Football in August

It's August, the mercury finally cracked 30C for the first time this year on Sunday, and England have won the Ashes against a limited but bloody stubborn Australia. Oh, and the football season started fifteen days ago.

Fifteen days ago - the second weekend in August. Now I love football a hell of a lot, definitely up there with my other top sports both to watch and to play, but surely, surely, the second week of August is far too early? Britain's footballers only had nine weeks off between the FA Cup Final and the start of the season. For professional athletes, exhausted after a fifty game season, that's simply ridiculous.

We're told that the reason the season started too early is because it's a World Cup year, so everything has to be finished nice and early to give our boys the best chance possible. But just think about that for a moment - we're forcing the cream of our crop to take less of a summer break, cram even more matches into a shorter season and then play for up to another five weeks to hopefully lift the Jules Rimme at the end of it all.

Simply put, there is too much football to fit into a season anymore. It's not even as if the August football provides particular value for money either - players look tired, unfit and overweight whilst the Premier League is disrupted by all manner of internationals and European qualifying games. Meanwhile the FA Cup and League Cup have already started in earnest for the lower teams. And all this despite the aforementioned mercury hitting 30C.

I'd love to say at this point that there's a simple solution - which would surely be to reduce the number of teams in each league. But the problem is that football won't do it because no other sport will either.

Cricket is about to embark on a mammoth series of one day internationals following eight intense weeks of test action, the rugby union season continues to stretch as European competitions grow, formula one now has seventeen or eighteen rounds compared to twelve only a few years back and rugby league got so fed up with it all that they switched to a summer league (which seems to extend far beyond the actual summer). And to cap it all, tennis now seems to be played every single month of the year, forcing the world's best to slog it out across twelve continuous rolling months to protect their rankings.

It's got to stop - too much of a good thing very quickly becomes boring and repetitive. As a prime example, witness the continued overhyping of 'Super Sunday' by Sky Sports (the fact that the fixtures seem to keep coming together so fortuitously is another matter entirely) or the fact that a game labelled Liverpool vs Barcelona or Chelsea vs AC Milan just doesn't seem to appeal quite so much anymore. We've seen their players lots of times before, they're no longer shrouded in mystery and intrigue, and we'll probably see them again next year even if we miss it this time.

Competitive sport is a marvellous, wonderful invention, but the continued year round thirst for exposure by individual sports is drastically overcrowding the calendar and reducing the magic of it all.

Satellite television hasn't helped, but if we want the majesty of sporting competition restored then we have to resist the urge and remember the old adage - less (truly) is more.

Freddie, Steady, Go?

In 1998 Brazil were the best football team in the world. Then their star player and talisman suffered some form of seizure just hours before the world cup final, was shunted onto the pitch anyway and Brazil got their arses kicked.

In 2003 England were the best rugby union team in the world. Then their arguably most important player, Richard Hill, got injured and England were pretty mediocre in their first few games of the world cup. But they waited, rested him properly and brought him back when the time was right which paved the way for Wilkinson’s right boot and all that.

In 2009, England aren’t the best cricket team in the world but they do have a damn good chance of beating Australia in The Ashes for the second time in four years. Their star player is injured, but has so far played through the pain and is fighting to make the start line for tomorrow’s fourth test.

A half-fit Freddie is still a pretty good player and more importantly, any kind of Freddie still scares the crap out of the Australians. But a Freddie who breaks down on the first morning of the test could rule himself out of the rest of this one, and the decider at the Oval as well.

So what do England do?

The sensible option would surely be rest him, supercharge his batteries one last time and unleash a demi-god at the Oval in two weeks time. But the sensible option ignores the fact that England could wrap up the series in the next five days and not even have to worry about the fifth test. And the sensible option ignores the most obvious question – how do you drop the man?

Seriously?

He wants to play, the whole of England wants him to play and even his own teammates are struggling to make a rational decision. Despite the fact that he’s not England’s best bowler, or batsman, or arguably even their best player anymore, he still has an incredible aura. And when that’s combined with his sheer colossal willpower and uncanny ability to make something happen when it’s most needed, he simply becomes undroppable. Especially against the Australians.

So goes the argument, and it’s a pretty good one. Unless you remember what happened in 1998 and 2003 that is.

Carp(e) Diem

Britain’s most famous fish is dead. Benson, the apparently ‘iconic’ celebrity fish has been found floating on the surface of Bluebell Lakes. Terrible news for Benson, and indeed for the angling community who are said to be devastated and in mourning.

And yet the timing of Benson’s death is, all things considered, good news for the now deceased. If he’d passed away in November, April or pretty much any other month except August, then it’s likely the champion fish wouldn’t have received more than a quick mention on page 42 of the local paper. As it was, he (I presume, though it could be a she I suppose) got front page coverage in The Times and has had continual airtime on BBC News all day.

The reason for this is the oft-discussed phenomenon of ‘silly season’, the time of the year when hard-hitting news is thin on the ground, most of the FTSE 100’s top brass are floating on the Med, and those left behind are desperately searching for anything even half-worth reading or writing.

As someone who spends his days concocting ways to get clients into the papers and onto the TV screens, silly-season presents something of a double edged sword. On the one hand, political and economic news is much reduced, which means there’s more space to fill and hence more opportunities to fill it. But on the other, as dear old Benson demonstrates, it takes something genuinely different to make the grade.

The lack of political or economic news is also something of a barrier – there’s much less to hook onto than usual. And even if you do succeed, chances are that a large proportion of those people you’re trying to reach and influence are either not paying attention as much as they would usually or are too busy enjoying the delights of a 99p with a flake and some raspberry sauce. All in all then, silly season is just as challenging as any other time of the year, only for very different reasons.

And with that in mind, I’m off to research Britain’s other animal superstars with a view to potentially offering them and their owners life insurance policies in the unfortunate event of another one of them 'doing a Benson’.

A Dark Victory

I haven’t played a proper game of cricket for over two years, which for someone who professes to quite like the sport is rather a long time. Happily though, that scar on my sporting life came to an end on Tuesday when I donned the whites, picked up the bat and trotted out to play for a friend’s team against a local council.

And amazingly, despite our lack of practice, or indeed ability, we won! I still don’t know how, but I suspect the fading light which camouflaged the ball as I attempted to slog us to victory may have had quite a lot to do with it. That and the fact that everyone contributed in some way, and we were bizarrely more up for it than the other team, who play most weeks and have done for years.

That’s the beauty of cricket – it’s a proper team game where everyone can give something to the cause, be it runs, wickets or some valiant fielding. It’s also a brilliant feeling when you win and are able to share that success with ten other people. I’ve often wondered though, which glory would be greater on the professional stage – a team or individual sporting triumph?

The benefits of the individual win are obvious. The victory is yours and yours alone, all the work to get there was yours, and you truly know that you’re the best at that particular moment. But I can’t escape the feeling that the shine wears off more quickly than that of a team victory, largely because there’s no-one else who can relate exactly to that victory with you. A team win on the other hand is something that can always be discussed, remembered and enhanced because of the sharing of that story.

Maybe (probably) people who excel at individual sports will argue differently. But all I know is, when those winning runs came off the bat in the twilight on Tuesday, the first thing I wanted to do was drop the bat, run to my teammates and celebrate the win with all of them.

Nuptials

‘One in three marriages in the UK fail’, ‘marriage as an institution is outdated’, ‘long-term marriages are simply not a workable proposition anymore’. And so the list goes on.

And I don’t buy any of it.

To me, marriage remains a brilliant idea. The ultimate commitment two people can make and the ultimate statement of just how much you love someone. Yes, more marriages are failing than ever before, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing – it may just be that we as a society are more tolerant than fifty or a hundred years previous with regards the prospect of failure. We’re more tolerant and accepting of making a mistake, and we’re also more socially and economically able to cope with that mistake than previously.

The key for me as to why marriage is still such an integral part of life is the numbers who are still doing it. Only when that figure starts to fall alarmingly will I accept that the idea is no longer suitable. For now though, it is, and two people close to me announced their intention to tie the knot on Saturday following a week away on holiday together.

To be honest, I already knew it was going to happen but that still didn't hide the feeling of joy I felt when I found out. It's a brilliant, fantastic, wonderful announcement and I can't wait to see them in person to say congratulations properly.

And the reason I knew was because I'd spent a slightly awkward, yet admittedly interesting (and frankly a potentially life-enhancing) sixty minutes helping to shop for the ring. Without a doubt, the biggest eye-opener during that hour of shuffled feet, hesitant conversation with shop assistants and awkward stares towards nothing in particular, was that there's a hell of a lot to learn about the science of diamonds and the art of buying one.

Apparently it's all about the four C's - cut, carat, clarity and colour. And the keywords are clean, big and clear for these words. Really though, it's a small degree subject all in itself - and you usually have only a handful of days or even hours to learn it all.

Happily though, the shop assistant's were of great help to the man in question (and his two awkward, shuffling friends) and it was generally agreed that after an hour of ring-shopping we'd done all that could be done to prepare him for the final buying session. So then we did the only thing sensible - we sought refuge back in the home of man.

One pub, three pints, and a chat about all things sporting.

'A Good Innings'

There are lots of words and phrases used to describe death, many of them unsuprinsingly falling on the negative side of the spectrum - grief, remorse, sadness, longing, sudden, unexpected, expected, overdue even. But the one that always struck me is the one above, as in 'they had a good innings'.

It probably doesn't take much to figure out that I've been dealing with the less than joyful experience of death today - my cat in fact, who pretty much qualifies for that phrase exactly. 15 years old, several narrow escapes, two house moves, a large garden to play in, and bizarrely finding it comfortable to lie on a grumpy teenager's bed for many an hour a few years back.

Happily, she had a great life. Even more happily I haven't really experienced that many deaths close to me in my lifetime yet - just a couple of characterful and dearly loved great aunts and uncles really. But I know that's going to change eventually and I'm pretty sure I'm in the majority when I say I'm not really looking forward to that side of life, especially not the part where you explain to your kids the concept of it, or worse have to use a real life example to back it up.

Back to that phrase though - my family seem to have a bit of a passion for using it in most walks of life. It was how my cat's life was summed up today, it was what my parents used to say when it was time to put away the paddling pool for the day, or when it was the end of the fireworks box for another year. It was even used in its true context when the time came for someone else to have a go with the cricket bat in the back garden (given my less than saintly behaviour as a child I suspect I was secretly defending myself from seeing that bat again all too soon when I refused to hand it over).

The question is I suppose, why do we use that phrase and others like it when talking about death? The logical answer (and I'd guess the most commonly cited) is that we want to remember the life now gone, to put it into perspective with others less fortunate, and to see that beings life as a successful story that has now reached the bit marked 'The End'.

I think it's more than that though. What if it has something to do with our ability and desire to alliterate further on our feelings about the concept of death? Metaphors are one of the greatest inventions of all time because they allow us to quantify, clarify and enunciate on an event or a theory that is of concern to us. Without them, life would be a whole lot whole lot more difficult to navigate I suspect - imagine any emotional event and then try and conjure up what you'd say without using a metaphor or similar tool to clarify what you actually need to say.

So, what's the metaphor I'd like to use to describe my cat's life and what I'm feeling right now? To be honest, I think this is one of those occasions when it might be best to shun the comparisons and just come out with a plain statement of fact. She was bloody marvellous and I'm gutted that she's gone.

But she did have a great innings though.

HJNTIY

Six letters.

Six letters which I had never seen before and fully confess I didn't know what they meant, or indeed gave a monkey's about.

But then someone explained them to me today - apparently this little code is the shorthand for a growing belief amongst women as to how they should conduct their lives. And it stands for?

'He's Just Not That Into You' - the title of a popular book and now a film as well.

The central premise (apparently) is that women should stop blaming themselves for mens faults, learn to recognise some golden rules to discern if someone is 'into them' and if not, simply move on. It also apparently states that men are neither complicated, nor do they send mixed messages - in other words, we're simply, primeval creatures who will indicate exactly what we do or don't want and that's that.

Now I'm not one who is particularly fond of diving headfirst into debates about either the male or female psychy - I'm just about aware enough to recognise that my own take on life is as bizarrely different to that of others as theirs is to me. But this one did get to me a bit.

I accept the argument that women should stop waiting on something that just isn't going to make them happy, and to some extent I suppose I get the idea that men retain something of a simpleness about their character in this regard.

But reducing life and love down to one simple equation whereby if a man fails to act first, foremost and always with complete, unswerving devotion to that singular goal I cannot accept. If the world was a simple, uncomplex, A to B place where nothing got in the way, where a hundred different pressures didn't gnaw away at you, and where time was an ally not an enemy. Then perhaps I could agree with the premise and indeed be happy to do so.

But it isn't. And I don't.

And yet weirdly, I believe that this argument is flawed because of one of its own premises - that if women hint the slightest whiff of doubt, then they should haul in their line and set sail for pastures new. Because it's doubt that cripples what once might have been our solid assertion that actually We Are Into You.

Primeval creatures we might be, but even primeval creatures face doubts when it comes to jumping over a gap in the rock or choosing where to rest for the night.

Doubt is the constant, and in my view healthy, companion for the majority of people. And that includes the majority of men. It's what makes a relationship, or even better, the bit before a relationship so exciting. If this whole, often tortuous, often painful, sometimes heart-breaking process was predictable or easy, then we wouldn't do it.

HIIYHJDABYIHAHFJAMEPAYD - He IS Into You, He Just Doesn't Always Believe You're Into Him And He Feels Just As Many External Pressures As You Do.

Not as catchy I admit, but closer to the truth I'd reckon, and in a way the perfect summary of why HJNTIY doesn't work - because if they really mean it and care about it, then men can never manage to say what should take six words in less than sixty.