July 2008 Archives

During my twice-daily walk from Warrillow Towers to Tamworth railway station, I pass a large roadside hoarding. For the last fortnight, it's been advertising Sky Sports, who are attempting to attract subscribers with the line 'Five Epic Series'.
It points out that Sky have the exclusive rights to the Ashes, the Ryder Cup, British Lions rugby union and football's Premier League over the next few months, as well as the lion's share of the Champions' League for the forthcoming football season.

Regular readers will be aware that The Birmingham Post is moving home in a few weeks, from Colmore Circus in the city centre where we have lived since the early-1960s, to our smart new headquarters at Fort Dunlop.
Wearing one of my other hats, the implications of that move have been taking up large parts of my life for several months but it has fallen to others to start getting out the skips and cardboard boxes in preparation for the move.
To that end, we've regularly been receiving emails from She Who Must Be Obeyed, asking that we start clearing out cupboards and cabinets, emptying shelves and throwing away stuff we don't need or want.

It's that time of year again. Wimbledon is over, the rain continues unabated and the strawberries rot on the plant in the downpour. Ah the British summer.

Except, of course, the twice weekly two-hour long heat waves that miraculously appear between 7-9pm every Tuesday and Thursday when most over-weight, unfit rugby enthusiasts are embroiled in what is widely known as pre-season training.

It should really be called pre-season draining for there is no other way to describe the sensations associated with the unwelcome return to physical exercise. My personal favourite is the giddy feeling associated with rising vomit and overheating heads that feel as though they are going to explode. The puke usually wins.

Amidst all this widespread misery, however, there are a few individuals who have never been happier. They are the suppressed sadists, frustrated personal trainers and wannabe sergeant majors of the world or - as they are otherwise known, the conditioning coaches.

Like most self respecting torturers they spend a considerable amount of time devising their strategies. They begin with a starting point of effect - 'Make the buggers sick' - and construct the cause around it. Here are my five of my least favourite pre-season routines.

I can't claim to have met all the mal-adjusted psychopaths in the sport so perhaps you'd like to add your own.

Sir Richard Branson, or more likely his acolytes in the West Midlands who surely read The Post, should probably look away now.
I've mentioned previously that this exalted position occasionally gets me into sporting events for free.
Wimbledon is not one of them. The Post gets one prized seat in the All-England Club press centre and I'd far prefer that it goes to one of our hard-working reporters.

There's been so little going on lately it has been difficult to find much to write about, so apologies for my lack of waffling over the last week or so.

Seb Larsson and James McFadden continue to be talked about in connection with transfers elsewhere, which would pretty much complete the sale of all of our best players (as I'm assuming that Kapo will be on his way in the near future).

So much for the Board's protestations that they would be keeping the team together. Cynical? Moi?