Twitter. Every time I uphold it as the virtuous harbinger of the free-thinking free world and the acceptable face of Social Media, some halfwit Youth Police Commissioner sullies the water and brings the whole mechanism into disrepute. As, in life, there are good and bad everywhere, so in Twitter, for every @prodnose bringing light and beautiful randomness into people’s lives there’s an @youthpcc doing the polar opposite.

My dad is judge and jury on most things. An excellent evaluator, he can usually be relied upon to sum things up in an instant. Usually, as I say, he’s correct. I think he first heard of Twitter when the whole KP brouhaha was kicking off last summer. ‘Bloomin’ thing,’ he grumped as the unseemly episode got sorrier by the day, ‘should ban it. What they messing about with that for anyway? They should be concentrating on scoring runs and taking wickets.’ A good point very well made, but that was it for him. There was no comeback for the little blue bird. In fact I think he made some further comment involving a twelve bore or something, such was his distaste.

It had been quiet on the Twitter scene, for the most part, in the news for a while. Then yesterday’s news happened. Just before Countryfile, Dad learned of the undoing of the country’s first Youth Police Commissioner. In the new job just a few days, her mucky fingers had been burned, courtesy of her potty mouth via her comments on Twitter. I don’t think he said much about Twitter this time only because he was more horrified that a delinquent Adele tribute act was earning an unsubstantiated salary for doing, well, probably not very much indeed and attracting a lot of unhelpful publicity for it as a result. But I know Twitter will be blamed next time he’s down the Lion.

Against such evidence, it can be hard to present a convincing argument for Twitter’s force for good to the cynics. There are a lot of morons saying very stupid, very terrible things on there.

I don’t follow any ‘popular entertainers’ or footballers as a result (unless they’re retired heroic Hatters centre forwards or cricket-loving, old-Wembley ending, retired German holding midfielders). However, the other day I stumbled upon @WesPFCNFS.

Here is a tweeter, indeed, blogger, who belongs firmly in the ‘force for good’ category. Essentially, Steffi Wes Cricket devotes her life to following her cricketing countrymen in their exploits all over the world. Nothing particularly odd in that you may say, except Steffi Wes is German.

I had lots of experience of Germans travelling around the Antipodes. In fact, such is their prevalence in that part of the world, I wouldn’t batter an eyelid if, when I next return to Auckland, the motorway signs all have German subtitles on them just to make it easier. To a man, their indifference to our great game seeped out every time I mentioned what I was doing over there. Some were better than others, some, bless them (Hello Patricia! Hello Anja!), curiously even came to matches with me.
For the most part, the reaction of one bloke in a hostel in Dunedin summed it up. “Cricket? Pah! Vee Chermans chust don’t see ze point,” he spat in Prince Ludwig from Blackadder II pantomime-baddy tones.

Thankfully, for her followers and readers, Steffi Wes does see the point. Smitten by cricket since her accidental introduction to the sport at the first Ashes match in Cardiff, Steffi Wes has made it her goal to bring to our attention the fortunes of the German national team. Currently playing in an ICC World Cricket League Division Seven Tournament in Botswana, ‘The Germs’ currently sit bottom of their group below sides like Vanuatu, Fiji, the great Dotun Olatunji’s Nigeria and the host nation.
The developing game is as much part of cricket’s soul as the first morning of a Test match at Lords’ and Steffi Wes through her tweets and blog posts is helping to bring it into the lives of cricket fans who wouldn’t have considered cricket life outside of the Test arena, the IPL, the state or county game.

There is a game going on out there; everyday (pretty much) and everywhere. Thanks to Steffi Wes and people like her devoted to the smaller cricketing nations we can enjoy their triumphs and travails as much as our own teams.

Forget the unsavoury idiots and ugly incidents that make the headlines from time to time; Twitter is a force for good, definitely. Go The Germs.

http://playforcountrynotforself.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/support-german-cricket-team-at-world-cricket-league-div-7-botswana.html?m=1

It had been a good run. Capernoited in Queenstown with Bumble and the camera lads, dancing and disorderly in Dunedin with Midnight and the Tredwell crew*, wobbly in Wellington following a day’s hospitality courtesy of the Beige Brigade**, all over it in Auckland with Scene, Eric frae Lomond, Blair and his home brews then, finally, last week’s real ale-heavy homecoming session in Ampthill with some of my lads. Great nights all, chock full of great people.

Last night was more sedate.

I love Dad’s Army. It is brilliant. Allied with a roaring fire, a slice of simnel cake & cheddar with my feet up and slippers on it makes for a perfect Saturday night in.

Which, for once in a while, is every bit as good as a Saturday night out.

*

My Test Match companions pictured here half an hour after the epic draw at Eden Park. I’ve settled on the Tredwell Crew as a name owing to Greg’s fixation with his local hero, a man who, he insists, is going to lead us to an Ashes triumph this summer. The rest of us were happy to indulge him.
Left to Right: Lucky Paul, Greg, Keith, Jacky & Me. If I look distracted it’s because I’m instructing the clueless bloke holding my iPad on how the camera facility works.

**

It had been a lovely afternoon in the packed Beige Tent. Messrs Lane and Ford held court as various New Zealand cricketing folk popped in for a beer. Giles, Billy, Southgate and several more from the Barmy Army were there as well. The picture was taken, courtesy of the lovely Tracy, in the taxi en route to Ash’s Fush & Chups Extravaganza. It was probably a Righteous Brothers song.
Left to Right: China’s mate Neil, Me and Woofy. He’s got some stamina that lad, best Kiwi wing man since Wynton Rufer. If I look drunk, it’s because I probably am.

Dum dum, der dum, der dum…. Fingers pound the keys like the field over the Melling Road. The hairs stand on end, the mouth dries. This is the ultimate. The stirring soundtrack to the most stirring day in the sporting calendar. Sir Peter O’Sullevan’s calls them in and the memories flood back even though I wasn’t there for most of them; Foinavon in ’67, Red Rum (most famously) in ’73, Esha Ness twenty years later and Lord Gyllene in ’97 are always the ones that resonate most. Witness the magnificent heroism of horse and jockey played out in every scene as the music continues to soar away supremely in the background.

I’ve been brought up with the Grand National. The history and the sense of drama and occasion have been instilled in me since I was a wee lad. It is probably my favourite day of the sporting year. The afternoon spent getting ready for it marked by tea and Lardy Cake, the pre-races and documentaries, the atmosphere and the Aintree crowd, the interviews with the nervous jockeys and owners. All respectfully, dutifully and superbly brought to you by the BBC.

In the days BC (Before Clare…) a gentleman by the name of Des Lynam was sports broadcasting’s national treasure. As a young man I yearned to be as cool as Des. As an older bloke, I think I still yearn to be as cool as Des. The consummate, unruffled pro with the mike, his stewardship of the build up, the big race and beyond helped make the day. He has been, by one or other, replaced by the peerless Ms Clare Balding. Balding’s equine background plus her outstanding presenting skills have seen her transported from the Beeb to Channel Four as a sub-plot to the episode that has seen this prestigious event transported from one channel to the other.

It’s been a bad year for the BBC, on and off the screen. The corporation’s other televised sport is slowly being pulled from underneath them like the carpet from the marquee as they stand around, lingering like disbelieving, capernoited Wedding guests. It’s not so much that the televised events are disappearing, their outstanding coverage of the Olympics last summer notwithstanding, it’s becoming apparent that the standard of their presentation of these events is declining too. Last week’s bloated horror show coverage of The Boat Race being a prime example of this. But the BBC always, always did the Grand National. And they’ve always done it very, very well.

Channel Four now steps up to the plate. With their experience of decades worth of coverage of racing I’m confident they’ll do a job. But as the nation settles down to the sweepstake later, then the scones and tea, before getting ready to watch the unsurpassable drama of the four miles and three and a bit furlongs unfold something will be missing this year. Something that helps make this magnificent occasion.

Dum dum, der dum, der dum….

BBC, thank you. Channel Four, you are under starter’s orders.

Then…

Now…

So I’m out all day today helping my brother and I’ve got an early start. Which means, people of Great Britain, I will be there at the collective breakfast table for Weetabix and hot milk before scraping the collective windscreen and heading off into the bastard freezing early morning. In short, like Captain Kevin Darling in the trenches and better late than never, I am joining you shoulder to shoulder in this, the Great Freeze of 2013.

Which means I haven’t got time to write anything of note again today. Instead, for your perusal, there is an article by one of my favourite writers on a recent topic that will run and run. Not for the first time I feel myself nodding firmly in agreement with the author’s well argued viewpoint while enjoying his jaunty, bitingly humorous style.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/sunderland/9966368/Paolo-Di-Canio-hasnt-told-us-anything-about-his-real-views-but-hes-revealed-plenty-about-ours.html

Something to ponder as you each for the de-icer. Or snooze button. Any sign of that Spring yet?

The things we do for love. I pondered this yesterday afternoon from my position midway up the Kenilworth End Stand as the swathes of red and white attacks continued to besiege the home team’s goal in the freezing cold.
Why am I here? I could be sat at home, beside the redoubtable wood burner, robust red wine in hand helping myself to the half-truckle of Stilton left over from the Easter feast. Or Grandma’s Banoffee Pie. I could be sat, with feet up, watching the greatest film ever made for the thirty third time.

Der der der der der, der der der der, der der der der der, der der der der, der der der der der der der, der der der der der. Dum dum. Dum dum. Derrrrrrrrrrrr.

The score sends goosebumps soaring every time I hear it. It’s just a beautiful, beautiful piece of cinema. Escape To Victory, from the first time I saw it, has completely enchanted me.

I thought I was a Victoire-tragic then, via Twitter, I received this delightful piece of correspondence.

http://www.kickingandscreening.com/blog/2013/01/is-this-man-the-biggest-victory-fan-in-the-world.html

I refer you to the opening sentence on this post. Surely, that has to sum up the future Mrs Scott.
Good on her. And good on Craig for realising the dream. John Colby would be proud.

Postscript. Is there anyone reading this who hasn’t seen Escape To Victory? Please, do yourself a favour, go and watch it.

You’ll thank me. It’s likely to be the best hour and forty odd minutes of your life. Promise.

“You’ll not have seen our centre half then? He looks like he’s just come off a building site.” John, one of the merry band of the Hulcote Hatters, has seen it all before. Through all the years of supporting Luton Town, through thin and thinner, has it ever been this bad? Luton, through keeping true to their philosophy of playing passing football find themselves still playing in the Conference. Recent managerial appointments have seen them slowly, and unsuccessfully, lurch away from this style in order to achieve their goal.
Formerly the Arsenal of the Abyss, as the fans chants cling on defiantly to their past successes with no immediate prospect of their fortunes being reversed, the Hatters sit firmly now as the Liverpool of the Lower Leagues. Yes, it’s a pretty rotten job supporting Luton these days.

6,108 tragics piled into the Theatre of Broken Dreams on this chilly, grey afternoon for the visit of league leaders, Kidderminster Harriers. Same shit, different day is maybe an motto they could translate into Latin and sew on to the club shirts underneath the badge. Kasabian’s Club Foot and the thirty seconds of sunshine is probably going to be the highlight of the afternoon for me and the rest of the home faithful, and the match hasn’t even started yet.
The gallows humour and self deprecating barbs have never been as comforting. Luton string three passes together and fashion an early opportunity within the first five minutes. “We’re all over ’em” roars Matt before breaking into a huge grin.

The aforementioned builder’s mate has to be seen to be believed. A fat, grey short bloke wearing five, it’s as if, as Julian suggested prior to the game, his opportunity in orange has come by way of first prize in a raffle. It turns out he is in fact captain for the day too. His name is Steve McNulty. And he is in no way fit enough, in every sense of the word, to wear the shirt synonymous with past Town greats Owen, Futcher and Foster.
This is evident in the twelfth minute when Harriers’ star player Anthony Malbon, easily rounds McNulty but sees his powerful shot well saved by Mark Tyler. From the resulting corner, Luton fail twice to clear and Josh Gowling puts the visitors ahead with a low drive that goes through a cluster of despairing Town players. Twenty minutes later, either side of two spurned chances by Scott Rendell, McNulty is in the thick of the action again, making a hash of possession before being bundled off the ball by Malbon. Amid the protests, the Kidderminster man homes in on the exposed Luton goal, rounding Tyler and doubling his team’s lead. McNulty makes way soon after, humiliatingly subbed on forty minutes. In the Kenilworth End we pondered this dramatic withdrawal. Was it tactical? Was McNulty injured? Was he hungry? Or did he have an early shift to get ready for the next morning a hundred or so miles away?

As Kidderminster celebrate, the home fans fume. Turning their vitriol on the referee, the new manager John Still and the shoddy bunch on the pitch in front of them.
The particularly inept right back Simon Ainge comes in for some particularly ripe abuse. Goalkeeper Tyler seems to get shorter every time I see him, as well as more hapless. Indeed, Luton are even second-best in the battle of the side partings. Kidderminster midfield schemer Danny’s U-Boat Captain easily out does Tyler’s matinee idol look. Pilkington class. Millwall loanee Jake Goodman, the other centre back looks awkward and far too brittle for basement football. Left-sided utility man Jake Howells, sadly, will never amount to anything and forward Jon Shaw is an apparition of the man who finished up as the division’s top scorer last season.

It doesn’t get better in the second half. It does get colder though. On fifty minutes, the referee breaks up Luton’s best move of the match, seamlessly positioning himself in the way of the ball as it makes its way towards the feet of one of our misfiring forwards. One of whom, the erstwhile FA Cup hero Rendell, is removed soon after. His replacement Andre Gray shows just why he’s so highly rated by Kenilworth Road regulars, neatly finishing from close range and setting up a nervy ten minutes for the away side. Alas, Gray’s goal is as good as it gets on another afternoon of negatives for the Hatters.

With the season already all but over, figuratively and literally, another season in the Conference beckons for Luton Town. If things really do have to get worse before they get better, this afternoon is possibly a very good example of this lazy expression. All the talk of Kenilworth Road is about building for next season now.
Andre Gray must be retained. John Still must be given a year to show what he can do. In recent signings Scott Griffiths and Solomon Taiwo there are two reasons for optimism, both look a little short of fitness currently but there are promising signs.

Damn that hope. Damn it.

A busy car park at the start of another chilly day at Heathrow. An early morning after a long, long night flight. The bad tempers and bullying of the drivers of the jostling cabs and too important by half executive carriages did nothing for the sense of mind. Loading our bags into the back of the taxi my friend turned to me and said; “Have you heard about Jesse Ryder? He’s in hospital. Badly beaten up outside a nightclub. He’s in a coma in a critical condition.” The news hit me like the icy morning air after five months in the sun.

Jesse Ryder. Beloved of New Zealand cricket fans on account of his precocious ability with the bat. A once-in-a-generation type player who can turn cricket matches on their head as a result of his brilliance. Ryder will never go on to score the hatful of runs of heroes of previous Kiwi cricketing favourites like Glenn Turner or Martin Crowe but, nonetheless, he is a cult hero to this generation.

Ryder is a hero with a darker edge. The darkness of which, probably we’ll never really know or, even less, understand. Thursday’s sickening attack on him hints at, as NZ Prime Minister John Key says, something quite sinister. Perhaps now is the time to stop laughing off the Falstaffian accompaniments to Ryder’s life, the drunkenness, the list of other indiscretions and, for the sake of cricket and for the sake of Jesse too, get him properly rehabilitated.

The fact is, we love our heroes like this. As I read the news of Ryder’s latest difficulties my gaze was drawn to an article on the same web page about footballer Robin Friday, a legend to all who saw him play. The original man who didn’t give a flying one. A life tragically cut short at the relatively tender age of 38, Friday’s genius on the pitch was overshadowed by his life away from the game. Jesse Ryder is 28 and for a man of his unquestioned ability hasn’t, and even more pointedly, is unlikely to, achieve what he should’ve done in cricket.

If the right support isn’t in place for Ryder, there is every chance he might meet the same fate as befell Friday. Films, video clips, t-shirts and records dedicated to him long after his death. Great for fans of tomorrow’s nostalgia and those seeking a paladin for the self-destructive rebel but of scant use to the man himself or his family and friends.

New Zealand cricket, no, world cricket needs Jesse Ryder. Speaking to Kiwi cricket fans at various points over the last month or so, Ryder is held in great esteem there. His inclusion in the Black Caps line up could have spelt even more trouble for England in the recently completed Test Series because there are few like him on the global stage with the powers to take a game away as quickly and as ruthlessly from the opposition as Jesse Ryder. The upcoming Indian Premier League will be a poorer place for his absence too.

Reports this morning feature heartening news on Ryder’s condition. It is expected he will make a recovery. The recuperation process begins now. And it is up to Cricket New Zealand to get properly behind one of its heroes as cricket fans, local and worldwide, undoubtedly will.

Get well soon Jesse.

Ian Bell. Ian Ronald Bell. I spoke at length with one of Her Majesty’s press men with regards to your lack of testicles in big game situations about a month or so. Having seen your stoicism on the last day at Nagpur three months ago and having witnessed something equally heroic yesterday I must concede, happily, I was wrong.

You, sir, are a man of testicles the size of elephants’ and ones made of steel too. If I ever criticise you again in public I will undertake a heinous forfeit as a result of my treachery. Your series-saving innings was quite wonderful. The patience and resolve mixed in with the trademark class in your five hour, 75 run stand was of the highest order.

If I’m ever lucky enough to become a father, had you stayed there until the end, I would have named my first born after you. As it is, that honour instead befalls another hero of Eden Park.

Matthew James Prior. The world’s best, an inspiration. Yesterday’s unbeaten 102 is one of the best innings I’ve ever seen. Your arms-aloft celebration as you turned to the dressing room having blocked the last ball will stay with me for ever. Thank you, sincerely. I am naming my first child after you.

Even if it is a girl.

Drinks were taken early on Day Four of the deciding Test Match. At lunchtime in fact.
Kevin from the Beige Brigade, sensing my growing sulkiness at England’s impending defeat, thought it wold be a good idea to take me away from the nightmare that was unfolding before my eyes.
The Kingslander on New North Road, a ‘Two Metre Peter’ lofted smash away from Eden Park. Other Englishmen were in there, similarly counting their chickens and drowning their sorrows. More New Zealand runs. It didn’t get any better. Moodiness abounded. Late in the afternoon Kevin pipes up, ‘jeez, look, it’s Wayne Anderson.’ My response was a blank look of incredulity. ‘You know, Wayne Anderson? The Singer Of Songs. Aw, he was in New Zealand Pop Idol six years ago.’

“Wayne, Wayne, how’s it going Wayne? Can you give us a song?”

A fat, bald man with long greying hair in a jade shirt opened just above the navel revealing a plastic cross and strands of grey hair wearing black Sta-Prest trousers and battered old trainers looked over his bulky black sunglasses and began to murder It’s Not Unusual.
“That’s enough mate, thank you” shouted Kevin. Wayne looked crestfallen. Even more crestfallen than he appeared a minute or two earlier. “Err, I normally get paid for these things” he said, sadly.
I gave him twenty cents. He seemed genuinely delighted before sloping away to catch the bus home.

On the television, England continued to labour. Then worse. Kevin could see me entering the depths of despair. Putting his own feelings aside, with his team closing in on a series victory, he acted magnanimously. “Is Wayne still there? Get him back. Tell him we’ll buy him a drink, I don’t like seeing you this unhappy.”
I bounded up to the bus stop. “Wayne, sir, come with me, can we have a few moments of your time? We’ll get you a drink.” Our man perked up and escorted me back towards the Kingslander. The obliging bar staff, aware of this unscheduled brush with fame, greeted him like a conquering hero. Wayne held court for a while before heading over to our table.

An audience with reality TV personality Wayne Anderson, for the price of a whisky and soda that I hadn’t paid for. I normally hate anything to do with reality television but England were getting properly gubbed and I just couldn’t face it anymore. I swallowed my pride and momentarily forgot my snobbishness. With the cricket an absolute mess I decided to indulge a man I normally wouldn’t have given the time of day for. Like Michael Parkinson quizzing Tony Bennett, I was deferential in the extreme. At strategic intervals he burst into song. Avenues and Alleyways and Love Me Tender were similarly butchered through warble and wail before he returned to my questioning.
“I only hang out with artistic types and people who get me”, Wayne went on. “You get me”. He said, those sullen eyes peering out from behind his shades. “You understand.”

I think I understand. Wayne, bless him, is an unloved by-product of the horrible cult of celebrity. A sad, deluded soul who clings on to a fading dream. As I continued to indulge him for the amusement of my fellow drinkers I helped further destroy him through spoon feeding him morsels of hope for half an hour. Knowing what I was doing was wrong, I began to wind it down. He ended our chat by telling me his top five singers, Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdink, John Rolls, Tony Christie and, I forget the other one. It was probably him.

All that was left was for me to accompany him in a duet of Roy Orbison’s Crying. I couldn’t work out which of us was KD Lang.

Then Kevin and the rest of the group’s heckling got louder before he resignedly ceased singing and plodded off on his sorry way. I couldn’t decide for whom my heart bled more, England’s hapless cricketers or this flacid, washed up tragic figure before me.

As one of my musical heroes memorably sang: Fame, fame, fatal fame. It can play hideous tricks on the brain.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k7jZsGyk7gs

Wayne Anderson. The Singer of Songs. In happier times.