Tuesday, 2 October 2012

Orgies, Bin Laden and Lazarus...you'll see.

The last time I made a blog post, Andy Murray appeared to be doomed to failure in all Grand Slam finals, the Olympics hadn't happened yet, and if someone asked me to "Gangnam style", I would think I was being invited to some crazy orgy.

A lot has changed; I have graduated from university, finished a position at Total Football Magazine and have taken a new position elsewhere, making the big bucks (travel expenses) like an actual journalist, not some spotty, itchy twenty-something desperately seeking an employer with more money than sense. Since I stopped blogging, we in Britain have witnessed a truly remarkable summer of sport, and I take a lot of responsibility for that. So, with the sporting drama of the next few months guaranteed to be as dry as a Panda in a convent, I will return with my shining wit (or an anagram of it), for your entertainment. You know, until I get bored and stop again.

Anyway, my last blog was about Andy Murray's heartbreaking Wimbledon final loss. As I predicted, the naysayers and "haters" quickly resumed liking the "Scot" when he became a "Brit" again at this Summer's Olympics, where he not just beat Roger Federer, but inflicted a defeat more embarrassing than Steve Kean doing a press conference...naked. Oh, Steve Kean has been sacked? My God, it has been a while.

I will return to Andy Murray later, but I think the Olympics needs to be discussed beforehand. Last time I wrote here, Britain was about to be swamped by 791 million foreign spectators, and our tube systems would be more cramped and over-worked than Wayne Rooney at a nursing home. Our security would be so bad that Osama Bin Laden would actually come back from the dead, travel to Stratford, win a few gold medals, give the Queen a wedgie and then destroy the Olympic Park.

As it happened, we were treated to a truly remarkable Games. I still have no idea what the opening ceremony was about, but it was a truly spectacular display of what it means to be British, without the political-correctness, whining and bad food. When the flags came out, I was overwhelmed by how many countries actually wanted to send people to East London, but that's what the Games are all about, triumph over adversity*. After Wiggins, Hoy and co blew us away on their bikes, there came an evening so dramatic and so triumphant that the whole nation collectively squealed in orgasmic delight. And not just because everyone seems to have a crush on Jessica Ennis.

* - sorry cockneys, please don't hurt me.

The first Saturday of the Games included a 45 minute period where Britain won three gold medals...in athletics. Not on bikes or on boats, but actually running and stuff. From then on, something magical happened. We started being nice to each other. Train and tube journeys would be accompanied by smiles, manners and conversations. Of course, we have since regressed into our old selves, where any attempt to talk to a stranger on the train is met by either a glare or prayers that one won't get stabbed. Ahhh London.

I was lucky enough to watch the Beach Volleyball at Horse Guards Parade, but to those of you thinking I'm a jammy sod, half of the time was spent up in the Gods, in the middle of a storm, looking at big Latvian men diving around in the sand, playing with balls. Not so lucky now am I?

I told you I would get back to Andy Murray. After his Olympic triumph, Murray took New York by storm, displaying determination, ruthlessness and throaty roars not seen since Godzilla in the 1998 movie...Godzilla.
Once again, as soon as people got a feeling Murray could win, their attitudes began to change towards him. A fifth Grand Slam Final followed and a meeting with Novak Djokovic would test whether Murray really had grown stronger mentally. After winning two titanic sets, it appeared the 76 year wait for a British male Grand Slam winner would be continue for no more than an hour. Murray, sensing I now had a job to get up for early the next morning, decided to screw with my mind and lose the next two sets. However, he hung on to take a victory which was never in doubt. My Facebook statuses - accompanied by constant swearing and anti-Scottish sentiment - were just a joke.

What else happened? Oh yeah, the Formula One hasn't been too bad. Fernando Alonso, being Dick Dastardly himself, managed to take a huge lead in the World Championship almost without anyone noticing, until Lewis Hamilton and Sebastian Vettel said "hang on a minute,what the hell?" Victories in Hungary and Italy helped Lewis close the gap on the Spaniard, before a gearbox more brittle than Michael Owen's hamstrings gave way in Singapore, allowing Vettel to take advantage.

Hamilton has since moved to Mercedes, a transfer shocking for one simple reason: it proved Eddie Jordan right. Have I really been gone so long that Eddie Jordan is now some kind of bright shirt-wearing, goatee-sporting, future-predicting genius? Or did he just get the two teams mixed up, like the time he called Paul McCartney "George"? I'm sure I will address this issue in my upcoming blog about the Japanese Grand Prix, where I will make grovelling apologies to my Formula One readers, who are a dedicated bunch and strange for the simple fact that they find me funny. The move doesn't make much sense to me, but then Lewis earns slightly more than me, so he can do what he wants.

The football has started again, but nothing has really happened there, except that Mark Hughes is still rubbish, Manchester United's midfield is still awful and we still don't know if John Terry is a racist. More football blogs will of course follow, but this summer's epicness, combined with Rio Ferdinand's ineptitude, has left me with a sense of apathy towards what is still my favourite sport.

Finally, I have even started to like golf. Last Sunday's Ryder Cup win for Europe was so dramatic and emotional, I ended up bouncing around, on my bed, in my boxers at eleven o'clock at night, something which probably caused local dog-walkers to wonder who I was enjoying my Sunday night with. Europe's comeback was so good, I will now refer to Lazarus' little story as a comeback of 'Lazabal* proportions.

* - sorry.

A shit pun in relation to a momentous comeback. It's always nice when blog posts come around full circle. I apologise for being away so long, but I'm sure you found the strength to live without my irrelevant musings about sport, the one thing that distracts from just how shit life can really be.

I look forward to annoying you all again this weekend. Toodles.

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