View from the Bridge: 61
by John Morrison
Contents
Wow, what a summer of sport we have in prospect. We can anticipate a plethora of great
sporting moments... Cricketers making off with celebratory stumps (yeah, what a fascinating
collection they're
going to make...). Tennis players grunting like the soundtrack of a low-budget porno
movie. Formula 1 drivers standing on the podium and spraying each other (drink
that champagne, you over-paid tossers...).
Soon we'll be pulling back the covers at Wimbledon; with its strawberries, cream and
smug narcissism it's like the last outpost of Empire. No-one is allowed to forget,
for an instant, that holding a grass-court tournament is something we do rather well.
So expect the commentators to ask only leading questions: "What is
it about Wimbledon, exactly, that makes it the most wonderful tennis tournament in
the known universe, hmm?". And everyone, bless 'em, understands that the best thing
is to humour our delusions. "Yes", they'll say, on cue, "there's nowhere quite like
Wimbledon...", in a tone of voice usually directed at a small child seeking praise for
a talentless finger-painting.
Then there's football. Love it or loathe it, there'll be no escaping it this summer.
Even our Town Drunk, recently abducted for his notional reproductive prowess by the
desperate denizens of planet Zob, is vaguely aware that the World Cup has finally
arrived.
It's one thing to be there in person, enjoying the sights, sounds and smells of football
in France: doing the hokey-cokey with fellow inebriates from around the globe. But
here in Milltown we are adopting the more traditional approach: staying home, stocking up with microwave pizzas and a few crates of lager, pulling the living-room curtains
tightly closed to keep the summer sunshine out, and enjoying blanket World Cup coverage
on TV. The baffling Gallic symbolism of the opening ceremony... Hours of pointless pre-match predictions... Endless post-match analysis, proving merely that hindsight
is indeed 20:20 vision... And, oh yes, a few undistinguished football matches squeezed
in between...
Despite the much-publicised problems, the England players are beginning the campaign
in good heart. Even Glen Hoddle's back-room staff will be having a friendly game:
the psychics against the faith healers. The psychics have put both their footballing
prowess and their professional abilities on the line by forecasting a five-nil win...
Some things can
be predicted with confidence. England will lose the first game - abjectly - and get
slagged off in the tabloid press. Glen Hoddle will be compared, unfavourably, to
a root vegetable. The team will band together in adversity, refuse to talk to the
press, and rediscover a bit of form. England will get a scrambled win and a lucky draw, to
scrape through the first round. The nation's expectations will rise, unreasonably,
fuelled by tabloid speculation that England can - indeed will
- win the World Cup. England will lose - pluckily, but inevitably - to Germany, on
penalties. The country will continue to be racked by regrets and recriminations until
the time comes to qualify for the next
World Cup. That's the way we like it; failure is what we know best.
There are other certainties too. While many of the big-name players will fail to live
up to expectations, the tournament will throw up a new crop of football stars, who
will be able to add a couple of noughts to their next transfer fee. John Motson will
have trouble telling the black players apart. Our hooligans will follow in the footsteps
of their great-grandfathers, by laying waste to foreign lands in the name of Queen
and Country. Without prejudice - happy to engage in hand-to-hand combat with people
of every colour, race and creed. And, yes, someone will fail a random drug test.
The drugs issue asks more questions than it answers. Like: if drugs really
help competitive performance, then why wasn't Timothy Leary a sporting colossus?
British athletes aren't just crap at sport, they're crap at taking drugs too. Whenever
you hear that some plucky British runner is "still in twelfth place, trying to get
past the Lithuanian", you can bet your boots he'll test positive for drugs. It's humiliating.
What's wrong with us? If we are
taking drugs, then why aren't we taking them properly
?
There's talk - maybe it's just idle chatter at this stage - about abandoning drugs-testing
altogether. Let's face it: anyone who suggests that sport and drugs don't mix has
never smoked a joint and watched synchronised swimming. Perhaps we could be more
pragmatic and run 'drug-free' and 'drug-enabled' competitions side by side. At present
we merely seem to be penalising those who manage their steroid intake badly, and
rewarding those who do it well.
Let's pause for a moment to remember an unsung casualty of performance-enhancing drugs.
Tamara Press, a burly female Russian shot-putter, who was arrested in Carnaby Street
in 1967 for stealing a jock-strap. She may have won medals thirty years ago, but
a lifetime of Soviet-endorsed steroid abuse has left the athlete beaten and broken:
a sadder and wiser man.
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