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.

It’s cold, it’s hard and it’s right outside my house: a novice’s review of an ice hockey match

Yes, it’s another post about sport. Really, I can’t help it. I haven’t been to any gigs lately. It’s not my fault. It’s not just any sport though. It’s that most whimsical and enigmatic sport generally embraced by those with colder climes than ourselves, ice hockey. I’ve never really thought about ice hockey before, other than a novelty visit to a match during my time in the states, 10 years ago (and that was in Arkansas so it really can’t have counted). So when my other half brought home free tickets to last Sunday’s Newcastle Vipers match I was mildly intrigued but thought no more of it until the time came for us to head to Whitley Bay ice rink.

Newcastle Vipers are an elite league ice hockey team who had suffered of late from a win-less run of matches in what was obviously a frustrating opening to their season. Or at least, that’s probably what someone who knew about British ice hockey would say at the beginning of a match report. I, on the other hand, was blissfully oblivious to any of the back-story at the time, but on reflection, the reactions that night of a clearly dedicated fan-base spoke of a team in desperate need of some success. I have been that fan on many an occasion in my long and tumultuous relationship with Watford FC, so I should have recognised it. And now I have, I’m right on board.

Okay I’ve bleated non-sensically for a bit but I can’t ignore the elephant in the room any longer. Being a total ice hockey noob, one of the few things I really knew about the sport was that they seem to have a lot of fights. I had wondered in passing whether being a bit cold perhaps makes one slightly irritable, or maybe it’s just the jock-itch beneath all that padding that puts a player in an argumentative frame of mind. Either way, anyone with even a vague knowledge of the sport knows that it goes on and is an accepted part of the game of ice hockey. Yet I have to say, I was still surprised to see it happening right in front of me. And I couldn’t actually tell at the time whether or not the fights were for real, or staged, something like wrestling. I was hedging towards the latter and wondering if it was all bit camp and unnecessary but after further discussion and research it appears that this isn’t the case at all. It probably only looks a bit camp because it’s hard to have a fight when both antagonists are on skates.

Apparently, fighting, or ‘roughing’ as it’s known in the sport, is tactically important as the players defend their most valuable team-mates and disrupt their opponents’ play, and although it isn’t officially allowed within the rules of game, it’s not severely punished either, and officials are content to stand back and let it run its course in most cases. It’s actually condoned as part of the game in the US. Is it wrong that I find it mildly arousing? Probably. But I know for a fact I am not the only one. And most of the others are men.

Anyway, besides the fighting, what else can I tell you about ice hockey, from my completely novice point of view. It’s a very American sport. And by that I mean, there are a LOT of stoppages in play. During which, a multitude of well-chosen popular music clips are played over the tannoy and/or the match announcer explains what’s just happened in language that only those who already know what’s just happened can understand. Altogether, this made the bits where they WEREN’T playing a lot more over-whelming and confusing than the bits when they were. Even though the game-play itself is carried out at approximately the speed of sound and appears to have about as much form and style as a hyperactive fly at an all night rave. It’s a game for those with the attention span of a goldfish. A goldfish with Alzheimers, at that. It was in no way unpleasant though. In terms of levels of understanding versus levels of enjoyment, I suppose I felt something akin to a toddler watching a group of drunken adults play Twister at Christmas. Wide-eyed and happy, but rather confused and slightly concerned for the welfare of all involved, including myself.

And also, I found myself in the novel and unnerving situation of not knowing what the offside rule was. It’s not just because I’m a woman, OKAY?! Don’t worry, it was the first thing I learnt during my subsequent ice hockey rules study session.

Yet there was something undeniably thrilling about the whole experience. Maybe it was just the knowledge that top level sport was being played right on my doorstep, and the excitement of expanding my mind around completely new game, hungry as I currently appear to be for a football substitute (and all this despite Watford’s current impressive run of form). Maybe it was the exotic sounding names on the team sheet, giving me leave to support a team with ‘Newcastle’ in its name despite my Mackem loyalties, after all, Blair Stayzer and Patrik Forsbacka can’t be Geordies, can they?! Or maybe it was just the chill in the air, the buzz of the crowd and the tension of the final few minutes that reminded me just how much fun it is to kick back and take in a live sporting event. There’s nothing quite like it. So I’m going back for more this Saturday.

As we later concluded, this is physically the closest top level sport to our home that currently exists (unless there’s a pro tiddly-winks league situated in the Billy Mill area of North Shields that I’m not aware of), and not only is that quite an exciting prospect, it also gives me no excuse not to get involved. Go Vipers!

U.S.Eh?

I don’t know why I’ve become such a US sympathiser when it comes to tennis. It’s not as if our pals across the pond are short of supporters in any of their sporting endeavours.

Or so you would think. As it goes, when it comes to tennis, the majority of American sports fans these days fall into one of two broad camps: indifference, or scornful disbelief – can the leader of the free world really no longer have a man in the world's top 10? It’s unthinkable. To a country that more often than not finds itself at the top of countless sporting leaderboards, not winning – at least sometimes – is simply not an option.

Perhaps this attitude is borne out of having so-called ‘world series’ competitions in your national sports but not inviting any other nations along to participate. I jest. Well, sort of. In all seriousness, the US has always been a nation that has excelled in all areas of sporting achievement. Their amazing strength in depth in both individual and team competition must surely come from the extensive infrastructure that supports, encourages and promotes sporting endeavour from pre-school right through to the exclusive college scholarships and lucrative cooperate sponsorship deals at the professional end. Sport is big business, but yet it appeals to every young American, the allure of honing yourself as a physical specimen whilst bringing home glory for the red, white and blue too strong for its wide-eyed and hopeful youth.

And tennis was no different. American mens’ tennis seemed to experience a perpetual glory era, and in my earliest memories of Wimbledon lurk the brash characters of Connors and Macenroe, followed in the 90’s by the consistently brilliant Sampras and the wildly talented and charimastic Agassi. A little later followed Andy Roddick, who although never seemingly reaching his full potential, still has a Grand Slam title under his belt and years in the top 10 to be proud of. America have always had a few guys at the top to shout about.

So why am I so bothered about them, and why now? The state of American tennis and the frustration at their recent lack of success felt by the general populace was never clearer than at this year’s US Open, where the current pretenders to the almighty shoes of Macenroe, Sampras et al were relentlessly interrogated by the American media about the pressure to perform and the almost pathological desire of Americans to be in the top 10.

‘We’re doing our best,’ replied Sam Querrey, the youngest of the current crop of top Americans at 23. He was pragmatic in his responses to the success-hungry media and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, and also view very distinct parallels between himself and some of our own athletes and sportspeople, as the pressure of national expectation was hung over him like the sword of Damocles. The British media are frequently lambasted by other countries for being too hard on our sportspeople and piling on the pressure, but it seems that the American media are no better. Despite an inconsistent year, the affable Querrey has won four ATP 250 titles, but has lacked confidence on the bigger stages and has openly admitted that at times he just isn’t at the top of his game. How much of this, one sometimes wonders, is down to the sheer weight of expectation being shovelled onto his not inconsiderable shoulders.

Coping better with the pressure it seems is Mardy Fish. The most experienced of the current in-form crop at the age of 28, Fish lost 30lbs following a special nutrition and fitness regime and has since become a completely new player, performing spectacularly in 2010. He has picked up two titles and numerous final appearances, and he put in one of the strongest American performances in history in the recent Davis Cup play-off against Chile, playing three of the four rubbers, totalling over 11 hours tennis in three consecutive days, singles and doubles, at 9000ft altitude, and all with the crowd against him. An absolutely Spartan effort.

Making up the trio of American hopefuls is 6’9” John Isner, who shot to tennis fame this year after his epic first round tie at Wimbledon against Nicolas Mahut. He really seems to be the hot prospect, currently developing the weaker areas of his game to add to the giant, high-bouncing serve that is already frustrating opponents at all levels, and has been tipped to break into the top 10 in 2011.

So maybe things aren’t so bad after all? To a British tennis fan, of course, four players in the top 25 is an unimaginable fantasy. But even if we had that, would we let them rest easy in the comfort of their already admirable achievements? Would we bollocks. We’d expect Grand Slam titles to be seeping from every gold-rimmed orifice, year after triumph-filled year. Would we have the right to expect this? Absolutely not. Do the Americans? Arguably, yes. I’m British and I can’t help but support the underdog. And however paradoxic it may seem, right now, unbelievably, in the world of tennis, Team America are just that.

Festival review – Bloodstock Open Air – 13th-15th August 2010

It’s time to bring the metal back to this here blog! And what better way to do it than with a look back at a most excellent weekend of music and frivolity at Catton Hall in Derbyshire.

It started out on Thursday with a leisurely arrival on site and about an hour of sunshine and a nice glass of boxed wine by our freshly-pitched tents, before the gods frowned upon us and the heavens opened. The rain was quite something, it has to be said. That night two of our three tents were robbed and in the remaining tent, my other half was vomiting up a sausage of the apocalypse. Let’s just say, it was an inauspicious start.

But from small beginnings grow massive trees, or however the saying goes, and the weekend improved one day at time. This is some of what our ears were treated to over the three days.

Friday 13th August

On this most metal of dates, we were up bright and early and waiting expectantly in the New Blood unsigned bands tent for the first band of the weekend, Under Blackened Skies from Birmingham, who also happen to contain a good friend of ours, Mr Manu Patel on lead vocals. They kicked seven shades of crap out of the slowly awakening masses, the delicate hour of the morning no obstacle to their thundering metal juggernaut of a sound, big fat riffs and drum savagery all tied up in the most metal of bows, the guttural trachea-clenching vocals of Manu. I was rather like a proud mother it has to be said, and I was very impressed with what I saw. It was also great to see the gang from Birmingham after quite some time away. A great start to proceedings.

Over on the mainstage we caught a snippet of Black Spiders. Quite what they were doing at Bloodstock I don’t really know; they sounded like Queens of the Stone Age-lite. Repetitive and underwhelming, they really must be the most over-rated alternative band of the moment. Ross the Boss then proceeded to bring some power metal to the party, and even from the campsite we could hear him being, er, shrill.

Drafted in as last-minute replacements for Behemoth who unfortunately had to cancel due to illness, legendary British metallers Cathedral were a fine substitute. They got everyone going with their inimitable mix of stoner rock and psychedelia, their material from past and present sounding as fresh as ever.

Sonata Arctica were a funny one. We caught the majority of their set whilst waiting in the Opeth signing queue, and despite sounding like a credible option for Finland’s next foray into the Eurovision song contest, they were sort of good. The lead singer, despite wearing a WHITE hoodie (where does he think he is, the streets of Wallsend?!) was quite charming and seemed to be having a jolly nice time. Bless him. My other half pronounced that they were ‘terrible’ – so that’s both bases covered there then.

In the early evening glow, sub-headliners Meshuggah bludgeoned my tired mind with their insanely tight rhythms for an hour, during which time I felt like my brain may well have been covertly impregnated with some kind of coding which will turn me into a math metal drone the next time I hear a bar of 156/21 time. Watch this space – and nobody play me any Dillinger Escape Plan for crying out loud.

Friday’s headliners, in place of Heaven & Hell, were Sweden’s finest export, the genius that is Mikael Akerfeldt and his travelling band of musos known as Opeth. I have seen this band quite a number of times in the last couple of years but it has to be said that they were absolutely breath-taking tonight. Their sound was clear as a bell, their setlist was impeccably selected and included gems from across their back catalogue, as well as a cover of ‘Catch the Rainbow’ by Rainbow. It was a poignant and fitting tribute to the late Ronnie James Dio, and featured a rather nervous-looking Mikael shedding his guitar and facing the crowd with nothing but his voice. He did an astounding job and I salute him. He somehow manages to combine self-effacing with wry arrogance, but he always does so with an air of comedic inspiration, and I for one am a massive fan.

Saturday 14th August

The day began with a lot of trudging through a lot of mud as the heavens had officially decide to turn against the heathens overnight and had thrown down their wet fury upon us for hour upon hour. Lovely stuff. However, a ray of sunshine was threatening to peep through as the showers continued to taunt us, and we watched our first two bands of the day mostly from the sheltered edge of the Bloodstock Arms. First up for us was Leaves’ Eyes, a female-fronted Scandinavian folk-type outfit. Prizes to be awarded here, one for the most pointless band member of the weekend (and may I point out this was a weekend which included GWAR), the instrument-free bloke who basically just threw his ridiculously long dreads around and shouted ‘come on’ a lot. And secondly for most wooden lead singer of the weekend. The woman, although dressed impeccably, was either laced far too tightly into her corset, or future world peace was resting on her not putting a perfectly straight blonde hair out of place, as she didn’t move a muscle the entire show other than a theatrically raised arm here and there. She also sounded like Celine Dion. Just terrible.

Secondly were Evile. This was far more like it. This British thrash quartet really have stamped their mark on the metal scene and it’s clear to see why. Instantly accessible despite having some insanely complex guitar work, they combine classic heavy metal with an electric live performance, as well as being seemingly thoroughly nice blokes to boot. Bravo.

Next we had an excursion into the New Blood tent to check out a couple of very different up and coming acts. Zocalo first, a groove-laden rock band in the southern style, fronted by another female singer; the contrast couldn’t have been greater. This girl had attitude, personality and more groove than a box of LPs, and when the band realised they had gone under time and could do an encore the place went mad. Great stuff. Lithurgy were up next and couldn’t have been more different. Edgy, angsty, passionate, driven, mature, puzzling… These guys were a musical conundrum, fusing progressive and technical metal with the part-grindcore part-post-hardcore vocal stylings of the lead singer, who also brandished a saxophone at one point in the set, as well as dancing in a way that would make even his mother cringe. Interesting band, and one I shall be keeping an eye on in future years.

The Jagermeister acoustic stage was little more than a speaker on the back of a truck, and we visited it for the first time later that day to hear midlands-based gothic duo Hanging Doll, whose maudlin lyrics and haunting vocals somehow managed to distract the small crowd from the sound of Obituary’s sound check. Quite a feat. Obituary themselves held our attention for a small time and sounded damn good, the death metal legends clearly on fine form, but we were on our way to the tent again for a gander at London-based metallers Silas, who weren’t the best band of the weekend in terms of exceptional musical talent, but they were great fun to watch, and the singer was so cockney it was unreal. I’m fairly certain he offered us a pound of tomatoes half price at one point.

My lovely Finns Amorphis were next up on the Ronnie James Dio stage. They didn’t draw a huge crowd which was a shame as they delivered a really energetic, enjoyable set, featuring a few songs from their latest offering ‘Skyforger’ along with some of their older material. Lead singer Tomi Joutsen became the second man of the day with rotating dreads of over a meter long, but in comparison with the pointless bloke from Leaves’ Eyes, he could sing, and was a little barrel of dynamite at the front of the stage. A really tanned one, strangely.

The most anticipated set of the weekend was next on the list, and the excitement was palpable as a huge crowd gathered for Devin Townsend. He surprised everyone by appearing onstage during his soundcheck, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, proceeding to fiddle about with gear for a while after a sheepish wave at the enthralled masses. The next half an hour involved some serious technical issues for the Canadian, but he kept the crowd entertained throughout with constant banter, general pissing about and even an interpretive dance routine. The guy is mesmeric, it’s truly impossible to tear your eyes away from him as he struts across the stage gurning and grinning like a maniac. The set he produced, although curtailed, was blinding, his soaring voice and effortless guitar-playing making grown men weep tears of molten lava. I shit you not.

Fear Factory were the first of the co-headliners for the evening and for me, they started fairly tamely, but improved throughout. The stage bravely held up despite what was surely the hugest combined weight of a single band ever to tread its boards (and again I’ll remind you, this was a festival that included GWAR, their infinity members and massive costumes included). I was as sad as my companions were amused to note that the ravages of time hadn’t done Burton C Bell’s vocals a whole heap of good, and I have to admit the tuning was off a lot of the time, but hey, they’re an industrial metal band, how important can it be? When I felt my attention waning later in the set and shouted ‘play more songs from Demanufacture!’ the metal gods must have been listening – either that or Burton C Bell has ridiculously good hearing – because almost immediately Bell proclaimed ‘the rest of the set will be made up of songs from Demanufacture!’. I was a happy bunny and it all picked up from there.

Children of Bodom were the second co-headliner and as we headed back to the tents for some food and beverages, I was really disappointed I hadn’t stayed to watch them. They sounded really good.

Sunday 14th August

Finally the rain had fully abated and we awoke to sunshine, which improved steadily throughout the day. Nice. As I’m writing this from the future and have just realised I hadn’t got as far as Sunday before being a lazy goit and forgetting about finishing this post, I’m going to keep the Sunday reviews short. Very short.

Neonfly – they played in the unsigned tent. We didn't like them. We left.

Suffocation – hardcore shoutyness of the worst kind – macho and giant bollocked and full of shite. Went on about guns. Twat.

Holy Moses – the music was really quite good – almost grungy at times! But the German bird singer was not.

Doro – more German women than you can shake a stick at on the mainstage today. Doro was good – good rock vocals and really got the crowd going. Covered ‘Breaking the Law’ which was, um, an experience.

Korpiklaani – I was drunk by this point and it was fantastic. Crazy Finnish folk band, prize for line of the weekend went to the singer who before one track proclaimed ‘just follow the accordian’! When are you ever going to hear that again at a metal gig! Lots of country dancing, general bouncing around and mad cheering ensued. Fab.

GWAR – no idea what their music sounded like, and I don’t think anyone really cared, including the band. Fantastic entertainment, giant costumes, hideously unpleasant role-playing, lots of goo.

Gojira – absolutely incredible. Tight, crushing, soaring, engaging, electrifying. The surprise package of the weekend for those who weren’t fans prior to the festival. For those of us that were, Gojira delivered the goods as they always do, proving themselves once again to be one of the best live bands currently in existence. We even managed to meet them afterwards and have them sign some stuff, and jolly nice fellows they were too.

Bloodbath – the death metal ‘super-group’ composed of members of Opeth and Katatonia, Bloodbath offered us Mikael Akerfeldt in a somewhat different guise to his appearance two nights previously. They didn’t take themselves too seriously and delivered a decent set, impressive considering it was only their 8th time playing live together.

Twisted Sister – convinced we would hate them, we all went back to the campsite to enjoy the last few drinks of what had been an amazing weekend. However, deciding it was our last chance to hear some live music, we fancied a wander and plus, it was a headliner so we should probably have a look. So we trooped back into the arena and enjoyed some drunken call and response antics with the impressively-locked Dee Schneider and his band. A surprising and fun end to the weekend.

Good times had by all? Most definitely. I do have some pictures to punctuate the rather huge lump of text I’ve thrown at you but they’re not with me right now. I may or may not remember to upload some at some undisclosed point in the near or distant future. The End.

A spot of tennis? It’s poetry in motion.

By way of an apology to anyone who comes here expecting gig reviews (yes I know you flock to my blog in your thousands): I should probably divide this blog into two somehow. Or just start different blogs for my waxing and waning interests. My distinct lack of exposure to live music so far this year, particularly in the last three months or so, has not only disturbed me deeply, but coupled with the pathetic flailings of the England ‘football’ team in South Africa has led me to a new obsession, and one which I am enjoying so thoroughly I sincerely doubt I’ll ever get tired of it. I knew I was more excited about tennis than usual this year but I wasn’t sure why. Well finally I know. It’s the sport I should have been focussing on all these years – loving it for a month or so a year just simply isn’t enough. I’ve been doing that since I was 8 or 9 years old, so why hasn’t it stuck sooner? So I’ve taken the plunge and invested myself in the sport, heart and soul, over the past couple of months, and here’s what I’ve concluded so far about why it’s the most under-rated spectator sport going.

1) There’s always something to be excited about. In the whole year there’s literally only about 3 weeks in December when there ISN’T a tennis competition of some kind going on. It’s like the football season, only better. There are matches EVERY DAY. There’s always another draw to look forward to, another upset, another rising star or fallen idol, another giant serve or breath-taking backhand. It never ends. Therefore it is pure, and perfect.

2) The perpetrators of this fine sport appear to be thoroughly nice chaps. They converse jocularly with one another through such modern networks as Twitter, and they do so with articulate intelligence, often not in their first language, and sometimes even in two. Beats Rio Ferdinand’s monosyllabic nonsense into the ground. They earn good money for their profession, yes, but outside of the top echelons of the sport (and I’m talking a seriously limited number of people here) they are not paid ridiculous sums of money, and even those that are remain humble, dedicated, and passionate about their sport. Like athletes, these are men and women who tend to remain involved with tennis long after they have retired from the tour, playing Masters and exhibition events and generally keeping themselves in great shape. It’s a really nice network of people who genuinely seem to love what they do.

3) Also like athletics, it’s easy to support individuals in tennis, regardless of what country they are from. It’s a sport where for the most part, individuals are competing for themselves, and so the feeling of needing to support your own countrymen is not as strong. Thankfully, as I’m really not a fan of the unfortunate-faced surly oik that Britain calls its number one these days. I’ve been a patriot when it comes to sport for a number of years, and although up until recently I used to love supporting England at football, I can’t deny that it made a nice change once the fumbling bunch of duffers had gone out of the World Cup to support the teams that I actually liked watching. And that’s why I love tennis so much. You can do that all the time. It’s a carte blanche to get behind whoever you damn well please.

4) It’s completely unpredictable. The obscenely complicated rankings system means that players have to employ real strategy when deciding which tournaments to play, and which to sit out. This means that you see a different collection of players in every tournament; countless different match-ups and myriad possibilities for outcomes. Add to this four different surfaces, each with their respective merits and disadvantages, and it really is a recipe for an ever-fluctuating, thrilling year-round experience. Not just two weeks in June – much as those Pimms and strawberry-filled weeks are a joy to everyone involved with the sport, from the armchair fan to the players themselves, many of whom see Wimbledon as a mecca, a kind of mothership to which they strive to return year in year out. It really is worth keeping up with once the grass of the All-England club falls silent.

5) The sport itself is a joy to watch, but there is so much going on off court too. Tennis is as much a mental as it is a physical game. It’s an endless tussle between rest and recovery, and achieving that much sought-after match fitness. Players must gamble with their bodies and make judgements over which tournaments would best suit their hunt for points, all leading towards the Barclays-sponsored ATP Tour Finals which will be held in London for the second time this year, on the indoor hard courts at the O2 arena. I have already purchased tickets and am breathless with anticipation as to who I will actually see in action. And the beauty of this fluid yet erratic sport is, other than the beast that is Rafael Nadal, who has already scored enough points to guarantee a place at this prestigious event, I really don’t know yet.

So there you have it. The biggest downside I’ve discovered so far is the lack of coverage on British television but that’s not a huge surprise when it comes to sport. And if the above reasons weren’t enough? Wimbledon apparently employed a resident poet this year. Which other sport can say that?

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...?!

The Black Procession Tour – Newcastle Academy 2, 26th February 2010

A lack of hair, more than compensated for by a collection of circle pits…

It was a cold, rainy night in February. I was waiting, coatless, outside an Academy. And yet I WASN’T seeing Lamb of God. Say what?

Instead, The Black Procession tour, which has been weaving its way up and down the country for the last week or so, comprising some big, fat, no-nonsense metal for all to partake of. Well, alright then, I suppose I’ll give it a go.

First on the bill, Glaswegian deathcore crew Man Must Die, the replacement band for All Shall Perish who had unfortunately pulled out of the tour some time ago. They were worth turning up early for, despite their repeated insistence on demanding a ‘circle pit’ which, in a Scottish accent, just made me think of Lorraine Kelly trying to organise a knitting club on GMTV. The pit that stuttered into existence was quite appropriate then, featuring about three 15-year-olds tripping over each other and a big bald bloke who eventually cleared the space for a spot of Greco-roman wrestling. I shit you not. From a musical standpoint, closing track ‘Kill It, Skin It, Wear It’ is quite catchy really and I think these chaps are more than capable of holding their own at this level.

Next up were Bleeding Through. The crowd had swelled by this point and they definitely created some atmosphere. Those of you who know me, or have ever read my blog, know that I’m really only comfortable with a metal band when they’re good and hairy. In fact, my enjoyment of a band is probably directly correlated with their relative hairiness. Your hairs are your aerials, after all. It came as no surprise, then, that I really didn’t connect with this band, as they seemed to be suffering from a nasty strain of collective baldness, well, aside from keyboard player Maria Peterson, allegedly one of the hottest (read: only) women in metal, yet clearly not really essential to the musical proceedings, other than to lend some impressive round-the-clock headbanging with the only hair on the stage.

I also feel it is my duty to point out that the ‘circle’ pit they created was not geometrically sound at all; it was more of an elliptical shape, really. Most irregular. It was large, though. It struck me at that moment, that circle pits really must be the most masculine way for a large group of blokes to skip around in a circular formation together.

To be fair to Bleeding Through, they certainly got people going, but I found the music generic and they did little to impress me in all honesty.

Hatebreed on the other hand, are severely follicly challenged, but they seem to be the exception that proves the rule (whatever that actually means). They whip the crowd up a notch immediately, everyone shouting along with their catchy brand of metallic hardcore (I refuse to call it metalcore as I don’t think it actually IS, really). They tear through songs from a variety of albums, have some good banter with the crowd despite verging on overly cheesy Americanisms at times (‘who has more heart than you? No-one!’) and are thoroughly entertaining, particularly as I can’t shake the feeling of lead singer Jamey Jasta reminding me of Fred Durst, which lends things a slight comedy over-tone, for me at least.

It’s clear from Machine Head’s soundcheck that the warnings I’ve had from previous attendees on this tour are going to be borne out here tonight too – it’s going to be LOUD. Thankfully I’ve brought along some earplugs and they are rammed into my ears by the time the headline act take the stage, yet it still sounds like a regular gig to me – I think this means, it’s LOUD. My vibrating sternum was testament to this, in the absence of aching eardrums.

As promised, the band give us a sort of ‘greatest hits’ set, inasmuch as they pick highlights from each of their six studio albums, as well as debuting old tracks – ‘Spine’ from The More Things Change gets its first airing EVER in the UK, and ‘Blood For Blood’ from Burn My Eyes its first in 8 years. This pleases me as I’m an old-school Machine Head fan, and hearing six tracks in total from across their first two albums is pretty good going. Also, they are three-quarters hairy, which makes me feel at home again. Highlights for me include ‘Old’ and ‘Bulldozer’ as well as the rare tracks, and of course the crushing crescendo of final song ‘Davidian’, which never fails to grab every metal fan in the room by the throat and squeeze.

Gig over, I was smugly aware that I was probably the only person in the place that had retained some form of hearing. For my first gig since the Lamb of God tour, it was a good one. It kicked the crusty Wrath-infested cobwebs away and reminded me that life goes on – there are many more gigs to be had, many more bands to bang my head to. Although I have to say it did feel strange not hearing ‘Richmond motherfucking Virginia’ at the beginning or ‘last chance to dance’ at the end (Robb Flynn almost said it… but not quite). I did sort of feel like I was being unfaithful. But Lamb of God can rest easy. I may have been with Machine Head… but I was thinking of them the whole time.