Easy Ryder

When I was a kid my mum said to me the reason she liked tennis over football was because the better player always won.  She didn't like it when the top dog lost.  She thought is was unfair.  Almost like it went against the spirit of the game.  That stuck with me for some reason. 

I've always felt that if the best player always wins then what's the point in watching?  Surely unpredictability is a main draw of sport.  I tire of watching a tennis tournament which invariably ends up with the same two or three players taking part in the end stages.  It's almost like there's no point building up to the semi-finals.

I've also always struggled with individual sports because they rely too much on just that, the individual. Take snooker of instance.  It's one thing to support a unhinged Alex Higgins battle South London's finest Jimmy White but those clashes are far and few between.  Money and professionalism has driven most of the idiosynchratic people out of sport.  My interest has waned to the point that I would struggle to pick out the world's top five snooker players if they were stood in a dole queue.

And anyway why do you want one player to win over another if there isn't a local affinity or character trait to support?  When it comes to golf I've always struggled to care when one identikit millionaire beats another.  The only point of difference the colour of their trousers. Team sports show what is possible when people work together.  They also present the illusion the combatants are representing a region or country.  The individual is fighting for themselves the team for the flag, the shirt, the fan.

For me the beauty of sport is exactly what my mum hated.  The against all odds comeback, the motley crew taking on the world's best and winning.  Every dog should have its day and I want to be there cheering when it does. And these moments happen much more regularly in team sports than individual.  Where collective resolve can sometimes upset individual brilliance.

Which brings us back to the only golf event I care about.  I'm not sure when I first became aware of the Ryder Cup.  I can't remember watching it in the 1980's and can't conjure up a memory pre 1999 when the Americans invaded the green. I guess it was that sense of outrage that fuelled my fire.  Because it is an event I have kept a close eye on ever since.

They might be the same millionaires that make me glaze over for the other 51 weeks of the year but band them together beneath a European flag.  Then pit them against a team from across the Atlantic and suddenly I'm interested.  Come on Europe!

And the home of golf is where I find myself this week.  Gleneagles.  On talkSPORT duty once more.  Back in Scotland a month after a fleeting trip to the Commonwealth Games. For another experience money can buy but only if you're prepared to shell out hundreds of hard earned pounds.

The thousands who have done just that started queuing for optimum vantage points at 5.30am.  I turned up ten minutes before the 1st tee.  Not for the first time in 2014 I consider myself a lucky guy.

Now which team is playing in blue and which team is playing in red?

Fortaleza, Sao Paulo, Belo Horizonte and beyond

Ten days, seven flights, five matches.  The highlight being a definite OG, an arguable hand ball and a penalty shootout. A nation thankful to a crossbar and a wooden post.  On the subject of wooden posts I will be writing a 'blog on the Brazil game shortly.

The most intensive part of my tour has now come to a close.  From Rio to Fortaleza to Sao Paulo.  Back to Rio (for 48 hours) onto Belo Horizonte (via one night in Sao Paulo) and another bleary eyed early return to the Copacabana and all that entails.

I dream about spending time with my wife in our little flat in Crystal Palace.  About curry, baths, red wine and cricket.  About having my first decent nights sleep in a month.  About crunchy vegetables and being able to order food without cheese.




My first stop was Fortaleza.  A place rich Brazilians go to holiday.  Three hours north of Rio de Janeiro we were surprised to find it's only six hours from Lisbon.  Information that made Stuart Pearce chew his food with quiet contemplation.  The next day he faced a three and half hour flight south to Sao Paulo with a three hour stopover just so he could then take an eleven hour flight to London.  He would become quite the expert when it came to the airspace just above Fortaleza. 

In fairness Pearce does most things with quiet contemplation. 


Sao Paulo was next on the itinerary.  A city so congested it boasts the world record for a traffic jam.  216 miles.  A city whose size is equal to London but has a population double the number.  A city without a natural centre that begins 15 minutes before you land then never seems to end.  A city famous for gastronomy, for football, for crime, for pollution, for high rise tower blocks and for being ridiculous in size.  It would take a lifetime to explore. 

It is also the most European of all the Brazilian cities with a bar culture, prominent middle-class, even London Pride on tap.  A perfect place to watch Brazil in action.


And then to Belo Horizonte.  Less than an hour away but as far removed from Sao Paulo as you get.  A population a tenth the number, plenty of green spaces with a country feel to it.  It was the unlikely setting of Brazil's first knockout match and also home to a hotel that boasts the world's weirdest view.  To the right an appealing park with people boating on the lake.  "Could be New Zealand or England," I mused. 


To the front of me.  A bloke having root canal.


And finally I got back to Rio de Janeiro which is starting to wind down. A couple of weeks ago the beachfront was a constantly moving/drinking mass of fans, flags and football shirts. With the teams reducing in number so the spectators follow suit. No longer are we being kept awake by Chile's red army, the strains of U-S-A or the marching Columbians and their bloody drums.  Actually, the Colombians are still here.


The end now in sight my mind turns towards home.  Although not before the small matter of France v Germany at the Maracana and 24 hours in Brasilia for Argentina v Belgium. 

Salvador

One of the many advantages a job like mine provides is the opportunity to visit places you wouldn't pay your own money to see.  My four week sojourn around Brazil takes in several exotic sounding destinations.  Fortaleza, Brasilia and Belo Horizonte could well be the Birmingham, Sheffield and Hull of South America for all I know.  However at the moment they seem as magical and far flung as a ride on Aladdin's magic carpet.

My first trip away has been to visit Salvador.  One hundred and five minutes flying time up the coast.  The name initially conjured up an image of a country that may or may not be in Central America.  Now, having been, I know it's actually a Brazilian state and it will forever be associated with the land of the strange.

The rulebook was quietly discarded as soon as I landed.  Our cab hadn't turned up at the airport leading to confused conversations in pigeon Portuguese and a long wait at a taxi rank.  I don't speak a word of the native language and so have become quite the expert in mime.  Since arriving I have successfully ordered chicken, bought stamps and even a pair of tweezers thanks to my Theatre Studies A-Level. 

The journey to the hotel would take some explaining in any language.  In short it was 45 minutes of madness. Our cabby drove in gloves with the steely stare of someone who knows the dice will one day fall the way of another motorist.  I now understand why Brazil has provided so many world class racing drivers.

The road from the airport consisted of two lanes of traffic heading in the same direction separated by a grass verge.  While cars rattled along at frightening pace on our lane the other was completely blocked.  Drivers and passengers had long since given up and had left their cars parked, doors open, idling away their time by chatting to fellow passengers.

We however careered along from one near miss to another our driver instinctively knowing which lane was clear.  We couldn't work out what the hold up was on the other side but would soon come across the answer. 

The flashing lights at first made us think there had been an accident.  The emergency services were certainly at the heart of the hold up.  However when we zoomed past (on two wheels) we realised there had been no collision.  Instead twenty to thirty moped drivers sat idle with vehicles parked behind them.  The reason?  A lone policeman standing in the middle of the road facing the traffic.  A look of intense fury etched onto his face he stood shoulders pushed forward with his hand hovering over a pistol. It was a pose Clint Eastwood would be proud of.  It was quite clear.  He wanted to shoot someone.  No driver moved an inch.

I thought I was seeing things but exactly the same incident occurred ten minutes later.  We had weaved our way onto the other lane by this point and once again avoided a hold up of mammoth proportions.  Sure enough the same scene played its way out.  The only difference being that this policeman had smoke coming out of his nostrils.

After all that excitement I opted for a relaxing evening in and so watched the opening game of the World Cup much like everyone else back home.  On TV with a few beers.  In Stuart Pearce's bedroom.  With fire crackers going off every time Brazil scored.  And ten thousand people outside the window.

The following morning we opted for a stroll around Salvador.  The game we were in town to see was the small matter of Spain v Holland.  A re-run of the last World Cup game I had seen.  The 2010 final in Johannesburg.  A personal career highlight.  And a pleasant scene awaited us as long as we looked in this direction.




And not this.



And here lies one of the problems with Salvador.  Like most of the cities hosting football in this country it's about six months away from completion.  Which is a shame because the World Cup started last Thursday.

But back to the beach which itself contained much of what I have seen already in Rio and some which I had not.  Blokes in tight pants playing football.  Four nuns strolling around the headlands, three of the smelliest loos outside of Glastonbury and a woman Oscar Wilde would struggle to describe.  All of seventy (all of those years spent in the sun), fag in mouth, wearing the smallest bikini on the beach, she lay on a mound of sand which pushed her crinkly ass in the air for all to see.  *shudder*

And as for the weather.  I've never experienced anything like it.  As we flew into land I had been looking out my window and seen nothing but bright sunshine, billowing white clouds and blue sea.  The spontaneous applause from the back of the plane upon touch down seemed totally at odds with a routine flight.  However they must have been locals who knew something I did not.  Within seconds the plane was lashed by rain and the skies became murderously grey.  Visibility became so poor I wondered whether we would have been able to have land in it.

Getting ready for the game back at the hotel there was a knock at the door. I opened and had these thrust into my hands.  A woman said something to me in Portuguese and walked off.   



I figured they were being given to all the guests but after speaking to the others it became apparent I was the only beneficiary of the phantom flip-flop giver.

And as for the game.  Well, where to begin.  One of the most incredible matches I will ever see.  The disbelief on fans and pundits alike as the goals rained in said it all. We were watching history unfold.  Not only was it an end of an era for the Spanish and world football it was a match Dutch fans will be speaking about for thirty years.  I doubt I'll see a more momentous match for the rest of the tournament.

And to think it had all started so well for the Spanish.



The evening was spent sheltering from monsoon conditions at a local restaurant.  Chile v Australia on the TV.  The locals supporting the Aussies.  The Dutch fans with a look of golden bewilderment on their faces.  Almost in a daze at what they had witnessed.  The Spaniards were left alone.  We stayed later than intended.  We thought we'd wait for the rain to cease but it beat us in the end.  We ran out of the restaurant past a group of five Americans smoking under a giant table umbrella. 

The next morning as I waited to fly back to Rio the weather continued to mystify.  Incessant rain one minute bright skies the next.  Then out of my window I got one final strange sight to remember Salvador by.  In hindsight, I would have paid money for this last 48 hours.

Where were you?

Where were you when England got knocked out of the World Cup?  Maybe you were in the car on the way home from work.  Maybe you resurfaced from the tube blinking into the light to find out via your phone that Costa Rica had beaten Italy.  Maybe you were following it on radio, TV or the Internet.  Your frustration growing as the clock ticked towards the ninety.  I was here.  Waiting for the IT guy to turn up to sort out a technical problem. 




Ah the glamorous world of the media. 

Although when you look at the photo upside down it looks more interesting. 




I'd like to think I was actually in space when Bryan Ruiz scored. A futuristic scene would add a touch of colour to the reality. Maybe I'm on a intergalactic cruiser a billion miles from home.  Transporting industrial sized weaponry to a satellite service station on Alpha Omega Three. I wonder if Alpha Omega Three have a football team? 

Copacabana

Before I came to Brazil I had to sit through a five hour security briefing which left me so on edge I jumped out of my seat when a cleaner appeared at the window.  Murder, corruption, riots, pick-pockets, car-jacking, malaria and dangerous drivers.  For the second World Cup in a row it seemed I was heading into a war zone.  A week in and I'm still alive and while the dangers are clear and present the real risk to my health here is the food.

My diet has been terrible.  I'm averaging about a meal and a half a day.  I've eaten more processed meat in Rio than in the six months since I was last, um, in Rio.  Big Bob's Burgers.  Twice.  All you can eat pizza.  Steak(s) and chips.  Too much coffee.  Not enough water.  I haven't eaten a single vegetable and I've drunk beer every night.  It's a teenage boy's wet dream.

And it's not just the lack of food that leaves me light-headed.  Copacabana is a dizzying place. Western rules governing colour, creed and class need not apply here.  Poverty is not the sole preserve of the ethnic minority.  Religious fervour omnipresent but not overpowering.  Rich, poor, the young and the dying are all pieces of the same jigsaw. 

Beachside is populated by people who pound the pavement with intent.  This is an area where the locals strut their stuff.  And you do not have to be a perfect 10 to flaunt tings.  Massive backsides in tiger print Lycra jostle for position on the seafront. Old men go through energetic exercise routines in the morning sun as the traffic snakes by. Both sexes bathe in skimpy swimwear leaving little to the imagination no matter their size. 

Meanwhile across the street the homeless & the addicts congregate.  Doorways near million dollar apartments house drug addicts at night who then seek the shade of the trees during the day. 

All of this takes place under the same sun but against two backdrops.  To the East the waves crash in from the ocean in a typical beach scene.  Surfers, bathers, posers, beach footballers.  To the West a darker presence.  Mountainous favelas, at times shrouded in cloud, peer down onto the faded grandeur of the beachfront hotels.  A reminder of Rio's present day poverty and its long since departed 1930's heyday.

The sun goes down early and quickly here.  Bake on the beach at 5pm if you like but you will be in complete darkness by 6pm.  It's winter and the weather conditions can change in a blink of an eye.  It's not uncommon to see startled holidaymakers dashing through hotel lobbies wrapped in a towel wondering aloud where the rain had come from. 

Copacabana adopts a different feel when it turns dark.  Tourists are warned away from the beach at night but at times it seems this may just be so the locals can reclaim it for themselves.  Small children play beach football late into the evening, middle aged folk exercise, people sit, talk, smoke, relax.  Men holding hands roller skate past hawkers holding Brazil shirts with cocaine in their shorts. 

Away from the beachfront small bars open out onto the streets.  Cheap beer, live music, dangerous cocktails and prostitutes.  Lots of prostitutes. The congregation continues long into the night. It's so busy and the alcohol flows so freely that the area feels safe although this can change quickly.  A wrong turn or sobriety can suddenly make a 1.30am walk to pick up a presenter a hairy one.  The beggars approach or shout out aggressively as you pass.  This isn't the time nor the place for a romantic stroll.

It's a real eye-opener being here.  Pre-tournament fears over safety have been replaced by a marvelling of a country and a people that do not appear to be following the same rules that we live our lives by.  Make no mistake.  Whether you find yourself football-watching or people-watching there's no better place in the world to be right now.

Stuck in the middle with you

I was sixteen when I first heard ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit'.  After struggling with my mate's heavy metal record collection I finally had music I could identify with.  I became obsessed with all things Sub Pop.  Decked in army surplus and with badly dyed hair I would hop on the 333 up Streatham High Road to Brixton Academy to watch the likes of Sonic Youth, Faith No More and Smashing Pumpkins.  Spare time spent scouring the TV for rare appearances, assembling vinyl collections and reading Melody Maker.

Brixton Academy and London Astoria became as important landmarks as the House of Parliament and Tower Bridge. A ticket to a concert allowing more than just entry to watch a band.  Getting past the bouncers like walking through a portal into a world where the biggest, stinkiest and ugliest sat atop the evolutionary tree and nowhere was this more true than within the mosh pit.

Nothing prepares you for your first mosh pit.  The moment your legs are swept from underneath and you find yourself swimming against the tide in an urban ocean rip.  Vast, chaotic, violent and safer than an evening at The Manor Arms.  The best bit was being able to recount the tales on a Monday morning at the local café thankful to have survived the event.  For some it was too much.  The mosh pit at Rage Against The Machine's 1993 concert led to two of my mates refusing to go anywhere near the front of a gig again.    

At weekends when money didn’t stretch to watching a band my friends would recreate mosh pits at house parties throughout South London.  One evening we were kicked out of a third floor flat after our energetic moshing led to the ceiling of the room below to cave in.  I still remember us trooping down the stairs with the owner shrieking and pointing at us “Look at your boots!  Look at your boots!  And yours, and yours!” as a steady stream of Doc Martin wearing Indie kids filed down the stairs.  Each of us taking a quick glance into the poor woman's room where large chunks of plaster covered her bed.

For something so archaic it was relatively ordered event to get a mosh started.  Two people would link arms and throw themselves onto a floor with other party goers invited to launch themselves on top.  Before long an island of limbs would be writhing away.  Darkened bodies would fling themselves off nearby tables, chairs and large pieces of furniture.  While the same characters every week would hang back to make sure they got the largest pile of bodies to jump on and avoid getting crushed or injured.  These sneaky types wouldn’t be allowed to get away with it for long though and would be collared and forced to start the whole process off again.

Any participation event that combines alcohol with wild youthful abandonment against a backdrop of heavy rock led more often than not to calamity and malady.  Chipped chairs, smashed family heirlooms and that broken ceiling I already mentioned.  Then there was the day I launched myself off a sofa only to find half way through my dive there was nobody waiting to catch my fall.  My parents were none too thrilled to find on their return from their weekend away not only had I hosted a party in their absence I’d broken my arm. 

I had also got my ear pierced and watching them walk up the front path I figured while I couldn’t do anything about the plaster cast that covered my entire arm I could do something about the two bits of cheap silver in my ear and hurriedly took them out as their key was put in the lock.

The worst bit about mosh pits weren’t the cracked bones or having to answer to angry parents demanding to know why there were footprints on the ceiling.  It was the claustrophobia that engulfed me whenever I was trapped amid the bodies.  Even after a couple of litres of Olde English I couldn’t stay in that position for long.  The fear would rise up to my throat and I’d start clambering out as quickly as possible.

I can remember the first time I ever experienced claustrophobia.  It was in the days before duvets and I burrowed to the bottom of my bed only for my dad to sit on the end trapping me inside.  The swell of panic was immediate.  It is the same for my brother and it used to be a frequent sight for one of us to be frantically hauling bodies off the mosh-pile to free the other when it all got a bit too much.

It’s been 20 years since my last house party mosh pit but alcohol still plays a part in my phobia.  I’ve long since learned to avoid certain situations while struggling with the after effects of an evening out.  Hangovers and rush hour on The London Underground do not make for excellent bed fellows.  And even now - every now and again - when my tube is stuck in a tunnel - I have to fight the fear.

Time slows down when you're stuck in a situation you cannot get out of.  Be it in a tunnel, under a pile of teenage bodies or after you've just called your teacher 'mum' in front of the whole class.  However there are no hard and fast rules.  Sometimes it's possible to shrug these situations off with a laugh.  Sometimes not.

And so it came to pass at just before tea on day three of the Lord’s test when I decided to take a walk little knowing I was about to test this theory out. I intended a quick stroll around the ground to a little vantage point I'd found on day one.  Instead I ended up getting properly stuck.

The Lord's media box is a famous sight in cricket.  From the outside it resembles something from Space Odyssey and it draws admiring glances from those inside the ground who bother to stick around after lunch to watch the cricket.  Inside though you'll find few in agreement.  It's difficult to feel connected to the action when you're locked away in a soundless environment so far from the paying spectator.  And however good the Lord's lunches are they are more than matched by how bad the lifts are.

Riding the Lord's lift is never a pleasant experience.  It is less reliable than an over by Steven Kerrigan.  It’s broken down more times than Ryan Harris and has even trapped Ian Botham in the past.  It also has a disconcerting way of wobbling up and down when it reaches the top floor.  

There were already six people in it as I entered and just as the door started to shut Michael Vaughan jumped in.  There were a few mock groans as a tight squeeze became a group hug but nobody minded too much.    

A moment later though this changed as seconds after the doors shut and the lift started to descend everything shuddered to a halt.  

We all looked stupidly at each other and there was a momentary silence before Vaughan started pressing buttons. There were three on offer.  The doors open option.  Nothing.  The doors close option.  Nothing.  The press in emergency option.  The opposite of nothing.  Immediately a high pitched wailing sound reverberated around the lift.  It was the kind of sound that meant if you hadn’t initially been fearing the worse you now would be. 

With the buzzer booming out I pictured the sight of the media floor slowly putting their cutlery down and staring at the closed lift door.  I could hear the collective sigh of relief that this mishap hadn’t befallen those about to tuck into tea. Meanwhile those inside the lift were beginning to understand the position they had found themselves in.

There was the sound of activity not far above our heads and we realised we were far nearer the top of the lift shaft than the bottom and soon a voice came through on the intercom checking we were alright and informing us an engineer had been called.  Oh and asking whether anyone had started freaking out yet.  Did they know I was in there?

The answer to both of those was no, we were all relatively calm.  Even me.  However every five minutes or so there would be a lull in the conversation and I would think to myself "am I going to freak out now?"  I would wait a second and after deciding there was no sign of a rise of imminent fear decide I wasn’t and carry on.

It was also handy that I wasn’t in desperate need of the loo.  Or that the cable didn’t snap while we were stranded twenty metres in the air.  Or that the air didn’t run out.  Or that the sounds of Mudhoney weren’t pumped down the lift shaft sparking off an impromptu mosh.

Lack of hangover aside the reason I didn’t start scrabbling at the doors and sucking in air was the sheer surreal nature of what was happening.  It’s not often you are trapped in a lift and it’s even rarer to be with two Ashes winners.  So I just stood there, chatting, sweating, unbuttoning my shirt and every now and again returning back to the question "am I going to start panicking yet?"  Nope, not yet.  So far so good.

One of guys worked for Lord's and he told us we were lucky the engineer on site. I mentioned Beefy had been stuck for a good half an hour before help came.  We weren't going anywhere for a while. 

Small talk became the order of the day.  There wasn't enough space to sit down or move around so we all stood there as the temperature began to rise.  We talked about the cricket, we complained about the heat and then we heard the crowd celebrate Peter Siddle's wicket.

The guy standing closest to the lift door kept coming up with helpful phrases like “well if any of us were actually claustrophobic we would know about it by now”, or “they are going to have to come and get us because there’s not even an escape hatch at the top of the lift” and the best one “we should have enough air to last us”.

Throughout all of this I was carrying my TalkSPORT microphone and recording device.  The thought did cross my mind to do some interviews with those present but it really wouldn’t have gone down well. In the end the only use I could find for my microphone was to wedge open the lift door to let in a little air.

 

A quick tweet was all I permitted myself as well as a call to the TalkSPORT control room to alert them to my plight. 

Twentyfive minutes in and a voice from above shouted they were going to winch us down.  We were to be delayed even more and again the thought crossed my mind that it was time to start weeping. The mood was lightened seconds later by another shout.  This time that an ambulance was waiting for us at the bottom.  I shouted back “why?  What’s going to happen?”

And then finally after nearly a half of football the lift began to move.  Inch by inch it edged downwards before suddenly speeding up - the end was in sight.  There were cheers (mostly mine) as the light at the bottom of the lift shaft came into view.  And then suddenly the doors were hoisted open, a great hulk stood at the door and we all stepped blinking into the bright daylight where four or five St John’s staff were waiting with wheelchairs and three or four of our fellow journalists stood with pencils and notepads at the ready.  I think they were all a little disappointed that the scene that greeted them all was so ordered.  

I will never take the Lord's lift again.  Well not the one on the left hand side.  Later that evening after I'd packed up my broadcasting equipment I figured I'd better get back on the horse.  I've got too many phobias as it is.  So I pressed the button and waited for the doors of the right hand side lift to open.  I stepped inside, alone this time, and watched as the doors closed.  There was a frisson of fear as the lift went through its worrying top floor wobble before starting it's descent.  I turned and looked at myself in the mirror thought about how surreal an afternoon it had been and less than thirty seconds I was at the bottom.  I wonder if I'll ever write so many words about an elevator ride again.

‘

A question of sport?

It’s to her continual annoyance that when I recount to friends how it was that my wife and I came to meet it isn’t the stars aligning that I thank, nor a wondrous one-in-a-million against all odds chance that we met in a country neither of us hold a passport for.  Instead I put the thanks squarely at the feet of cricket.  Cricket, luvly cricket.

I pitched up in Sydney to witness the final throws of England’s disastrous 5-0 defeat in early 2007 & soon after cast eyes on her at a BBQ – where else?  Such was her insouciance towards sport that despite having lived in Australia for two years she didn’t know who Shane Warne was.  She does now.  Albeit begrudgingly.  

She's about as interested in sport as she is in reading my 'blog.  As hard as she tries to escape games as easily as she did as a teenager marrying a sports journalist has put paid to that.  It has invaded her life in ways she could never have imagined as she made her way to a party in the south west of Sydney on a balmy night; unaware of what life changing event was about to unfold.

In our first four years together she drew sympathy from all quarters as I travelled off for weeks on end to ‘work’ on the cricket.  I missed her birthday in Auckland to watch England lose in Hamilton & the following year opted for five weeks in the Caribbean rather than being by her side for another birthday, our anniversary & Valentine’s Day.  She got me back by burning down our kitchen.

While she put the final touches to our wedding preparations (which coincidentally took place in New Zealand ten days after the 2010/11 Ashes) I spent it on a two month stag do in Australia as England atoned for that 5-0 defeat with a thoroughly enjoyable 3-1 win.  And then we got married.

Payback began that same year.   While I knuckled down to my new job producing Keys & Gray she landed a five month singing gig in Macau.  KAPOW!  A twelve hour flight just to be able to see her!  BANG!  This was followed up the following winter with a four month stint on a Musical in Frankfurt.  KABOOM!  At least I didn’t have to move back to the folks this time.  BLAAAAAM!!!!

However after a hiatus of two and half years (feel free to skate over the three weeks I spent in Poland for Euro 2012 and the six Champions League trips to Europe) where I’ve been on the UK receiving end of the Skype phone calls I’ve re-joined cricket’s media circus for the Ashes summer.  

It may be 12 hour days & weekend breaks rather than month long excursions but it’s nice to be back on the road getting paid to watch something live that I would only be watching on TV anyway.

I’m earning my money though.  Following cricket at your own leisure allows you to dip in and out depending on whether England is getting battered or not. Working in cricket is rather different. 

The days are long with 6am alarm calls the norm & re-appearances back at the hotel rarely before 9pm.  Like the game itself it’s a bit of a slog at times.  And they say nurses have it hard.

Not that the opening test of the summer at Trent Bridge required any diversion.  It was perhaps the greatest test I’ve ever seen. Five days of action in its true sense. Wickets, runs, controversy, record breaking, astounding feats, dramatic collapses with the lead switching hands repeatedly.  It was a game that had simply everything apart from a comedy run out involving Shane Watson.  You can’t have it all.

It is the first test I have ever seen without a passage of play following its expected path.  A game that’s only consistency was its ability to confound.  I was spellbound for its entirety & so rooted to my chair that I trapped a small nerve in my back which has left me hobbling around ever since.

The second test started off in the same fashion with twenty three wickets falling in the first two days, more DRS incidents, another epic Ian Bell hundred and even a comedy run out.  And then?  Snooooooze.   

Day two was the day the Aussies lost the Ashes.  Day three was the day England gave them time to think about it.  Day four when they rammed it home.  After seven frenetic days of topsy-turvy cricket the last two offered no deviation from the script.  For the first time since the tour started I needed something to keep me entertained.

   

Test cricket is a sport that takes up six hours a day, five of them in a week, meaning at times there is a skill to watching it.  There are similarities between seeing off a particularly dull session & getting through a health & safety meeting. 

During particularly painful sessions patience, an active imagination & the ability to take an interest in life’s minutiae is crucial.  Two flies having sex will see you right for an hour or so, a plane writing a message in the sky as excellent excuse as any to avoid watching Ricky Ponting move inexorably towards his double hundred.  

Not that it’s always this bad.  The morning session usually zips by regardless of score or incident.  The novelty of a new day, the day’s first drops of caffeine, fresh articles to consume, emails, Twitter & Facebook to peruse mean that even the more turgid Paul Collingwood innings can be assessed with a pleasant frame of mind. 

The first 45 minutes after lunch is normally a pleasant experience as food settles & you get re-introduced to the game.  And then it can get difficult. The coffee stops working as the oxygen in your brain heads towards the stomach in a bid to break down the tasty yet sometimes stodgy luncheon.

It's around this time I usually venture away from the press corps to submerge within the fans.  To get a reminder of what it means to those who have taken time off work and spent a lot of money to attend.  To soak up the conversations in the stands, take in the smells, the sights, the sounds of the Barmy Army singing their familiar songs.  Then there’s the sun a constant companion overseas & for one summer only a visitor to these shores as well. 

There is no better place to let the mind pleasantly wander, to strike up a chat with a stranger (cricket fans are an approachable & amusing bunch) to cheer loudly at an England four or the fall of an opponent’s wicket.  In essence to be a fan again.

And then when it gets a little too sweaty & the songs a little too repetitive it is back to the coolness of the press room sated, inspired and deeply satisfied.  Sometimes accompanied with plenty of fresh material for another of my other constant travelling companion; my old trusty ‘blog.

For it was while staring at my pasty reflection on the black backdrop of a tube window on the way back from Lord’s that my mind drifted to this ‘blog.  From 2006 to 2010 I updated it regularly while on my travels & every now and again while at home.  Maybe now was the time to get it back up and running.  

As the cricket slowed down, England began to dominate and the action started following a path well worn (albeit in reverse) it gave me time to contemplate writing again.  It was just a question of what?  

I’m following this tour alone and in a far more professional capacity than in tours gone by when all I had to do was look to my left for inspiration.  And as interesting as Nottingham & London are they are far too familiar to get that excited by.  A tube ride to Lord's doesn't conjure quite the inspiration a ferry trip to the SCG.

However there is a real sense of achievement writing a ‘blog and creating the tiniest little slice of something that didn’t exist before.  While it sure is enjoyable having all my memories of over the last six years so readily to hand.  Being able to dip in and out of moments that I could otherwise forget.

As soon as an article is posted there is a temporary feeling of calm (almost relief) that an idea that has been squirreling around in my head for the past few days has been put to bed.  That feeling lasts for a while before the desire or urge to write again begins anew.  Or something happens that just leads itself immediately to being described.

I’m not the fastest writer but pieces like these can be done and dusted within half an hour. Others can take forever to complete with re-writes, re-jigging of paragraphs & ripping up of the introduction.  I began this article on day two of the Lord’s test now it’s the night before I head up to Manchester.  I’m a little rusty.  

However when in the zone, with an idea that wouldn't look out of place as a glint in the eye, then writing a 'blog is an absolute pleasure.  And while the words haven’t flowed as I know they can do with this entry, while I’ve crunched through the gears rather than clicked I know once I get this one out there the next will be easier to produce.  All of which just leaves the question of what to write about and will my wife read it? 

England must beware the West Indies threat

The 1st Test of the summer gets underway next week and the West Indies have already been written off. Former England captain Michael Vaughan is tipping our bowlers to steamroller them for less than 250 an innings & that only bad weather will save them from a 3-0 drubbing. But is rain really the only way this proud cricketing nation can take England to a fifth day? talkSPORT’s cricket correspondent JON NORMAN doesn’t think so.
Let’s be clear. Over the course of three Tests cricket’s 7th best team should not pose a problem to the world number one; especially at home in conditions conducive for swing &  seam bowling. However to dismiss an improving West Indies side before they completed a whole day’s warm up isn’t something Michael Vaughan would have done as captain. For amongst the West Indies ranks are three players with a point to prove & the talent to ram his words down his throat.

SHIVNARINE CHANDERPAUL

In a squad which boasts only five players with experience of playing Test cricket in England the chances of West Indies going past 300 in a single innings appear to rest squarely on one man’s shoulders, Shivnarine Chanderpaul.

In a Test career spanning more than twenty years ‘Shiv’ has developed quite an appetite for scoring big runs against the best the English can serve up. In 31 Tests against England he averages over 50 with the bat and it rises to nearly 65 on these shores.

Incredibly this will be Chanderpaul’s SIXTH England tour the pick of which came back in 2007 when Michael Vaughan was captain. Then the Guyanese five innings were 74, 50, 116*, 136* & 70. A year later he climbed to the top of the ICC Test Championship batting rankings.

A lot can happen in five years but one thing that has remained constant is Shiv’s dedication to scoring runs. He recently became only the tenth batsmen to go past 10,000 Test runs. In doing so he also repeated what he achieved following that inspired run back in 2007. For Shivnarine Chanderpaul is officially once again the best batsman in world cricket.

KEMAR ROACH

Is there a sight in world cricket to set the pulse racing quite like a pace bowler steaming towards the wicket, a hard red cherry in hand, and a new batsman at the crease? Nothing typified the West Indies approach during their glory days than the battery of fast bowlers they employed to bludgeon opponents. And where Holding, Marshall, Garner & Ambrose once stood now stands Kemar Roach.

At five foot eight Roach is more Malcolm Marshall than Joel Garner but consistently bowls over 90mph & is fast developing as a bowler of real menace. Many point to a spell on his first overseas tour where Roach had Ricky Ponting hopping around before forcing him to retire hurt as the moment the Aussie great first showed signs of mortality.

Further proof of Roach’s great promise once again came against the Aussies last month when he became the first West Indian to take ten wickets in a match since 2005 & the first against Australia since Curtly Ambrose nineteen years ago.

DARREN BRAVO

During the 1990’s one of the greatest batsmen the game has ever seen waged war against English bowlers. As the side he marshaled began to deteriorate around him he was the Caribbean’s shining light. In smashing 375 & 400* against England, Brian Lara broke cricket records nearly as frequently as he did their hearts, minds and backs.

Fast forward to 2012 and the man who could now be king has arrived. Lara’s cousin and fellow left-hander Darren Bravo is heir to the Caribbean throne. He announced his arrival with back to back centuries in India last year, and already averages a shade under 5o in Test cricket. Alongside Chanderpaul he is the wicket the English bowlers will prize the most.

The family resemblance is never more noticeable than when Bravo is at the crease. His stance, timing, cover drive & pull shot are all straight out of the Lara textbook. While in one of those eerie coincidences that cricket statistician’s love it was noted that after their first twelve Tests Bravo & Lara had scored exactly the same amount of runs (941) & had an identical average (47.05). England and Michael Vaughan will pray the similarities end there.

If the West Indies are to pull off a heist or even just compete then they will need to rely on more than just three men and if the weather is kind then the omens are good. Captain DARREN SAMMY (whose middle names Julius Garvey suggest he was put on this earth to lead) posted his best bowling figures in England. His 7/66 in 2009 at Old Trafford included that of Michael Vaughan. Fast bowler FIDEL EDWARDS bunny is Andrew Strauss. The Barbadian has taken the England captain’s wicket five times in 12 innings and KP’s four. While recently recalled wicket-keeper DENESH RAMDIN has hit three of his eight Test fifties and his only century against England. Will any of this be enough to prove Michael Vaughan wrong? We have less than a week to wait until we find out.

A spot of bother

For a few weeks over the winter I spent many a night and an early morning listening to live cricket coverage from New Zealand. The opponents were Pakistan and I was well rewarded as two of Test crickets lesser sides played out a thrilling three match series.

Night after night I risked infecting my computer with thousands of unheard of viruses as I scoured illegal websites promising live uninterrupted TV coverage. When they proved unobtainable I listened to live ball-by-ball coverage on NZ local radio. God knows what Fe thought I was up to.

In a memorable three week period I delighted in 19 year old Umar Akmal's century on debut, marvelled as 17 year old Mohammed Amir's inswinging yorker ended Tim McIntosh's innings with the first ball of the first match, punched the air at Iain O'Brien's magical farewell in Wellington and wondered what could have been throughout Shane Bond's match winning final flourish in Dunedin.

Fast forward to last Saturday when I once again chose to spend my time off doing what I love, watching cricket. Apart from the obvious there aren't many things in my life that I guarantee will lead to a zen-like experience from the moment my eyes open in a morning. The dreamy promise of a drawn out day in the sun stretches out ahead promising relaxation, stimulation and conversation.

And so, through the generosity of a double-booked workmate I spent a traditional English summer's day alongside my friend, Sinan who enjoyed his Lord's experience for the first time. After a frenetic day's play I walked back to St.John's Wood station slightly drunk on life and slightly more so on alcohol and texted the man whose cluttered calendar had allowed for such an enjoyable and relaxing time.

....."My lord's experience has consisted of 17 wickets, a world record 8th wicket stand, a 88th minute Fulham equaliser, a brass band, a lovely rainbow & even a £250 group bet win on the horses thanks to a mick quinn tip. Many thanks for the tickets. I'm sorry you don't have much cricket to look forward to tomorrow'.....

And then I got home and found out it had all been a lie. And the re-evaluation of my day, my summer, my affections towards several members of a young Pakistani side, of my past & present and ultimately my love of the game began. Two days on and it's still being questioned.

Rightly or wrongly Pakistani cricket has been synonymous with cheating ever since the days of Waqar & Wasim reverse swinging their way to success back in the 90's. As someone whose fondest county cricket memories are of Younis & his 100mph yorkers shattering wickets & toes for Surrey it's been a continual source of personal frustration to hear those who need no invitation to slam cricket dole out the usual mix of hackneyed and tired cliches to dismiss any result involving Pakistan over the years. For when they win "they cheated; lose and they threw it away." It’s a mantra that is set to stay.

In some ways it’s surprising that allegations of spot-fixing and possible match arranging cause such a thing. Two years ago I shared a taxi with an England legend who told of a Pakistani team mate forced to underperform in a ODI against India. He was threatened by his captain that he would never play for Pakistan again if he didn't comply. So, against his better instincts, he did just that. At the end of the tour he was presented with a bundle of notes. What he did with them is unclear. But my cab companion told me that the hatred his former colleague carried with him of his national captain remained to this day.

And it's not just those close to the action or the Pakistani supporters who have more reason than most to feel thoroughly disenchanted sick to the stomach. It affects so many people in so many ways.

In one foul swoop one of the things I enjoy the most in life had been taken from me. The morning after the story broke I travelled to work in much the same way that I always do stopping to pick up a coffee and a paper before boarding the train at Clapham Junction for the 12 minute journey to Chiswick.

But here things changed for while normally I would have spread open the sports pages at the cricket section and read through the various opinion pieces and accounts of the previous days play. This time I looked at it and thought 'what's the point?' What is the point of reading an account of a day’s play that had been decided upon?

For pitch inspection now read introspection. Where Vic Marks heralded the partnership between Stuart Broad & Jonathan Trott now I question whether it could possibly be a coincidence that England put on the largest 8th wicket stand in the history of the game in a match involving a team that might not actually want to win?

Instead of reading Mike Brearley's comments on the moment Mohammed Amir went off the field due to injury as being the natural turning point in the game it's understandable the question should now be whether in fact he was injured at all?

And why when he was to return moments later did he sit out 15 overs play despite having taken six of the seven wickets to have fallen? Is the fact that he then went wicketless for the remainder of the innings also adown to the honest vagaries of the game? And there’s more. Should England be praised for one of the biggest & quickest turnarounds in world cricket or Pakistan damned?

And as the mind really starts to wander down dark corridors of uncertainty that really shouldn't be explored, will we ever know everything that happened in that West Indian hotel room the night Bob Woolmer was found dead just 24 hours after Pakistan had 'remarkably' lost in the World Cup to Ireland?

These are the kinds of questions that I have found myself asking since I heard of the revelations. And the feeling is mutual for it's not just me asking these questions. In Australia those players & spectators who basked in their sides 'remarkable' comeback in Sydney at the start of the year will be asking themselves whether the Pakistani's really did make $1.4 million from chucking the match. That truly is remarkable.

So where now for me and the millions of others who now doubt the sport they have grown up watching? How you rebuild the faith and restore it to those who devote their time and energy to following cricket is unclear. For now when I glance up and see cricket on the TV screens it fills me with sadness and anger. It makes me think of betrayal and greed. Nobody wants to wake up and feel that ahead of a day at the cricket. There's nothing zen-like about that.

"The bond between the fan and the sports hero is among the purest in the world. It is also among the most sacrosanct…..Sportspersons can sometimes be forgiven for taking adulation for granted, but they must never test, much less abuse, faith. Once shaken, faith is the hardest to restore. - Cricinfo Editor Sambit Bal

Last week a new cricket tour set for February was announced. Pakistan will return to New Zealand and take part in a two Test series. At the time I was disappointed it wasn’t longer. Now I wonder whether anyone will be watching. For after the events of the last weekend it remains to be seen whether people like me the world over will ever bother to wait up and watch cricket involving Pakistan ever again.

The clanger

Is it just me or is David Cameron turning into George 'Dubya' Bush? He's only been in power for three months and he's made more clangers than Tony Blair did in ten years. Okay, he's not yet taken us to war illegally yet, but surely that's not far off?

Since scraping to victory in May's general election Cameron has been forced to apologise or backtrack more regularly than your local railway station public address system. Last week he came under fire for saying to an American audience that England played a junior role in World War 2. That is insulting on many, many levels.

Then minutes after being held to task by a Brighton pensioner over the junior partner comment, and holding his hands up to his mistake, he went on to say Iran had a nuclear bomb, which it doesn't. At least not yet. You know you're in trouble when it’s the Aussie media calling you stupid.

Moving on and you start to notice a common theme in this loose talk for he has also told an anti-Israeli Turkish audience that Gaza was nothing more than a prison camp and then to an Indian one that Pakistan have been funding terrorism.

No doubt he was still taking in the wild applause following this last speech when one of his aides informed him that the Pakistani president was actually visiting town the following week. So lo' behold he immediately went and changed his mind and declared they are doing a sterling job of keeping a lid on those pesky Taliban.

Though it was after he went on record to describe himself as middle class that I finally had had enough. What next, black friends?

Middle class! Ha! Who is he kidding? Firstly, he went to Eton, secondly he's related to King William IV and thirdly doesn't he know that nobody, but nobody pretends to be middle class? You're either “working class and proud” or rich and don't give a fuck. Seriously, anyone who actually lies about being middle class shouldn’t be entrusted to run a bath let alone a country.

Now, you might believe some of what he is saying to be true. You might agree that Pakistan is funding the terrorists who learn their trade inside the countries border, that the treatment of Palestinians in Gaza is inhumane, that England's role in winning World War II owes much to America’s intervention in 1941 and that David Cameron does indeed come from a middle class background, okay maybe that is one step too far.

But apart from pretending he wasn't brought up in a castle with a pet dragon living under the drawbridge, what I find most insulting about him is that when he visits foreign countries he goes out of his way to tell them exactly what they want to hear. And then when he's in his own country he tells us exactly what we don’t. That we're going to have to suffer the largest cuts in public services of all time; while the bankers are allowed to carry on as before. How is that fair?

I suppose that now we've voted him in (sort of) he feels confident enough to do what he likes over here. And like a foreign Premier League footballer thinks that whatever he says in another country will be kept a nice secret between himself and his smiling audience. Oh dear.

I've seen David ‘Dubya’ Cameron (his middle name is William) in action. His aides understood the importance of increasing his media profile in the lead to the general election. As his only policy seemed to be that he wasn’t Gordon Brown it was important he was kept on the move around the country and he ended up spending more time in our studios than half of our presenters.

To watch him stand around the programming floor pretending to have an interest in football was nearly as painful as his attempts to fit in with us. He was like the teacher at school who thinks he can hang with the kids out of school just by wearing a ‘trendy’ jumper. It was so bad.

And it wasn't just the way his aim of integrating himself within the talkSPORT office was as doomed to failure as a middle class person trying to decrease the chances of being ripped off by a mechanic by dropping a 'T' here and there. No, it wasn't that, it was because he bothered in the first place.

Call me old fashioned but while I want my leaders to have the common touch I also want them to have something about them that inspires, that makes me stop what I'm doing (reading cricinfo.com usually) when they walk in the room, that sets them out as different, as having something about them so bloody impressive that I can see why they see themselves fit to lead a whole nation of people. Basically I want David Beckham to be PM.

But David Cameron doesn’t have any of this. He can’t dazzle anyone with his intellect, charisma or oratory skills. He's just another bland, posh bloke who only got into power because Labour had been so unbelievably awful and because there wasn't enough about him to divide his own party.

But with at least five years remaining of David Cameron's tenure we're already starting to see a glimpse of the future. A future where David Cameron & the UK are set to become the Prince Phillip of world politics.

All of which is pretty apt as David and Phillip are distantly related. Through marriage that is. Prince Phillip's marriage to the Queen......Middle class, my arse.

Jimmy Carter

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, my final weekend in South Africa loomed and I was hopeful (yet not certain) of a place at the high table. The second biggest game in world football was taking place on the Sunday and while clearly it's no Championship play-off final I still yearned to be in attendance to watch El Classico Utd take on Sexy Football XI.

However my chances appeared to be 50/50 at best for despite furious behind-the-scene wranglings by Matt Smith we had only procured seven tickets between our ten-man party. Someone was destined to be disappointed.

Before that though we had an eagerly awaited group night out to attend. Our last Friday evening had long been set aside to celebrate a successful tour for talkSPORT, for South Africa and because life in general had been pretty good. It was also a chance for us all to say thank you and goodbye to Karin, Neil, Samantha and Candice, our South African family who'd made our stay in Johannesburg such a special one.

The evening started eventfully, but thankfully, the negative actions of one couldn't curtail the positive intentions of the few and once our group had been reduced we all settled down to enjoy each others company in the surrounds of a local Asian restaurant. Not that Pad Thai was on my menu. For, while the others tucked into various noodle dishes and chilli cocktails (weird) I opted for a giant 500g rib-eye steak. With Fe's unbeatable home cooked Chinese food just days away I thought I'd take advantage of ridiculously expensive cuts of meat at equally ridiculously cheap prices while I could.

A pleasant evening unfolded and before long we were making plans to go on. With the wine and cocktails flowing freely our group split (amicably, this time) between those who wanted to go on drinking and those who fancied a flutter at the nearby Montecasino. And after a wait for our taxi to arrive myself, Romford Pele, Jim Proudfoot, Antony & Samantha squeezed into our vehicle, offered Samantha the only available seatbelt, and directed the cabby to an establishment that had fast become our first port of call on an evening, the News Cafe in Sandton.

We didn't arrive until 1am and got stuck in. For the next four hours every round consisted of a double and a shot known as a Springbok. And an evening that started so ignominiously ended in a manner more befitting the celebratory mood we'd hoped for as we danced about, mucked around and chatted to anyone who’d listen.

From the little I remember from the evening there were several highlights. But perhaps the best was when Ray spotted Dutch legend Ronald Koeman, strode up to him with hand outstretched and cheerily said “Hello Roland” in a manner only those who watched Grange Hill in the 80’s can truly appreciate.

The other notable moment of the evening also involved a former World Cup footballer. (Well, did you really expect anything else?) Veteran of the 1998 World Cup, and certified madman, Edmundo repeatedly tried to gatecrash our group and we repeatedly tried to prevent him. He’d obviously decided that Samantha was the girl for him and spent a good two hours putting all his efforts into catching her attention.

However once he realised that conventional means weren’t going to work with a girl 19 years his junior (and in a relationship) he employed more unconventional means. His ‘alternative’ pick-up tactics included hair pulling and biting. It reminded me of my brothers pulling technique back in the day. In the end we took it in turns to pretend to be Samantha’s boyfriend and he got tired of talking to the back of our heads and buggered off.

It was still dark when we finally followed suit, but only just. With the clock approaching six in the morning we staggered out of our cab and said our goodnights. It had been a fitting end of tour night out.

The next day was a painful affair and one of the most testing of my career. I didn’t emerge until after midday and spent a couple of hours disconsolately pacing around the grounds and the pool in the afternoon sun. Ray said I reminded him of a polar bear at the zoo.

Jim appeared an hour or so later to announce that he couldn't remember ever drinking more in his life. And our VISA bills in the coming days would be testament to that fact.

A mid-afternoon kip was followed by a gentle production shift as beaten semi-finalists Germany v Uruguay turned the most derided match of the World Cup into one of its most exciting. But once I turned in for the night sleep was hard to come by and I’d watched complete re-runs of two matches before I finally managed to drift off.

After four hours sleep I woke up on my penultimate day in Johannesburg with a text telling me I was going to the final. Shortly after I found out I was to produce live from the match. Considering I had been a late call up and the last producer on the plane it was a proud moment to think that I would be the one to bring the final to the millions listening to talkSPORT.

And there was more good news as Matt had managed to obtain the three additional tickets which meant the whole talkSPORT crew would go to the (foot)ball. And despite all that was going on in life and in my head I set out from the Lodge determined that nothing would get in the way of making the most out of the occasion.

I arrived at Soccer City with plenty of time to go before kick off and after buying a couple of programmes I set our equipment up in the press box. I was producing a two hour build up show which was to incorporate the closing ceremony. I've never been to a closing ceremony before (nor an opening one for that matter) and I will remember to not be so quick to dismiss them in future.

It was bloody awesome. An overhead fly-by sent tremors through the stadium to signal the start. For a split second, as the lights dimmed, and unnannounced vibrations and noise rocked Soccer City I thought I was having a bit of a senior moment. But as the lasers started up and the dancers appeared in front of me I began to enjoy myself. And who wouldn't enjoy the sight of Shakira, fake elephants, crazy graphics, singers, fireworks and loud music?

But the best was still to come. Earlier on in the tour I'd started reading Nelson Mandela's biography. Coupled with the trips I'd had to the Hector Pieterson & Apartheid Museums it had provided me with an insight into life in South Africa that I'd never had the opportunity to glimpse before. Indeed when people ask what was the best thing about my trip my immediate response is to point at the opportunity to really learn about the country, its people and its history. And at the centre of all that is one man, and with very little warning, and accompanied by a roar that easily dwarfed any other in the World Cup, he suddenly appeared in front of everyone in the stadium.

It was a moment to rival any other as he was driven around the pitch all the while waving and smiling at the crowd. For once the press corp abandoned all professionalism and joined in the celebrations. Cameras flashed, people punched the air & hugged each other, the noise was incredible. Even though I was wearing three layers I'm sure you could still see my goosebumps. It was without doubt the standout moment of my tour.

All of this and the main event was still to come. Lucky old me! A match that promised so much. The mercurial midfield talents of Iniesta & Sneijder. Two undeniably talented teams but who are often European underdogs and without a World Cup trophy between them. Plenty of Premier League talent in van Persis & Fabregas. And two teams who are famous for playing attractive, attacking football in the right way.

Well so much for any of that. It was a horrible game. The first half as bad as any I can remember. The attitude of both sets of players was appalling and I felt sorry for Howard Webb who found himself slap bang in the middle of a 'damned if you do and damned if you don't' situation. But saying all this, if Ramos (twice) and Robben (twice) had taken guilt edged chances we'd have been talking about a classic World Cup final!

But they didn't and the only saving grace about the match (apart from the fact that I was there, rather than watching listlessly on the TV) was that Iniesta scored a good goal in open play and prevented Holland from winning the match on penalties. For that, and the ensuing scenes of celebration, I will forever be grateful.



And that was about that for the following evening was hometime. After the stresses and strains of my last weekend in Jo'Burg a ten hour flight home wasn't exactly top of my list of things to do. But despite an emotional farewell at the Lodge, there was no mistaking the feeling of my body and mind telling me it was time to go home. But as I sat in my cab on the way to the airport and stared out the window I knew I would one day return. I await news of England's next cricket tour to South Africa with interest.......