Why Does Everybody Hate the English?

Or how to get "Simcerity" when it alls goes wrong. 

I came across a comment on Facebook last Saturday, following England’s humbling defeat in Dublin. It was made by a ‘friend’ who I actually know and have even had a coherent conversation face to face with, as opposed to the hordes of cyber-whackos on Facebook who inform me that they’ve just had a monster dump or are off to bed; so I thought I’d have a go at answering it.

            It read thus: “I find it funny that everyone is so chuffed that England lost. If you hate the English so much why do you all live here ?????”

            Before the pedants amongst you – and I pride myself as being in their number - tell me that this is actually a question, it is referred to as ‘a comment’ on Facebook.

            To answer this question/comment, you have ask another: is this in fact the case, or is my friend simply suffering from acute paranoia in the face of yet another of England’s recent spectacular sporting humiliations? What she is referring to – I assume - are the indigenous British Islanders who live in England and not the principalities, republics or provinces of their ancestry. Those with great expectations of what life in England can offer. Exiles from the parochial dullness of their own countries - those who will support anyone other than their adopted country of domicile on match day. In other words, the Celts and the ex-colonials.

            There is a huge body of evidence, both anecdotal and factual which supports this.             

            Recently, Marc Lievrement, the French coach was quoted in the Times: “We don’t like the English.” Gosh! Now that comes as a real surprise, Marc; five little words which confirm what we’ve suspected all along. It was the fact that he said it and kept his job, which was the real surprise. Imagine if Martin Johnson said: “We don’t like the Scots”? Or, “…we really don’t like anyone from west of the Severn bridge.

            Go with this for a moment: what if Andy Flower, currently shepherding that other under-achieving English national team towards some sort of international respectability, said: “We don’t like the Pakistanis”?  There’d be public outcry.

            Lievremont wasn’t finished: “We don’t like black people; we don’t like them and it’s better to say so than to be hypocritical.” He also went on to say how little the French like the Jews, and got all misty eyed about the Italians and Celtic conviviality, suggesting that they are all buddies because they don’t like black people either. But it was his comment about the English that was the real take home message.

            Of course, it back-fired on him at the end of the week when England won at Twickenham; the sound of chickens coming home to roost mingled with raucous English celebration long into South Western London night skies.

            But Lievremont is not the only England basher: a few years ago, the chief executive of the Australian Rugby Union, John O’Neill, was quoted saying: “It doesn’t matter whether it’s cricket, rugby union, rugby league – we all hate England.” He went on to suggest that the only reason that France were awarded the soccer World Cup was that no one would vote for England, and France was the only other country in the running. Don’t sit on the fence, John: say what you really think. He kept his job too.

            Okay, so the evidence supports my friend’s claim, but why does everybody hate the English? O’Neill explained this to some degree by referring to their “…born-to-rule mentality”. And here, I believe, he has a point. Without wishing to pour oil on burning waters by mentioning Tony Blair or Piers Morgan, the past is littered with historic figures whose barbaric subjugation of the provinces has left wounds which will fester, for ever, on the playing fields and in the stadia of the kingdom they unified. The aftershocks of transporting our criminals to the sunshine and oranges of Australia, Cromwell’s activities in Ireland; what Edward 1^st did to the Scots, and what Thatcher did to the Welsh miners, will be felt long after seismic events in Japan become a distant memory.

            Take the legendary half-time team talk by Scotland captain Gordon Brown (Broon frae Troon - not Clarkson’s one-eyed Scottish idiot) at Twickenham in the early ‘70s:           

            “Remember Culloden, lads?”

            “Aye”, came the reply from brother Peter, “We bloody lost that one too!”

            As for the French, despite their proximity, they are no more a natural ally to the English than Tom is to Jerry.

            But leaving history aside, there is something else which makes English rugby so difficult to like: arrogance.

            Back to Facebook: I found other comments which support this: “…going down the Black Horse to watch England give the paddies a good slap.” Really? And “…come on England: bash those thick micks.” Not that thick, it transpired. And, worst, of all: “We’re 80 minutes from the Grand Slam – Ireland, don’t even bother to turn up!”

            Now I’m sure that these comments are polarised and those who wrote them - like Lievrement -  now regret them, but it does expose a certain mis-placed cockiness that serves to fan the flames which England so frequently go down in.

             It doesn’t stop there either: it extends right the way up to the management and coaching staff. Johnson’s men went into the most important game since the last World Cup final woefully under-prepared. Sure, they had beaten a poor Welsh side, roused themselves sufficiently to make Lievrement eat his words; they had flooded a porous Italian defence and ground out a win against a manned-up but inept Scottish outfit; however none of this made anyone, other than the English themselves, see Johnson’s team as serious contenders to lift the Webb Ellis Cup on 23^rd October. Southern hemisphere sides are not quaking in their boots, and that’s who England will have to beat.

            Against Ireland, England didn’t think it was worth bothering with a plan B. By the time they realised that Ireland could easily read the inside ball, the long, deep pass behind the predictable line of drifting dummy runners, and the blunt attack of two massive but easily corralled centres, the game was up. Then Youngs prevented Ireland taking the quick throw and was yellow-carded. Johnson marked his arrogant and petulant behaviour by banishing him to the bowels of the stand. No swan diving for Ashton, either – an act which is tantamount to brandishing the middle finger to the opposition - as wave after wave of do-or-die Irish defenders enveloped him, sensing that this, if not their championship, was at least their day.

            Of course, in the lead-up to last Saturday, there was much talk in the England camp about how Ireland should not be taken lightly; how lessons had been learned from past complacencies, of how Dublin was a hard place to go and win. In 2003, in Dublin, when England won their last Slam, Johnson  - correctly I believe - refused to move his men at the request of a provocative ‘jobs’ worth’ before the national anthems. He declined to be pushed around; this galvanised England, who deservedly won. But that was Woodward’s team, an England team more focused and better prepared than any before or any since; a team high on confidence whose winning mentality was based on proven performance rather than hope – or arrogance. Certainly a team with a back-up plan.

            How far England has come under Johnson remains an unanswered question. Whether last Saturday’s woeful performance is down to selection – they played markedly better when the bench was emptied in the second half - or attitude, remains to be seen; as does the question as to whether England have over or under-achieved in this season’s Six Nations’.

            So those of us exiles who live in England, but take great pleasure at the odd Celtic victory or even the very occasional Grand Slam, can be vindicated thus: England, by virtue of sheer numbers, should be the favourites to win the Six Nations every year; but they don’t. Yet there is an expectancy from the management, players and supporters which sits perilously close to a “born-to-rule”, or “born-to-win” mentality.

            And so my suggestion to those, who, like my Facebook friend find England bashing distasteful, is in two parts: first, use this rancour to your advantage - as England did against the French - but second and more importantly - try a little bit of humility; in other words - to quote current management-speak: - manage your expectations, then you might receive a little “simcerity”, when England lose.

            That way perhaps, we all just might - yes even us exiles - get behind an England team in New Zealand if all of ours have caught the early plane home.

    

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE CRIMINALLY STUPID

Ever wondered how often someone says: ‘Life hasn’t worked out quite as I’d planned; nah, think I’m going to try my hand at house-breaking’?
Very rarely, I’d say; at least not in an off-the-cuff, I’ll give it a go sort of way. The route to crime is, I’d guess, a dysfunctional upbringing leading to the gradual de-construction of normality; the severing of the societal umbilical cords, followed by the slow realisation that your employment prospects are absolutely zero. If you’d applied yourself a bit at school you might have got a job as someone who signs off the paperwork on the toilet door claiming that you’d cleaned it; not that you’d fancy that much. Maybe you didn’t meet that charismatic headmaster who you would have told to ‘f**k off’ when he found you smoking in the playground; you know the one…instead of administering a sound thrashing and a month’s detentions – which was what you deserved – he smiled, understood you, and put you on the road to becoming the next Richard Branson.
But crime does pay – it pays admirably for those who are good at it, measure the risks, and are prepared to accept the consequences when it all goes wrong. Crime, in reality, is no worse a career path than banking or estate agency. Unless you kill - or worse, maim someone – you’ll be no less popular than a corporate big-wig at Barclays. And no one will have much sympathy for your victims if greed and stupidity can be attributed toward their loss.
Take land banking, for instance, today’s new faceless crime. Thousands of gullible people have given away their savings or inheritance, mesmerized by the promise of huge, speedy returns from land development. The BBC recently reported that twenty schemes are currently being investigated by both the Financial Services Authority (FSA) and the City of London Police. Billy McNaught, a 75 year old former soldier from Yorkshire was a victim of such a scam. He was reported to have parted with over £100,000 - inherited from his mother and wife - to buy eight strips of ‘green belt’ land with no access, and with as much chance of getting planning permission as an application for a nuclear power station on Balmoral village green. His strips were later valued at a collective worth of £75. Mr McNaught didn’t deem it necessary to get a solicitor involved in the transactions.
‘Three years ago’ he said, ‘I could buy whatever I wanted. And now I don’t even turn my central heating on any more.’ Well, my heart bleeds for you Billy, but no one coshed you on the head and stuffed your money into a sack bearing the word ‘swag’: I’m sorry, but you did it to yourself.
On a flight to Malaga the other day, I noticed a teenager opposite me laboriously two-fingering out an essay on his laptop. Beside his device was a piece of paper - someone else’s work - which he was blatantly copying. I observed him making a few changes, of course, but in the casual everybody-plagiarises-so-can’t-be-arsed manner that Gadhafi junior did for his doctoral thesis at LSE. Stealing someone else’s words and ideas is no less a crime than stealing someone’s Stradivarius, or de-frauding pensioners from their savings. But to be any good at crime, you have to have a nose for sniffing out the crossroads where naivety meets opportunity. And that brings me on to stupidity.
The thing about stupidity is that it doesn’t discriminate between the morally corrupt and the morally upright. You can be honest but stupid - such as Billy - or dishonest and stupid such as the bloke who attempted to sell the £1.2m Stradivarius he had stolen for £100. Why, in the name of Zeus, risk jail for a gain that’s worth half the price of what a tank of unleaded will cost in a week’s time?
But then a few days ago, I too fell into the stupidity trap: I had my push bike nicked. I had paid a visit to my solicitor, parking it in front of the bay window outside his secretary’s office. His business premises are within a substantial detached Victorian property in affluent and leafy Wilmslow. The house is set back from the road and my bike was hidden from passing view, or so I thought. When I came out, no more than ten minutes later, it had gone. Stupidly I had left it unchained, assuming that it would be safe as: a) I was only going to be a few minutes, b) this was Wilmslow, not Toxteth and c) it was broad daylight. Nobody had seen a thing. No one had much sympathy for me - least of all the police - as I had clearly been stupid to assume an unsecured bicycle wouldn’t attract attention, even in Wilmslow. I gave them the details, got a crime number and thought that was the end of it. The insurance would pay up and all it would cost me was the hundred pound excess and the inconvenience; annoying and costly, but hardly the end of the world.
You can imagine my surprise, when a few days later I received a call from the Greater Manchester police informing me that they had found my bike. Not only did it match my description, but it also matched the serial number I had given them. My joy knew no bounds when they informed me they had also caught the little scroat who had nicked it. Things got even better when they generously offered to send a couple of officers out to me with the bike for my positive identification, and to take a statement. The thief was in custody, and they needed urgent confirmation that it was my bicycle in order to charge him.
Half an hour later a large police van arrived. My bicycle was unloaded by Officers Green and Deans who proudly awaited my confirmation that another unsolved crime was about to be cleared up. The only problem was that it wasn’t my bike.
‘It has to be,’ claimed PC Deans, frustration showing in his voice as the case for the prosecution evaporated before his eyes. ‘Look, here’s the frame number you gave us.’ It was the same number, but it wasn’t my bike. You see, my bike, a distinctive white Specialised ‘Hard rock’ mountain bike, was identical in every way down to the after sales trip computer and the fitted lights except that it didn’t have a metal pannier rack and two saddle bags affixed to the rear wheel. I had bought a rack and saddle bags some time ago some time ago, but never fitted the things as reading the instructions had given me a headache. Was I losing my mind? It clearly was my bike, but I sure as hell hadn’t fitted these adornments…or had I? No, someone else had, but why?
I put this question to PC Green:
‘Apparently, he’d been using your bike as a getaway vehicle, sir. We apprehended him leaving a house which had just been burgled. Saddle bags were full of costume jewellery; nothing worth much – he’d overlooked the really valuable stuff. Denies it of course, says he was given the saddle bags to “look after” by a friend. Presume he fitted them himself.’
‘Must have, I suppose’, I replied. PC Green unclipped the saddle bags. ‘Better keep these as evidence then.’ Neither of us had an appetite for dismantling the pannier frame and so it stayed on the bike.
As I wheeled the bike to the back of the house leaving PCs Green and Deans to persevere with their endless paperwork, I reflected that not only had I been a victim of a crime through my own stupidity, but that I’d also profited from crime due to someone else’s. Those frames aren’t cheap; I’d paid around fifty quid for mine.
I asked PC Deans what would happen to the perpetrator: ‘It’s down to the CPA [Crown Prosecution Service]’ he said, ‘if they think there’s sufficient evidence, it’ll go to court.’
‘And if not…?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, I’m afraid; case closed.’
What? Even after being apprehended exiting a freshly-burgled house with two saddle-bags full of loot and his dabs all over my bike? How much public money would have been wasted should one rogue, guilty in the eyes of the law of nothing other than stupidity, be returned, unprosecuted, to the streets.
This, I’d say, is nothing short of criminally stupid.

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.