No more Spurting any more ..?

It’s with a touch of wistful melancholy that we put finger to keyboard today to dolefully announce this will be our last spurt for a while.

You may have noticed our updates have been even more infrequent than a Ferrari finish over the past month as we’ve found our time, energy and enthusiasm diverted into other more profitable, though markedly less fun projects.

We started the Spurt with a target of a year’s postings and we’ve managed to see it though, mainly, on the whole, sorta, encompassing a splendid Euro 08, a Brit triumph Olympics (and who’d a thought we’d ever be able to put those words in the same sentence), a British F1 champion, sundry cricketing humiliations and the season-long circus which is currently British football.

But it’s a fortunate man who which can pick the manner of his own departure and for the moment at least the Spurt seems to have run its natural course.

Who knows we may be back in some form in the future, Twitter offers some possibilities, though we’re usually a bit too verbose for that, but we’re sure they’ll be some web 3.0 phenomenon along any moment (if we all don’t die of Swine flu) and you can be sure we’ll be surfing that wave as it breaks.

But for now, all in all, it’s been an absolute spurt.

Thanks for reading.

Mixing it up

Just like Canned Heat, we're back on the road again today and down in Sunny Bath, sampling both the ancient delights and the local pasties, which are often one and the same thing down in these parts.

We begin with F1 and with pre-season now in full swing, mad bad news from the world of Bernie with the revelation that this year's drivers' championship will be decided by the number of wins, rather than the number of points scored. Nice in theory, shit in practice and you can't help thinking it's designed specifically for the edification of Ferrari once more, because they didn't win last year. Aw diddums. Surely F1 driving is about consistency over a season and points are the best way to decide this? We could've accepted 12 points for a win, but this way it could be all over by the British GP....

Football now and Phlegm and the world of phlegm men, did that nice young Spanish lad Cesc really flop a lugey at Hull's assistant manager Brian Horton. Predictably Le Professor saw nothing, but who does Fabregas think he is: El-Hadj Diouf?

And finally... could everyone just leave West Ham alone please? Up to 20 Sheffield United players, plus ex-manager Neil Warnock are suing the Hammers over the Carlos Tevez affair.

We say: back off and get in line - we were there first. Our writs courtesy of Messrs. Sue, Nabbit and Fukov are already in. Not sure what we'll do them for yet, but by the time it gets to court we'll have thought of a damn good reason don't you worry.

Is it Wayne you’re looking for?

Yeah we know, we know, we know, updates recently have been as irregular as Jade Goody’s heartbeat, it’s this new work shit, keeps us far too busy - we can’t recommend it you know.

Still, we couldn’t pass up a chance to update this particular lunchtime after a particularly compelling insight into life chez Rooney, with the spud faced nipper apparently currently spending most of his spare time serenading wife Coleen with a barrage of Lionel Richie songs.

We are occasionally forced to endure (through the comforting medium of an especially large G&T) Coleen’s Real Women by Mrs Spurt and we’ve always wondered about that title. Who are the ‘fake women’ that this show is meant to be the antidote to? Don’t they have the requisite real parts or something?

Ahem anyway here’s some suggestions for more Richie Karaoke classic’s for the Spudster as he guides Coleen's hands around a large King Edward lovingly peeled to resemble his noggin.

Hello (is it goals you’re looking for?)

All Night Long (OAPs only)

Dancing on Defender’s ankles bones

Say you, Say Me, (say ‘I hate Liverpool FC’)


Oh 200th post btw, get us!

Turning the other cheek

He’s just the manager who keeps on giving, offering more value per pound that Sainsbury’s Basics range (cheques in the post please).

Still, no magic tunnels for Jose Felix Mourinho last night (other than the one he dug for himself) following a footballing lesson from Manchester United which sent the Serie A leaders tumbling headlong – like Satan from heaven to go all Miltonian for a second – out of the Champions League.

So how did Jose react to one of his rare defeats against Sir Alex? Was it a rueful acknowledgement over a vintage bottle of red? Did he stare moodily for hours into the middle distance until he saw something he liked (ie. himself).

Nope instead he (allegedly) lamped a United fan who had the effrontery to shout ‘Going home, going home, going home!’ (which curiously is precisely what he was doing).

What wit, what repartee, truly the reaction of a renaissance man.

Cricket Reborn

A succession of slow, tedious pitches has been slowly throttling all the life and interest out of the current West Indies versus England Test series and as we were forced to remark over cigars, “Oh another century, how tedious, Do pass the bucket of rum punch.”

Nevertheless we’ve been vaguely following the massive run feast where batting averages have been as engorged as a Porn star’s work apparatus, but also reflecting in tranquillity on the wider implications of last week’s attack.

And it’s a still resolute but infinitely sadder cricketing world we now find ourselves in.

The atmosphere and relationship between players and supporters has probably changed forever. Just a decade ago we were able to mingle freely on the outfield and swap a post-game beer with the Windies in the 99 World Cup. Difficult to see that happening again.

While the security was a pint of shite, it’s Pakistani cricket lovers who are going to really suffer from the loony actions of a bunch of fanatical cowards who attacked an unarmed coach with rocket launchers – and couldn’t even hit it.

Way to go dickheads, that really proved a point.

Clearly cricket must go on and while it’s not often we get worked up or angry about the multitudinous iniquities of this sad world, this really pissed us off.

Reflect on this arseholes: If god exists, he’s most certainly a cricketer and we really hope he fucks you up for spoiling one of the few pure, simple, unadulterated pleasures left in life for the rest of us.

An eternity in purgatory facing a legion of departed through eternally angry fast bowlers armed only with stick of celery to defend yourselves should just about suffice.

Cricket attacked...

No gags today, just a solemn, grateful thanks that no cricketer was killed in this morning’s attack on the Sri Lankan team bus in Lahore. Scant consolation we suspect for the families of the five policemen who were protecting them.

Naively perhaps, we’d always believed that cricket was somehow sacrosanct and that no terrorist organisation, however desperate or loony, would deliberately target the greatest game and its players.

It’s especially shocking that this has happened in Asia, where cricket is almost revered as a religion itself.

Seems there is no line that human depravity will not cross.

The Quintuple

So the quintuple’s on and by that we don’t mean our usual Monday morning vodka, JD, Drambuie, crème de menthe and advocat chaser, but of course Man United’s potential five trophy clean sweep following yesterday’s League Cup win.

‘Nuff props to Ben Foster for the penalty saves, but Hornets fans have long known all about the excellent young gloveman for ages and we reckon Senor Fabio could do a lot worse than chuck him into the starting line-up right now.

Yet amid the Red Devils triumph emerges a story that is just plainly wrong on so many levels, namely They Call Him Rio and fiancée Rebecca Ellison’s plan to have a barn owl swoop down the aisle and deliver their rings when they get married next August.

Now having read that back we had to pinch ourselves, a) to make sure we’re not still drunk and b) just because seriously WTF?!

It raises so may questions: Where do you get such highly trained Strigiformes outside of a JK Rowling novel in the first place and surely, if such creatures do exist, wouldn’t they be better employed battling Al Quaida rather than adorning the ‘natural successor to Bobby Moore’s’ impending nuptials.

The mind truly, truly, truly boggles.

Tomorrow: John Terry, my best man the velociraptor.

Mourinho’s Magic door

An intriguing European night full of technical excellence, outstanding endeavour and tactical nuance, but enough of our Shrove Tuesday pancake session, we speak of course of the classic Inter v Man Utd game at the San Siro.

A great opening half from United, Inter back into it second half, chances on both sides and despite the dearth of goals a very entertaining game.

But of course the revelation of the night was Mourinho’s magic door which apparently leads from the Inter dug out to who knows where...

As José Mário dos Santos Félix said, "My dugout is a special dugout because we have a door which gives me the chance to leave it directly,"

Debate has raged all erm lunchtime. Does it lead to Narnia? Is it a secret route to Jose’s secret 300 Euro wine stash? Or does it lead, as we’ve long suspected, up his own arsehole?

We report, you decide....

Two for one...

We’re not feeling particularly inspired today, perhaps it was all that laudanum we had for breakfast, but the muse has deserted us as quickly as Liverpool’s fading title credentials.

Reasons to be cheerful? Well at least our beloved Hornets won a relegation six-pointer on the weekend, leaping salmon-like up the table towards the mediocrity which we truly deserve.

Elsewhere? Surrender Monkeys! Surely it’s a bit premature to be handing the title to Man United already with something like 13 games to go? Sure they’re odds-on favourites, but that’s being as defeatist as an Italian tank commander’s eve of battle speech.

We also note with sorrow the absence of The Fred from the Fourth Test, an omission England feel they need to cover by the call up of at two players in Amjad Khan and Ravi Bopara. Truly the Fred is at least four players in one... stock and shock bowler, big hitting biffer and assured elder batting statesmen, plus hands-like-buckets slip fielder. One question for the ECB are they sure they’ve brought enough?

Finally on to matters of taste and decency.

We haven’t got any. Hope that’s cleared that up.

No Result

Ah Friday, slack prelude to a weekend of lethargy when the week’s toil is nearly over and we can look forward to unfettered alcoholic indulgence unencumbered by such sordid considerations as rising before midday.

And it’s vodka and cornflakes for breakfast on Saturday and Sunday!

Ahem, anyway, more from what’s shaping up to be a pulsating test series over in the Antigua as following the debacle of the Sir Viv stadium, England and West Indies decamped to the historic ARG for a truly pulsating encounter.

England were probably denied a deserved victory, but the Windies at bay were defiant and held on by their very fingertips for the narrowest of draws, the outcome decided by a solitary tail-end wicket.

Games like this prove why Test cricket is still the pinnacle of spurting achievement and its why the undeniably flashy, though ultimately shallow Twenty20 version will never truly replace it.

This was a game that had been slowly brewing all week, simmering gently until it was ready to spill over with five days of unremitting labour, sweat, courage, technique, style, nuance and not a little luck all contributing to a magnificently inconclusive conclusion.

It’s paradoxical no doubt, but this was one of the most exciting draws ever, an example of the greatest game at its very finest.

Long Spoons

We’ve got a bit more time today so we can afford to first sharpen, then plunge our knives in freely.

Our plate de jour? Well once again it’s none other than ‘Big’ Sir Al Stanford, the Texan ‘saviour of cricket’ who’s done a flit with 8 billion stuffed down his trousers (and let’s face it, they must be quite roomy trews).

It’s only now we can fully appreciate our wise old Gran’s advice about ‘if you’re going to sup with the devil, be sure to use the longest of spoons’.

Fortunately English cricket hasn’t been stung too badly financially and shock horror, even the counties are talking about lobbing back their share of the Stanford pile (no biggy for 50k you might say).

Still, the whole episode reveals we should at least be grateful for small mercies and in this case, we can wave a hearty ta ta to the whole shabby, tacky, sordid Twenny Twenty for Twenny episode, which can finally be put to rest like an unloved, incontinent pet that regularly soils the furniture.

Still that’s not much consolation to the Antiguans who’re looking down the longest of barrels and it’s in their honour we’ve composed this Pimpernel style verse for Sir Al (with apologies to Baroness Orczy).


They seek him here
They seek him there
Those FBI agents seek him everywhere.
Is he in Panama?
Is he in Peru?
He’s made off with your wonga,
And they haven’t a clue.

For Sale

We're in a bit of rush today, what with that cursed real work n all, so instead of our usual mix of awful puns, strained similies and a liberal sprinkling of knob gags, we're going to offer you a small selection from the World of Spurt Classified sections:

For Sale
Soul of English cricket, has been on loan to wealthy mustachioed Texan 'benefactor', but now returned as unwanted gift. Normal offices closed due to criminal investigation, so please dial 1-800-MASS-FRAUD and ask for big Al,


Pedal Power
Stand out from the crowd with this highly unique one-of-a-kind black and gold Trek road bike. A real speedster though pedals show signs of excessive wear. Comes with specially adjusted saddle and own Human Growth Hormone carrier attachment. Urgent sale, buyer to collect. Email: lancesride@backofalorry.com

Back from the dead

We’re a misanthropic curmudgeonly bunch of bastards on the whole here at the Spurt - it’s not so much an outlook as a totally ingrained way of life.

Yet even our cold, flinty inhuman hearts were defrosted just the teeniest little bit last night by the triumphant rebirth of Eduardo, Arsenal’s Brazilian-born Croatian striker, who celebrated his return from a horrendous year-long career-threatening injury by banging a couple past Cardiff.

Okay easy meat perhaps but it was as heart-warming as watching a lickle orphan being reunited with their long-lost, rich (and hopefully not too paedo) uncle after years of neglect.

Altogether now aaaaw....

Anyway with Walcott due back any moment and even Cesc on the road to Wellville, the question is being asked: could the Arse mount a late spurt for the title?

Answer: erm nope, but it might at least ensure a top four finish and piss on Martin O’Neill’s chips. Should be an interesting run in for the also-rans.

Elsewhere: England from 51 all out to 566-9 declared in just seven days? Choose your mainstream media cliché from the list below:

1) Zeroes to Heroes
2) What a Difference a Week Makes!
3) Colly gives Windies the wobbles

Answer 3) Obv - we're wasted here you know...

Slackers

Okay we admit we’ve been slacker than a smack addict’s jaw over the past week or so, but you can hardly blame us for going into hiding following that ignominious 51 all out last weekend, as England crumpled to a sorry, woeful defeat in what can only be described as a ‘Fox score’*.

Oh and we had some proper work and shit to do too.

A lot can happen in a week, it’s a long time in politics, a positive age in sport and an absolute eternity in Spurt, and wouldn’t you know it, in the time elapsed we’ve managed to clock our first anniversary tour of duty in Blogistan.

Yup it was precisely one year ago yesterday on the 15th Feb 2008 when we first spurted on an unsuspecting world’s face and along the way we’ve pushed the bounds of taste and decency, got a few decent chaps to scribble a line or two, managed to get away with the odd telling line or our own and no doubt fired as many blanks as a testicular cancer victim.

So a big thank you to you our loyal readers (both of you) for your continued and ongoing support. We’re going to wipe away a teary tear now and listen to the second day of the cricket, but rest assured we intend to come back, faster, quicker, stronger and possible more saucy (if that were possible) in our annus secondus.

So happy birthday to us and let the spurting recommence!

*This is an internationally recognised unit of cricketing ignominy, derived from the sorry performances of England’s worst ever team** The Fox and Hounds UCC.

**Wow we don’t get to do two stars very often, bonus. This epithet was bestowed by that bastion of investigative journalism The Daily Telegraph.

Crack of the Whip...

Spare a thought to today for Big Phil Scolari and 'Little' Tony Adams, twin casualties of the managerial credit crunch, both released into the bleak midwinter and probably down to their last million.

Okay perhaps your sympathies aren't wholly engaged by the travails of wealthy men in the current financial clime, when you're forced to survive by throwing your last orphan on the fire. But, unlike Max Mosely it's difficult to believe either man has had a fair crack of the whip.

Adams certainly cuts a sympathetic figure: having to step into 'arry's shoes mid season was a tough act to follow at the best of times, but to have financial uncertainty your constant companion and two of your best players decamp to Spurs and Real Madrid can't have helped either.

Scolari on the other hand: well this was the big boss we looked to, to challenge Sir Alex's death grip on the silverware and yet now he's gone in just over half a season? Madness. His reign promised so much, but delivered very little. Dressing room dissent, a failure to capture key signings like Robinho to revive the Blues aging squad and Abramovich looking like he couldn't give less of a toss all means we've been denied a chance to see Big Phil make his mark.

If the Premiership can eat up and spit out a manager of the Scolari's calibre, what hope is there for anyone else?

51 All Out

The lack of posts recently has not been down to just our perpetual laziness, oh no, although truth to tell there's enough of that to whitewash all the dark matter in the universe. Nope we've been hiding our head in shame and wondering just what we should say about England's abject surrender to the Windies on Saturday. Fortunately we don't have to as spurting regular Steve B has felt compelled to pen his own. Don't worry though, we'll be right back with something snide to say on Big Phil and Big Tony's sacking, but for the moment over to Stevie B and the England post-mortem.

Perhaps – while perusing CNN in their Caribbean hotel – the England cricket team saw the tragic news of the wildfires claiming hundreds of lives in Australia, and decided to think up a way of returning smiles to the faces of those poor, demoralised Aussies. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for Saturday’s comically inept batting performance. It’s just a pity that they also managed further to depress another already suicidal nation – their own one – in the process. Perhaps Bill Frindall saw it coming, although his solution was a bit drastic.

So, what is to be done with a bunch of players beginning to resemble the cast of Carry On Cricketing? I predict two changes for the Second Test against the Windies – Shah for Bell and Anderson for Harmison. Everyone pretty much agrees on that – Bell’s mental disintegration is so advanced it’s a wonder he can remember to tie his shoelaces (although, perhaps one of England’s 16 support staff does that for him?) and the likelihood of Harmison getting his old zip back is roughly on a par with that of Osama Bin Laden embracing Catholicism.

If only England had a coach, they could get him to think up some excuse for sending Bell and Harmy back home, thereby allowing them to draft in replacements. Face it: given where Bell’s head is currently at, he’d probably drop the drinks on the way out to the middle. And Harmy would, as ever, rather be in Geordieland with his kids. Ravi Bopara’s absence from the Caribbean is a scandal and, as has been pointed out ad infinitum, Michael Vaughan still has a central contract. Granted, the cupboard of up-and-coming quickies is bare. But at least the bowlers’ performance was merely insipid, as opposed to embarrassing. And there are two replacements for Panesar – Swann and Rashid – although the latter won’t play due to his inexperience. If England lose the nest Test, though, they might as well whack him into the side, on the premise that he couldn’t do any worse. It will be interesting to see whether Swann comes in for Panesar, Monty has talent, for sure, but is actually getting worse as a bowler. He hasn’t bowled well for England for years, and Sabina Park, as Benn demonstrated, was an absolute Bunsen burner. He has to go, too – even despite Swann’s mauling in the warm-up match.

In an ideal world, if you were an England selector, you’d want to drop Strauss – I’d fancy bowling at him at the moment, but he’ll survive because he’s the newly anointed skipper – and Collingwood, the 21st century Nasser Hussain, a man with no talent but a gingery scrapper’s mentality. At least he’s a decent fielder – but fielding is pretty much all he has brought to England for a while now. Sidebottom’s bowling was startlingly mediocre, but at least he’s a leftie. How could England have come to such a pass that, having dropped three players, you then have to cast around for flimsy excuses to keep three others in the side?

England have been consistently, frustratingly awful for years now – which kind of makes a mockery of the “selectorial consistency” argument. So radical action is called for. As Strauss’s form is so poor he doesn’t merit a place, I’d call up Rob Key to captain and open the batting with Michael Vaughan. Followed by KP at number three, then Shah, Bopara, Flintoff and Prior. The bowling line-up is more problematic, but I would have the following at numbers eight to 11. Broad – first name on the team-sheet, obviously. Rashid (he can bat a bit, and all the Windies pitches are low and slow these days), Swann, Sidebottom, Anderson. Just a mere seven changes from what will henceforth become known as the 51 All Out Team, then.

Shot Selection

As Britain enters a second ice age and we shiver in our hovels and gently thrust another couple of copies of Shortlist onto the fire, it's been a boon to be transported the Carribean and the familiar rhythms of Test Match Special as it resonates across the airwaves redolent of sunshine and rum punch.

A strange first day for England in the opening Test, winning an important toss and then contriving to almost throw any advantage in all too unfamiliar fashion as they were subject to examination by twin spin and a new Windies star, the redoubtable Sulieman 'big' Ben.

Surreal stuff and naturally cricket, with no sense of irony whatsoever, brought KP and The Fred to England's rescue, the supposed dress room adversaries combining well to turn around a dire start.

Much of course has been made of KP 'throwing' away his wicket on 97, by attempting to bring up a ton with a huge six, when he'd have apparently been better advised to nudge it in singles.

Absolute rot of course. KP is a showman, a natural entertainer and earned the right to have a heave by the 97 runs he'd accumulated before getting out. Naturally if he does it all the time, teams will target this tendency, but right now he's England's premier batsman by a mile and we'd be deep in the brown stuff without his efforts.

Keep playing it your way KP.

Anti-Climax

It’s Tuesday the day after transfer deadline day and while we should be absolutely bursting with gobsmacking signings to dissect, instead the window has closed with a clang every bit as inauspicious as a fortune cookie which reveals ‘You’re are about to die ...from eating a poisoned fortune cookie’.

When the biggest news is that Spurs have bought back three players they used to own six months ago, you know it’s not exactly been a thriller and as for the Arshavin deal, well could you just get on with it already?

(BREAKING EXCLUSIVE: Arshavin will take the number 23 shirt, courtesy of top spotter Mitch, who has a mate who was stalking Arshavin at the Elstree village hotel last night).

Yet even on that bombshell, we’re seriously starting to lose the will to live.

Robbie Keane has our sympathies though: whether he simply couldn’t play in the system/was second choice behind Gerrard/Torres (not an ideal place to mount a challenge for a regular starting slot) or was simply a victim of Benitez flexing his muscles, we’ll never know.

Probably all three and we wish him well back at the Lane.

Nope the most interesting story today has been the hundreds of shocked Americans who’re complaining because their cable station started broadcasting porn during Sunday’s Super Bowl.

There’s just no pleasing some people.

Bongs away

Hats and indeed bongs off to human dolphin Michael Phelps Beijing Olympic darling and lest we forget, eight times gold medallist, who’s been News-of-the-World-ed (ie. resolutely, routinely and royally fucked) by the erm premier British scandal sheet.

While the Screws always a distinctly unpleasant aftertaste in the mouth, there’s no denying it has more scoops than Baskin Robins and always gets its man (and its story).

Phelps caught sucking on a bong the size of a large oboe has been caught green-handed and despite not admitting that it was stuffed to the brim with prime reefer (why else would you be toking on it?), most discerning viewers will realise that it had more skunk than Louisiana home cooking.

Phelps said: “I engaged in behaviour which was regrettable and demonstrated bad judgement. I’m 23 years old and despite the successes I’ve had in the pool, I acted in a youthful and inappropriate way, not in a manner people have come to expect from me. For this, I am sorry. I promise my fans and the public it will not happen again.”

Our advice? Keep on toking Michael, if you can win eight Golds doing that stuff in the off season, if you go completely drug free no one else will have a sniff.

Lame Excuses

Merde! Zut alors et Sacre Blue... nous somme discoverez le lamest excuse pour a wantaway that we’ve heard in all our years.

Step forward talented but moody French Newcastle midfielder Charles N'Zogbia whose apparently spat his dummy and vowed never to play for the Toon again simply because poor old Joe Kinnear misspoke in an interview and called him ‘Charles Insomnia.’

Now advancing age makes fools of us all and St Bobby of Robson delivered more than the occasional ‘speaking malfunction’ and would no doubt have dubbed the Frenchman ‘Charles Petunia’, ‘Charles Amnesia or our tres favourite ‘Charles Pneumonia’.

But N'Zogbia’s huffiness over such an imagined sleight is as transparent as Madonna’s g-string and his excuses as lame as a three legged donkey.

Begone sir we say and never trouble our holy Premiership again!

Elsewhere: Our new favourite waste of time? Well has to be the Graun’s phenomenal new Chalkboard, where you can see just how fit/lazy/profligate your favourite Premiership stars in stunning new levels of minute detail.

Bon chance!

Rafa’s rants: Part deux

Oh dear, we take a day off to do some cheeky freelance and look what happens, Senor Benitez is off on one again, after Wigan's Mido snatched a late equalizer in last night’s ‘crazy’ encounter to deny the Reds three points.

The source of Rafa’s ire this time? Well actually he prefers not to say. No seriously, he really doesn’t want to tell us.

“I prefer not to say too much but I am not happy with a lot of things... I am disappointed with a number of things but no, the Wigan approach I will not talk about them".

"It has happened in the last three games. They have something in common I don't like. I know why but I cannot say anything."

Mysterious, no? Something’s obviously bugging Rafa, but could it be? Suggestions in the comments below please.

But we say get it off your chest lad and damn the consequences. Joe Kinnear was only fined £500 notes for calling Martin Atkinson a Mickey Mouse ref.

Invest a good couple of grand Rafa and really let rip. It’ll do you the power of good!

Break in transmission

Our apols for our recent break in transmission but we were struck down by a dose of the creeping lurgey and we’re only just indicated blindly and screamed headlong back into traffic as we set course on the road to Wellville.

Not that we’ve missed much as, while we were tucked up in bed strewing snot and coughing furballs, the weekend’s football was by all accounts the most boring FA Cup fourth round in living memory.

Elsewhere around the spurting multiverse: Becks apparently wants to stay at Milan and they might even cough up to the Galaxy to keep him. All to the good say we, though harsh on LA. Talking of the US, we must also give an honourable mensh to Sunday where our beloved Pittsburgh Steelers (the first team we saw play Yankee footy) are back in the Superbowl big time - going of a record fifth title and it’s live on BBC. Result! Go Steelers FTW! Erm... hm.

Finally important developments in the vexed question of the leadership of the ECB. Now any mate of Bozzer’s is usually guaranteed to be a oik of the first water, but Lord Marland has some intriguing ideas and most importantly, he’s come out in favour of a return to terrestrial Test screening.

With Culture Sec Andy Burnham also apparently keen to return them to Crown Jewel status, could we see an axis forming to return domestic Test cricket back to its rightful place on our TV screens?

We live in hope dear reader, we can but live in hope.

Westward ho!

We’re taking a break from our throbbing non-stop coverage of Manchester City’s ever decreasing shopping list today, to contemplate the great love of our life today. Yes you too Mrs Spurt (we’ll pay for that later), but of course we speak primarily of cricket, as our brave boys cry ‘windward ho' and land in the Caribbean

Now during our formative years, this would usually be the cue to load up the body bags, watch the vultures begin to circle and wait for Mike Gatting to land at Heathrow resembling a recently violated panda, as the formidable West Indies quicks feasted on the softer parts of our batsmen with an array of bouncers, quick balls and erm even quicker balls.

Nowadays of course it’s a different coconut of rum punch. The great West Indies sides are a fondly fading memory, the game is less of a unifying force in the islands and talented young Windies athletes look to basketball or other more US-centric sports to make their fame and especially fortune.

West Indies still have genuine stars like Chris Gayle and Shivnarine Chanderpaul and are decent enough at the shorter forms of the game. Yet England – with their greater overall firepower - should prevail in the Tests and it’s going to be a thorough and intriguing examination of Andrew 'Posh' Strauss’s new captaincy.

We’ve a good feeling about Strauss and back him to get the best out of the team, heal any rifts and unite them for the home series warm up to the all-important Ashes.

Just keep The Fred away from the sauce pedaloes.

The dream has died

We’re fresh back from a sojourn in the West Country today my lovely, so catching up on all the latest as Manchester City, the self-styled (and aren’t those words always written with malicious glee?) richest club in the world have gone from 100m wonders to Woolworth’s rejects in just under 24 hours.

So the dream has died and Kaka will not be gracing the Premiership. A shame really, but on the probability scale it ranks alongside Fergie admitting he was wrong, Andy Murray winning gracefully and Ferrari being penalised in an F1 championship, in the big bad list of things that are never likely to happen.

But what of the latest trouble at t’Middle Eastlands? Robinho’s alleged hissy fit and immediate retreat to spend more time with his family – what was that all about?

“Nothing to do with Kaka’ says Robinho, ‘Everything to do with Bellamy’ says the Spurt as we exclusive tipped on Monday (well sort of).

Seems the Milanese playmaker isn’t the only Brazilian fearing a midnight visit from the nine-iron wielding Welshman.

They call him the wanderer...

It’s Monday again – and you can tell it’s not exactly been a glittering galaxy of spurting entertainment over the weekend when the top story is Darren Bent’s last minute sitter in the Spurs v Pompey love in.

With such a lack of meaty spurting goodness to tuck into, we’re so short of material we could be a Hollywood starlet’s red carpet dress.

Fortunately swinging a five iron to the rescue comes news of Craig Bellamy’s impending transfer to middle Eastlands with Man City’s sultans of bling apparently offering 14million notes for the perpetually angry Welsh hitman’s services.

Bellamy’s a decent enough player on the pitch and scores a plenty, but off it, comes with so much baggage they’ll need a camel train to transport it up there.

A huge ‘I won’t play again’ sulk on Friday is the latest in a long line of career highlights which has encompassed a caution for common assault, abusive texts to Alan Shearer: “Your legs are gone. You're too old. You're too slow." (similar criticisms could made of his current MOTD performance) and ultimately trying to sink a putt into John Arne Risse’s cakehole.

Still, in a career which has previously spanned Norwich, Coventry, Newcastle, Celtic, Blackburn Liverpool, it’s never likely to be boring. Bellamy will probably do well under Sparky them being united by Taffdom, but future regimes? Who knows.

Anyway, one thing seldom mentioned in today’s coverage is how potential team mate Kaka will view the signing?

He won’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with a post-Stella Bellamy on the rampage and lining up to tee off his forehead.

Investigative Journalism

With the transfer window wide open, everyone’s looking for a bargain, a hitherto undiscovered footy genius to rescue the second half of their season and turn a fierce relegation battle into a surge for a European place.

Now not everyone’s got 130m Euro to spunk like Man City, but with agents’ phones glowing red hot, extensive scouting networks scouring the globe, YouTube signings and the eyes of the footy world on even 12 year old park players, it’s not so easy to track down a real bargain.

Certainly not for the Times hack who managed to name Masal Bugduv of Moldavia in his list of undiscovered footy superstars. Bugduv was down at number 30 but had been ‘linked to a move with Arsenal and plenty of other clubs’, so might have been worth a punt?

Just one problem? Bugduv really is undiscovered, as he doesn’t actually exist. Shit, we used to work on that site. Standards really must be slipping.

Anyway it got us thinking, if it’s good enough for The Times, it’s good enough for us, so here’s the Spurt’s guide to the top five hottest (and entirely fictional) undiscovered prospects on the footy scene today.

Enrinque Madeup
Paunchy Eritrean shot stopping keeper, who’s vast consumption of porridge beer has swollen him to such a size that he virtually fills the entire goal. Not so much the Cat, as the fat. Bargain at 6m.

Julio Explodio
Temperamental fleet footed Catalan winger who’s mazy dribbles and ability to hug the touchline are offset by his liability to self-combust at half time. Offers in the region of 2 million - comes with a free fire extinguisher.

Klaus Von Nephilim
Gloomy uncompromising German centre half, currently for turning out for Shalker 45. Highly unskilled clogger but real strength lies in man marking strikers and putting them off their game by convincing them of the essential existential bleakness of modern life. Will sign for biscuits.

Ricardo Forstrup
Diminutive Danish striker who’s so small he’s barely detectable to the naked eye. When defenders claim to have him in their pocket, quite often he literally is, springing out to score a surprise winner.

Hank Yank
Big hearted and buttocked midfield dynamo from the good ol’ US of A. Yank appears to have everything: silky ball skills, box to box coverage and the appropriate sized engine. Yet Yank hampered by a complete lack of understanding of the rules of the sport he calls, ‘soccer footyball’. Test Harvard Yarvard’s resolve with bids in excess of 150k.

In the Kaka...

It’s Wednesday, a quiet day in the spurting galaxy and with no shocks in last night’s FA cup, precious few in prospect tonight and even Gazza behaving himself for once, we raise our eyes to the heavens and implore the spurting gods ‘FFS give us something to work with here’.

Fortunately salvation comes in the form of the transfer merry-go-round and the quite-simply-staggering prospect of Brazilian genius Kaka moving to Man City for the bargain price of 100m Euro or Quid, with wages of around 500k a week.

We’re as divided as a pair of post-op co-joined twins. As well as having a vaguely amusing name (if you’re American and like scatological references) Kaka’s a bone fide genius and we’d absolutely love to see him play over here.

Yet that’s over double Zidane’s record breaking price and surely some kind of sanity must prevail? If City managed to pull this off we’ll have to invent a new term for nouveau riche. Mucho riche anyone?

Kind of puts the whole Roque Santa Cruz saga into perspective too.

Perhaps sanity will prevail though as Kaka’s agent Diogo Kotscho as well as slipping in a sly dig in at fellow Brazilian, told Corriere dello Sport "He [Kaka] would never do something like Robinho, who, just to earn more, contented himself with a solution that was not a winning one."

We’re also starting our shameless ‘come and get me plea’ award of the day which has to go to Newcastle’s moody Frenchy Charles N’Zogbia who told a French sports daily. “The club want to sell some players, so why not me? Lyon, make a move!"

Classy Charles, very classy.

Hayden hangs up his bat (and not just outside off-stump)

It’s Day 174 in the World of Spurt house and John is in the diary room knocking one out – another blog entry that is.

Now we occasionally take a modicum of stick for our barely suppressed Aussie bashing/baiting, but we guarantee you we’re as fair-minded, racially-sensitive and well balanced as any member of the British Royal family...

Erm ...anyway moving swiftly on, slightly sad news today with the announcement of the retirement of Matt ‘Matty’ Hayden, the Aussie opener who’s finally hung up his bat.

It’s sad news indeed mainly because it’ll make the Aussie team that little bit stronger for the Ashes this summer.

Still, even we have to admit albeit reluctantly that Hayden was a great player in his time, averaging over 50 in Tests, World Record holder until Lara retook it and the only time we’ve seen him tamed was the 2005 Ashes series, when The Fred had him firmly in his pocket.

But averaging just over 16 in the last two series, it was definitely time for Hayden to fall on his sword, probably before he was pushed.

A difficult bloke to like though and it seems doubtful he’ll be remembered with any true affection outside of Oz.

Put it this way we’d much rather go out on the lash with Warney of an evening, but Hayden’s also the last in the line of that unbreakable series of Aussie titans: Langer, Gilchrist, Warne, McGrath.

There’s only little Ricky left now... and for that the rest of the cricket world will be truly thankful.

Rafa’s Rants part 1

In what’s sure to just the first instalment of an ongoing series, today we pay tribute to Liverpool boss Rafa ‘Town Crier’ Benitez, who’s launched a pre-emptive strike against Fergie and his Red Devil minions in the very first chapter of The Gospel According To Rafa.

The substance we won’t get into, although it has to be said Fergie does appear to enjoy a certain protected heritage status when it comes to pronouncements of his own - and you wouldn't be human if you didn't have a sly giggle at the notion of man-marking the United staff in the tunnel.

Would you favour man to man or zonal Rafa?

Yet it’s the style which concerns us most. Rafa’s undoubtedly been niggled by a few of Fergie’s canny ‘casual’ asides, but why choose last week to retaliate when the Scousers were sitting pretty at the top of the table?

Just like the US, we’re all for launching a pre-emptive strike, ie. get your retaliation in before the other guy even knows he’s at war, but on this occasion has Rafa gone way too early?

In other tales of dark doings we have to pose the question is Maradona a secret Fergie agent?

Apparently the pint-sized Argentinean supremo interrupted his orgy of cocaine and hookers as he lit a cigar at the Radisson Edwardian in Manc-town, causing the entire hotel including the Chelsea squad to be rousted out and evacuated in the early-ish hours of Sunday morning.

Hardly the best preparation for their 3-0 shooing by United yesterday.

Perhaps there’s something in Rafa’s rants after all?

Reflections

When the highway code advises ‘check your mirrors’, it doesn’t mean just gaze at your reflection…

The Bright Side

So it all turned out to be true then - with both captain and coach gone on the same day leaving English cricket looking about as organised as a surrealist's free form art installation .

You can choose your own label from the following catalogue of disaster: debacle, farce, cock-up, or perhaps all three simultaneously, but no-one's emerged looking good from the process*: Pietersen for his wilfull petulance, Moores for his inability to handle the game at the highest level and the ECB for putting the ferrets down English cricket's trousers and then acting surprised when they end up fighting tooth and nail near some vitally important regions.

Still our naturally sunny and not at all in any way misanthropic life-hating outlook forces us to consider the bright side.

What do you mean, what bright side? Read on grasshopper to discover,

One: If it were done, 'tis well it were done quickly. Better that this happens now, than a month before the ashes . At least it will give Strauss two short series to stamp his authority on the team. It'll also mean we might get decent coach, rather than someone who's simply got the relevant ECB badges.

Two: It proves that cricket matters. It was the lead item on pretty much every form of media yesterday and shows just how integral cricket remains to the English psyche. On a day when myriad other stories from the sorry world vied for our attention, Cricket grabbed all the headlines, set the national news agenda and remains as important as ever.

For that small comfort at least, we should be truly thankful.

* Apart from Andrew Strauss who should have been made England skipper after the domestic Pakistan series.

England Woeful England

Widely previewed over the past 24 hours, the axe has finally fallen and if reports across the mainstream sites are to be believed, both England captain Kevin ‘KP’ Pietersen and coach Peter Moores have fallen on their collective swords this lunchtime.

It’s still unclear whether Pietersen has gone or has threatened to go if Moores stays – the only quote comes from Sky news who managed to ambush KP on his mobile but all he’d say was: "I am not in a fit state to talk."

Uneasy is the head that wears the crown and all that... Moores we were expecting, but KP as well? From the reports, it looks like he gambled on a ‘back me, sack him’ power play with the board that has spectacularly failed, but it would be pretty damn shocking to see a self-inflicted ousting only five months after he’d assumed the captaincy.

If it’s all true and that’s yet to be determined, with various sites currently getting splinters in their arse through all their fence sitting, the whole sorry spectacle has been thoroughly unedifying as watching Mike Gatting going on a rampage in your local cake shop. To misquote dear old Oscar, to lose either captain or coach may be regarded as misfortunate but to lose both at the same time? That looks like sheer carelessness.

Whatever way things pan out, KP has come out of it smelling of ordure. This is not so much washing your dirty laundry in public, as soiling it, flaunting it and then offering to rub the remains into the noses of random passers-by.

Even the news that Australia has had its worst ever sporting year is scant consolation on this darkest of days.

The Window

It’s Day Two in the tortuous return to working life and despite a bit of competition from the Aussie v SAF series, it’s the transfer window – which has not so much opened as been kicked asunder – which is occupying our thoughts.

Clubs and bosses may openly say they dread it, but players and agents love it, especially the current winter one where allegedly ‘no significant business is done’.

Bollocks.

For fans, the winter window is a boon during the dark days of January when thoughts turn to the loaded revolver in the drawer and the rest of the year stretches out before you like a prison sentence.

This is a time when you positively need those outrageous rumours, public hissy fits and the perennial ‘who’s going to gamble on Michael Owen’ sweepstake.

Okay so far it’s been pretty predictable stuff: with Lassan Diarra off to Real and Jermain freshly confirmed back at Spurs this lunchtime, but the rest of the month promises lots of interest and a fair amount of intrigue.

Carlos Tevez has openly rebelled at Man Utd (inadvisable), Andrei Arshavin threatening to buy out his contract to join Arsenal (huh?) and Man City have been linked to every single existing footballer on Earth (even our agent has been approached, but we’ve turned it down).

So here’s to the window: relish it, celebrate it, savour every column inch and outrageous rumour no matter how improbable. It is the stuff of which dreams (and nightmares) are made.

Happy new year, Heureux Nouvelle Année, feliz año Nuevo ...and all that innit?

And boooom! Just like a Stevie G head butt we’re back! It’s the cold hard shell shock of the first day back at the coalface and we’re still reeling after eleven days of late rising, slack living, alcoholic indulgence and Christmas pudding overload.

Ah the true spirit of Christmas... How was it for you?

Still, during these long bleak dog days as the New Year slowly starts to form and come into focus, there’s been no lack of spurting action to get our teeth into.

The award for most surprising event goes to Stevie G for the ‘incident’ in the night club and kidding aside, we hope the Scouse and England midfield dynamo gets away Scot-free. Some players undoubtedly deserve to be on the wrong end of a nightclub shooing, but not Stevie G, who, is so virtuous we are told, he drops farts of the purest perfume.

Elsewhere, a splendid FA Cup third round threw up the usual shock and some little awe with self-styled ‘richest club in the world’ Man City falling on their arses to lowly Notts Forest. That played most mightily on our chuckle bone - hilarious.

Murky Ides of March doings in the world of cricket too with KP on the point of ousting Peter Moores from his position as England coach. It’s always dangerous to change horses mid-race, especially with the Ashes looming but better now we suppose than then.

Moores was a political appointment (the first fruit of the ECB’s Elite coaching program) but has never struck us as having the cojones. The tale of the tape does not lie and England have become measurably worse since Moore’s arrival.

Time to put him out to grass we say and our pick and first prediction of the NY is to draft in Dav Whatmore. He's big, he's not fashionable and he used to sport a hilarious moustache, but he always got the best out of any team he coached and we'll need that kind of grit for the Aussie showdown this summer.

Toodle pip!