Tiger’s PR shank

The questionable PR management of an innocuous automobile accident has thrust Tiger Woods into the one place he had fought so hard to avoid – the tabloid spotlight.

If ever there was an object lesson in media and public relations bungling, then this was it. When his reputation landed in the rough last week, he was found wanting.

Throughout his career, Woods’ alienation of stakeholders has become legendary. Broadcasters were told to dance to his tune, promoters were required to fork out large chunks of appearance money, police escorts ring-fenced him on the links of St Andrews.

And, all the while, Joe Public was regularly snarled at and instructed to respect his privacy.

Well now we know why.

Now we know that Tiger had turned cheater. And when the lurid allegations began to fly, the tabloids gorged themselves, figuring that it was payback time.

By turning away the Florida State Troopers on three occasions and fobbing off the public, Woods and his handlers created an information vacuum into which wild speculation flowed.

Theories abounded that his wife had pursued his car armed with a three-iron, taking out several windows of his Cadillac Escalade as he attempted to make good his escape only to collide first with a fire hydrant before his inglorious progress was halted by a tree.

In the hours and days that followed, the disdain with which the media was treated by his spin surgeons and legal counsel, served only to ignite the desire to dig a little deeper.

Willing accomplices were unearthed. A society glamour puss here, a cocktail waitress there. Taking succour from tabloid cheque books, they emerged by the day. The count is now nine and rising.

Buying off one or two of the consorts in question was never a smart tactic by Woods’s people. Not when those negotiations put his lawyers head-to-head with tabloid editors.

As one tacky tale followed another, Woods, acting on poor advice and misguided logic, cowered behind bland statements on his own web site, rather than confront the imbroglio head on.

“I am dismayed to realize the full extent of what tabloid scrutiny really means,” he wrote.

“But no matter how intense curiosity about public figures can be, there is an important and deep principle at stake which is the right to some simple, human measure of privacy.

“For me, the virtue of privacy is one that must be protected in matters that are intimate and within one’s own family. Personal sins should not require press releases and problems within a family shouldn’t have to mean public confessions.”

Fair enough Tiger but the moment you chose a little extra-curricular night putting over your family, it was no longer a private matter. It was a media matter and by extension a very public matter.

Woods is a richly talented golfer, with 14 majors in his locker. In 2008 he earned over US$100 million from winnings and endorsements. He is the world’s foremost individual sports brand with personal worth of US$1 billion. He is icon and role model. It is on this last point that the world feels let down.

Woods is not a crisis communications pro, nor is his attorney. That is evidenced by them breaking all of the fundamental rules of crisis communications in the build-up to and aftermath of that 2am accident.

On three main counts they failed. 1. Have a plan for when crisis strikes; 2. Tell your side of the story – quickly, honestly and accurately; 3. Establish and control messaging.

The warning signs were there at least a week before it all started to unravel. The tabloids had linked Woods to New York nightclub host Rachel Uchitel, who was reported to be in the same Melbourne hotel as Woods while he was competing in the Australian Masters.

Woods had time to ponder the impact of the two issues – first that the media sharks were circling over claims of a dalliance, and second the confrontation with a fire hydrant and a tree near his Orlando home.

Woods ignored at least three opportunities to talk with police investigators about the incident. He delayed, losing opportunities to take control of the messaging. The delay aroused suspicion and media speculation grew.

To compound the situation, Woods’s statement about a car crash hinted at wider issues, possibly even alleged personal indiscretions. The sharks scented blood.

“This situation is my fault, and it’s obviously embarrassing to my family and me. I’m human and I’m not perfect. I will certainly make sure this doesn’t happen again.

“This is a private matter and I want to keep it that way. Although I understand there is curiosity, the many false, unfounded and malicious rumours that are currently circulating about my family and me are irresponsible.”

Light the blue touch paper.

Woods’ evasiveness and stonewalling rendered his personal web site a shooting gallery.

One comment read … “The longer you procrastinate, the more spin – negative or otherwise – there is out there. If you need to tweak the truth, so be it. But you should fire your PR advisors now. They’re doing a horrible job, and if you don’t have any, I suggest you pick a good one up from here on out. Step up – take control – move on.”

The duck-and-cover ploy didn’t work this time. It only contributed to the widening sentiment that Woods had been hiding facts, not to mention avoiding the authorities.

Woods employs an armada of advisers – charitable foundation communicators, personal spokesman, IMG luminaries. Either they didn’t offer the reputation management he needed or he didn’t listen.

Sometimes no news is bad news.

A lesson for WAGs

So footballers’ wives do have some dignity after all.

Take Teresa Enke, the widow of German international goalkeeper Robert who confronted the media to explain the suicide of her husband earlier this week.

Teresa’s performance was brave and heart-rending. She spoke with solemnity about how her husband had been battling depression brought on by family tragedy. 

Enke took his life after fearing that his adopted daughter would be taken from the couple by authorities if his illness became known. He had also struggled to cope with the death of their biological daughter Lara, who died at the age of two in 2006 of a rare heart condition.

Enke, 32, walked into the path of a train near his home in Hannover having left a suicide letter in which he apologised for hiding the condition of his mental state.

Teresa, dressed all in black and fighting her emotions, said: “I tried to be there for him, said that football is not everything. There are many beautiful things in life. It is not hopeless. We had Lara, we have Leila.

“I always wanted to help him to get through it. He didn’t want it to come out because of fear. He was scared of losing Leila. It is the fear of what people will think when you have a child and the father suffers from depression. I always said to him that that is not a problem.”

She continued: “When he was acutely depressed, then that was a tough time. That is clear because he thought there was no hope of a recovery on the horizon for him.

“After Lara’s death everything drew us closer together, we thought that we would achieve everything. I tried to tell him that there is always a solution. I drove to training with him. I wanted to help him to get through it.”

Enke was hit by a train travelling at 100mph as it passed through a level crossing on its route between Hamburg and Bremen.

He could be proud of the manner in which his wife brought distinction to his memory.

English WAGs please note.

Crashgate: Questions, questions

Buried deep in the sordid details of Formula One’s ‘Crashgate’ is a raft of questions left unanswered.   

First, why would Nelson Piquet Junior, a fledgling driver, throw away any chance of a future in the sport by willingly crashing his car in an act that was illegal, highly dangerous, bound to draw widespread condemnation – and shred his employment prospects in the process?

Maybe the answer lies in the questionable ethics of his father, Nelson Snr, no saint to be sure. Maybe it was an acute case of pushy parent syndrome. Maybe it was spoilt brat disorder. Whatever the cause, NPJ believed that by telling all to the FIA, he would emerge unscathed from the affair.

The reward for his gullibility is the stamp of damaged goods for life. A career in Brazilian stock car racing may be as good as it gets from here on.

Second, why would an otherwise decent and honourable man, an out-an-out racer, Pat Symonds, stoop to the fraudulent demands of Flavio Briatore and orchestrate the crash that reduced NPJ’s car to a pile of carbon fibre shards at the exit to Turn 17 on the streets of Singapore?

And why would Renault agree to support Briatore’s libel action against NPJ and his father? Admittedly company bosses backtracked and eventually threw Briatore and Symonds to the wolves by ‘releasing’ them from their contracts, but at what cost to the Renault brand longer term? 

It is widely known that NPJ’s seat in the sister car alongside Fernando Alonso was under threat as Briatore grew increasingly disenchanted with the young Brazilian’s performances. 

NPJ, the son of a three-time world champion, was a desperate and disillusioned young man struggling with Formula One’s competitive and commercial pressures. 

As a result of his crash, Alonso benefited from the safety car period precipitated by NPJ’s actions and sprayed champagne from the top step.

But did NPJ not think to consider the consequences of being party to the plot and then turning whistleblower in return for immunity? Whatever his motivations and we will probably never know, he emerges with little credit.

He claims his father was not aware of the dirty deed until after the fact. That probably explains Snr’s hostile reaction once the soiled linen was aired. No doubt Jnr was sworn to secrecy by Briatore.

The involvement of Symonds is the most astonishing aspect of the saga. What led Renault’s director of engineering to commit one of the worst acts of race-fixing in professional sport? An act that cost him his career and hitherto solid reputation.

A mechanic by trade, Symonds had made his way through the ranks of junior categories to one of the most pivotal team positions in Formula One.

He joined Toleman in the early 80s before the team morphed into Benetton and finally Renault. In the mid-90s he was Michael Schumacher’s race engineer while doubling as head of research and development. He succeeded Ross Brawn as Technical Director in 1997 and has been in the position of Executive Director of Engineering since 2001.

In Singapore, here was a brilliant tactician, a respected team leader, prepared to dispense with all trace of moral fibre to appease decision-makers above him, namely Briatore.

His dubious masterstroke, some say, is evidence of the corrupt depths to which Formula One has plumbed in pursuit of success.

Surely a man with Symonds’ technical nous realized that telemetry traces would confirm any doubt as to the authenticity of the crash. And surely a street-wise veteran would recognize that the incident would be shrouded in suspicion given the eventual outcome of the race. As it proved.

As for Briatore, not only is he staring at a life ban from F1, but there is every prospect that his tenure as part owner of Queen’s Park Rangers (co-owner Bernard Charles Ecclestone), will come to an end.

Briatore presided over two world championships for Michael Schumacher at Benetton in the mid-1990s, and two more at Renault for Fernando Alonso in 2005-06.

There will be few Kleenex boxes wasted on Briatore’s demise in the Formula One paddock. He was brash, irrational, manipulative and ruthless. As team principle and, conflictingly, a driver manager, and a prime mover in the Formula One Teams Association (FOTA), he had influence. Too much for many tastes. 

His repeated denials and despicable attack on NPJ’s personal life at the height of the fallout to ‘Crashgate’ was the last straw for many in the sport.

No doubt he was under enormous pressure from Renault to deliver results at a time when certain board members were questioning the extravagance of Formula One budgets amid plunging global road car sales.

It could be argued that Briatore was the author of his own downfall. By sacking NPJ in July this year, he must have feared that the driver, at the urging of his father, may reveal all.

The fact is that Briatore and Symonds set NPJ and the team on a course of wanton deception where lives would be put at risk for the benefit of a tarnished victory.

Renault, the parent, has some hard decisions to make. Irrespective of the outcome of the hearing into ‘Crashgate’ at the World Motor Sport Council in Paris this coming Monday, can Renault afford to remain in a sport while pots shots are taken at its reputation long after the findings are delivered?

Is the Renault team willing to face the very real prospect of civil action from the likes of Felipe Massa, who could justifiably claim that the actions of Briatore, Symonds and NPJ cost him a world title and a lot more besides? And what of the Singapore Grand Prix organisers, spectators, rival teams and sponsors? The rumblings have started.

Among the many victims of this sorry episode are the 400+ employees of the Renault team, particularly the hard-working souls on the shop floor at Endstone, Oxfordsire. These people had no knowledge of the conspiracy hatched by those at the helm, yet they may pay with their jobs.

The potentially lethal consequences of the actions of Briatore, Symonds and NPJ, were beyond control. Their crime was not only to cheat but also to endanger the lives of drivers, marshalls and spectators.

The last, hollow, word goes to the Renault team’s press officers, as evidence of one valedictory piece of manipulation from Briatore. The press release at the end of the Singapore race read thus …”The ING Renault F1 took its first victory of the season today as Fernando Alonso produced a brilliant tactical drive to win the Singapore Grand Prix.”

In the same press release, Briatore added: “This is an amazing victory for Renault. Today the car was extremely quick and although we had some luck when the safety car came out, we deserved this victory. It’s a very important result for Renault after two difficult seasons and that helps us to prepare for 2009 in the best way possible.”

Therein lies the motivation for one of the most brazen acts of skulduggery in sport.

Schumacher: Let It Be

Comebacks. Who needs them? Not Michael Schumacher. Thankfully.

Yes, the return of the seven-time world champion would have put extra traseros on seats in Valencia at this weekend’s European Grand Prix. In fact ticket sales rose by 10,000 when news broke of his impeding substitution for Ferrari regular Felipe Massa.

And yes, it would have been fleetingly interesting to see him mixing it with the Hamiltons, Alonsos, Vettels and the rejuvenated Buttons and Webbers.

But what of KERS, slicks, 2009 aerodynamic packages? Not to mention a prancing horse which is a lot more temperamental than the one he saddled in 2006.

What did he really have to gain? Was there anything left to prove? To us, to himself?

When the comeback was first mooted, Schumacher’s manager Willi Webber said it best. “When Michael was racing he would get as close to perfection as possible,” he observed. “In this case [the comeback], it would not be perfection – it would be a gamble – and that’s not Michael’s style.” Indeed it’s not.

Schumacher’s preparation was meticulous. So conditioning himself physically, mentally and technically for a return to the 2009 grid in the space of a few weeks, was way out of his comfort level.

And while his willingness to help out an old friend was noble, there wasn’t a realistic chance of him being competitive. And that’s not Michael’s style either.

In announcing his final decision, Schumacher said: “I am disappointed to the core. I really tried everything to make that temporary comeback possible, however, much to my regret, it did not work out.”

There are some of us who are relieved to the core that a stiff neck, the legacy of a motorbike accident earlier in the year, forced an about-turn.

What’s better? A champion bowing out in his pomp or a pale shadow poodling around with the tail-end charlies? It might be acceptable in touring cars, rally raids or celebrity karting but not in modern F1.

Boxers, particularly heavyweights, climb back through the ropes in the name of mounting debt dressed up as sporting desire. Most of those contests end in pity and despair.

And there are those who came back once too often having long since succumbed to the onset of Parkinson’s Disease. Just ask Muhammad Ali – if you still can.

Having quit after regaining his world title from Leon Spinks in 1978, Ali re-laced his gloves three years later at the age of 39 and was badly beaten by Larry Holmes.

He once floated like a butterfly. His care workers are now left propping up a trembling wreck of a human being. The sting has long gone.

And what of Joe Louis? Considered by many to be the greatest heavyweight of all time, he held the crown from 1937 to 1949. Massive tax debt led him into battle long after his shelf life.

In 1950, a year after his retirement and two years since his last fight, he lost to Ezzard Charles. A large purse was offered to fight champion Rocky Marciano the following year.

It was a contest Marciano didn’t want. Conscious of Louis’ financial plight, he accepted. Louis ate canvas in the eighth round and retired for good.

George Foreman re-entered the ring in 1994 at the age of 45. He knocked out Michael Moorer to reclaim his world title after a 20-year gap. He finally called it a day when he lost to Shannon Briggs in 1997. But, even then, he threatened comebacks in 1999 and, at the age of 55.

Sugar Ray Leonard was another man with a heavy addiction to comebacks. He made four between 1976 and 1997. His dubious reward today is the ability to count his brain cells on one hand.

Elsewhere, sport is littered with failed second comings. Sportsmen who returned as spent replicas.

Men like Bjorn Borg. The Swede retired aged 26 with 11 grand slam titles in his locker. He founded a fashion company, flirted with hard drugs and soft-in-in-the-head relationships, before attempting a toe-curling comeback in 1991. He arrived armed with his wooden Donnay racket. Wood v graphite? Go figure.  

He never won another match in 10 tournaments.

Then there’s Mark Spitz. The American made history with seven Olympic gold medals in the pool at the Munich in 1972, a record only eclipsed by Michael Phelps in Beijing last year. Spitz tried out for the US national team in 1991, aged 41. He was two seconds outside the qualifying time for Barcelona 92.

Even Pele, after taking Brazil to three World Cups, was coaxed out of retirement to play saar-kur for the New York Cosmos.

East German figure skater Katarina Witt collected two Olympic golds, four world titles and six European crowns. She quit in 1988 at 23 but returned six years later for the 1994 Games at Lillehammer. She finished seventh.

Martina Hingis took an early bath at 23. In 2006, the former world No1 was back and played two seasons winning three tournaments and the Australian Open mixed crown. Her homecoming was brought to a premature by a positive test for cocaine during Wimbledon in 2007.

Of course there will always be exceptions. Some glorious.

In Schumacher’s world there is Niki Lauda. The Austrian survived a fiery, near-fatal shunt at the 1976 German Grand Prix to win the world title the following year. The Austrian then retired, flew planes, got bored, oversaw the destruction of his business empire, and returned to land a third title in1984.

Michael Jordan, came back to basketball after two seasons of playing baseball badly to inspire the Chicago Bulls to three consecutive NBA titles. Lester Piggott cajoled a string of winners after a five-year break at Her Majesty’s behest on tax charges.

And of course there is Lance Armstrong. Diagnosed with testicular cancer in 1996, he won the Tour de France three years later and added six more before retiring in 2005. This year, aged 37, he came back again, and finished third.

In Schumacher’s case, I prefer to remember him as he was in 2006, signing off at the Brazilian Grand Prix with one last flourish of his awesome talent at the controls of a Formula One car.

His qualifying was compromised by a fuel-pressure failure, and, in the race, a puncture after nine laps dropped him drop to 19th. His response was to drive the sidepods off his Ferrari to finish fourth.

It was a fitting finale. An encapsulation of the determination that had defined his career.

“You know the song ‘My Way’? I’d say that fits the way I feel,” he said afterwards.

His way was not always to take the moral high road. He mixed utter brilliance with outbreaks of questionable sportsmanship. The archetypal flawed genius, his entries in the record books will always carry an asterisk of controversy.

Variations on the “Schumacher Returns to F1” story will continue to be written. For there is something of the obsessive about sports men and women.

The same ferocious drive that got them to the top in the first place, lures them back when they are clearly past their best. As does the succor of adulation.

Sporting greats contemplating a career reboot will do well to heed the advice of The Beatles, who disbanded in 1970 and never reformed.

Let it be.

John Surtees: A lesson in dignity

John Surtees buried his son Henry last week, cruelly taken from him and his family at the age of 18. Henry was chasing his dream just like his father had done.

Henry was the victim of a freak accident in a Formula Two race at Brands Hatch when a stray tyre from another car struck his crash helmet at over 140mph. He was airlifted to a London hospital. He passed away later that evening.

John, as Henry’s racing mentor, was trackside. Prior to the race, John stood on the starting grid and reached down into the cockpit to shake Henry’s hand. “We bid each other farewell, as it turned out,” he would say afterwards.

When news of the severity of Henry’s injuries began to emerge, via event commentary and from the trembling lips of team mechanics, John feared the worst. “After I had seen his helmet I started to feel very unwell,” he recalls. “They rushed him to hospital straight away. The doctor told us the impact would have killed him instantly.”

Less than 24 hours earlier, Henry had underlined his burgeoning reputation by claiming his first podium finish at the same circuit.

In the hours following his death, during the funeral service at Worth Abbey, Sussex, and the days since, the dignity with which Surtees Snr dealt with the tragedy should be an example to us all.

No press conference, no public outpourings of grief. Just a very private, moving, eloquent statement from the family figurehead and a plea for lessons to be heeded from the events leading to the loss.  At the service, Henry’s devoted sisters spoke with equal solemnity.

In trying to comprehend the manner of his son’s passing, Surtees said: “It was just the most terrible piece of bad luck. It was a chance in God knows how many millions that the tyre collided with Henry when it did. You can’t prepare for anything like that.”

Henry had recently completed A-levels in economics, ICT and biology at Worth School, run by Benedictine monks from the Turners Hill Abbey.

“The tragedy was that he only just found himself,” his father noted. “He had spent the last two years frantically trying to balance his studies and racing.

“But in recent months he changed, without the worry of his A levels hanging over him. He was so confident in himself and started to map out what he wanted to do in the future.

“Contrary to what many people think, I never asked him to go into racing. He had never actually seen me racing because of the age gap between us.”

John, 75, is the only man to be crowned world champion on two and four wheels.

He won seven world championships in the 350 and 500cc class between 1952 and 1960. Four years later he took the Formula One world championship at the wheel of a Ferrari. He was awarded an OBE last year for his services to motor sport and charity.

John survived a period during which rivals lost their lives almost on a weekly basis. Hard to accept then that motor racing took a son destined to follow in his tyre tracks. And in an era of vastly improved safety.

“The world beckoned,” John said. “He had shown himself to be one with the possibilities of reaching the very top. Despite his young age he had shown maturity, technical understanding and speed. Most importantly he was a nice person and a loving son.

“I feel absolutely empty. I still expect him to bounce through the door. For now we are concentrating on celebrating the eighteen-and-a-half years we were lucky to have had him in our lives.”

BBC commentator Martin Brundle, another proud father at Brands Hatch that day, wrote … “My 18-year-old son, Alex, was in the same race just a few places ahead of Henry. If he had been in the accident I would have been thinking we’d lost him.

“When we got home we went onto the internet and followed the stories until Henry’s death was announced. I knew those stories could just as likely have been about my son, or anyone else’s.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what John and Jane Surtees and their family and friends are going through. To outlive your child is any parent’s worst nightmare.”

Like Henry and many others, I never saw Surtees race for real but I was privileged to catch a glimpse of him rolling back the years at the Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari during the San Marino Grand Prix weekend of 1998.

Surtees, 64 at the time, was on the Mercedes-Benz Museum’s elite driver roster. His job was to demonstrate the German marque’s priceless collection of pre and post-war racing machines.

Standing beside his chosen steed on that day – a W154 circa 1939 – was this ghostly figure clad in a blue cotton race suit diffidently treated with fire retardant.

A solitary Dunlop logo was on his left breast – a far cry from Nomex/Kevlar race suits adourning the human billboards of modern Formula One. Open face helmet and split-lens goggles completed his sober attire.

He waited patiently by a back entrance to the circuit. There was not a race fan in sight. That appeared to be the way Surtees preferred it.

Nostalgia and methanol filled the humid air as the two-stage supercharged V12 was roused. Ears were split when the rev dial went anti-clockwise. Surtees had 7,800 rpm under his right foot.

He inched his frame into the cockpit, eased the beast onto the track and over four laps coaxed every ounce there was from the 480-odd horses. His valour and car craft was every bit as captivating as that of Mika Hakkinen and Jacques Villeneuve in qualifying the same day. Not a wheel out of place, every apex hit, balls-out power slides aplenty.

Gnarled race mechanics downed spanners and clambered on to the pit wall to drool. Not once did Surtees pause for adulation until his day was done.

TV feeds in the opulent race team catering facilities and the vast VIP hospitality areas showed him hack sawing at the polished wooden steering wheel. Big screens dotted around the circuit took the pictures to the grandstands.

The cacophony of appreciation from the tifosi was earth moving. All the more remarkable given that the colour of Surtees’ car was silver not red. This was Ferrari territory.

Here was a man at the top of his game long after his extraordinary heyday had been consigned to sepia. On his return to the Paddock, he climbed out and departed as quietly as he had arrived. A virtuoso if ever there was one. And not a hint of pretence.

Contrast that with another occasion a few years later. The scene is the Jaguar Racing team official hospitality suite in the Sepang paddock. It is Friday morning practice for the 2000 Malaysian Grand Prix.

A replay of Surtees’ exploits in the W154 as part of a highlights package from an earlier grand prix was running on the TV as it usually did prior to the first practice session of the weekend.

Seated for breakfast are three world champions. Jackie Stewart (1969, 1971, 1973), Niki Lauda (1975, 1977, 1984) and Jody Scheckter (1979).

On Jackie’s plate is the full English. A waitress emerges to take orders.

Waitress: “What are you having Niki?”

Lauda: “I’ll have what Jackie’s having.”

Stewart: “It’s the world champions’ breakfast.”

Lauda: “OK, I better have that then.”

Scheckter: “And the same for me.”

In walks Jacques Laffite, the dapper Frenchman who recorded six race wins between 1974 and 1986. And no world titles.

Waitress: “Can I get you something to eat?”

Lauda (winking to his colleagues): “Jacques, are you having the world champions’ breakfast?”

Cue raucous urine extraction from the trio of world champions.

Somehow you can’t imagine Gentleman John being party to the mocking at Laffite’s expense.

London 2012: Whippet racing anyone?

The campaign for whippet racing, bog snorkelling and cheese rolling to be added to the Olympic roster starts here.

And while we’re at it, we’ll be putting in a good word for Morris dancing, the Eton Wall Game and extreme haggis hurling.

Our offensive will focus on post codes way beyond the Greater London area. For the far flung reaches of the British Isles, we will use communications techniques practiced in those parts. We will deploy carrier pigeons to win those narrow minds.

Our objective is to shake the country out of it’s apathy towards London 2012.

And why?, I hear you ask.

Well, Monday, 27th July, 2009 signalled three years to the Games of the XXX Olympiad in London, England. The milestone and, the media rumpus surrounding it, would be met with widespread enthusiasm from the public at large you would have thought.

Well, not exactly, judging by the wave of indifference deluging the phone lines of the BBC Radio Five breakfast show the same day.

The propagators of doom, callers from Birmingham, Leeds, Manchester, Edinburgh and Glasgow, vented anti-London sentiment and questioned why their taxes would be put to bringing the Games to these shores.

They were appalled that their hard-earned cash would be used to line the pockets of southern softies – and accommodate Johnny Foreigner in his quest for sporting excellence. Welcome to Britain’s north-south divide.

“I live in the north of England and I’m a taxpayer so I’m indirectly contributing to the 2012 Olympics, but how will they benefit me?” one caller asked. “They should give us all free tickets,” he added.

And then there was the old chestnut. “Taxpayers’ money spent on the 2012 Olympics would be better spent on the NHS (National Health Service).” No it wouldn’t. But getting gang members off the streets of Moss Side and onto their local sports grounds might just ease the logjam at accident and emergency departments.

In Greater Manchester, our campaign will adopt the slogan – “Take a shot at sport instead” – and will be music to the ears of the numerous victims of gun crime in those environs.

Another caller from the shires, an alleged sports fan (rugby league to be precise), took a cheap swipe at synchronized swimmers, while questioning the investment his country was lavishing on the “London Games”. Additional callers from his neighbourhood agreed. 

It was classic Monty Python at times … “Apart from better sanitation and medicine and education and irrigation and public health and roads and a freshwater system and baths and public order … what have the Romans done for us?”

For Romans, read Londoners.

Online chat forums are also clogged with northerners bickering like a bunch of fish wives.

Mr Grim Up t’North’s premise, based as it is on economic benefit, is flawed, particularly at this construction stage.

Current Olympic Delivery Authority (ODA) statistics, freely available on the official web site, confirm that pockets will be lined well beyond the M25 motorway, Greater London’s perimeter fence.

And, we are still three years out. Businesses across the country have been invited to tender for a raft of infrastructure-related contracts.

There is £6 billion of supply chain contracts to be awarded by organisers of the 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games and its top tier suppliers. The events will generate 75,000 business opportunities.

Contracts worth over £1 billion have so far been let, most to small and medium-sized companies. Fifty per cent of those companies are based outside London.

The commercial rewards on offer were outlined at the national launch of the London 2012 Business Network held at Manchester United’s Old Trafford stadium – one of the venues for the Olympic football tournament.

Over 800 north-west firms have registered interest in the procurement opportunities and at least 20 companies based in the region have already won contracts to supply goods and services to the ODA and other 2012 contractors.

Opportunities exist in construction, professional services, tourism, hospitality, sport, food and creative sectors.

The list of confirmed building contractors to date includes companies headquartered in Derby, Walsall, Wolverhampton and Belfast.

One such contractor in the midlands has struck a £3m deal to barrier the Olympic Village. Watson Steel, of Bolton, will supply steel for the main Olympic stadium.

Furthermore, in the run up, sports facilities across the country will receive funding to upgrade and provide training camps for over 200 competing nations. As for venues, Weymouth will host sailing while stadia across the UK will stage the Games’ football tournament. Rowing and flat water canoeing will be held in Windsor.

“All the jobs will go to Londoners,” one called stated. Not quite. In terms of employment, 36 per cent of the present workforce is drawn from outside London.

As for legacy, the benefits will live on long after the dissenters have been silenced.

Wasn’t fending off opposition from Madrid, Moscow, New York and Paris enough to satisfy the xenophobes from the Republic of Yorkshire? Apparently not. 

Our campaign message to them is: Put your regional prejudices to one side. Be proud to be part of the greatest sporting event known to mankind. And be proud to call the “London” Games your own. 

To borrow from JFK … ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country.

A good place to start would be to accept that for two weeks from 27th July 2012, London will become the sporting capital of the world.

And accept also, that Grimsby, Pugsley, Whitby, Rotheram and Hutton Le Hole didn’t quite measure up in the opinion of the International Olympic Committee.

The open top bus syndrome

SO ENGLAND stood 75 years of history on its head and won a cricket match against Australia at Lord’s this week.

Cue rampant triumphalism, MBEs, 1966 and all that. And forget swine flu, this latest victory is likely to trigger a pandemic of open top bus syndrome (OTBS).

The drone of the Routemaster’s engine can be heard in the distance. For in a country with a voracious appetite for over-celebration of sporting success, the open top bus is the vehicle of choice. 

Acclaim to an English sportsman is like metholated spirit to a vagrant: one whiff and you’re on the top deck.

Traditionally the open top bus parade has been the preserve of soccer teams cavorting in FA Cup and domestic league championship triumph. 

At national level, England soccer has been riding its bus for 43 years. It was boarded in 1966 after the country’s sole World Cup victory.

The first modern-day case of OTBS afflcting another sport was reported in 2003 when England burgled the Rugby World Cup.

There was a nationwide outbreak in 2005 when England’s cricketers claimed the Ashes over injury-ravaged opponents.

On each of those occasions, royal gongs were sprayed around like projectile vomit on the streets of Hull on a Friday night.

Chief among the rugby recipients was coach Clive Woodward, whose reward for taking pomposity and self-importance to new heights was the dubbing of a sword on the shoulders from Prince Charles.

For the cricketers, there were OBEs for captain Michael Vaughan, and MBEs for the other 11 who played in the series against Australia.

It’s worth delving into the individual contributions.

Ian Bell’s MBE was for scoring 171 runs in 10 innings at an average of 17.10; Paul Collingwood picked up his for playing one Test, scoring 17 runs and bowling seven overs; and there was an MBE for Ashley Giles for his 155 runs at 19.37 and 10 wickets at 57.80.

On that basis, Andrew Flintoff, who brought about Australia’s downfall at Lord’s, should be getting a call from the palace any day soon. Arise Sir Fredalo.

Those aforementioned bouts of OTBS, the feting of sportsmen and the wanton distribution of honours being the symptoms, were initiated by the government of Tony B Liar. It was none-too-subtle vote catching. Inevitably, No.10 was on the bus route.

It’s worth recalling that B Liar’s chief spinmeister at the time was Alastair Campbell who later went on to become Director of Communications for the Lions on their embarrassing rugby tour of New Zealand in 2004-05. Sir Clive Woodward was the coach. His team lost the Test series 3-0.

Finally, I’d like to propose that those open top buses could be put to better use. How about armour-plating them and putting them on the Kandahar to Helmand Province run? 

At least then, troops in Afghanistan would have the equipment they need to get the job done. It may do wonders for the body bag count. A total of 187 British soldiers have died in Afghanistan since operations began in 2001 – 19 this month.

I wouldn’t mind betting that the mothers of the fallen would reckon their sons more worthy of medals than any number of vainglorious sportsmen.

Particularly as they served their country without one eye on the scoreboard and the other on the bank balance.

Age shall not weary Watson …

FOR humility and heroics, Thomas Sturges Watson’s efforts at the Open Championship on the links of Turnberry, Scotland took some beating.

Watson failed to sink an eight foot putt on the 18^th hole of regulation before unravelling in a play-off against Stewart Cink in pursuit of his sixth claret jug.   

You may assume that Watson, on the doorstep of 60, might be content with the romance that attended his feats over the previous four days and 71 holes. Return to Kansas City, drink in nostalgia and count his millions. Not Tom. He was distraught.

“There is still quite a vacuum in the stomach,” he said of that missed putt. “I’m not crying, but I’ve been affected by it to a certain degree. But this, too, shall pass.

“What puts it in perspective is a series of contacts from people I met when I went to Iraq a couple of years ago. Many of them have contacted me and said: ‘Congratulations, and, oh, by the way, when you’re in a neck-high bunker and you have a 4-footer, just remember, it’s just a game.’ ”

One message in particular moved our Tom. “There was one message from a young man by the name of Leroy Petry, who is up for the Congressional Medal of Honour, who saved a bunch of lives by taking a pretty direct hit from that grenade that he was trying to throw,” Watson revealed. “It went off right in his hand. That’s perspective.”

The perils of child prodigy …

FOR AN exercise in pushy parenting, try the post-event press conference at the Foro Italico, Rome, for British diver Tom Daley.

Fifteen-year-old Daley had just clinched gold in the 10-metre platform and was explaining himself to the world’s media. 

When it came time for questions from the floor, his father Rob seized a microphone at the back of the room. “I represent Tom Daley, I’m Tom’s Dad,” he announced. “Tom, can you give me a cuddle?” he pleaded, before adding: ‘”Come on, please, come on.”

A deeply mortified Tom obliged.

No doubt, Rob is a proud Dad and no doubt he has done much to assist his son’s career progression. And no doubt he was gripped by the emotion of the moment.

But considering father and son had already shared an embrace en route to the press conference, this was shameless gate-crashing of glory.

Cardiff: The bitter aftertaste

“Pretty ordinary” is an Australian colloquialism which carries a lot more venom than its understatement suggests. 

In fact the phrase is dripping with innuendo. Often shortened to “ordinary” it is variously associated with people, places and behaviour. It is regularly deployed as mortar fire in a verbal assault.

If a sportsman has had a poor game, his is an “ordinary effort”. If a street is in a decrepit state it is an “ordinary address”. If someone has acted underhandedly, bent the truth, spoken out of turn, or dropped a mate in the deep end on the battlefields of Gallipoli, he is branded an “ordinary bloke”. 

In the world of Ricky Ponting, the Australian cricket captain, an opposing team employing sharp practice which breaches the spirit of the game is “pretty ordinary”.

At this point, I should inform our adopted cricketerati that there was an incidence of brazen time wasting in a match of some consequence between England and Australia in Cardiff, Wales last week.

It was the low point in an otherwise enthralling fifth and final day of the contest. The Australians had their bovver boots on the throats of their hosts for long periods of the match and were seemingly headed for victory.  

Their inability to land the final fatal blow was therefore disconcerting for those of us born south, well south, of Watford.

And lest I am accused of supping unsweetened semillon, I will add that England were stoic in salvaging a draw. Yes, I know, five days of play and still no winner. For the uninitiated, the explanation is to be found here.

So, there we were in the dying minutes of the match. Under the rules, England, with their last two remaining batsmen – James Anderson and Monty Panesar – at the crease and leading by a handful of runs, had to remain in occupation until 18:41.

In so doing they would ensure that there was not sufficient time (10 minutes) for Australia to prepare to bat again and knock off the runs required for victory. Assuming they removed one of the batsmen of course.

Every minute was crucial in England’s bid to run down the clock. Australia, meanwhile, needed to send down as many balls as possible in the final hour in the hope of taking the one wicket they required.

Twice during a 69-ball stand of defiance, the England 12th man (drinks waiter) Bilal Shafayat ran onto the field to offer batting gloves to Anderson while physiotherapist Steve McCaig made two visits to the playing field for no apparent reason.

On one occasion, McCaig tapped a bemused Anderson on the shoulder and scampered back to the sanctuary of the pavilion. I’ve heard of instant remedies, but that’s ridiculous.

Ponting was not amused by the glove incident.

“I don’t think that was required,” Ponting said. “He had changed his gloves the over before and his glove is not going to be too sweaty in one over.

As for the behaviour of the rotund McCaig, he added: “I am not sure what the physio was doing out there – I didn’t see him (Anderson) call for any physio to come out. As far as I am concerned it was pretty ordinary, actually.”

However, as admitted above, Ponting did not cite the shenanigans as a reason for Australia’s failure to secure the win. But he did have an issue in the area of moral fibre. “It is not the reason we didn’t win,” he said. “They can play whatever way they want to play. We have come to play by the rules and the spirit of the game, and it is up to them to do what they want to do.”

By way of riposte, Ponting’s opposite number Andrew Strauss reasoned that, amid some confusion, the 12^th man was sent on to the field of play to inform the batsmen – neither of whom are mathematicians to be sure – that there was time and not just overs to be completed. And we are probably all OK with that.

But, bizarrely, Strauss then claimed Anderson’s gloves needed to be changed because he had spilt drinks on them in a drinks break. “Drinks were spilt on his glove and Jimmy (Anderson) called up to the dressing room and we weren’t sure whether we needed the 12th man or the physio.” You couldn’t make it up.

In the final reckoning, I’m with Guardian cricket columnist, Mike Selvey on the matter. Selvey (born in Chiswick, Middlesex, England), played three times for his country.

He wrote: “That was not gamesmanship or bending the rules to your advantage; it was taking the piss, unbecoming of the England management and team or any side who perpetrated it. What next? Orchestrated pitch invasions at appropriate moments?

“Andrew Strauss’s assertion that they were new gloves that had become wet from spilled water on the previous visit is laughable.”

No ordinary bloke that Selvey.

True, Australian sportsmen have no right to view on-field controversies from atop a moral high horse. The skeletons in the cupboard are three deep.

True, the incident did not shape the outcome of the match. And it might not sour relations as these two tribes go to war in the name of sport for the remainder of the series.

But, in a contest renowned for the good nature in which it was played the last time the baggy greens toured these shores, the tannin of duplicity lingers.

The finer arts of Federer

Roger Federer has long been considered by the cognoscenti as the best tennis player of all time. After his sixth men’s singles title at Wimbledon yesterday – his 15th grand slam trophy – his record lends weight to the argument. Maybe even settles it for good.

Sure, the pub debates will rage over how many titles Rod Laver might have collected had he not turned professional but Federer can certainly lay claim to being the finest technician of the game. Finer than the urbane Laver et al.

In defeating Andy Roddick over five arduous sets, Federer eclipsed the previous grand slam mark of 14, owned by Pete Sampras. Also in that exalted company is Roy Emerson (12), Laver and Bjorn Borg (both 11), Bill Tilden (10) and Ken Rosewall, Ivan Lendl, Andre Agassi, Jimmy Connors and Fred Perry (all 8).

This was the man remember who was beaten by Rafael Nadal 6-4, 6-4, 6-7, 6-7 (8-10), 7-9 at SW19 last year in the greatest men’s final ever.

He also lost to the bionic Spaniard in the Australian Open in January before restoring order with a straight-sets demolition of Sweden’s Robin Soderling in the French. Form is temporary, class is permanent.

Federer has now won six Wimbledons, five US Opens, three Australians and a French. He has featured in the semi-finals of the last 21 grand slams. In all he has won 60 career titles. They are mere stats.

What matters more is the athletic grace and humility Federer brings to his craft. If ever there was an elegant, eloquent assassin, he is it.

Sporting genius comes in many guises. It can be bloody-minded as in Michael Schumacher, loud, proud and brutally destructive, as in Cassius Clay, reckless and self-destructive as in George Best and Diego Maradona, uniquely agile as in Pele, inventive as in Tiger Woods, brave yet shadowy as in Lance Armstrong. In Federer it is pure, polite and balletic.

Cristiano Ronaldo may defy physics by curling a free-kick around a human wall and the outstretched palm of a goalkeeper. Brian Lara may spend two days defying bowling attacks to compile 400 runs and Don Bradman may counter questionable leg-side assaults to end his career with an unfeasible average of 99.94.

But when it comes to hand-to-eye/mind/body co-ordination, versatility, agility, channelled energy and power and the ability to mine rich reserves when all appears lost, Federer stands apart.

Consider his reservoir of prowess. There is the balance, the timing, the rhythm, the guile, the footwork, the feline movement, the effortless brutality. There is the exquisite technique on clay, hard court or grass.

As Jimmy Connors says … “in an era of specialists – you’re either a clay court specialist, a grass court specialist or a hard court specialist … or you’re Roger Federer”.

As David Foster Wallace wrote in Roger Federer as Religious Experience: How One Player’s Grace, Speed, Power, Precision, Kinesthetic Virtuosity and Seriously Wicked Topspin Are Transfiguring Men’s Tennis, it is the Federer technique that takes the breath away.

“Federer’s forehand is a great liquid whip, his backhand a one-hander that he can drive flat, load with topspin, or slice – the slice with such snap that the ball turns shapes in the air and skids on the grass to maybe ankle height.

“His serve has world-class pace and a degree of placement and variety no one else comes close to; the service motion is lithe and uneccentric, distinctive only in a certain eel-like all-body snap at the moment of impact. His anticipation and court sense are otherworldly, and his footwork is the best in the game.”

Federer doesn’t play tennis strokes he paints them. Both vertical and diagonal as the need arises. He combines lightning court coverage, ridiculous velocity and deft touch.

As Laver himself says: “I think the public should just watch his feet, just watch Roger and not the ball, and you’d see how great a player he is to pull off some of the shots. When he’s half-volleying winners off the baseline you just marvel at his ability to do that.”

Federer, like all great sportsmen, has time. He has a languidness that masks a cunning plot taking shape in his brain. One of his many strengths is cerebral. Knowing when to create a more acute angle or add pace to manipulate his opponent out of position to set up a kill.

He is able to see or manufacture openings and angles where others find blind alleys. And like the great snooker champions of yore, you can almost hear his grey matter thinking several shots ahead.

The South African golfer Gary Player once declared, “the more I practice, the luckier I get.” And so it is with Federer.

Federer has proven that subtlety, touch, and finesse are not dead in the power-baseline era. There were shining examples against Roddick.

Federer is staring at a two-set deficit with Roddick leading 6-2 in the second set tie-break. The American, armed with four set points, is serving to the forehand court of Federer.

Roddick powers his first serve down the line at 132 mph. Federer gets a backhand on it and a looping return lands at Roddick’s feet. Roddick has time to pick his shot and his spot. He opts for a backhand slice which lands five feet from the baseline to Federer’s forehand. Nothing too remarkable so far. Then this …

Seizing on the lack of depth and weight of the Roddick shot, Federer whips a topspun forehand cross court and out wide to the Roddick forehand. The instinctive shot would have been down the line but Federer senses an opportunity and goes for the more difficult option. Because he can. And because he is fattening his calf for the impending slaughter.

Roddick, fully stretched and hurtling to the right-hand extremities of the tram lines, hits a forehand on the run deep to Federer’s backhand side. Federer now has control of the point. With his signature deftness, Federer, from three feet inside the baseline, half-volleys a backhand cross court to the service area of Roddick’s backhand court with such precision and angle it’s a clear winner. Roddick out of court, out of breath, out of kilter, and out of play, is an onlooker on the opposite side of the court. 6-3 Roddick.

“Just a flash of brilliance from the racket of Roger Federer,” says the BBC’s Andrew Castle. “The control on the backhand was beautiful to watch. It keeps him in the tie-break.”

Federer has two serves. The first is targeted at Roddick’s backhand, cramping him for room – and unplayable. Roddick’s attempted return barely makes it off his racket strings such is the accuracy and menace of the Federer delivery. 6-4 Roddick. The next serve is wide to Roddick’s forehand, sliced and angled away. A clean ace. 6-5 Roddick.

Roddick serves to the Federer backhand which is chipped short and draws the American to the net – where he’d least like to be drawn at this stage of the point. Roddick top spins a forehand down the line. Federer glides to meet the ball, assesses where his opponent is positioned and has time to weigh up the options. Noting the ungainly manner in which Roddick has reached the net and the urgency which has crept into his game after squandering three set points, Federer goes for height to the Roddick backhand.

Detecting that Roddick is making forays to the net in a change of tactic, this is Federer issuing a deterrent. His opponent is now faced with the hardest shot in the book, the overhead backhand volley. The height of his return forces Roddick to stretch above his head. Not a nice place for an unnatural volleyer to find himself. He goes for angle to the backhand side with his volley. The shot, not middled by any means, sails deep and wide. 6-6.

Four set points saved.

Roddick serves, Federer again uses the pace of it to chip a backhand return straight and inches from the baseline pushing Roddick back on his heels. Roddick sets himself for a deep approach to the Federer backhand and scampers to the net.

Sensing his prey is still in motion, off balance and not as advanced as he should be to cover all angles at the net, Federer shortens his backswing, rolls over the top of a backhand cross court to the shoelaces of the approaching Roddick. The angle and the weight of the shot beffudle Roddick who gets only the frame of the racket it on it. The ball top edges to the bleechers to Roddick’s right, three rows back. 7-6 and set point Federer.

Federer holds serve by inducing another Roddick error, takes the second set, allows himself a rare show of emotion, and leaves Roddick wracked with anguish and self-doubt.

As the match entered its death throes in the fifth set, there were further examples of Federer’s expertise against an opponent who had proven worthy of his place in the final.

It is 14-15, deuce on Roddick’s serve. Roddick pummels a serve to the Federer backhand. He uses the pace of the serve to create an angle and slices a backhand cross court just inside Roddick’s forehand service area. It has Roddick scampering forward again and, in the search for depth, he has too much on his forehand drive and the ball goes long. 14-15, advantage Federer, match point.

The BBC cameras pan to Pete Sampras.

Roddick dumps his first serve into the net, halfway up. Is Roddick spent? Has he punched himself out? Second serve is to the Federer backhand, again Federer chips a backhand return cross court to the forehand wing of Roddick. Deep forehand to the Federer backhand. This time it is a textbook top spin backhand. The ball carries added pace and kicks off the worn turf on the baseline at Roddick’s feet. On contact with the American’s racket it balloons into the early evening sky.

Game, Set, Match Federer. Grand slam number 15.

So, how many more? It took Sampras almost his entire career to lay down his grand slam benchmark. In fact he established his record with his penultimate major win. Federer is now 27, soon to be a dad. In his acceptance speech he committed to returning to the All England Club for a while yet – and to Roland Garros, Melbourne Park and Flushing Meadow one suspects.

Sampras reached four grand slam finals after he was 28, winning two, so time is not yet Federer’s enemy.

Finally, we can forgive Federer his fashion crimes. You’d wear those long white trousers and sailor boy jacket and that gold-trimmed tracksuit top if Nike was paying you handsomely to do so. And you could get away with it.

Flagging fortunes

Further flags of convenience fluttered into the view of Funny Peculiar English this week – from the US Open golf championship at Bethpage, New York.

A rain-affected first round and seven of the top 10 positions on the leaderboard were filled by North Americans. Englishmen were anonymous, Scotsmen, Welshmen or Irishmen were thin on the ground, so for BBC sports commentators, the ever-reliable British default setting was not an option.

The Spanish, French, Swedes and Danes were way off the early pace. No chance to wave the European standard proudly either.

So, in a live cross from the course, BBC Five Live commentator Matt Williams gleefully informed listeners that the best-placed UK player was Graeme McDowell. Yes, “best-placed UK player”.

McDowell, of Northern Ireland, was trotted out as the hastily-adopted son of BBC golf coverage. Well, he’s almost British and as good as European.

Ah, Europe. The BBC has a severe identity disorder when it comes to Europe and golf. It would dearly love to remain true to the Britishness in its title. But in Ryder Cup year, the biggest team event on the golfing calendar, the Beeb is forced to swallow hard. A similar disease afflicts BSkyB (British Sky Broadcasting).

Both willingly forget Britain’s distaste for all things European – the sneers at the discourteous French, the historical distrust of the Germans.

They put to one side the British government’s reluctance to fully embrace the EU, and the English allergy to anyone born south of the La Manche.

So, every two years, the BBC and Sky throw their unequivocal support behind the Frogs, Krauts, Hombres and Scandihooligans. A gaggle of sycophantic scribes follow suit.

Remember, the Ryder Cup began as a contest between Great Britain and the US in 1927. From 1973 the Irish were included to lend weight to the cause. When their combined strength was not enough to see off the Americans, the net widened to include Europeans from 1979.

Shades of the Lions rugby team here.

Prior to 1979, the scoreline read 14-1 (with one draw) in favour of the Americans. Post European inclusion, the score is 7-7 (with one draw).

And what are we to make of the fact that, in that that time, only two of the 16 European Ryder Cup captains have been European?

On both occasions, there were wins for Europe. In 1997 Seve Ballesteros oversaw a narrow victory at Valderrama and Bernhard Langer administered a romp at Oakland Hills Michigan in 2004.

Last time out, in 2008, it was Englishman Nick Faldo.

And what was his reward for his team’s spectacular failure against the Americans at Kentucky? A knighthood.