Newcastle to Surbiton:An Odyssey (CoverItLive Test Broadcast)

A Bit Smug and Gloaty? Yes I am, thank you very much: A Mid-Season Review of Watford FC’s 2010/11 Championship Campaign

As it’s been a little while since my last football-related blog post you’ll forgive me for indulging in a little gloating, won’t you? It’s just that, well, Watford are doing awfully well of late. We were hotly tipped for relegation at the beginning of the season, and with a relatively inexperienced manager and depleted of some of last season’s key players, with very little money to speak of to spend on any new ones, and competition from undoubtedly one of the strongest groups of opposition that the Championship has ever seen, you could understand why. Prior to kick-off back in July and August, Watford fans spoke with stars in their eyes of the possibility of reaching the dizzying heights of mid-table, and that was the absolute best we could hope for. Just to avoid the dreaded drop had to be our main aim for the season.

But then a strange thing happened. Buoyed by, amongst other things, the decision of John Eustace to remain at the club and take the captain’s armband rather than signing for rivals Leeds, and the signing of a couple of promising young players on loan, Watford started the season brightly, daring to win their opening match away at Norwich, one of the sides tipped for greatness this season. We all held our breath and wondered... Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all? Things levelled off a little after that though, and we all screwed our heads firmly back on after the initial flurry of excitement, and settled in for the long haul. And then, in September, it all went a bit silly again, as we had the audacity to win some more games, the highlight being a 6-1 demolishing of last season’s League 1 stars, Millwall, on their patch. We seemed to become quite good at winning away. And in Danny Graham and Marvin 'Score-dell' Sordell a strike partnership was born which had to potential to be one of the all time greats. Well, in the dreams of Watford fans it did, anyway.

There was a blip in October as I attended my first match of the season, against Scunthorpe at Vicarage Road, a miserable affair which we lost 2-0 and we’re all best off forgetting about. Sorry about that everyone, I’ll just stay oop norf in future and not get in the way of our triumphant march for glory.

And then what happened? Erm... we seemed to lose 3-2 quite a lot. Annoyingly. But it proved that we did not have any trouble finding the back of the net, an affliction which has affected us in recent seasons with varying degrees of severity; never have we seen quite such a glut of goals as we have this season, and it’s truly delightful. Malky Mackay has put together a young, exciting, adventurous and pacy side, not afraid to attack, or to be creative.

And so we dragged our heels into December on the back of a couple of dull draws, but proceeded to turn the 3-2 scoreline that had been our albatross in recent weeks to our advantage, beating Leicester at the Vic, and sparking a run of form the likes of which we couldn’t even have dreamt of before the season started. On Friday 10th December, in front of the BBC cameras, we took our bold and fearless side to the league leaders, QPR, and systematically broke them down with style and grace; it was a joy to behold. Suddenly the potential we glimpsed flashes of back in September was being writ large, and people were starting to take notice of little Watford, sneaking up the table. We continued our barn-storming run with another thrashing of a top side, beating Cardiff 4-1 at home – so that’s the top two teams beaten, in consecutive matches. Ten goals scored in the last three games. New Year’s Day? Another three goals and a clean sheet against Portsmouth, this time in front of the Sky cameras? Don’t mind if I do. Can we play on TV every week? A nice little away win at Scunthorpe brings us bang up to date, and tops off our streak at five wins on the bounce, and seven games unbeaten. If I were a statto I could probably prove we were the top side in the league form-wise, but I’m not. And I’m lazy. But I’m assuming we are!

John Eustace: Who's the Daddy? Er, I do believe it's you, sir. Pic from watfordpics.co.uk

So what now? There’s basking in reflected glory, which is always nice for a while, but we all know that nothing good lasts forever in sport, Watford fans more so than most. The bubble will burst, it simply must; it’s just of case of when, and how, and to what protracted and painful extent. Injuries have taken their toll on our already small squad; the loans of Andrew Taylor and Jordan Mutch are yet to be extended, and with the ever-ominous transfer window open, it seems just a matter of time until, in addition to the almost inevitable departure of Scott Loach to a Premiership side, others of our players may be the subject of interest from rival clubs, having doubtless attracted attention during our recent run of good form. On a lighter note, I’d wager that as a shoe-in for December’s cursed ‘honour’, the Manager of the Month award, it could be gaffer Malky Mackay who is our downfall; if it’s not from having that notorious hoodoo bestowed upon him, then it could be a case of him being tempted away from Watford, attracting interest himself recently, most notably from Alan Pardew at Newcastle, but rumours also abound linking him with the vacant managerial post at Burnley. He’s been a revelation since his period in charge began, making waves rather than ripples in the Championship pond so far this season, not afraid to play untested youngsters (in many cases it’s been down to necessity rather than boldness, but I fully believe he would have thrown them in even if it weren’t a matter of not fielding a full squad!), and forming a tight-knit unit of players who seem determined to perform for him week in, week out. I’d buy him a beer and a pie.

In short, I just want to wrap ‘now at Watford’ up in cotton wool and never let it go. Do I want us to get promoted? Well, yes – in the sense that I want us to win every game, so by extension, of course I want us to be playing to the best of our abilities and the against top opposition. Is it the right thing for the club? That’s a debate for another pint in another pub on another day.

Having established that our little bubble of brilliance probably isn’t going to last until next weekend let alone until the end of the season, I’m off now to sit in my Watford-themed shrine, squeeze my eyes closed and not open them again until the season is over and whichever outcome is least damaging to the club has occurred. Okay? And unless you all have stronger constitutions than I, I suggest you all do the same! Happy New Year everyone!

Gig review: KARNIVOOL, Jurojin & A Torn Mind @ King Tut's, 18/12/2010

You won't believe it, but it's a gig review! What this blog was originally intended for! My modus operandi since I last attended a live music event has undergone something of a polar shift, so please bear with me whilst I attempt to describe guitar sounds and drummers and things using words that aren't ‘ice’ or ‘hockey’ or anything similarly irrelevant! Right, on with the music.

Three bands of a progressive persuasion were taking to the King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut stage on a positively arctic Saturday in the excellent Scottish city of Glasgow. First on were the local support act, A Torn Mind. I hadn’t known what to make of them on my initial pre-gig listening session but the cobwebs were well and truly blown away as they kicked off their short but sweet set, the sound quality in King Tut’s kicking seven shades of excrement out of the obviously sub-par Myspace versions of their songs and forcing me to reassess my preconceptions of underwhelmed-ness. The Glaswegian four-piece were shamelessly prog, but revelled in the fact, show-casing a torrid love affair with their delay pedal and a hippy keyboard and rhythm guitar player whose dancing skills made me feel like a member of Diversity. Entertaining and unselfconscious, with a few catchy hooks – I feel these guys have a bright future ahead of them.

Direct support on the tour was provided by Jurojin, who sounded painfully southern in comparison to the gargling Scottish tones of the previous band, but lessened the sore thumb effect of my own cockney-ness a bit, which was nice. They were a bit of a conundrum, musically. In comparison to A Torn Mind they were almost contrived in their alternative-ness, featuring amongst other oddities, a tabla-player. They skated the fine line between potential genius and pretention for a few numbers before the singer uttered a line I’ve never heard before at a gig and will probably never hear again: ‘We’re going to do a 19th Century folk song now’. When a prog metal band says words like these, it more often than not spells danger. They weren’t so much skating the line now as perching on the diving board threatening to plummet into arty-farty oblivion. But then the song started. And it was brilliant. The singer pulled off the folk vocal perfectly and the version of ‘Black Leg Miner’ they performed was outstanding, chunky and metal and well, just excellent. They then proceeded to annihilate my earlier skepticism with a brilliant end to their set. I couldn’t fail to be impressed by them, heavily Tool-influenced as they were, particularly the drummer, Francesco, who was so technically proficient he threatened to eclipse the remainder of the band, and the tabla-player who added to the ridiculously high standard of the percussive end of the band. The vocals? Generally a little too clean for my liking but still. A marmite band? Almost certainly. Ones to watch – definitely.

By the time Karnivool took to the stage it was past 10:30 and I had my dancing legs on (read: I’d had about 6 pints and a couple of gins and was feeling merry). What can I say about them, other than ‘wow’. The Australian quintet couldn’t really go wrong as far as their setlist went, being as they have only released two studio albums, both of which I love, but somehow, they managed to make it so perfect, it wouldn’t have been better if I’d written it myself and had them wrap a chocolate bow around it. Kicking off with tracks from this year’s brilliant ‘Sound Awake’ record, the band’s sound was tight and crisp and soaring, true to the quality of the record but exceeded not only by their performance but by the sheer flawlessness of singer Ian Kenny’s vocals, particularly on stand-out track ‘New Day’. The guy was all kinds of cool, somehow managing to pull off chilled Aussie with not a single reference to the Ashes, and with the zen-like contentment of an inebriated Buddhist. My gigging companion likened him to a ‘stoned velociraptor’, a bizarre simile that somehow fit him down to the ground. The crowd reflected the happiness with a lot of singing, dancing and general expressions of enjoyment. Although, at 11:30 on a Saturday night in Glasgow, I can’t help but feel that a lot of their work had already been done for them.

The extent of my gig photography. Skilled I might well be, but you wouldn't know it. This is basically pretty much how I saw the gig, to be honest.

And so a good night was had by all, and Karnivool firmly placed themselves in my top gigs of the year list, sneaking on in there right at the end. I am a big fan, and I hope they come back sooner rather than later. Australia's not that far, right?

They tried to make me go to rehab...

(cross-posted from http://confessionsofahockeynovice.blogspot.com/)

When it dawned on me after the Dundee match that I would not be witnessing another live hockey match until after Christmas, I can’t deny that the panic started to set in. Exactly 20 days without hockey. Short of filling the intervening days with a series of bizarre and increasingly unhinged blog posts, I wasn’t sure quite how I would cope with the lack of hockey in my life. It was then I realised, what I think I had known already for a while but had been too afraid to admit to myself. But I’m ready to admit it to you now, in the hope that you can help me through what is inevitably going to be a difficult time in my life. Here goes.

My name is Katy, and I’m a hockey addict.

I’ve been watching hockey for just over two months, now. It started out small. Just one match, here and there, just a click or two on the Vipers website. A little dabbling in the NHL. A quick skim of the rules on the internet.

But then it got worse. I started thinking about hockey all the time. Even when I wasn’t at hockey, I wished I was. I met other people who liked hockey and that didn’t help, they just made me want more hockey. I watched hockey videos on the internet, at all hours of the day. I even watched hockey highlights first thing in the morning. When I couldn’t get hold of any hockey, I became nervous, unresponsive and difficult to be around. My motivation for anything other than hockey disappeared. I found myself unable to hold a sensible conversation that didn’t revolve around hockey. Mood swings? Check. I would go from being on the crest of a wave to anger and despair at the drop of a hat (or a puck). And my behaviour when deprived of my regular fix became increasingly unpredictable.

Take this Saturday just gone as an example. I was in exile, marooned in the south-east of England, hundreds of miles away from my beloved Vipers and about to miss the home match against Braehead Clan. With an aging laptop my only connection to the action, I felt fragile and out of place. I donned my ‘lucky’ jersey in the hope that, despite my absence, the good fortune which had been associated with it up to that point would continue.

And so I prepared to attempt to appease my craving with a less-than-potent combination of the EIHL live scores page, and the Vipers Hockey Facebook page, hoping that a commentary feed would be forthcoming. But like sticking an Elastoplast on an arterial bleed, it wasn’t really a suitable substitute. The withdrawal symptoms were kicking in. I DIDN’T have the shakes (because I was in a warm house rather than freezing my butt off at Whitley Bay Ice Rink). It felt all wrong. I was jittery. Just knowing that there was hockey going on, albeit 300-odd miles away, was satisfying my pining heart ever so slightly, but following a game through a live scores page... I can’t adequately describe how immensely frustrating it can be. Perhaps you’ve tried it before, perhaps not. In a way, it would be much healthier to just stay away from the laptop until well after the game is over and hence, there can be no doubt about the result. Ignorance is bliss and all that. There’s just something irrational and narcissistic about following the game live, as if little old you maybe, just maybe, might make a difference, if you want it hard enough. If you’ve not experienced the joys, it goes a little something like this:

Load page. Game has been going 2 minutes already. I can’t believe I let this happen. What if – oh poo. We’re losing already. That’s because I hadn’t loaded the page up yet. Inevitable feeling of guilt tinged with failure. I am a bad human being.

It’s funny how as sports fans, distance from the object of our affections is inversely proportional to the number of crazy superstitions we suddenly find solace in. It’s ironic that when we are in the position to offer the least support to our club (ie NOT in a live setting), we adopt the most bizarre paranoid behaviours in the deluded belief we might actually be helping in some way. Observe:

Click. We were two goals down. Nooooo! (I found this out on the Facebook page. Therefore this was deemed to be bad luck).

Let’s try the Elite League page instead. Click. We had pulled one back. YESSSS!! (This therefore instantly became good luck).

I know I’m not alone in holding these ridiculous superstitions, but perhaps I’m the first one ever to actually admit it in written form. Someone should probably put me in an over-sized petri dish and study me. I wondered if perhaps my lucky jersey was only lucky when it was physically AT Whitley Bay ice rink, with me in it. So I considered taking it off. I even briefly considered taking one arm out. Or wearing it back to front. But then decided I couldn’t make that kind of possibly game-altering decision without some other sign. The third period began.

Click. 2-2. The jersey stayed on.

Refresh. Watching through one eye, half-closed. No change! And as has become painfully clear, no news is good news as far as the Vipers are concerned. Oh wait... The timer hasn’t actually moved on since I last checked. The damn thing’s stuck.

Click. Oh here we go, the timer’s moved... We’ve conceded two more goals. Swearwords.

Two minutes later. Click. Braehead 30 – 12 Vipers?! Jesus H! What kind of monumental – oh wait, that’s just the shots on goal. It’s still only 4-2. Thank the lord.

Cuddles. Because hockey players need love too. And because. Well, it's just nice, okay? Leave me alone!

We’ve not yet won a match when I’ve been following on live scores. So I’m pretending not to watch. Trying to fool it. Using the score card I try and recreate the action in my mind, to get a feel for the game, the penalties for example – number, offence, culprit (not many – everyone must be behaving themselves). And the shots on; they had a lot more than us, does that mean we’re backs-to-the-wall again? Charlie playing another blinder? I even had a little knuckle-chew to try and recreate those game-night nerves. I found myself idly wondering whether Mike Prpich’s beard had put in an appearance. I worried for a bit that my level of interest in the aforementioned face fuzz might have reached the point of obsession. I’m sure people have had harassment suits taken out against them for less. If only he’d just let me near enough with my ruler to make an accurate measurement... Restraining order for one, please!

And so I am forced to reflect on my dirty little habit, and all its fanciful nuances. I imagine the questions I might be asked, if I went for help. Do I want to quit hockey? Nope. Maybe cut down, just a little? Not really, thank you. I just need to learn to live with my addiction. And to learn that others around me are capable of enjoying the finer things in life in moderation, even if I am not. And to find humour in the fact that I am going cold turkey, at Christmas. So who out there can help me in my time of need? And by help, what I probably mean is, indulge me, or at least make me feel like I’m not alone. Because yes, I am a hockey addict; but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

ATP World Tour Finals - Tuesday 23rd November

If it was hard for me to coherently pull together a football match report following repeated exposure to ice hockey of late, how the hell am I going to cope with a tennis report? At least football is a team game, and it’s played outdoors, which is almost as cold as an ice rink. And people are rowdy. For my live tennis experience and subsequent ramblings, I would have to reign in my inner hooligan and re-discover how to applaud politely and NOT encourage opponents to beat each other senseless. This could be interesting.

My first experience of the former Millennium Dome, the now O2 Arena played host all last week to the ATP World Tour Finals, the end of year tennis Championships which sees the top 8 men in the singles rankings and the top 8 mens’ doubles pairings gathering to do battle for the final points of the year. Each session featured one singles and one doubles match, and I would be attending both sessions of Tuesday’s action. We had elected to go for the cheap seats for the early session, and I now see why the seats in the upper tier of the O2 have been described as the ‘nosebleed seats’ – I can honestly say that never before have I experienced such a vertiginous seating experience; I was already feeling nauseous as we ascended the numerous escalators to the high point of the Dome, and this was before climbing the equivalent of 3 or 4 flights of stairs to finally reach our seats in the gods. Nevertheless, it gave an almost bird’s eye view of the action. The place is seriously impressive, and the build-up to the matches lent a real air of excitement.

View of the O2 Arena from the 'nosebleed' seats. Nice.

First up were 4th ranked doubles pairing Lukas Dlouhy and Leander Paes against the wildcard entrants and Wimbledon champions, singles specialist Jurgen Melzer and his partner, the German Phillip Petzschner. It started out slowly but picked up tempo, some blistering power from the Austro-German combo battling against the doubles specialists from the Czech Republic and India. Power and precision eventually won out though, the double-fault and error-strewn performance of Dlouhy/Paes being exposed and punished, despite some flashes of brilliance, particularly from Leander Paes.

The feature match of the afternoon saw the mighty Roger Federer take on our very own Andy Murray (that’s the first and last time I’ll ever claim ownership of Murray! *Shudder*). I was surprised that the support for the two was pretty equal, unlike at Wimbledon where Murray-mania totally takes over and people lose their heads in an annual show of unwarranted patriotism. I would venture to suggest it’s because the British media don’t give a crap about the year-end championships and as a result, no-one has really had a chance to get their panties in a bunch over it. Either that or they’ve all realised what a dour old pain in the arse Murray is. It’s the first and last time I’ll ever shout ‘come on Roger’ that’s for sure. And Roger did indeed come on. It has to be said, that whether or not you are a fan of the man, seeing that whipping forehand in person is really something. It's a force to be reckoned with. And he proceeded to paste Murray all over the court with it. The Scot didn’t really turn up, I’m not sure where he was, perhaps he lost his mojo when he had about 8 inches of excess curls lopped from his strangely shaped noggin, but whatever was going on, he never really got going and Federer cruised to a straight sets victory, 6-4 6-2. Good work from the Swiss who seemed similarly surprised when asked in his post-match interview about Murray’s lack of game. Perhaps he was put off by the sight of footballing legend Maradona, who was in attendance, alarmed by the prospect of him plucking the ball from mid-air in an ‘innocent’ mid-rally incident to give Federer another break of serve. Or perhaps he just had another attack of indifference, an affliction which seems to strike Murray on occasion. Who can say.

Murray v Federer. Spot the ball! Oh, it's in Diego's hand.

We descended back into the lower troposphere for the evening session which was nice, and a cider or three helped me to recover from the altitude sickness. Had a wander around the perimeter of the arena and caught a certain Rafael Nadal on the practice courts, understandably attracting a large crowd despite looking as though he had been happier in his life. Not sure what was bothering him, but Uncle Toni was on hand to advise. My first time seeing my favourite player in the flesh, it was a thrill just to see him hitting, and I thought he looked fantastic; skinnier than I had expected – he’s not carrying an ounce of excess weight OR muscle – honed to perfection – he’s a lean, mean ball-hitting machine! Wide-eyed and fawning, me? Never.

Rafael Nadal: Wearing colours that most human beings can't look at directly since 2002.

The first match of the evening session featured the number one ranked doubles team of the year, the USA’s Bryan Brothers, against the Polish pairing of Fyrstenberg and Matkowski. It was expected to be routine for the Americans; they have been the mens’ doubles equivalent of Chelsea this year, winning everything in sight and schooling their competitors on a weekly basis. Quite why they are so good can really only be attributed to one thing (well apart from their superior skill, fitness, training and those minor details!). It’s all about the twin factor. You know, that thing where twins can feel each other’s pain, and know instinctively when the other one’s in danger. And of course, which way they’re going to serve. Nope, apparently not that last one. One of the twins (please don’t ask me which one, I can barely tell when I’m looking at a picture of them close-up, let alone the backs of their heads from a distance) actually managed to serve the ball directly into the back of his brother’s head. I kid you not. It was hilarious and touching in equal part, as the culprit twin ran over to the victim twin to check he was okay, and they had a little embrace. Aw. Also, I almost forgot to mention, that they actually went to the toilet together. Now THAT is brotherly love. Possibly gone a little too far.

The whole serving-into-the-head incident must have really thrown them off their game though as lanky pole and chubby pole (sorry, but it's easier to type than their actual names) took the second set to take the match to a tie-break, which they dominated and did the unthinkable – they beat the Bryan Brothers. Good work Pole-type dudes. Better luck next time Bryan 1 & 2. Trying not to knock each other out would be a good start.

Hey Mike/Bob! (delete as appropriate). Watch your head - Mike/Bob (delete as appropriate) is serving!

The evening session concluded with the Swedish world number 5 Robin Soderling taking on clay-court specialist David Ferrer from Spain. It was an exciting and tense match, Ferrer the pint-sized powerhouse not making things easy for Soderling, despite the blistering pace of his serve and his hard-hitting forehand. Ferrer had the majority of the crowd, who were fairly subdued despite the excellent quality of the tennis on offer, and the presence of one John Cleese, the back of who’s head I could see just a few metres in front of me (I really had to bite my tongue not to shout 'Basiiiil!' in one of the quiet moments - thankfully I managed to restrain myself). He’s an unerring work-horse (Ferrer that is, although I'm sure John Cleese is quite conscientious too!), and what he lacks in stature he more than makes up for in sheer effort levels. He regularly leaves the ground when applying his racket to his driving forehand and in addition to this he also appears to be a thoroughly pleasant chap, humble and under-stated. Soderling had to fight hard to clinch the first set on the tie-break, before eventually overcoming Ferrer’s challenge in the second set, the Swede’s intensity and power overwhelming the Spaniard as he went on to claim a straight sets victory.

Verdict on the day as a whole: excellent. Very well-organised, impressive venue, some great competition, and a good selection of food and drink (shame about the prices though!). Next year I will be back, and I’ll be buying tickets for two days’ play to make sure I get to see everyone. And yes, that does mean Rafa. Right, back to hockey! This tennis malarkey is turning me into a southern softie again. Bye bye, old blog!

On the birth of a baby blog...

The time has come to unmerge the component parts of my blog! I thought the moment might come eventually when I would need to divorce my incoherent music ramblings from my equally incoherent sporting drivel but if you had told me a year ago it would be because of ice hockey I would have laughed in your face. IN YOUR FACE, I tell you! But that’s what has happened. My day-seizing was successful; My Pet Steed Tangent dun a baby. It’s called ‘Confessions of a Hockey Novice’ and will be launched via the Newcastle Vipers website as of this week, well, that’s the plan, anyway! Here is the link – please check it out, I would appreciate all the support I can get as I am dipping my toe into the churning waters of a sport which I know little about, but love with a passion already – I hope it will amuse both hockey and non-hockey fans alike and bring in lots of new Vipers fans who can like me revel in the glory of ice hockey without necessarily knowing what the blithering hell is going on.

http://confessionsofahockeynovice.blogspot.com/

So that’s it! Being as ice hockey is the vessel into which all my creative juices are flowing currently, it may be a little quiet around here for a bit. I might come along sporadically, like today, to splurge some general juicy overflow in the direction of this here blog. Or maybe to rant about football again, or even to review a gig, when I eventually go to another one. Fear not dear readers! Words shall spill forth from my fingertips onto this here screen once more. Well, more than once, obviously. But for now I’m off to immerse myself in the weird and wonderful world of hockey – wish me luck!

Ice Hockey and Me: A Love Story

So after a couple of weeks of irksome prior arrangements it was finally time for another hockey Saturday. About time too. The Vipers took on the top side in the league, Belfast Giants, in the much promoted Halloween Havoc clash at Whitley Bay Ice Rink. The impressive number of travelling fans, complete with rather large drum, were so noisy we moved from our regular spot near the back of the bleachers to one row from the front, which turned out to be an excellent decision. It felt completely different. Despite certain areas of the ice being somewhat obstructed in terms of the view, being right next to the action was quite something. It made it all a lot easier to follow. It was also a fly by the seat of your pants-type experience in that every so often, players came crashing into the sidings literally three feet in front of my nose. I can’t say that a pair of hockey players swiftly applied to the face would be a wholly unpleasant experience, but it might be a bit unexpected and possibly a tad sore in the morning. So I’m quite glad the plastic shields held up their end of the bargain and contained both teams nice and safely, with my face unharmed on the other side.

Pic half-inched from the Vipers website, photo by Paul Lynch photography

I am also proud to say that after three matches, I am finally starting to recognise individual players, not just by their physical appearances but by their skating styles and even their movements on the puck. Some players are more how shall I say, functional in their skating; it's all about getting somewhere, quickly. Which is fine, and necessary. But others actually have real flair, and probably wouldn't look out of place if asked to perform a triple salko in a figure-skating contest. Okay, you might ask, what have you done with the girl who was getting a bit excitable over large brutish neanderthal types beating the crap out of each other. I don't know where she's gone, perhaps my penchant for aesthetics has overtaken my primitive desire for some good old-fashioned violence. Whatever the case, the light-footed and speedy Vipers won me over in last night's match.

I know for example, that my favourite player, Dale Mahovsky, skates face first (possibly why he lost a few teeth in last week's match), but with the effortless style of someone who has been on skates for at least as long as he has had legs. Possibly longer. Mahovsky's impressive skating, dogged determination and good clean game all cemented him firmly in my heart as my number 1 Viper on Saturday. I'm sure he'll be thrilled. He was vying for the position before defenceman Blair Stayzer left the club this week to return to his native Canada, but even without Stayzer's untimely abdication, Mahovsky still would have taken the throne with his performance this week. Toothless though he may be, he is valiant in his endeavours at all times. And actually helped get a Belfast goal written off due to some excellent work reasoning with the referee. A bit of a fan you say? Yes I do believe I am. I even wandered across to the shirt auction in the hope of inheriting his glorious Canadian sweat-laced special-edition jersey but alas, I was too late. Next time Dale, your shirt will be mine.

For fear of sounding a bit stalky, I'm going to move on.

Dale Mahovsky, prior to the dental incident. Photo again by Paul Lynch.

At this point can I just say, I love ice hockey. I love it, I love it, I love it. I could just roll around and bathe in it. I am so invested in my team already it actually hurts me when they lose, just like in football. Which is nearly always. And yet, we don't seem to deserve to. We played great on Saturday, despite having next to no defensive players available, and being up against the strongest team in the league. We were really good. Hard-working, some great skills, one of the most incredible saves I've ever seen in any sport by Charlie Effinger (who I'm also becoming quite fond of), a brilliant short-handed goal from Toms Hartmanis, a very jolly atmosphere and overall, a fully uplifting experience. I absolutely can't get enough. And I have a feeling that it’s just a matter of time before the results improve. Hopefully, a very short amount of it.

In the meantime, I’d like to share with others new to the sport a few more of my observations, gleaned from my initial experiences, for your amusement and hopefully to pique your interest! For those familiar with the sport, please feel free to point and laugh. I drafted this a couple of weeks ago so I do feel I’ve come on a bit since then!

Being a relatively under-represented sport in the UK it’s not surprising that teams have to work hard to secure a large amount of sponsorship to support their existence, but the extent to which it’s infiltrated the game makes me giggle. When I was at my first match and heard over the tannoy ‘icing, sponsored by Winn's Solicitor’s’ I was rightly confused. There was no cake in sight for a start. If there was, why hadn’t I been offered any? I have since discovered that icing is actually an illegal move, a bit like offside. But more puck-related than player-related. The pesky little thing sometimes gets ahead of itself, apparently.

Sponsoring an element of play is incomprehensible to me, and has always made me laugh, ever since we were at Hull’s KC stadium watching Watford a couple of seasons ago and the announcer kept insisting that penalties/half-time/possibly even throw-ins were sponsored by such-and-such. But I do understand the need for it in challenging times, especially for a sport that is so little known in this country. They could at least provide cake, though.

Something else I did find it quite difficult to keep up with in my first couple of hockey outings was the constant changing of personnel (I speak in the past tense as I am now, thankfully, beginning to catch on). There are unlimited changes allowed throughout the game, and according to the rulebook (of which I am now an aficionado) as long as they are not directly influencing play, players can even change during the run of play. Which seems like a wholly unnecessary complication when you consider by comparison the arguments that break out in football over exactly what constitutes 'directly influencing play' when disputing offside decisions. And football is played at less than a quarter of the speed of hockey. Really. It's been scientifically proven. By my eyes. But in hockey it can result in anything up to about 16 players on the ice at any one time, especially if both teams are switching line-ups simultaneously. It's baffling. I have a hard enough time matching what my eyes are seeing to what my brain thinks is going on without all that added confusion.

Which brings me to the player of the month award for September, which I feel it worth mentioning, despite it now being November. Latvian forward Toms Hartmanis took the honours, just ahead of Patrik Forsbacka, who probably came second due to the epic fight he had on the ice against Braehead, on the day that hockey stole my heart. But quite how anyone works out who their player of the month is I don't know, as following individuals is nigh on impossible; it’s like trying to find your pet bee at the Chelsea Flower Show. I've ended up choosing favourites based on their names, and the ones I've managed to track around the ice for more than a minute at a time. My reasoning is faultless.

Which reminds me, I have finally selected an NHL team. In the end I went for the ones with the nicest jerseys. Which turned out to be Calgary Flames. Minutes of careful research went into that decision, so don’t knock it. I also quite like Vancouver Canucks. For some reason I fancied supporting a Canadian team over an American one. It's colder there, therefore they have more of a right to win stuff on ice. QED.