The close season

Well dear reader (both of you) they think it’s all over… well it is temporarily.

And that’s it, this is quite literally the last post as we’re off on our hols, imposing a close season on all this spurting goodness, gentle mockery, rabid snidery and occasional sporting merriment.

Just one question: just one short of a century’s worth of posts, how will the spurting world survive without us?

Who’ll be there to chronicle the vagaries of the summer transfer merry go round? Criticise England’s selection policy, celebrate Lewis’s triumph in Hungary or Cristiano’s latest triumph ….on the beach?

Well we’re sure it’ll get by somehow…. See you back on August 11th.

Freedom of the press

Hooorah! Just one more day of toil and then it’s au revoir dear Blighty and bonjour La belle France.

Not much on the spurting radar today, bar of course sensational breaking news that Max Mosley’s spanking orgy of Nazi shame must be downgraded to a simple standard spanking orgy of shame following his win in the High Court today.

Frankly it’s a sad day when a man can’t indulge himself in whatever perverted though strictly consensual kicks he likes in the privacy of his own dungeon (without or without the Third Reich overtones). Which Mr Mosley most definitely did not, oh no, not evenly slightly guv’nor. Chinny reckon.

Anyway there’s been a lot of soul searching and finger-wringing especially in Her Majesty’s thoroughly disinterested press over whether this judgement has curtailed the freedom of the meeja to investigate public figures. There’s a lot of deep legal and philosophical arguments and wrangling on this one, but we can distil it to the essentials thusly.

The Screws was fined 60k for breaching Max Mosley’s privacy. 60k! That’d just about pay for a good senior Editor’s lunch or around 30 odd similar lunchtime entertainments.

In return, the Screws (minus of course the slapper’s nominal photographer’s fee) probably sold at least half a million copies on that Sunday, a few more on subsequent ones and that’s not counting millions upon millions of hits on its web site, all of which has generated a significant portion of wedge for Uncle Rupe.

With those kind of figures it’s probably safe to say the freedom of the press isn’t in any kind of serious jeopardy.

Opening Shots....

We’re so close to our summer hols now we can almost smell the fromage and taste the quarts of delicate vin rogue we intend to quaff like l’eau.

However before we depart it’s comforting to realise some things will never change and that when we return to Blighty, our treasured summer spurting rituals will remain largely untroubled by the passage of time.

Of what do we speak? Of Sir Alex Fergie’s annual pre-season mind games of course, with today’s target Big Phil Scolari and his merry band of Chelsea millionaires. As we’ve said before forget Calzaghe versus Roy Jones Junior, this is really the fight that everyone wants to see.

Fergie’s gone on the offensive with a none-too-subtle leading jab saying the Chelski squad are a touch on the seasoned side and ‘I don't see outstanding progress coming from a team in their 30s.’ Marvellous an almost perfect inversion of Hansen’s famously dis-proven Law which states ‘you can’t win anything with kids'.

Hitting his stride Fergie continued, “Maybe they have reached a plateau - although perhaps that's not the right word” which roughly translates as 'That’s exactly the write word’. And he wasn’t he even threw in a little feint and misdirection with "I wouldn't write off Liverpool or Arsenal either.”

Hilarious.

Quality stuff from the big man, who quite clearly sees Chelsea as the major threat. But how will Big Phil respond? In print? Online? By buying Kaka or Robinho? Or both?

This is going to be fascinating stuff....

The Right Stuff...

It’s Monday and while the days slowly tick down to our summer hols, we were heartily cheered by Lewis Hamilton’s win at Hockenheim yesterday.

Okay it’s just over half way to go in the championship now, but the MP4-23s are starting to look seriously quick (well Lewis's one anyway)and Hamilton was absolutely serene yesterday. Even the team’s rather naive tactical blunder in not pulling him in when the safety car was deployed, just gave Lewis a chance to show what a driver he is passing Massa and Picquet in supreme style.

But if Lewis has got the right stuff, quite clearly the England cricket team haven’t. The talent is there, but the selectors are failing to give Michael Vaughan the right side to lead into battle. Against South Africa selection has been appalling: Ambrose shouldn’t bat a six and arguably shouldn’t be in the side at all. His gloveworks fine, but he’s never going to average 30+ in test. It’s got to be Prior for our money.

The selection of Mark Pattinson is all kinds of wrong. Nothing against him personally but his bowling’s been innocuous and to leapfrog him above squad players like Chris Tremlett, Simon Jones, and even Steve Harmison is so foolish to the point of ridiculousness. We can’t even pick the good Australians.

At around 80mph and edging towards 30 he’s never going to be a long term prospect. Surely they can’t have picked him so he’ll slot right out when Ryan Sidebottom’s fit again?

At 130-4 on Monday lunchtime, England are not so much staring down the barrel as having it rammed into their collective eyeball.

Who are ya?

Now we’re all for a bit of novelty as our occasional penchant for uni-cycling, fire-juggling, lady strippers attests, but England selectors, this morning you really are having the proverbial giraffe.

Darren who? Oh Pattinson…. a Grimsby born roofing artisan from Melbourne who’s played 11 first-class matches for Notts and was originally scheduled to take his progeny to Alton Towers today.

Okay he’s got a decent average and has been taking wickets by the hatful, but this has to be the most left field selection since Sharon Osbourne fronted up that one-off Girls Aloud gig when Cheryl Cole had a dodgy tum*.

Now we’ve had some unlikely names creep into the England reckoning over the years, Joey Benjamin, Martin McCague and Gavin Hamilton ub the debit ledger and even Marcus Trescothick was plucked out of obscurity before he went onto became England’s Banger and a mainstay of the side.

But Pattinson? That is truly and remarkably unusual and how will it make the queue of bowling worthies like Simon Jones, Chris Tremlett, Matthew Hoggard, and even Steve Harmison feel?

Duncan Fletcher used to get take stick for sticking by his guns, but this is a case of not so much as next cab off the rank, but as summoning the next cab from the outer orbit of Uranus.

He’ll probably take 40-7 now.

*This might have been a strange, unusual and fairly disturbing dream or we may just have made it up…

For the good of the game: A modest proposal for the EPL

Doubles and indeed trebles all round as the ECB and the counties finally agree a form for the inaugural English Premier League Twenty20 competition although why they have to wait until 2010 is anyone’s guess.

Just one question: Won’t everyone have got bored and be demanding a shorter form of the game then?

Ladies and gentlemen we give you World of Spurt’s Five5! (Copyright World of Spurt 2008)

Still timely it might not be, but at last it’s a rival and a counter balance to the morale sapping power of the IPL. So for these small mercies we should at least be grateful.

But if the ECB are serious about using Twenty20 as a shop window to publicise cricket, attract young athletes into it and naturally making it a gateway to the ultimate form of the game Test cricket and not just about making it a rampant cash-in, here’s two modest proposals that they can adopt from day one to prove they have the best interests of the game at heart:

1. Make it compulsory for each team to field a minimum number (say four) of English qualified players under the age of say 24 to blood young talent amongst the established stars and prove that cricket is a career every bit as exciting and financially rewarding as football.

2. Guarantee to sell the TV rights to a terrestrial broadcaster to maximise exposure and audiences for this most exciting and TV-friendly form of the game.

You’ve already sold cricket’s soul to the highest bidder by taking Tests off terrestrial TV following that memorable Ashes 2005 series.

Now redress the balance by committing to do some good for a change, don’t just flog it to Sky or Sentanta because they bid the most cash.

So do the right thing. The eyes of English cricket lovers everywhere are upon you.

The Two Ronnies

It’s a tale of Two Ronnies at the moment and for a change we’re spared further comment on ‘modern slave’ Cristiano and his ongoing come hither Real saga and can instead concern ourselves with the strange case of Manchester City and the Brazilian ace who never was.

Now ‘nuff respect to Man City and all that and new manager Mark ‘Sparky’ Hughes, but as we predicted way back when, it was like (and due respect to senor Fabio here too) England winning the World Cup again in our lifetime - never really likely to happen was it?

The nightspots of cold rainy Manc or the fleshpots of Milano... not too much of a tough choice for ex-golden boy Ronny either?

Of course it would have been great to see Ronny grace the Premier League, but the old Ronny, before the nightclubbing, the timber accumulation and when ‘Ronaldhino is in the gym’ actually meant he was, rather being than a metaphor for skiving training ...again.

Barca apparently aren’t entirely blameless in this either, but here’s hoping the gap-toothed former genius turns it around in Italy. At 28 he’s still relatively young and should be about to enter his playmaking prime and if he can recapture fitness, form and most importantly the desire to perform on the biggest stage, then there’s still room yet for a Ronaldhino Renaissance.

Not just for his own sake but for football’s as well.

It would be tragic indeed to see such a formidable talent prematurely pissed away. Football itself is poorer without Ronny’s unique brand of beguiling magic.

All quiet on the Spurting Front

Not too much on the spurting radar today, so we’re bottom feeding off scraps essentially and that loud grindy sound you can hear is the bottom of the barrel being not so much scraped as well and truly rubbed down and given a good sanding.

Where to begin then? Oh yes Michael Vaughan’s assertion that The Fred has ‘the X Factor’ did briefly catch our eye, but then we thought shouldn’t that be The Ramps in Strictly Come Skating on Ice’s Got Talent?

Now we’re just confused.

Perhaps we’re thinking of Who Dares Sings? Paul Collingwood could enter singing ‘Only the Lonely’?

Anyway at least there’s plenty of decent transfer footy gossip to get stuck into as the Merry Go Round not so much revolves but engages Turbo and whirls into the outer ionosphere.

It’s like the intro to the classic Soap ..... Ronaldo goes to Real, but only if they can flog Robinho to Chelsea which might in turn might release Drogba to Milan, which would set up Ronaldhino to depart for Manchester City.

Confused? You will be... up until that last one it was all starting to sound vaguely plausible.

England v SAF final day...

So it’s day five of the first Test and with SAF sitting comfortably on 312-1 at lunch. the draw looks more certain than a Geordie bird six pints to the good.

Of course the SAF’s have done well but the pitch has run true to form and been more placid than a pensioner on Prozac. Yet is it has also pointed towards a real lack of true firepower and penetration in the England attack, perhaps vindicating Duncan Fletcher’s long held view that you must have real pace or world class spin to force the pace on these benign featherbeds.

The return of the Fred is palpable and almost inevitable now as we whistle up our one true World Class performer – but who should he replace and how will it affect the balance of the side? There’s a few imponderables like is Ryan Sidebottom fit and if not, in comes Simon Jones/Chris Tremlett depending on the Headingley pitch.

Bell also goes up to three and Vaughan down to five so here’s our XI to face the SAFs on Friday....

Cook
Strauss
Bell
KP
Vaughan
Flintoff
Prior
Broad
Sidebottom/ Simon Jones/ Chris Tremlett
Anderson
Panesar

Da do one Ron....

We were going to talk about the cricket today, celebrating KP’s splendid century and a half, Bell’s equally impressive 100 and perhaps lob in some gently teasing on SAF’s alleged fearsome foursome, perhaps rebranding them as the failsome foursome.

But frankly we couldn’t let this one pass...

We were prepared for the Christiano Ronaldo saga to drag on and on and on, with claim, counter claim, pouty statement, assorted hissy fit and the odd hairdryer interlude, but frankly this one takes the Rich Tea and dunks it into a scalding hot cup of Rosy before ramming it roughly down the cake hole.

Frankly the quotes coming out from the Ronny camp this morning are beyond parody (naturally though we’ll give it a go), as he agreed with Sepp ‘Fat Cat’ Blatter that, yes, he was a virtual modern slave at Manchester United.

Yup we agree Ron, you’re a slave. It’s almost exactly the same as those poor benighted souls who endured the Middle passage.

The resemblance is eerie.

Okay they sported leg irons rather than diamond studs, they weren’t paid the best part of 100,000 a week for nancying around like a show pony and their most difficult decision wasn’t which sports car should I buy today, but rather is there enough room to lay down and die before I arrive in Dixie.

But apart from that virtually the same, yeah.

Crass, petulant, egotistical and self-absorbed to a point that would make even Narcicus a deep shade of crimson on his behalf, yup Ronny has virtually the complete game for Real Madrid.

He may be a brilliant footballer, but that statement proves Ronny scarcely passes muster as a human being....

Take the £70m United, let it end and make Ron do one...

Interesting Times

Interesting times on the cricket field, but even more interesting ones off it as the old Chinese curse goes, with the Indian Premier League wreaking havoc even when it's not in session.

How you may ask? Well hot off the presses today comes news that Sri Lanka (state) president Mahinda Rajapakse has personally intervened to block Sri Lanka’s tour of England next summer after they had been lined up as replacements for politically tainted Zimbabwe only last week.

The reason? Well player power or cold hard cash as it’s more commonly know. The Sri Lankan players are apparently desperate not to miss out on the IPL jamboree as touring England would mean they’d only be available for 10 days for the giant IPL cash-in and so tapped up their country’s president to intervene.

Between the IPL and Sandford’s millions it really is troubling times for lovers of Test cricket, rightly considered to be the ultimate form of the game, but a form which is becoming increasingly marginalised outside of England.

Even in its close season, the IPL is capable of opening up not so much a can of worms, as a veritable box of snakes with its vulgar wealth. The Sri Lankan players need their board’s blessing to play in the IPL, the Sri Lankan board needs the money from the tour to fund Sri Lankan cricket and England need a seven-Test summer to fulfil their Sky TV contract.

And so we go around, but it raises the very real prospect that some of the game’s finest talents will retire from Test cricket to prolong their careers in an essentially meaningless Twenny Twenny thrash n’ bash (despite the supposed two-year retirement ban which frankly is about as flimsy as porn star's pyjamas).

Once upon a time, cricket lovers used to wish that there was both more money in the game to attract young talent and that a more attractive TV friendly form might be developed to spread the gospel of cricketing love.

Just goes to show, you should be careful what you wish for, sometimes you just might get it.

Eng v SAF: series preview

Well now all that summer footy and tennis is out of the way we can return to the proper summer game and the arrival of the Proteas for a four-Test series.

Now it’s difficult to think of SAF without the famous Spitting Image song*, but we have worked alongside a few of them and can confirm they’re not all boorish, prejudiced, barbecue-munching Afrikaners – (just most of them are).

Still there’s every indication that this year’s cricketing vintage will provide a suitably testing examination ahead of next year’s visit of the Aussies. The much vaunted pacemen are an interesting prospect with Makhaya Ntini particularly impressive and Morkel, Stein and Nel all pacy, aggressive by turns and looking to earn their spurs.

But it’s the batting line-up which most impresses with Graham Smith, AB De Villiers, Mark Boucher and Jacques Kallis proven performers (though World Class Kallis is now surely on a gentle downward slope). Ashwell Prince and especially Hashim Amla (sporter of one of the finest beards in cricket) also look good prospects.

There’s lots of 2-0, 3-0 SAF predictions from the pundits, but it’s going to be a lot closer than that and we think a 1-1 draw is most likely.

Chinks in the armour? Well the only weak link is the spinning department where Monty easily outguns Paul Harris and the frankly piss-poor pre-series mind games of coach Mickey Arthur which have been about as intimidating as a tickle-fight with a toddler.

Yet the real barrier exists in the minds of the SAFs themselves. In England they’ve always been chokers, lacking the self-belief to put the boot when the home side are down.

It’s a mindset they’ll have to change if those lesser pundits predictions are going to come anywhere near true.

The shortest suicide note in history

Labour’s 1983 general election manifesto was famously described as ‘the longest suicide note in history’, well today we’ve discovered one of the spurting shortest.

Take a bow Crystal Palace’s 18-year-old winger Ashley-Paul Robinson, who posted details of an impending move to Fulham on his Facebook page saying “Ashley-Paul is goin fulham on monday. If I pull dis off im on dis ting.”

Ashley-Paul’s grasp on language may be rudimentary and his approach to punctuation charmingly cavalier, but his real Fail0r was to grasp the intricacy of privacy settings and his message came across loud and clear to the legions of Palace fans outside his circle of immediate friends.

Palace boss Neil Warnock was flinty hearted in his response saying, “We feel it’s probably better if he looks elsewhere to further his career.”

It’s believed Ashley-Paul’s change of status message to the rather contrite ‘Ashley Paul has been very naughty lol’ is unlikely to win him a reprieve .

Elsewhere filed under Tales of the Bleeding Obvious, gap toothed former wonder footballer Ronaldhino has given his strongest hint yet via former Brazilian legend Dunga that he’ll be eschewing the delights of Man City for AC Milan.

Well quelle-friggin-surprise.

Raising Their Game

And so to Monday and with the weekend rolling around faster than we have resolved once again to stop snorting the Drain Unblocker – the memory lapses are beginning to just ...well ...hmm ...sorry ...where was I again?

But even after some late Saturday night DJ-ing and partying in Brick Lane with Mrs Spurt, a belated return to the ‘Ding saw a full programme of Sunday spurting goodness to enjoy.

Lewis Hamilton cleaned up the British GP, proving he’s more effective in the rain than a one-piece Kagool and with half the GP season gone and a three way split at the head of the table, the Formula One title race promises to be closer than a brother and sister from the West Country.

But the main course was of course Nadal versus Federer at Wimbledon in a five setter which was seemingly destined to last all day. One of the truly great modern finals which Nadal deservedly won, Federer also proved what a great champion he was by conceding such a gracious defeat.

This has all the hallmarks of one of the great modern spurting rivalries which has undoubtedly revived our flagging interest in Tennis (equally possible is that we just needed a post-Euro 2008 spurting fix to keep our summer high going).

However if we’ve one complaint it’s that both Federer and Nadal are too bloody nice by half and we’re missing the sniping, bitching and dissing that normally accompanies this kind of sporting enmity.

Come on boys let’s see some proper needle: someone call someone’s else’s mother something unpleasant: Rafael: make some adverse suggestions about Roger’s clothing line; Roger: suggest to Rafa that it’s only girly men who sculpt that level of buff to play tennis or tell him his biceps are uneven.

In short gentlemen, let’s put some effort into making this a real contest. Both of you need to raise your game.

The return of the four Musketeers?

Work, that unconscionable burden of the drinking classes work kept us occupied for a couple of days – that and the fact there’s been less sporting meat than Frankie’s famous vegetarian breakfast – has meant a slight lapse in our posting schedule but we return to form, on a glorious sunny Friday full of the joys of summer, .or at least full of the joys of an early morning caffeine overload.

Sometimes it’s hard to bear the spurting burden of being perpetually right but as predicted Master Murray went out on Wednesday to the awesome power of Rafael Nadal, not so much having his arse handed to him, but rather having it served on a shiny silver platter, surrounded by flowers and garland and with a neatly peeled poking delicately through the ring.

Still no shame in losing to Nadal, who is quite simply awesome and sets the benchmark for what Murray should be serving for. There’s plenty of time for the Scotsman to raise his game and a Wimbledon quarter final is no disgrace for a 21-year-old. Especially if he’s a Brit.

But to more heartening cricketing matters today and a missed opportunity in our not-so-humble opinion with the announcement of the England squad to face South Africa in the first Test next week, which basically, like our flinty heart when it comes to fat lasses, remains unchanged.

However dropping down a level into the shires it’s encouraging to see not only The Fred scoring runs and the Harminator rumbling ominously up at Durham, but Welsh pace wizard Simon Jones taking a few names and rattling a few wickets at Worcester.

It almost begs the question: could the four bowling musketeers of the Ashes 2005 be finally reunited in one last great adventure next year?

Ironically it’s probably the Hogster, historically the most dogged and dependable of that redoubtable quartet who’s furthest from regaining his place but with Flintoff, Harmison and Jones all getting back in contention our bowling resources are looking a whole lot deeper.

…Now if we can just sort out that that batting

No Hurry Murray

Well with all that Euro football going on we feel we’ve somewhat neglected another of the UK’s major summer sports here on the Spurt, nope it’s not freelance street violence, or taking and driving away convertibles, it is of course that other annual institution of flannelled foolery, Wimbledon.

Now you could be forgiven for dismissing this tennis tourney as an annual middle class love-in or just a very chance to ogle hot blonde Russian teenage girlies in flimsy white dresses, enlivened by the occasional bit of upskirt action (an approach which seems to have found favour with both tabloids and broadsheets alike).

However we if finally came alive for us last night with the epic Gasquet v Murray five set thrilla, in which the ginger Scots sicknote finally shed his ugly duckling feathers and came of age with a stunning performance.

Now Murray’s been a difficult player to like in the past, but here he was all chest beating, bicep flashing Scots Braveheart and finally won over a sceptical crowd with an impassioned never-say-die performance and some exceptional tennis.

The tennis was stunning at times and as Murray roared, Gasquet choked, reduced to some classic Gallic whining and trying to extend his toilet breaks into the murky SW19 twilight.

Murray’s comeback was quite simply thrilling and would have made Lazarus himself turn a slight shade of vermillion.

Nadal and probable elimination awaits in the Quarters, but this is the moment when Murray finally made Wimbledon his own and gave the Henmaniacs a new hero to embrace.

Suddenly a British champion doesn’t seem quite such an impossibility.