Television Can Blow Me (4 page)

In any case the idea of the Vuvuzela-as-beloved-traditional-horn is far from a universally acknowledged truth in South Africa. Mondli Makhanya, former editor-in-chief of the Johannesburg Sunday Times, has it right when he laments what Satan’s trumpet has done to the great South African tradition of public singing.

“During apartheid, we sung in the worst of times. When people were protesting, we sang. When people were being shot, we sang. We sing vociferously in funerals; we sing vociferously at weddings. What this instrument has done is to take something away from the football culture. And I think that, rather than celebrating it, we should actually be mourning the death of song.”

Yet Blatter still defends it. That gravy train piloting piece of shit’s only other contribution to the tournament is the introduction of the Adidas Jabulani ball, a ball whose unique selling point is its production of a “true flight”. Seasoned viewers will knows that the only thing Jabulani guarantees is a “true shite” football watching experience where the greatest selection of footballing talent on the planet cannot get a shot on target with it anywhere beyond 12 yards out. Big yourself up, Twatter - you’re a real piece of work.

For those that ain’t know I’ma break it down like this. Sepp Blatter is a spineless schmuck. South Africa is not a footballing country. Their fans desert the stadium the instant they start losing. Their only real interest in football teams is as a cover to murder 14 year old boys. Bafana Bafana sounds like one of Christopher Biggins’s catchphrases from On Safari. Apartheid is no longer South Africa’s biggest shame.

Consequently, every South African football “fan” past, present and future with a horn in his mouth can figgedy fuck right off into eternity.

World Cup Final 2010

“Bafana Bafana.....! Jabulani...!” screamed Peter Drury as Siphiwe Tshabalala (bless you!) slotted home the first goal of the 2010 World Cup as if every man jack of us were right behind plucky host nation Wherever the Fuck They’re Holding It This Year. In referencing a transcontinental solidarity that does not exist, Drury was complicit in a media-wide act of Olympic standard patronage, the kind of well-intentioned but ultimately condescending approach usually reserved for The Paralympics, that pointless shitbird of an event that the terminally nice pretend to be excited by.

Ever since that first game when the developed world began its month-long hate affair with the buzz killing vuvuzela and that dismal cuntmonkey of a football, the Adidas Jabulani (a perfectly spherical hate sponge that Craig Johnston correctly said encourages “prehistoric football”) it’s been a pale sea creature of a World Cup, undoubtedly one of the worst in the tournament’s history. As it reached a breathless climax last night, people wondered how would you ever end such a tournament? “With the triumph of good over evil” turned out to be the elusive obvious answer.

Because the Dutch side that kicked their way to the 2010 final were the antithesis of everything the country’s football has ever stood for. Paranoid, defensive, cynical, violent - they espoused a win-at-all-costs philosophy, and then lost. Redeemed, in some people’s minds, by tenacity, resilience and Arjen Robben they were unlikely comic villains causing much cognitive dissonance in the freewheeling Italia 90 generation who chiefly remember the Netherlands as the team they support when England get knocked out. Cruyff, Gullitt and van Basten replaced by the jocks who bullied them at school. Confusion abounded.

In mitigation, they did get rid of that pig-titted skunk Dunga and his horrific Brazilian side but they spent most of the tournament riding their luck hard and riding their opponents harder. Van Bommel in particular lived a charmed life as he stamped, kicked, niggled and deliberately tried to injure his fellow professionals. Still, they had the team spirit so that was OK. This Dutch side, at least, wouldn’t be subject to the centrifugal forces that tore apart so many of their predecessors. No superstars, second-guessers, narcissists or mutineers in this crew. This was a meritocracy of the mean.

In the opposite corner, meanwhile, wearing the white hat, were the European champions Spain, Vicente Del Bosque’s beautifully balanced side, master exponents of tiki-taka, that collectivism-in-action stylistic tour de force that turns passing triangles into Koch’s snowflake. Spain took control from the off, threatening to overrun the Orange hordes but Dutch thuggery soon took over. Mark van Bommel was booked for trying to cripple Iniesta, and Nigel de Jong was fortunate not to be charged with attempted murder after impaling Xabi Alonso through the chest on his boot. He escaped with a yellow.

It went on like this throughout the 90 minutes and extra time, Spain pressing like loons, being kicked up in the air then putting the freekick into Row Z.; the Dutch venturing forward occasionally with penetrating counters. When Andres Iniesta kept it gangsta with just four minutes left of extra time and ice-drilled a right footed shot past Maarten Stekelenburg, right-thinking people everywhere howled with joy as art’s victory over aggression was secured. Iniesta removed his shirt to reveal a T-shirt saying “Dani Jarque siempre con nostros” a tribute to the Espanyol player who died of a heart attack in August. After two hours of bruising frustration, the catharsis was sweet.

Chaos reigned in this World Cup and the horror is that that is so much duller than it sounds. FIFA, those inept drunk sluts, contrived to fuck up an event that is practically impossible to do badly. From the suicidal introduction of the Jabulani to the arrogant dismissal of video replays they once again confirmed their reputation as hospitality guzzling, ticket touting apparatchiks led by a professional administrator who has never kicked a ball in anger in his life. Ousting him and his kind from the sport’s governing body should be the guiding principle of every football related action in the four years before we head in 2014 to Brazil: land of the brave, home of the freekick. Replay technology, samba football and stadiums filled with swimwear models. We wait with the breath of the bated ones.

The verdict on World Cup final 2010:
Dicey start, traumatic middle, great ending.

Marks out of 10:
7

The Contender

“Two men enter - one man leaves. Then the other guy does a bit later.”

It’s no secret that Muhammad Ali can barely do his Rice Krispies each morning without flooding the kitchen. What does it say about a sport that its greatest exponent has been so tragically monged up as a direct consequence of his participation in it?

I guess it says that these guys aren’t pissing about. Boxing is a sport of extremes - corrupt, brutal and morally inane. With qualifications like this it’s a wonder The Contender didn’t happen before. Reality TV was made for this kind of thing.

The brainchild of Mark Burnett (“The Apprentice,” “Survivor”), the show houses 16 top ranked middleweights together, two of whom fight each week - a five round professional bout that goes on their official record. The winner progresses to the final stages, the loser takes the lonely walk out of The Contender house. The final two will fight at Caesars Palace for a $1 million purse - the stakes are that high.

They’re guided through the process by boxing legend Sugar Ray Leonard and boxing bell-end Sylvester Stallone. Some priceless unintentional comedy is provided by Stallone going around giving these seasoned professionals advice on boxing. Even though he doesn’t know shit about boxing. He played a
boxer
who didn’t know shit about boxing - a boxer whose ability to shout “Adriaaaaaaaan!!” at Francis Ford Coppola’s sister made him a cinematic turd of Olympian proportions.

Enough about the “why?” of Sly. You get to see the fighters at their best and their worse. A couple of exceptions aside, it’s difficult to dislike these guys. They all seem to be loyal, blue-collar salts, fighting for their families, hot girlfriends and angelic kids and that gets you rooting for them.

George Foreman pops in to offer the benefit of his vast experience and promote his Lean Mean Grilling Machine as a possible cure for cancer. The words ‘affable’ and ‘avuncular’ could have been invented for Big George but his legendary inability to call anything right about a boxing match is all too apparent. Not that it matters - the fighters are too star-struck to care. It may be hard to believe that Foreman has even stepped inside a ring, never mind been a cast-iron Hall of Famer but as Michael Moorer and Joe Frazier will attest, when you can bang like George you don’t need to know what you’re talking about.

It’s getting some historically bad viewing figures but that shouldn’t put you off - this is a very fine show. Boxing may not fit as snugly into the mainstream as it used to but there’s still no sport like it. Those eternal themes of noble combat, superhuman courage and senseless violence will see it endure.

The verdict on The Contender:
Comfortable points victory.

Marks out of 10:
8

Euro 2008 TV coverage

An excellent, thrilling and marvellous Euro 2008 ended last night with the Spaniels the deserved winners, edging out the tenacious Hun in a tense final. Despite England’s absence the networks threw themselves into the TV coverage with all the stupidity and enthusiasm we’ve come to expect. The BBC had to win back the trust of the nation after having the brass balls to appoint that incandescent shitcake baker and multimillionaire-off-the-backs-of-the-people failure Steve McLaren to summarise on the radio. This showed all the judgement and good taste of Graeme Souness selling his story to The Sun three years after Hillsborough. It is an unholy miracle if that mope ever works in this country again.

But the BBC have sensibly retained manager of the famous Aston Villa, Martin O’Neill who continues to be good value - always opinionated, witty and not afraid to go against the party line. Alan Shearer can make some good points but he’s a fundamentally depressing audiovisual presence. I don’t see him being missed when he eventually takes over and relegates Newcastle.

Alan Hansen and Mark Lawrenson do a good job. Lawrenson seems to be less popular than scabies but he calls things right more often than not. There is then a certain amount of controversy this year about how the BBC choose their pundits. Ian Wright accused the BBC of treating him like a court jester but he was just fucking shite with no articulacy, insight or appreciation of tactics. And a court jester is funny.

Although, the BBC still don’t seem to have worked out that Marcel Desailly does not speak English, even as a second language. I really don’t need to hear from him 15 times a day that France have been disappointing. I know they are disappointing. They’re French - they were born disappointing.

Magnificently, David Pleat repeatedly referred to the Czech Republic as the Republic of Czechoslovakia. But he is not a geography teacher, he’s a football summariser and, though widely derided, he’s excellent on tactics and gives a good read of a manager’s intentions. I think people mainly give him a hard time just because they think he’s a kerb crawling twat. While no doubt true that’s hardly a reason, people.

Over on ITV, Steve Rider continues to be a waste of space. I can’t believe this boy has ever actually paid to get into a football match. Andy Townsend is likeable but dull, much like his colleague Robbie Earle. Everyone but me wants to kill Peter Drury - I’ve always found him alright. ITV is particularly fertile breeding ground for Colemanballs. Andy Townsend’s “The full-back is literally, literally right up the backside of Koller there.” being a personal favourite of mine. Gary “Chromosome” Neville turns up from time to time and is exactly as charismatic as you expect. ITV accepted BBC’s superiority by allowing the Beeb to broadcast the final uncontested.