Sochi Winter Olympics made for spellbinding viewing

There is something missing from the TV screens this week.  Yes, the Winter Olympics of Sochi are gone. I’ll miss it. For someone who knows next to nothing about winter sports, this may seem an odd statement.  Indeed, the very mention of skiing as a hobby immediately suggests to me images of broken bones.  I was never a fan of snow growing up in Blackburn as a kid.  It was okay when it first fell and we jumped on sledges down the hills in the fields at the top of Ramsgreave Road.  But it wasn’t proper “European’ snow that lay around in Switzerland , Italy and other exotic places for ever.  English snow didn’t last.  Within a day or so, it would melt and be transformed into some kind of grey liquid sludge. My sport editor on the Shields Gazette, the late great Bill Bawden summed it up succinctly. “White shite,’ he called it. But Sochi had real snow.  Or at least real snow and ice with some manufactured products dumped on top to keep things ticking over.  From the mind-blowing opening ceremony on Channel 10, you knew something special was going to unfold.  I haven’t been so impressed by lighting since the manic strobes of the Hawkwind gig I went to at Manchester’s Free Trade Hall as an awestruck 16-year-old in 1972. Status Quo were support band so it shows you how hip the Hawk Lords were at the time. Sochi had the Russian protest band Pussy Riot in action too, but the Cossack security guards seemed to have been less than impressed.  As the various events came and went, I found myself marvelling at the speed, majesty and indeed the sheer danger of everything from aerial skiing to speed skating.  The figure skating was strangely hypnotic.  The Aussie critics seem a bit miffed by the Games medal haul of three.  Yet, the glowing reactions of David Morris (silver for freestyle skiing), Torah Bright (silver for snowboarding) and Lydia Lassila (bronze for freestyle skiing) radiated sheer joy from each of the trio. Apparently Britain had our best medal haul since the Games of 1924. Lizzy Yarnold captured everyone’s hearts by striking gold in the skeleton skiing.  Then the men’s and women’s teams turned curling into an overnight mass spectator sport throughout the living rooms  of  the UK by capturing silver and bronze medals in their respective events.  So well done to all involved.  And congrats to the Russians for staging such a spectacular show. The closing ceremony was even more barking mad in the best sense that the opening extravaganza had been.  But the lingering question for me was in relation to the risk factor.  Nay, let’s call it the threat of death factor.  Most of these sports are plain dangerous. What possesses somebody to take up the luge or jump on a bobsleigh?  The women at Sochi on the luge hurtled along with their noses a sniff away from the ice at speeds above 80 miles per hour. What happens on your very first lesson? How do you actually start?  How far do you go? What speed do you aim at?  I personally would not like to find out those answers first-hand. But a big hurrah to those who do. The zest, spirit and bravery of the Winter Olympians made great television.

Australia’s abrupt fall from grace sets up perfect script for Test decider

Australia’s captivating tour of South Africa heads to Cape Town for the final instalment of the three-Test series starting on Saturday.  The hosts rewrote the form book to give the Aussies a thumping in the second Test at Port Elizabeth.  After Michael Clarke’s men had enjoyed a seamless run of six consecutive Test victories (albeit five against a hopeless England), it must have been a shock to the system. It certainly surprised me. What happens from here is anybody’s guess. As I have said before, it’s just a shame that the series is not a five-Test contest.  It leaves a feeling of frustration that the plot has not been played out to its proper conclusion. I felt the same when South Africa were last touring in Australia in late 2012. The Proteas’ “great escape” in Adelaide set things up for an enthralling ride which was cut short with a mere three Tests.  It seems to be in vogue throughout world cricket to have shortened series – apart from the Ashes – to fit in with a permanently congested calendar. In England there appears to be a “minor” series happening from May each season. At that stage of the year, you can still have frostbite on your fingers fielding in the slip cordon and cricketing events always seem to be getting creakily underway before the sun finally makes an appearance (we hope) in the main summer months of June, July and August. Last year it was the New Zealanders who provided a warm-up exercise for  Alastair Cook’s men before the blockbuster first act of back-to-back Ashes confrontations took centre stage.  It is a real irritant for me, but with the global demands of 50-over cricket and the ever-growing razamataz of Twenty20, I suppose this is the harsh reality.  Anyway, from my neutral corner,  the Cape Town decider looks an appetising affair. The Port Elizabeth rout seems to indicate that the Aussies will be looking to rush Shane Watson back into their ranks. The injury-prone allrounder would bolster the bowling contingent, who looked strangely subdued as South Africa took firm control of the second Test.  Mitchell Johnson was back to being a mere mortal in his bowling stints and even got a whack on the helmet when he batted as the South Africans showed they were not going to be messed about. His erstwhile partners in crime Ryan Harris and Peter Siddle could almost have been diagnosed with having caught the Jimmy Anderson disease. Both seemed tired, listless and down on pace.  They have had a heavy workload. Maybe it is beginning to tell. I always reckoned that Harris would break down at some stage of the combined Ashes tours. He didn’t. Now here he is, still running in hardily, but showing signs of fatigue.  And the same seems true for Siddle.  Even his heavy intake of bananas can’t keep him going for ever. It was left to the unheralded spin of Nathan Lyon to snare a tidy haul of victims and keep the South Africans in some kind of check. Both captains – Graeme Smith and Clarke – are out of form and short of runs so at least that evens itself out ahead of the decider. But even if Shaun Marsh or Alex Doolan drops out to accommodate Watson, the Aussie batting line-up looks the one more likely to implode.  This was even evident in the Ashes Tests but here Brad Haddin has been unable to come to the crease and implement his renowned one-man rescue act. If only he had done this a couple of months ago, it would have lifted many Englishmen’s state of mind. It’s all to play for and the game should be a cracker. However, my appetite won’t be sated after three Tests.  It’s a real disappointment there isn’t going to be more to savour…

Graeme Smith knows how Alastair Cook felt as he searches for swift solution

Now it’s Graeme Smith’s turn to try to fathom out a way of halting the refuelled Australian cricketing juggernaut. The South African captain has just a matter of days to revive his battered and bruised troops in time for the second Test in Port Elizabeth after the chastening capitulation at Centurion.   Destroyer-in-chief Mitchell Johnson proved he was not just a one-series wonder when he followed up his recent Ashes heroics with a blistering exhibition of pace bowling that left the hosts blinking in disbelief.  If the Proteas were caught unawares during their first Test unravelling, they should earlier have given England captain Alastair Cook a quick bell on his mobile before hostilities got underway. Then again, maybe Cook would not have wanted to relive the horrors of England’s harrowing tour down under so soon. The after-effects must still be numbing for him after Johnson had orchestrated the Ashes meltdown.  Now, here was the pumped-up  paceman doing it all again, bringing the world’s top-ranked Test team literally to its knees  as wickets were taken and heads were cracked amid a venomous barrage.  I tip my hat to the Aussies.  They strolled the Ashes in a 5-0 cakewalk but I had put that down to an ill-prepared, over-confident England sinking into a state of utter disrepair as much as the upbeat captaincy of Michael Clarke, plus Johnson and his pace cohorts. It looks like I was wrong and that they might be a better team than I imagined. Smith probably thought the same as me.  He won the toss and sent the Aussies in, with much anticipation.  But that was all Smith got right.  Johnson had him upside down, inside out and back to front as he bounced him out in the first innings. Smith delivered some brave words after the four-day defeat.  He said the trampoline qualities of the pitch had helped Johnson bag his 12-wicket haul. His men would regroup, he added. Smith even felt the result could have a wake-up effect on his charges. It all sounded eerily familiar. It was the same mantra that the browbeaten Cook had trotted out to no avail so recently. I hate to say it, but these Aussies might actually be the real deal. As they gather ominous momentum, everything they do seems to come off.  They have so many in-form batsmen that Shane Watson may not gain an instant recall for the second Test. And the luck keeps going their way.  Two outrageous catches stuck for Alex Doolan at short square leg while the hapless hosts managed to drop David Warner three times on the way to his century.  The man I love to loathe doesn’t even sound so brazen in his post-play comments. The South Africans had been sloppy in the field and deserved any derision that came their way. Maybe Warner really is growing up.  His comments were accurate and apt.  It’s another sign that the team that I loathe to love is zooming to the summit of world Test cricket.  Smith has also consoled himself with the fact that the track for the second Test will not contain the pace of Centurion, thereby neutering the threat of Johnson.  It will be akin to a flat surface in Adelaide, we are told. Yet look what happened to England on that Black Saturday at Adelaide Oval just a few weeks ago when Johnson ran amok. I was there, I saw it first-hand. Maybe in years to come I will say I was happy to witness such a piece of masterful fast bowling brutality.  I doubt it. For pace perfection, I would much rather recall Wasim Akram in his Lancashire days destroying Yorkshire at Old Trafford in a Roses clash in the 1990s. My bias and loyalty fails to mutate horror memories into sudden sweet “I was there” moments.  I was at the MCG in the 94-95 series when Shane Warne nabbed his hat-trick against England. That still hurts. At present, there seems to be no stopping Johnson. His fragile mind appears to be a symptom of long ago. However, Smith insists his Proteas have it within them to remind Johnson of those less bountiful times and turn things around. It should be another fascinating contest.  I’m chilled out in the neutral corner so can just recline, relax and take it all in.  Unlike the South African batsmen.  My sole regret is that the series is only scheduled for three Tests.  A five-Test confrontation would really sort out who was the boss.   Captain Smith must already feel it’s going to be a bumpy ride…

Bruce Springsteen fans take their devotion to extreme levels

I had a fascinating face-to-face brush with the fervour of fans this week.  And it got me wondering whether faithfully following a cause is admirable, obsessive to the extreme or just plain crazy. The twin occasions were the two Bruce Springsteen concerts that ‘The Boss’ played at the Adelaide Entertainment Centre.  Due to the meltdown of the Australian print industry, I have found myself jettisoned from the mainstream of Australian media. In order to supplement my tumbling income I have enlisted for duties at the Entertainment Centre. For the two nights when Bruce was in town, this entailed car park detail. The job starts around 4pm and with temperatures on both days above 40degC, it proved to be quite a slog.  The gate that I was allocated to was the one where the band’s equipment is shipped in. All the road crew and various band members also arrive in dribs and drabs in various vehicles as the build-up to the gig gathers momentum.  That seemed par for the course.  What I had not bargained for was the steady increase in fans who were quite happy to hang around in the searing temperatures in the hope of getting a glimpse of the man himself. Or even better, gaining an audience with Springsteen before he went on stage for his evening show.  These people were no teenyboppers, nor pigeon-holed by gender or nationality. My eavesdropping abilities sussed out Spanish females chatting with American pals who were following Springsteen across the continent.  Then there was the Aussie bloke with a Sunderland FC cap on, fresh back from a European trek. He shared the same yearning as the lasses – a simple need for a meeting with his hero. So this was no groupie hang-out. It was fandom taken to the max. The heat was stifling.  Just standing still was enough to make the sweat pour off you. One of the American lasses seemed to be turning beetroot red, but as the minutes turned into hours, the crowds simply grew.  And as the Springsteen American minders took position to monitor the gate, complete with walkie-talkies, it became obvious that they and the fans knew each other. Sure enough as various limos drove by bringing in the musicians, tiny knots of the diehards were ushered though the doors for a pre-concert chat with the man himself.  Springsteen is noted for his left-wing leanings and his rapport with his fans, but I was still unprepared for just how much a man of the people he must be. As the throng of concert-goers grew, it seemed like there was a competition to see who could wear the most “hip” Springsteen tee-shirt. There were shirts from past tours of Europe, the US and Australasia from every era. And again with me being a nosey-parker, the fans’ conversations gave away the fact that many of them were in for the long haul – following their idol right across Australia and taking in all his concerts. The time and planning must be incredible and I daren’t even think about the cost. As we attendants began patrolling the car park during the actual concert on the first night, another breed of follower emerged. These were fans who were going to the second gig but had turned up a night early to wait by the stage door to hail Springsteen’s exit after his three-hour epic show.  They too wanted to meet the main man. And by all accounts he always obliges. One fan on holiday from Somerset in England had an ulterior motive. He said he made a tidy living from following stars and profiting from memorabilia that he could get them to sign. “Forget gold or shares, this is the way to make money,’ he told me. The dapper dude said that back in London he used to snare film stars’ autographs on various items of paraphernalia. “Van Damme and Schwarzenegger are two of the big names I had,” he said. But since turning to music stars he had the silky signatures of Paul McCartney and  Mick Jagger on his list. “The McCartney one I sold for a couple of grand,’’ he said.  In his case, I suppose it was fandom mixed in with a heavy dose of being an entrepreneur.  He was angling for Springsteen to sign a vinyl copy of the new album, “High Hopes.” Sure enough, as the crowds grew for the post-gig appearance, the security people organised them into an orderly queue.  And the sharp-dressed, savvy visitor from Somerset was at the head of the line. “ Good luck,” I said. Although I don’t reckon that he needed it.  This was the exact story both nights in the sapping heat and in some instances with the same people involved. The Spanish and American lasses all made repeat visits.  I wondered whether they were sad obsessives, barking mad or needed to step back and look at themselves. In the end, I admired them. I am a music fan too but mostly expect such fanaticism from fans in the sporting world. I count myself lucky to have savoured Springsteen in concert twice – at Newcastle City Hall in 1981 and in the same city at St James’s Park football ground in 1985. His performances were something to behold even then. And it seems he hasn’t let up. I’ve seen my own favourites on various legs of UK tours lost in the mists of time – most notably the Sensational Alex Harvey Band, who were at their sublime peak in the mid-Seventies.  But I would never have imagined such devotion as the Springsteenies showed this week. All ages, all creeds united by a love of an enduring icon. I say well done to both.  The artist and his audience deserve each other. They have something special going on.  They were Born to Run…

Kevin Pietersen has gone so now England need to move on quickly

I have been trying to put a lid on England’s shambolic Ashes tour,  but it seems that events won’t let things rest.  The dumping of everybody’s favourite maverick, Kevin Pietersen, has done a great job of keeping the blame game alive in the wake of the humiliation down under. I can’t even decide where I stand myself at times.  Pietersen has been a batsman of soaring talent since his arrival on the international scene in 2005 but alas his erratic behaviour seems to have become a sore point within the dressing room.  Now it’s come to the stage where it’s all too much to bear. And people are taking sides. In Pietersen’s corner  are Michael Vaughan and the attention-seeking egomaniac journalist Piers Morgan.  Taking the opposite view and saying good riddance are Bob Willis and the England selectors. It’s a bit like watching a rock band implode. When the Sex Pistols fragmented in public view in San Francisco in 1978, whose side were you on? John Lydon telling the audience on stage that he had had enough – “Ever ‘ad the feeling you’ve been cheated?”. Or the Machiavellian manager Malcolm McLaren, determined to eke out as much as he could while the good ship Pistols was still afloat?  I’ve given myself away there, but it’s not dissimilar to the England situation. Now they need to sort it out, and sort it out fast.  Because before you know it, another Ashes confrontation will be upon us. 2015 is not that far away. It’s important that England are competitive for the home series. It seems that both countries have identified the clashes as massive cash-earners with full grounds on either side of the world. But such has been the damage inflicted on England, it is a worry that they may not be able to recover in time, revamp the ranks and present a credible challenge to the revitalised Aussies in 2015. Please let’s not have a 90s retro fest,  when the Aussies simply won series after series. For all the well-merited posturing over the South Africa v Australia showdown which starts this week, I can bet that there will be plenty of empty seats during the Tests. And there is currently a gripping first Test unfolding in Auckland between New Zealand and India. But there hardly seems to be anybody in the Eden Park ground to watch. England and Australia are the only nations where Test cricket – proper cricket – still strikes a chord. The English venues are smaller and no matter who visits or how inflated ticket prices are, they are always ram-jam full. The Aussies may love to hate us but they may find out next summer that they will miss having England to knock about. India will not be the same drawcard for the average punter in the street.  So it’s imperative that England put the Pietersen episode behind them.  Indeed, the whole Ashes shemozzle. How they do it will be up to the new leaders. But I don’t think we need get Piers Morgan involved. And if Alastair Cook seems to have been shed in a bad light by some, then the solution is clear – Goody two-shoes should just make a shedload of runs. I’m looking forward to rambling about something other than the state of the England Test cricket team. The list of dishevelled victims from the Ashes capitulation keeps getting longer by the week:  Jonathan Trott, Graeme Swann, Steve Finn, Andy Flower, the axed Matt  Prior and now Pietersen. Things can only get better. Well, they did for John Lydon…

England suffer final indignity as losing has become just part of the routine

The long plane journey from Australia to the UK is an energy-sapping haul at the best of times. Even ‘up front’ away from battery-hen class can be hard work. So imagine the endless tedium endured by England’s cricketers as they headed home, having to stew on the labelling as the worst team statistically from their homeland to ever tour Australia. The latest thumping in the Twenty20 form of the game at Sydney’s Olympic Stadium was the final indignity of a trip which had long ago turned sour.  Some were lucky to make an early escape – Kevin Pietersen and James Anderson were spared the humdrum of the 4-1 one-day verdict. Skipper Alistair Cook handed over the reins to Stuart Broad for the Twenty20 affairs. Broad and Joe Root have been here from the start when the Nottinghamshire quick was swiftly vilified by home fans and press in Brisbane. And Root seemed to have all the spirit drained from him the longer the excruciating sequence of losses went on.  It’s been a painful experience all round. As a supporter I’ve found it very hard to take in. It had come to point where I struggled to care. Twenty 20 with its hackneyed razamataz barely resembles cricket at times. But by the end I would have taken any form of diluted success. Yet the drubbings just went on and on. On Sunday I even gave Gabs permission to turn over from Channel 9 as more woe loomed for England in Sydney. To lose by a margin of 84 runs  in the closing instalment is a hiding in anybody’s language. So trying to fathom out what was going on in Natalie Portman’s head in the wacky film Black Swan seemed more entertaining than merely watching England throw wickets away in another futile run chase. I kept switching back during the ad breaks and trying to predict how many wickets England would have lost at those stages. I was unerringly spot on with my “three” and “six” time slots.  The exasperated commentators on Channel  9 were trying to keep their audience interested but, like England, they were fighting a losing battle.  And before England could finally get on the plane, the fallout from the tour from hell had claimed another high-profile victim with coach Andy Flower seemingly walking away from the wreckage. Who steps in now to try to engineer a revival is anybody’s guess, but the prospect of Ashley Giles hardly sets the excitement bells ringing.  Giles was an average Test player and prone to the odd bout of sulks when things didn’t go quite right. He does not really seem the answer.  Meanwhile,  I see Shane Warne has mischievously thrown his hat into the ring to do the job. Stranger things have happened. And at least he preaches the power of playing positive cricket.  Also, he knows the ins and outs of long airborne travel between Australia and England.  He may even take some fiendish delight in trying to get one over on his old rulers. Warnie has been dubbed the best player never to captain Australia due to various misdemeanours. Is it a far-fetched prospect or one that could snowball?  At least the soap opera of English cricket is never boring.  The Aussie fans have turned up in numbers to supplement the travelling Barmy Army and seem to have enjoyed watching England get hammered.  Stay tuned…