Lessons in Loyalty

There's a marvellous interview with Roy Keane in today's Irish Times, conducted by Tom Humphries, who I tend not to think of as one of Ireland's best sports journalists, but rather as one of Ireland's best journalists, and one who just happens to write about sport. He has quite a history with Keane, of course, having conducted the interview that precipitated the whole Homeric Saipan affair -- thus ultimately inspiring I, Keano -- and seems to be rather good at getting Keane to open up.

I never liked Keane as a player -- for all his talent and industry, I felt he was basically a thug. Sure, when he was in green he was our thug, but a thug nonetheless. As a manager though, I keep being impressed, being struck by his intelligence, his freshness, his openness, and indeed his humility. This little detail is very telling.

Things are changing with him anyway. Sunderland has infected him. For instance he pays some attention now to the wisdom of crowds. A few weeks ago against Everton in the Black Cats' own backyard he heard a voice behind him having a pop. He swivelled around and caught the end of the it. "Playing for 75 minutes with one up front and it isn't effin working ya . . ."

His face darkened and then.

"Do you know what? He was spot on. We had five in the middle and one up front and it wasn't working. It's like that. He was right. I don't always agree but a lot of time fans are spot on. Sometimes we get nasty letters. Sue in the office, well I don't think she shows me many, just the odd one when she thinks I should know what is going on. She gave me one last week. This man was having a go at the way we played (pause). So I rang him up."

At this point he allows a moment for you to picture the stricken features of the poor soul who hastily committed his frustrations to the vellum and sent them off confident perhaps that Sue in the office would either include the epistle in the bundle for the days shredding or hand it over in a sheaf heavy with disgruntlement. And here now was Roy Keane on the other end of the telephone. The thump, thump, thump of that vein in his temple audible down the line.

And?

"Ah, we had a chat. I said to him I knew what he was saying but it isn't time yet. In a few years hopefully we will have five maybe six players capable of getting forward but for now we have to survive. We need to play the way we do to stay in the division. Not to be a yo-yo club."

Patience is a virtue, after all, and realism matters. It's the kind of thing I wish legions of posters on Toffeeweb would keep in mind, that construction schedules for eternal cities are perhaps of their nature not so speedy as we might wish. It's interesting to see him cast a cold eye on loyalty in professional sport, too.

United. It's a surprise to hear him say he feels no affinity with any of his former professional clubs. Everything is changing though. He goes to clubs now as a manager where he remembers being booed, and fighting tooth and nail with the locals and hating the sight of their jerseys and they are wonderfully courteous and friendly to him. Good people. Arsenal couldn't be more decent. Arsene Wenger and Pat Rice. Rafa. Great. David Moyes. Excellent. He spent some time with Martin O'Neill after the Villa game and he could have sat listening to him all night. Everywhere he goes he soaks things up, looks for evidence of values and the right way to do things.

And affinity? It is with Rockmount AFC. Where he was made. The lads come over regularly. A couple of his old mates manage the team now and they talk about the old days and management. They were all over for the Villa game. Len Downey and Damien Martin are coming over for Middlesbrough.

The older he gets and the more he sees, the greater his appreciation of the innocence and the loyalties he saw at Rockmount. He went to Rockmount when he was eight and stayed till he was 16 or 17. That he believes now is what football is all about . He has seen the business side of the game and people suddenly begrudging you when you cease to be of use.

It still hurts. Forest tried to milk him for money he was owed when he was sold to Manchester United. The postscript to his playing career at Celtic was a mistake he feels. United still feel the sting of his venom. Their betrayal still hurts.

Having statements ready like United when you have served a certain amount of time for them and they don't even get the years you were there right in the statement. You think "Ah well, there you go".

"The day I left United, in hindsight, I should have stopped playing really. I lost the love of the game that Friday morning. I thought football is cruel, life is cruel. It takes two to tango also. I am fully responsible for my own actions but some things are wrong. I left on a Friday and they told me certain things before I left that day. I was told the following week I couldn't sign for another club. I had been led to believe I could. There were certain things I was told at certain meetings that were basic lies.

"That was part of the exit plans, I am convinced. Especially with my pride, I wasn't going to accept that. They had a statement prepared and they were thanking me for 11 and a half years of service. I had to remind the manager and (Manchester United chief executive) David Gill I had been there 12 and a half years. I think that might have been part of the plan. Then financial stuff was mentioned. I was thinking, my God. I am happy to leave. I won't go down that road. A week later they announced £70 or £80 million profit after telling me I hadn't played for six weeks and so they weren't prepared to do this and that. I told David Gill I had broken my foot playing for Manchester United against Liverpool. Pretty sad.

"I look back and think I should have said this and I should have said that. It is like Mick McCarthy at the World Cup. I always think when he said if you don't have respect for me you can't play for me, I should have said to him what I felt. I am not playing for you I am playing for Ireland. It is easy to be wise afterwards."

He talks for a long time about loyalty. Its meaning in his life. United hurts and Saipan hurts. They were times when he expected some loyalty back but he realises now when you outlive your usefulness to some people loyalty is too much to expect.

It's a telling point, really: loyalty to clubs is for fans, more than anything. Players can be fans and so too can owners, but ultimately players tend to play for money, for glory, and for fun; they're mercenaries, and owners are businessmen or moneylaunderers. But loyalty to teams? That's a fans' preserve.


I can't help wondering, when I think of this, whether fidelity in sport is related to fidelity in life; is it the case that people who are loyal in one thing are more likely to be loyal in other things? Are people who stick by teams through bad patches the kind of people who'll stick by friends and lovers through hard times? That's the real test: celebrating success is easy; it's enduring failure that's hard.

Chesterton wrote a fine essay on Kipling once, where he remarked that Kipling, ultimately, was a man who understood nothing of patriotism, as he lacked the faculty of absolutely attaching himself to any cause or community.

He admires England, but he does not love her; for we admire things with reasons, but love them without reasons. He admires England because she is strong, not because she is English.

It's when success ebbs away that the true measure of the sports fan is shown. Whether this applies to other aspects of life is a different matter. Are Everton supporters less likely to cheat on their spouses than Chelsea ones, say? I reckon there'd be a Sociology PhD in that if someone wanted to give it a shot - Marital Infidelity and Football Fanaticism: A Study in Correspondence.


Just to wrap up, regarding the Keane interview, it's good to see that he's not quite as dour and earnest as he can sometimes seem.

Last year going for promotion everyone was getting uptight and the pressure was starting to tell. They were playing Wolves at home, a big game on the verge of the play-offs. They players were called in to their pre-game video analysis of Wolves. Instead they got that wonderful segment of Ken Loach's 1969 movie Kes where Brian Glover plays a teacher with a Bobby Charlton fixation. They just had a good laugh together. They never mentioned Wolves once. Then they went out and won.

You've not seen it? No, well, it'd been years since I did too, but don't worry, I've dug it out just for you. The Brother reckons it's one of the best passages in any film ever. Enjoy.

Poets do not go mad; but chess-players do

So says Uncle Gilbert, anyway, and I'm rather inclined to think that he was right.

One of my favourite short stories is an extraordinary work of horror, or dark fantasy at any rate, by the incomparable Fritz Leiber. Yes, I know, you've probably not heard of him. I've yet to meet anyone who hasn't scrunched their face up quizzically whenever I've mentioned Leiber. It's odd, really, as over the years there can't have been many writers as talented as him to have worked in the fields of fantasy, horror, and science-fiction. Certainly, there's surely been nobody as gifted to have excelled in all three genres; he's one of those writers to whom other writers line up to pay tribute: Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Theodore Sturgeon, Kurt Vonnegut, Harlan Ellison, Michael Moorcock, Terry Pratchett... you name them, they venerate him.

Certain themes and topics reappear with delightful frequency in Leiber's work, with theatre, fencing, sex, cats, and chess being the most distinctive landmarks in his fictional landscape. If you can spare the time, you should settle in to read the marvellous 'Space-time for Springers', a hilarious and heartbreaking tale which Neil Gaiman describes as 'a story that everyone who's ever tried to understand kittens should read'.

Rather less easily available is 'Midnight by the Morphy Watch', which I've heard described as the best piece of chess fiction ever written; I don't know about that, but it's a chilling study of obsession and madness, and a wonderful ode to the glories and dangers of the game which Leiber so adored. Try this for an opening:

Being World's Chess Champion (crowned or uncrowned) puts a more deadly and maddening strain on a man even than being President of the United States. We have a prime example enthroned right now. For more than ten years the present champion was clearly the greatest chess player in the world, but during that time he exhibited such willful and seemingly self-destructive behaviour -- refusing to enter crucial tournaments, quitting them for crankish reasons while holding a commanding lead, entertaining what many called a paranoid delusion that the whole world was plotting to keep him from reaching the top -- that many informed experts wrote him off as a contender for the highest honours. Even his staunchest supporters experienced agonizing doubts -- until he finally silenced his foes and supremely satisfied his friends by decisively winning the crucial and ultimate match on a fantastic polar island.

Promising, eh? Leiber's sinister little gem, nominated for a Hugo Award in 1975, tells the tale of an old, but not very good, chess player who one day in San Francisco comes across an odd shop where he recognises an antique pocket-watch that had been presented to Paul Morphy in 1859, when he returned to America in triumph after his victories in Europe. He buys the watch from the shop's owner, who appears to have no idea of its significance, and takes it home, and that night the watch begins to tick.

I'll not spoil the story on you, because you really should hunt it down, but here's another little taster, just to whet your appetite:

"Les échecs fantasques," he quoted, "It's a cynical madman's allegory with its doddering monarch, vampire queen, gangster knights, double-faced bishops, ramming rooks and inane pawns, whose supreme ambition is to change their sex and share the dodderer's bed."

Tempted? You really should be, you know.


So why am I banging on about chess, you might wonder. It's been over six months since I've last done so, after all, when I warbled at length about a metaphor I'd carefully contrived between sips in the pub one night. I'm still rather proud of that one, as it happens, not least because things do seem to be coming to pass pretty much as I expected.

The thing is, I'm not very good at chess. No, scratch that; I suck at chess as badly as some people suck at Photoshop. I should be good at it: I'm pretty smart, I have a good memory, I've a fine visual imagination, and I've spent ten years of my life pondering strategy and tactics. I use chess language when I discuss problems, talking of forks, pins, binds, mobility, stalemates, endgames, king hunts, perpetual check, windmills, poisoned pawns, you name it. There's a whole tactical vocabulary there that I'm utterly at home with, and yet, sadly, it's all for nowt on that chequered board.

I have no idea why. Is it that I just don't concentrate enough? That was Poe's theory, wasn't it, in 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue', that in nine cases out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers?

I haven't won a game, other than when I was teaching the basic game to others, since I was in Jerusalem about six years ago, when over the course of several balmy evenings a friend and I brushed aside advances from some comely lasses who had been attempting to persuade us to join them on the roof of our hostel. Later, we said, each night. The game was more important. The girls, sadly, didn't think so, but they kept trying, their patience eventually running out when we failed to hook up with them in Eilat a few days later, after our desert adventures.


Anyway, today, against my better judgment, I installed the Facebook chess application, and started to play, first begging my friend -- smarter than me, and surely far smarter at anything analytical or mathematical -- not to tell people of how badly he'd beat me.

Possibly because of my confessed ineptitude, or possibly because he prefers to respond to challenges rather than issue them, he allowed me the advantage of playing white. And somehow, I won.

I'm still not sure how. Every game I've played for the last few years I've overstretched within four moves and then been dismantled. This time, somehow, that didn't happen, and I was able to throw bishops, knights, queen, and pawns into a full-blown assault.

'Wow,' remarked my friend, somewhere in the middle of the bloodbath, 'I've never played anyone so aggressive before.' I think that may have been the first time anyone has ever called me aggressive, at least to my face. How much have the last couple of years changed me? I want the ball now, that's for sure. I never used to.

I've a feeling the Jerusalem Jinx is still pretty much intact, though. I reckon I'll be annihilated in the next few games.

The 39th Step

I find it extraordinary that almost all the hot air being blown around in response to the proposed 'international round' of Premier League games is with reference to how this won't be fair on fans who mightn't be able to travel to Tokyo or Los Angeles to watch their teams play.

That doesn't work, really, not with a dozen or so teams being international brands that are hugely and obviously dependent on foreign revenue to make ends meet; it could be argued that exporting the Premier League as a live experience, rather than a merely televised one, is only fair to the legions around the world who contribute to the club coffers.

A far more serious objection, which I've seen raised but not really brandished with any force, is that a thirty-ninth game will corrupt the integrity of the competition as it stands.

It doesn't work to claim, with Richard Scudamore, that 'These fixtures will not decide who wins the league and who is relegated. That is decided over the course of the season. There is already an inherent unfairness in our fixture programme.'

I'm not entirely sure what he means by his concession that the fixture list is inherently unfair, but it's nonsense of him to disregard concerns that this kind of thing could vitiate any semblance of fairness in the League. Think of what the proposal involves:

The idea would be that one weekend in January ten matches would be played in five cities around the world, thereby giving foreign fans in each city and environs the opportunity to see two matches, or four Premier League teams, over the course of the weekend. It's not clear whether there'd be any seeding, but reports so far suggest that it'd be arranged that the top five teams wouldn't have to face each other; I presume the thinking is to spread out the celebrity factor.

You might wonder who the 'top five' teams would be, since they'd surely not be the top five at the time the round was played. Presumably they'd be the top five from the previous season, presumably, giving us United, Chelsea, Liverpool, Arsenal, and Spurs if we were to look at least year's figure. Yes, Spurs, currently around twelfth on the table.

Leave that aside, though. Is it really credible that this wouldn't distort the League? Perhaps it wouldn't at the very top and the very bottom, though I'd not bet on it, but what about the half-dozen teams that might be hoping for the fourth Champions' League berth or a UEFA Cup spot, or the handful of teams that'll be scrabbling to avoid being the third team to get relegated? Would you want your team to have to play United or Arsenal three times instead of twice in a season? No, didn't think so. You'd be far happier with them facing the likes of Derby or Fulham, wouldn't you?

A Double Turncoat?

I found it deeply unsettling watching Lesley Vainikolo storming about in an England shirt yesterday, though his efforts hardly saved his adopted country's blushes. I just kept wondering what he was doing there. In what sense is he English?

After all, he's Tongan by birth, but a New Zealander by parentage, and has played Rugby League twelve times at international level for New Zealand. It seems he's allowed to play for England through the 'residency rule', but I'm at a loss to figure out the thinking behind this qualification. Granted, he's been playing Rugby League in England since 2002, but it's not as if he's been thinking of himself as English for the last six years -- it seems that he only failed to play for New Zealand in the 2005 and 2006 Tri-Nations tournaments because of his knee troubles! Or at least, that was the official line; was he secretly eating marmite and drinking warm beer while planning to abandon both New Zealand and Rugby League?

I dunno, part of me is just bothered to see England, the country with the world's largest Rugby Union player base, fielding people who are at best marginally English. I mean, the current system favours countries with big player pools anyway. Surely the likes of England don't need to hammer home their advantage?

It's just not cricket.

'A Coach Not a Idiot'

The Magazine supplement of today's Irish Times features a very peculiar question in big red letters bang in the middle of page 48, dealing with the TV schedule for Wednesday: 'Can the boys in green manage their first ever win against the boys from Brazil?'

Seeing as this is in reference to Wednesday's soccer match between Brazil and the Republic of Ireland, I think the answer really has to be 'No'. Not because Ireland aren't good enough to win -- that's a separate issue -- but because if they did win, this would in fact be their second ever victory over the greatest footballing nation in the world.

Ireland beat Brazil back on 23 May 1987, with Liam Brady scoring the only goal of the match.

Speaking of Liam Brady, emblazoned on the front page of the Sports supplement is the declaration 'FAI to get Trapattoni and Brady'. It seems that more than a hundred days since Steve Staunton released the Irish managerial reins, the FAI are on the brink of acquiring a replacement. Not just any replacement either, rather the kind of manager that they claimed they had in mind back in October 2005, when they arrogantly rid themselves of Brian Kerr. After all, while Trapattoni may be getting on a bit, at 68 years old, he's got a ridiculous number of trophies under his belt, surely slowing him down rather more than his age: nine league triumphs in various countries, two Italian cups, three UEFA Cups, a European Cup-Winners' Cup, a European Cup, and more besides.

The idea this time, apparently, is that Trapattoni will be the coach, with Liam Brady, who worked with him at Juventus in the early eighties, as his assistant. Brady could well become a crucial hinge between coach and team, considering that Trapattoni apparently has hardly any English, though if his English is nearly as idiosyncratic as his German we could be in for an entertaining few years.

Of course, his first job shall be to master the art of the football cliche.

If it's Irish, you spell it W-H-I-S-K-E-Y

Yes, with an 'e'. It's from the Gaelic word uisce, pronounced 'ish-keh' and meaning 'water'. Strictly speaking, it's derived from uisce, which is itself an abbreviated form of uisce beatha, which was simply a straight Irish translation of aqua vitae, literally meaning 'water of life', and being a generic term for spirits during the Middle Ages.

Anyway, that's only a minor quibble with an otherwise amusing article in today's Guardian describing a meeting with Irish rugby legend Keith Wood at a Bushmills promotion in London. The part of it I found most interesting was when Wood was asked what he would change about rugby, if could change any one thing.

"Subs," he replies, without hesitation. "I hate them. I think you should have a full front row on the bench and a utility back, all of whom are only allowed to go on if they absolutely need to go on. I used to give the analogy of a boxing match."

He points at me.

"Say it's a 10-round fight and I'm boxing this fella here because he's from Offaly and I don't like him."

Like that's going to go 10 rounds.

"So anyway, we're punching away and I have him exactly where I want him after eight rounds and then he sends in a replacement for the ninth. Obviously that's a ridiculous proposition but it's what happens in rugby. Say you're playing France who always have an unbelievable front row; they're moulded, they're stocky, they're 5ft 10in, they've no neck and 55 to 60 minutes into the game it's like the trumpets sound, they take those three off and put another three on. I just think that's unsporting. That's my view, I just don't like it."

In effect what he's saying that he prefers rugby to be a team game rather than a squad game; I'm inclined to agree, because -- taking international rugby, for example -- the current system definitely favours countries with bigger player bases, which in the Northern hemisphere means England and France. Most rugby-playing nations can probably field a decent enough first fifteen, but for real strength in depth you need a hefty playing base, something the so-called 'Celtic' nations all lack.

Granted, you might counter that tactical substitition reduces injuries, as it allows players to be taken off when they're tired or slightly hurt, preventing them from being more seriously injured, but I'd be curious as to whether there's any data to support that idea.

It's a valid enough point with other sports too, I think, and I can't help but frown at the thought of Everton's chances against Tottenham this evening. David Moyes seems to have drawn on fewer players this season than any other premiership manager, largely because with no money in the bank over the past few years he's opted for slow but steady progress by doing his best to buy quality rather quantity. It's paying dividends, but with Yakubu, Yobo, and Pienaar in Africa, Osman and Gravesen injured, and Cahill and Hibbert suspended he's going to be hard pressed to fill his subs' bench.

You never see the likes of Chelsea in that situation.

Money Doesn't Mind if we Say it's Evil

Today's Telegraph is carrying a fascinating story of how Martin Amis is apparently earning nearly £3,000 an hour for teaching at the University of Manchester. Okay, that's a little disingenuous; in reality what's happening is that Manchester is paying him £80,000 a year as Professor of Creative Writing, and that he's expected to teach twelve seminars, each of ninety minutes, over the year, as well as making four public appearances of about two hours each, and teaching one two-hour session in the summer Writing School.

So basically, if you divide £80,000 by 28 you'll get £2857.14, and will be able to see where the Manchester Evening News, which broke the story the other day, got its figures from. Granted, such a crude sum doesn't do justice to the fact that preparation and research aren't included in the contractual 28 hours, but then, this is the case with all the other lecturers too, you know, the ones who earn on average £39,000 a year. A regular lecturer is generally thought to work just under 60 hours a week, on average; I wonder if Amis works quite so hard.

Ah yes, the University might counter, but Amis is an iconic scholar, the kind of person who can attract world-class students and staff to Manchester. I'm not sure what he scholarly record actually consists of, but it does appear that since he's taken up his position, the number of students applying for the course on which he teaches has risen from 100 to 150, making him value for money in the University's eyes. Maybe there's something to this, then, but I can't help but wonder how many of these applicants get to sit at the master's feet. If he's only teaching a dozen seminars over the year, how many people really benefit from his supposed expertise?

The MEN ran with the story by pointing out that Amis's incredible salary matched those of premiership footballers, something Amis has responded to with scorn when talking to the Times.

“It’s very much Manchester University’s decision to make and I abide by it. This is really an invidious conversation. Who’s to say I wouldn’t earn less money anywhere else? Why aren’t you having this conversation with Wayne Rooney? Some footballers earn huge amounts. Not every footballer gets a hundred thousand a week like Rooney. And that’s all I want to say on the matter."

Which is all very well, but it rather ignores the fact that Manchester United PLC, Rooney's employer, is, after all, a privately-owned company, not really answerable to anyone other than its shareholders. The University of Manchester, on the other hand, is a publicly-owned institution, answerable to the British taxpayer. In other words, it's surely a matter of public interest if exorbitant sums are being paid to celebrity lecturers, especially at a time when hundreds of staff have been encouraged to take voluntary redundancy so the University can make ends meet.

In fact, it's only because the University is a publicly-owned organisation that this come to light, as the Manchester Evening News only gained access to details of Amis's salary under Freedom of Information legislation.

Having said that, it's worth pointing out that today is Data Privacy Day. It's worth finding out your rights, wherever you are. In the UK you'll find that the Information Commissioner's Office is very helpful indeed.

Very helpful.

About as stable as Audrey Hepburn's head in a helicopter

I was chatting last night with my fairy blogmother (ret.), and somehow the subject of the Topsy Tipping League™ came up. I can't remember how, though I have an inkling that it may have been in connection with the toppling tendencies of myotonic goats.

Anyway, to explain, said fairy blogmother, despite being built on a decidedly dainty scale, appears to have an absurdly high centre of gravity. So high, in fact, that it takes but the merest of nudges to send an offguard Topsy flying into a nearby hedge. Having discovered this some years ago, Technically Rachel indulged this penchant to such a degree that that others wished to join in, and demanded a system for keeping score. Thus it was that the Topsy Tipping League™ was born. In the interests of keeping the game alive, not to mention comedy at the expense of our precarious friend, I'm sure the Technical One won't mind me quoting her at great length.

Topsy Tipping League™

2 points for a general nudge and small stumble
4 points for a significant stumble
6 points for complete loss of footing across the pavement with general arm flailing and little yap for help

Add 1 extra point to your score if:

• your attempt provokes a 'tut' or a swear word
• your attempt induces high-pitched and general "I'm so abused!" mutterings
• she gets really mad and goes all pink and yells "What is your problem!"

Minus 1 point from your score if:

• she spots you coming and you miss her - you'll look stupid, and she'll be smug
• she's wearing high heels - it's just too easy
• she's pissed - once more, too easy
• she falls right over - whilst we at Topsy Tipping™ agree this would be highly amusing, the Topsy is an endangered species and shouldn't be too abused (but if a bush breaks her fall, you can have your point back!)

Rules

• You may only partake in one "Topsy Tipping" a day
• The Topsy's safety must be considered at all times - as should the comedy of the moment
• Be gentle - she topples REALLY easily
• Players partake in this league at their own risk - the Topsy is a little blonde species and is liable to small explosions. The proprieters accept no responsibility for injury or damage caused at the hands of an angered Topsy.

At the end of the league, ratios will be calculated for differences in height and weight from the Topsy, as will an average of time spent with the Topsy.

All interested members please register on the talk back

Happy Tipping from the Topsy Tipping League™

No doubt you'll be reading this with a grin, wondering which badly balanced buddies of your own can be enlisted - almost certainly against their will - in such hilarity.* You'll find it great fun, though your beleaguered friend might not, and a game which, while designed for two players - a Topsy and a Tipper - has permutations of immense potential when played in groups, as an instant debate on the Founder's site made clear:

TTL-002: If two or more Topsy Tippers are walking with it, what is the procedure if one player attempts to Tip the Topsy and another moves in from the opposite side to bolster the Topsy, effectively "blocking" the attempted Tip? That is to say, are points awarded for defensive moves that thwart other players, denying them points?

TTL-005: I think that the second player would be doing themselves a favour by not allowing the first tipper to have a clean shot at the tip, therefore it would act as a basic defence and thus any advantage gained would simply be that of not having conceded a point to another player.

TTL-001: TTL-005 is right, the benefit comes from denying another player their points.


TTL-003: But what if the Topsy is merely starting the stumble - a basic 2 points for tipper number one - when tipper number two, rather than bolstering the Topsy, adds momentum and positively a change of angle, therefore changing a basic 2 point stumble into a maximum 6 point fall, possibly with up to 3 bonus points? How would those 6 or even 9 points be divided?

TTL-001: I think tipper no. 2 would be allowed the extra 4 points for showing such timely skill - any further points would be split equally. If it is a planned team effort, all points should be split equally. I hope this has answered your question.

Perhaps the oddest aspect of all this is that some years ago at a wedding a friend of mine marvelled at the Topsy's ability to sashay across gravel and rough grass in high heels while carrying several drinks and without spilling a drop. 'Four inch heels off-road?' he exclaimed, 'Keep her!'

Little did he know that it would have taken but the slightest breeze to send her flying.
____________________________________________________________
* Unless, that is, you're frowning and thinking this is rather a contrived way to justify pushing someone into a hedge.

Wales beat South Africa!

No, not really, but the headline probably caught your eye, didn't it?

It certainly caught mine when I read it on the main BBC news site earlier on. I gawped on seeing it, as when I'd last glanced the score from within the welcoming surrounds of the Porter House, Wales were losing by about twenty points, and there hadn't been much time left on the clock at that point. Had Wales made a impossible comeback?

No.

They lost 34-12, as I discovered when I clicked on the link. I've no idea whether the link's misleading nature should be classed as mischievous or mistaken, but either way it was wrong.

Less misleading, though no less improbable, were the headlines about Everton's 7-1 drubbing of Sunderland. I'd gawped in the Porter House on seeing that we were 6-1 up, and stared again when word came in that Osman had made it seven. Extraordinary, really. It seems this was Everton's hundredth win of Moyes's reign, and the first time in eight years that Everton have managed such a big win - and indeed the first time in eleven years that they've managed seven goals. The BBC called it a 'dazzling attacking exhibition' - having done some checking, it seems that in this respect, at any rate, the Beeb had it right.

A good day, all told.

And now I'm off to watch Ray Winstone kill a monstah.

I'm not happy about this...

Good grief. England won. 14-9. And what's more, they did so through pure strength of character.

Let's not kid ourselves. Barring the providential talents of Jonny Wilkinson, they're still rubbish. They're not even a shadow of the team that conquered the rugby world four years ago. These guys are journeymen and crocks. They play ugly rugby, and haven't an ounce of creativity. They're shocking to watch. They're the same team that was humiliated 43-13 by Ireland just six months ago, and 36-0 by South Africa only a few weeks back.

And yet...

There's something heroic about this, isn't there? I thought they'd lose to Tonga. I thought they'd lose to Australia. I thought they'd lose to France. And yet somehow, they've ballsed it out. They're giving everything they've got, refusing to be beaten, refusing to go away. It's really hard not to admire that.

And on top of that, look at their reactions after each win they've somehow battled for. Look at Brian Ashton, at Phil Vickery, at Martin Corry, at Wilkinson himself. They can't believe it. They're amazed, ecstatic, and somehow really humble. There's not a hint of the smugness of the Carling era, or the arrogance of the Woodward-Johnson era.

Humility. This is something I've never seen from an English team. I like it.

I'd kind of like Argentina to win tomorrow, and to win the whole thing. But if South Africa win tomorrow, I've a feeling I'll be cheering on England next week.

Perhaps I should lie down. This isn't meant to happen; while the blood of Albion flows in my veins, I have the heart of a Gael.

Hmmm.

Hallmarks of one sort or another

The Irish rugby team must be fierce embarrassed about how their faces are plastered everywhere you look nowadays. I can't help feeling pretty sorry for Ronan O'Gara, who must blush whenever he sees a picture of himself emblazoned with the legend 'I'm converted' or 'cometh the hour, cometh the man'.

Andrew Trimble seems to have fallen into a discreet silence in his blog. A shame, as I was enjoying it. I'm still rather intrigued by one line in his first blog entry, when he remarked that his teammates probably think he's a bit of a weirdo because he's a Christian. I'm not sure what to make of that.

Is he saying that he's the only member of the squad who actually practices the faith he confesses, which is sadly all too possible?

Or that he's the only professed Christian in the squad, which although possible, seems kind of unlikely?

Or is he doing that Evangelical thing, effectively equating the terms 'Christian' and 'Evangelical Protestant', so if you're not an Evangelical, you're not really a Christian? I really hope he's not. . .

A couple of years back I almost gave a talk at a Christian Union event in Manchester, but in the end didn't, mainly because I couldn't quite sign up to their 'doctrinal basis', which was described as just being the basic truths that all Christians believe.

The UCCF website describes the 'DB' as outlining 'the central truths of the gospel'. Leaving aside how it's something to which only a tiny minority of Christians throughout history could have subscribed, this rather raises the question of what marks these eleven points as the central Christian truths?

Just for argument's sake, why is there no mention of the Eucharist, say? It is, after all, the only thing the Bible records Our Lord as having asked us to do for him. Seriously, look at Luke 22.19 and 1 Corinthians 11.24.

Why isn't this identified as a central truth of Christian belief?

Take a look at the letters of St Ignatius of Antioch, written on his way towards martyrdom in Rome in 107 AD. Ignatius had headed the Church in the city where the term 'Christian' had first been adopted, and is believed to have been a disciple of the apostle John.

For Ignatius, recognition of the Eucharist as true body and blood of Christ was the hallmark of the true Christian. In his letter to the Smyrnaeans, he identifies heretics by saying:

"They even absent themselves from the Eucharist and the public prayers, because they will not admit that the Eucharist is the self-same body of our Saviour Jesus Christ which suffered for our sins, and which the Father in his goodness afterwards raised up again. Consequently, since they reject God's good gifts, they are doomed in their disputatiousness."

Which isn't to get into an argument about the Real Presence, just to note that for the first Christians evangelised by the Apostles, this was the defining characteristic. So why doesn't this factor in the 'doctrinal basis'?

Is the UCCF claiming it knows better than the Apostles?

Hmmm.

The Inner Game is the Only Game

I've recently been reading, as well as all the obvious academic gibberish, a host of books of strategy, tactics, leadership, and all that. Along the way I hastened through Gary Kasparov's How Life Imitates Chess, which, though far from convincing in a lot of ways nonetheless demonstrates how handily chess can be used for analogies. I mentioned this to NRMBoy a little earlier, saying I'd been thinking of a particular analogy, and was tempted to show him.

'Righto,' he said, 'I like chess analogies, but I always object when they are used in films and there's always a convenient checkmate before the scene cuts.'

I'm not going to explain the analogy for you, but anyway, you can see the improbable scenario here. There's the black king, cowering in the corner, without a hope in hell of ever beating his white opponent, but somehow, insanely, hoping to get out of this situation in one piece.

For the record, in chess this is regarded as very bad form. When you're obviously beaten -- which is usually your own fault, because of a blunder at the start -- you should concede with grace. But for all that, here we have a situation where a beleaguered blunderer is somehow refusing to face reality. And he's just been hit with a direct attack from a white rook.

The rook is the panzer of the chess world. It attacks head on, without an ounce of subtlety, and in truth there's no way of stopping it. Except that perhaps, like Scipio faced with Hannibal's elephants at Zama, you can just skip out of the way.

Just a step to the left, as the old song goes. That's all it takes, it seems, and the direct threat sails right past him, exploding harmlessly in thin air.

Safe, wouldn't you think?

Well, no, because there's another white rook out there, just as direct and just as powerful as the first one. There's no ambiguity about these beasts. The bruise brothers can just hammer him into a pulp, and are utterly lethal as a team.

So what does the black king do?

Well, he could face reality and surrender, which would be the sensible approach. But sensible isn't really black's thing. Admitting he screwed up? No, that's be far too mature, far too noble for him. The only thing for it is to stumble out of the way again.

And so he again steps to the left.

Now, seriously, I'm not joking. This is not what you do. This guy's screwed up royally, he has no realistic option other than to knock his king over and admit he's beaten, that he messed up, and that it's all his fault. He doesn't have to say that white is better than him -- I mean, he might be, and judging by the board he probably is -- but this is a subtle game, and all he really has to admit is that he made a mistake. Or lots of mistakes.

But instead he just stumbles out of a firing line, hoping despite all the evidence that white is going to go away. But why would he? He's winning, after all. It's only a matter of time . . .

So black's staggered out of one firing line, as I've said, but he's really just walked into another one, as this is the point at which white unleashes the bishop.

It's a flank attack, one that's not expected, mainly because black has throughout the game demonstrated a shocking inability to see the whole board.

So the bishop darts across the board - and I suspect that in real life bishops refrain from darting as much as episcopally possible - and attacks from a whole new angle.

Really, this matters. There's a fine episode of The West Wing where President Barlet strolls about the West Wing defusing a major diplomatic crisis between China and Taiwan while casually whupping Sam and Toby's asses on beautiful antique chess sets. Not literally, of course. That'd be a very different kind of show. And while Charlie is asking the sexiest woman on television whether it might have been easier to respect the rules and regulations, and Toby is telling Bartlet time and again that being intelligent is not something we should have to hide, and while Josh and Donna are tending a mustard seed so that it becomes a mighty tree, Bartlet keeps repeating the same bit of advice to Sam: See the whole board.

But of course, black's too thick, or too stubborn, or too arrogant to do that, so he just stumbles out of the firing line again. Forward, he thinks, there's nothing on the horizon if he goes there.

And he's kind of right. There is nothing on the horizon.

(Incidentally, if you think this is contrived, you're not alone. NMRboy began muttering from the off on this one. In my defence, it took me about two minutes to think this up last night. In the pub. I did not spend a long time on this. Honestly.)

So yes, there is nothing on black's horizon, but let's not forget that freakish secret weapon that is the knight.

Look at that for a move. Technically the knight moves to the nearest non-adjacent square of the opposite colour to the one she starts on. In pratice that means she does a weird 'L-shaped' jump. Yes, a jump. He clears the heads of everyone else. Right over them, appearing from nowhere, oblivious to all the mess in the way.

So again, the black king's under attack, and this time in the most novel way imaginable. Do you reckon he'll surrender? Seriously? No, of course not. And it's not because he's brave and heroic, with a tenacious streak a mile wide. No, it's just that some people just can't admit they screwed up.

You haven't a clue what I'm talking about, do you?

So anyway, the black king stumbles backwards now, and sideways a bit. Yup, his balance is gone, but still, he's on his feet, just about.

Sorry, while I think of it, the reference to sexiest woman on television earlier on was to C.J. Cregg. But you got that, didn't you? I mean, seriously, who else? Not just because she literally stands head and shoulders above the other tempting televisual redheads, you because she's smarter, funnier, and classier than just about anyone else who's ever graced the small screen. And she's got very good hair.

Right, so as I was saying, black's back on the back row now, having stumbled from two direct attacks, a flank attack, and a shot out of nowhere. Still, he's safe now, it seems. Granted, he has no firepower of his own, but somehow, through sheer brazen nerve he's coping with assault after assault after assault.

Safe now. Breathing space.

Don't be ridiculous. Remember Bartlet's advice to Sam? See the whole board. Look at the far side of the board. All along, if you've been paying attention, there's been a lowly white pawn, just sitting there, tiny and insignificant, having edged his way up the board a long time ago. He's just been sitting, ready to strike.

And he does, in that weird transexual moment that is such a rare chess delight. Like Tip discovering at the end of the second Oz book that he is in fact the Princess Ozma, our silent soldier on the right steps forward quietly to have his rank and gender transformed. And now, queened, she shoots right along the back row, gunning straight for the black king.

He can't pretend any more. It's checkmate.

I know, a tad contrived, but elaborate analogies tend to be. Still, like I said, two minutes in the pub. Sorry, NMR.

Steve Staunton's Catechism of Cliche

So, according to Steve Staunton, he's the boss.

In case you've not been paying attention, Stan is the new manager of the Irish football team, and will be apparently helped in this job by the infinitely more experienced Bobby Robson, whose job, we're told, will be that of International Football Consultant, whatever that is.

For all that, it seems, Stan is the boss. Or as he puts it himself, using that fine sixteenth century English term, 'the gaffer'.

It does rather worrying appear as though Stan speaks exclusively in cliches; were he still with us Flann O'Brien would have a field day, but with Ireland's funniest writer having long left this mortal realm, I'll have to take an inky stab at this myself.

A Managerial Catechism
In what activity does what you say engage?
It goes.
What stops with you?
The buck.
At what point in the day does the buck stop?
At the end of the day.

In what role will you use Bobby?
In whatever role I see fit.
Where is Bobby?
There.
When is Bobby there?
All the time.
And what will you put into your coach?
My faith and trust.

What do you know you can do?
It.
Is there anything else you know you can do, with, for example, your team?
Work together.
In what chambered muscular organ do you know this?
In my heart.
Why are you here?
To achieve success.
What is your aim?
To qualify for the European Championships and World Cups.
In what tautological way is this your aim?
First and foremost.

What would you like to do with new talent?
To blood it.
Where have you got new talent?
Coming through.
In what direction do you have to get the team?
Up.
What locomotive activity is it necessary that you have the team resume?
Running again.
Where do you have to get the fans?
Behind us.
Which of Pandora's gifts do you have to give them?
Hope.
In what direction must you show them you are heading?
The right one.

Good luck, so.