This Sporting Life.....
So, there we are on the platform at Nice waiting for a train. We (Eldest, Youngest a mate and me) are off to Monaco to the European Super Cup between Shaktar Donesk and Barcelona. The previous evening's excesses are beginning to fade and the sun is shining. As the train pulls in the crowd starts to mill towards the doors creating a bit of a crush. The doors slide open and we all start to clamber aboard. Once all four of us had got on we stood in the crowded carriage and started to chat. At that point some French guy heads towards the door of the train he's just got on, pushing through exclaiming "excuse moi, je suis désolé".. He pushes the door back just before it fully closes and gets off. We look at each other, shrug our shoulders and the train sets off.
Then a bizarre event occurs. All of a sudden a French man stood a few feet away shouts my name out. Forename, middle name and surname. I was stood there dumbstruck. How the hell did this foreign stranger know my full name? Why was he shouting? What had I done?
I indicated that the name he had bellowed was mine and he handed me my passport which he had picked up off the floor. My passport had been in a zipped up pocket in my shorts so how on earth had it ended up on the deck? Seconds later an American guy in the same carriage shouts out that his passport has gone then his wife yelps that hers has too.
The Americans got off at the next stop while we breathed sighs of relief. Apart from anything else we needed my passport to pick up the tickets that awaited us at the stade Louis II and we weren't the only ones. Practically everybody attending the game had to pick up tickets and provide some form of ID. Rich pickings for passport pick pockets on overcrowded trains.
The rest of the day was spent constantly checking our pockets.
Once we had the tickets we relaxed a little and settled outside a small restaurant where we ordered quatre bières. Then the truly bad news: "Je regrette pas d'alcool."
Merde!
It turns out that the authorities had imposed a blanket on sales of alcohol throughout the vicinity. Nous avons été dévastés!! But then the proprieter glanced around for lurking gendarmes before tapping his nose and disappearing into his premises. He soon reappears and places four empty non-alcoholic beer bottles on our table and goes back inside. A few minutes later he comes out with four half litres of lager. Result, well....apart from the price: 8 euros for a beer.
Later we took in the entertainment in the various bays of Monaco before finding another establishment prepared to flaunt the rules. Some food and a few more beers later we headed off to the match.
It was strange being fenced in. Just like the 70s and 80s. It was strange seeing the flares being set off with no sanction. It was a crap match, played on a crap pitch with just the one goal - which we missed because the game had gone to extra time and we had a train to catch.
Saturday we flew back home and on Sunday we set off for Old Trafford and Engalnd v Australia Twenty20. We all met up at Sinclairs Oyster Bar in the centre of Manchester and got a taxi to the ground.
It's no wonder Old Trafford has lost it's Test venue status, they couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery. 40 minutes to queue for the bar. The same number of Gents toilets as Ladies and seats that would be hard pressed to fit a\ toddler on nevermind a
Whereas in years gone by you could pretty much turn up at any gate and amble round the ground to your seat, this time we were told we could only get in via the gate printed on the ticket as the barcodes could only be read from the correct device. It sounded and still sounds like bullshit to me but we had to walk a hell of a way around the surrounding office blocks and car parks to a gate on exactly the opposite side of the ground from where we were.
After Austarlia's healthy innings England were soon 4 for 2 after one and a bit overs. Then the heavens opened and the match was abandoned. Two days later the next meeting was abandoned too - without a ball being bowled as the much heralded new drainage system failed to deal with the Mancunian climate.
Not an experience I'll be repeating in the near future that's for certain.
The next day was better. A memorial Twenty20 game at my local cricket club in honour of a stalwart who had died at the tragically young age of 51.
The local Manchester City Supporter's Club provided a team to play a team of members and waifs and strays from the pub with all proceeds going to charity.
Stumps at 2:00pm, the coin toss and the members, waifs and strays decide to bat. 77 all out. It was an easy target that the City team soon got to with a couple of wickets in hand. It was just as well as the rain set in soon after the end so it was under the awnings and gazebos for potato pie, chilli and and lots of other good stuff.
It was a lovely way to spend a bank holiday and, after the presentation of the trophy we sank a few beers and watched the rain soak the wicket through the open doors of the clubhouse.
Beat that Old Trafford.
I'm getting a bit fed up with this never-ending barbecue summer aren't you. I can hardly see, what with the sweat flowing freely down my brow. Shirt stuck to my back. Constant glare from a searing sun and the all-pervading aroma of UV protection liberally applied.
We are told that weather forecasting is not an exact science but in this summer's case it's not even been a not-quite-an-exact-science it's been a completely and utterly inexact science. I fail to see how a prediction can be so buttock-clenchingly embarrassingly wrong. I mean it's one thing to forecast dry, sunny weather and have a few clouds spoiling the day but we've had weeks of the heavy, scudding type emptying their payloads on us as we attempt to light the barby. Last weekend when we were in Nice, the BBC website alerted us to the fact that for the duration of our stay it would be raining. In fact they promised us 'heavy showers' Thursday and Friday with a brief return of sunshine on Saturday.
There wasn't a cloud in the sky all the time we were there. 30+ degrees every day. I've come back with a tan that would have David Dickinson green with envy. How is it possible to get this so monumentally wrong?
You don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows.........
Dearest and I fly to Skiathos on Friday - a Greek island I've never been to. In fact it's a Greek island I've never given much thought too until Dearest suddenly decided it was the place to be. I thought nothing of it until I was asked by a colleage which island we were going to. "Ah Skiathos" she replied, "that's where they filmed Mamma Mia." So, mystery solved, we're taking a chance on Skiathos. Two weeks of slobbery in the sun with a pile of books and an iPod full of tunes.
Apart from the more recent novels I have also deceded to re-read Cold Comfort Farm and I felt it was time I read some 'classics' that everyone has heard of but I've never read. So for this trip it will be Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K Jerome.
Has anyone got any other suggestions? Classics I mean. Nothing too heavy, Ulysses certainly won't be in my kit bag and my days with Dostoyevsky are definitely over. So, feel free.........
Monaco
Monaco
Nice
Twenty20
Twenty20
Twenty20
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