Ho fucking ho.... The year in review

Apologies for the dearth of updates recently we’ve had less successful posts than a Royal Mail delivery depot, but the Christmas round of works party (drunken JD-fuelled frenzy), the resulting day-long hangover (harsh skull throb) and the sheer gritted-teeth tedium of wading through all that Christmas pre-prep bollox has left little time for more serious, trivial or indeed rewarding work.

Anyway when we started doing this old shit, way back in February (although that seems like several lifetimes ago too), part of the reason was we knew we were in for a veritable bumper year-long festival of sport: the Euros, the Olympics, Formula One, pre-Ashes fever, it promised so much ...and we’ve managed to deliver so little

The fact that we haven’t managed to scratch our proverbial arse enough to actually knock out some stuff on half of it is neither here nor there... It has indeed been an epic old year and our personal highlights - in no particular order - include:

• Hoy’s triple gold triumph


• Stress free Euros, a pleasure to watch with England not appearing


• Lewis Hamilton storming to erm fifth to win the Drivers’ championship;


• The arrival of Senor Fabio, England winning 4-1 in Croatia and quite possibly
turning a corner.

• Cricket: shit results but the return of the Fred and Stuart Broad’s emergence.


• Murray's run, then the epic evening-long Nadal v Federer final


• Rebecca Adlington’s storming swim(s)


• Jimmy Page playing ‘Whole Lotta Love’ at the Olympics handover... a small but hopefully significant portent for 2012....
  

We’ll probably be doing toss all over Christmas probably except eating like a Trojan, watching crap telly, playing video games and drinking and farting a lot.

Still you never know there might be a few updates if our spleen is sufficiently riled or our alcohol level drops dangerously low.

So, in case there’s not, ho fucking ho from all at the Spurt, ‘tis the season to be pissed after all.

We hope you will be too, see you back in Jan.

Signs and portents

We thought we might struggle today, it being the Tuesday before Christmas week and intriguing spurting stories rarer than a tax collector’s smile.

Instead, we’re sounding the official world of spurt death knell and (slightly) lamenting the passing of Paul Ince, the unfortunate now ex-manager of Blackburn, who’s been sacked this morning following a recent run of poor results. Three wins in seventeen with Mark Hughes’ squad is hardly impressive, but it seems a touch premature to change horses half way through a race in such an arbitrary fashion.

Blackburn got all the plaudits for appointing a young English manager full of promise at the beginning of the season, so they deserve some stick for sacking Ince when it’s barely half way through. And Graeme Souness hot favourite to replace him? That is not so much rubbing salt into a wound as tipping in an extra bucket load. One word: lamentable.

Elsewhere a strange plague of kidney stones seems to be affecting Premier League managers from Phil Scolari to Rafael Benitez who are both currently feeling like they’re pissing razors. What does it mean? We’re not entirely sure, but we’re sure there’s a juicy conspiracy theory to be manufactured there somewhere.

Finally, we have further proof of the genius of Senor Fabio, who is currently in dispute with Wembley groundsman Steve Welch over the length of the sod. Capello wants a grassial bladeage measurement of 17mm while Welch insists 19mm is the correct measure.

A word of advice Steve, let Senor Fab have his way or a man in a dark coat will be paying you a visit fairly shortly.

Yet it’s just one more example of Senor Fab’s obsessive attention to detail which has seen the national side reborn under his tutelage this year. To paraphrase Harold Macmillan, “It’s the details dear boy, the details.”

Riposte

Well lift up our skirts, tickle our biff and call us Mystic Susan. Yesterday - in a rare outbreak of Sunday posting - we actually picked in reverse order ie. Adlington, Hamilton and Hoy, the exact finishing order of BBC Spurts Personality of the Year.

Naturally we didn’t have the foresight to put any money on it, oh no, that would be far too rewarding an outcome for the way this Christmas is shaping up.

However solace has come in the form of the return of Test cricket to our DAB radio and after all the drama, trauma and debate surrounding whether England should go back (something we again predicted – have we got a direct line to the spurting future or what?), it has been simply marvellous to wake up in this bleak English midwinter and be greeted by Test cricket's gentle cadences, immense subtleties and moments of tension and excitement.

And for a game which nearly never happened, it has been quite scintillating cricket and has almost had everything ... Straussy’s two centuries, Collingwood’s one, Swann’s double strike and a daunting total for India to chase on the final day. Sehwag’s blitz, Yuvraj’s defiance and then a match-winning century with the return of the Little Master.

The script has been perfect and we don’t even feel too disappointed by England’s loss, hell, we’re even a little exhilarated by India’s epic chase.

A return to proper Test match cricket has produced not only a magnificent game but the perfect cricketing riposte to the horrors of Mumbai.

SPOTY

Sunday* sees us in reflective mood and enjoying a second consecutive win by our beloved Hornets which has propelled them alarmingly up the table, inducing a vertigo-like but pleasant sense of smugness as peer down on the unfortunates below. Perhaps it’s not too late to rescue something from this season after all?

But today’s main event is undoubtedly the Beeb’s Spurts Personality of the Year which has decamped to the grim north of Liverpool and in which punters (ie. you and I) are supposed to participate by voting for the erm best spurting personality of the year.

Bit of a shit name it has to be said, ‘personality’ what does that mean exactly? You can’t help feeling Britain’s Favourite Sportsman would be more accurate.

Still there’s a bumper crop to choose from this year and for our money it’s down to Lewis, Chris Hoy or Rebecca Adlington. Each is a worthy contender: a quite super double ‘Medal’ from Adlington in the pool, especially since we’d won bugger all for ages and of course our admiration for Lewis is well known. Has there ever been a more exciting climax to an Formula One season?

But it’s Hoy who has to edge it: three Golds is a stunning achievement and cheering him on in the keirin was a highlight of our spurting year. Wonder if the greater British spurting public will agree?


*No funny pictures today, it’s the day of rest and we can’t be arsed….

Shane Warne: The Musical

A slight break in our December post-a-thon yesterday as we suffered a distinct bout of the creeping lurgy but we return today undeterred by the vile germs still infecting our corporeal self to scribble once more.

Talking of corporeal selves and heading straight to our inbox via specialty trained carrier-wombat to be immediately filed under ‘we shit you not’ comes news of Shane Warne: The Musical, a re-imagining of the Aussie spinner’s brilliant on-field and occasionally torrid off-field antics, featuring singing, dancing and well all the rest of that musical stuff.

Now while Mrs Spurt loves the musical theatre, we are normally more ambivalent and usually view such happenings through tightly clenched teeth, but even we are tempted by the fat boy’s theatrical debut.

Believed to feature such well loved musical numbers as the Sex Pest’s Texting Song, Diuretics Are A Boy’s Best Friend and Just Don’t Tell The Sheila Indoors, SW: The musical will chart the rise, fall and rise again of Australia’s favourite filler of column inches.

From obscure beer-swilling, pizza-noshing, fag smoking blond Aussie beach bum to erm very rich and rather famous beer-swilling, pizza noshing, fag smoking blond Aussie beach bum - oh and quite possibly the greatest spinner who ever lived.

Kidding aside, the Warner has long been one of our top ever players and as the Oval chorused in 2005 ‘ We only wish he were English’.

A two, three, four... “Diuretics Are A Boy’s Best Friend...”

White Lines

A day trip down to the mystical west country gave us little time to post yesterday, but we've sprinted back into a raft of sports-related goodness today.

First playing a little catch up, we feel compelled to comment on Honda’s withdrawal from Formula One late last week: now if there’s one thing that’s finally convinced us that the credit crunch is real and not a figment of some merchant banker’s imagination, this has got to be it.

Ironically, for a sport in which conspicuous consumption, excess and luxury have become not so much bywords as essential planning components, Honda have left because the sport’s simply become too expensive after having spunked some $200m on the team last year.

What about the rest? Are teams that don’t have a disgusting energy drink backing them up really vulnerable? Is this the first sign Bernie’s circus is finally coming apart at the seams?

Could we see McLaren v Ferrari in a real two horse race next year ie. with no one else taking part?

More importantly what’s poor Jenson going to do for a drive? We hear there’s a possible vacancy on our local milk float....

In breaking news: former England all-rounder (although we use that term loosely) Chris Lewis has been nabbed apparently taking an absolute shedload of Charlie through customs. As our fellow spurter Matt remarked, he always had trouble with his lines, but £200k’s worth? It’s the closest Lewis has ever got to a ton...

Mad Dog goes walkies

Alas, don your shrouds of mourning black and shed a remorseful tear today for Roy ‘mad dog’ Keane has departed this managerial coil.

Yup, while we were off piste with some work related nonsense yesterday, the now ex-Sunderland boss handed in his cards by text message and is off to walk Triggs in pastures un-footy related.

It’s not like we haven’t known it’s coming: The Jim Morrison-esque beard was certainly a sign things were going awry and never one to hold back, Keane had given some pretty strong hints over the weekend that he was living on borrowed time.

Still, in a career that’s been full of walk-outs (Ireland), bust-ups (Man Utd) and hefty challenges (the pitch), you have to admire Keane as an uncompromising, forthright individual who was determined to do everything, including his departure, on his own terms and feck the consequences.

His weekly pronouncements on the game and the people and business surrounding it were riveting if controversial reads and the footballing world is definitely a greyer, sadder and certainly less interesting place for his departure.

Few of us get to choose the manner of our leaving, but Keane has always managed to do it in his own inimitable way, and we leave you with just one of his memorable gifts to the English language “stick it up your bollox".

Whale Stopped Play

Like putting a mercy bullet through the skull of a long-treasured though now doubly incontinent family pet, it almost breaks our heart to do it, but even we have to admit (through gritted teeth) that Cristiano Ronaldo fully deserves the Ballon D’Or as he was named European footballer of the year yesterday.

Ronnie chose to celebrate with an unaccustomed slice of humble pie, saying it was the greatest day of his life (what even more than that threesome with those disco sluts?), and the Ronster concluded ‘Those who know me, who live with me, know that this is finally a dream come true for me. ...Winning this trophy .... I dreamed about it as a kid.'

Fair enough, the Ronster deserves his plaudits for last season, less so though Jorge Mendes his agent, who’s apparently seized the day to inform Inter that Ronnie might be up for playing for them under the Special One, Jose Mourninho. Undoubtedly it’s a none-to-subtle ploy, to raise the Ronster’s weekly wage from the paucity of a credit crunching 120k a week to a more recession-busting 150k.

We actually went to Milan once, for an F1 track day and we have to say the city, never mind the changing room didn’t seem big enough to accommodate both of those ginormous, surging egos.

Elsewhere to the hitherto unexplored world of sailing a bit of a departure for your spurt but what the fuck we'll go anywhere in search of a good gag (not that we often find one).

Now to the business and we’ve heard some sporting excuses in our time but few to possibly rival ‘whale stopped play.’

Okay we exaggerate a little for effect but Britain’s Jonny Malbon has just such an excuse in the Vendee Globe after his 60ft Artemis smacked one such unfortunate cetacean as it gambolled innocently through the ocean spume.
“I could clearly see the animal astern in a lot of trouble,’ admitted Malbon.

Not half as much trouble as if Greenpeace get to hear about it Jonny. They've got angry little boats and everything.

Still, probably worth it for 'Whale stopped play'. That is to one to put down for a fireside chat with the granddkids.

The mask slips...

We’ve been waiting for this one all season: nope not Cristiano Ronaldo winning the Ballon d’or (more on that tomorrow), but for the mask to finally slip and for Big Phil Scolari to reveal his true colours.

Big Phil, like Vesuvius has been strangely dormant all season, winning friends and influencing people with his halting ‘please love my Chelsea’ English and an unprecedented charm offensive which has seen him fail to rise to Sir Alex’s bait, and perhaps most surprisingly of all, make Chelsea a watchable enough side.

Could this really be the same Big Phil who once punched a Serbian sub and is said to have a temper as volatile as wearing Nitro Glycerene underpants while watching Penelope Cruz strip?

Has it all just been a cunning ploy to lull us into a false sense of security while Big Phil secretly smirks and covertly plots behind his bound human skin copy of The Art of War?

The answer is yes! For just like those poor Pompeians suspecting that distant rumbling signalled something ominous, the kraken has finally awoken and Big Phil has asked, nay demanded, an apology from ref Mike Dean after Chelsea succumbed 2-1 to Arsenal over the weekend.

Splendid, now the gloves off, Big Phil should go for the jugular. Despite the Scousers currently sitting top of the table, this season like the OK Corral, is going to boil down to just two teams of elite gun slingers, Man Utd and Chelsea.

Time for the real Big Phil Scolari to please stand up!

Family Fortunes

Watching events unfold in Mumbai through the fish eye of the news reels last week filled us with sufficient horror to momentarily forget our usual sense of spurting joy.

We hesitate to use the drab old saw about giving a real sense of perspective, but those pictures from India delivered it like a Curtly Ambrose bouncer to the temple.

Naturally enough England’s last two one-dayers were cancelled and the side scampered home, to contemplate revised itineraries and debate safety reports and when - indeed, if - they should go back.

Well they should.

Yup easy for us to say, with no WAGs or kids tugging at the heartstrings. But here’s why we think England must return to play the Test series.

The players’ safety is almost guaranteed now; these attacks succeeded mainly because of their surprise nature, that won’t happen again. England’s players will be safe.

There’s certainly an argument too about not letting the terrorists win and making sure their tactics don’t disrupt the normal rhythms of life.

Yet the most compelling reason of all why England should go back is to simply show solidarity and sympathy with the Indian team and its amazing supporters, even if means we end up being beaten hollow (which seems likely).

England and India have had their differences as the power struggle in modern cricket plays out, but events like this remind us that ultimately we’re all part of the same cricketing family. In times like these, the family should look after its own.

HORSE TRAILER enigma

Not three words we ever guessed we’d see cojoined in the same headline.

Yup, we’ve a monstrous size puss on today, have had all week, still at least it’s Thursday, which means there’s only one more afternoon of tedium to endure, until the blessed weekend knits up our ravelled sleeve of care and rescues us from our unyielding toils for the Man.

That and post-party Golden Delicious lethargy are probably why we haven’t posted all week, but we guess things could be worse... we could be Marcus Bent. Well we presume it’s the Brum City striker who emailed us at work, no less, to deliver the following:

HELLO DEAR MR/MISS,
AM MARCUS BENT , I WILL LIKE TO KNOW IF YOU CARRY HORSE TRAILER FOR SELL ,IF SO I WILL LIKE TO EMAIL ME BACK WITH THE TYPES YOU HAVE AND THE PRICES I WILL BE GLAD TO DO BUSINESS WITH YOU .. I END HERE HOPE TO HEAR FROM YOU VERY SOON, BEST REGARDS,
MARCUS BENT.

Damn and we sold our last one over the weekend. And why is he so specifically interested in HORSE TRAILERS? Is it anything to do with brother Darren’s recent England call up? Frankly, it’s way beyond us and we leave it to you and the sanctity of the comments section to provide the answer.

Second string

Ah the restorative power of spurt. There we were yesterday, with a black cloud hanging around us which seemed sent from the dark lord himself (Sepp Blatter) when the biggest shock of the day suddenly left us with a smile a mile wide.

Nope we’re not talking about John Sergeant’s surprise withdrawal from Strictly, but England’s magnificent 2-1 victory over the Bosch, as we bearded them in their own back yard and which left us with a warmer glow than the sheep around Selafield.

We’ve always had more hunches than Quasimodo, but we called it exactly right (see Round-up, wind-down below) when we said we fancied our second stringers’ chances.

It wasn’t just winning it was the manner of the victory, where we thoroughly outplayed the Germans in every area, showing resilience, flair and endeavour, three words rarely seen in the same sentence as 'England'.

Good to see it was treated properly too without the usual rash of pointless substitutions which alter the shape and coherence of any team. Downing finally looked vaguely convincing as a genuine left winger, Carrick was immense, SWP had a stormer and hell, even Glen Johnson had a good game.

Of course it wouldn’t be Enger-land if the comedy button hadn’t been pressed at some stage, and while John ‘JT’ Terry manfully took the blame on his broad shoulders, the hapless Scott Carson must take at least part of the blame. A nice clear ‘get rid’ would have simplified matters.

Still, ‘mustn’t grumble’ as the old saw goes. This performance proved we have strength in depth and that Senor Fabio can even marshal a mix of disgruntleds and bench warmers into delivering a coherent performance.

Senor Fabio li salutiamo il tuo genio!

Round-up, wind down

It’s a portfolio edition today with tales carefully sliced from around the spurting firmament as we do another one of our lazy round-ups, finding no single issue worthy of our undivided attention.

First to cricket, where following one shellacking and one marginally less embarrassing spanking from India, the colossal intellects in charge of the England one-day side have decided to call up Graeme Swann and are considering issuing a hectic ‘get here sharpish’ to Monty Panesar following the shock revelation that spinners might come in a bit handy on the subcontinent wickets.

Really? You think? By Jove I think they may finally have cracked it.

And now to football and with England due to take on the Hun in a ‘friendly’ tonight, we’re actually fancying the second XI’s chances after the relatively shock revelation that our national side haven’t lost anything in Berlin (four wins, three draws) since 1945 when Bomber Command’s counted them all out, but didn’t quite count them all back in again.

BTW in a ‘let’s mock those wacky continentals moment’ watch out tonight if Bayern Leverkusen’s Patrick Helmes scores, apparently he’ll be casting teary eyes to the skies to dedicate any goals scored to his recently deceased Labrador, Emmy. Bless. (Thanks to The Spoiler for the spot).

Finally homo-erotic glamour pin up sulky Galactico wannabe Cristiano Ronaldo has apparently humbly opined he’s not only the greatest player in the world, but the ‘first, second and third greatest player’.

Another triumph for tact and diplomacy from the boy blunder; rumours that his ego is now grown so swollen and huge it’s negotiating its own separate endorsements and transfer deals are believed to be pretty much right on the mark.

We do not forgive or forget...

Of all our distasteful, disgraceful and possibly downright illegal habits, a long standing though now regretfully lapsed addiction to Star Trek is probably just about amongst the most publishable.

We only mention this in passing by way of a sprawling intro because a splendid Klingon phrase sprang unbidden into our minds this morning when we read of Terry Butcher’s long standing grudge against former Argentinean 'great' Diego Maradona.

‘We do not forgive ...or forget’ (This should be uttered in a sinister sibilant hiss as if you intend to visit unspecified but extremely unpleasant future violence upon your subject).

To set the scene: Butcher’s now assistant manager for the Sweaties and Maradona is of course the new coach of Argentina, but Blood ‘n Thunder Butcher will apparently refuse to shake Diego’s hand following tomorrow night’s friendly at Hampden.

Quite right too. Butcher’s is a rare voice of reason amongst all the sycophantic ex-pros currently queuing up to hail the ‘world’s greatest playerTM’, who is in fact the 'world’s greatest fucking cheatTM'

As you can guess we still haven’t forgiven or forgotten ‘Dirty’ Diego either for his Hand of God cuntishness which cheated Argentina through the quarter-finals all those years ago.

He may have been a brilliant player, but no one deserves the label ‘All Time Great’ if they’re such a cheating twat. Besides who’s such a tight arse that they give a kid their hat and gloves as a reward when he finds one of their player’s missing gold pendants?

Rubbish.

It is or at least it should be every spurter’s acknowledged right to hold a life long and unreasoning grudge against whomsoever they choose and we’re coming out firmly in support of Butcher as we continue to tenderly nurse our own long standing grievance against the world’s greatest footballing cheat even - after all these years.

Club versus Country

It’s back to work on Monday where we return suffering from the last vestiges of a lingering hangover from our adventures in the land of Po and a proper Polish wedding where we drank for England into the wee small hours

But while we’ve been holding up our end, what of our great national hopes? Well it’s business as usual we’re afraid, England spanked in both forms of Rugby, thrashed twice in the cricket and Andy Murray’s semi-final defeat meaning it hasn’t been a good few days for the Great Britishers.

And we also walk straight back into the eternal club v country debate as the Scouser’s Stevie G is forced to report for England duty despite apparently crocking his hooves during the weekend’s fixtures.

Now the past has seen clubs and the wilier managers declare all sorts of spurious injuries to let their key men duck out: bloaty head, freaky stomach and hurty knees being among the more credible of the past sick notes.

But this time Senor Fabio has decided to flex his muscles and make the Liverpool skipper turn up for assessment by the England sawbones to make sure he (or more accurately Rafa) is not pulling a sicky.

You’ve got to feel a little sorry for the clubs with the congested fixture schedule, but if we’re going to challenge for an international trophy again. Senor Fab must have his way even if it’s in a meaningless* friendly.

(*no friendly against Germany is ever meaningless);

Feathered friends

They say never work with children or animals – a sentiment we’d heartily endorse after that incident with the toddler, the chainsaw and that spare bag of ferrets.

Still, it’s news from the stranger side of spurt today, with a number of incidents provoked or inspired by our furry or feathered friends.

First up Man United’s relatively poor start to the season has finally been explained and nope it’s not the global hair gel shortage which has affected Ronaldo, nor indeed the loss of Rooney’s locks which have resulted in a Samson-like reduction of the spud faced nipper’s pace and power.

Nope according to the super soaraway Sun (fascist rag) it’s all down to Man Utd’s training ground sessions being disrupted by dive bombing geese flying in from a nearby nature reserve.

Perhaps they were after that mouse Anderson concealed in Garry Neville’s shirt? Surely the most tenuous (for which read piss poor) story of the week from the Mirror.

Elsewhere Roy Keane’s dog has made the news as the Sunderland boss admitted "There are ex-players and ex-referees being given air-time who I wouldn't listen to in a pub... I wouldn't trust them to walk my dog."

From ‘mad dog’ Keano that’s quite a thing to say, but rumours that the mutt is being lined up to dunk his paws into the Newcastle poison chalice are believed to be wide of the mark.

Ashes to Ashes: The Countdown begins

That’s it, we can’t put it off any longer, consider our stopwatch officially checked, wound and the button on top depressed as the official World of Spurt countdown to next year’s Ashes finally and totally begins.

This is it people, there’s no turning back now, prepare yourself for a winter of Aussie-baiting and a summer of Aussie-thrashing as next summer’s Cric-pocalypse, the mother of all series hoves into view.

We promise to license that poodle rock theme tune by Europe, produce our own merchandise and well pretty much everything you’d expect, to give our coverage the edge over the likes of Sky etc.

Hm, too much? Yet we needed something to cheer us up on this bleak Monday afternoon with the rain coming down outside like so many gallons of piss, and there it was... the Aussie’s losing 2-0 to India.

While It’s way too early to call for the moment, we remain as optimistic as a polygamist who thinks ‘third time lucky’, urged on by the biggest and most important factor of all: no Warne and McGrath.

Our spurting second hand can’t tick around quick enough.

Fond farewells...

It’s Tuesday hooray! And Lewis’s victory still washes over us with a warm gentle glow of satisfaction despite the numerous Ferrari conspiracy theories currently spreading around the net like a dirty water swirling around the plughole.

Massa drove brilliantly and deserves credit for his dignity and magnanimity in defeat but Ferrari have had more than their fair crack o' the whip this season.

There’s just one thing left to say and that’s a resounding and wholehearted ‘thank fock for Glock... ‘

Elsewhere we’re saving our bile for a full and extended rant on Stanford’s sordid fest but well done the Windies boys (masquerading as the Superstars) and poor form from England to patronisingly say ‘they need it more than us’.

But Tuesday is reserved for a sad farewell to Aidy Boothroyd now ex-Watford manager, who parted company with the mighty Hornets yesterday. Watford are in a downward trot, 15 points from 15 games, parachute payments running out and any decent player sold the moment he looks like he’s worth a bob.

Even bent Elt has skipped down from the yellow brick road to say he’s concerned, but it’s difficult to know what our hometown club are thinking. Yup, we’re in a parlous state, but not even ‘arry Houdini could work his magic on the current Horns and Boothroyd is one of the best young managers in the country. Not long ago he was guiding us to the Premiership and the FA cup semis but at this stage can anyone seriously do any better?

Let’s hope this is one decision they don’t have cause to regret.

At the death

Holy shit that was close, closer than a close shave from Charles I’s headsman, but finally, triumphantly, Lewis Hamilton nipped his rain spattered McLaren past Timo Glock on the very last corner at Interlagos to pickpocket fifth place and become the youngest ever Formula One world champion.

This was not a day for faint hearts and it began with a heavy shower on the grid which had virtually the entire field (sans Kubica) scrabbling for intermediates and had the watching audience (ie us) muttering darkly about strange portents and bad omens.

A nerve jangling start eventually saw Hamilton settle comfortably into fourth and throughout the race he kept it there or thereabouts while Massa sped off at the front like a man possessed. All seemed to be running to script, but a Grand Prix is an unpredictable as a woman’s mood and the twist in the tail this time was the rain – normally Hamilton’s natural ally – which started to come down as the race reached its denouement.

The fat lady was just about warming up her pipes, when it was all back into the pits for a last set of intermediates as the few laps ticked down like the second hand at an execution. Pushed to within an inch by the impressive Vettel, Hamilton was forced to concede and dropped to sixth place and it looked it had all slipped away from him again.

Yet if there’s one thing sport in general and racing in particular teaches you, it’s to keep going to the end and as we sat there despairing, McLaren were more sanguine having spotted Glock’s dry-shod Toyota sliding around like a newborn lamb on a skating rink. They cut it fine, finer than a treble zero grade sandpaper, but on the last corner Lewis nipped past Glock and through to deserved Championship glory.

Ferrari’s garage erupted in premature triumph and then desolation as realisation dawned; Massa was a mass of tears underneath the helmet, but Lewis and Britain’s joy was unconfined at this narrowest of victories. Over the course of a long and rollercoaster-like season he deserved it.

It should be the first of many.

Pre-race tension

Okay last chance to post this workaday week since we’re off at an industry awards show. Don’t worry we’re not nominated (but organising bizarrely) and any interruptions to the all day drinking even for a quick spurt would be about as welcome as an answer machine message from Russell Brand and Jonathon Ross.

Just a quick one then to preview this weekend’s big event – nope not the latest episode of the Standford wives – but Sunday’s big race which we’re looking forward to more than we can say.


Anyway we speak of course of Lewis’s triumphant ascension to the F1 title. He can’t screw it up two years in a row can he? Course not. There’s been a lot of talk of tactical races, keeping his foot off the gas and playing it safe and driving a 'safe' race.

Pure tosh of course Lewis is a pure born racer and any attempt to do things even slightly differently will take the edge off his natural advantage.

So here’s our piece of shit advice for the tuppence fuck all it’s worth. Put your foot down, qualify first and win it from the front.

Oh and don’t blow it! We'll be watching...

Indecent Proposal

And so to Tuesday and our contemplation of Cricket’s latest attempt to prostitute itself like a five quid hooker with Saturday’s forthcoming Stanford Twenty20 match between England and West Indies XIs.

In danger of making the over-the-top gaudiness of the IPL look classy and refined, Stanford’s winner takes all greed fest tag line ‘One night, one shot, $20 million’ also borrows a Highlander-style ‘There can be only one’ to add to its patent ridiculousness.

So what’s next? A live Kurgen-style beheading for the bowler who concedes the million dollar boundary? Why not? That’s bound to get the crowds in and seems tailor made for the attention span of a modern audience.

The Stanford series was supposed to be the ECB’s sweetener to distract the England players from the lure of the IPL in February. But now the whole cricket world’s in hock to India anyway (including both the Aussies and Sri Lanka), it’s become just another cash cow appetiser, before Freddie and KP etc. inevitably depart for Lalit land anyway.

Could it get any more ridiculous? Of course it could! How about Sir Allen allegedly ‘getting close to’ as the BBC put it (or ‘copping a feel of’ as we’d say) of some of the England players WAGs while the players themselves were busy out in the field on Sunday?

It’s cricket’s very own Indecent Proposal and just the kind of story to underline the game’s credibility as it goes galloping over the horizon in a welter of black bats and ridiculous pyjamas.

Famine to Feast

From famine to feast today as a weekend’s spurting action leaves us quite literally breathless (well it’s either that or all that crystal meth we’ve been smoking).

Everywhere you turned this weekend there was spurting goodness to appreciate, from Andy Murray retaining his tennis title, to Yank football at Wembley (a much underrated game in our humble...) or even the Scousers finally storming fortress Stamford Bridge to leave the title race wide open.

Yet amidst all this spurting headlines, easily the biggest story was Uncle Harry Redknapp who went to bed Portsmouth manager on Saturday and woke up as Spurs boss on Sunday morning.

Always one of the game’s more ahem colourful characters, Redknapp is nevertheless an intriguing appointment and certainly knows his managerial onions - the effect on the previously hapless Spurs was immediate as they conjured a 2-0 win over Bolton.

Only Southampton have survived such a poor start to the Premiership without going down but with Redknapp at the helm, you have to figure Spurs’ chances of pulling a Houdini have suddenly and dramatically increased.

Becks to Milano

Well there we desperate for a story like a crack whore scrabbling for pennies when up pops the boy David to rescue us from our pre-postural tension.

Beckham is the footballer (or ‘th’uh soccer bomb’ as our US brethren would have it) who just keeps on giving, providing more interest, sensation and sheer column inches than an Osama Bin Laden-Madonna love child.

So now Becks has packed his designer luggage and is off the old folks home at AC Milan where he’s signed a loan deal from January to April while the MLS shuts down for its winter slumber.

It’ll be a rare old time for the former England skipper, sitting around in a bath chair with the likes of Ronaldhino and the ever-green Paulo Maldini and swapping tales of the heady old days when they played for sheer enjoyment, weekly wage weren't a major contributor to the credit crunch and ordinary fans could still afford to go to a game.

Still Becks and Milan seem a perfect fit, both are more about style than substance nowadays, they’ll be plenty of shopping for Posh and it’ll certainly keep the old warhorse fit if Senor Fabio’s England continue to call for the last five minutes.

So hoorah for Becks, not only will it be good to catch the occasional glimpse of the world’s greatest deliverer of a ball, writing about his continuing adventures certainly makes work for our idle hands, which when you look at it in the cold harsh light of day, can only be a good thing.

The old order changeth?

A rare blast of cricket today in the bleak mid erm autumn, where a right of old shoeing for the Aussies results in them being on the wrong end of a 320-run spanking from India in the second test at Mohali.

Now normally we’d bow to no-one in our enjoyment of watching the Aussies squirm on the rack, but strangely we didn’t get as much pleasure out of the result as we thought we might.

Now India’s a tough place to tour and it’s a fool who bets the farm on any single result, even one as statistically massive as this, but we’re suddenly wondering if this signals the start of a shift in the game’s playing as well as its financial power base?

The sheep worriers are still a great side, but no team can survive simultaneously losing the best spin bowler in history as well as one of its finest pacemen and it looks as this might finally be starting to filter through into where it counts - out on the field.

There's still great players there: Ponting, Lee and Hussey, but there's plenty of new and emerging talents too and its not stuffed to the gills with the of champions of old.

The Aussies' dominance has been unchallenged for so long, it seems almost inconceivable that anyone else could take the number one slot, but this result indicates they might just be mortal after all and the first rays of the dawn of a new world order may just be peeping over the horizon.

Now if there’s one thing that cricketing history has taught us it’s that you write off the Aussies at your peril, but it makes the prospect of the Ashes next year seriously interesting.

Chinese Grand Prix: So boring it was exciting

And so to Sunday where we were up at the previously un-discovered hour of eight bells to catch the Chinese Grand Prix. Not ever really a natural environment for a sports hack (except to nab a couple of headache pills before going back to sleep), it’s a cold grey murky world at that time of the day, only enlivened by a warming cup of char with a decently sized snifter nestling in it.

Still, following last weekend’s dismal showing from Lewis in Japan, we felt we had to be there live to see the drama unfold and we weren’t disappointed.

We say drama, what we actually mean is procession and as a race, this was deeply deeply tedious stuff, with Master Hamilton making a perfect start, disappearing into the middle distance and giving the trailing Ferraris a huge metaphorical finger.

The victory was as tedious as it was inevitable, so boring it was perversely exciting, as Lewis simply ate up the laps and took the chequered flag by a distance.

Hamilton’s been (wrongly) criticised in the past (and even the past two weeks) for being too aggressive, too arrogant, too much of a risk taker, but they’re exactly the qualities which make him such a great racing driver.

However on this occasion he was just glad to be grey and we’re extremely happy he was made it that way.

Enger-land versus Belarus: post-match analysis

It’s our best ever start we’ve had to a competition and we don’t mean that tenner we’ve just spunked on lucky dips for tomorrow night’s Euro Millions.

Last night Minsk was the arena for another splendid showing from Senor Fabio’s new look ie. actually pretty good Enger-land as they negotiated a tough away fixture against technically tidy opposition, eventually putting Belarus to the sword 3-1.

The old England would have been lucky to scrape a draw in a game like this not even six months ago.

A decent start capped by Gerrard's virtuoso strike was marred by a deserved equaliser for Belarus, who played us off the park for perhaps 20 minutes to pull the scores level at half-time.

Senor Fabio continued to show he’s worth every one of the millions he’s paid and possibly even a few more by turning the game completely around in the second half. Don’t know what he puts in their half-time tea, or whether he gives them the hairdryer, but whatever it’s working.

Upping the work to deny Belarus time to weave their magic worked a treat, Heskey pounded the centre backs, Rooney’s on fire and hell even Wayne Bridge looked like he knew one end of a touchline from the other. Heartening stuff.

We’ve had more false starts than Ussain Bolt’s rivals, but finally, for long suffering Enger-land fans ottimismo is no longer an untranslatable word .

WAG-ging the finger

We were raking through the ashes today in a desperate attempt to find something interesting in the spurting firmament but fortunately - and not in the usual way - the ever dependable Rio came up with the goods.

Newly born statesman, stand in captain and first minister of Enger-land Rio has opined that the England camp was a ‘circus’ pre-Senor Fabio and that our last futile World Cup bid was sabotaged by the ‘whole WAG situation’.

Well no shit Sherlock, the WAGs or ‘slags with bags’ as some of the more uncharitable elements (like us) would have them, proved a big Baden Baden distraction for the tabs, but we’re not so sure they had such a big effect on anything other than the paper’s soaring circulations.

Rio differs of course saying ‘"People were worrying more about what other people were wearing and where they were going, rather than the team."

Well it’s an interesting point, but we see the WAGs more as a symptom, rather than a cause – and of course they’re well fit too innit.

We hope Senor Fabio has taken note and will rapidly introduce the traditional cold showers and a pre-game nookie bans to keep the lads ever hungry for our next glorious World Cup fail ...er attempt.

Japanese Grand Prix – post-race analysis....

And so to Tuesday and our post-race analysis of Sunday’s Japanese Grand Prix and once again the headlines tell their own story...

“Impatience ....Lewis is chucking it away ...just like last season ...needs a calmer head ...wilts under pressure...”

What utter crap. There’s little doubt Lewis could do with a dose of Schumacher’s icy calm running through his veins but he could also do with an even handed approach from the sport itself.

Is F1 simply massively biased towards Ferrari? Well to our admittedly jaundiced eye it seems immensely so. So let’s have a look at those race incidents in order.

Hamilton made an awful start and panicking tried to undertake Raikkonen into the first corner losing a load of places. Not great, but par for the course on turn one of any Grand Prix and simply not worthy of a penalty. Lewis gets a Drive Through.

So onto lap two and Massa deliberately rams the McLaren and couldn’t have hit it more amidships if he’d been driving a U-boat. Massa effectively takes his championship rival out of the race and deserves a points deduction for such blatant gamesmanship. What does he get? A simple Drive Through.

Finally and most conclusively later in the race Massa comes haring down the start finish straight and rams into the hapless Bourdais who’s blamelessly holding the inside line as he exits the pits. A clear cut case or apparently so, but instead it’s Bourdais who’s punished and Massa who picks up a bonus point on top of the one he’s already purloined.

What further tricks can F1 conjure up to help tilt Ferrari over the line to another undeserved championship? We’ll see 08.00am Sunday we guess.

Enger-land - the eternal dilemma

It’s probably only an England fan that could look at a 5-1 pasting of Borat’s brethren and see the down side, but alas even with Saturday’s spectacular scoreline still reverberating around our foreheads, all is not well in the state of Denmark this Monday lunchtime.

Sven, Steve Mclaren they both tried it to make it work, so we suppose Senor Fabio deserved his chance too, but surely Saturday’s game proved once and for all that Stephen Gerrard and Frank Lampard can’t be accommodated in the same midfield.

We have two world class players who play in exactly the same role, sure it’s an embarrassment of riches, but call it what you will, two does not go into one in this case and the blend of the team is suffering when they both play.

It’s an old cliché but the best players do not necessarily make the best team.

We’d probably give Stevie G the slight nod as the better all around player, but ‘Fat’ Frank played very well against Croatia and whoever he picks now, Senor Fabio has to choose one and leave the other warming the bench.

As for Ashley Cole’s mistake: good player but very difficult man to like.

We’d probably have booed him anyway.

The battle for Cricket's soul - part the umpteenth

The battle for cricket’s soul continues today with heartening news that the England versus West Indies Stanford sponsored pointless, tasteless, greed fest record breaking Twenty20 has run into trouble after a sponsorship dispute went the wrong way in the high court.

Listen carefully and you can almost hear the steady drip drip of our heart’s slowly bleeding.

FYI Sir Allen Stanford’s the US millionaire who out of the absolute goodness of his heart and love of a game (which he’d scarcely heard of beforehand) has stumped up a million dollars a man for a Twenty20 slog fest in the Caribbean in November.

In case you missed it the spectacle of Sir Al (as we like to think of him) flying in to Lord’s with a million bucks in a box was surely the least savoury thing since a sugar-coated kilo of sugar in a sugar wrapping.

Of course it’ll eventually be worked out, money doesn’t so much talk as scream at the top of its voice, but it’s sad to see the summer game bowing down before almighty mammon in such a and pointless way.

And you thought we hated the IPL? We’ve got a special bottle of vitriol mixed with bile in store for this one.

The UEFA Cup: A cut out n’ keep Guide

Ah the romance of the ...erm UEFA Cup. The losers consolation runners-up cup, used to be a rare old source of fun, a kind of ‘let’s see what you would’ve won’ solace for those big boys knocked out of the Champions League proper.

Nowadays it’s a bit more serious than that, with the second tier Premiership sides mixing it with Europe’s best and erm, well, lesser well known.

If fact half of the attraction nowadays is spotting the European sides who are so obscure they hardly dare speak their name, as one mainstream sports hack recently found out.

So by way of an intro here’s the Spurt’s cut out and keep guide to some of the more fanciful sides Portsmouth and Man City could be knocked out by this season.

Mentalist Karkiv
Much fancied Ukranian XI who are known to field a starting line up of in-patients and the occasional lycanthrope in goal. They’ll fancy a run to the semis if the medication holds out.

FC Cluggor
Second division Romanian outfit known for their robust, hefty and occasional life-threatening tackling. The FO advises bringing along plenty of substitutes, spare blood supplies and even pre-packed donor material.

Upstart Vladivostok
Noveau riche Russian side formed from the ashes of the USSR’s Spetnatz brigade. Supporters paint their arses blue and bare them for the famous Upstart Roar at kick off. Carefully positioned rooftop snipers makes timing your run on goal just that little bit extra tricky.

Club FC Naughty
Highly sexed Swedish side best known for their casual approach on the pitch and swinging approach off it. The post game ritual of communal hot bath and ‘Swedish smelling salts’ is apparently best avoided, especially by the unwary.

AC Onanism
Horny handed Morovian masterbationists XI who are much fancied to knock out some decent results ...That’s enough club sides – Ed.

Normal service...

“You fucking ...fricking ...fracking ...frocking ...freckers."

“You bunch of ...cunts ...cnuts ...scunts ...tuncts."

"Why should I believe you wankers ...wonkers ...winkers?"

You bunch of bastards ...bistards ...bustards."

“I’m not coming here to have the piss ...pass ....puss taken out of me...

And now putting it all together...

“You can Fruck off your fricking fruckers. You’re all a bunch of cnuts. Write what you like you bustards, you’re all a team of winkers anyways. I’ve not come here to have the puss taken out of me you frockers. Now frack off!’”

Splendid, it’s finally finished!

Thanks for your patience and sorry for the prolonged absence, we’ve been hard at work on a real-life swear filter for Joe Kinnear.

Normal spurting service or what passes for it will hopefully resumed tomorrow.

Newcastle Find New Owner

After the reports in The Sun today concerning the rumoured bid for Newcastle Football Club, we at the Spurt have intercepted the initial communication from Nigeria. Here it is, below:

"Thanks for your mail, I am really interested in your Football Club.I will pay £250 million pounds for it as I have been a lifelong fan of the mighty barcodes. Please i will want to indicate my mode of payment to you since i am not in the United Kingdom at the moment and there is a Company in the United Kingdom that is indebted to me in the amount of £347 million. So i will want to really seek your Assistance at this point,That i will want you to forward to me the the following informations below that i will need to forward to the Company indebted to me so that they can make out the payment directly to you and after you have cashed it in your bank,You will have the excess amount on the payment sent to my International Shipping agent via WESTERN UNION MONEY TRANSFER ,All charges you are to pay at the western union office when sending the excess amount of £97 million should be deducted from my balance, So you don't have to bother yourself about that, if you find yourself short of funds for this perhaps you could sell a player or two? The reason for this is that,The Company indebted to me say they cannot make out the payment in two installment except once, And since i am purchasing your Football Club from you at this time,I will want to really be sure that my funds will be safe in your hands as i will want to entrust my money unto your care,So inorder for us to complete the purchase of the Football Club now,I will want you to get back to me with your full contact information inorder for me to forward it to the Company indebted to me inorder for them to make out the payment in your name and send it to you ithout any furtherdelay.

Do confirm this mail and get back to me as soon as possible. I'm really looking forward to owning Newcastle United and I'm sure I'll be a step up from the previous owners."

Now this email looks a bit fishy to us, but we're assured that it is the genuine article. And the last bit has a ring of truth about it ..

Legal Eagles

More legal news today (call us Rumpo of the Bailey’s coffee) as Sheffield United look to be quids in following an independent tribunal’s verdict that Carlos Tevez was worth three points to West Ham during the 2006-2007 season.

Surely the assassin-faced Argentinean hitman was worth a deal more than that? Well possibly, but Tevez also scored the goal that secured the vital three points that kept the Hammers up and condemned the Blades to walk the relegation plank.

His registration was highly suspect and it was harsh on Sheffield at the time, but surely claiming back £30 million in compensation now is equally harsh on the current West Ham?

Predictably Lewis Hamilton won’t be picking up any additional points after an appeal against his controversial penalty in the Belgian Grand Prix was not even heard.

Hamilton’s case is a lot better than Sheffield’s but it’s never an edifying spectacle when anyone attempts to settle sporting matters at the bar rather than on the pitch.

The goal that never was...

We’re just like The Beatles today, here, there and everywhere and after a weekend spent up in the grim north, we’re still struggling to find our Southern mojo.

Further geographical dislocation comes in today’s Football League decision not to replay the Reading v Watford game after Saturday’s goal that never was.

For those who missed it, Reading were awarded a goal after the ball dribbled over the goal line on the wrong side of the post and the linesman, who’s eyesight would frankly make a bat look sharp and eagle-eyed, maintained it was all down to - and-we-shit-you-not-this-is-an-actual-quote an ‘optical illusion’.

Now we’re divided, we now live in the ‘Ding (it’s like the Nam, only with slightly fewer snipers) and have always had a soft spot for Steve Coppell’s men. But we’re lifelong Hornets fans and it seems grossly unfair to not only rob us of a victory, but maintain all the yellow cards and cautions we got from complaining against .

Still, we’re reluctantly forced to agree, you can’t exactly replay a game just because the ref gets something wrong, otherwise we’d never finish a weekend, let alone a season.

It’s just one further bit of shit luck, in what promises to be a decidedly shit season.

Forgiveness

Not much doing on the sporting front today, apparently there’s some golf going on or something and Nick Faldo’s revealed his Open pairings. Sounds painful but two competing motives vie for our affections on the receipt of this news: firstly couldn’t give less of a shit about golf if were a constipated water buffalo which is only slightly offset by our natural urge to beat the Yanks at anything at all costs.

So go Europe for the win, yay! Dominate those links! Sink those putts. Or something.

Ahem anyway the only other item of interest was the return of Cristiano Ronaldo who was apparently met by a rousing standing ovation at Old Trafford when came off the bench in last night’s European tie.

Were we surprised by the lack of outrage from the Man Utd fans? Not much. Despite
Ronny practically lying on his back with legs akimbo for Real all summer, nothing was ever properly consummated and United fans know they need faithless young Ronny on board if they’re going to have any hope of remaining English and European champions this season.

Still it’s not exactly going to be an easy marriage when despite the apparent and very public rapprochement, Ronny’s still willing to commit footy adultery first opportunity he gets.

Conspiracy Theories

Spare a thought for shy retiring wallflower Sir Alex Ferguson today, as it looks like he’ll be up before the beak again.

Fergy’s in the steaming stuff after claiming that referees’ boss Keith Hackett was apparently involved in letting John Terry off with a slapped wrist after the England skipper’s straight red against Man City on Saturday.

Now Sir Alex isn’t exactly the most unbiased individual, understandably sees the world through Red Devil tinted shades and probably sees more conspiracy theories than an Alabama Survivalist’s message board... but on this occasion we have to agree with him.

Terry got a deserved red for ‘serious foul play’ which FIFA defines as "excessive force ...against an opponent" and Terry’s rugby-style tackle on Jo certainly falls under that heading. To rescind that card so quickly and to send the ref involved to the lower league doghouse sure looks a bit suss, particularly given Chelsea ‘welcome’ Man Utd this weekend.

Not that Fergy hasn’t been his usual calm balanced self with his reaction being slightly more over-the-top than a Dennis Wise patella breaker.

But we’re pretty sure he’s right when he says the same wouldn’t have happened if it had been a United player.

Chelsea the new Ferrari?

A tale of two Ronaldos

When Man City’s new owners said they were going to sign Ronaldo, we’re pretty sure they had Cristiano rather than Luis Nazário de Lima in mind...

Still it’s with a sad upside downy smile and a heavy heart we have to report breaking news this lunchtime that gap-toothed wunderkind, ex-Brazilian goal machine and World Cup final dodger Ronaldo will not be signing for Man City this season.

Sadly another footballing dream must die, crushed by the cold harsh weight of reality, but still it’s an opportunity wasted in our book, an opportunity to send a clear message to the rest of the businessmen, billionaires and would-be owners currently circling the premier League like a pack of bloated vultures.

Yes Ronaldo is not the player he was: his weight’s up, his skills are down and he might struggle to pass a fitness test for the Telly Tubbies (although he did bang in 9 goals in 20 games for Milan last year), but City could have made an impact by snapping him up.

As a statement of intent Ronaldo’s signing could not have been clearer and that statement would have read, “We’re now so loaded we can afford to have big boy loafing about in the stands on a £100,000 a week and not even blink. So what are the rest of you gonna do?”

For Sale

A weekend’s sojourn into the pastoral idyll of the New Forest does wonders for our fearfully depleted mental reserves, but leaves little time for sporting endeavours.

However on our return late Sunday evening, we did notice this little ad squirreled away in one of the darkest corners of the net.

"For Sale: Wor Club"

Frightfully used football club. Long mileage, low record of success, few modern redeeming features. No previous careful owners and now being offloaded as no longer wanted. Requires large rudder but comes free replica shirt with King Kev no.1 on the back (XXL).

Optional Extras include: Totally unrealistic fan expectations, belief that TV pundit can become Geordie messiah and free poison chalice.

Would suit: Anyone able to pour bottomless pits of cash straight into the Tyne.

Contact M. Ashley Sports Tat Direct c/o USA”

Sounds attractive non? Any takers?

Miracles Do Happen

WTF is the world coming to? Not to an end evidently following Wednesday’s CERN black hole experiment (well not yet anyway, we’re still here in all our misery), but something’s up.

England thrash Croatia 4-1 away and Setanta relent on their previously tight arse position to deny the long suffering sports fan highlights of future England games.

It’s evident something in the fabric of reality has subtlety altered. Was it the Spurt wot done it or the large Hadron accelerator? We’re making no claims, but it’s funny how the stars sometimes align.

But of course the story of the week is Senor Fabio’s New England. We say ‘new’ because this was like watching a team of strangers, ones that could actually play football.

Theo gets the plaudits naturally and rightly so after scoring a superb hat-trick, but this was a team performance of exceptional quality. Not flawless of course, there was time for Calamity to have the odd flap and the Coles to look distressed, but Heskey, Rooney and the rest finally looked like a properly balanced team and played like one too.

England’s overall possession was 61%. They passed well and retained possession and stroked it around like a bunch of Brazilians in the second half - even spectacularly failing to get a dose of the jitters when Croatia pulled a spawny one back with ten minutes to go (and instead preferring to keep playing and put another one pass the exasperated Croats).

There’s still plenty of time for it all to go to shit naturally and seasoned England watchers have seen too many false dawns to start rejoicing prematurely.

But it seems Senor Fabio certainly has the magic touch. His middle name isn’t Gandalf by any chance? Maybe its something to do with those glasses?

A quick one - Watford till I die

‘Only time for a quick one today’, as we often say to Mrs Spurt, as that cursed sapper of our leisurely spurting discourses ‘work’ intervenes to keep our spurting contribution to a minimum.

Still we couldn’t let this one lie , with the batshit insane quite normal and not-sanity-defying-in-any-way news that the Bundisliga's Hamburg are going to be the first football team to offer a stadium-side cemetery where fans or rather ex-fans will be able to get a grandstand view of the pitch-side action post-mortem.

"Many people think it's crazy and a strange idea," Hamburg board member Christian Reichert told German newspaper Suddeutsche Zeitung. "But our plan is to capture worldwide attention with a serious venture."

No shit Christian. We only hope our beloved Watford, the mighty Hornets, are working on a plan to offer us similar facilities for the afterlife.

We always knew they’d drive us to the grave one day.

Setanta Ranter part 3

Once again Steve B joins the Spurt to well and truly put the boot in on the troubled Irish rights holder provide depth and insight into the Setanta situation.

There have been new developments regarding Setanta – leading me to believe that we may hear more of those delicious “We hate Setanta” chants in Croatia tonight. I’m an avid Five Live devotee, and this morning, Victoria Derbyshire hosted a discussion on the England-Croatia game. All of a sudden it mutated into – guess what – a vehement discussion about how impossible it is to extricate yourself from a Setanta subscription.

Sound like a familiar subject? It took Victoria by surprise. Which just goes to show that she needs to start reading World of Spurt. Indeed, I emailed her, detailing my Setanta woes, and adding a helpful click-through to Setanta ranter. Alas, no response. But here’s a telling comment on her blog:

Seems I'm not alone in feeling the pain...

Give us back our sport

Fresh developments today on the whole Setanta highlights debacle which Steve B’s so eloquently dissected below, with Labour MP John Grogan demanding that World Cup Qualifier highlights should join the list of protected sporting events.

A rare sunbeam of sanity in a black void of sporting despair, Grogan’s call is of course welcome, but shows just how far we’ve fallen from the ethos of being able to catch a glimpse of any of our national teams, without having to cough up a small fortune or heading pubwards in return.

England v Andorra marked another watershed moment in the long slow rape of free-to-air sport with no highlights on any terrestrial channel whatsoever. You might consider that a blessing having being spared the full horror, but with the Beeb and ITV refusing to pay through the nose – and Setanta counterclaiming they were too tight, the only people to lose out were the fans.

To put it in context: Even Uncle Rupe’s Sky could be relied on to do the decent thing after they’d shown the game live and it’s not exactly known as being the most generous and altruistic of broadcasting operations.

So we’ve got A-List events like Wimbledon and the FA cup which must be shown live on terrestrial TV and even Second Tier events which are guaranteed highlights, but they’re being eroded as surely as the East Anglia coastline. Remember when cricket use to be A-List? How long before another bunch of chancers get to build their fortune by exerting a strangehold on our passion for sport?

Ultimately all it will do is damage the off-the-air sports themselves, who lest they forget are in direct competition with free-to-air and accessible sports for people’s time and affections. If you can’t see it, you simply won’t support it, something the FA might care to remember next time they discover Wembley tickets and replica shirt sales have gone through the floor.

Setanta Ranter Part 2

Once again we’re proud to welcome guest scribe Steve B who joins the Spurt for another Setanta rant and to weigh up England’s prospects in Croatia

Missed the England-Andorra game: I was tied up. In a Chelsea dungeon. OK, that’s not strictly true and, indeed, had I been in one of those infamous establishments favoured by Max Mosley, in search of the most esoteric dose of masochism available, then I probably would have seen England’s motley assemblage of multimillionaire chavs, dubious mobile phone-practitioners and lapdancer-shaggers strutting their by all accounts passionless and inept stuff. For what could be more masochistic than watching the England football team on Setanta?

A solid half an hour’s trawling around on Sky Plus confirmed what has since become a minor story: that if you object to subscribing to Setanta, as I do (having discovered last year that cancelling a Setanta subscription is harder than escaping from a set of shackles suspended from a dripping ceiling), you won’t even be able to see the highlights of England’s World Cup qualifiers. Or perhaps “highlights”, given that it’s England is the wrong word. With the Setanta deal, the FA have really outdone themselves (they’ve been putting out some choice “Nothing to do with us” quotes which, translated from FA-speak, mean: “We just took the money and ran. That’s what we do.”) Maybe they took the Irish folding stuff after realising they’d managed to unearth an outfit which was even less popular than themselves.

One good thing did emerge from England’s reputedly dire 2-0 victory, and I’m not talking about the amusing Andorran quotes about losing by a mere two goals being a “Moral victory”. Trying to gauge just how bad England were, I trawled the Sunday papers, many of which (especially the ones owned by Murdoch) reported that at one stage of the match, the England fans in Barcelona had chanted: “We hate Setanta”. Let’s hope this becomes a regular chant. Perhaps Capello could help by doing things like banishing the embarrassment known as Stuart Downing from the squad, selecting the man who has been England’s best player for ages – Joe Cole – from the start and generally decreasing the time it takes for England fans to get bored with booing their own players and to think of more imaginative (but no less valid) targets for their entirely understandable frustration and bile.

I will, however, go to a pub and watch Wednesday’s match against Croatia – not to sup hungrily upon whatever pearls of erudition might drop from Steve McManaman’s lips, but just to get a sense of Capello’s approach. Given that he has excluded Peter Crouch – the one available target-man who has a decent goals per game aggregate for England since Alan Shearer – from his squad (I have no problems with the absence of Michael Owen, the new Daren Anderton), I’m expecting England to do an Andorra and park their bus in front of goal. If England escape with a draw, then Fabio will deserve praise. Although even such a mediocre result is about as likely as the FA suddenly announcing that it has finally learned how to find its arse with both hands.


By Steve B

Post race recall

Out-rage-ous! You can colour us mightily pissed off today. We were originally going to go off on one with an extended rant on the iniquities of Setanta, who have unsportingly refused to share England highlights with a terrestrial audience.

But alas no that particular line of invective must wait for another time as our seething levels of bile have been sent surging by the Stewards Enquiry into yesterday’s Belgian Grand Prix.

Civilisation and possibly the entire world/omniverse as we know it may all be about to disappear into a black hole in Cern (and by the way did we miss a memo, which twat greenlighted that?) but some things are more important than the impending end of the world and civilisation as we know it.

At the end of one of the most exciting Grand Prixs in recent memory, which had us literally hopping and hollering on the sofa, the F1 stewards rescinded Lewis Hamilton’s win with a highly dubious penalty for cutting the chicane.

The story of the race? Capitalising on Hamilton’s early spin, Raikkonen dominated for nearly the entire race, but with just a few laps remaining, the rain began to fall and Lewis, back in the hunt, slowly began to reel in Kimi until he was right on his tail.

In the midst of a gripping old fashioned wheel-to-wheel duel in supremely sketchy conditions, Hamilton and Raikkonen go into the Bus Stop together and with Kimi holding his line. Rather than crash, Lewis is forced to run wide gaining a slight advantage, but crucially letting Kimi retake the lead as they cross the start-finish line.

Then it’s game on again and as Kimi tries to defend, Lewis makes a breathless pass on the inside before being rammed from behind at the next corner. Down the road Kimi overtakes again, before crashing out as both cars try to avoid a spinning backmarker and Hamilton using his supreme rainmaster skills, nursemaids the McLaren home, 14 seconds ahead of Massa for a superb win.

Or it should have been. The perfect rejoinder to a sport often accused of lacking excitement, this was nerve-shredding head-to-head racing at its finest and to sully the result with such a dubious recall does F1 absolutely no favours at all.

It also does nothing to dispel suspicions of an inherent Ferrari bias at its highest levels.

If the positions had been reversed and it was a Ferrari driver standing on the podium, say Michael Schumacher a few years ago, the suspicion lingers that the manoeuvre would have been applauded and the result would have been allowed to stand.

Such highly questionable decisions immensely damage F1’s credibility as the pinnacle of world motorsport.

Making it up...

Carefully considered thought-provoking insight and analysis into the hidden workings of the spurting world, or just making it up as we go along?

Hey we just write it, you decide!

So we welcome to One Liner Thursdays, the first and possibly only in an occasional series
where we take random shit words and events from the muddled pronouncements of top sporting figures and provide a scurrilous and/or sarcastic retort IN ONE LINE. Haha.

Imagine us as a sort of spurting digestive tract, ingesting quotes, facts and happennings, passing them through our acidic filter and them excreting them out as any old shit.

Ahem anyway, first up South Africa coach Micky Arthur and his excuse for the 4-0 drubbing by former One-Day also-rans England. Over to you Micky, “We are trying to identify a brand of cricket to play in one-day cricket and then identify players to pick to play that kind of brand."

Yup, Micky the brand you’re trying to identify? That would be the winning one. Next!

Aha, new Everton signing Louis Saha has offered to work for free until he reaches full fitness,

It’s sure going to be a long lean winter in the Saha household.

And finally, Brazil legend Pele thinks new Manchester City signing Robinho needs 'counselling' for turning down Chelsea and moving to Middle Eastlands.

Fair enough but we’re sure that 160,000 smackers a week means at least he won’t have to slum it in Group.

Badum-tish.

More One Liners coming soon, well as soon as we run out of other ideas anyway.

The Downfall of King Kev?

Amidst all the hype and furore surrounding Man City’s acquisition and the various fallout, bitterness, recriminations and hilarity as the transfer window was slammed shut, a rather poignant tale is emerging from the distant northern land of the Toon.

King Kev (Kevin Keegan) is apparently in ‘ongoing talks about his future at the club’, where he’s trapped in the managerial limbo between resigning and being sacked.

Was it really just eight short months ago that the man hailed as the Geordie Messiah took over from doomed Sam Allardyce? Is it really just eight short months for the ‘impossible job’ to have broken him?

Whether it’s a fallout with billionaire owner Mike Ashley, conflict with footballing director Dennis Wise (a man who would apparently start an argument with himself if no-one else was available) or the bitter disappointment of signing no-one major in the transfer window and nearly losing Michael Owen, it looks as if King Kev’s days may be numbered.

Having once shared a shower with the man formerly known as Mighty Mouse (long story but it was communal, post game we might add, nothing kinky), we have to say it will be folly for the Toon to rid themselves of turbulent Kev.

He may have a reputation for tactical naivety on the pitch and even for walking away from difficult situations, but he’s a proponent of attacking football in the dreary modern percentage game, he really does get getting the most out of players and on the training ground there’s simply no finer coach (we’re witnesses to that).

And if King Kev goes now, surely there would be no way back for him after this? In an era where big business dominates the game, Keegan is the direct product of a less cynical and more passionate era and his loss would only ultimately harm the English game.

Big four becomes big five?

Sensayshanul!!!! Sorry to go all down market and tabloid on you, but we’re never afraid to mix it with the red tops and really there’s no other word to sum up what can only be described as the most exciting transfer deadline day in recent history.

We thought it might be all about Berbatov and Robinho and it was, but quite not in the way that we'd imagined. Manchester City stepping out of the shadows to nab Robinho from under Big Phil’s nose and put in an audacious last minute bid to try and spoil Sir Alex’s party. Whoddathoughit?

As statements of intent go it doesn’t get more convincing than that and with the blue half of Manchester now apparently owned by The Abu Dhabi United Group, who have bottomless pockets and an intention to dominate, a new seismic shift in the delicate footballing cosmos has begun.

With money no object, could we see the big four become a big five? Or will either Arsenal or more likely Liverpool have to make way? Frankly, we scoffed when Ronaldhino to Man City was mooted earlier in the season, but now frankly, anything seems possible.

We’ll stir the mischief pot with the unthinkable. Ronaldo to cross the dividing line? You heard it here first.

Let’s hope they keep Mark Hughes on board though. One of the most talented young British managers around, ‘Sparky’ is one element of the MCFC mix the ADUG would be wise to retain.

Unsung heroes: Fuelling the fire

A normally sedate Monday is instead anything but today, with the football transfer window being left ajar for another 24 hours, it’s a full on feeding frenzy as the midnight hour approaches.

Despite Man City being sold to the Abu Dhabi United Group after Thaksin Shinawatra looked set to fail the ‘fit and proper dictator’s test’ it’s all about transfers today with Robinho to Chelsea and Dimitar Berbatov to Man Utd. being the pick of the bunch.

Although there’s been little to no major surprises as we post this lunchtime, the last minute wheeling and dealing has an undeniably compelling car crash quality and we’re sure there’s plenty more to come.

As we scribble, clubs, chairmen, managers agents and players are all jockeying for position in a cross between Russian roulette and playground picks in a desperate attempt to placate, mollify, cajole or titillate their fans into believing their latest last minute signing is the next messiah who’ll not only rescue the club from ignominy but spearhead their ascent to the next level of football’s hierarchy.

All tosh of course, but we ask you to spare a thought for the unsung heroes of transfer deadline day, the massed ranks of taxi drivers, travel agents, hairdressers, swimming pool attendants and ex-colleague’s brother’s cousins who add fuel to the transfer fire by concocting some of the most improbable sightings since the Bigfoot photos and The Sport’s classic 'B17 Found On the Moon'.

Transfer deadline day wouldn’t be half as interesting without these stalwarts who go above and beyond the call of duty and indeed veracity to spread the most improbable and unlikely of tales which are eagerly lapped up by baying fans.

It simply wouldn’t be the same without them.

It’s all a matter of opinion....and your’s stinks...

Want an opinion on the state of the nation? Screw all that market research, voter sampling or high street polling, this week’s new approved method is simply ask a Premiership footballer...

Not content with dominating our TV schedules these fine upstanding athletes are now appointing themselves as opinion formers too on issues as diverse as the weather, Brits enjoying themselves and even taxation.

Earlier in the week there was Nemanja Vidić’s shock revelation that there was ‘erm too much rain in Manchester’ and that we Brits didn’t know how to enjoy ourselves. Seriously has he never been out on the piss in Manchester of a Friday night?

Ahem anyway next comes Arsenal’s Emmanuel Adebayor stunning state of the nation address on the tax issue, saying if he were prime minister, "I would try to keep down the tax. In London I would like to change the congestion charge. And there’d be extra tax breaks for any strikers issuing come-and-get-me pleas to Barcelona or Milan.’

Okay maybe we made that last one up but whatever next? Dean Windass fronting a week in politics? John Terry heading a domestic policy forum or Rio Ferdinand becoming Foreign Office spokesman on the Russian-Georgian issue?

We await, as they say, developments.

Better to be lucky than good...

Well there’s plenty of transfer shenanigans on the board today as the window slowly creaks closed, but we’re ignoring the footy and dialling up our gloat gauge to max following England’s absolute thumping of South Africa last night, where we bowled them out for 83 or as it’s known colloquially in Croxley circles ‘a Fox score’*.

A great performance particularly from Stuart Broad who opened the door with a five wicket burst which was then barged wide open by The Fred and The Harminator. Even given the SAFs are looking a bit punch drunk and in danger of going off piste at the end of a long tour, it was still a great performance and a superb result.

England now look a pretty decent one day side, but it helps if you pick a balanced team and play the best man in each position. Selectors you appear to have listened.

Now we have to admit we had our misgivings about KP being named captain, but with three wins on the trot, he certainly seems to have the right stuff.

Nope not inspiring leadership, nor great tactical nouse and nuanced bowling and fielding changes, nor indeed the touchy touchy-feely approach he’s apparently taken to man management.

Nope, what KP has got in spades is luck and as the old saw goes and it’s always better to be lucky than good.

Let’s hope it holds out until around this time next year.


*Named after the lowly totals regularly achieved by the dear old Fox and Hounds, ‘The Worst Team in England’ as the Daily Torygraph once had it.

Value for Money

After the excitement of the Olympics, there’s not much cooking on the spurting front today* and we cast a desultory eye over the weekend’s footy with scarcely a backward glance.

We’re sure that’s a phrase that’ll resonate with Andriy ‘Sheva’ Shevchenko, England’s most expensive player and the Chelsea striker who never was.

Today Sheva’s slunk back to Italy with his tail between his legs completed a move back to his spiritual home at AC Milan for an 'undisclosed sum' after failing to make much of an impression apart from on Chelsea’s treatment couch (which now has it’s own permanent memorial Sheva arse-print).

Why this formerly most lethal of strikers couldn’t translate his finishing skills to the PremierShip remains a mystery. Injuries played a part no doubt, but he cast a forlorn figure under Jose Mourinho and big Phil wouldn’t even grant him an audience with the bench this season.

At £30m quid and just nine goals from 47 Premier League games that works out at around 333k recurring per goal which is not exactly a good return on Roman’s investment.

Still we remember the glory days or Sergei Rebrov (another failure in England) and Shevchenko banging them in for the Ukraine and Dynamo Kiev and we wish him well at the Milan home for retired warhorses.

*We did have a strange anecdote concerning ex-Indian skipper and ‘Prince of Calcutta’ Sourav Ganguly and the Sound of Music to fall back on, but we’ll save that for a rainy day.