TIPPING POINT:Before the championship kicks into gear, it might be better if Cork hurling is taken out, given a blindfold, a last cigarette and put out of its misery
THE THREAT of Christmas is all around, that time of year when families stalk strangers round and round underground car parks, desperately seeking a parking space.
There’s only one thing worse than Christmas, and that’s bloody New Year’s Eve, or as Mark Twain described it, a scapegoat for promiscuous drunks.
So, in the expectation of being face-down under a rock somewhere when such a list might be appropriate, here is some premature sporting advice for 2012. Take it in the “where are the effing batteries?” holiday spirit with which it is intended.
January: Leave Ashley Cole alone. Some of his behaviour is seedy enough to have starlings feeding off him but come on: a “brawl” begins because he apparently shouted “Thursday nights Channel 5” at Manchester City players? What the hell are footballers coming to?
If you want to know what it used to be like, just click onto YouTube and key in Norman Hunter and Franny Lee. It always does the heart good to see the spirit of such brotherly love.
February: When did everything get so po-faced? It’s virtually impossible to examine any sport now without receiving a lecture about the need to flagellate your way to success. All very worthy no doubt but it’s getting desperately Calvinist, as is the coverage which increasingly seems to suggest some ethereal bond between success and personal goodness.
It may surprise some of our more florid pundits but it is perfectly possible to be great at sport and also be a shit person. The laws of libel being what they are, let’s skip giving examples and instead point to an old interview clip on ESPN of Graham Hill during the height of his raffish reign at the top of the Formula One tree. Solemnly asked to reveal some deeply personal, soul-searching habit of his that might reveal his inner motivation, mischief won out: “What – you mean wanking?”
March: Cheltenham is the focus of the racing year, usually a reflection of the health of the gee-gee game generally. So it came as quite a shock that with the country vanishing down the economic toilet, 2011 saw a record-breaking number of Irish winners. There might be even better to come, now that the holy grail of exchange and telephone betting is going to be brought into the tax net. But would it be beyond the Government to fix it so that Irish racing benefits from the amount it actually generates online, and not just a straight lump sum? Maybe that would encourage Horse Racing Ireland to take a long-overdue self-serving interest in policing iffy stuff that’s regularly happening out on the track.
April: Leave Rory McIllroy alone. It was as inevitable as looking for a new job after the office Christmas party: Everyone’s favourite curly-headed son of Norn Iron is starting to get the backlash for being young, hugely talented, successful and rich. Remarkably enough, that combination has made him a focus of attention for young women. Even more remarkably, young Rory has fallen for the charms of a hot Danish blonde who also just happens to be one of the best tennis players in the world.
Rory’s talent may remain a mystery to most of us but surely we can’t be small-minded enough to resent what fringe benefits come with it. Or is that the real spirit of Christmas?
May: Before the championship kicks into gear, it might be better if Cork hurling is taken out, given a blindfold, a last cigarette and put out of its misery. Apparently the star attraction at a hurling summer school in Cork city a few months ago was Henry Shefflin. It has come to this – importing hurlers from Kilkenny. The world is not settled.
June: Leave Thierry Henry alone. They were at it again recently. Apparently that handball is a “scannal” worthy of categorisation alongside murder, pillage and robbery. As Ireland line up in Poland for the Euros we will do so emboldened by the lingering smell of burning martyrdom from St Denis, and strengthened by the knowledge that if Robbie Keane had handled the ball in similar circumstances he would immediately have held same hand up and received the thanks of a grateful nation when France got through on penalties.
July: Take a step back from the Olympics. Yes, it’s athleticism at its purest and the crystallisation of sporting ambition but the games are also a grubby exercise in politics, expediency and the power of the buck. Admittedly it’s almost a duty to watch them. At any other time certainly sitting down for hours watching Turkish power-lifters or Paraguayan clay-pigeon shooters would be anathema. But take it easy on that duty. We are after all talking about an event whose poster boy – Usain Bolt – has demolished a world record that had previously decreased in tiny increments while flapping his arms like a large goose for the last half of the race.
August: In what is already the most sparkling career in all of modern sport, Roger Federer is going to enjoy a year of years. I can feel it in my water. Bet your brains on it. Nadal has lost his “passion”, Djokovic’s bones are creaking after just one momentous season. Murray seems doomed to perpetual adolescence. And Federer glides serenely on. He’s going to be 31 this month. There’s an Olympic singles gold to be won: not to mention more Grand Slams for the great man who continues to personify grace under sporting pressure.
September: Kerry will probably be in the All-Ireland again. They usually are. In fact the desire to get back will be even stronger after “leaving it behind” against Dublin. Such lightning rarely strikes twice in the Kingdom. But if by some chance Kerry don’t win the 2012 championship, here’s a tip to their fans: sometimes it’s because the other side is better. Hard to believe, I accept. But accepting it might make all those “on the day” qualifications sound a little less mean-spirited.
October: Rugger cranks into gear with all that homoerotic, towel-whipping “passshhion” and a devotion to suckling at the various teats of BOD and Paulie and ROG, not to mention listening to commentaries where either every noun is preceded by an determinedly down-to-earth “oul’” or an insouciant “suuuper”. But let’s hope against hope there can be a diminution of the gain-line, physicality, impact-playing game-plan jargon. No? Bugger.
November: Sky Sports exclusive: English premiership is greatest league on the planet! Wow, who’d have guessed?
December: The Daily Positive, Ireland’s newest sports organ, opens. Its mission is to promote. And to express what’s “paaaaasitive” about sport. Content will be devoted entirely to tweets and blogs from “ordinary people”, thus reflecting the views of those who really count, the fans. And cutting down substantially on costs in the process is just purely coincidental. Stars will contribute too, thus guaranteeing behind the scenes insights, while increasing their commercial profile.
Everything will be “upbeat” so everyone realises how lucky they are, especially in the run-up to the most wonderful time of the year – Christmas! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find that rock. Be careful out there.
