Joke's over now, okay?

You get what you wish for, so they say. And ‘they’ as we all well know, are eminently wise. This weekend was a case in point. I said I couldn't cope with my teams doing well. And what a sorry state of affairs I was presented with as a scathing riposte.

Watford, Watford, Watford. Likened to Real Madrid by Mark Bright on Radio 5 Live midweek apparently, this was clearly not the same team who had impressed in their win over Ipswich. Or if it was, they had had some kind of skill lobotomy; so devoid of ideas were my beloved team that I honestly think we could have played until Christmas and not scored. And for the top-scoring side in the division, that is worrying. And a bit odd. It was like the spark had been suctioned right out of them. I think someone must have told them I was there and they were feeling the pressure to perform. Bless them. The only team member on top of his game was Harry the Hornet, our mascot, who appears to have lost about 12 stone since I last saw him. He now dresses all in black and is the svelte equivalent of a mascot superhero. He has some pretty tidy moves too. And a massive drum.

Having recently been to see some live hockey matches and having not seen any live football in months, I found it quite difficult to get my head back in the game. For example, I was quite disconcerted that the staff at Vicarage Road hadn’t taken to playing bursts of fitting R'n'B numbers whenever there was a break in play. I was also disappointed to find that throw-ins weren’t sponsored by Phones4U. I found myself glazing over a bit whenever there was a section of play that lasted longer than thirty seconds. Although that may just have been because the game was flatter than a pancake. Laid flat, on a flat thing. In Norfolk. Or perhaps my attention span has been butchered into submission by hockey and I’ll never be the same again. I was highly amused though, by my Dad, who in a fit of misplaced political correctness, called the referee a follically-challenged twat. The man has class!

Things went from bad to worse on Saturday night when, forced to miss the Vipers game against the Cardiff Devils due to my foray darn sarf, I sat tensely in my parent’s home following the match on the Elite Ice Hockey League’s Live Scores page (which is about the most nerve-wracking method of following a sporting contest I have ever encountered, I might add). We lost again, which I was gutted about. Even worse, whilst reading the match report half an hour or so later, I let out an audible gasp upon discovering that promising Canadian forward Dale Mahovsky had to be treated after a goal was deflected in off his jaw and he lost three teeth! I concluded that ice hockey was just a big mean boys game and the Cardiff team must be a bunch of Neanderthals. How could they. Poor boy. He was one of the pretty ones, as well.

So that was that. Another loss for the Vipers followed on Sunday and I was left feeling particularly sorry for myself as another Monday rolled around, and this one a cold, damp and thoroughly autumnal one. I’ve changed my mind. Can I have winning back please? I promise I won’t complain about it ever again. I was only kidding, y'know. The internet clearly can't take a joke these days. Hmph.

A Ray of Hope

So in a week where football news has been dominated by our Lord Potato-head, we have finally had some resolution, thank his Rooney-ness. Yes, after a public dirty laundry-airing that Kerry Katona would have been proud of, Rooney and Fergie had a press conference-off earlier in the week, then cancelled some press conferences, before finally coming out with the Final Press Conference: Resolution Rooney. Yes, he’s staying put. All that hype, all that mud-slinging, all those attempts by Wayne to actually sound like a master of the English language (he wasn‘t fooling anyone), all for nothing. We end the week the same as we began it. Rooney is a Man United player. Wow. What a lot of knicker-twisting for absolutely no action. Give me strength.

But the footballing gods provided Manna from heaven this week in the form of Ian Holloway, with his general south-west heart-on-his-sleeve ranty-ness and his use of the phrase ‘you’re having me over, me old cocker’; diamond geezer! And more importantly, the reinforcement of my lovely little football club as one of the nicest, most family and community-oriented clubs in the country. Like a shot in the arm of those wearied by Rooney and his pathetic stropping, came a story to warm the hearts of all those who still hold out hope that football has some goodness left in its still-warm corpse, even if it is only the little toe.

Watford super-fan Don Fraser, a devoted fan who for many years has attended all matches despite his physical disabilities and has previously won Radio 5 Live’s ‘supporter of the year’ award, injured himself in an accident and was admitted to hospital (Watford General, situated in Vicarage Road itself, of course) for a hip operation earlier this week. As a result of this he was forced to miss our midweek encounter with Roy Keane’s Ipswich. This is no obstacle to Watford, however. The day after the match, the two goalscorers from the match Marvin ‘Scoredell’ Sordell and Stephen McGinn, visited Mr Fraser in hospital and delivered a DVD of our 2-1 win for him to savour. How nice is that. How much further away from the tarting about of that overpaid, over-rated cheating scumbag of a supposed footballing superstar can you get. And that’s my club, people. Proud? Am I ever.

To top it all off, I make my first appearance of the season at Vicarage Road (the football ground, not the hospital, barring a late-night red wine-induced disaster) tomorrow, and I hope that the winning streak will continue. Because if anyone deserves it, Malky Mackay and the hard-working, genuine set of lads he commands do. How I love my little club, still flying high at 3rd place in the Championship. That’s just 5 places below Liverpool, don’t you know.

Not to be outdone, the most annoying administrator ever to walk the earth, Andrew Andronikou, has today had yet another chance to fan his over-sized ego following the news that Portsmouth may yet again be up Poop Creek without a steering device. Doesn’t he know administrators are meant to be seen and not heard. Or preferably, not seen at all. I mean really, is he necessary? Never has one man had so much publicity over so little (obviously I am not belittling Pompey's dire circumstances, but rather, despairing over the day that an administrator became a spokeperson of such gravity. And I am one. Albeit, a less important one). He’s no better than the traffic warden who has just slapped a ticket on the prime minister’s car. Except, we might actually like him.

Best of luck to Pompey in bringing themselves back from the brink once again. and best of luck to my little team for in their match against another little team, Scunthorpe, tomorrow. As for Rooney, I hope his 'ankle' heals in good time for him to continue to do absolutely nothing for United for the foreseeable future.

Insert Tabloid-esque Rooney-related Headline Here

Discussing football is starting to actually hurt me, physically. I can’t resist it, however, and will always allow myself to be drawn into a conversation on the subject, despite the almost bolted on certainty that it will end with me either sighing heavily enough to induce a pulmonary embolism or damaging property belonging to myself or (preferably) someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I still love my little Watford and that will never, ever change. As the saying goes, cut me open and I bleed red and gold. In fact, I’m literally about to go and visit the National Blood Service to prove this very fact as they take out a pint of the stuff to be replaced by a cup of orange squash and a Tuc biscuit. Beat that bitches!

But anyway, I digress (riding off on the name of my blog again, apparently!). When it comes to England, and most Premiership clubs and footballers, I literally can’t take much more. I hate them. All of them (well, most of them - I do still have a soft spot for Sunderland, although I will admit I'm a bit biased). I had a discussion on Monday about Wayne Rooney’s potential future at Manchester City that actually made me want to physically expel the contents of my stomach out of the car window. I was travelling quite quickly around a large, crowded roundabout at the time and the thought occurs that it could actually have been quite interesting to study the trajectory of said stomach contents but again, I digress.

Apparently it was suggested that good old, salt of the earth club Cit-eh might pay His Holy potato-headed-ness half a million pounds a week to secure his seemingly magical footballing services. That’s £500,000, people. Per week. That’s seven days. If you’re interested, that breaks down to £2,976.19 per hour. Watch that second hand tick round for a few minutes. If you’re Rooney, you’ve now got enough to buy a tailored suit, or a top of the range watch. Jog up and down a patch of grass and kick a bit of plastic with air inside it for less than a day and you’ve got enough for a brand new BMW. Or 50-odd high class hookers. Just sayin’.

Illustration by S D Madgwick

Now, I’ve clearly missed something. It must have recently emerged that Rooney’s feet are in fact made entirely of Swarovski crystal, encrusted with one carat diamonds. His touch must quite clearly be as light as a downy feather plucked from the plump breast of a Christmas goose. One strike of the ball from Sir Wayne of Roonshire will make the fine women of England-land fall elegantly to their knees, panting and fanning themselves delicately whilst weeping tears of liquid silver.

Could it be that this one man, with skills silkier than blankets made from the pelts of a thousand Andrex puppies, this man with an understanding of football so far removed from us mere mortals that he actually exists in another realm entirely, has reached such a level of exaltedness that his breath-taking, palpitation-inducing, panty-moistening talent thus excuses the actions of his corporeal being? This is a human form, a physical host which unlike the infallible godlike athlete that inhabits it, slopes about the football pitch with cheeks bright red and sweat beading on its prehistoric brow, whilst off the pitch indulging in the delights of the local nightlife and procreating with the elderly and ladies of the night. It certainly offers no good reason for making it a millionaire on a fortnightly basis. Therefore, one can only conclude, that Wayne Rooney is basically God.

The burden of proof has landed squarely in the gold-tassled lap of Sheik Mansour, and he may or may not choose to reveal to the world its new Messiah; this man whose talents are so far elevated above the perceptions of us lowly plebeians that we cannot even SEE them. They exist purely in our imagination, or the collective unconscious, like the ability to learn language or the incomprehensible desire to try to put our big toes in our own mouths or receive mild electric shocks for no apparent reason. The holy man chooses not to manifest these skills in such demeaning and rudimentary contests as ‘The World Cup’ and ‘The Premier League’, instead selecting to reserve them for his other deity buddies, playing keepy-uppies in the heavens with Buddha, Jesus and The Prophet Mohammed. Hence why no-one can actually figure out if he’s actually any good anymore. But it has become apparent to me that blind faith alone is the only recourse in these dark and desperate times, as it has been so many times in the history of our species. We shall gaze upon God-Wayne with unerring devotion, until such time as he deigns to employ his crystalline feet in the pursuit of winning a football match once more.

Yes, well. That’s what I think about that in a rather over-sized nutshell. It has since been confirmed that Rooney will leave United, and I hope for his sake and ours that he chooses a club in Spain, Italy or perhaps even Uzbekistan. Lord knows he needs a break from the British media and Christ f%*king knows we all need a long and peaceful break from him. Let the potato famine begin.

And normal service is resumed… (or, why sporting success is bad for me)

I don't seem to cope well when teams and individuals I support in sport do well. It's all a bit, well, satisfying, to be honest, and frankly I was having a hard time reconciling my thoroughly British desire to have a whinge and be a bit glum with the success going on in my various areas of sporting interest. I'd become a bit giddy of late, what with Watford reaching the dizzying heights of fourth in the Championship and all the goals they’ve been scoring, and then I go and start supporting a new sports team and their response is to win immediately! It's all been too much for me, I've been having palpitations, you know. Luckily, the winning streak was soon to come to an end.

I mustered a respectable crowd of 5, including myself, for the Newcastle Vipers match against Coventry Blaze on Saturday night, following last week’s epiphany (that being that ice hockey is a sport I could really get involved in – see my previous post!). I even managed to drum up some actual enthusiasm! Mostly in anticipation of the numerous fights I had promised would break out (see, I told you it wasn’t just me!) but hey, they were there and that’s what counted.

We arrived early enough to see the pre-match warm-up which was quite a sight. Very well orchestrated training drills gave the impression of a tight-knit unit, which is what you would expect, they are professional athletes don't you know. But it proved to be a bit of a false prophet; not quite such a pretty picture was painted by the team when it came to the match itself. At first glance it appeared the Vipers were a little more organised than the previous week against Braehead Clan, and definitely more focused, with very little in the way of physical conflict – much to the disappointment of my brethren who were all but baying for blood, and also so it seemed later, to the detriment of the team.

Coventry were simply much more well organised and motivated, and they attacked Vipers netminder Charlie Effinger with increasing ferocity, systematically exposing the flaws in the Vipers’ defence culminating in a five-goal stand in the second period which effectively ended the game and put the kybosh on what might otherwise have been a jolly happy evening in Whitley Bay town centre. (Does it sound like I know what I’m talking about yet?).

Gone was the buzz of the previous week, to be replaced by an air of frustration and discontent at the dismal showing, one particularly disgruntled fan taking it out on a poor, unsuspecting seat right in front of us and almost causing foot-al injury to my better half (although I have a sneaking suspicion his anger may have been caused in part at least by a spot of domestic unrest rather than the hockey). Luckily seats don’t fight back, although I’m not so sure about his rather shouty spouse who stormed after him all guns blazing. Apparently it’s not just the players who get wound up at hockey matches.

On reflection, despite a pretty uninspiring performance, I did enjoy the evening. My understanding of the game has increased exponentially in the space of a week, the kaleidoscopic action shifting ever so subtley before my very eyes and dissolving into clarity, sort of like a big, cold, 3D magic eye picture. The hyperactive fly effect of the first night was substituted for a spectacle of grace and aggression – by no means a perfect exemplar of the game of ice hockey in general, but enough to enchant me nonetheless. I continued on to think that perhaps I should begin following the NHL. After all, they exhibit the game at its finest. But it’s a rather strange concept, selecting a team to support when you don’t have the slightest inclination of loyalty to any of the available options. I was thinking about basing my selection on the team with the coolest name (currently I’m between the Buffalo Sabres and Minnesota Wild) but in reality, it’s best for me to wait a couple of weeks and just see who settles at the bottom of the league. It’s best for all involved.

Elsewhere, and vying heavily for a spot in my rundown of depressing sporting news of the week, my favourite Americans Sam Querrey and Mardy Fish fared poorly in the Beijing ATP 500 tournament, Querrey being knocked out by in-form Frenchman Gilles Simon and Fish pulling out prior to his second round clash with Novak Djokovic with an ankle injury. Probably for the best as the Djoker is 5-0 up in the head-to-head statistics against Mardy. Not pretty! Sadly it also means he has withdrawn from the Shanghai Masters this week, so no Fishy action for me for some time to come it seems. I may have to resort to supporting Rafa again. Although he wins most of the time so I don’t think it’s a good idea on account of my fragile constitution and overly realistic expectations of my sporting charges.

The best thing about the weekend’s sport was that as no Premier League or Championship games were taking place, it was physically impossible for Watford or Sunderland to lose. Bonus! On the down side, England are taking on Montenegro in a European Cup qualifier tonight and it’s being televised on terrestrial channels, so I will feel obliged to watch it despite my impassioned vows to the contrary following the World Cup. Oh joy. Hopefully we’ll put in a mediocre performance and scrape a 1-0 victory in a predictable and entirely tame snooze-fest of a match. Any more than that, and I might have to start on the blood pressure medication.

A tale of my sporting loyalties, and other such rambles

With just two weeks to go until the World Cup kicks off, I could be forgiven for admitting that not a great deal has crossed my mind in the last couple of weeks that isn’t sport-related. However it’s surprised me to learn that it’s not ALL football-related. The build-up to Wimbledon for me, at least, has started early this year, and I find myself strangely drawn to the French Open.

So what's happened so far on the Parisienne clay then? Well Nadal is looking devastating, in more ways than one (did I say that out loud?!). I can't see anyone standing in his way this year, knee permitting. Which is going to cause something of a moral dilemma for me in the next round as it's looking like he'll face Hewitt. And not only have I always been a big fan of the Aussie, but I always support the underdog. Will my Rafa-naticism hold out? Or will my resolve crumble and the guts or glory instinct take over, compelling me to sing ‘let’s go Lleyton, let’s go’ at the top of my voice, along with the hoardes of mouthy Aussies that will doubtless congregate at Court Phillippe Chatrier for the match? Watch this space.

Murray's been a bit all over the place so far, although he seems to be settling down now. I don’t know why I mention him really, I am still physically incapable of giving even the teeniest tiniest hamster crap about him, however ‘unpatriotic’ that might make me (yes, let’s ask him who’s he’s supporting in the World Cup THIS time and see if he manages to piss off practically his entire fanbase AGAIN). Also, I saw something yesterday I don't think I will ever emotionally recover from, and as such I think anyone with even a passing interest in tennis needs to see it so I'm not alone. It's only a minute long (it's more than enough, really):

http://www.atpworldtour.com/Tennis/Media/Videos/2010/05/Roland-Garros-2010-Karaoke-Murray.aspx]http://www.atpworldtour.c...10-Karaoke-Murray.aspx

The less said about that the better.

So, tennis anyone? Just me for now then! I'm sure it'll be more of a talking point in a month or so when the white-clad ones take to the manicured lawns at the All England Club. In the meantime I am revving up my England-fuelled emotional torture device and it should be ready to go by the time we take to the field for the first time in Rustenburg on 12th June. I’m sure by that point we’ll already have lost at least two key players to metatarsal injuries, inflicted by aggrieved WAGs most likely. Respective tears for respective pints at the ready, everyone? Good.

Until then, I’ll be drinking to the finale of Lost tonight (yes, I know I’m late, but I’m a traditionalist. Plus I’ve been on holiday and have only just caught up) and the ever-fabulous Eurovision Song Contest tomorrow. Don’t even pretend you aren’t going to ‘have it on in the background’. Come on Slovenia! I can’t cheer you in the World Cup but I bloody can in this. And anything has to be better than that pathetic wet tissue of a British entry.

Right. Have a good weekend, everyone!

EDIT: I've just discovered that Slovenia aren't even in the arsing song contest. It's got to be between Armenia and Moldova, right? Right...?!