Can you tuck this down here for me, love?

Who's standing in for Richard Keys and Andy Gray? Lots of choice at Sky, then: There's him, him, him, him, him, him, him, him, or him. Oh, and Claire Tomlinson. The departure of Keys and Gray has left Sky Sports in absolute chaos. Don’t be fooled by the conspiracy theory that this was the long-awaited banana skin to get rid of the “Eric and Ernie” of Sky Soccer. It wasn’t; just take a look at what’s replaced them.
With a redundancy package commensurate with an £1.8m annual salary, they may be tempted to put their feet up for a bit, until the heat dies down. After all, Jonathan Ross is back in business after his little faux pas with Russell Brand. One source that cannot be named for legal reasons said: “Keys and Gray… have now announced plans to retire to a SAGA cruise ship together, in order to smoke some cigars and make dirty comments to ship waitresses collecting their soup”. Do waitresses collect soup?
Perhaps the definition of irony is being sacked for sexism by the man that owns The Sun. Today's Page Three beauty is 17 year old Penny (36-24-36) from Newcastle. She says: "Sky were right to sack Andy Gray. It's wrong for men to leer at young girls." You could suggest, Penny, that in this era of political correctness, it’s wrong that young girls still bare their breasts for tabloid money. You can’t have it both ways, love.
Seriously though, and I’m not defending sexism – Lord no – have a look at the “Did You Smash It?” re-mix on YouTube; it’s an amusing pastiche of a conversation which most blokes will have had at one time or another. At worst, it’s an innocent but crude puffing-out of chests between males and, by definition, is not intended for female consumption.
A source at Sky Sports told me: "There's a constant nudge-nudge atmosphere around Richard and Andy. They were always leering." Not any more, they aren’t.
This all began when Sian Massey, a 25 year old female linesman, was officiating in the match between Liverpool and Wolves on 22nd January, at Wolverhampton, which Liverpool won 3-0. Keys, said: “Somebody better get down there and explain offside to her.” Gray replied: “Can you believe that? A female linesman. Women don’t know the offside rule.” Keys then said: “Course they don’t. I can guarantee you there will be a big one today. Kenny [Liverpool manager Kenny Dalglish] will go potty. This isn’t the first time, is it? Didn’t we have one before?”
Later, Kelly Cates, Kenny Dalglish’s daughter, mocked the two presenters’ comments in a message on the social networking site Twitter. Cates, a former Sky Sports News presenter who now works for ESPN, wrote: “Phew am exhausted. Just read about something called "the offside rule". Too much for my tiny brain. Must be damaged from nail polish fumes.”
Now, to live in a world without banter and mickey-taking is to live in a very dull world indeed. But the question is, just where do you draw the line between an innocent bit of fun and comments which degrade and humiliate? The answer must surely lie in “intent”, and I, for one, don’t believe that either Gray or Keys’ comments were uttered with the intention of inflicting suffering. They were thoughtless and ill-considered. In an effort to be funny and add a little colour to what is, let’s face it, a pretty drab subject – namely soccer - they offended the political correctness mafia more than their ‘victims’.
Perhaps if Gray had said “most women don’t understand the offside rule” and “I’d like a small mike in my underpants to make my penis fell less inadequate”, he’d have got away with it.
But I suspect that the next time Gray utters the words: “Can you tuck this down here for me love?” it’ll be in a nursing home and the nurse will have to empty it.

THE POTATO HAS LANDED, AND THE ONE-ARMED BANDID.

Okay, I’ll put my hands up and confess that my blog ‘No Country for Fat Men’ was ever-so-slightly 'tongue-in-cheek'.
But most who commented agree that something must be done, for the good of the game, about the absurd amount of time wasted on scrums going nowhere except into the turf.
What I would really like to see is the clock stopped AT ALL TIMES when the ball is not in play, as in NFL or basketball. Play four quarters of fifteen minutes: think of the amount of beer you’d sell. Why should playing time be wasted on ineptitude or cheating, and, I’m sorry, but making the game attractive rather than attritional is important for its future survival.
Another thing, penalties should not be awarded from failed scrums; these are totally arbitrary, as there’s not a referee on the planet who has the slightest clue as to who is truly responsible when a scrum collapses. It’s absurd that matches should be decided on this. By all means, award free kicks, but get rid of this stupid rule which permits the option of another scrum. It is, after all, called a ‘free kick’, for goodness sake, not a ‘free scrum’.
A great advert for the contest-ability of scrums was the one-handed delivery of the ball by Morgan Parra, directly to his second row's feet on Sunday. This was the rugby equivalent of contemptuously driving past a police car at 110mph with a beer in one hand and a phone in the other. Even Dave Pearson thought so.
I'd like to congratulate England on such an emphatic win over Italy. But effective as England were, Italy’s cat-flap defence was truly appalling. Perhaps they are not aware that it is permitted to pass the ball back inside in Rugby Union, and that there is no restriction on the number of tackles that can be made? Sadly for Ireland – and here I reveal my true colours - this too could also be pointed out to Gordon D'Arcy; there's a rumour going around that Paul Wallace is going to come out of retirement to replace him at 12.
But finally, I long for the day - and please God let it be against Ireland - when Rugby's version of 'Potato Head Rooney' drops the ball swan-diving over the try line - it will happen soon. It could even be in the World Cup Final, should England somehow get there, which would make Ben Kay feel a whole lot better.

NO COUNTRY FOR FAT MEN

I was more than a little surprised to hear John Inverdale eulogise about the quality of Rugby played on the opening weekend of the Six Nations. I have always considered Inverdale’s comments to be well-informed and objective, but I can only conclude that he and I must have been watching different matches.
Those who made the slow journey over the Severn Bridge – and wasn’t that a terrific piece of scheduling? – wearing white shirts, had little more to cheer about than those who travelled to Rome wearing green. All that was achieved by England and Ireland was a win; the manner by which both teams spluttered towards two tournament points will not have had the South Africans or the New Zealanders quaking in their boots.
In fact, despite Scotland’s valiant and, at times, hugely skilful performance against a magnificent in-form French side, I really don’t think any of the home Unions should bother to turn up to the World Cup, come 9th September.
However, the main problem with this weekend’s rugby, and I fear, the game in general at present, is not the players, or the officiating, but the game itself. Allow me to be direct: LET’S GET RID OF SCRUMS.
Scrum are an anachronism; they are good for the game in the same way that trenches, in 1916, were good for warfare, and both serve the same purpose: to hold an immobile and archaic collection of endomorphic participants in one place so that those who with the brains, speed and skill can attack.
Now, before you throw up your arms and say that they are essential as a contested method of re-starting play after a technical infringement, let me tell you - they are not. Sergio Parisse, the hugely talented Italian No8, received so much ball directly to his feet on Saturday afternoon, that one could be excused for assuming that the ball was metal and that he had a magnet in his boots. How on earth can you contest that? And with the advent of meaningless statistical analysis in rugby, the one useful statistic is that which records how much game time has been wasted on scrums. This is often in excess of ten minutes; that’s an eighth of the game, for goodness sake. Most of this time is consumed by having the things re-set as these monoliths collapse under their own physical excesses and rip up the playing surface.
Let me offer you two alternative scenarios for re-starts. The first is to convene an “in-field” lineout in place of a scrum. Lineouts are still contested in the game of Rugby Union, crooked throws are generally punished and, best of all, there is a 20 metre channel separating both sets of backs. Simply add two further dotted lines to the each side of the pitch, five metres in-field from the fifteen metre line, and throw in from the fifteen. The attacking backline is thereby presented with a unique opportunity to attack without forwards cluttering up valuable space. You also would have a lineout with a blind side which would further increase attacking options.
The second option is to award a free kick; this must be taken within ten seconds of being awarded, and, as we have dispensed with the front row, there will no longer be the traditional “injury” break when a free kick is awarded. I would suggest one further departure from the traditional free kick: the first pass may be in any direction. Have a think about that one…the potential for a forward pass would randomise the use of space by players and speed things up. It would also reduce the tedious grunt of “pick and drive” which advances play about as far as the Allies went in four years on the Western Front. All defensive players must be 10 metres back from the infringement but attacking players can stand where they like. Before you accuse me of being completely insane, just think of the “de-restriction” allowed by the free hit in limited overs cricket, and the potential for excitement which this innovation created.
Of course there is a problem with all of this: there will be no more props. And so, a game wherein there is a role for players of all shapes and sizes will, alas, no longer exist. The short, tubby boys who morphed into short, tubby men and have kidded us for centuries that there is something intrinsically good in the “black art” of making the opposition’s scrum collapse will be, forever, side-lined.
But this is not a bad thing – no one, these days, wants to play in the front row anyway. I know this from having introduced the game to several generations of schoolboys; they all wants to be Johnny Wilkinson, or even worse, Gavin Henson.
I, for one, would prefer to watch Shane Williams catch a fifty metre down-field pass and weave majestically through athletic defenders, than see Rugby’s version of “Potato Head” Rooney exploit Flood’s saunter between two mis-matched monoliths.
But until either the Health and Safety mafia or the Australians manage to ban scrummaging, this is what we’re faced with.

THE CULTURE OF LOSING

I found an interesting article on the internet the other day: a paper produced by the University of Stirling entitled "The Culture of Winning in Scottish Sport". Surprisingly it was more than a page long, mainly because it went into great detail to explain why there was none. I particularly liked the bit where Frank Hadden, the former national Rugby Union coach, referred to Scottish sport’s “…periods of unbelievable over-achievement”. Not on his watch.
Which brings me on to Andy Murray’ third attempt to lift a Grand Slam trophy. After putting up a decent fight in the first set in Melbourne, he lost the next two in the time it took me to have a shower and breakfast in my hotel; and it wasn’t even that good a breakfast.
I don’t have much interest in tennis – otherwise I would have watched - but Sunday’s Australian Grand Slam final just served to emphasise the pointlessness of tennis in particular and Scottish sport in general.
Let me explain; in most sports, when you get to a final, the outcome is evenly contested. Take, for example, the World Cup last year – there was extra time and plenty of drama. The English referee even came in for a bit of stick, which at least shows that his decisions had some bearing on the ebb and flow of play.
And the last Rugby Union World Cup final in ‘07 – remember it? The incumbent champions, represented by a hopelessly inadequate team from England, almost beat the cream of South Africa in Paris. Even in American Football – the most contrived game on the planet- the outcome is usually in the balance until most of the fat ladies have sung.
But in tennis, the classic five set dog-fight is something of a rarity, and therefore it fails to deliver satisfaction as a sport. The reasons for this, and why Murray was so comprehensively outclassed, are obvious.
Let me state that I don’t have a problem with Murray. I used to dislike him in the way that I disliked small dogs – both were irritating in public and whined incessantly. However, he has done a lot to improve his image over the years, and who cares if he did wear a Paraguayan shirt when England played them in the World Cup? He still roars a bit on court, which is unsightly, but the unmanly bulging of ping-pong ball sized biceps when he wins a point is now, thankfully, a thing of the past. He even said recently that he considers himself to be British as well as Scottish, as some of his ancestors came from Newcastle; same thing.
There are two main reasons he lost on Sunday; body language and tactical naivety. Djokovic looked like he meant business well before he stepped onto the court; just Google him and see what I mean. You don’t have to look far to find his impersonation of Sharapova and Nadal in the men’s locker rooms, and a still of him hitting an underwater winner in a swimming pool, dressed in a dinner suit. Everything about him is big and fun, whereas everything about Murray is, well…self-effacing and dower. On court, dressed in white, he looked like a tennis player, whereas Murray looked as if he had forgotten his kit and had to raid the PE department’s lost property bin. And then with the first set gone south, Murray looked like a beaten man.
So on to tactics; even my cursory knowledge of tennis is enough to understand that if you hit the ball straight back to your opponent and allow him to dictate, you relinquish control. In so doing, you rely on your opponent to make mistakes, and on Sunday, Djokovic made very few. His defensive capabilities were immense; his ability to cover ground almost inhuman; and his capacity to re-gain balance and to return the ball beyond Murray’s reach was, at times, breathtaking.
Murray’s strengths are his first serve and attacking that of his opponent’s. His success ratio on both was negligible. By the middle of the third set (by which time I was on bacon and eggs - but I have watched the highlights) Murray was the analogous boxer on the ropes. But this is not boxing where two fighters are pitted together on the whim of promoters; this is a final involving the two last protagonists in a knock-out tournament in which hundreds started. There is but a single digit which stands between these two in terms of world ranking, so shouldn’t the contest reflect that?
The problem for Andy Murray, is Andy Murray. There is such a huge burden of history and national expectation on his shoulders that he simply beats himself. From three grand Slam finals, he has yet to win a single set. On Sunday, with the ghosts of Federer and Nadal banished, another spectre appeared from the wings in the form of Djokovic. And, I fear, unless he meets another Scot in a subsequent final, this is going to be the run of things for some time to come.
He is, without doubt, peerless as the icon of almost-achievement in Scottish sport. I had a look at the Scottish Sports’ Halls of Fame and didn’t even recognise the names of most of the 80 inductees. Only Sir Jackie Stewart, Sandy Lyle and Allan Wells could argue to have reached and maybe surpassed similar heights.
And to stand alongside them, he will have to win something; unless, perhaps, what we are witnessing from Murray is one of those “…periods of unbelievable over-achievement.” And let’s hope, for the sake of the game of tennis, and for Scottish sport, that this is not so.

HOW NOT TO GET FIT AND LOSE WEIGHT IN THE TIME IT TAKES TO READ THIS.

What’s the worst thing about January? Go on have a guess.
Is it the desert that stretches between Christmas and the oasis of Easter? Perhaps it’s the post-festive anti-climax as the decorations come down; the knowledge that you’ve eaten too much, drunk too much, and spent too much. Or maybe it’s Tony Cameron’s increase in VAT, or the fact that none of your mates can afford to go out, as they’ve just had their credit card bills too. It might be the weather, or the dark nights, which haven’t quite begun to lengthen yet.
For me, there’s one irritant that stands out above all the above: fitness and weight loss articles in the press. Every year, January ushers in a host of new, easy ways to tone up and lose weight, without any effort, in the time it takes you to read the article.
For example, The Times Weekend supplement yesterday published a guide entitled: “How to Tone Up in Three Weeks Without Going to the Gym”. Well let’s have a look at this, shall we? The piece was scripted by Fitness Trainer, James Duigan. He claims that there is no reason why men in their fifties should be in any worse shape than they were in their twenties; take Hugh Grant, for example, one of his clients. Really, James? There is a reason: it’s called aging. The article features a picture of paunchy Pierce Brosnan next to a picture of 7% body fat-bearing underwear model, David Gandy. So, tell me what’s the difference between the two? The answer: about thirty years.
Over time, the metabolism slows, making our body less capable of disposing of the calorific intake to which it has become accustomed. Testosterone levels decline while oestrogen levels rise; in short, men gradually turn female, hence larger bottoms and the dreaded “Man Boobs” or “Moobs”. Hugh Grant - lucky bloke - is an outlier, as statisticians would say; we all know and hate blokes who eat and drink their body weight over a weekend, take no exercise, and never add an ounce.
There’s nothing wrong with Duigan’s recommended exercise regime – but there’s absolutely new about it either. And, yes, it can be done without joining a gym, but only if you buy some very expensive equipment and create your own. This will cost…err…about the same as ten years’ gym membership. The principle of “cardio circuits”, although valid, is as old as the hills; let’s just call it “circuit training” then. The idea is to vary intensity so that the body continues to burn fuel (fat, eventually) even during its rest periods, and - here’s the clever bit - even after it’s stopped exercising. This means, if you eat shortly after training, you can fool your body into thinking that you are still working out, and it will deal with the food more efficiently. However, Duigan’s programme is so un-new that most of these exercises can be found in the Canadian Air Force Fitness manual, the daddy of fitness manuals, first published in the ‘50s – that’s the 1950s. But thanks to the abolition of proper PE in schools, no one under the age of thirty will have ever heard of a “burpee”, let alone done one.
No weight loss and fitness feature would be complete without tackling how we fuel the body, and didn’t we do that well over Christmas?
The contributor here is Dr John Briffa. Well, John, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you have said here that we don’t already know. Unless you’re been in Guantanamo Bay for the last ten years, we all know that the low glycaemic index is the Nirvana to weight loss. The higher the GI of your carbohydrate consumption, the more insulin the body will produce. Insulin is bad news, as it is a hormone which stimulates the accumulation of fat whilst slowing its breakdown; so avoid bread, potatoes, pasta and anything your mother told you to eat. John urges us not to calorie count but instead to eat more protein, mainly red meat, fish and eggs. The key here is to eat food that will not make us retain our hunger. Well, gosh, that’s a break through, isn’t it?
My point is this: in all of these predictable and self-promoting seasonal articles, there is some truth. Try buying “Men’s Health” magazine for a few consecutive months and you will see what I mean. But there is also nothing which has not been said before, and very little that even the most reluctant health aficionados will not already know.
The simple answer is that there is calorific input and there is energy expenditure. You can be very fit but fat in the same way that you can be very unfit but skinny. But if you want balance in your physical equation, then moderation of both is the name of the game.
Thank goodness that everything that has to be said again, has been said again by February.

Christmas - Feck!

What’s the definition of a good Christmas? No, this isn’t a joke, it’s a horror story.
The Big Day had passed off well: a bit of a jog, a couple of hours in the pub, glass or two of champers watching the Queen read from her autocue; Christmas dinner, and a bit of telly. I even got a couple of fairly usable presents. By 8.30, everyone at my host’s house was either playing on the wii, breaking their toys or had passed out. I had stopped eating on just about the right side of gluttony and alcohol had lost its appeal.
Left to my own devices, I found a 1945 production of Agatha Christie’s: "And Then There Were None". It began life as a stage play entitled: "Ten Little Niggers"; I know this because I played Blore, a pompous, overweight inept detective – good casting, I fear you may conclude – in the 1968 Mourne Grange Preparatory School production.
The film ended and I went upstairs for the night. For reasons more complex than a Woody Allen plot, I found that there was no room at the inn. I considered my options and decided to cycle back to my flat where I would be guaranteed a good night’s sleep. Boy was I ever wrong?
The five mile bike ride was invigorating; the temperature was well below zero and there was little traffic. Moonlight lit my way – which was just as well as I’d forgotten to turn my lights on.
Dickey, my temporary flatmate, visiting from Cyprus, was still out. I assumed that he had either been offered a bed elsewhere or had collapsed in a ditch on the way home, and so I left my bedroom door open.
I was in bed and asleep within minutes only to be pulled from a rare, deep slumber by noise coming from downstairs. I looked at my watch; it was 2.45am. A man - who I rapidly established as Dickey - appeared to be engaged in a dialogue with the front door whilst slamming it violently.
‘Are you going to lock or aren’t you?’ he asked. A pause, followed by another slam.
‘Right, I’m going to give you…one…last…chance!’ Another slam. ‘Suit your bloody self, then!’
If only I’d closed my bedroom door. How was I going to reveal my presence without getting involved in a 3am drinking session? I conducted a quick mental audit of the available booze in the flat: three bottles of wine and a bottle of brandy – not good.
In the event, there was no need. Dickey’s erratic attempt to conquer the north face of the staircase arrested outside my bedroom. For a moment I thought I was going to get away with it, but then he was in my room, main light on, swaying like a felled oak.
‘Woops, sorry mate’ he said and staggered off to his own bed, singing tunelessly. After an hour of unmelodious humming and whistling, there was peace. And then the snoring began. A couple of hours later, I could see a pattern emerging: the snoring would build to a vibrating nasal crescendo to be followed by a stertorous boom in the form of a Father Jack-like string of swearwords. This was repeated for several hours, until I abandoned all hope of sleep. Then suddenly I remembered that the Melbourne test match on telly; I made myself a cup of tea and sat down, expecting England to be all out for 6.
Instead, I watched a procession of Aussie batsmen trudge despondently back to the pavilion, collectively dismissed for less than a hundred.
Now, that’s what I call a good Christmas, I reflected, as I celebrated by vacuuming the flat at 7.30am by way of payback. To no avail; the snoring continues…Feck…Arse…Girls!

I WISH IT COULD BE CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY…

I really don’t like Christmas, and the older I get, the less I like it.
There’s the build up which now starts before the clocks go back, the frantic week which precedes the big day, and the interminable siege which follows it. It’s impossible to go anywhere and there’s nothing you want to buy when you get there. It’s exciting for the children, of course; but by four o’clock on Christmas Day you’d pay Father Christmas almost anything to take them – along with all the broken toys – back to Lapland with him. You wouldn’t even bother asking to see his Enhanced Disclosure certificate.
And then there’s the wholly unjustified squandering of hard-earned cash on Christmas presents: did you know that twenty five per cent of Christmas presents are unwanted, and that 10am on Christmas morning is the peak time that the ungrateful beggars are engaged in trying to sell them on Ebay?
The trouble with Christmas is that it has got completely out of control. And last night, in my local, I launched my plan to mitigate it. It goes something like this: we can’t get rid of Christmas, because, somewhere, buried deep in the vortex of commerciality, it’s still a Christian festival. We could, however, reduce its impact by replacing it with three festivals. Those whose surname begins with the letters A-K will celebrate Christmas on 31st January, those with surnames commencing with the letters L-Z will sit down to Christmas dinner on 31st July. The third festival will be a one-day bank holiday on 25th December, available only to those who have a fully stamped-up church attendance card.
I have thought about this quite carefully. There are very few citizens of these islands whose surnames begin with the letters Q, U, X or Z; those who do are statistically as unlikely to want to celebrate the birth of our lord as most of the rest would want to celebrate the birth of Mohammed. I’m also convinced that my plan would be a stroke of commercial genius, allowing business’ who rely heavily on the festive season two bites of the cherry.
The importance of New Year will be significantly enhanced, with a stand-alone two day celebration/recovery holiday, so that will benefit the Scottish economy. You have to admire the Scots for internalising this landmark so efficiently and adopting it as their own; if only they’d managed to do that with North Sea oil.
The effects of splitting Christmas would revolutionise our ailing economy; half of the population would be on holiday for three days at the end of January while the other half continued to work, and the same would happen at the end of July. The annual shutdown, which generally lasts a fortnight, would be a thing of the past. The July celebrators would mingle with the annual summer holiday takers thus further diluting disruption in the workplace.
There may, I’ll admit, be problems with this scheme: there would be “Christmas frauds” in the same way as there are benefit frauds, so Liverpool will be on permanent holiday. And, of course, we would be subjected to two, instead of one, run-ups to Christmas.
But who could possibly object to my plan? Well, turkeys, the fat guy who works one night a year, and anyone who fails the church attendance criterion. Alternately, we could all have a four week holiday to celebrate Ramadan added to the calendar, but this will never happen because refraining form eating and drinking does not make sound commercial sense.
And sadly, sound commercial sense is what Christmas is all about.