Sports journalism

I spent the whole of Saturday watching Rugby. First I watched Wales outplay Ireland at Croke Park. Then I watched as England and Scotland give Rugby Union an d the Six Nations a bad name at Murrayfield. Finally, I rounded off the day with a Premiership match between Gloucester and London Irish.
Almost six hours of continuous telly watching invariably makes me grumpy. But my grumpiness was stoked up considerably by the dross I had to watch - and listen to - on the BBC.
Wales versus Ireland was no classic. In fact, given the dire nature of the first half the Gaelic Sports Association might have felt vindicated in their decision to ban Rugby Union from Croke Park for all those years. Fortunately, the rugby improved considerably after half time. Unhappily, the same could not be said for the commentary of Nick Mullins. If ever there was a commentator who needed to be taken to one side, beaten soundly and then forced to listen to tapes of Bill McLaren commentating on Rugby or Richie Benaud on cricket, it is surely Mr Mullins.
His non-stop verbalising almost ruined the game. If he wasn't explaining, for the most part incorrectly, what caused a breakdown leading to a scrum, lineout or penalty, he was filling any tiny breaks in the soundtrack with factoids of unrivalled vacuuity. At simes, he sounded so much like the bloke that does the voice-over to the National Lottery draw that I fully expected him to tell us just how many times Ronan O'Gara had been selected by Guinivere this season.
From Dublin, we moved to Edinburgh where Brian Ashton produced a game plan of such mind-numbing stupidity for England that they managed to get beaten by the weakest team in the Six Nations. Admittedly, Jonnny Wilkinson had probably his worst game in an England shirt. But, the fact that Toby Flood followed his example and kicked any and all posession straight down the throats of the Scottish back three would seem to indicate that they were doing it to the coach's orders. That it wasn't the right strategy should have been patently obvious to everyone concerned after about fifteen minutes. Phil Vickery didn't react, but he at least has the excuse that he spends most of his time with his head shoved up other people's arses. Neither Wilkinson or Flood tried to vary the approach or try anything as outlandish as move it through the Backs' hands. Given that they are considered two of the more tactically-aware players in the team, this would seem to indicate that they were sticking very strictly to an agreed game-plan. So, that just leaves the coaches, all three of them, watching the game from the stands.
Hang on though. I only saw two coaches. Brian Ashton and the forwards coach, John Wells. And they weren't talking to each other. In fact, from the body language you could have, quite reasonably, assumed that they were supporting different sides. Where Mike Ford, the third member of the triumvirate was, is anybody's guess. Perhaps he was in the changing rooms polishing up his application to join Gatland and Edwards in Wales?
Whatever, the team and the game drifted. The Scots gratefully accepted the ball from England's wayward kicking and returned it with more accuracy, generally probing deep into England's territory in the process. When Ashton did decide something had to be done, it was as if he had been taking lessons from Gordon Brown. The changes were eye-catching in that he removed both his captain and chief play-maker at the same time but they achieved nothing of note. The fact that Charlie Hodgson - another player noted for his intelligence - kicked the ball, and England's last chance for meaningful posession, away with just thirty seconds remaining on the clock indicates that he was also sticking to the same dis-credited game plan.
Ashton has been bad for England. His approach is amateurish at a time when Rugby is becoming ever more professional. Had it been Wasps and not England involved, you can bet your boots that Cipriani would not have been caught out in the same way. Wasps, in the shape of Ian McGeechan and Shaun Edwards would have very clear policies in place; curfews even. As would have England during the Clive Woodward era. By contrast, Ashton leaves everything vague and wooly and then throws a hissy fit when Cipriani misinterprets or misjudges the boundaries.
After England had given the Jocks another twelve months' worth of celebration, I switched over to Sky Sports to watch Gloucester play London Irish at Kingsholm. What a revelation. The game was played in exactly the same conditions as the two Six Nations contests. The rain slashed down. The wind drove it almost horizontally and the pitch looked as if a flock of native porkers had been rooting around on it. No matter. Passes were made and caught. Kickers took account of the conditions and restricted themselves to clever little grubbers and chip kicks into open spaces. James Simpson Daniel used the dodgy conditions underfoot to slice throught the London Irish centres. The conditions became part of both team's experimentation. They were not used as an excuse for arid conservatism and lack of ambition. In fact, the game was a refreshing antidote to the turgid stuff that had been served up in the name of International rugby ealier in the day.
And, to cap everything else, the commentary by Will Greenwood and someone whose name I have, shamefully, forgotten, was sharp, incisive without being intrusive and thankfully devoid of Nick Mullins and his statistically fixated colleagues at BBC Sport.

Gordon is proven to be a moron - again

Unwarranted because this is the man who announced immediately he entered office in 1997 that gold no longer had any intrinsic value and was gob-smacked when a lot of savvy rich people promptly took tons of it off his hands at knock-down prices.

Those words are from the blog I posted on the 20th February. At that time, I already knew that the price of gold had reached new record highs. I didn't realise - because I am not an avid follower of the markets - just how much it was now worth. Without boring the pants off anyone, let's just say it's climbing inexorably, according to those in the know, towards $1000 per ounce. Some experts are predicting that it might double again during the course of 2008. All of which must be a tad embarassing for our dear aunt Prudence Brown, the allegedly brilliant erstwhile Chancellor of the Exchequer, who flogged off the bulk of our gold reserves for around $200 per ounce when he came into office in 1997. By some estimates, his "prudence" has cost everyone in the country around £100 or, put another way, a round £6 billion to you squire and would you like that bullion nicely gift wrapped before you take it back to the Emirates ?

Add that £6 billion to the odd £50 billion his crassness has cost the private pensions sector since 1997 and you would have to be terminally stupid or a devout disciple of Prudence Brown to continue to believe that his reign has been anything other than a disaster for this country. Were he the CEO of a publicly quoted company he would have been packed off into a decently funded retirement long ago.
Instead, he's a career politician with the reputation of a heavy weight intellect: A reputation whose origins could probably be traced back to the man himself. Because, despite his protestations of modesty, our Gordon is not the shy, retiring violet that he likes to portray himself as; something that would probably come as a bit of a surprise to many people who regarded him as Dr. Jekyll to Tony Blair's Mr. Hyde.
Consider, if you will, his performance last week at the Labour Conference where he referred to himself, with obvious relish, as the Great Clunking Fist; his favourite sobriquet after The Iron Chancellor. Never mind that when Dave Cameron challenges him at PM's Questions the great clunking fist shakes like a recalcitrant schoolboy forced to decline an irregular verb for the benefit of a vinegary old Latin master. Or that he chose to skulk into Lisbon while everyone else was at lunch to sign the iniquitous Treaty that hands Great Britain on a plate to his masters in Brussels. In his mind, he is Flash Gordon. Not just another super hero but a class warrior and representative of the oppressed and needy the world over. In other words, he is as much a fantasist as his straight kinda guy predecessor, but without the redeeming feature of being able to play the guitar.
The truth is, with his record over the last 11 years, Not So Flash Gordon would struggle to get a gig running a Punch and Judy show, let alone the economy of the fourth, fifth or sixth ( depending on the relative values of the pound and euro) wealthiest country in the world. Which is, perhaps, why he is lying so desperately through his newly enamelled teeth to force the Treaty of Lisbon through Parliament without the undoubted inconvenience of a referendum or similar democratic artifice. There has to be a nice little earner in it for him in the shape off a comfortable EU sinecure or some lucrative consultancy work ,once he has lost the next election.
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Parliament is not a private members club

Last week twenty or more labour MPs queued up to clap Speaker Michael Martin into the Chamber of the House of Commons. Their support for the Speaker was touching. It demonstrated a form of tribal loyalty not seen much outside the ranks of football supporters and street gangs these days. They clapped and cheered Speaker Martin and he returned their good wishes with winks and nods of appreciation.
It was all so very heartwarming - until you looked beneath the all-for-one, one-for-all mateyness. Greg Dyke once complained that the BBC was hideously white. It might be said of the bulk of Speaker Martin's supporters that they were, uniformly, hideously Scottish; and lowland, working-class Scottish at that. If ever there was a symbol for what ails our country at the moment, it was their clubby little demonstration of fielty. Because they weren't demonstrating loyalty to Parliament, its institutions or history. They were, essentially, trying to protect what is probably the best and most exclusive private members' club in the country.
Oh yes, they made loud noises about the integrity of the House and its essential need to police its own members and activities - as if the involvement of the rest of us begins and ends with shovelling money into the place and electing its inmates.
And yes, they generated a lot of noise, banging on about the ancient sovereignty of Parliament to resist external pressure and interference. But, it was nothing but the clanging of empty vessels; signifying nothing. How could it when most MPs, including Martin's loyal band of brothers, are studiously ignoring the heaviest and most sustained assault our Parliamentary democracy has ever suffered, in the shape of the Treaty of Lisbon?
Even the presence of a couple of thousand protesters demanding a referendum failed to infiltrate their lemming like minds. While the crowds were protesting , their MPs were busy sitting on their hands and allowing the very sovereignty not just of Parliament but of Great Britain to be cededto the EU.
The truth is they circled the wagons around the Speaker:
a. Because he is manifestly one of their ain folk and
b. because they are terrified that, were he forced to stand down, a new Speaker might want to restore some probity and rectitude to the institution of Parliament. And the obvious place to make a start would be in the Augean stables currently labelled MPs allowances.
If, however, they manage to maintain the staus quo and Martin stays in post for the foreseeable future, prospects for MPs of all parties look infinitely brighter. They might concede so many powers to the EU Commission as to turn Parliament into little more than a very ornate rubber stamp. They might so diminish the status of the House of Commons that voting at General Elections takes place in a public phone box but, hey, they get to keep the second home, the secretary/wife/partner allowance, the free travel, Air Miles and all the other freebies AND can can continue nursing the ambition of making it into a much enlarged European Parliament or Commission where, if recent reports are to be believed, the perks and benefits are, by UK standards, super-sized.