The power of sport

Duck Rock

I don't dare look at what the critics say about this album. All-bum, I imagine. I don't want to hear anything negative, because this is my musical equivalent of The Life of Brian. It never fails to cheer me up. It's lightweight, but there's no makeweight songs, and even those Supreme Team radio station clips don't spoil things. They are mercifully brief. Malcolm McLaren must've been among the first non-musicians to find a way of producing a worthwhile album, from samples, clips, and with a shedload of help from his friends.

The two hit singles, Buffalo Girls and Double Dutch are authentic hit singles that retain their energy and impact thirty years later. It probably helps that the copy I'm listening to isn't some de-luxe thirty years anniversary special edition with bonus tracks and all those added extras that get in the way (see, in particular, the 'enhanced' Love Forever Changes CD in my collection, which you have to stop before it descends into half an hour of out-takes, rehearsals, false starts, and Albert Lee trying to talk the drummer through delivering the sound he wants for one of the songs). Just the album as it was originally issued, thanks. That usually works better than the all-singing, all-dancing, digitally remastered, bonus material versions.

All that scratching is making me itch.

As if all that wasn't enough, I now have the indelible mental image of BLISS demonstrating Double Dutching (without the ropes, naturally) in the kitchen this morning. It does make you jiggle. Unless your ears are unconnected to your arse.





Superbowl XLVIII

As an old git, I can remember when, on cup final day, the place came to a standstill. As soon as the final whistle went, all us small boys went running to the park, boots on, and started playing our small-sided games, trying to emulate the heroes (and villains) we'd just seen on TV. The roads and pavements were deserted. If anyone was about, they would be a bona fide wierdo, one of those with the odd clothes, glasses held together with pink elastoplast, a bag of sweets, and some puppies at home for you to go and look at. The ones your parents warned you about. Everyone else was glued to the game. The prime minister (as was traditional until Thatcher, who didn't get sport – along with other things, like respecting people, and human life) would attend, along with the queen, and usually some other royals. Absolute proof of the wreckage Thatcher left behind and that she hated and set out to spoil society and community, and of the selfishness her reign left as a legacy: cup final day is just another day. I think that's sad.

Another legacy is that it's okay to bunk off sport. I'm with Darren Gough. Asked whether school sport should be compulsory, he responded “Absolutely. They made me do geography, and I was crap at that.” Sport and maths, two subjects it's considered okay to be rubbish at, and the thinking that sport shouldn't be 'inflicted' on anyone without enthusiasm or ability is fundamentally flawed. Or why force kids with no language abilities to do at least one foreign language up to GCSE level?

Anyway, back over in the states, viewing figures for the Superbowl last year were 48% of the population (I think that's 48% of the population's tellies were tuned to the whole game) and peaked at 60%+. That's amazing, it puts us to shame. They have Monday as a sort of unofficial bank holiday, and food sales are second only to thanksgiving weekend, as families settle down with beers and drinks and snacks and do something together. Not all of those folk are sports fans or football fans. Many will only watch the one game all year, and probably only pay full attention to the half time show (performers have included U2, The Rolling Stones, Michael Jackson, The Who, Prince, Bruce Springsteen) (which this year is The Red Hot Chilli Peppers) but they will get together, sit, eat and drink together. Socialise. That's something that gets lost by those that don't inhabit changing rooms: sport is a social activity.

Through cricket, I've made friends among our opponents, guys I look forward to meeting up with, catching up with, and having an after game drink and chat with. These are robust relationships. Not soured, not dented, not even scratched by over-celebrating their wicket, immune to on-field banter. However friendly and laid-back (on the face of it), however old and infirm, however playing on the “they've dragged me out of retirement, again, they might've been better off playing with ten men!” premise, invariably followed by a few wickets or a few runs or a tremendous diving catch, and then, after limping up to the bar, endlessly talking anyone stupid enough to stick around and listen through it time and again, however apparently uncompetitive – there's twenty two players, all of them desperate to win.

We should stage the cup final on a Sunday. Then all have the Monday off. Families and friends should get together to watch the game. DIY tools should be confiscated by the cup final police. Crisps and lager should be free. The super-rich should have to adopt a homeless person for the day and show them a good time. Cars should be disabled for the afternoon, roads closed, bunting hung from the lampposts. Anyone even thinking of going to IKEA should be locked away until they realise the error of their ways.

Thatcher day OUT! Cup final day IN!