The Olympics: why I am uneasy

And yet, and yet. I don't know how to respond to the fact that this Olympics is being held in China.

Amnesty International's monitoring involves four main areas: repression of activists, detention without trial, censorship and the death penalty.
Each of these areas give cause for concern.

This of course is without mentioning China's actions in Tibet. AI's last report says "The recent protests in Tibet and Tibetan-populated areas of surrounding provinces and the subsequent crackdown and media silence imposed by authorities highlighted not only longstanding and unresolved violations of fundamental human rights but also on-going censorship of the media."

Today, as the ceremony proceeds, there are people being tortured by the state because of what they believe or say. At least one person will be executed for one of 68 crimes punishable by death.

I am not sure how to react, but I do think there is something in the 'shining a light on the issue' viewpoint. The more we open a society to outside influence, the more we understand and the closer we come to change. It's understanding that brings change.

But this doesn't leave me feeling anything other than uneasy.

One Olympics, one world, one party state.

The Olympics: why I care

I have never really got into the Olympics before now. I am not sure why, because I love sport. It's possibly because I've never played any of the sports except hockey, and I suppose running. Though my running can hardly be described as running running.

But now I've changed, and I'm excited about these Olympics. I think this is a natural result of several factors, not least that as you get older your circle of interest expands, from self, to community to world. Though there's also possibly a London effect happening - I can't wait for the world's attention to focus on London.

I am also more of an observer of sport now, rather than a participant. I have finally realised that I am no longer going to be a world class sportsman, which is something that crept up on me only gradually. (Is it too late? Even for shooting?) So, I am free to enjoy sport for the story it tells about the world, rather than the story it tells about me.

Next, I believe in the power of sport. It certainly saved and enhanced my life. I think it's essential for human development to experience sport, or at least exercise, and I see it as key to unlocking the broken lives of some of our young men, in particular.

And I also believe in sport as a great unifier. I doubt there is anything that has done more to combat racism in the world than sport. Certainly, in Britain football's contribution to tackling racism can't be underestimated. We've come a long way since John Barnes was pelted with bananas. And it was Barnes' reaction to the pelting that started the journey. The experience of South Africa adds to the argument. And so, yes, I suppose I am arguing there is something about the Olympic spirit and that sport can be used to mend lives, societies and even international relations.

But perhaps above all, the Olympics is interesting because of the stories that it produces. At the last Olympics, there was 0.545 seconds worth of difference between five Gold and Silver medals for Britain. Half a second between 5! That's a lifetime of effort and 4 years of dreaming, boiled down to about a tenth of a second each. Inevitably, this leads to astonishing stories and if anyone doubts the power of these stories they should read The Meaning of Sport by Simon Barnes, the greatest of all sporting storytellers, or follow his blog.

This is very much how I play football too...

I was Neston Nomad of the Year in 1988, after all.

Rotation Policy

Rafa Benitez has this year come under severe criticism for his rotation policy, whereby he rests players from one game to next seemingly irrespective of the form they are in.

I have just replaced my old Liverpool FC calendar, saying goodbye to Dirk Kujt, Liverpool's Dutch striker, and man of December.

My new calendar is now up in its place (I couldn't wait). And guess who is Mr January? That's right, Dirk Kujt.

Is this a subliminal message that Rafa will be rotating less this year and keeping the same team from one month to the next?

My advice...

Support Hatton. Back Mayweather.

Come on Ricky, do it for the good guys.

Football vs Rugby

Truly, this is heresy to say coming from Liverpool, but (whispers) watching the Premiership after the rugby feels so...insipid.

The players' tricks, the lack of guts, the lack of respect for anything, all combined with the knowledge of their huge wealth. It just feels a bit fake - god knows how it feels for Chelsea supporters.

Feels like the difference between watching panto and the RSC.

Springbok Class

Our papers were simply outstanding today on England's defeat and the RWC in general. Sandwiched in the middle of yet another outstanding article on the RWC was this brilliant story I hadn't heard before:

After Fiji went down to South Africa in their quarter-final in Marseilles, they marked their exit with the longest lap of honour of all time. They wandered slowly around the field, apparently acknowledging each of the 55,000 crowd individually, full of Fijian ritual and thanks. It must have been about 45 minutes after the end of the game when they came back to the top of the tunnel. There, still waiting to clap them off, were the Springboks. That was class.

I also noticed that the Springbok bench stood to applaud Jason Robinson when he left the field. That's class too, and I suspect that a lot of it stemmed from their dignified coach, Jake White.

Pride

England probably deserved more from last night, but probably didn't deserve to win. South Africa were the best team in the tournament, and they made fewer mistakes than we did last night. It was their mental calmness (and Percy Montgomery) which was the difference, dare I say, as predicted.

South Africa did exactly what we did in 2003.

Despite some of their supporters, I'd prefer to lose to the Boks than anyone else to be honest, because I love the country and they need these things more than the snivelling antipodeans. That's enough now though - they can't keep claiming it. And Thabo Mbeki being lofted on the team's shoulders, despite not acknowleding the threat of AIDS and being mates with that nice chap Mugabe? People have some strange ideas of 'the moment' of the tournament. Mbeki is not Mandela.

But above anything else I feel so proud about the performance of England. We were magnificent, decent and brave. Now please, take that example and build.

RWC

This World Cup has been incredible, and it continued last night when Argentina beat les Frogs. Unbelievable.

This evening's game asks the following quesiton: is this World Cup about upsets, or is it about logic? If, ultimately, it's about logic then the Boks will win. They have been the best side in the tournament, they haven't lost and they've already beaten us. If however the narrative of the tournament really is about spirit and momentum and passion then we have a chance. It would be the biggest upset of all in an incredible tournament though. For this reason, I just can't imagine us winning.

I always set a lot of store on the psychology of sport, and had a sneaky feeling that we'd beat Australia and a strong feeling we'd beat France because we had so little to lose. However, I can't imagine any situation where we can beat the Boks. I just can't see it. They seemed too strong physically and especially mentally last week. There, I've said it.

The only sliver of hope is the Boks haven't really played anyone decent during this tournament. But honestly, I can't see another surprise. I think it's about logic.

Thankfully, it isn't me that has to believe in a different narrative, it's these guys:

This is the England I know...

Proud. Self deprecating. Silly. Serious. Ridiculous. Committed. Loyal. Decent. Defiant.




















And the big one; finding humour in funny pants.

Enter the King....

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.

This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

No, I haven't finished

This is just sheer joy.

To explain this rapture, Australia spent the whole of the week before trashing England, its players, its people, its spirit. Their winger, Lote Tuqiri trashed our back line. Their press invited us to lose with dignity and accused us of arrogance (!). Their Chief Executive of Rugby Union even admitted that he 'hated' England.

I know I should be rising above it all, but I'm having too much fun. So I'm reading the Sydney Morning Herald. They seem to be a bit off colour!















Oh dear, and it's raining in Sydney too! Chin up!

There is a God

Also

I laughed out loud when I read about Abramovich asking Peter Kenyon (think snivelling, scheming sycophant) why the fans never chanted his name. Hilarious.

It's simple Roman. It's because:

1. You don't have any true fans
2. You installed a manager who took all the glory for himself, who was psychologically incapable of acknowledging you
3. You have a stupid, inane grin
4. No one likes to admit you're a crook and, oh yes...(the most important)

MONEY CAN'T BUY YOU LOVE.

Good riddance

All this fuss about this idiot. He brought something 'extra' to the Premiership. He was an amazing manager. He was unbelievably sexy in that coat. Do me a favour.

I hated him from the outset. He portrayed himself as this amazing hero, when in reality he was simply in charge of the most astonishing wealth in a game that is now essentially decided by wealth. The most important man at the club was not him, though he liked to pretend it was. It was and is Roman Abramovich. Without his hard-won, fairly earned and whiter than white roubles, Chelsea would regress back to the middle of the road, degenerate club for racists that they always were.

Mourinho demanded complete loyalty from those around him yet he could not return the favour. He constantly briefed darkly against Abramovich - a case of wanting your cake and eating it. Except the billionaire did not see it that way. Mourinho agreed to join a club where he was never going to be boss then chucked his toys when reality hit.

He wasn't a good manager. Simply, he had the best and most expensive squad in the world because he could pay stupid money for whoever he liked. Even then, with a team including Djimi Traore we beat them in the Champions League and again for good measure. Benitez is a better tactician. Mourinhio moaned about decisions like a spoilt brat.

He also did nothing with two of the greatest talents in the game and failed to entertain any of Chelsea's hard core fan base who by the time of his last home game had climbed to, ooh, 24,000.

He wasn't smart or funny. He made stupid analogies when he wasn't whingeing, but it wasn't so funny when he hounded one of the best referees out of the game entirely, was it? He was so vain that he could not bear to lose in the way a small child cannot bear to lose. This is no Martin Johnson.

As for the claim that he is sexy, I suppose I can't be the judge but if women really do find him sexy then it's deeply depressing. It's like writing love letters to murderers in prison. But if being a petty, paranoid bully is sexy, then that I suppose he was.

I hope he never returns to England and dies alone, stinking of piss, shot by one of Abramovich's completely above-board 'business partners'.

Rugby World Cup 2

We went straight for breakfast. I thought there was little point trying to sleep, and anyway I was too excited. I was tired, like in one of those dream sequences, and my memory is hazy. But the next thing I knew I was down at Darling Harbour, meeting up with all my Convict relatives and getting stuck into the singing. An abiding memory is my Uncle and Cousin surrounded by maybe 400 England fans singing Waltzing Matilda. Plucky.

The game was amazing, but sickening. From someone conditioned to expect Australian victories, it was sadistic in the extreme. But this time it was different, and Jonny delivered.

A brilliant night followed as you'd expect, and next day I grabbed about 4 hours sleep and then wandered into town in my England shirt to enjoy victory. I read the Australian papers who, for once, were magnanimous in defeat.

I left that afternoon and was back at my desk on Monday morning. Quite a weekend.

There was a twist in the tail. As everyone excitedly discussed the match 'Did you see it?' I was exhaustedly flicking through the BBC website. The first photo was Martin Johnson lifting the trophy to the sodden night sky.

And the second was of a group of about 20 England fans cheering the players as they received the trophy. The photo was entitled: England fans go wild in Sydney's Telstra Stadium. And in the middle of that crowd, clear as day, was me.

Rugby World Cup..my story

So England's reign as RUGBY WORLD CHAMPIONS is up for renewal. It's funny how much everyone hates the fact that we are still RUGBY WORLD CHAMPIONS. And for me it's extra sweet because I WAS THERE.

I didn't plan to be there. But when I watched the semi final, and when we were playing the convicts, I had to be there.

The TV said it was going to be impossible to get there, but I simply rang up the travel agent and said "how can I get to * coughs * Sydney and back this weekend without missing a day's work as cheaply as possible"? "Well sir, I have one economy seat left flying via Germany, leaving on Thursday evening arriving Saturday morning...." "Erm..jolly good then!"

Now, I had used up all my holiday by that point, so I didn't have a day's leave. And on Thursday evening we had a work meeting. So by then - as you can imagine - I was feeling very ill. Coughing away I was. So I simply excused myself, walked out of the room, down Richmond High Street and off to the tube. Then to Heathrow.

Next things I knew, I was sitting in the lobby of my mate's flat in Sydney, on the morning of the game.

Is sport getting worse?

Now I am as obsessed by sport as anyone, but is it gradually becoming rubbish?

Tour de Farce
Decline of West Indian Cricket and too much cricket
Football - suffocating from wealth
Rugby - rich nations stealing from the poor
Tennis - even more boring now than it ever has been
Athletics - best Doctor wins
Racing - fixing

I think I may take up Crown Green Bowling.

You'll never walk alone

God I love watching this, the last minute is spine tingling.

Money can't buy you love

Last night was an unbelievable night. Chelsea are everything I hate about modern football, Liverpool everything that remains great. Chelsea are nouveau riche oiks, whose unprecedented, unlimited wealth from a Russian billionaire has brought them recent success. Liverpool are a people's club, a team of their City. A team people identify with in terms of the narrative of their lives.


Now we've beaten them again when it mattered most and their manager - who called us a small club - once again whinges that the best team lost. Hilarious.

But I was interested in the wider metaphor that sprang to mind last night.

The brilliant Simon Barnes drew comparisons between the clubs' two best players: Gerrard of Liverpool and Lampard of Chelsea. "Lampard changes a game by what he does. Gerrard changes it by what he is", says Barnes.

This is true. Gerrard is a man of emotion; figurehead for an emotional team in an emotional city. This is why he wins critical games at critical times with blockbusting goals - he has theatricality coursing through his veins. Lampard is a 21st century player, 'carrying his wealth and fame with a becoming ease'. This matches his team, Chelsea. They are about knowing style and sophistication, like West London itself. Passion for them is slightly uncool.

And this is where the metaphor - for me - gets interesting. For what we were watching was a clash of money against meaning. And as I watched Anfield last night, with the flags and songs, the sheer volume of a People's Club once more defying the odds, it became even clearer to me what takes priority. When it comes down to it, it's meaning that wins.

And with passion in your life, you'll never walk alone.