And while I'm on BBC Sport... "Progress"?

How can it be considered 'progress' that the Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish FAs have so little interest in the profile of the sport at an Olympic level that they would so readily withdraw their involvement and consent to 11 English players taking the field under the auspices of Team GB?

It's a sad indictment of our national game that petty differences and paranoia about independence can get in the way of what would almost certainly be a temporary arrangement for London 2012.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/olympic_games/8072981.stm

A loaded choice of words...?

Janko Tipsaravic: "a naturally offensive player" (according to BBC Sport).

Is it the floppy hair or the silly specs that make him so objectionable?

Slow News Day...?

Granted, it's a Bank Holiday Monday - but surely this doesn't merit a front-page link on the BBC News website.

Versace denies boardroom dispute

I don't read Vogue or anything, but seriously...who gives a shit?

Hollyoaks 1 - 2 Celebs XI

The XI isn't the number of players on the team in Roman numerals, rather the 'list' that they constitute in the grand scheme of Celebdom.

Yesterday afternoon I took in this sporting spectacle at Chester City's Deva Stadium and shortly after the final whistle had to be treated for two burst eardrums, such was the volume of high-pitched shrieking to be heard every time "Jason-out-of-Coronation Street" got anywhere near the ball.

The revelation of the day was one Ralf Little who, in addition to being the only person present who could justafiably be referred to as 'famous', was easily the best player on the park.

His place in my estimation went up even further when he turned out to be a thoroughly good bloke as he chatted away to my missus and her friends, as naturally as you like, as he and his fellow players did the rounds signing autographs and posing for photos after the match.

"It's a fucking disgrace!"

Allow me to stir the pot a little bit.

I'm normally among the first to bemoan the lack of respect footballers show towards officials and often sympathise with the frequently-voiced view that these outrageously-shekeled primadonnas should just keep it shut and concentrate on what they do with the ball.

In a game I love so much, it's the one aspect I think the governing bodies should address with utmost urgency and have often looked to the example of rugby players or supported the proposed idea that captains should be the only players allowed to address the match officials

I didn't actually see the coverage of the Chelsea-Barcelona match but after watching a replay and witnessing the subsequent reaction, I found myself feeling a new-found respect for Didier Drogba.

So often found lacking under Avram Grant and Phil Scolari, the Ivorian powerhouse seemed a shadow of his former imposing self from Mourinho's reign (that dodgy first season, when it appeared £24m couldn't even buy you a decent first touch, notwithstanding).

If anyone was left in any doubt whether he had been fully revitalised under caretaker coach Guus Hiddink, they need look no further than his full-blooded reaction the conclusion of last night's semi-final. There he was in all his fist-pumping, badge-kissing glory and I found myself in (I admit, somewhat surprising) admiration.

Were his actions so reprehensible? After all, it's hardly the first time a player has vented his spleen at a ref after the final whistle and, in light of what occurred in the preceding 90 minutes, I cannot recall circumstances more deserving of such protestations. The words he gave to the nation were born of a sense of injustice and were not directly accusing the referee of being complicit in anything untoward.

Moreover, the incident was broadcast after the watershed (such as we understand it in our post-Sachsgate world) and at the error of the show's production team, for whom the time-delay safety net of live telly is supposed to be a crucial tool.

Somewhat at odds with my instincts, I have often found it ridiculous that managers can be censured for comments made after a game about a referee's performance. As a trainee journalist the principle of free speech (and all the many complications and caveats that accompany it) has been drummed into me from day one. Are football managers not afforded the same privilege? And, indeed, are their charges, especially under such controversial circumstances?

See the big man in action for yourself:

Arsenal 1 - 3 Manchester United (1-4 on aggregate)

So many column inches and minutes of airtime are devoted to speculating about the outcome of football matches across the gamut of the sporting media each week - and then every so often a game comes along that, within the opening 11 minutes, absolutely blows all of that out of the water. Tonight's Champion's League semi-final between Manchester United and Arsenal was just such an affair.

Delicately poised at 1-0 following John O'Shea's goal at Old Trafford, football fans and pundits alike will have spent most of today ruminating on team selection, formations, tactics and all manner of other variables which could have swung the tie one way or the other. On the night, it was an unfortunate error from an inexperienced youngster and a moment of audacious brilliance from arguably the finest player in world football which put matters to bed. We should all give up trying to predict these things and just enjoy them from the sofa with a beer or two, shouldn't we?

A final thought: this season Darren Fletcher has all but dispelled ideas that he is somehow a weak link in the Manchester United team and has consistently performed in domestic and European competition. How sad then that a poor refereeing decision should cost him his dream of playing his first Champion League final. Chin up, son.

Flora London Marathon 2009. I feel tired just looking at the pictures

Earlier this month, an uncharacteristically sunny day greeted the many thousands of crazy people who each yeah trot their way to all kinds of blisters and nipple burns in the London Marathon. For the first time in living memory I actually knew some of the participants, but this was not enough to ensure I actually made visual contact with any of them, such is the vast gargantuan scale of the whole thing.But being there in the flesh for the first time was actually quite an emotional experience and I was made to realise, like never before, that each and everyone of the people who participate in this world-famous event are absolutely fantastic.

My warmest congratulations to you all.

Facing my two-wheeled fears

After a virutal blackout, enforced by the increasingly demanding workload of my NCTJ course (6 weeks in, going really well, thanks for asking) I can return to the blogging fold with the news that today I rode a bicycle for the first time in nearly a decade. I can confirm that the adage is true - you don't forget how.

To her great credit my thoughtful, considerate and always well-meaning girlfriend has on several occasions tried to get me to get back on the saddle. Despite the calm, rural surroundings of her Cheshire village and the number of vehicles at my disposal in the garage I have managed to resist all but the shortest of trundles in her back garden.

But today was different. After my usual sulky refusal routine, for some reason, I softened, pondered and, swallowing my pride, mounted

After a shaky start I realised that this cycling lark isn't really as hard as I'd made out and before I knew it I had done two laps of the car park. Fast forward 20 minutes or so and I'd left my girlfriend behind and was exploring the cycle paths of Delamere Forest

Next on my list of things to rediscover after spending 10 years telling myself I couldn't do them: swimming.

A good night in with the husband

It's not that fact that Home Secretary Jacqui Smith's husband filed an expense claim for watching a couple of mucky films - it's the two viewings of Ocean's Thirteen that I'd be embarrassed about.

On a serious note, in the news coverage of the latest scandal involving MP's allowances, one member of this merry band of privileged individuals implied that if they were only paid a decent wage then they wouldn’t have to claim every little extra cost incurred in the course of their working lives.

My heart, it bleeds. As of April 1st 2008, the salary for a Member of Parliament was £63,291, with a London supplement of an additional £2,916.

On top of that they can claim up to £100,205 in "staffing allowance", £22,193 in the gloriously vague "Incidental Expenses Allowance (IEP)" (possibly the second home allowance – clearly given its own special acronym to lend just a soupcon of legitimacy), "additional costs allowance" of up to £24,006 and a "winding up allowance" of a maximum of £40,179 – whatever in God's name a "winding up allowance" is meant to be.

So, in addition to earning almost three times the average wage for a UK worker, they can claim in excess of £200,000 each year, which is before you factor in transport expenses and all manner of pension shenanigans.

Is it a huge assumption to say that this renders their entire net income as (excuse my cynicism) beer money?

In Parliament today, Gordon Brown proposed scrapping the second homes allowance for all members. If you genuinely believe this should be done, for the good of our economy and for the efficacy of the cockpit of our nation, contact your MP and urge him or her to support this move.

If I were you, I'd study their response carefully.

A sporting day to remember

Today started well, went rapidly and unavoidably downhill, before picking up again and finally reaching a jouyous finale by tea-time. Such is a day in the life of a sports fan.

The main focus of my Saturday was covering London Scottish vs Rugby Lions, a Division 3 fixture taking place in Richmond. My journey across the city seemed relatively straightforward but, this being London, I arrived at the ground some two hours late (don't ask). only reaching the press box when the match was an hour old. A few cobbled-together words and the gracious help of a couple of employees meant my match report (a term I use loosely) actually made some kind of sense by the time I phoned it in about half an hour after the final whistle.

I was actually very disappointed to have missed out on much of the afternoon, such was the party atmosphere at the Richmond Athletic Ground. In honour of the Calcutta Cup being contested just a short stroll away at Twickenham, the club has gone all out with the celebrations and a festival marquee, a Deuchars IPA-themed bar and a merry band of pipers and drummers all added to the spectacle of seeing the home side notch up a record victory of 85-3.

In other sporting news, my beloved Tottenham Hotspur defeated Chelsea at White Hart Lane in a hard-fought contest which sees us rise to the heady heights of 9th in the Premier League table. The optimist in me feels a UEFA Cup...sorry, Europea League spot could be ours come the end of the season. Elsewhere, Manchester United - clearly still reeling from their mauling against Liverpool - went down 2-0 against Fulham at Craven Cottage.

Andy Murray added to his already impressive record against Roger Federer with a win in three sets at the Indian Wells 1000 and England put together a pretty convincing performance to defeat Scotland 26-12 in the aforementioned Calcutta Cup, althought this was somewhat overshadowed by a thrilling Grand Slam-clinching win for Ireland against a dogged Welsh side. Rarely has the Six Nations ended with such high drama.
Here's hoping England's women can overcome New Zealand in the Cricket World Cup final to round off a pretty epic day of top-class sporting action.

A cider-soaked weekend in Bristol

When my friend Nick, at whose stunning harbourside apartment my friends and I lodged during our recent weekend of revelry in Bristol, described his adopted city as "cider-soaked" I took his words with a pinch of salt. With hindsight I feel the most enduring image of the soujourn is as follows:

Just look at the colour of it. I'm not even much of a cider drinker, but the rich variety of Bristolian brews on offer - best acquired from one of the city's 'cider boats' (quite literally a floating bar on the river) - are enough to convert even the most sceptical quaffer. While meandering our way drunkenly around the centre of town I was stunned to see a eyrar of swans (yes, that is the appropriate collective noun, I looked it up) as up-close-and-personal as I have ever witnessed. I now regret getting as close as I did to take this picture as I'm sure the pair of tasty bites I now sport on my right calf are the product of a fleeting encounter with some kind of airborne insect.

This blurry shot of the light of the adjacent drinking establishments reflected in the water is a good representation of my vision at any given point after 10pm that night.
While stumbling through the newly-regenerated part of town between our base and the city centre we witnessed all manner of impressive sights, not least this huge chrome structure which our host informed us - in complete deadpan - was the actual spaceship used in Flight of the Navigator. For a moment, in our apple-fermented haze, we almost believed him.
The next day, flagging somewhat, we took a leisurely drive to the outskirts of Bristol. While some might find the landscape a little bleak, I felt it was oddly beautiful with its soft, sweeping lines and rolling hills.
The urban landscape is just as striking. Aside from the numerous works by a certain Banksy dotted around, there is a wealth of other examples of local graffiti artists. Something about the roughened, slightly world-worn nature of the former industrial hub creates the ideal backdrop to this colourful, idiosyncratic art form.
On our last day in Bristol we felt it was high time to take a trip on our local river ferry service. At 60p each way it was as cheap as chips and is actually incredibly handy as the only other means of crossing the river lie a good few miles in either direction.
We tried to sneak onto this boat without paying. We were, much to our chagrin, caught red-handed.
Shortly before packing up and heading home we sat with one last pint to contemplate the revelry of the weekend and the memories we had shared (not to mention the unwelcome sight of my good friend Kirks walking towards us with blood spattered on his cream jacket, the result of an encounter with a local pikey outside a nightclub).
Despite this sole incident of wanton violence, there's no doubt that Bristol + copious amounts of cider = good times.

Champions League Tuesday

Liverpool looked absolutely rampant tonight as they dispatched Real Madrid 4-0 at Anfield, securing their passage to the quarter-finals with a 5-0 aggregate win. Gerrard was once again his side's engine and tonight saw the midfielder give as comprehensive a display as you'll see in a European match, with exceptional movement, awareness, incisive passing and a well-deserved brace in the form of a beautifully-taken (if erroneously-awarded) penalty and a crisp half-volley shortly after the break. His team's domestic form may vary pretty wildly but Rafa Benitez now has even greater credentials in continential competition.

Before the match the Liverpool coach had suggested his side's surrendering of their early season pace-setting in the Premier League had threatened his overall reputation at the club. "We have the best record in Europe over the last five years, yet some messages coming my way are not the best," he said. "The facts are there to see. Anyone can see what I have done here." After tonight's result, his detractors should, for now at least, be rendered silent.

Meanwhile, Chelsea drew 2-2 (agg. 3-2) against Juventus in a thriller in Turin to move into the quarters and Bayern Munich consolidated their 5-0 away win in the first leg of their tie against Sporting Lisbon with a 7-1 home win. That's 12-1 on aggregate. Ouch.

A week in Valmorel

I recently spent a fantastic week in the French ski resort of Valmorel, as the guest of my girlfriend Anna's aunt and uncle. Regular readers (a term I use optimistically) will understand that since coming home from Whistler last summer I've been pining to get my skis on and come down a snow-covered hill a bit fast. Stoked as I already was to be going anywhere near a mountain, the stunning view from the plane left me even more excited and I was grateful for the good fortune of landing at the perfect time to watch the sun set over the incredible landscape below.On the first morning we awoke to grey overcast skies – an unwanted sight on virtually every other kind of holiday but just what I had hoped for on this occasion. Fresh snow abounded and, despite the low visibility, our hosts gave us a whistlestop tour of the area.
That evening we dined out in honour of the last night of some of my good lady's relatives and were taken to a local watering hole which is probably the most lively in the village – Jimbo Lolo's.

What follows is a video of the bar's main attraction, called the Harry Potter. For €5 the barman will pour a shot of black sambucca into a beer chalice, light it, and chuck cinnamon into the flames to create a small-scale pyrotechnic display. Then you drink it and inhale the trapped fumes – commonly known among students as a 'gas chamber'. It's worth pointing out that the barman really earns his keep, donning as he does a cape and pair of ludicrous spectacles for the duration.

The next day, with a depleted sense of balance and cracking headache, we were greeted by beautiful blue skies and bright sunshine. These were the perfect conditions for the local topography to really show itself off, with dramatic contrasts between the jagged rock ridges and smooth lines of the snow-laden slopes.
After a good, ooh, 20 minutes or so we stopped to enjoy some well-earned hair of the dog. I can confirm that beer (in this case, Leffe blonde) does taste better if a) it's enjoyed from a proper glass b) costs the equivalent of £6 per pint. The one cowering behind his hand is my girlfriend's brother Daniel – giving as a good a demonstration as any I've seen that it's always worth keeping your sunglasses or ski goggles on when posing for photos in the intense sunshine.
While it was disappointing not to get more snow for the rest of the week ,the variety of terrain kept me well occupied and the intensity of the sun ensured conditions underfoot remained pleasantly soft. I felt, given the intense shade of blue and awe-inspiring scenes all around, this was as good a time as any to switch to panoramic mode on my camera.
Clearly I was by this point the only one to remember to keep my eyes sufficiently protected when facing skywards.
On our last night, I remarked at how lovely our little corner of this picturesque village is by night. After cursing not reading the manual that came with my camera I managed to twiddle with it sufficiently to capture this, one of my better attempts at night photography.
Having left my old job the day before flying out – enough of a weight off my shoulders under any circumstances – the week in this charming and friendly town was the perfect mix of relaxation and exhilaration before starting the next stage of my life as a graduate (but more of that in the very near future).

Poor little sod

The BBC (my favourite source of news, dontcha know) reported today on a study which appears to have uncovered a means of curing nut allergies

Pity the poor wee fella, "Peanut allergy sufferer Carl Morris" who gave the reporter this choice soundbite after he was given back the ability to consume nuts:

"I hadn't had a Mars Bar in nine years"

Awww. No-one should have to suffer that.

"Cold showers... scaffolding... Ann Widdecombe"

My congratulations go to British cyclist Mark Cavendish for winning a stage at the Tour of California. I enjoyed learning about his two-wheeled exploits from a report on the BBC website but I was most intrigued by the accompanying picture, showing him in receipt of pecks on the cheek from a couple of rather cracking-looking women.

Note the distinct grimace and steely look of concentration on his face. Is it me, or does he look for all the world like a man trying really hard not to get an erection while wearing cycling shorts in front of a crowd?

Another new look

Like a celebrity-obsessed 16-year-old with low self-esteem, this blog has given itself another new look. It is now officially blue.

Please let me know what you think. And if you're looking at the marvellous graphic at the top, then yes - I did take those pictures.

Football club chairman, they are fickle mistresses

Although they seem to happen all the time, the occurence of not one but two Premier League managerial sackings within 24 hours of one another is a rare thing.

The circumstances surrounding each were rather different and each has been met with contrasting reactions: Adams's sacking, seemingly looming for a number of days, has elicited a great deal of sympathy; Scolari's, meanwhile, has apparently shocked a fair number of onlookers (which I found very surprising given how unhappy that particular captain's ship has looked in recent weeks, culminating with their disconsolate performance against Hull City on Saturday).

But without question the most bizarre thing the convergence of these seemingly unrelated situations could bring about is that, if certain reports are to be believed, the coming days and weeks will see a most unlikely bidding war ensue for the managerial services of one Mr Avram Grant.

I shit you not.

Obamasation

Dedicated readers (there are almost certainly none beyond my own mother) might remember that, back in August 2007, I Simpsonised and South Park-ised myself - in both cases a wee while after the rest of the world had cottoned on. In trademark tardy fashion, I've now discovered you can Barack Obama-ise yourself, in deference to Shepard Fairey's iconic Hope poster which spread like wildfire during the Democratic nomination race.

I am an Obamicon. Not bad for a first attempt, I think, and I may or may not do a few more if the mood strikes.
On a serious note - just the fact that people think to create these websites and that others have responded to them in their thousands, if not millions, really means something, doesn't it?

I won't harp on about the significance of Barack Obama's achievement (not that I believe in it any less but I just don't want to re-tread any ground) but I'm struck but just how a single part of the man's iconography can have such a widespread impact.

That's how much he has captured people's imagination. I really feel that to live to witness something like that is truly remarkable. Bandwagon-jumping for a great part, certainly, but remarkable nonetheless.