Handbags…

A weekend of old skool partying this weekend leaves little room for spurting endeavours and it’s a weary, wasted yet happy correspondent who eventually limps home to fall asleep during Sunday’s Barcelona GP, which, Heikki Kovalainen’s
big stack apart, is a Ferrari processional, although it’s good to see young Master Hamilton sneak back onto the podium.

But now spring has truly sprung, when “a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love”, or at least ‘I fancy a bit of that’, you’d imagine some of it might rub off and a spirit of comradeship or at least détente might pervade the sporting air.

But honestly, not a bit of it, we stop pounding the spurting beat for one short weekend and what happens? The whole sporting world decides it’s time to play handbags at ten paces.

First up: the battles of Stamford Bridge; now for the neutral it’s hard to decide what to despise more Man Utd’s arrogance or Chelsea’s tedious efficiency, but the 2-1 win was a good result meaning the race will go to the wire.

But onto the important bit the violence and England skipper wannabe Rio Ferdinand, who accidentally booted a female steward when he meant to kick a interview room door in frustration. Rio we thought you’d eliminated those annoying lapses of concentration, door = big, wooden, steward = female, human. Absorb, reflect, yeah?

Next up a classic spot of ‘afters’ where following the game Park Ji-Sung and Partrice Evra got stuck into Chelsea’s ground staff in a warm down spat of epic proportions and lusty blows. Disappointing, not least because they forgot the cardinal rule: let’s keep violence where it belongs: on the pitch and during the game where we can all enjoy it.

Finally, the continuing sorry saga of Indian spinner Harbhajan Singh who reportedly bitch-slapped fellow Indian team mate Sree Santh in the Mumbai Indians vs Kings XI Punjab IPL game. Sree Snath had opened with a vicious innocuous pleasantry on the lines of “bad luck on losing the game old fella” and for Singh that was enough for the red mist to descend. Is he related to Craig Bellamy by any chance?

Anyway TV failed to capture the incident but apparently Sree Santh subsequently wept on the outfield and had to be comforted by team-mates.

What a big girl.

Today’s Spurt was bought to you in a spirit of love and understanding by the United Weapons Manufacturing and Export Corporation, ‘a safer world through bigger guns’. If you’d like to sponsor a spurt, send us a mail at World of Spurt

Reasons to be cheerful...

With all the controversy over the IPL and huge sweeteners bonuses now being offered for England players to make up for missing out on the sub-continent greed fest, it would be easy to think the beloved game was now evolving into the sordid money market that engulfed footy in the form of the Premiership.

As an England fan or indeed just a genuine cricket lover, it might even be tempting to reach for the trusty bottle of barbiturates and the rusty old service revolver, lest you dare not live to see our holy cricketing religion being soiled by the power of the almighty dollar.

Still amidst all the doom and gloom there’s finally reasons to be cheerful today (and another reason to use that tag) as Freddy ‘Andrew’ Flintoff returned to action in the County Championship

Taking a commendable 40-2 and looking as sharp as ever according to ex-England colleague Marcus Trescothick, The Fred is not only England’s talisman and a guarantee of better performances this summer, but a reminder of a nobler and better age (around 2005), when cricket wasn’t all about lining your pockets and developing a new brand, but about competition, sportsmanship and the finer virtues of the game.

Like being 'rescued' on an offshore lilo or going on a 24 hour drinking bender when you actually win something.

The Fred, welcome back old son, we've missed you...

Howlers...

“There may be no fingers pointing at John Arne Riise”, but there’s probably quite a few sniper rifles on Merseyside following last night’s 95th minute own goal in the annual Champions League semi-final clash of Red and Blue at Anfield.

Far from the dour dull-a-thon predicted, last night’s game was a decent watch with the Scousers probably edging the contest in terms of chances created. But you just can’t legislate for a last-gasp howler like that and on such mistakes can a whole fixture turn.

With a vital away goal in the bank and an impeccable record at Stamford Bridge, it must be advantage Chelsea, but the Blues have to entertain Man United in a must-win clash on Saturday and Liverpool are a different prospect in the CL, so it’s certainly not over yet.

Besides, it would be a real shame (especially for Riise who's apparently on his way out from Anfield) if a shocker of an own goal decided this always fascinating fixture.

Barca v Man Utd in the other semi tonight, should be a similar cracker.

Losing streak

Okay we’re all very excited about the build-up to tonight’s Battle of Britain part deux when Liverpool take on Chelsea in the Champions League semi final.

But because the Spurt is not afraid to delve where other lesser blogs fear to tread, let’s pause for a moment and hail another very different, but still very British kind of hero, 21-year-old Robert Dee.

Huh? Who? We hear you ask, and you’d be right not to recognise the name. But forget household greats like Lampard and Gerrard with their winning ways, Robert Dee is a tennis playing plucky loser who puts previous Brit hero Tim Henman to shame, with a blemished record which has seen him go defeated for three straight years.

Let’s look at those career stats: 1096 days, 54 matches - all defeats and 108 straight sets lost with a best world ranking of 1466. Surely he is the very paragon of sporting mediocrity?

Or was because now Robert Dee has triumphed (albeit briefly) with a 6-4, 6-3 erm caning of Arzhang Derakhshani in first round qualifying for the Reus tournament in Spain, before promptly reverting to type and losing in straight sets in the second round.

Ladies and gentlemen we give you Robert Dee - a very British kind of sporting hero.

Someone should step up and sponsor this man.

No news...

It’s a slow spurting day today and rooting amongst the scraps and picking over the bones of today’s sporting endeavours lead us to conclude that Monday may well indeed be the new sporting Friday.

So words of praise then for two sporting triumphs over the weekend. First up Joe Calzaghe – crazy name and crazy guy who came back from a first round flooring to squeak a narrow points decision against Bernhard Hopkins and disprove two of the oldest of sporting saws.

First that British boxers can ever go to the States and win without actually knocking the Yank out; secondly that seemingly cardinal rule: never bet against the black guy.

Our second award of the weekend goes to veteran Blackburn Rovers keeper Brad Friedel who single handedly kept the Premiership race alive and interesting by pulling off a string of world class saves against a rampant Man Utd.

At times it was Friedel versus United and as it’s been widely observed, pound for pound he probably represents the best transfer buy ever; coming on a free from Liverpool to Blackburn in 2000. Friedel has now notched up over 350 appearances for the Blue and Whites and remains a model of consistency and an ever-present safe pair of hands.

Hail to the Brad!

IPL Live

Mrs Spurt is away on a girly weekend in gay Paris and so instead of our customary wrestling over the remote and my usual snidey mocking of American Idol the Catch Up and similar reality TV boredom, I am free to prowl the EPG after the compulsory Football Focus.

And what do I discover on our afternoon of surfing? Well fuck me sideways and call us Susan, but Live Indian Premier League free on Setanta Sports, without a viewing card or anything. This bears close investigation, not only because you should know your enemy as you know yourself (thanks Sun Tzu), but the novelty of free live cricket on our screens must be embraced.

So what do I think? Well after weeks of h8toring, I chillax and start to enjoy: Sure some parts of it are really dumb: The Chenai Super Kings appear to named after a packet of fags,, the cheerleaders superfluous, the uniforms gaudy and the stadium - despite the organiser's promises and low ticket prices for the locals - only about half full. It's also very difficult to get excited about any kind of team which is known as a 'franchise'.

But there's lots to enjoy too, for a start it's free live cricket, a rare enough novelty nowadays after the ECB sold its soul to Sky and Setanta are decent enough to air it gratis (although it may just be a free taster, like that first rock of crack, to lure us in).

There's nothing wrong with the format either, Twenty20, remains as compelling and thrilling as ever. The art of spin is a key component with Murali rampant and Mike Hussey mixes improvisation and clean hitting to score 116 and help put 240 runs on the board for the John Player Specials. Good to see that it's not all just star show ponies either but a mix of world stars and young Indian players being blooded which at least ticks the development box.

You can even watch the game live on the IPL web site. If they carry on like this, we may have to start reconsidering our long and dearly held prejudices.

Wright off…

Now age is beginning to wither us and custom doth to erode our most finite variety (yup a certain significant anniversary is almost upon us like the veritable crack of doom), we can take scant solace in the fact that all good things come to an end and some bad ones too.

Hence we weren’t exactly reaching for the Exit manual, a rope and an industrial size bottle of Barbiturates when we learned that Ian ‘Wrighty’ Wright had suffered a hissy fit of the most enormous proportions and decided to desert Gal and the Als on BBC’s Match of the Day on the grounds that Aunty Beeb is ‘out of touch’ and he was sick and tired of playing the ‘court jester’.

While no-one could argue with Wrighty that the Beeb’s footy coverage is dull as dishwater (the admirable Football Focus excepted) and that the unholy trio of Lineker, Hansen and Shearer could cure insomnia at international level, Wrighty didn’t exactly advance his case for change by bouncing around like a hyperactive kid’s TV with presenter with attention deficit disorder, mutter nonsensical analysis and treat with deep suspicion anyone playing right midfield whose surname wasn;t Wright-Phillips.

In our humble and not so unbiased opinion, Aunty Beeb is simply paying the price for exclusively hiring ex-players rather than real journalists to front up its footy coverage.

Just time then to issue a quick 'come and get us' wantaway plea to BBC Sport Director Roger Mosey, we have consulted our diary and find ourselves unsurprisingly available.

Golden Gooses

Frankly staggering news revealed in a snippet from the Guardian’s always excellent Digger column this morning, where we’re reminded that the power to market and license Twenty20 cricket – the cash cow now threatening the very future of the game godammit (see posts passim) - as a format was originally in the hands of the English Cricket Board.

The ECB held the rights to this short, exciting and extremely telegenic version of the game which was first developed and played in England in 2003. The word’s always been that the ECB apparently handed over the rights to the rest of the cricket world out of a sense of altruism and for the wider good of the game (another case of our dear old mother country inventing shit which the world then takes, learns, re-invents and then hands us a damn good thrashing at).

However turns out it was nothing quite so philanthropic, apparently ECB execs simply wouldn’t or couldn't stump up the ‘six figure sum’ it would take to patent Twenty20 and so handed it over gratis to the wider world, thereby passing up on the chance to make millions of quid and incidentally stopping this IPL nonsense in its tracks.

No so much a case of ‘not killing the golden goose’ as handing it over for a right good raping and stuffing. Sometimes we just want to sob quietly in the corner.

Oh and good work IPL on banning all every legitimate cricketing website (including the superb Cricinfo - who once upon a time we used to work for) from covering your crappy greed fest. That’s really going to be good for the game.

The Twenny Twenny debate

So the English County Championship shivers into existence once again today and hoorah for that, but with the Indian Premier League also due to start on Friday and now casting a long and increasingly looming shadow, this could very well be the end of the current game as we know it.

Not that that is necessarily a bad thing. While we may have given the impression in the past that we considered the IPL a massive threat to the game with headlines like The Indian Premier League ...of Evil and satiric slogans such as 'one in the nuts for cricket', our primary spurting concern was more for the hallowed sanctity of the Test arena, which all must acknowledge as the ultimate form of the game.

We also predicted money would eventually talk and it seems it has, with both the ECB and England skipper Michael Vaughan bowing to what seems like the inevitable and conceding that England players will eventually play in the IPL. However the IPL chairman, IS Bindra, to his credit, has made an attempt at rapprochement and it seems a compromise in the grand tradition is on the cards.

Twenty20 is certainly the future, in terms of crowds, revenue, convenience for TV and it has to be said sheer excitement, but boards, players and cricket lovers (arguably the true custodians of the game) around the world just have to ensure that 'TwennyTwenny' and Test cricket can co-exist without the former ever damaging the integrity of the latter.

That could lead to the brightest future of all.

Iron Mike: a shoulder to cry on...

We have to be careful about this one, but we’ve checked the date twice and April 1st was a couple of weeks ago and the BBC are carrying the story, so it’s probably got at least some foundation in the world of fact.

Huh? you may well ask as you choke on your lunchtime sarnie. Well only the news that ‘Iron’ Mike Tyson has offered to counsel troubled Geordie genius Paul ‘Gazza’ Gascoigne when he tours the UK in a couple of week’s time.

Now before we start with the mocking, let’s be clear, both sportsmen are legends, there’s surely never been as fearsome a boxer as Iron Mike in his heyday and Gazza? Well nothing quite lives as fondly in our footy memories as watching Gazza bamboozle Colin Hendrie to score this pearler and knock the Sweaties out of Euro 96 - and then follow it up with the splendid Dentist’s Chair.

Despite their many and varied individual troubles, both found vindication in world class sporting talenst and it’s been genuinely sad to watch their slow but steady decline since leaving their respective games.

But surely this is a step too far? Ignore the fact Iron Mike is on a lecture tour (the mind genuinely boggles), or that apparently he’s dished out the shoulder to cry on to Wayne Rooney. Both to filed under 'worrying but apparently true'.

Nope, contemplate for a moment the form this counselling might take and the carnage these two could cause on a celebratory night out on the piss in Geordietown. It would be a chance for them to redefine the term world class all over again.

A close run thing...

So Monday signals a return to the salt mines and what laughingly passes for normal service around here is grudgingly resumed.

It may well be a misquotation but Sir Arthur Wellesley’s (or the Duke or Wellington to you squire) incisive post-match analysis of the great Anglo French encounter at Waterloo 1815, “It a was a damn close run thing”, could equally be applied to the climactic finish of our current footy season.

Everywhere you look there’s a damn rum cliché to be mined, with nothing certain and everything to play for and we have to say the footy is all the better for it. In the Premiership one of the big four has usually walked away with it by now, but with Arsenal heroically eliminating themselves for the second time in a week, Chelsea v Man Utd later this month is going to be truly colossal and surely the Premiership decider.

Down in the bowels of the Championship it’s even tighter than a proverbial gnat’s chuff, with anyone of the top seven in contention for a seat at the top table and a chance to wallow in the pots cash that enables. Even our own beloved Hornets might squeeze through if they can actually remember that games aren’t contractually obliged to end in a draw.

All in all the most exciting climax to a footy season in many a long year. We’re sure the Iron Duke would approve.

Through Jen’s lens

A couple of days repose (or ‘working from home’ as it’s formally known) has left us lazy and lethargic on the posting front, but we interrupt our Sunday somnambulism because a) there’s absolutely nothing on the goggle box before Inspector Morse starts and b) we had to bring you this on mad as a bat and soon to be ex-Arsenal keeper ‘Angry’ Jens Lehmann.

Oh yes we know Man Utd take on Arsenal later and some people are running futilely around London today (if it's the London Marathon, surely it should be sponsored by Snickers ho ho), but that's not the point.

Now once being of the keeping fraternity ourselves we know that goalkeepers are indeed a breed apart but the Germany and Arsenal hothead has gone above and beyond even his usual standards of barmyness to launch a blistering assault on poor old Manuel Almunia in what amounts to the biggest case of sour grapes since the great Malbec failure of 1972*.

Lehman said: "To be sitting on the bench behind somebody who only started to play when he was 30 is not funny. For me it [the champions League defeat to Liverpool] is a tragedy since I did not have a chance to prevent it.” (For full extended bitchfest see here)

Now Mr Lehmann has form in this area particularly in his often 'tense' relationship with that other paragon of the sporting virtue Oliver Khan, but Memo to Jens: you were dropped for your own particular set of howlers and whining on about it in the national press just looks tawdry, petulant and undignified especially using such an underhanded dig. Compare and contrast with Almunia’s rather dignified response in yesterday’s Grauniad.

Losing your place in any team is not easy, especially in what might be your last World Cup year, but the way to win it back it to train hard and put pressure on your rival - not shoot your mouth of in the national press once any chance of getting back in the team is over. Besides whatever happened to the international brotherhood of keepers? We despair sometimes.


* Note: we may have made this up for comic effect.

The Olympic spirit

A slack day in the spurting firmament today, with little other than Man Utd and Barcelona’s triumphant processional strolls into the Champions League semi-finals last night.

Still, with a distinct lack of sporting endeavour (and we don’t count Golf as a real sport so that Master’s nonsense isn’t relevant) it gives us a little window to consider the mixture of drama and farce which has been the Olympic flame’s progress this week.

It’s probably the most naive thing in the world to say that sport and politics never mix, they shouldn’t, but they always have and they always will.

With a Free Tibet at the top of the agenda, the burly Chinese Stormtroopers, secret service aides or torch guards - whatever they really are - have been hounded, pounded, extinguished and even re-routed across London, Paris and San Francisco and back.

Frankly its been a major embarrassment for China but the games were awarded to Beijing at least partly on the understanding that they would help social change and promote ‘moral engagement’ with the awakening dragon. Not much evidence of that in the draconian pronouncements against legitimate protest.

Still if the torch’s troubled procession has proved inspirational: backing the underdog against the favourite, resisting bullying oppression and using sport as a legitimate weapon against injustice are all activities very much in keeping with the Olympic spirit.

Hammer and tongs...

Not much time to blog today as the crack of the slavemasters whips constantly whistles around our ears and the drummer acting as stroke pounds out his monotonous and wearying rhythm. Boom, boom, boom. Pull, pull, pull!

Ahem, anyway, but we couldn’t possibly miss doing something on last night’s pulsating Champions League fixture as Liverpool took on Arsenal in one of the truly memorable European encounters.

Frankly, this one had everything going for it from the off, from dodgy tactical selections (Gerrard at left midfield, Kolo Toure at right back?) to possibly suspect penalties and four goals in the last ten minutes. As a spectacle there’s been little or nothing finer to savour all year.

Forget the dour predictions of a 1-1 draw and the interminable lottery of penalties, this was two great Premiership sides going at hit hammer and tongs with little quarter asked and none given.

Benitez’s dodgy tactics saw Arsenal played Liverpool off the park for the first twenty minutes, but Hypia’s goal restored confidence and Torres’ second half strike was superb. Then Walcott off the bench and a simply amazing run which for all the world should have won it for the Gunners. But less than two minutes later – penalty (deserved - but on this Arsene Wenger’s usual myopia strangely deserted him). Anfield holds its breath, Gerrard slots it home and Babel secures the win as Arsenal push for an equaliser.

Phew, we’re almost breathless from writing and it was more nip and tuck than a surgeons’ convention.

While several Gunners fans of our acquaintance are crying into their beer and other Scousers are equally breathing a sigh of welcome relief, both can take pride in providing one of the greatest of all European nights. It’s difficult to see two continental teams serving up such raw gripping entertainment.

The Indian Premier League ...of evil

And so it begins... and what a difference a month makes. Was it just over one short rotation of the moon ago that Kevin Pietersen, our very own KP, him with the three lions tattooed on his shoulder, was loudly declaring to the Torygraph that he wouldn’t jeopardise his England future by signing up for the Indian Premier League?


Headlines like ‘KP rejects IPL’ and quotes like "...It's not something I'm particularly interested in ...Money's not really too important, it's not as if I need money right now. I'm really enjoying doing what I'm doing," would seem to have ruled KP out of any future IPL equation. It was heartening to see one of England’s premier stars publicly forsake the easy cash and make a stand on principle.

However clearly a month is a long time in cricket and talking to The Times via Sporting Life, KP has had a radical change of heart now insisting, “It's definitely something that the hierarchy needs to fix into our fixtures ...You want your best players playing for their country and for the IPL. You don't want them choosing between the two. It's silly to think that you're losing up to a million [dollars] over six weeks.”

Not as silly as playing in a meaningless Twenty20 thrash for a ton o’ cash, weeks before a vital home Ashes series though apparently.

Sometimes these things just write themselves.

Elsewhere in the world of cricket, former England quickie Andrew Caddick has declared erratic, misfiring spearhead erm lethal long levered assassin (oh, we give up delete as appropriate) Steve ‘the Harminator’ Harmison not fit for purpose. Ouch, saucer of milk down Taunton way please!

Ron’s revenge! parts 1 & 2

Well it’s been a magnificent weekend of sporting spurt, encompassing not only the nag ride of the year, the Grand National (come on Red Rum! Oh bugger), two excellent FA cup semi-finals which saw Portsmouth and Cardiff triumph, but the Bahrain Grand Prix in which Lewis Hamilton proved he is human after all by engaging anti-stall on the grid and then shunting his ol' best mate Ferdinand Alonso.

Even our beloved and mighty Hornets shocked us by registering a 2-1 home win. Wonders will never cease.

Enough ripe material to author several spurting essays you might think, and indeed that would normally be the case if we hadn’t come across two stories this weekend that simply would not be denied. Both concerning men called Ron.

First up washed up,show pony erm outrageously skilled Brazilian playmaker Ronaldinho apparently fancies a move away from Barcelona this summer and one of his potential destinations? Manchester City. Laugh? We almost shat ourselves.

Stranger things have happened undoubtedly - Jay Jay Ochoca hearing the voice of god which directed him to join Hull City for one - but we’re hard pressed to think why Ronny might forsake the Catalan giants or indeed the old folks retirement home which Milan’s become for the dubious delights of Manc? Unlikely doesn’t quite seem to cover it.

Perhaps Sven ‘shagger’ Eirikson has a secret weapon up his sleeve to lure the buck toothed footballing genius and we can only think it’s his very own little black book replete with the mobile numbers of impressionable ladies which might be added to the deal as a sweetener. Even Ronny, who apparently lives with his ol’ mum (bless), might find such a of carnal knowledge difficult to resist.

Secondly Max is back! Back on the front page of the News of the World that is in more Nazi Orgy action as the F1 boss is done up like a kipper by one of the five girls who participated in his NAZI ORGY SHAME. This one looks set to run and run and hoorah for that too, it really is comedy gold. It's the story that just keeps on giving.

However a delicious theory was posited to us over the weekend by a fellow F1 fan that Max’s downfall and this scandalous - and we have to say in case the lawyers are watching - completely unsubstantiated rumour is actually the revenge of Ron... Ron Dennis. His theory? Max Mosely pissed the McLaren boss off one too many times and this is case of Ron’s revenge not so much served cold but at absolute zero.

Completely ahem false obviously, but sometimes you just wish these things were true.

We are the Champions...

We love a bit of Champions league here on the spurt and with round one of the Quarter-Finals done and dusted, it’s still looking relatively rosy for the big four English clubs who’ve made it thus far.

Man Utd have certainly come up smelling of roses, with their 2-0 away win at Roma. Apart from a rocky ten minutes at the start of the second half, the Red Devils never looked in trouble and Ronaldo and Rooney's goals look to have sealed it for them. Goal apart, Ronaldo still looked pretty unconvincing in Tuesday night’s game. Still probably the best player in the world at the moment, but he’s no George Best - just yet.

Barcelona should make it through easily enough too, but Chelsea squandered a 1-0 lead to eventually lose 2-1 in Istanbul last night, heaping further pressure on Avram Grant. With the away goal it’s still not a bad result, but conceding twice after a hatful of chances is sloppy and it could have been infinitely better for the Blues.

In the Battle of Britain, Liverpool squeaked a vital away goal at the Emirates which gives them a slight advantage and keeps the tie alive. Anfield is a fortress on European nights, but Arsenal have had some glory wins there too and should score , so this one is going right down to the wire. Should be an awesome game next Tuesday.

Predictions are easy on one side difficult on the other, but we Spurters reckon it’ll line up like this: Man Utd v Barca in one half of the draw and Chelsea vs Liverpool in the other. Watch those results prove us wrong!

Express hits the buffers...

Disappointing news to hear that the Pakistan Cricket Board has banned the scarily quick Shoaib Akhtar for five whole years following his recent criticisms of the PCB, after his failure to secure a central contract.

While Shoaib has vowed not to go down without a fight and an appeal and possible high court action are on the way, it is a long long ban and it would be quite tragic to think this could be the last we’ll see of the man known as the Rawalpindi Express.

Shoaib’s always been the most volatile of fast bowlers both on the pitch and off, narrowly and perhaps fortuitously escaping a ban for using Nandralone in 2006 and currently on two years probation for whacking team-mate Mohammad Asif with a bat as a warm up for last year’s Twenty20 world cup.

We spurters prefer to remember the phenomenally quick pace man from an India versus Pakistan game at Old Trafford during the 1999 World Cup. Viewed from up in the gods,

Beginning his run up about five yards inside the boundary, long hair flailing and high stepping stride-pattern bringing to mind a thoroughbred racehorse, Shoaib bowled almost the perfect paceman’s spell, hostile, accurate and seriously fast, with the keeper and slips pushed way back to the boundary’s edge and the ball a blur through the air.

Let’s hope we haven’t seen the last of Rawalpindi Express and he isn’t forced to eke out the twilight of his career in the Indian Premier League.

Going Live...

Monday was a day off from the grind and our usual ahem posting frenzy as our evil employer overlords had devised an off-site event designed to make us more happy, efficient and productive wage slaves. Well that was the idea, but we reckon they’ll still keep slipping the ‘happy juice’ into the coffee machines to avert the forthcoming revolution.

We have to mention the Max Mosely scandal simply because when that sort of thing comes along, you can’t not, especially when the head of a respectable multi-million pound sporting cash cow high octane motor sport is caught in a Nazi orgy of spanking shame (copyright News of the Screws 2008). Whatever next? A Premiership manager caught on mobile phone camera giving some dozy tart one over a car bonnet ...ah oops.

Anyway the point of that rather long and rambling intro is that we spurters were live at a real sporting event on Sunday for the first time in absolute ages and feel all the more virtuous for it. Rather than settle back to watch it on the goggle box with a beer, instead we attended in person as London Irish took on Bristol in the Guinness Premiership at the Madejeski.

Now Mrs Spurt is a new convert to the rugger and was hooked by the meaty on-pitch violence and swift passing and running at last year’s World Cup, so it seemed like an ideal day out particularly since we live within walking distance and IT IS A LEAGUE SPONSORED BY GUINNESS.

What a revelation. Reasonable ticket prices, a great atmosphere, rival supporters happily co-existing side by side and even heaven forfend, applauding skilful play by the opposition. Great entertainment on the pitch too and a good time had by all: in short all the things we used to enjoy about footy before it sold out to the money men. Footy you have been warned....