The teams I support have a nasty tendency to build me up before bringing me back down to Earth with an almighty crash. This weekend has provided a perfect example of that with Salford RLFC putting in a fantastic performance and beating St. Helens and Lancashire CCC crashing and burning in the Friends Provident Trophy Semi Final.
Salford don't seem to know what kind of a team they are. We've beaten Leeds away, Hull away in the Cup, Huddersfield away before capitulating to them at home, Bradford at home, Saints at home after doing poorly in the away game, Warrington at home... Yet we've put in some poor performances elsewhere when you'd think we should've stood a chance. This weekend has built everyone up and people are getting a little carried away in some sections. Yet you know we'll probably struggle away at Celtic this weekend. Ah well, it promises to be a good weekend away, but more of that later.
Lancashire. Such a wonderful start to the season. A start that promised so much and now? Well, poor form in the Championship was no real surprise I guess but Sunday's meek surrender to Hampshire was just horrible. Putting them into bat in glorious sunshine was the first mistake. Batting poorly and not looking urgent in the run chase was the second. Dreadful. Still, Worcestershire at OT this week in a Championship game starting Friday. If we can't beat them then we are in trouble. Hopefully we'll have a points-fest to get a bit of confidence back in the camp.
And I finish with a mention of the Ashes and the weekend ahead. I'm currently watching England struggle through against the Aussies in the hope that they can drag this game out as long as possible. Not just to save the game, but also that after the Celtic Crusaders game on Saturday I'll be stopping over in Cardiff and going to the fifth day on Sunday. Promises to be a marvellous time, I just hope I see some cricket and something good for England.
But, once again, it's them hopes being built up. Don't break my heart...
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Saturday, 27 June 2009
A thin line between reality and fantasy...
I've always been interested in writing, to the point where I was constantly told I should've done English in college and maybe beyond. I decided the people telling me that didn't know what they were talking about. Probably a big mistake, to be honest. Still, the interest has kept up to the point where I've done the odd bit of fiction here and there, but nothing major. In an attempt to expand my horizons I thought I'd give something like this a go, although with not having too much experience in this kind of writing I decided to make the setting around two people going to the match. It seemed to work - after all, that is one area that I'm pretty comfortable with! Hope this reads alright and someone, somewhere enjoys it.
The sun shone brightly as a beautiful day did not look like ending even at this stage of the evening. It had been a glorious day so far and the sunshine had put him in a good mood as he wandered up the steps, pint in hand, to take his spot. Not even the thought of what was going to happen on the pitch was enough to knock him off his stride, so what else could?
Then, suddenly, he realised. She was here. For the first time in months.
'Oh for fuck's sake', he thought. This was not what he needed right now. But there she was, summer dress on, looking radiant. And there he was, half cut, sweating like a proverbial pig in the sweltering heat and with a large group of his mates inbetween himself and her.
What to do? How to approach this delicate situation? He could not just go striding off to talk, he would never hear the end of it. Not to mention the fact that she would probably find it a little unnerving. Time to play it cool, other people would move around, you both would need to move out of the way of anyone coming past, so rely on that to get close and it will be easy to look across, say hello and start a conversation.
Some hope.
She stayed talking to her friends. He could hear her speak over the chatter of everyone else. The sound of her beguiling voice was some comfort, albeit a slim one. He strained to listen, but it was no good. Conversation was flowing far too well amongst his own group to pay any real attention. Although, that did work favourably for him in some instances. The odd louder joke or comment did draw her attention towards their direction. But then their eyes would meet briefly, a smile would be shared and then their gazes would be directed back towards the pitch.
"Jesus Christ, I'm making a right mess of this. How the fucking hell am I at least going to say hello?"
It didn't get easier. The eye contact and shared laughs got a little more frequent, but the latter was more of a communal happening throughout everyone nearby. It was not enough.
"Bollocks to this, I'll collar her on the way out, even if it's just a quick 'alright, how you doing?' That'll do, it's conversation."
So, he waited. Patiently. Until, finally, his chance came as she moved past him and looked up with an expression that summed up everything they'd just seen.
"See you next year," she said.
He smiled. And laughed. He watched her walk away, resplendent in her flowery dress. Pining. And then, she was gone. For who knows how long. He stood there and pondered the situation, the moment, the missed opportunities. Then he had a sudden realisation.
'Did I just fucking laugh? Oh wonderful, I've just made a right cunt of myself and it'll be too fucking late to try and explain my way out of that one next time I see her. If I see her. If I could explain it. Bollocks.'
And so, he left. And wondered. He knows full well that she will never, ever be his. There is still a faint hope that things might change eventually, but in reality friendship was all he asked. But making a fool of himself like that on the increasingly rare occasions he saw her was going to do him no favours at all.
And he knew it.
The sun shone brightly as a beautiful day did not look like ending even at this stage of the evening. It had been a glorious day so far and the sunshine had put him in a good mood as he wandered up the steps, pint in hand, to take his spot. Not even the thought of what was going to happen on the pitch was enough to knock him off his stride, so what else could?
Then, suddenly, he realised. She was here. For the first time in months.
'Oh for fuck's sake', he thought. This was not what he needed right now. But there she was, summer dress on, looking radiant. And there he was, half cut, sweating like a proverbial pig in the sweltering heat and with a large group of his mates inbetween himself and her.
What to do? How to approach this delicate situation? He could not just go striding off to talk, he would never hear the end of it. Not to mention the fact that she would probably find it a little unnerving. Time to play it cool, other people would move around, you both would need to move out of the way of anyone coming past, so rely on that to get close and it will be easy to look across, say hello and start a conversation.
Some hope.
She stayed talking to her friends. He could hear her speak over the chatter of everyone else. The sound of her beguiling voice was some comfort, albeit a slim one. He strained to listen, but it was no good. Conversation was flowing far too well amongst his own group to pay any real attention. Although, that did work favourably for him in some instances. The odd louder joke or comment did draw her attention towards their direction. But then their eyes would meet briefly, a smile would be shared and then their gazes would be directed back towards the pitch.
"Jesus Christ, I'm making a right mess of this. How the fucking hell am I at least going to say hello?"
It didn't get easier. The eye contact and shared laughs got a little more frequent, but the latter was more of a communal happening throughout everyone nearby. It was not enough.
"Bollocks to this, I'll collar her on the way out, even if it's just a quick 'alright, how you doing?' That'll do, it's conversation."
So, he waited. Patiently. Until, finally, his chance came as she moved past him and looked up with an expression that summed up everything they'd just seen.
"See you next year," she said.
He smiled. And laughed. He watched her walk away, resplendent in her flowery dress. Pining. And then, she was gone. For who knows how long. He stood there and pondered the situation, the moment, the missed opportunities. Then he had a sudden realisation.
'Did I just fucking laugh? Oh wonderful, I've just made a right cunt of myself and it'll be too fucking late to try and explain my way out of that one next time I see her. If I see her. If I could explain it. Bollocks.'
And so, he left. And wondered. He knows full well that she will never, ever be his. There is still a faint hope that things might change eventually, but in reality friendship was all he asked. But making a fool of himself like that on the increasingly rare occasions he saw her was going to do him no favours at all.
And he knew it.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Heroes in a half shell...
I've been undergoing a bit of a regression lately. Retro is definitely in.
I'm too early for a midlife crisis, surely?!
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
I know this is late...
But I've been a bit busy lately.
Anyway, I just wanted to say that, if you voted for the BNP, you're a c*nt.
This country's problems can not be solved by kicking out anyone who's black.
The BNP have no other realistic policies in place that would make a positive impact on the country.
Think on next time. If you voted for them, be ashamed and next time vote for someone who can make a difference. If you didn't vote at all... Get off your arse next time.
Anyway, I just wanted to say that, if you voted for the BNP, you're a c*nt.
This country's problems can not be solved by kicking out anyone who's black.
The BNP have no other realistic policies in place that would make a positive impact on the country.
Think on next time. If you voted for them, be ashamed and next time vote for someone who can make a difference. If you didn't vote at all... Get off your arse next time.
Monday, 15 June 2009
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Cup Fever
I've left this a few days after a week of Cup Fixtures captured my, and a few others', imaginations in order to let it all sink in.
It started off full of hope and optimism as we took our seats on the Saturday to watch Lancashire in the Quarter Final of the Friends Provident Trophy against Essex. We'd been beaten twice already in the group stages by the southern gits, so surely this had to be our time? Right. A superb victory meaning we've got a home draw against Hampshire in the semi-finals. Lord's beckoning? I hope so, no trophy (I'm not counting second division titles as trophies, not for anyone) for ten years means you start to get a little desperate for success. It's been a great start to the season on all fronts, here's hoping something comes off in one competition. Although if we win the Twenty20 I hope there's also a more meaningful trophy to go with it...
Then we got to Wednesday... The final of the European Cup, Champions League, Coupe des Clubs Champions Européens, whatever you want to call it. Manchester United's fourth final, the chance to win our fourth European Cup. To join an elite list of clubs at the top of European football. Only someone didn't seem to tell United this. Outplayed and outclassed by a superb Barcelona side who deserved their win. Nothing more to say. Funnily enough, it didn't hurt as much as it was clearly going to when we on the cusp of losing in Barcelona and Moscow. Maybe because we've now got a respectable number of European Cups. Hah. How arrogant does that sound, considering most people will never see their side play in Europe? Oh well, you know what I mean. Either way, Cup Fever was a little dampened at this point...
And so, Friday. Salford's Challenge Cup Quarter Final tie away at Wigan. The giddy-o-meter was off the scale amongst Salford's support and we took a following of around 1,500. Typically, though, we came up against a good, in-form Wigan side who took us apart. Wembley? It's the shittest ground in London that we'll never get to see, as the song goes. The club as a whole met the ground below them again with a fucker of a bump. Still, concentrating on league form improvement isn't a bad thing, I just hope we can kick on from the good few weeks we've had.
So - after all of that, the only club left that's giving me any hope is Lancashire. Makes a change. Let's just hope I'm not back on here in a few months bemoaning the way it's all gone tits up...
It started off full of hope and optimism as we took our seats on the Saturday to watch Lancashire in the Quarter Final of the Friends Provident Trophy against Essex. We'd been beaten twice already in the group stages by the southern gits, so surely this had to be our time? Right. A superb victory meaning we've got a home draw against Hampshire in the semi-finals. Lord's beckoning? I hope so, no trophy (I'm not counting second division titles as trophies, not for anyone) for ten years means you start to get a little desperate for success. It's been a great start to the season on all fronts, here's hoping something comes off in one competition. Although if we win the Twenty20 I hope there's also a more meaningful trophy to go with it...
Then we got to Wednesday... The final of the European Cup, Champions League, Coupe des Clubs Champions Européens, whatever you want to call it. Manchester United's fourth final, the chance to win our fourth European Cup. To join an elite list of clubs at the top of European football. Only someone didn't seem to tell United this. Outplayed and outclassed by a superb Barcelona side who deserved their win. Nothing more to say. Funnily enough, it didn't hurt as much as it was clearly going to when we on the cusp of losing in Barcelona and Moscow. Maybe because we've now got a respectable number of European Cups. Hah. How arrogant does that sound, considering most people will never see their side play in Europe? Oh well, you know what I mean. Either way, Cup Fever was a little dampened at this point...
And so, Friday. Salford's Challenge Cup Quarter Final tie away at Wigan. The giddy-o-meter was off the scale amongst Salford's support and we took a following of around 1,500. Typically, though, we came up against a good, in-form Wigan side who took us apart. Wembley? It's the shittest ground in London that we'll never get to see, as the song goes. The club as a whole met the ground below them again with a fucker of a bump. Still, concentrating on league form improvement isn't a bad thing, I just hope we can kick on from the good few weeks we've had.
So - after all of that, the only club left that's giving me any hope is Lancashire. Makes a change. Let's just hope I'm not back on here in a few months bemoaning the way it's all gone tits up...
Saturday, 16 May 2009
Never in my lifetime...
Sunday 26th April 1992. I was settling in front of the tele at my Grandma Holdsworth's house. I was still only eight years of age and the Football League was coming to the end of the first season that I really, truly, properly remembered. Others had been a blur, a mish-mash of random memories. I knew I was a United fan, but this was the year when it finally took hold. Things really started to matter. And, even by then, even at this tender age, I knew what winning the Championship meant. I knew how big a 25 year wait was for the title. Jesus, 25 years, that was a lifetime to my childhood mind! And so, I knew how important it was to win at Anfield and keep the title chase alive.
One thing that hadn't sank in at this point was the hatred for Liverpool Football Club and everything around it. The significance of eighteen titles hadn't hit home. Just winning the damn thing once was all that mattered at this moment in time. All that, however, was about to change. Two hours and two goals from Ian Rush and Mark Walters later and I felt sick, I was dizzy... And my hatred for Liverpool FC had been cemented. Forget any other aspect of the history between the two clubs, my feelings for those down the other end of the East Lancs can be traced firmly back to that day.
Twelve months later and I'm back at my Grandma's house watching an Ice Hockey game, I believe, on the BBC using small portable tele in her bedroom. Nerves are, again, taking hold and it was mainly an exercise in keeping my mind clear. And then - it appeared at the bottom of the screen. "Aston Villa 0 - 1 Oldham Athletic 1. Manchester United are the Premier League Champions."
We'd done it. 26 years of waiting over. Fantastic, wonderful, let's go to Anfield and crow about it. And crow we did, apart from one banner sticking in everyone's throats.
It'd gone from "fucking hell, we'll never win the league" to "fucking hell, we'll never catch those scouse twats up." Catching up and overtaking them seemed a long way away. Add that to 4 European Cups to our paltry one and... Well, it makes you sick just thinking about it, doesn't it?
Fast forward to the 16th of May 2009. Lots of things have happened. Liverpool have added one European Cup to their total, but haven't won the Championship since 1990. Manchester United, on the other hand, have not only won an unprecedented treble, and added another European Cup on top of that, and have the chance to defend that title in Rome and win it for a fourth time and have won two World Club Championships, but also, more importantly... Have just won their eigtheenth English Football Championship.
18 times. It's something that I've heard so many times growing up. It's a day I've long since looked forward to and prayed for. I've felt sick when we've not won it and looked back thinking "well, if we'd won it then we'd be level... And if we'd done it there we'd be ahead." It's a day I thought would never come, that seemed so many, many years away. And now we're there. Equal on Championships with Liverpool and, domestically, the most successful English side ever. You could argue that, with the two World titles in there, we ARE the most successful English side ever. But that won't be accepted until we're at least level on European titles.
That, in itself, is another post altogether. Growing up with 4-1, then 4-2 and then 5-2 being thrown at you was sickening. Suddenly, though, 3 seems a lot closer to that second magic number and with a 50/50 chance of one more... Well, sense prevents me from getting carried away. The most important thing to remember and enjoy at this moment in time is the fact that, after many years of suffering, abuse and crowing from all at Liverpool FC... Manchester United Football Club are Champions of England for the eighteenth time. And that is a fact.
One thing that hadn't sank in at this point was the hatred for Liverpool Football Club and everything around it. The significance of eighteen titles hadn't hit home. Just winning the damn thing once was all that mattered at this moment in time. All that, however, was about to change. Two hours and two goals from Ian Rush and Mark Walters later and I felt sick, I was dizzy... And my hatred for Liverpool FC had been cemented. Forget any other aspect of the history between the two clubs, my feelings for those down the other end of the East Lancs can be traced firmly back to that day.
Twelve months later and I'm back at my Grandma's house watching an Ice Hockey game, I believe, on the BBC using small portable tele in her bedroom. Nerves are, again, taking hold and it was mainly an exercise in keeping my mind clear. And then - it appeared at the bottom of the screen. "Aston Villa 0 - 1 Oldham Athletic 1. Manchester United are the Premier League Champions."
We'd done it. 26 years of waiting over. Fantastic, wonderful, let's go to Anfield and crow about it. And crow we did, apart from one banner sticking in everyone's throats.
It'd gone from "fucking hell, we'll never win the league" to "fucking hell, we'll never catch those scouse twats up." Catching up and overtaking them seemed a long way away. Add that to 4 European Cups to our paltry one and... Well, it makes you sick just thinking about it, doesn't it?
Fast forward to the 16th of May 2009. Lots of things have happened. Liverpool have added one European Cup to their total, but haven't won the Championship since 1990. Manchester United, on the other hand, have not only won an unprecedented treble, and added another European Cup on top of that, and have the chance to defend that title in Rome and win it for a fourth time and have won two World Club Championships, but also, more importantly... Have just won their eigtheenth English Football Championship.
18 times. It's something that I've heard so many times growing up. It's a day I've long since looked forward to and prayed for. I've felt sick when we've not won it and looked back thinking "well, if we'd won it then we'd be level... And if we'd done it there we'd be ahead." It's a day I thought would never come, that seemed so many, many years away. And now we're there. Equal on Championships with Liverpool and, domestically, the most successful English side ever. You could argue that, with the two World titles in there, we ARE the most successful English side ever. But that won't be accepted until we're at least level on European titles.
That, in itself, is another post altogether. Growing up with 4-1, then 4-2 and then 5-2 being thrown at you was sickening. Suddenly, though, 3 seems a lot closer to that second magic number and with a 50/50 chance of one more... Well, sense prevents me from getting carried away. The most important thing to remember and enjoy at this moment in time is the fact that, after many years of suffering, abuse and crowing from all at Liverpool FC... Manchester United Football Club are Champions of England for the eighteenth time. And that is a fact.
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