This article was originally published on www.4sportsake.com, to see: click.
I don't care that he's British, I don't care that he's our great white hope, I don't care that he's the most likely member of the home countries to be the first player to win Wimbledon for hundreds of years, or whatever. I don't like Andy Murray.
He seems a snarling, scruffy, ungrateful grump of man. Personality wise, he is to Tim Henman what Gordon Brown is too Tony Blair. And I had no particular affiliation to Tim 'Robinsons adverts' Henman either.
But why? I'm not a particularly avid patriot, but in almost all other sports I can get behind a Brit somewhere along the line. I think in individual sports, nationality matters less. Where they come from is irrelevant and it's personality more than anything that shines through.
Would you want to spend time with Murray or Henman? Probably not. With John McEnroe or Boris Becker? Probably. I could be completely wrong of course. Andy Murray might be the Stephen Fry of the tennis world and constantly regale me of stories from 'the tour'.
For now though, it will be the charmingly unpredictable giant Marat Safin and the rugged street fighting of Rafael Nadal that I'll be sporting, whilst hoping that one day British tennis gets a decent player with a big enough personality to go with their skills.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Cinematic knowledge: Fargo
So I've seen the Big Lebowski and No Country For Old Men, which were the entirity of Joel and Ethan Coen knowledge.
In many ways titans of American film, 1996's Fargo is a two Oscar winning, multi Oscar nominated feature length depiction of the phrase 'desperate times call for desperate measures'.
William H Macy is Jerry Lundegaard, a nervous and insecure car salesman in lots of debt. He needs money, fast. So he hires two hitmen (Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare)to pretend to kidnap his wife. They are to demand a ransom, which Lundegaards' wife's rich Dad is to cough up for, and Lundegaard is to pocket the remaining money, once the hitman have been paid off.
It goes wrong, of course. And people die, of course. Bu it's a curling, twisting and comic in a way that only watching a man lose first his dignity, and then everything else important to him in life can be.
The Coen's are so classy, though. And they make a hero of the small-town heavily pregnant policewoman Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) into a hero. But more poignantly, her simple approach to life, her persistent rather than killer questions, her love of roadside diners and all you can eat buffets and ending up the victor in the film, are an ode to good, honest living.
The script mocks hillbilly pronunciation and attitudes, but ultimately there seems to be a degree of respect paid to the virtues of living an honest life, without deception or deceit.
In many ways titans of American film, 1996's Fargo is a two Oscar winning, multi Oscar nominated feature length depiction of the phrase 'desperate times call for desperate measures'.
William H Macy is Jerry Lundegaard, a nervous and insecure car salesman in lots of debt. He needs money, fast. So he hires two hitmen (Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare)to pretend to kidnap his wife. They are to demand a ransom, which Lundegaards' wife's rich Dad is to cough up for, and Lundegaard is to pocket the remaining money, once the hitman have been paid off.
It goes wrong, of course. And people die, of course. Bu it's a curling, twisting and comic in a way that only watching a man lose first his dignity, and then everything else important to him in life can be.
The Coen's are so classy, though. And they make a hero of the small-town heavily pregnant policewoman Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) into a hero. But more poignantly, her simple approach to life, her persistent rather than killer questions, her love of roadside diners and all you can eat buffets and ending up the victor in the film, are an ode to good, honest living.
The script mocks hillbilly pronunciation and attitudes, but ultimately there seems to be a degree of respect paid to the virtues of living an honest life, without deception or deceit.
Working on a Saturday
Working on a Saturday has its perks.
Or one, at least: the journey to work. Never are the roads quieter, the queues for ticket machines shorter, the trains more sparse, dustbin men more noticeable or the people stranger.
Because people really are strange. Usually walking down Pentonville Road involves flurries of people dodging, resisting full english breakfasts for under a fiver, but today I got to see a small, bald Asian man wearing Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a black cagoule kiss is hand, reach down and touch the pavement, draw and imaginary cross on his chest with his fingers and hop on the number 73.
Superstition, I don't know. But I stopped thinking about when a taster sized pot of Eton Mess - a mixture of fresh fruit, whipped cream and meringue - was put in my hand. It was good, and needed, and took the edge of the 0805 to Bedford, a train that always leaves five minutes earlier than advertised.
A point which the two all-in-black and dosing drunkards would've been entirely unaware. Monday to Friday the seats are home to free newspapers and overweight briefcase carriers. Once more, I was cheered by reprobates.
And they were friendly two, in their own way. "Where's this train going?", drunk man A demanded. "Bedford," the man opposite said. "Does it go to St Albans?", drunk man A persevered. "Yes," the man opposite said. "Have we missed it?", drunk man A wondered. "No," the man opposite said.
And with that, he got up, went to the toilet, and I didn't see him again for the rest of the journey. Leaving drunk man B to sit up, swap seats, locate his shoes and apologise.
Or one, at least: the journey to work. Never are the roads quieter, the queues for ticket machines shorter, the trains more sparse, dustbin men more noticeable or the people stranger.
Because people really are strange. Usually walking down Pentonville Road involves flurries of people dodging, resisting full english breakfasts for under a fiver, but today I got to see a small, bald Asian man wearing Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a black cagoule kiss is hand, reach down and touch the pavement, draw and imaginary cross on his chest with his fingers and hop on the number 73.
Superstition, I don't know. But I stopped thinking about when a taster sized pot of Eton Mess - a mixture of fresh fruit, whipped cream and meringue - was put in my hand. It was good, and needed, and took the edge of the 0805 to Bedford, a train that always leaves five minutes earlier than advertised.
A point which the two all-in-black and dosing drunkards would've been entirely unaware. Monday to Friday the seats are home to free newspapers and overweight briefcase carriers. Once more, I was cheered by reprobates.
And they were friendly two, in their own way. "Where's this train going?", drunk man A demanded. "Bedford," the man opposite said. "Does it go to St Albans?", drunk man A persevered. "Yes," the man opposite said. "Have we missed it?", drunk man A wondered. "No," the man opposite said.
And with that, he got up, went to the toilet, and I didn't see him again for the rest of the journey. Leaving drunk man B to sit up, swap seats, locate his shoes and apologise.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Like learning to ride a bike
This article was originally published on www.london-ers.com, to read it, click here.
London in the sun is parks, pools, cafes and fun. But rather than laze about and spend money on sun-cream and barbecues, Tom Howard and Morag Lyall took it upon themselves to get Morag on her bike and riding. Here's what happened on her first foray into two wheels, pedals and saddles...
There comes a time in every man’s life to impart wisdom. Even the most dim-witted of males have bits of knowledge to share to brothers, sisters, lovers or most commonly and certainly most dangerously, children.
Measuring wisdom is hard, but I would say I have moderate amounts. Measuring children is easier, and I have none. So the person responsible for soaking up my information, was my pal Morag Lyall.
Morag can’t ride a bike. And before we met on drizzly-cum-sunny afternoon in Victoria Park with my bicycle (Joseph), a swampy hillock, a hungry squirrel and some internet notes, she didn’t even know how to stay on one.
Teaching someone to ride needn’t be difficult, and there's an abundance of guidelines on the internet. After some browsing, I went for www.ibike.org for the approval of users and the simplicity of the approach. It's as step-by-step a process as following a recipe or putting together a flat packed wardrobe.
Most advice you’ll find is directed at adult teaching child. Morag is 24, and bigger than a child. People always say you learn things faster when you’re young, but I’ve long held the view that children are, largely, idiots. Morag proved me right.
Stage one: the bike
The bike the learner sits on should have a low saddle, enabling him or her to have their feet flat on ground when sat on the saddle. This offers them greater control when they are moving, and means they can put their feet down when scared.
Unfortunately for Morag, she was on Joseph. And with me being 6 foot tall and her considerably less, we had to construct a saddle on the metal, purple frame out of a wrapped up cardigan. Helmet on, shoelaces, jumpers and trouser tucked in, on we went…
Stage two: balance
Next, face the learner down a gentle hill of about 20 feet that flattens out or goes uphill slightly at the end. Get them to coast down it, in a straight line, with their feet an inch above the grass.
Balance is key on a bike. Stay on the thing, and you’ve half the battle won. “I used to be a ballerina,” Morag said. And within half an hour she was rolling without a wobble. “Weeeee!” she would yell while careering out of my view, but she seemed confident.
So we climbed the hill, and she coped with that too. So we went to a bigger hill. And this time, after coasting down the hill she would find the peddles.
Stage three: peddling
At first, the learner only needs to find the peddles, and rest their feet. As they feel more confident, you can encourage them to pedal. Morag was so good, that three goes in she was off. And we repeated the process until she was confident.
Stage four: add turning and braking
And Morag was so confident she started turning left and right independently. She would brake, hop off Joseph at the first uphill climb, grin and say: “This is so much fun.” I couldn’t help but agree.
Stage five: standing start
This time, hold the learners bike, place the peddle under their strongest leg, give them a push start and tell them to peddle.
This is where teaching people how to ride isn’t like you remember, or how it looks on the tele. My instructions told me very firmly to not, under any circumstances, do the running alongside shouting: “Daddy’s got you! Don’t worry, Daddy won’t let you fall!” It’s not constructive, it’s distracting, and in mine and Morag’s case, it would be weird.
But she got it, predictably quickly. We did it again to check it wasn’t a fluke. I assured her she’d done it all by herself (she really had), we high-fived and sent her darting over Victoria Park’s most challenging terrain: concrete paths, puddles and tramps.
Not on the road though: according to www.ibike.org, new cyclists can sometimes take two years to be ready for the road. But those instructions were for children. And as we’ve established, children are idiots.
Info:
Where to learn:
Contact the British Cycling Association on 0161 274 2000, and they can tell you about initiatives in your area, teaching kids and adults to ride bikes. It is often free, but sometimes a small fee is involved.
What you need:
A bike and a helmet: any local bike shop: £100 - £500 for the bike; £20 - £100 for the helmet. A large grassy area: free
Instructions/Contact:
www.ibike.org: for instructions on how to teach people to ride.
www.britishcycling.org.uk: for information on cycling in Britain.
London in the sun is parks, pools, cafes and fun. But rather than laze about and spend money on sun-cream and barbecues, Tom Howard and Morag Lyall took it upon themselves to get Morag on her bike and riding. Here's what happened on her first foray into two wheels, pedals and saddles...
There comes a time in every man’s life to impart wisdom. Even the most dim-witted of males have bits of knowledge to share to brothers, sisters, lovers or most commonly and certainly most dangerously, children.
Measuring wisdom is hard, but I would say I have moderate amounts. Measuring children is easier, and I have none. So the person responsible for soaking up my information, was my pal Morag Lyall.
Morag can’t ride a bike. And before we met on drizzly-cum-sunny afternoon in Victoria Park with my bicycle (Joseph), a swampy hillock, a hungry squirrel and some internet notes, she didn’t even know how to stay on one.
Teaching someone to ride needn’t be difficult, and there's an abundance of guidelines on the internet. After some browsing, I went for www.ibike.org for the approval of users and the simplicity of the approach. It's as step-by-step a process as following a recipe or putting together a flat packed wardrobe.
Most advice you’ll find is directed at adult teaching child. Morag is 24, and bigger than a child. People always say you learn things faster when you’re young, but I’ve long held the view that children are, largely, idiots. Morag proved me right.
Stage one: the bike
The bike the learner sits on should have a low saddle, enabling him or her to have their feet flat on ground when sat on the saddle. This offers them greater control when they are moving, and means they can put their feet down when scared.
Unfortunately for Morag, she was on Joseph. And with me being 6 foot tall and her considerably less, we had to construct a saddle on the metal, purple frame out of a wrapped up cardigan. Helmet on, shoelaces, jumpers and trouser tucked in, on we went…
Stage two: balance
Next, face the learner down a gentle hill of about 20 feet that flattens out or goes uphill slightly at the end. Get them to coast down it, in a straight line, with their feet an inch above the grass.
Balance is key on a bike. Stay on the thing, and you’ve half the battle won. “I used to be a ballerina,” Morag said. And within half an hour she was rolling without a wobble. “Weeeee!” she would yell while careering out of my view, but she seemed confident.
So we climbed the hill, and she coped with that too. So we went to a bigger hill. And this time, after coasting down the hill she would find the peddles.
Stage three: peddling
At first, the learner only needs to find the peddles, and rest their feet. As they feel more confident, you can encourage them to pedal. Morag was so good, that three goes in she was off. And we repeated the process until she was confident.
Stage four: add turning and braking
And Morag was so confident she started turning left and right independently. She would brake, hop off Joseph at the first uphill climb, grin and say: “This is so much fun.” I couldn’t help but agree.
Stage five: standing start
This time, hold the learners bike, place the peddle under their strongest leg, give them a push start and tell them to peddle.
This is where teaching people how to ride isn’t like you remember, or how it looks on the tele. My instructions told me very firmly to not, under any circumstances, do the running alongside shouting: “Daddy’s got you! Don’t worry, Daddy won’t let you fall!” It’s not constructive, it’s distracting, and in mine and Morag’s case, it would be weird.
But she got it, predictably quickly. We did it again to check it wasn’t a fluke. I assured her she’d done it all by herself (she really had), we high-fived and sent her darting over Victoria Park’s most challenging terrain: concrete paths, puddles and tramps.
Not on the road though: according to www.ibike.org, new cyclists can sometimes take two years to be ready for the road. But those instructions were for children. And as we’ve established, children are idiots.
Info:
Where to learn:
Contact the British Cycling Association on 0161 274 2000, and they can tell you about initiatives in your area, teaching kids and adults to ride bikes. It is often free, but sometimes a small fee is involved.
What you need:
A bike and a helmet: any local bike shop: £100 - £500 for the bike; £20 - £100 for the helmet. A large grassy area: free
Instructions/Contact:
www.ibike.org: for instructions on how to teach people to ride.
www.britishcycling.org.uk: for information on cycling in Britain.
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