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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Wimbledon: A curious court case

The English summer sporting banquet is about to be served. Wimbledon fortnight and the (British) Lions rugby union Test series are on the carte du jour.

It offers up a chance to gorge on the oddities of the English sports spectator, the staple diet of Funny Peculiar English.

Let’s take SW19 for starters.

For Annabel Middle-England, of Basingstoke, Wimbledon is a social outing, the tennis is incidental.

She double parks the C-class estate at the station, catches the 08:30 to London Waterloo, takes a tube to Southfields, has a pleasant stroll to the lawns of the All England Club, eases that ample derriere onto her Centre Court cushion, and gives thanks to the ticket ballot scheme. Mrs Wimbledon is born.

No matter that Mrs Wimbledon thinks deuce is what washes down her croissants with cumquat jam in the mornings. She travels in the hope that her Philip Treacy sun hat draws comment from her zinc-splattered neighbours or that rain will launch Cliff Richard into song.

There will be British wild cards for her to politely applaud and plucky first-round exits to bemoan (actually they’re one and the same).

She will join the group ovation when the umpire remonstrates with amateur flash bulb photographers and she’ll mimic the oohs and aahs of all around her.

First serves will be returned with interest, break points earned, match points saved, top spun cross court backhands will create chalk dust, seeds will be scattered and former champions will depart. For good.

And all the while, she remains gloriously oblivious.  

Yes, an English girl might sneak through to the second round of the ladies’ singles on Court 15. But it escapes Mrs Wimbledon’s notice that the progress is not down to innate talent but a consequence of Susannah Double-Barrel having had more arse than class. More arse than Beyonce against the 16-year-old Uzbekistan qualifier who dumped three game clinchers into the net in the deciding set.

Of course Annabel has heard of that nice (but dim) Tim. But for her, Philippa and Felicity, the 2009 championships will be different.

This year, for Tim Henman read Andy Murray. For Henley-on-Thames read Dunblane, Scotland. For well-reared, wholesome, husband, out of his depth in the semi-finals, read spotty, angst-ridden youth with a genuine shot at the title.

Yes, Scotland. Whisper it.  

So this year Bella, Pippa and Flick, will be waving not their cross of St George but flags of convenience. You can almost smell the dilemma Bellsy Wellsy and her fragrant friends will endure.

It will help Murray’s cause that he has just signed a deal to be the clothes horse of Fred Perry, that most quintessential of English tennis clothing brands.

The irony of that will be lost on Annabel. It was Murray remember who said he would be supporting the Paraguayans against Beckham’s England in the 2006 World Cup.

Meanwhile, the obsequious BBC (more of that during the tournament) and the tabloids can fawn and salivate all they like about ‘British’ this and ‘British’ that, but what they really crave is an English winner.

Well, sorry to disappoint you all but young Murray – Messers Federer, Nadal, Djokovic, Roddick notwithstanding – may yet lift the trophy.

If he does, salacious tales of his English girlfriend will adorn hectares of the Sun, Mirror, Star, Express and Daily Mail. If he doesn’t, we’ll be reminded of Dunblane’s geographical location.

Here at Funny Peculiar English we call it the Monty syndrome. It pervades sports coverage in England and sways the opinions of those it touches. It goes like this … Colin Montgomerie is a factor for the first three rounds of a major golf tournament, particularly the (British) Open Championship.

His presence on the leaderboard is attributed to British bulldog spirit. When the slide to ignominy occurs over the closing 18 holes, and he finishes joint-23rd, or victory is cruelly snatched from his grasp by Johnny Foreigner, we are reacquainted with Monty’s tartan roots.

No doubt Annabel will raise a glass of sparkling pinot grigio to Murray’s feats, but a thumb through the biographies in the official programme will render the taste bitter-sweet. For her, and plenty like her, Murray Mound is definitely not Henman Hill.

Which brings us nicely to the British and Irish Lions. As the aforementioned flags of convenience go, this one takes some beating.

The Lions concept came about because of the English rugby team’s serial failure to beat a bunch of New Zealand sheep farmers. It was devised by the Rugby Football Union in the early 1900s and has the whiff of rampant bullying about it.

Despite the predominance of Irish players in the 2009 squad, a Welsh tour manager, a Scottish head coach, and a New Zealand assistant, any victory will be seen as made in England by that rare species of Englishmen – Rugger Orotundus Rotundus.

A defeat, on the other hand, will be down to the fact that the Welsh, Scots and Irish playing staff, let the side down. 

The RORs conveniently overlook their disdain for Taff, Jock and Paddy. They usher players from the home nations into the fold and roundly celebrate victories over modestly-populated southern hemisphere nations which are otherwise out of reach. 

The Lions draw from a catchment of over 60 million. Australia has 21m (not all rugby converts), New Zealand has 4.3m (all devout). Pick on someone your own size I say.

And since you ask, yes, I’ve heard of the Webb Ellis Trophy. 

I once saw it paraded on a London bus and twice on the streets of Sydney.

P.S. I will deal with the Ashes, the Boat Race, the Derby and the Badminton Horse Trials in due course.

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Action louder than deeds

The World Twenty 20 Championship of cricket starts in England tomorrow – a fast-food alternative to the sumptuous banquet of Test match competition.  

The abridged version of the game will cause no manner of issues for Americans who have just about got their heads round the concept of the five-day format.

By way of explanation, pay attention at the back, Test cricket works like this …

You have two sides, one out in the field and one in. Each man that’s in the side that’s in goes out, and when he’s out he comes in and the next man goes in until he’s out.

When they are all out, the side that’s out comes in and the side that’s been in goes out and tries to get those coming in, out. Sometimes you get men still in and not out.

When a man goes out to go in, the men who are out try to get him out, and when he is out he goes in and the next man in goes out and goes in. There are two men called umpires who stay all out all the time and they decide when the men who are in are out.

When both sides have been in and all the men have out, and both sides have been out twice after all the men have been in, including those who are not out, that is the end of the game.

As for Twenty 20. Oh forget it.

Suffice to say, during the month of June, the spotlight will fall on batsmen impersonating baseball sluggers.

It will also linger on a bowler whose action is best suited to the pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park. That’s the home of the Boston Red Sox for any non-Americans out there.

I talk of course of Sri Lanka’s Muttiah Muralitharan – the game’s leading wicket taker in both Tests and the one-day game. Confused? This might help.

The man has a questionable bowling action. So much so that biomechanical analysts were brought in by cricket’s governing body several years ago. A re-writing of the rule book to accommodate him was the result.

He was first tested (under non-match conditions) and cleared by the International Cricket Council (ICC) in 1996 and again in 1999.

The legality of the latest weapon in his repertoire – the doosra – (the equivalent of a slider, or a knuckle curve for Sox fans) was queried in 2004. This delivery was found to exceed the ICC elbow extension limit by nine degrees, five degrees being the limit for bowlers of his type at the time.

The ICC subsequently revised the elbow flexion limits applying to all bowlers in 2005 and guess what, Muralitharan’s doosra fell within those revised limits.

In many people’s eyes, no matter how many scalps he captures, his ‘achievements’ will always trail a whiff of suspicion and his entries in the record books have an asterix placed beside them.

The purists, you see, are uncomfortable having an illusionist sitting atop the pile. And I’m with them.

What of Bishan Bedi, Clarrie Grimmett, Derek Underwood, Lance Gibbs, Hedley Verity, Anil Kumble, Jim Laker, Bill O’Reilly, Abdul Qadir, Shane Warne? Great spin bowlers all. Men well placed to adjudicate. Where do the deeds of Muralitharan sit with their own? 

A “shot putter” was one of Bedi’s kinder descriptions of Muralitharan. A bit harsh maybe, but you get his point.

Richie Benaud, a voice of calm in many a storm, and a mean twirler of a cricket ball in the 50-60s, was asked to name his top 10 spin bowlers of all time. Muralitharan was not in it on the grounds that the doyen said he “was too controversial to be included”.

He has been labelled a chucker, a thrower and a lot worse. Few cricketers have divided opinion like Muralitharan. To some, he is blessed by genius. To others, he is a cheat.

His record of 770 and 505 wickets respectively in the Test and one-day arena is the source of the fiercest debate known to the game.

A debate inflamed by the presence on his record of a glut of wickets against inferior opponents from Bangladesh and Zimbabwe, all taken on home soil.

He won’t add to those stats during this tournament as Twenty 20 is a separate competition altogether. It is also heavily weighted in favour of the batsmen so any wickets he does take will be costly.

But his mere presence will prompt sniggers from men in blazers. He is to cricket what a rehabilitated drug taker is to cycling, weightlifting or track and field.

Dare the umpires on duty this month enforce the letter of the law? Dare they ban the doosra for fear of plunging the game into disarray when the eyes and the ears of the world, not to mention the money men from emerging markets, (particularly the US) are fixed on it?

The sad reality is that they won’t and the game’s proudest record will remain in the keep of the magic circle, the art of deception. And tarnished.  

Or at least until another bowler with a legitimate action comes along to expunge it.

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The Ashes: the phoney war

The first ball in the Ashes battle may be 43 days away but the verbal shelling in the phoney war is well advanced.

I should point out for the benefit of the uninitiated, that as a conflict, the Ashes is not El Alamein, Waterloo, Pearl Harbour, Vietnam, Robyn v Mel Gibson. It is much more serious.

 The Ashes is England versus Australia. The combat zone is a cricket field.

Sports sections in British newspapers and online cricket sites have already carried reports of the indiscriminate lobbing of grenades by Australian captain Ricky Ponting and fast bowler Mitchell Johnson.

Ponting is reported to have taken aim at his counterpart Andrew Strauss by declaring that his troops will be ordered to target him.

“We all know the Australian team tries to put the captain of the opposition under a bit more pressure,” Ponting says. “If you can do that, you can generally take another couple of the guys down with him. That is what we will try to do.”

Meanwhile, Johnson, likely to lead the Australian bowling attack, has another adversary in the crosshairs – England rookie, Ravi Bopara.

The fact that Bopara has rattled off three consecutive centuries against the West Indies doesn’t faze Johnson. “I’ve seen Bopara in those Tests against the West Indies where he scored those centuries,” Johnson said. “He looked good, but there is a big difference between a series against the West Indies and the Ashes. There will be much more pressure, so it will be interesting to see how he goes.”

So much for the first casualty of war being the truth.

They are mild incursions into enemy territory. There will be some heavier artillery to come.

And just to prove that there’s commercial mileage to be had from stoking the fire, England’s main sponsor, npower, has launched a competition in conjunction with The Times with an interesting sub-plot.

The blurb reads thus: “Bones of the Hills is the third volume of Conn Iggulden’s epic Conqueror series tracing the life and adventures of Genghis Khan. Dramatic, powerful and exhilarating, Bones of the Hills is a must-read book for summer. To celebrate, The Times is giving you the chance to experience another epic clash, as England take on Australia at Lord’s in the npower Ashes series.

As for the tabloids, in particular The Sun, they will be at their xenophobic best over the coming weeks. You can hear the sub-editors dusting off those ‘Fry Me Kangaroo Brown’ headlines as we speak.

They will see a potential inferno where the rest of us see an incinerator, and you can be sure they will wheel out former players-turned-pundits to add some kerosene on demand.

One of those quotes-for-rent pundits is the former England batsman Geoffrey Boycott, a gruff, no nonsense Yorkshireman who calls a spade a shovel if there’s a buck in it.

The last time the Ashes was contested in this country England emerged victorious and a vainglorious bus ride through the streets of London followed. In the return fixture, in Australia, a year later, the scoreline read, whisper it, 5-0 to her majesty’s estranged subjects.

Anyone planning a trip to Trafalgar Square this time round, may be dissuaded by Boycott’s take on the likely outcome. It won’t make pretty reading. It may also be grounds for treason.

Boycott’s concerns centre on the aforementioned England captain. “England have got Andrew Strauss who is quite a nice lad – he will do a decent job – but I’m not convinced he is a natural captain,” he says. Ouch.

Can England win the Ashes?, Boycott was asked. “No,” he replied.

In a reference to the upheaval which gripped the England team earlier this year when incumbent captain Kevin Pietersen fell on his sword, paving the way for the appointment of Strauss, and muddled selection policy, Boycott added: “Never mind shooting themselves in the foot, England have shot themselves in the head this winter.”

Hold that bus.

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Is humility coming home?

As English soccer preached humility at the official launch of a bid to stage the 2018 or 2022 World Cup today, what a shame the talking heads were discovered to have missed the pre-launch internal briefing.

So just when you thought the soccer suits had finally grasped managing a nation’s inflated expectations, Prime Minister Gordon Brown and Lord Triesman wandered off-message. And David Beckham, well, was David Beckham.

Opening proceedings, the chief executive of the bid, Andy Anson, had warned against arrogance, a reason he cited for England’s failed quest to host the 2006 event. “One of the things we learned from the last World Cup bid was we were perceived to be arrogant around the world in how we presented ourselves,” he said.

“We cannot be arrogant or complacent. We will certainly not be saying that ‘football is coming home’. It was an arrogant slogan.” Yes indeed, the anthem that accompanied England’s hosting of the European Championships in 1996, was arrogant. And presumptive.

Taking up the cudgels, chairman of the Football Association, Lord Triesman, said: “We in England would be truly honoured to host the World Cup and welcome the world.”

He steadfastly toed the party line when adding … “We’d extend a wonderful welcome to players and fans from across the world. Inside and outside our grounds, we’d share with them our love of the game and our sense of fair play.”

Sadly he undid all the good work by ending with … “What could be more inspiring than the dream of England winning the World Cup on home soil?” Oh dear. Couldn’t help himself could he?

Adopted Scot Brown weighed in with … “It’s fitting that we are launching the bid in England, the home of football, and at Wembley – the greatest stadium in the world.”

Saint David, of the parish of Milan, found time between photo shoots and the opening of envelopes to attend. “Our country is renowned for getting excited by big events. I don’t think any country in the world can compete with us for that, ” he alleged.

He avoided a reference to the mourning after those events, particularly European Championships and World Cups, that poleaxes the country’s deluded believers.

Staging it is one thing, winning it quite another. Cue that 1966 World Cup video. Assuming over-use hasn’t consigned it to the communal allotment along with those Bobby Charlton comedy toupees.

So once again, the prospect of success at a significant soccer tournament has been fed to a ravenous nation by people who should know better.

Pride before the fall.

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Barrichello: A bridesmaid’s tale

Judging by the events of the Spanish Grand Prix, Rubens Barrichello, not for the first time in his lengthy career, is heading for the Formula One altar dressed as sacrificial lamb.

The Catalunya race was Barrichello’s for the taking. Starting third, he led the field into the first corner and began to build what was expected to be an unassailable lead given that both Brawn GP cars were on a three-stop strategy.

Well, at least they were after the morning briefing. But once team-mate Jenson Button was switched to a two-stop and Barrichello was hampered by tyre issues during his third stint, the pendulum shifted.

The race ended with a Brawn GP one-two. Button 1, Barrichello 2. Victories in 2009 read Button 4, Barrichello 0. Qualifying is Button 4, Barrichello 1. Drivers’ championship points, Button 41, Barrichello 27.

F1 is all about numbers – or tenths of numbers to be precise. Barrichello is approaching his 38^th birthday. So if you consider that Button has seven years on his side in terms of age, Brawn GP are going to be more comfortable with him topping the leader board at the end of the 2009 season and, more importantly, wearing the No1 on his car into 2010.

We are only five races into a 17-race campaign, but the cards may already be stacked against Barrichello. If Button continues to accumulate wins at the current rate, the maths will compel the team to throw its full support behind him. As in Spain, Barrichello’s toys will be hurled from the bassinet.

On Sunday, his reaction to playing second fiddle was to make quit noises. “If I get the slightest sniff of the fact that they have favoured Jenson, I will hang up my helmet tomorrow,” he told US television.

He will find some sympathy in this quarter. He has had his share of setbacks in a career which began in 1993. A violent crash at the wheel of a Jordan at Imola in 1994 came on the same weekend which claimed the life of Ayrton Senna. The mantle of carrying Brazilian hopes weighed heavily on his shoulders thereafter.

With Stewart Grand Prix in 1997 he scored a second in Monaco – one of only three race finishes in a notoriously unreliable car. He had two fifth places to show for his efforts in 1998 when the team shunned wisdom to run a carbon-encased gearbox.

Those of us who endured the horrors of that season clad in Stewart tartan (I successfully resisted the kilt), spent most of our time watching and waiting. Watching the oil temperature rise as the gearbox was brought to the boil. Waiting for the call to bring the SF-2s in to retirement.

The following year Barrichello, armed with a lightweight Cosworth engine with heavyweight grunt, recorded a pole position at a wet Magny Cours and three podium finishes. At the European Grand prix in Nurburgring, Germany, there was a maiden win for the team, courtesy of Johnny Herbert. Barrichello was third.

He had done the hard yards in testing and fast miles in race trim to dominate Herbert all season. So being denied the one moment of triumph for Jackie Stewart’s fledgling team was tough to digest.

Nonetheless, his reward for dragging Stewart GP by its boot laces to fourth in the championship was a seat alongside Michael Schumacher at Ferrari the following season. He was runner-up in the drivers’ championship in 2002 and 2004.

His six years riding shotgun for Schumacher at the Scuderia had its nadir at the Austrian race in 2002. Leading by a distance, Barrichello was ordered to allow Schumacher to pass on the start-finish straight with the chequered flag in sight. The win preserved the latter’s title chances.

Amid a chorus of crowd outrage, Schumacher shamelessly moved Barrichello on to the top step at the podium ceremony and handed him the winner’s trophy.

The podium indiscretion and Ferrari’s flouting of team orders led to the FIA banning the practice.

Two common denominators remain from those Ferrari days. Ross Brawn and Barrichello were colleagues then and now. And team orders are a touchy subject for Barrichello then and now.

Could be a case of bridesmaid revisited for Rubinho.

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