Do you love sport? I mean, seriously? Do you love sport with such a passion that it is a tribal thing? Do you think that, should the day of the revolution come, you may go to war solely on the basis of the sporting teams you support? The reality is that no, you won’t. If you said yes – then there is something seriously wrong with you. No matter what Bill Shankly might have believed, sport is not more important than life. However, that doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be taken seriously – you definitely have to nail your colours to the mast; to be known as much for your qualifications, as the job you do, as the sporting teams you support. You see, the
Monthly Archive:: September 2010
It’s the eyes I notice first. His outstretched arms, wide opened mouth, nodding head – all of those I catch later. From the moment he rises from the ground, to the moment he spins from sight, all I can see is the passion in those eyes. Not once does he blink. Not once do I blink. youtube: Marco Tardelli’s goal celebration Marco Tardelli is the reason why I love sport. I was perfectly aware that sport existed before I saw his goal in the 1982 World Cup final. I can remember watching both games of the 1981 FA Cup Final. The same year, I sat in my Nan’s living room, watching parts of the most celebrated of all Ashes matches. I can even remember laying
Alan Whicker’s experience of foreign travel taught him that learning languages was less important than a confident, cheerful attitude. That may work for a renowned international traveller and media star, but what about the rest of us – simple, lazy travellers. I’ve just got back off of a Mediterranean holiday. Menorca you see. The island has nothing to offer bar a nudist beach and a package holiday destination that may or may not appeal depending on how old you are. That’s a lie. It offers cheap wine – no, that’s vin or is it vino? Either way, it’s very drinkable. I came armed with a standard phrase. J’ai voudrais Cerveza alla spina – cheers. Did that make sense? Did I get what I wanted? My
Found myself in a strange town, though I’ve only been here for six years now. I’ve got questions in my mind. Trying to find a clue on Cookridge Street. I moved to Leeds for love. It’s true. The love was already in me; it just happened that the person I loved was living in Leeds. I was living in London. The long distance relationship was a pain. At the time I had agreed to walk away from a role – and was well rewarded for doing so. With the severance package in pocket I took a punt and moved up to Leeds. We had a house; I found a temporary job and started to find the amenities – the pubs, clubs, bars, restaurants and shops
We were somewhere around platform six when the beer began to take hold. I remember saying something like “that was some of the best beer I’ve ever tasted…” And then suddenly there was a loud roar of a diesel engine and the sky was leaden thanks to a late summer shower. The voice in my head was screaming “Why did we leave that pub?” Then it was quiet again. My companion was wearing a shirt with a hood to protect him from the rain, and the skinniest jeans imaginable. “My missus said she hoped I had a fun day out with my new boyfriend” he said. “Your boyfriend? “ No point in telling him he wasn’t my type. The poor bastard would find out soon