A victory for football

Spain, the tournament’s finest team from start to finish, were tonight crowned champions of Europe in Vienna, and rightly so. Their style has, at times, echoed the best of the Brazilian teams from the 50s to the 70s, since Pelé and co. lit up the playing field with their effortless passing and movement, and even the more recent brand of ‘total football’ as played by Johan Cruyff and his Dutch Masters of the 1970s, where the team played as a coherent unit, players filling in other positions when others broke free to attack or defend as the game ebbed and flowed.

While the Spanish victory may go down as a vindication of so many pundits’ conviction that they were tournament favourites, it stood in counterpoint to the German side’s incredible (yet, oddly believable) achievement of reaching the final. Their performance, and defeat, against a delightful Croatian side in the second game of the group stages left many thinking they would finally shrug off their recent ‘fluky’ reputation and fail to even progress beyond the group stages (having been uable to even win a game in the competition prior to this year's opening victory against Poland since football 'came home' in 1996, when they eventually ran out as winners against an unfancied Czech Republic side at Wembley).

At the end of the game, the BBC pundits reclined in their chairs and contented that tonight had been a “victory for football”, and that the Spanish side had reminded us how football should be played. So much is true, but more than this they reminded just why we love this beautiful game so very, very much.

So long, and thanks for all the stats

Tonight was very special for another reason. While a full farewell would be somewhat premature, as he will continue to commentate for the highlights of English club football for at least one more season, this is the last time we’ll hear John Motson, BBC narrator of our beloved game for nearly 40 years, oversee a live football match. And for Motty aficionados (a group in which I certainly include myself) it marks the beginning of the end for his unparalleled statistical knowledge being heard in our living rooms. You see, his finest moments tend to come when commentating on live games, in big tournaments like the World or FA Cups. His stats, like the man himself, rise to meet the occasion. As much as we love The Great Sheepskin-Coated One, hearing how many league goals Carlton Cole hasn’t scored in all the years of his career doesn’t really compare with the big stuff like how many times a German has missed a spot-kick in a shootout since the 1976 European Championship final against Czechoslovakia. Which is just the once, by the way.

In support of his decision not to commentate on the 2010 World Cup, Motson says he wishes to go out while it’s still not too late, while he’s still able to perform. Such professionalism is genuinely heartening, and it's reassuring to know BBC commentary (let’s not even discuss ITV’s coverage, which pales in comparison) should be in safe hands, not least with Jonathan Pearce who, it must be said, loves a bit of football.

Arise Sir Motson, if you please.

Suggs In The City

The weekend before last (I've been away, I have a backlog of things to post on, I'm sorry...) I saw the filming of a wee gem of a TV programme, Suggs In The City, by virtue of my good friend Will working as a researcher on the show. It's aired at 11.10pm every Thursday night on ITV1 London (Sky channel 993 for those of you outside the capital), and filming takes place inside The Colony Room, a famous members bar on Dean St. in Soho. If you haven't tuned in yet then get a move on, its run ends in a few week's time. On the show I saw: Dirty Pretty Things perform their new single 'Tired Of England', the band swigging gin martini between takes; Stephen K Amos banter very funnily with the host; and Jools Holland perform with Lisa Stansfield, the latter I suspect was quite pissed. In between the segments, when the cameras had stopped rolling, one lucky chap got to jam a few bars with Jools on the piano, which made his night.

From my experience in the audience I can confirm a few things about the show and television in general:

1. People are not the same height they appear on telly. They are either much shorter or much taller.
2. The space inside The Colony Room is not as small as it appears on telly. It's even smaller.
3. Studio lights do make the inside of studios much, much hotter than usual. In somewhere as constricted as the set of SITC (as no-one's calling it) makes this many, many times worse.
4. Filming telly is not neccesarily as stop-start as, say, film-making. In fact, the relaxed, conversational feel of the interviews is enhanced by this style of filming.
5. A television programme, shot in a bar, in which you can get free beers, is a very good idea.
6. A television programme, shot in a bar, in which you can get free beers but doesn't have a working toilet, is a bit of a challenge.

Watch Suggs In The City - Thursdays at 11.10pm on ITV1 London. You know it makes sense.

Germany 3 - 2 Turkey. Is there any justice?

In the absence of any style or flair in their play since some time around 2000, football pundits and journalists have resorted once again to the tired old lexicon of familiar, stereotypical and even vaguely racist terms to describe the German national football team. Tonight, it reached new extremes, as a truly horrendous German side SOMEHOW managed to overcome an impressive, injury-savaged Turkish team. Terms like "methodical", "ruthless" and their ilk should be replaced the unequivocal "downright bloody jammy". Yes Philipp Lahm's winning goal was a belter, but equally he was shocking when in defence, just like the rest of his team. And this shant come as shock to long-time readers of this blog who know I'm a Spurs fan but I will never, EVER tire of seeing big Jens Lehmann cock things up in between the posts.
Look at him. Poor Fatih Terim. He's almost as lovable as Slaven Bilic, another coach whose team should still be in the tournament - maybe.

Anyone who knows me knows I don't believe in luck, but tonight I began to have my doubts. The Turkish side weren't just "plucky" and "dogged" (and all those other, equally familiar and hackneyed phrases), they can actually play, were tactically astute and looked very, very up for it.

In spite of all of this, I can't criticise too much. It was a superbly entertaining game of football (despite the world's biggest thunderstorm descending on Vienna, interrupting television feeds, and thereby rendering my television no more than a decorative humming box during some crucial parts of the match). My only hope now is that whichever team emerges from the other semi-final (a more evenly matched affair, no doubt: despite Russia's relative underdog status, they've already proved they can play and do not have to follow Turkey's lead in dispelling the idea that they're just "determined" and they "never know when they're beaten") will royally stuff the Germans. Not because they're German, you understand. But because they simply aren't good enough to deserve their name on the trophy.

Back home

I've been back home for 3 weeks (the travelogue posts which have preceded this one were not made in real time - sorry to spoil the illusion) and with the end of travelling up and down the United States comes a return to all that is homely and familiar. Where a few weeks ago each day brought the prospect of some exciting new place or other, now the alarm clock ringing means little more than another day in which I must do that most soul-destroying of things: look for a job.

If anyone out there wishes to employ a plucky young blogger in some sort of vaguely interesting position (which doesn't directly involve dealing with members of the public - I had enough of that in Whistler) then please do get in touch.

One last hurrah in Whistler village...

How odd to return to Whistler, once submerged below several metres of snow, to see it all lush and green. Our motive behind returning for a night was to see the place in such a state, but nothing could have really prepared us for the shock of seeing our former home without all its wintery paraphernalia. Whistler is now all about bikes, it turns out... ...with the only skiing to be done really just token rubbish for the cheapskate very late season crowd, and the odd park rider who simply can't live through the summer without riding rails and hitting kickers.
But of course these gripes of mine ignore the single greatest thing about Whistler after the big thaw. Bears. They're all over the show, all big and furry and dangerous. There had been a few sighting by the time we left to head south, but I hadn't managed to spot one. I'm glad to say that, within about 3 minutes of getting on the gondola to do some sight-seeing up above the village, I saw bears. Not just one but several, of different sizes and increasing levels of cuteness. And I have proof.
I think the look on my face on this last picture tells you everything you need to know. Excited was not the word.
My girlfriend, ever supportive of my blogging and other stuff related to my wanting to become a professional journalist, had only a slight criticism on my travel updates below. She was somewhat surprised that she wasn’t present in that many of the pictures. “Did you actually go away with real people, Jim, or were you on your own?” she asked, not without sarcasm. “No dear”, I replied, “you were there with me too”. So here she is, looking beautiful.
And just to prove that we aren’t one and the same person, here we are together, enjoying the sunshine and the fact that we could wear flip-flops at more than 1500m above sea level.I may have criticised the fact that the place is now all non-ski-friendly, and it’ll be a long while until I next blast through the trees or plunge through waist-deep powder on either Whistler or Blackcomb mountain, I shouldn’t grumble overly – the place is still just as beautiful as it ever has been. Just a bit differently, that’s all.

San Diego, Ca

Our final stop on our north-to-south tour of the United States, San Diego, has it all. As soon as we left the Greyhound and stepped out into that Southern Californian air we had precisely the kind of warm, welcoming feeling that was conspicously absent in Los Angeles. We were staying the Gaslamp Quarter - the beating, nay, thumping heart of SD's downtown and centre for entertainment and dining in the city. It's a beautiful old neighbourhood, its vitality coursing from the many bars, restaurants, cinemas, theatres and shops which line its historic streets.

And then there's Petco Park, the city's brand-spanking new baseball stadium, home to the San Diego Padres. We arrived on game night, and so with our intention to drink in some real America, we bought ourselves the cheapest seats available for the section known as 'the bleachers' (the equivalent on 'the Gods' in a British theatre) and settled down with a hot dog and some nachos. As the sun set the giant scoreboard's illumination and the huge floodlights bathed the stadium in a fantastic, albeit unnatural, light for the remainder of the game. After it was over (the Padres, apparently, suck - losing 7-2 at home to the Cincinnati Reds) there was a huge firework display. Fun for all the family, and only $15 apiece.

The day after our dose of "America's Pastime" we headed for the harbour. San Diego is many things, but first and foremost it's a maritime city. The US Navy has had facilities in and around the city for years (including the famous Miramar, which was the inspiration for the 'Top Gun' movie). The USS Midway, the Navy's longest serving aircraft carrier, is now in permanent position in the harbour, retired after its lengthy service. It is, quite literally, huge.

The famous photograph of a sailor returning from wartime to the arms of his sweetheart is reproduced in the form of 30-odd foot high statue.

Balboa Park is one of the most beautiful city parks you'll see. It's centrepiece is El Prado, a long, wide promenade running east to west, home to the city's key cultural complex which includes a number of museums and cafes, and further north in the park is the world-famous San Diego Zoo. El Prado's buildings are just stunning, built in the Spanish Revival style (a blend of Spanish and Latin American influences).

There are also a number of smaller gardens, littered with beautiful, ancient trees, cacti and roses of every imaginable colour in full bloom.Not only does San Diego's city centre hold so much, it's also only a few miles away from the city beaches. We spent 3 nights at Ocean Beach. The main strip has an abundance of bars, pubs and cheap (but very good) restaurants, paving the way down to the glorious beach. But another great feature of San Diego is that it's only 15 miles from Mexico, and so one afternoon we headed south of the border...Not wishing to be kidnapped, shot, robbed or murdered by marauding trigger-happy cocaine smugglers, we avoided Tijuana completely, driving straight past it and heading for the much quieter, but equally tourist-friendly, Rosarito, around 20 minutes further south. The beach is a vast swath of fine white sand but there are only really 3 main places to sit out and drink. However, each takes the form of a gargantuan nightclub-type affair (the kind of thing you might expect to find in the 'lads on tour' holiday destinations of Malia or Magaluf - right down to the smelly toilets and open-air dancefloor) so there was no danger of feeling crammed in. Our attentive waiter supplied us with cheap food, even cheaper cocktails and ludicrously big bottles of beer all afternoon while we relaxed in the sunshine. Our driver even had her hair braided.The main part of the town is surprisingly quiet, but if the posters adorning the outside of the nightclubs were anything to go by, come Spring Break the whole town is awash with pissed-up American college kids, consenting to having tequila poured down their throats and munching on cheap burritos.We headed back later than afternoon, a little sun-blushed and slightly tipsy, content that we had sampled Mexican hospitality. Further up the coast from Ocean Beach is La Jolla, quite easily the swankiest place we'd been to on our entire journey. It doesn't boast huge lengths of beach, but it does have a beautiful sheltered cove, totally protected from the wind (not to mention natural, only fine-ish sand that doesn't stick to a freshly sun-lotioned leg or arm).

Below is the view from a 1st floor restaurant at which we ate a (very reasonably priced) lunch.

San Diego has everything - beautiful weather (given its extremely southern position, only a few minutes from Mexico), a fantastic, welcoming centre and downtown, great beaches, and just about everything else you could want fro a city. It's testament to the appeal of the place that we were genuinely sorry to leave.

Our American journey had finally come to a most satisfying end.