Give us a sporting chance

Yesterday, as England awoke to bask in the glory of her most significant sporting achievement of recent years, I wandered into town to pick up a new grip for my squash racquet.

Bam!

But this seemingly simple task was to prove surprisingly complicated. Replacement grips, if you were unaware, consist of a small roll of padded, specially-coated tape which are generic to all kinds of racquet: tennis; squash; badminton; protection etc. It's a staple item for a great number of people who, like me, enjoy taking out their frustrations on spherical projectiles. 

But I couldn't find one. Not easily, anyway.

Range Rover attire

In fact, it was only upon patronising a third establishment that I found anything more satisfactory than the most cursory selections of 'real' sporting equipment, engulfed, nevertheless, by the true fare of modern sports shops - the synthetic tsunami of trainers, tracksuits and trinkets. Items less likely to realise any sporting purpose than 95 percent of Range Rovers are of attempting anything more daring than a school run in moderate traffic.

We love sport as a nation. With an average attendance of nearly 35,000 per game in 2009-10, Premiership football beats La Liga and Serie A hands down. A friend who was lucky enough to attend the final Ashes test at the Sydney Cricket Ground this week said that the Barmy Army, English cricket's good-humoured supporter group, had made sufficient noise to make it seem like a home game... and we all know that if we'd been given the chance to host the 2018 World Cup, it would have been brilliant. (Bloody FIFA!)

Barmy in the pink

But the current infrastructure gets it all wrong. Rather than sporting popularity providing the catalyst to inspire a new generation of Andrew Strausses, James Andersons and David Beckhams, the power is instead in the hands of Chief Executives and media tycoons whose concern is with cashing in on the here-and-now by means of swollen ticket prices, extortionate merchandise and premium TV deals. (I enjoyed a recent advertisement which paradoxically described Sky's new Atlantic Channel as 'free'... to all subscribers!)



This is probably the reasoning behind the fact that - as I eventually located a racquet grip behind a rail of orange hoodies - I could also have bought a £50 replica shirt for any one of the 20 Premiership football teams, but none of an assortment of stereotypically acne-ridden shop assistants looked like they would have had too much clue if I'd asked them to fit me for a pair of boots or provide  information on the modest selection of cricket bats.

And the bottom line is: without me, what chance do England have!?

Volcanoes, Rockets & Bombs!

A couple of stories caught my eye last month. Both, as it happens, are about flying machines:

Firstly, on 11th April, Jim Lovell, Commander of NASA's infamous Apollo 13 mission, spoke modestly of his memories on the 40th anniversary of the shuttle's launch, earning a lethargically raised eyebrow from the media. Then, three days later, a secondary eruption of Iceland's largest glacial outlet volcano spewed forth a full-bosomed ash cloud which obstinately parked itself atop North-West Europe. This set off a media explosion which threatened to surpass that of its volcanological (yep, it's a real word) stimulant.

As the puffing Eyjafjallajökull (try saying that after a week on an airport departure lounge floor...) contentedly continued its Dave Allen impression, provocative journalists, Iranian clerics, stranded sun-seekers, and - inevitably - opportunistic politicans scoured the ashen landscape for a scapegoat. The shotgun of blame was sawn to the hilt, and accusatory pellets honed in on the buttocks of everyone from insurance companies to airlines, via that nice fellow who makes the coffee at Stansted Airport. To their dismay, however, the seekers found the Scape's reputation as one of the most elusive members of the goat family to be richly deserved. Everyone eventually had to admit that humanity - despite lots of clever inventions like the wheel and the Sodastream and stuff - couldn't really do much to get on top of this particular situation, and would have to sit it out and wait for Mother nature to finish her tantrum.

40 years earlier, as Lovell, portrayed by Tom Hanks in the 1995 film, orbited the moon in the stricken Apollo 13 craft he explains in interview that his mind had strayed to the 1968 Apollo 8 mission, the first to successfully circumnavigate the moon. On the earlier occasion the crew had experienced an overwhelming feeling of calm of which the few lucky enough to have seen the earth from space, without the assistance of Google Earth, often speak. During a live mission broadcast, Lovell read the opening chapters of the book of Genesis. He later explained: 

 "Humanity's conflicts seemed petty from that perspective, and the need to protect its delicate ecosystem seemed pressing. We were able to read something that was the basis of most of the World's religions, so we were hoping to get the people together."

Of course, by sheer testament to the crew's technical improvisation, and calm collected problem solving from mission control at Houston, the Apollo 13 shuttle was delivered from its seemingly inevitable demise, and Lovell's crew lived to tell the tale, but in the long run, did anyone take any notice of his pan-lunar postulations?

Away from the boyhood fantasy realm of volcanoes and spaceships, I recently visited Coventry Cathedral. Despite growing up nearby, it was my first visit to this remarkable building for many years. In case you were unaware, today's Coventry Cathedral comprises the ruins of a 14th century building, destroyed during a heavy night of German bombing in 1940, and an architectural phoenix completed in 1962. Now, there is a saying in these parts that two forces destroyed Coventry: first the Nazis, and then the town planners. And it is probably not unfair to say that the few precious fragments of mediaeval glory which survived the incendiary bombs only serve to bestow further tragedy upon the horrific concrete renderings which replaced them during the inauspicious postwar architectural epoch. The new Cathedral, however, is the exception to this rule.

Designed by competition winner Basil Spence (later Knighted for his achievement) the building is a monument to hope, peace and reconciliation. In addition to a host of thought provoking works by prominent contemporary and modern artists including Jacob Epstein and Josefina de Vasconcellos, and the world's largest tapestry which hangs behind the high altar, perhaps most iconic of the cavernous building's hangings is the Charred Cross. Seeming to encapsulate the very essence of today's Cathedral, this piece consists of two blackened beams which firemen discovered in cruciform among the ruins of its predecessor when the blaze had finally been quelled. God in the rubble; hope in the strife.


 With such powerful symbols of spiritual unity and humble reconciliation, It would be lovely to say that my visit to Coventry concluded with a cathartic stroll into a golden sunset of hope. I could have left with a renewed faith in mankind to overcome the short-sightedness of forever poking our planet in the belly with a stick like a child taunting a cat, and then moaning when it coughs up a little gas. I might have done so, had I not stopped to look at one final art installation. 


Entitled The Evilution Project, the work of sculptor Roy Ray, it consisted of five panels. Each contained assorted items of identifiable rubble, which gradually faded into the same blackness of charred ash. The first showed distinctive personal affects of prisoners of Auschwitz, including human hair, spectacles and the yellow star of David. The next, Dresden, included fragments of broken violins and a street sign in a distinctive German typeface. In the centre was Coventry's depiction, with a fragmented Anderson shelter, ration books and a teddy bear, and to its left Hiroshima, with Japanese writing, melted bottles and a variety of clocks frozen at 8.16am, the moment of the atomic bomb's explosion. On the far left, however, was the must haunting panel; it was entitled 9/11. Here, among the warnings of the past, was the poignant and hopeless reminder that humanity has stubbornly put its eyes to the floor, and marched on unheeding.

Artist, Ray, writes of 9/11:
"My most vivid memory of that day was hearing the frantic and tearful last calls of the trapped victims on their mobile phones. To symbolise the horror and the sadness of that dreadful event I collected wiring, computer parts and many phones and made a construction. Although in my twenty five years as a practising artist I had not used this method of working, I knew then that this would be the method by which I would deal other examples of Evilution which had concerned me for so long."

At the very least, as the UK votes on its leadership this week, would it not be wise to to reflect somewhat on the bigger picture which Jim Lovell captured symbolically in his aperture of planet Earth? As a race, humanity is quite good at getting on with its thing day-by-day, but with a more holistic outlook, is it possible that the insignificant details such as tax, immigration numbers and ID cards, over which we expend so much emotional energy, seem less significant? Alternatively, amid a continuation of self-interest, intolerance and blindness to empathy in every-day lives, are we just preparing the ground for the next panel on Roy Ray's sculpture? Could they be your artifacts amid the rubble? The scenario does not bear thinking about, but grimly seems all too likely.

Nonetheless, as we await our inevitable fiery demise, it's not all bad news. Flights to Benidorm are back up and running, and Apollo 13 is available very inexpensively on DVD!

The Archbishop of Canterbury's Driver

On a Sunny Monday afternoon, the Archbishop of Canterbury arrived for lunch at a South Lincolnshire Church a few minutes late, with mud on his shoes.
 

As an expectant Church community gathered excitedly to welcome the Head of the worldwide Anglican Communion, The Primate of all England excused himself for a moment, politely inquiring where the facilities were to be found. Even Archbishops, it transpires, have bladders.

With nature's call answered, Dr Rowan Williams went about greeting parishioners at the final engagement of a four-day visit to the Diocese, and of a schedule of events which made Santa's Christmas eve workload seem lethargic. As lunch was served, those who had been shadowing him over the packed weekend could have been forgiven for wondering whether the extensive itinerary had taken its toll on the Archbishop.

But they needn't have worried. Rowan Williams does not adopt the politician's relish for beaming smiles, exaggerated handshakes and photo-friendly pats on backs. Instead his body language is reserved, and his manner thoughtful and delicate. Viewed from a distance, some observers have described the 104th Archbishop as a shy man, who is uncomfortable - even reluctant in the public eye. Irrespective of behavioural psychology, up close though, there is something remarkable about Dr Williams' presence. As the the parish priest of the church serving lunch astutely remarked: "He has the ability to put those around him at peace, without doing anything in particular."



And any concern for Dr Williams' stamina were quickly answered as the plates were cleared he addressed the room. Despite a weekend which had involved hundreds of miles of travel, flitting between engagements from dawn until long after dusk, once again, the Archbishop found just the right words for the occasion.


In this instance, it was to thank the church for a splendid lunch, and express in simple terms his delight at seeing the (big C) Church "doing exactly what it should be doing" in the parish. A brief tour of the church, taking in an innovative conversion of an old water tank, and more words of encouragement, and it was time once again for The Archbishop to be whisked away, bringing the first visit to the diocese of his episcopate to an end. 

It had seen him undertake a diversity of visits, from the fish docks at Grimsby, a Fresh Expressions conference at the Lincolnshire Showground, and an eco-friendly housing development site in Long Sutton (the reason his shoes were muddy!) and meetings with Christian communities across the Diocese.

For their sheer magnitude however, the show was stolen by two events which took place on the 6th of March in Lincoln Cathedral: a Lecture preceded Eucharist in celebration of the life of Bishop Edward King, upon the centenary of his death.



Indeed, the enormity was such that expectation for these events may have allowed the occasion to overwhelm the content. That is, until the Archbishop began his lecture. Just over an hour and a half later, the thousands exiting Lincoln Cathedral did so reflecting on having just heard one of the great spiritual orators. 

Taking as his title Faith, Hope and Charity in Tomorrow's World, Dr Williams leant casually on a wooden lectern, and with the aid of just five brief scribbled bullet points,delivered an unerring exposition of profound themes. Playful linguistics and poetic allegory were driven by a palpable intellectual cogency, delivered in an accessible human style, encapsulated in the most disarming of smiles.

As one observer put it, he is a speaker with the gift of imparting profound wisdom, but in a manner which makes the listener feel as if they had heard it somewhere before.

The Lecture can be seen here

Earlier in the year, I was lucky enough to spend a week in Rome, and as part of an enjoyable itinerary, attended the weekly Papal audience which takes place in a sort of indoor stadium, to the North of St Peter's. It was an extraordinary, multinational event featuring the reading of a lengthy sermon by the Pontiff, which was then translated, in turn, into a multiplicity of languages, with each bringing about a chorus of cheers from the relevant parties within. If you are interested in doing the same, "Pope Tours" and "Pope tickets" are available from your nearest friendly retailer

Now, without wishing to enter the turbulent waters of comparing the Archbishop of Canterbury with the Pope, there is a notable contrast in the levels of hysteria which surround the comings and goings of the two Christian leaders. 

At lunch, finding myself seated opposite the Archbishop's driver, I was put in mind of the hundreds of bodyguards, and inches of armour-plated Popemobile that will protect Pope Benedict XVI on his visit to Great Britain later this year. The Archbishop, by contrast, gets from A to B in a hybrid Honda Civic, and for the purposes of the weekend, sent his driver home and hitched a lift with whichever diocesan representative was looking after him on a particular day. 

What conclusions could be gleaned about the two largest Christian denominations from the celebrity prestige of their respective figureheads, I am not entirely sure. On the one hand, it would be easy to criticise the manner in which the Catholic Church bestows deification (be careful with pronunciation) upon the pope; and on the other, the ever-dwindling power of the Church of England may be to blame for the lower profile of its own Patriarch. 


Either way, I couldn't resist suggesting, leadingly, to the Archbishop's driver that one might like to ask his regular passenger what the outcome had been when the two leaders met in Rome, in the recent aftermath of The Pope's controversial offer to wavering Anglicans. 

"You'd probably get a wise answer", he said. 

And I think he would probably have been proven right; had I dared ask!

Some reflections upon giving up alcohol, and losing the cup final

I am miserable, and want a pint.

The 23rd lime-and-soda of the evening 
brought on a state of 
delirious hypnosis

Lent on a bar

Last night I overcame the first big hill on a long road. It was Friday, and following an arduous day's work, I drove for two gruelling hours through heavy traffic, and worsening weather. Upon eventual arrival at my destination, I kicked off my shoes, sank into a chair next to the roaring fire, and with a palpable sense of release, prepared myself for the moment which had at last arrived: that most satisfying of rituals - the first pint of the weekend. 
 

Let's all take a moment to enjoy this

For me and for many, a drink such as this heavenly honeydew is a standard component of depressurisation following the working week, helping Friday to melt into the lethargic self-reclamation of the weekend. And however much the NHS bangs on about the dangers of social drinking, (I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels a bit uncomfortable watching this,) it accounts for a huge part of our recreation time, and our hard-earned money. 

It's tempting at this stage to begin a futile defence of our national pastime against governmental pressure and the alarming increase in alcohol-related deaths over recent years, but I'm leaving that well alone. Instead, I wish to confess that I never got my "first-pint-of-the-weekend" as, (*lengthy pause for added gravitas*) I have given up alcohol for lent.

 

...for the next 40 days or so

 

Since the moment I realised it was Shrove Tuesday, and I had to either substantiate or bail on a hitherto whimsical commitment, my decision has drawn a variety of responses from my usual companions in consumption. 

These have included:

• Doubt of mental steel to last the distance
• Questioning of motives, and the appropriateness of 'giving something up' for lent
• Annoyance at ruining everyone's fun by not pitching in with the boozing (often put in slightly stronger terms) and...
• Apathy: actually, this is the overriding theme. I am just not that interesting, it seems. 

These are all good points. The final two I intend to conquer using a mixture of good-humoured retort and bitter, bitter tears - and the first, only time will tell.

But the second, Lent, deserves a bit of discussion.

I can't remember a year when there hasn't been a sermon in which the theological validity of simply 'giving something up for Lent' is rejected by the preacher; and this is absolutely right. Rather than flounder at explaining why this the case, four minutes with the Archbishop of Canterbury will do the job nicely:

Episcopal Interlude

In a recent online forum, the BBC also tested the water by asking visitors What are you giving up for Lent? carefully including no reference to any religion or faith in the wording of the question (other than that implicit in the festivals of Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday). The discussion brought about a predictable clash of vociferous atheism and protective traditionalism among users who responded, with a spectrum of comments in between.

 

Pioneering choral atheism on the BBC 'Have Your Say' forum

Once again, here we have a situation where an ancient Christian festival pervades the modern calendar, with controversy an inevitable upshot. Resultantly, those of active Christian faith become protective of their festivals, especially in an environment where it seems more acceptable to take a cynical swing at them than the sacred observances of other religions. On the other hand, in a multicultural society, is it right to assume that our administrative year should continue to revolve around religious festivals which for many are redundant or non-applicable? Disruption to school holidays because of an early or late Easter is, for some non Christians, probably on a level with a world where shops and businesses might close down for a week in the run-up to the final of "The X-Factor."

Probably the Messiah anyhow

So what does it all have to do with my giving up alcohol for lent? you may well ask. The answer is I'm not really too sure; I've just been stalling for time. My reasoning is probably a non-commital conglomerate of the above. Not least, after a number of years drinking probably a bit more than I should on a regular basis, I'm just curious to see what difference a month-and-a-bit cold turkey might make to my health, my pocket, and my state of mind.

 Winter collection

In a final fleeting grasp at some kind of profundity, I should add that I'm hoping Lent will throw up some opportunities for more theologically sound reflection, but in the mean time hereby apologise to publicans in the locality for my turncoatism over this difficult period, and pledge my renewed support thereafter.

Just the ticket?

Back in the day, (well, about 8 years ago) I went to a lot of football matches. Unfortunately, a socially unaccommodating weekend work schedule and geographical inaccessibility to the old hunting ground have restricted visits in recent times, but my support, I hope, remains as ardent as ever.

The team's recent resurgence, following the combined arrival of an inspirational manager, and - still more importantly - a chairman who doesn't dress like an extra from a fettish movie, has been most welcome. However, the excitement is laced with bitter heartache. Following many years of playing some of the most excruciatingly dull football imaginable, the revolution has unsurprisingly proved popular, and tickets for a forthcoming final at the majestic new Wembley Stadium have been selling like hot-cakes which have been endorsed by Posh Spice.

Cauldron of sound/prawn sandwiches

And what a ground the New Wembley Stadium is. Despite the monumental complications surrounding its construction, the end result has been universally applauded. Having been lucky enough to attend a Championship playoff final at the national headquarters, this is something to which I can testify first-hand. Also having attended the last FA cup final in the old stadium, the prospect of my team walking out for its first appearance in this worthiest of successors is mouth-watering, and naturally I have been pricing up my granny's false teeth in pursuit of a ticket.

Modern transaction using e-dentures

Unfortunately they know that.

Now, at this stage, I could pursue one of a number of avenues of frustration. I could bemoan the fact that only 31,000 tickets have been made available to either sets of supporters, despite the new ground holding 90,000. I could also curse my luck for having failed to register my ticket to the epic semi final in my own name, thus removing any fleeting hopes of securing sufficient points on the loyalty ranking system. I could even rehearse the usual platitudes about rising ticket prices, and removal of opportunities to watch football from the 'real' people. 

I shan't. Instead, as I sit languishing amid the dawning realisation that there will be less chance of final tickets reaching general sale than of "Being Jordan" winning the Booker Prize, I just idly tapped "cup final tickets" into Google. As the results populated, I was amazed at the number of websites offering me an immediate ticket to the final, for anything between £250 and £700.

The touts have gone cyber

With my web-cynic specs on, I did a couple of cross-references on WorldTicketShop, a Dutch company which ranked highly among the results. I confidently expected a host of warnings about spelling mistakes, no-shows and tickets printed on toilet roll, but no. In fact, the organisation has a buyer protection programme, and in 2009 was even honoured at an award ceremony for quickly growing businesses. 

It would be so, so so so easy. All I would have to do would be quickly tap in my credit card details, wave goodbye to a three-figure sum I'd never held in my hand anyhow, and begin to salivate over a repetition of that glorious cup final atmosphere I had tasted a decade earlier. The natural suspicions one might feel when buying from a shifty tout lurking near Wembley Park tube station are a long distance from this world of reassuring icons, secure card payments, and guarantees which seem to check out.

And now seems the appropriate moment for a footballing cliche:

Oooh... go on then:

At the end of the day, when all's said and done, after a game of two halves,  what is the difference between the swarthy leather jacket-clad geezer and the slick website though? If the tickets are real, they have probably been sourced from an unwanted corporate package, Club Wembley members with no interest in the game, or even naive YTS players with a penchant for social networkings sites. 

This is a double tragedy. Firstly, that people with little or no interest in a game of football have secured tickets from the lubrication of a business deal or suchlike, and secondly, that when they can't be bothered to attend, the tickets - instead of being returned to the clubs for sale to those 'real' fans I mentioned earlier - are passed on to extortionist websites like WorldTicketShop.

So, on cup final day, a good part of the ground will quite rightly be filled with supporters who have gained their tickets through the most democratic and fair avenues possible in such circumstances, but there will also be disappointment for many - myself included. If the FA is to begin to rescue football from the financial soup into which it is becoming liquidised, they could do a lot worse than start off with such grass-roots issues, and shut down such resale sites as WorldTicketShop. It can't be that hard.