British charity the Pears Foundation had promised to double funds to £20,000.
But within days, Metro readers had rushed to pledge more than £25,000 - ultimately pushing the Odette fund beyond the £50,000 barrier.
A special fund has been set up in Odette's name, and the Aegis Trust hopes the money will pay for both her treatment and many more projects.
Ian Hutcheson, one of the UK's most respected facial surgeons, is heading a team of London-based specialists who have been studying Odette's plight and planning the best response.
After struggles to win a visa, Odette has now been given permission to stay in Britain for up to six months - and is being looked after by Aegis in the Nottinghamshire countryside.
She is being kept on a careful diet of nutritional supplements to build up her strength - but her only concern at the moment is the cold British weather.
'I'm having to wear two thick jumpers at the moment, but I hope I'll get used to it,' she said.
Odette insists she would rather die than suffer again at the hands of her attackers, who are now back on the streets of still-divided Rwanda.
Twelve years after the 100-day slaughter which claimed 1million lives, tensions between Tutsis and their Hutu slaughterers remain tense.
Odette is forced to relive her harrowing ordeal every day, thanks to the taunts of neighbours - and the fact she lives just across the road from the scene of the brutality.
Above all, she fears a reunion with her attackers - knowing many have been given early releases from prison as part of troubled Rwanda's attempts at reconciliation.
Odette bravely gave evidence against one of the former friends who mutilated her then left her for dead, helping convict and imprison him.
But she knows he and others are now out of jail - and could run into her at any moment.
She said: 'The greatest fear is that he could come and hurt me again.
'If I died, it would be okay, because I wouldn't be in pain anymore.
'But if he came to hurt me again, and I got more injuries, I wouldn't be able to bear it.'
Odette and her mother live just 100 metres from the school where their family was brutalised, and just across the road from the former home they tried to flee.
She regularly bumps into the estranged wives of some of her assailants.
'They point at me over fences, and sometimes they shout and insult me,' she said.
'There's not a day goes by when I don't think about what happened. I can't escape.
'People want to forget what happened - they don't talk about it, they try to deny the genocide. But it still hurts.
'If I could, I would gladly leave the place behind and never go back - but there's just no way for that to happen right now.'
Odette, her mother and a younger sister live in a three-roomed shack, with a roof barely worthy of the name.
Odette's dreams of a nursing career were shattered by the attack, and she spends her healthier days only able to do the odd bit of housework.
Danielle Mbesherubusa, who accompanied Odette to Britain, said: 'I really don't know how that family survives. They have barely any income at all.'
The Rwandan government has set up a fund for genocide survivors, knowing many young people were orphaned and traumatised.
But their focus remains more on the country's slowly-burgeoning economy, according to Odette's friend Danielle Mbesherubusa.
Danielle runs the Aegis Trust's social welfare programme in Rwanda, helping families with transport, food.
She said: 'Sometimes we're able to give a family £10 or £20 a month - and to them, that's huge. It means so much to them.
'It's easy to think the genocide happened 12 years ago and is over now, but the consequences won't go away that easily.
'So many people lost their childhoods and any opportunities to go to university and make something of themselves.
'The trauma they've gone through is bad enough, without all the financial difficulties so many are now suffering.'
Friday, February 10, 2006
I've suffered for my music.....
... now it's your turn.What a lovely line. Think I'll steal it, to introduce any stint with a guitar any future family occasion/open-mic night/drunken party singalong/wedding, funeral or barmitzvah Fate might fling my always-willing way...
Though it comes courtesy of the frustratingly phenomenally-gifted Neil Innes, on the criminally-underexposed Rutland Weekend Television, which I've been belatedly enjoying recently, both screen and sound...
And which spawned the Rutles, the 'Pre-Fab Four', and their Spinal Tap-rivalling movie, All You Need Is Cash. And Innes' 1996 update, the Anthology-competing Archaeology, whose final song features the near-perfect lyric:
"Back in '64 before you were born,
People had no time for pouring scorn (or scoring porn),
On dreams of love and peace,
No one was obese,
Only tight trousers were worn..."
Of course, Eric Idle and his structured surrealism were the perfect verbal fit for Neil Innes at the time. I'll be intrigued to see how Spamelot fares and compares when it opens over here soonish. Hopefully, a damn sight funnier than Splitting Heirs, anyway...
Incidentally (very, very incidentally), I met Eric Idle, about 12 years ago. We were both browsing in the Virgin Megastore on Oxford Street, and after a hesitant double-take, I realised it was him - clad in a rather shoddy green Parka - and said 'Hello'. And how much I admired his work.
He smiled back, thanked me, said that made him glad, and signed an autograph, on a scrap of paper I fished out of my inside pocket.
True story.
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