11.6.12 France v England

The 1-1 draw was probably a reasonable result, and fair to both sides.  As ever, watching was painful, as England players hung on for rather too long for the referee's final whistle.  It wasn't a good game, but it was certainly impossible to guess the outcome right to the end, when it was always likely England would throw it away. 

The fact that at times France had twelve players on the pitch was slightly frustrating.  No, there was not a cock-up by the fourth official (or in fact any of the other six) but a certain leaning of the referee in favour of France.  There were clear obstructions/barges by French players on both Gerrard and Johnson, and a few unpunished nudges.  As ever, Ribery got away with a few misdemeanours.

Of all the players that England fans would like to see with an open net before them, James Milner is not one of them.  Bad luck, therefore, that instead of Oxlade-Chamberlain or Ashley 'time to fall over' Young with a chance to slide the ball into the French goal, it was Milner and so the miss was inevitable.

My worry is that England players try to do things that continental players can do.  When we stick to our ways, we have a reasonable chance.  So, getting clever in defence and passing the ball around near our own goal should be avoided.  Intricate passing and 'triangles' are not as necessary to us, so crossing and heading should be the way forward - we are unlikely to walk the ball into the opponents' goals.

I am not sure why is was deemed worthwhile to bring on Theo Walcott in injury time.  That's right, after ninety minutes and five seconds, he jogged on to the pitch for the three minutes of boring injury time play, touching the ball once.  Pointless.

Commentary

• "Let's give a lot of quality to the finish"  [Andy Townsend, ref Nasri]
• "A goal that raised serious question marks"  [Clive Tyldesley, suggesting that punctuation marks can now have an inherent level of seriousness]

So. the agony will contnue as England believe there could just be a fantastic outcome, against all odds.

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11.6.12 Pot and Kettle

Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!  Cut Price and Silly Bercow are as bad as each other, and there's no place for either.  Unfortunately we are lumbered with both, though.

In yesterday's paper I read with amazement some bitching by Katie Price, who was out to get Sally Bercow.  Now, Sally Bercow is clearly a liability to her husband, although in so many ways, she and John are well suited.  She is certainly, in her own right, asking for everything she gets by conducting herself in an unbecoming manner.  The 'columnist' Katie Price - I believe she either writes some stuff down or gets a scribe to listen to her ramblings - manages to take up space in the Sunday Sun, and gets a chance to have her say - as if she needs further opportunity!  Here's her moan from yesterday:

"Is it a berk?  Is it a cow?  No, it's Sally Bercow.  Again on the theme of warped individuals who crave fame, let's focus on the wife of the Commons Speaker."

No, luv - how about we focus on you!  I rather think you're not best placed to offer such criticism.  How you manage to miss seeing that your own approach is hardly ideal, or so superior to that of SB, I do not know.  Your further comments include a hypocritical moan, and anyone who's seen you in action will be pleased to tar you with the same brush:

"This irritating woman is the worst kind of snob - the sort of person who has no class herself but enjoys lording it over the others."

However true this is of Sally Bercow, I suggest it's true of Katie Price as well.  Katie's final comment conjured up a fate that would be fitting for her as well as Sally Bercow; maybe there is space for two?

"I think we'd all be pleased to see her draped in the Union Flag sitting in a dinghy floating down the Thames towards the North Sea."  I would certainly pilot a tug boat to help the pair of them on their way to the high seas.

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10.6.12 Croatia v Ireland

As usual, Croatia showed it is a team with much technical ability, but with its usual capacity for moaning and feeling permanently 'victimised' on the pitch.  There is perpetual frustration in any spectacle involving Croatia, because one feels it's "on the verge of kicking off" all the time.

Ireland's style was the same as any match at a weekend in the UK or Ireland, and there was less of the "let's make a million triangles" in the game than any match to date.  Ireland players were prepared to kick the ball upfield and cross into the box, unlike most teams who seem intent on walking the ball into the net.  Ireland winning was always likely to be a long shot; in fact, you could say that losing was a 'Given'.  Ireland cannot really argue at being 3-1 down after three minutes of the second half.  It was a shame that the penalty for the foul on Keane was not awarded - poor decision referee!  That would have made it 3-2 with a successful spot kick.  I wish Bilic would take off that pathetic Nike hat.  I have heard just three names on the Croatian side that do not end in "ic" [itch].  Which "ic" on the pitch scored I don't know.  The referee was weak, and in the spirit of the match, I will label him a bitch.  The person in the crowd with a whistle should have been shot by the police.

I am sure that when the opposition is a bit stronger than this Ireland side, the Croations will display rather more foul play than was necessary tonight.  As for Ireland, the most criminal thing they did was take to the field in those awful socks!

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10.6.12 Roland Garros

The 2012 French Open has come to an end today, after some real competition in the various disciplines.  Yesterday, in the Women's Final, Maria Sharapova grunteed her way to victory, out-decibelling Sara Errani.  Maria listened to the Russian national anthem after the win, although she's really American.  The small Italian woman was never in the match, but had success earlier, by winning the Doubles competition.  So, apart from the usual grunting, there was little to report.

Today we have had the Men's Final of the grunting, arse picking, ball-bouncing, feet-tapping, face-wiping and tennis-playing Championship.  In terms of grunting, it was an even match; both Nadal and Djokovic managed to make a lot of noise, although clearly neither was able to surpass the 'Sharapova Shriek' level.

Nadal was a clear winner when it came to picking his underpants from the crack of his arse.  He's a master at this, and from the first game he was off to a flyer.  His fingers were never away from his arse for more than 15 seconds (excluding the time he was actually in a rally).

Bouncing of the ball has become a real art form, and the two top seeds managed to keep things very competitive.  The typical serve from both players was preceded by an episode involving between 8 and 22 bounces of the ball, with an average of 14.  As a result, the spectacle today involved a total of 13,329 bounces.

Both players managed an even number of whacks to the soles of their trainers.  The head of a tennis raquet doubles up as a useful tool for dislodging molecules that attach themselves to the rubber soles, and with equal venom, Djokovic and Nadal applied themselves to the task of feet-hitting, avoiding the much weaker approach of feet-tapping.

Face-wiping (for the purposes of this comment) is to be combined with wiping of the forearms and biceps - somethig practised by Nadal to the point of obsession.  It is clear that where Wimbledon brings out the worst in players, in France there is slightly less of a need to wipe.  Yes, there was much use of the towel, but the breezy conditions meant a reduced reliance on extra wipes between points, and excessive piss-taking directed at the ball boys at the rear of the court. 

Commentary

In the studio yesterday, John Inverdale was in discussion with Lindsay Davenport and Jim Courier, and looking ahead to today's match.  Lindsay's repeated mispronunciation of "Djokovic" caused John Inverdale to correct her (and Jim).  The Joke - oh - vitch approach was kicked into touch in favour of the proper way of saying the bloke's name.  The comment from Jim Courier was priceless:

"We can't speak the language and can't pronounce the names - why are we even here, John?"

Jim corrected the pronunciation of Djokovic but managed to retain much of his propensity for odd pronunciation, displaying during the commentary of the Men's Final a few brilliant examples.  Perhaps the oddest was his insistence that the shortened form of 'Rafael' should be pronounced Rarfer, so that it rhymed with 'Arthur'.  I cannot explain this, especially when Americans tend to do the opposite for France, and insist on having a short 'a' so that it rhymes with 'pants'.  He also commented that the weather was 'breezy' and then that the court wasn't 'greasy', making them rhyme!  Jim also managed to waffle on about Djokovic claiming "real estate" at the back of the court - what shit!  Nick Mullins was the main match commentator, and between the two of them, they managed some weird comments:

"He carries a large petrol tank around with him."  [Nick, ref Djokovic]

"There are no coaches to confer with, no caddies on the court with you."  [Jim]

"Novak Djokovic is on the bus."  [Nick]

"Djokovic is beginning to write some of his own lines."  [Nick]

"Any athlete at peak doesn't have anything in their mind."  [Jim]

"They must come over the net like a yellow banana."  [Nick, ref Nadal's shots]

With the football (Spain v Italy) offering more entertainment, I switched channels, and left the grunting, picking, bouncing, wiping and foot-tapping.  The stoppages for rain made the whole process of juggling viewing (catching up with the situation at half-time) very awkward.

As rain has now dictated a conclusion of the match tomorrow, I am puzzled.  If extra time to finish the final is allocated such that play starts at 12 noon tomorrow (Monday) then why the fuck wasn't play started a bit earlier today?  It makes little sense to start at 3pm; Paris is hardly on the equator, and so the light will at a time which can be planned for.  If they'd started at say 1pm, or even 2pm, it would have helped rather a lot.

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10.6.12 Euro Logo - Hazard Warning

There is, these days, a national fear of flash photography.  This phobia is so bad that before the slightest chance of a flash on any TV programme, there's either a verbal warning, or a warning across the bottom of the screen.  With such a definite and prevailing policy, it is therefore amazing that the televised coverage of the Euro Championship allows the logo to zoom into the camera at the start and end of every replay.  The effect is akin to that of a flash; it's so off putting, I cannot see how those in charge thought it could be a sensible approach.

It is totally unnecessary to have this fucking picture zooming around the screen and into your eyes before and at the end of a replay.  With 15 - 25 replays per match, that's between 60 and 100 times the logo is forced upon us!

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10.6.12 Great British Menu Mix Up

What a fucking joke of a final programme in the series of 45 consecutive weekday shows.  For nine cuntin' weeks we have seen regional heats and then a final week of competition to decide the four finalists. 

It turned out that the four chefs who'd be preparing each of the courses for the 'Olympians' were expected to do so in the most inappropriate venue that could possibly have been selected.  The kitchen was about 200 metres from the fucking dining room, and even Hussain Bolt would have struggled to keep the food warm when serving.  How on earth did the creators of this competition come to select a venue that had such a weird layout?  Oliver Peyton then pissed about, and we witnessed a staged discussion between him and the manager over where a staging post could be set up.  Yes, that's right, the chefs couldn't fucking stay in the cuntin kitchen because it was too far away.  Instead, they were in a side room, nearer the dining area, where food was heated and put on plates for an army of waiters and waitresses to carry to tables.  The area was cramped and a joke.

Before all of this, though, we had the poor chap who was cooking the main course trying desperately to get going, but having to give up because the fryers were not up to the job.  The fat would not reach the right temperature!  I could not believe that it was down to him to contact a few mates, and get a couple of properly working fryers dropped off on loan.  Cuntin ridiculous!

Meanwhile, the fish market had no mackerel.  So, in a bid to wear out the planet just a little bit quicker, a boat was launched in Cornwall to go and catch some, and then a van with temperatue control was driven to London from Cornwall with ten boxes of chilled fish, which arrived just in time.  What awful fucking preparation.  Nine weeks, then, of pretentiousness and guff to get finalists, and then more work to get down to a final four - just for a fiasco of a tossing banquet.  I was impressed that the chefs did so well themselves, and that the guests had a good meal.  But this was all despite the organisation being so shit.

As for the commentary during the banquet, it was filled with the usual multiple mention of 'Olympians', 'pushing boundaries, 'scaling heights' and 'ground breaking'.  We had "so crucial" and "very heartbroken".  There was "not a millisecond to spare" and a load more shite.  Oliver Peyton came out with, "It was a beautiful journey on the pallet" just to annoy the fuck out of me and anyone else with more than seven brain cells, and it reaffirmed my view of him - you guess!

As for the beneficiaries of the 9-week marathon, the 'Olympians' were finally revealed.  These turned out to be not the people I'd expected.  Yes, there were a fair few who were medal winners and associated with past glories.  However, after the diners had been exalted to such a massive degree, I was amazed to see so many 'hopefuls' littering the place.  As well as famiar names, we had people who are taking part in the London Olympics.  That is stretching 'Olympians' rather too much.  Turning up to a [articular event for your chosen sport along with 200 others does not really qualify you as an 'Olympian' in my book.  No offence to the individual, but one person commenting on the meal afterwards was labelled "2012 Olympics Trampoline Hopeful" and that does not warrant all the fucking fuss for nine weeks and 24 competing chefs, desperate to feed her.  There were others labelled 'Hopeful' and in effect, the 100 diners comprised about 50 medal winners.

Glad it's over, that boundaries were apparently broken, ground was broken, heights were scaled, fish were descaled, flora and fauna were foraged, and people were fed.  Next time all this effort is made by the BBC using licence payers' money, could some cunt please think ahead and give the finalists a working kitchen that's in the vacinity of the fucking dining room.

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9.6.12 Delusional Cheryl

You couldn't make this up, and so I must thank Cheryl Cole for giving me the ammunition to highlight the level of delusion she is experiencing.  The words from her own lips (spoken and quoted, rather than sung, of course) were a response to the ongoing cristicisms because of her miming.  Whether she's supposedly performing 'live' or simply lip-synching out of habit (nay necessity) it is quite clear that as a performer she ought to switch to being a dancer in a troupe.  Her response to the fully warranted criticism?

"I take it as a compliment.  If you think my live vocal sounds so good it must be mimed.  I'm happy.  You think away."

Cheryl, are you so dim that you seriously think this is all complimentary?  You do not do much that is live at all, so we hardly have anything upon which to base views, let alone state "so good, it must be mimed".  I find myself more often than not saying "this is pure shit and total agony to listen to" (a bit like when you turned up and made a little noise next to Gary Barlow).  Please will you stop kidding yourself.  I'm sure you're very nice, and didn't mean to try and muscle in on photo opportunities by getting close to the Queen, but don't for a minute think you can sing.  Don't for a minute think that we think you can sing.

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