Greetings, gentle readers.
It's the last day of July, and the 100th anniversary of the founding of the Canadian Navy. What does this mean? It's time to examine history, since I have rarely had time to examine current events as they unfold around me.
The enormous volume of column inches, blog pages, and café serviettes that have been dedicated to the inglorious demise of the English national team since Allemagne/Germany/Deutschland ran roughshod over them enters the realm of the legendary.
Sighing as I do so, I will toss my tuppence into the matter.
What Went Wrong
England went out. According to 170 years of tradition, England should routinely have the Jules Rimet/World Cup handed to them as a matter of course. Every four years, the English press nail the declaration of supremacy to the mast, and hold up the players of the day to be the heirs of Nelson, and every year, quarter-final progession is met with mild disdain, and elimination is met with outright contempt. Failure is never acceptable. Yet fail they did.
The Evidence
Those that recorded the England-Germany game, or those with PVRs, or those with some sort of internet access that accommodates replays upon demand may want to try and follow along with my memories at this point. I might be a bit foggy on some bits. Those with the ability to replay these: please correct me if I'm wrong.
Goal 1 - Miroslav Klose scores. Chipped ball over the middle. The two English centre-backs are all at sea. Matthew Upson is closer than Terry, but can't do any more than try to half-heartedly foul the German. He fails, and Klose is past England's rear-guard to stab a ball in past a David James that originally left his line, stopped, then started back-pedalling. No communication between keeper and defenders.
Goal 2 - Özil picks out Klose, who tags Müller, who finds Lucas Podolski, who effortlessly slots away the ball. In exactly the way Podolski ought to have done a half-dozen times against Serbia in order to avoid this match.
Goals 3 and 4 - England commit too many men forward when they know that the ball has two outcomes - goal, or loss of possession. Neither Upson nor Terry has the speed to outrun a dyspeptic slug, and the dynamic Özil and Müller duo rip England apart. Johnson and "Scarlet Letter" Cole are the only English players that can even stay in the same time zone as the Germans. Their tackling back looks as foolish as it is futile.
More when more time becomes available... including my evaluation of how England can improve.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
30 June 2010
25 June 2010
World Cup Update
Greetings, gentle readers.
So last night's footy was interesting. First, the Italians went down 2-0 to Slovakia, only for a frenzied finish to wind it up with the Slovakians on the winning side of a heated affair, 3-2. World champions Italy have now been bounced out of the first round of the World Cup for the first time in 36 years. Good riddance, I says. They started with their doddering old guard, and changed gears to their untested new blood too late in the tournament. They were conservative even in their use of conservatism. This also means that Martin Skrtel is still a going concern, keeping Liverpool participation healthy.
Simultaneously, the Super-Kiwis or All-Whites of New Zealand battled to a nil-nil draw against Paraguay, meaning that they finish the group phase undefeated, but without enough points to progress. Regardless, this was the greatest World Cup result that that nation has ever accomplished. How did they manage this? I put it down to three factors: first, they left it all on the field. This means that after every game, there was nothing left in reserve; nothing in the tank. All of them ran their guts out and threw themselves into every tackle, from captain Ryan Nelsen to athletic but talentless sub Chris Wood. Second, Mark Paston was superb as a shot-stopper. Not the best at dealing with crosses or smothering rebounds, but his reflex saves were nothing short of astonishingly miraculous. He would have been made to look foolish a number of times had reason number one not also been contributing — his defence was rugged and mobile, and the long, counter-attacking ball always made the opposition's midfield hedge their bets on going forward. Third, there was the "oh, what the hell, nobody expects anything from us, so let's just try some schoolboy sh*t" factor. Behind-the-back volley flick passes, chest-trap-side-foot-volleys, half-rainbow forward flicks, all sorts of nonsense that you never see at international level... New Zealand pulled out all the stops, and more than once left superstars like Fabio Cannavaro blinking and scratching their heads. If your coaching staff prepares you for a pack of turtling muppets, and they suddenly triple give-and-go around you with knee volleys, you've got to rethink your strategy. Sure, 50% of the time, the fancy-dan crap didn't work at all, but again, what did the Kiwis have to lose? They rolled the dice and helped bring down the world champions. Well done to them and coach Ricki Herbert.
Then, my father, aunt, and I toodled off to The Boardwalk, which is like a permanent fairground, complete with rides, arcades, casino, and amphitheatre. After some indecision, I walked into a Greek restaurant and waited for everyone else to either join me or go somewhere else. Either way, I was going to get some food and watch the Denmark-Japan match. The marinated steak with feta and saffron rice was lovely, though I was a bit disappointed by the results of the game.
Japan scored two pin-point accurate direct free-kicks, and despite Jon-Dahl Tomasson getting a penalty consolation, the Japanese comfortably ran out 3-1 winners. Daniel Agger became Liverpool's second World Cup casualty, after the elimination of Greece terminated Sotirios Kyrgiakos' run in the world championships.
As the Danes meekly bowed out, the Dutch barely broke a sweat as they swatted aside already-eliminated Cameroon. The Netherlands take Liverpool's offensive midfielder Durk Kuyt with them into the round of 16. Samuel Eto'o ended his World Cup campaign much as he began it... marked out of the play and marginalized from possession. At least he managed a penalty in this final match, a minor victory in an otherwise dismaying series of performances. African commentators on SABC had many assessments, frequently punctuated by sighs.
Today's matches feature North Korea facing off against Côte d'Ivoire in what should be a meaningless match. Because of Portugal's earlier 7-0 triumph over the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, the Ivorians can only progress if they run up the score against the world's last hold-out Stalinists, and Brazil kicks merry hell out of the Portuguese. Essentially, this means that there will only be one African representative in the last 16.
Spain, contrary to the expectations of many pundits, has yet to confirm qualification for the next round. The Swiss managed to derail what most expected to be a thunderous and monotonous charge to the semi-finals. Former Liverpool winger Mark Gonzalez (born in Durban, South Africa), then defeated the Swiss with his goal as a second-half substitute, leaving a very muddled crystal ball for most prognosticators.
The Swiss have already won the award for the most linguistically adept, with Philippe Senderos answering press questions in six different languages at his last conference. I despise the Hondurans, so I hope the Swiss stuff them. The Swiss aren't an offensive juggernaut by any stretch of the imagination, so I'm probably looking at a 1-0 win, all things being equal.
Spain were supposed to win this group at a trot, and now face group leaders Chile. The neat thing about this group is that a team with six points could conceivably fail to reach the next round. If it happens, I'm fairly sure that it would be the first time ever. One scenario that would see that eventuality realized would be for Spain and Switzerland to win their games 2-0. The pair of them would go through, and Chile would stumble out after winning both opening matches. I reckon Switzerland misses out by one goal-for, so let's call Spain to win 2-0.
As for Portugal v. Brazil, I reckon that this is the anti-colonial games, so despite the fact that the throne of Portugal was relocated to Brazil for a while, which makes for a confused colonialist argument, I reckon Brazil does them no favours. 3-1 seems like an appropriate score to me. North Korea will run about like Billy Whiz and the White Tornadoes on crack, meth, gunpowder, PCP, and cajun tarantula jelly. The match should be fun as all dickens, as the last bastion of purist, post-Trotskyite communism makes a last stand. That being said, I call Côte d'Ivoire to salvage some pride by knocking two past them. I reckon the Red Robots of Pyongyang get one by playing on the Ivorian tendency to lose a bit of dicipline in the face of adversity. 2-1 Ivory Coast.
Just as a point of interest, a lot of the womenfolk 'round these parts have been pronouncing the Français bits as "Coat Deev Wow" most likely in reference to the abnormally large and well-defined pectoral muscles of the whole squad.
Comfortably ensconced in Cape St. Francis at the moment... lunch is on the braai, the beach is 100 yards away, the tide is coming in, and the surf is amazing, so I'm off to eat, splash around for a bit, and take some more snaps.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
So last night's footy was interesting. First, the Italians went down 2-0 to Slovakia, only for a frenzied finish to wind it up with the Slovakians on the winning side of a heated affair, 3-2. World champions Italy have now been bounced out of the first round of the World Cup for the first time in 36 years. Good riddance, I says. They started with their doddering old guard, and changed gears to their untested new blood too late in the tournament. They were conservative even in their use of conservatism. This also means that Martin Skrtel is still a going concern, keeping Liverpool participation healthy.
Simultaneously, the Super-Kiwis or All-Whites of New Zealand battled to a nil-nil draw against Paraguay, meaning that they finish the group phase undefeated, but without enough points to progress. Regardless, this was the greatest World Cup result that that nation has ever accomplished. How did they manage this? I put it down to three factors: first, they left it all on the field. This means that after every game, there was nothing left in reserve; nothing in the tank. All of them ran their guts out and threw themselves into every tackle, from captain Ryan Nelsen to athletic but talentless sub Chris Wood. Second, Mark Paston was superb as a shot-stopper. Not the best at dealing with crosses or smothering rebounds, but his reflex saves were nothing short of astonishingly miraculous. He would have been made to look foolish a number of times had reason number one not also been contributing — his defence was rugged and mobile, and the long, counter-attacking ball always made the opposition's midfield hedge their bets on going forward. Third, there was the "oh, what the hell, nobody expects anything from us, so let's just try some schoolboy sh*t" factor. Behind-the-back volley flick passes, chest-trap-side-foot-volleys, half-rainbow forward flicks, all sorts of nonsense that you never see at international level... New Zealand pulled out all the stops, and more than once left superstars like Fabio Cannavaro blinking and scratching their heads. If your coaching staff prepares you for a pack of turtling muppets, and they suddenly triple give-and-go around you with knee volleys, you've got to rethink your strategy. Sure, 50% of the time, the fancy-dan crap didn't work at all, but again, what did the Kiwis have to lose? They rolled the dice and helped bring down the world champions. Well done to them and coach Ricki Herbert.
Then, my father, aunt, and I toodled off to The Boardwalk, which is like a permanent fairground, complete with rides, arcades, casino, and amphitheatre. After some indecision, I walked into a Greek restaurant and waited for everyone else to either join me or go somewhere else. Either way, I was going to get some food and watch the Denmark-Japan match. The marinated steak with feta and saffron rice was lovely, though I was a bit disappointed by the results of the game.
Japan scored two pin-point accurate direct free-kicks, and despite Jon-Dahl Tomasson getting a penalty consolation, the Japanese comfortably ran out 3-1 winners. Daniel Agger became Liverpool's second World Cup casualty, after the elimination of Greece terminated Sotirios Kyrgiakos' run in the world championships.
As the Danes meekly bowed out, the Dutch barely broke a sweat as they swatted aside already-eliminated Cameroon. The Netherlands take Liverpool's offensive midfielder Durk Kuyt with them into the round of 16. Samuel Eto'o ended his World Cup campaign much as he began it... marked out of the play and marginalized from possession. At least he managed a penalty in this final match, a minor victory in an otherwise dismaying series of performances. African commentators on SABC had many assessments, frequently punctuated by sighs.
Today's matches feature North Korea facing off against Côte d'Ivoire in what should be a meaningless match. Because of Portugal's earlier 7-0 triumph over the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, the Ivorians can only progress if they run up the score against the world's last hold-out Stalinists, and Brazil kicks merry hell out of the Portuguese. Essentially, this means that there will only be one African representative in the last 16.
Spain, contrary to the expectations of many pundits, has yet to confirm qualification for the next round. The Swiss managed to derail what most expected to be a thunderous and monotonous charge to the semi-finals. Former Liverpool winger Mark Gonzalez (born in Durban, South Africa), then defeated the Swiss with his goal as a second-half substitute, leaving a very muddled crystal ball for most prognosticators.
The Swiss have already won the award for the most linguistically adept, with Philippe Senderos answering press questions in six different languages at his last conference. I despise the Hondurans, so I hope the Swiss stuff them. The Swiss aren't an offensive juggernaut by any stretch of the imagination, so I'm probably looking at a 1-0 win, all things being equal.
Spain were supposed to win this group at a trot, and now face group leaders Chile. The neat thing about this group is that a team with six points could conceivably fail to reach the next round. If it happens, I'm fairly sure that it would be the first time ever. One scenario that would see that eventuality realized would be for Spain and Switzerland to win their games 2-0. The pair of them would go through, and Chile would stumble out after winning both opening matches. I reckon Switzerland misses out by one goal-for, so let's call Spain to win 2-0.
As for Portugal v. Brazil, I reckon that this is the anti-colonial games, so despite the fact that the throne of Portugal was relocated to Brazil for a while, which makes for a confused colonialist argument, I reckon Brazil does them no favours. 3-1 seems like an appropriate score to me. North Korea will run about like Billy Whiz and the White Tornadoes on crack, meth, gunpowder, PCP, and cajun tarantula jelly. The match should be fun as all dickens, as the last bastion of purist, post-Trotskyite communism makes a last stand. That being said, I call Côte d'Ivoire to salvage some pride by knocking two past them. I reckon the Red Robots of Pyongyang get one by playing on the Ivorian tendency to lose a bit of dicipline in the face of adversity. 2-1 Ivory Coast.
Just as a point of interest, a lot of the womenfolk 'round these parts have been pronouncing the Français bits as "Coat Deev Wow" most likely in reference to the abnormally large and well-defined pectoral muscles of the whole squad.
Comfortably ensconced in Cape St. Francis at the moment... lunch is on the braai, the beach is 100 yards away, the tide is coming in, and the surf is amazing, so I'm off to eat, splash around for a bit, and take some more snaps.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
24 June 2010
Wild Africa
Well, after making a small trek to the interior and driving through one of the many national wildlife reserve parks, I now have a collection of photos of all sorts of African herbivores. And possibly more than one creature that does not reside in the basement of the food pyramid.
Despite the numerous signs, warnings, and pamplets that sternly forbid leaving your vehicle, dangling limbs outside of your vehicle, rolling your window down too far, or evacuating too much flatulence within park limits because of the number of flesh-rending monsters within the park, the most violent thing on evidence was probably a family of warthogs. Lions, tigers, cheetahs, leopards, panthers, crocodiles, etc. were all probably napping in the unusually warm midday sun in some shadowy glade somewhere, or playing canasta in a cave. In any event, they were nowhere to be seen. We did come within arm's length of an elephant, however.
Terribly nice old fella that was just walking past us to go hang out with his kids at a nearby water hole.
The amazing countryside and vegetation goes a long way toward explaining Tolkien's maps of Middle Earth. As a kid, I always wondered why there were so many bends and twists and turns in Frodo's path toward Mordor. South Africa is a perfect explanation. A straight line in any direction is interrupted by rivers, plunging chasms, sheer rock faces, swampy fens, or ridiculously thick and machete-proof brush-forest. The magnitude of the Great Trek as an accomplishment should not be underestimated in the context of these sorts of geographic features.
In any event, we finished our wanderings in the bush just in time to come running back and watch the Italy v. Slovakia and New Zealand v. Paraguay matches. Still hoping for the Super Kiwis to upset some apple carts.
The amazing countryside and vegetation goes a long way toward explaining Tolkien's maps of Middle Earth. As a kid, I always wondered why there were so many bends and twists and turns in Frodo's path toward Mordor. South Africa is a perfect explanation. A straight line in any direction is interrupted by rivers, plunging chasms, sheer rock faces, swampy fens, or ridiculously thick and machete-proof brush-forest. The magnitude of the Great Trek as an accomplishment should not be underestimated in the context of these sorts of geographic features.
In any event, we finished our wanderings in the bush just in time to come running back and watch the Italy v. Slovakia and New Zealand v. Paraguay matches. Still hoping for the Super Kiwis to upset some apple carts.
Aside from the past that I reckon Mark Paston and Kelly Lipke were twins separated at birth, I have no further comment other than to say that I'll try to post some kind of summary afterwards, and before the Danes and the Dutch try and sort out how Group E moves on to the next round.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
22 June 2010
More Footy.
Greetings, gentle readers.
I thought that I might be able to settle down for a week, now that I've got the England game this afternoon and the Uruguay - South Korea match on Saturday. Plane is booked for Cape Town on Monday. Should be a sedentary week, you'd think. Not so. The plan now is to watch the England match and then get up early the next morning in a blind panic in order to follow some of my family's childhood school friends as they go down to a little beach resort near Cape St. Francis (an hour and a half drive west) then stay with them until we have to drive back in a blind panic for Saturday's game. Nothing can ever be relaxing or mellow on this trip, apparently. No time for loafing around and wasting time. Not on HOLIDAY, no sir.
Meanwhile, where was I in terms of the Round of 16? Group C - I've gotta look at a thorough American win, and a slightly tighter English win.
If I were to peg it down to numbers, I've gotta like Bob and Mike Bradley's squad to turn all of that anger and frustration at blatant injustice and vent it all over Algeria. Any ref that interferes with that plan will do so knowing that he will spend the remainder of his officiating career on the Ross ice shelf, adjudicating penguin intramural games. Call it 2-0 with only two minutes of time added on at the end - the shortest stoppage time amount of the tournament.
I think John Terry has taken the fall for a lot of tensions and miscommunications. As a result of his sacrifice, the team and the coach can move on to the next stage of their team-building without anyone else, like, say, Fabio Capello or captain Steven Gerrard, losing face. To mix sports metaphors, I reckon Terry leaned into the strike zone and took one for the team, taking all of the media pressure off Wayne Rooney, Gerrard, and Capello, and letting them do their jobs while he's crucified in the press. After the Wayne Bridge thing, his name is mud anyway, so why not give it all for the sake of the team? I reckon England come out, guns blazing, snag a quick opening goal, poach another late in the first half, and then cough up a catch-up goal around the 58th minute. Some nail-biting toward the end, but I reckon they take it 2-1.
Meanwhile, Ghana take on Germany as Australia battle Serbia. I reckon the Aussie game will have a maximum of two goals scored. Good news for Australia - Tim Cahill is back. I reckon the Aussies are good for a set-play goal from a corner. If Serbia's performance against Germany is anything by which to go, I reckon Serbia take the lead and try to sit on it, Australia get the late equalizer. 1-1 draw.
Germany are just as bitter and steamed as the Americans, but they're just a little less vocal about it. Instead of implying that the refereeing is done by a pack of ignorant, biased monkeys who are too incompetent to cheat using subtly corrupt methods, Joachim Löw just stated that the team will get better before adding very quietly that they will do so whilst winning the game against Ghana. Not exactly bombastic Mark Messier-style stuff, but an understated guarantee nonetheless. No Miroslav Klöse (suspended), but Poldo has something to prove, and we haven't seen Schweinsteiger and Ozil really try to light it up yet. Schweinsteiger seems to think that he should be replacing Ballack, so he's been sitting deeper and trying to coordinate plays instead of just wading in and launching some strikes. I reckon Lahm will encourage him to get his elbows a little dirtier in an effort to create some offence, and will join up in some link play himself on the break. I reckon Germany get a goal from distance, one on the break, and one from swift interplay in the high corner of the offensive 18-yard box. I don't think Ghana can summon more than a goal, but Asamoah Gyan has shown himself to be a game opportunist, so he might poach a first-half goal that amounts to little more than a consolation. Germany 3 - 1 Ghana.
In other parts of the news, I missed photo opportunities with two different monkeys and a nightjar. To be honest, I'd never actually seen a nightjar before, only heard them in Malawi. In an attempt to get some sort of wildlife photography in here, I'll fire in a picture of the two house dogs. If they weren't quite so rowdy, I'd be tempted to pull them in the house and use them for furry sources of warmth late at night.
Erm.. Oh, and at the England game, I'll be sitting in the twelfth row behind the corner flag to the lower left of the main televised pitch area. I'll be wearing a St. George's floppy jester hat, if anyone is looking.
Well, it's bedtime for me, and until I rise, good night England and the colonies.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
I thought that I might be able to settle down for a week, now that I've got the England game this afternoon and the Uruguay - South Korea match on Saturday. Plane is booked for Cape Town on Monday. Should be a sedentary week, you'd think. Not so. The plan now is to watch the England match and then get up early the next morning in a blind panic in order to follow some of my family's childhood school friends as they go down to a little beach resort near Cape St. Francis (an hour and a half drive west) then stay with them until we have to drive back in a blind panic for Saturday's game. Nothing can ever be relaxing or mellow on this trip, apparently. No time for loafing around and wasting time. Not on HOLIDAY, no sir.
Meanwhile, where was I in terms of the Round of 16? Group C - I've gotta look at a thorough American win, and a slightly tighter English win.
If I were to peg it down to numbers, I've gotta like Bob and Mike Bradley's squad to turn all of that anger and frustration at blatant injustice and vent it all over Algeria. Any ref that interferes with that plan will do so knowing that he will spend the remainder of his officiating career on the Ross ice shelf, adjudicating penguin intramural games. Call it 2-0 with only two minutes of time added on at the end - the shortest stoppage time amount of the tournament.
I think John Terry has taken the fall for a lot of tensions and miscommunications. As a result of his sacrifice, the team and the coach can move on to the next stage of their team-building without anyone else, like, say, Fabio Capello or captain Steven Gerrard, losing face. To mix sports metaphors, I reckon Terry leaned into the strike zone and took one for the team, taking all of the media pressure off Wayne Rooney, Gerrard, and Capello, and letting them do their jobs while he's crucified in the press. After the Wayne Bridge thing, his name is mud anyway, so why not give it all for the sake of the team? I reckon England come out, guns blazing, snag a quick opening goal, poach another late in the first half, and then cough up a catch-up goal around the 58th minute. Some nail-biting toward the end, but I reckon they take it 2-1.
Meanwhile, Ghana take on Germany as Australia battle Serbia. I reckon the Aussie game will have a maximum of two goals scored. Good news for Australia - Tim Cahill is back. I reckon the Aussies are good for a set-play goal from a corner. If Serbia's performance against Germany is anything by which to go, I reckon Serbia take the lead and try to sit on it, Australia get the late equalizer. 1-1 draw.
Germany are just as bitter and steamed as the Americans, but they're just a little less vocal about it. Instead of implying that the refereeing is done by a pack of ignorant, biased monkeys who are too incompetent to cheat using subtly corrupt methods, Joachim Löw just stated that the team will get better before adding very quietly that they will do so whilst winning the game against Ghana. Not exactly bombastic Mark Messier-style stuff, but an understated guarantee nonetheless. No Miroslav Klöse (suspended), but Poldo has something to prove, and we haven't seen Schweinsteiger and Ozil really try to light it up yet. Schweinsteiger seems to think that he should be replacing Ballack, so he's been sitting deeper and trying to coordinate plays instead of just wading in and launching some strikes. I reckon Lahm will encourage him to get his elbows a little dirtier in an effort to create some offence, and will join up in some link play himself on the break. I reckon Germany get a goal from distance, one on the break, and one from swift interplay in the high corner of the offensive 18-yard box. I don't think Ghana can summon more than a goal, but Asamoah Gyan has shown himself to be a game opportunist, so he might poach a first-half goal that amounts to little more than a consolation. Germany 3 - 1 Ghana.
In other parts of the news, I missed photo opportunities with two different monkeys and a nightjar. To be honest, I'd never actually seen a nightjar before, only heard them in Malawi. In an attempt to get some sort of wildlife photography in here, I'll fire in a picture of the two house dogs. If they weren't quite so rowdy, I'd be tempted to pull them in the house and use them for furry sources of warmth late at night.
Erm.. Oh, and at the England game, I'll be sitting in the twelfth row behind the corner flag to the lower left of the main televised pitch area. I'll be wearing a St. George's floppy jester hat, if anyone is looking.
Well, it's bedtime for me, and until I rise, good night England and the colonies.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
Final Round of the Group Phase
Greetings, gentle readers.
Trying desperately to write this in the midst of a tea party and much nostalgic review of the past half-century, so I'll try and stick to the footy. Starting today, and running until the weekend, it's overdose time. Four matches per day, in two pairs. Each pair of matches must be played simultaneously in order to ostensibly preclude any sort of match-fixing collusion-type-thing.
The fact that we're down to the last two matches of each of the eight groups means that there are some certainties even before the first ball is kicked, and it might be interesting to examine how those certainties change the probabilities of the outcomes yet to be determined.
For starters, France play South Africa, and Mexico play Uruguay. A draw between Mexico and Uruguay sends both teams through, and anything that France or South Africa might do would be completely moot. IF - the match is not a draw, the winning side between MEX and URU goes through. The loser can be caught on points by the winning team between FRA and RSA, but then goal differential comes in, and both France and South Africa need a grotesque number of goals to overcome the potential difference. In other words, if Uruguay and Mexico do not draw (by a large margin), and South Africa or France win (by a large margin), then second-place is still up for grabs.
Having giving South Africa and France a thin, mathematical glimmer of hope, the French cause could generally be considered to be submarined by in-fighting. Unless there's some sort of elaborate world-wide deception, the French camp has been observed to implode as at least one member of staff has resigned, and the FFF has kicked Nicolas Anelka off the team and sent him back to France. Thierry Henry has already slagged off Raymond Domenech, and the team has gone on strike and refused to train.
Basically, if the press are to be believed, France will meltdown in the most spectacular way, and Bafana Bafana are absolutely desperate to slurp up any advantage. In South Africa, this sounds too damned good to be true. Prior to the tournament, I was reading about team members that refused to pass to Sidney Govou or Yohan Gourcuff in qualifying because they disapproved of the team selection process. The recent events are a logical extension of those schisms, but will that translate into a performance on the pitch?
Next up is Group B, where Argentina plays Greece and Nigeria takes on South Korea. Argentina are definitely through, and Nigeria is definitely out. So... South Korea is playing a dead duck that has only pride at stake, and Greece are playing one of the in-form teams in the tournament. Maradona has said that he will do Greece no favours, and will mercilessly dismantle them if he can. Nigeria has self-destructed up and down the street, and their disciplinary record has handicapped them significantly, even if they want to play spoilers. The odds look good for the Koreans to pip the Greeks and take second place.
Tomorrow, groups C and D will conclude their group phase. Slovenia leads the group, but really, both the Americans and the English should go through. They're both on two points, but the quiet revolution in the England camp should shake up Capello's squad enough to thrash the Slovenians, and the blatant cheating to rob the Americans in their game against the Slovenians should give them the officiating nod against the Algerians.
Must run. The remaining Groups will be evaluated at next opportunity.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
Back in Port Elizabeth
Greetings, gentle readers.
Well, it was with heavy heart and operational appendages that we left East London, and took the coastal road to get back to Port Elizabeth, with my Aunt Jennie in tow. Jennie is ACTUALLY my aunt, not some strange sort of "second-cousin, thrice removed" thing. The plan now is to watch the England match, try and get a ticket to the quarter-final match (which we don't have yet), buy a plane ticket to Cape Town right after the quarter-final, and then scramble for a semi-final ticket in Cape Town. I've got the phone number for a ticket tout on the Cape, and I hear rumours that the legendary Mike Telford will be in town, so I may try tapping him up for tickets, though he's most likely out of my price range.
As for the Chile-Switzerland game last night, there were some good bits (I was sitting near the corner flag on the lower-right side of the screen, as the main cameras point... 25 rows up), but I'm really getting disgusted with the officiating. Switzerland's red card came in the corner of the field nearest to me, and when the whistle went, I thought it was for a Chilean foul. Wow, was I wrong. I don't know what sort of non-contact directives FIFA gave to the officials, but if the overall objective is to make this a game that avoids all contact in an effort to sell it to paranoid parents of accident-prone toddlers, then they're doing a great job.
As it stands, the team that can best sell the referee on the idea that a shoulder to chest contact has caused them to have a rip-snorting cerebral haemhorrage is the one that tends to win. Chile egregiously faked one bombastic simulation, and the ref seemed very disappointed in himself that he gave Chile the resulting free kick after the wounded party immediately sprang to his feet, did a jig to all 84 verses of the Chilean national anthem, and then hammered the free kick, screaming "Viva Pinochet!" Unfortunately, the ref's diappointment lasted about ten minutes, and then every time a Chilean flung himself to the turf with a tortured scream and an accompanying quintuple barrel-roll, the baffled Swiss were given more cards and fouls.
Ah well,I had fun taking pictures of the helicopters, something that students of the Pinochet régime should find very familiar. If the vuvuzelas hadn't been droning, I probably would have started singing about political dissidents being dropped in the Pacific.
In any event, today marks the beginning of the four-matches a day pace. Starting with Bafana Bafana taking on a bizarrely-fractured France. I'll try and get in a blog before that happens, but right now, I've got to dash into the shower and run off to get some brekkie.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
As for the Chile-Switzerland game last night, there were some good bits (I was sitting near the corner flag on the lower-right side of the screen, as the main cameras point... 25 rows up), but I'm really getting disgusted with the officiating. Switzerland's red card came in the corner of the field nearest to me, and when the whistle went, I thought it was for a Chilean foul. Wow, was I wrong. I don't know what sort of non-contact directives FIFA gave to the officials, but if the overall objective is to make this a game that avoids all contact in an effort to sell it to paranoid parents of accident-prone toddlers, then they're doing a great job.
In any event, today marks the beginning of the four-matches a day pace. Starting with Bafana Bafana taking on a bizarrely-fractured France. I'll try and get in a blog before that happens, but right now, I've got to dash into the shower and run off to get some brekkie.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
20 June 2010
Rules of the Road
Greetings, gentle readers.
First of all, big props to the New Zealand All-Whites, the non-dairy creamer in this year's World Cup™ coffee. After drawing both Slovakia and Italy and scoring in both matches, the Super Kiwis have set up a scenario where any one of the four teams in what was widely assessed to be the easiest and most straightforward group can quite conceivably progress to the next round. The drama is palpable. Now to see if Côte d'Ivoire can continue the trend of ridiculous upsets and turn over Brazil's apple cart.
Meanwhile, a few words about driving a vehicle in South Africa. The gutless little Toyota that we hired has a weird digital system of gauges and meters. The fuel gauge, for example, has two different digital things next to the little petrol-pump icon and the letters "E" and"F." One is a stack of 9 identical rectangles. Next to that is a vertical bar with a little horizontal tab attached to it. We were driving out of Port Elizabeth when we noticed that the number of bricks was full, but the little vertical thingy was at about three-quarters of the way to the top. We'd had the car for two days, and hadn't really kept track of how much fuel we'd used. We ended up filling up at Grahamstown, just in case. Turns out that we'd used slightly more than a litre. I reckon we'd driven almost a hundred kilometres at that point, so while the vehicle may be thoroughly gutless, it apparently is as efficient as all-git-out.
Other fun facts about motoring in South Africa involve communication. Most of the communication between vehicles is done using the indicator lights. A vehicle that wants you to pass them will glide onto the shoulder and hit its right indicators briefly. Once you have overtaken the vehicle, it is good manners to hit your four-way hazard flashes briefly to say thank you. Waves and other forms of manual gesticulation are also suggested, but the conventions are generally to use illuminatory means.
Went back to visit my grandparents' old shop/home on French Street. The tree that my father planted when he was fourteen years old has now dwarfed all of the other trees on the street. The area that used to be the store is now predominantly being used for storage, except for the front room, which is now being used by an automobile accident investigator (mva.investigators@yahoo.co.uk) named Nic, who is a terribly nice and affable fellow. He's a former police officer with some very interesting analyses of the justice system in South Africa, and its evolution over the past 20 years.
In any event, we then paid a visit to the last local regular customer from my grandparents' day — the only resident of the area that used to regularly get all of her groceries from the Chan Bros. store. Her name is Mrs. Miles, and she's 91 years young. She used to teach at a school for the mentally handicapped, and is now living in the same house that she's inhabited for almost a century with her daughter.
The neighbourhood has changed significantly since the days when my father was just a boy... milk and bread deliveries in the morning can't just be left at kerbside for pickup any more. Gone are the days with constant police van presence on the streets, and so too has a whole way of living, and a system of conduct that was at once safe, and yet morally immature. I talked with a couple of the local lads, and was pleasantly surprised. One is working as a quantity surveyor, though his greasy, baggy pants and unkempt beard makes him look like he's been guzzling Woolite down at the rubbish tip.
It's great to see South Africa evolving into a completely plural society. If one really concentrates, one can see the increasing number of mixed marriages, racially ambiguous children, decreased barriers and tension between south asians, orientals, arabic, caucasian, black, and other ostensibly individual and definitive groups. I think that the two pictures that I took down by the East Beach pretty much sum up the future of this fantastic country.
In any event, I have to be up screamingly early again in the morning so that we can dash back to P.E. and catch the Swiss v. the Chileans.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
First of all, big props to the New Zealand All-Whites, the non-dairy creamer in this year's World Cup™ coffee. After drawing both Slovakia and Italy and scoring in both matches, the Super Kiwis have set up a scenario where any one of the four teams in what was widely assessed to be the easiest and most straightforward group can quite conceivably progress to the next round. The drama is palpable. Now to see if Côte d'Ivoire can continue the trend of ridiculous upsets and turn over Brazil's apple cart.
Meanwhile, a few words about driving a vehicle in South Africa. The gutless little Toyota that we hired has a weird digital system of gauges and meters. The fuel gauge, for example, has two different digital things next to the little petrol-pump icon and the letters "E" and"F." One is a stack of 9 identical rectangles. Next to that is a vertical bar with a little horizontal tab attached to it. We were driving out of Port Elizabeth when we noticed that the number of bricks was full, but the little vertical thingy was at about three-quarters of the way to the top. We'd had the car for two days, and hadn't really kept track of how much fuel we'd used. We ended up filling up at Grahamstown, just in case. Turns out that we'd used slightly more than a litre. I reckon we'd driven almost a hundred kilometres at that point, so while the vehicle may be thoroughly gutless, it apparently is as efficient as all-git-out.
Other fun facts about motoring in South Africa involve communication. Most of the communication between vehicles is done using the indicator lights. A vehicle that wants you to pass them will glide onto the shoulder and hit its right indicators briefly. Once you have overtaken the vehicle, it is good manners to hit your four-way hazard flashes briefly to say thank you. Waves and other forms of manual gesticulation are also suggested, but the conventions are generally to use illuminatory means.
The neighbourhood has changed significantly since the days when my father was just a boy... milk and bread deliveries in the morning can't just be left at kerbside for pickup any more. Gone are the days with constant police van presence on the streets, and so too has a whole way of living, and a system of conduct that was at once safe, and yet morally immature. I talked with a couple of the local lads, and was pleasantly surprised. One is working as a quantity surveyor, though his greasy, baggy pants and unkempt beard makes him look like he's been guzzling Woolite down at the rubbish tip.
In any event, I have to be up screamingly early again in the morning so that we can dash back to P.E. and catch the Swiss v. the Chileans.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
19 June 2010
Latest Developments
Hey there, hi there, ho there Gentle Readers.
I've been trying valiantly to upload pictures from the two digital cameras. Thus far, I've got all of the photos hitherto taken loaded onto the netbook. The problem now appears to be getting them up to the albums on Facebook. Once that's accomplished, I can use some of the pictures as starting points for new blog articles. How exciting.
Driving out to see my grand-uncle was interesting. Apparently, the little enclave abutting a golf course in which he lives renumbered all of the internal townhouses since the last time my aunt went to visit, so we had a bit of a tough time navigating to it. He had some wonderful stories and insights, and we finally left around a quarter past five in the evening, and the sun was plummeting toward the horizon. This led to a lengthy drive toward "Surfer's Beach," complete with reverie and nostalgia galore.
On we drove, past hotels that stand upon what once were campgrounds, supermarkets that were fields, and resorts that were post offices. Eventually, as dusk was reaching its final death throes, we got to the beach, and I snapped some shots of cresting ocean waves in the fading light.
Then it was time for some weird Zen-like descriptions of invisible things in the darkness. The one patch of inky blackness was a place where people hung out at night near the other blotch of lightless void. And somewhere beyond the all-obscuring ebon veil over there is another distinct lack of illumination that indicates the new place that couldn't be seen forty years ago either, but that's because it didn't exist back then.
Meanwhile, Australia was busy drawing 1-1 with Ghana, and going 2-2 in terms of collecting a red card in every game, although to be fair, if Harry Kewell didn't get sent off, he would have found a way to crock himself medically before the close of the game.
Later in the evening, the second team was mathematically eliminated from the World Cup. Strangely enough, both teams are African. So much for home-continent advantage. Nigeria and Cameroon can do nothing except play spoilers to the teams that are still jostling for qualification. Interesting also that FIFA chose today to release a report detailing all of the various programs that they've established to prevent and investigate match-fixing by betting cartels worldwide. Considering the number of astronomically unlikely results coupled with bizarre and thoroughly mystifying refereeing decisions, one has to wonder if the Beautiful Game has itself become a pawn in a larger series of skillful manipulations. As Lucas Podolski famously said, "Football is like chess, only without the dice."
On that note, I'm headed for bed, and I'll see what sort of joy tomorrow brings. At least East London is nice and warm.
Cheerio all,
—mARKUS
I've been trying valiantly to upload pictures from the two digital cameras. Thus far, I've got all of the photos hitherto taken loaded onto the netbook. The problem now appears to be getting them up to the albums on Facebook. Once that's accomplished, I can use some of the pictures as starting points for new blog articles. How exciting.
Driving out to see my grand-uncle was interesting. Apparently, the little enclave abutting a golf course in which he lives renumbered all of the internal townhouses since the last time my aunt went to visit, so we had a bit of a tough time navigating to it. He had some wonderful stories and insights, and we finally left around a quarter past five in the evening, and the sun was plummeting toward the horizon. This led to a lengthy drive toward "Surfer's Beach," complete with reverie and nostalgia galore.
On we drove, past hotels that stand upon what once were campgrounds, supermarkets that were fields, and resorts that were post offices. Eventually, as dusk was reaching its final death throes, we got to the beach, and I snapped some shots of cresting ocean waves in the fading light.
Then it was time for some weird Zen-like descriptions of invisible things in the darkness. The one patch of inky blackness was a place where people hung out at night near the other blotch of lightless void. And somewhere beyond the all-obscuring ebon veil over there is another distinct lack of illumination that indicates the new place that couldn't be seen forty years ago either, but that's because it didn't exist back then.
Meanwhile, Australia was busy drawing 1-1 with Ghana, and going 2-2 in terms of collecting a red card in every game, although to be fair, if Harry Kewell didn't get sent off, he would have found a way to crock himself medically before the close of the game.
Later in the evening, the second team was mathematically eliminated from the World Cup. Strangely enough, both teams are African. So much for home-continent advantage. Nigeria and Cameroon can do nothing except play spoilers to the teams that are still jostling for qualification. Interesting also that FIFA chose today to release a report detailing all of the various programs that they've established to prevent and investigate match-fixing by betting cartels worldwide. Considering the number of astronomically unlikely results coupled with bizarre and thoroughly mystifying refereeing decisions, one has to wonder if the Beautiful Game has itself become a pawn in a larger series of skillful manipulations. As Lucas Podolski famously said, "Football is like chess, only without the dice."
On that note, I'm headed for bed, and I'll see what sort of joy tomorrow brings. At least East London is nice and warm.
Cheerio all,
—mARKUS
East London at Last
Greetings Gentle Readers.
And so we reach East London at last. After all of the warnings and doom-sayings that I've heard from all and sundry, it's a lovely place. I really quite like it, and suddenly feel bad that I'm not spending more time here. I suppose that this is stage four of the security check on South Africa.
And so we reach East London at last. After all of the warnings and doom-sayings that I've heard from all and sundry, it's a lovely place. I really quite like it, and suddenly feel bad that I'm not spending more time here. I suppose that this is stage four of the security check on South Africa.
- Cape Town was safe as houses. Despite repeated warnings and cluckings of tongues about muggings, murders, rapes, insurance fraud, defenestrations, etc., I can happily walk down the street brandishing an iPhone in one hand and a digital camera in the other whilst wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with "I am a World Cup Tourist!" in neon yellow across the front and back with absolute impunity.
- Port Elizabeth is not Cape Town. That being said, it's such a happy, friendly place that it proved that Cape Town is not some sort of freaky exception. It's also relatively well-to-do, and very techno-savvy.
- King William's Town is not a World Cup Venue. If the theory goes that police are only guarding tourists in World Cup-hosting cities, then the fact that my father and I parked the car, wandered off for lunch and a bit of sightseeing, and came back without a hiccup should do that theory a disservice.
- East London is also not a World Cup Venue, and if King William's Town is exempt from crime because it's smaller, East London is a large, bustling city-port, and we're still driving about with our windows down and digital cameras displayed proudly.
Also interesting that I'm noticing the difference between Eastern and Western Cape folk. Hitchhikers on the Eastern Cape just show their thumbs. On the Western Cape, hitchhikers hold out 10 and 20 rand notes to show that they'll help pay for gas. Speech patterns vary as well. The Western Cape, in common with the western bits of North America, tends to be a bit more laid back in speech and behavioural patterns. The Eastern Cape tends to have more explosive intonations and inflections in spoken phrases and sentences. Also a fair bit more use of expletives.
As an example, my aunt Florrie insisted that uncle Joey would corrupt my father and me; we both tend to eschew the more colourful of invective language. Within a matter of days, my father began to get frustrated at the fact that the indicator lights on the hired vehicle are controlled by the right stem on the driving column, not the left. By the third time he'd turned on the windshield wipers instead of indicating a turn, "Ach, sh*t, man!" had become de rigueur for any such minor irritating scenarios.
Went and visited my grand-uncle, who turns 90 this year. A wondrous font of fantastic and bizarre tales, including the one that I shall relate with the substantiation of photographic evidence, as soon as I get around to uploading all of my photos from both digicams this evening. Speaking of which, I'll sign this particular missal off for now, and see if I can get around to making these tedious ramblings less arduous by dropping in some visual relief from my turgid prose. Back in a proverbial jiffy.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
To King William's Town
"I'm glad we took the road through Grahamstown," my father said. I looked at him curiously. "because I'm never coming here again."
This pretty much summed up the little town where my father went to Rhodes University. He grumbled and cursed as we drove through the little town with a small (er) cathedral at one end of the main street and the entrance into campus grounds at the other. The place seemed okay to me, even quaint. The church grounds and a couple of neighbouring streets were closed for a national arts' fair and accompanying food fair. Would have been a nice spot to stop and grab some food and look at sculpture and paintings and stuff. No dice. Not only were we on a tight schedule to get to East London, but everything about the place rankled my father. The onrush of memories caused some serious grumpiness.
Apparently, my father hated the town so much that he would hitchhike back to East London every weekend so that he could work at my grandfather's shop. He would rather have worked for free than to spend any extra seconds in Grahamstown. Apparently my sister wanted to show my niece and nephew the old country when they are old enough, but my father reckons on opting out of that adventure. Hmm. Wonder who will have to bear the responsibility of being the tour guide on that trip, if that's the case?
Have shot a pack of snaps, but I'll wait until we're out of the car in East London before I start uploading them. A lot of this stuff should hopefully make more sense with graphic illustrations.
Saw a warthog and an aardvark, but got no pictures, so don't hold your breath.
When we get back to Port Elizabeth, I'll also grab some snaps of the vicious and nasty canines that guard aunt Helen's place. Julie can help me pick out the exact breeding of these monsters.
Until later. Cheers,
—mARKUS
This pretty much summed up the little town where my father went to Rhodes University. He grumbled and cursed as we drove through the little town with a small (er) cathedral at one end of the main street and the entrance into campus grounds at the other. The place seemed okay to me, even quaint. The church grounds and a couple of neighbouring streets were closed for a national arts' fair and accompanying food fair. Would have been a nice spot to stop and grab some food and look at sculpture and paintings and stuff. No dice. Not only were we on a tight schedule to get to East London, but everything about the place rankled my father. The onrush of memories caused some serious grumpiness.
Apparently, my father hated the town so much that he would hitchhike back to East London every weekend so that he could work at my grandfather's shop. He would rather have worked for free than to spend any extra seconds in Grahamstown. Apparently my sister wanted to show my niece and nephew the old country when they are old enough, but my father reckons on opting out of that adventure. Hmm. Wonder who will have to bear the responsibility of being the tour guide on that trip, if that's the case?
Have shot a pack of snaps, but I'll wait until we're out of the car in East London before I start uploading them. A lot of this stuff should hopefully make more sense with graphic illustrations.
Saw a warthog and an aardvark, but got no pictures, so don't hold your breath.
When we get back to Port Elizabeth, I'll also grab some snaps of the vicious and nasty canines that guard aunt Helen's place. Julie can help me pick out the exact breeding of these monsters.
Until later. Cheers,
—mARKUS
Grahamstown
Having left Port Elizabeth, we decided to ignore the advice of our relatives and take the inland road through Grahamstown and King Williamstown en route to East London of the coastal road that goes through Port Alfred. Leaving P.E., we noticed the most enormous wind turbine. It was next to a large power station with towers that must have been at least three stories tall. Next to the towers, the turbine stood at least ten times that height, making it almost as tall, if not taller than Manulife Place. Alternative energy sources taken to the logical extreme.
The inland road is lovely. After passing Bluewater Bay and some of the salt flats in the P.E. area, we find ourselves in rolling green hills and valleys, with the occasional outcropping of rock through which the road slices, exposing cross-sections of Africa most imprudently. A fair amount of road construction, but otherwise the thoroughfare is very passable. Loads of complaints from my father about the “gutless” Toyota Corolla 1.4 litre that we’ve hired. Complaints justified by the first steep hill that we hit. We drop from sixth gear to fourth, but even with the pedal to the metal in fourth, our speed drops from 120 km/h to 80. The poor thing huff and puffs up the 15° slope until we csan crawl over the crest of the hill, having been overtaken by three other vehicles.
Numerous game reserves and safari parks along the way. Also notice ostrich farms and waist-height anthills by the side of the road. African sky just as I remember it: somehow larger than skies elsewhere.
And as though watching three footy games a day was not enough to do with the remainder of the visiting and kibbitzing and eating and the like, we’re headed to East London just in time for the big Rugby game on the international schedule. South Africa just finished giving France a good hiding in Cape Town (a good omen for the last game of the group phase of the World Cup?) and are now set to play some other team, the identity of which eludes me.
We’ll stop in Grahamstown for a bit of brekkie (had to leave tea half-finished on the kitchen counter again), and then we’ll drive past my father’s old university, and then on to King Williamstown, where I’ll try and spot the places where my uncle used to play the football pools with Steve Biko and his pals.
No footy until early in the afternoon, and I hope to be in front of the telly with the laundry going at my aunt Jenny’s by then. Here’s hoping that I can blog more frequently, now that I’ve got my happy netbook. I’ve already burnt through more than a hundred rand on 3G airtime, and hopefully, the Word For Blogger add-in will allow me to be more conservative in my time spent online.
Cheers for now,
—mARKUS
Four Eggs
Greetings, gentle readers.
In order to best demonstrate exactly how relaxing and pacific this "vacation" has been, an d in order to illustrate why I have less than eight minutes to type this, let me tell you about four hard-boiled eggs.
My father boiled them on Wednesday morning. We got a call from my aunt Nolene before we could eat them. Two cups of tea, a glass of Tang, and four hard-boiled eggs sat in the kitchen for 24 hours, until Thursday morning, when we rushed out the door to meet my Uncle Joey, who was driving us to do some shopping.
24 hours later, we had to sprint out of the door so that aunt Florrie could drive with us to the Park and Ride to get to the game. I managed to microwave one cup of tea and drink it. The Tang had a fly in it and had to be thrown out. The eggs remained uneaten. My father's tea went in the sink.
This morning, we'rein a screaming rush to get on the road in our hired car so that we can drive to Port Alfred, and then take the coastal road to East London, stay for two days, then drive back like mad things on Monday morning so that we can Park and Ride for the afternoon game here in Port Elizabeth at 1600h. The distance from Port Elizabeth to East London is approximately that of Edmonton to Calgary. As the crow flies. In reality, the road curves like a sumbitch all up and down the coast.
No rest for the wicked.
Good to see that Mike Telford is coming to South Africa for the quarter-finals, but I doubt I'd be able to match his ticket asking prices. Still trying to decide if we should try for tickets to the quarters in P.E. or in Cape Town. Seeing the game in Cape Town would mean slightly less hustle and bustle, and an extended stay in one place for over a week (gasp!). On the other hand, watching a game in Port Elizabeth would most likely be cheaper, easier to obtain, and in a more familiar game environment. Have until tomorrow to decide.
Agree with Kropfreiter that the referreeing nin the past few games has been shocking. Absolutely shocking. I can only theorize that the officials are so aggravated by the vuvuzelas that they want to vent as much ichor on the world and everything in it as possible.
The offside call against the U.S. was a crap call in an otherwise half-decently reffed game. The German game was atrocious. I've never seen anything like that. I don't know what you people saw on television, but from where I sat in the stands, any time a German, a Serbian, and the ball were found in the same hectare of land, there was:
In order to best demonstrate exactly how relaxing and pacific this "vacation" has been, an d in order to illustrate why I have less than eight minutes to type this, let me tell you about four hard-boiled eggs.
My father boiled them on Wednesday morning. We got a call from my aunt Nolene before we could eat them. Two cups of tea, a glass of Tang, and four hard-boiled eggs sat in the kitchen for 24 hours, until Thursday morning, when we rushed out the door to meet my Uncle Joey, who was driving us to do some shopping.
24 hours later, we had to sprint out of the door so that aunt Florrie could drive with us to the Park and Ride to get to the game. I managed to microwave one cup of tea and drink it. The Tang had a fly in it and had to be thrown out. The eggs remained uneaten. My father's tea went in the sink.
This morning, we'rein a screaming rush to get on the road in our hired car so that we can drive to Port Alfred, and then take the coastal road to East London, stay for two days, then drive back like mad things on Monday morning so that we can Park and Ride for the afternoon game here in Port Elizabeth at 1600h. The distance from Port Elizabeth to East London is approximately that of Edmonton to Calgary. As the crow flies. In reality, the road curves like a sumbitch all up and down the coast.
No rest for the wicked.
Good to see that Mike Telford is coming to South Africa for the quarter-finals, but I doubt I'd be able to match his ticket asking prices. Still trying to decide if we should try for tickets to the quarters in P.E. or in Cape Town. Seeing the game in Cape Town would mean slightly less hustle and bustle, and an extended stay in one place for over a week (gasp!). On the other hand, watching a game in Port Elizabeth would most likely be cheaper, easier to obtain, and in a more familiar game environment. Have until tomorrow to decide.
Agree with Kropfreiter that the referreeing nin the past few games has been shocking. Absolutely shocking. I can only theorize that the officials are so aggravated by the vuvuzelas that they want to vent as much ichor on the world and everything in it as possible.
The offside call against the U.S. was a crap call in an otherwise half-decently reffed game. The German game was atrocious. I've never seen anything like that. I don't know what you people saw on television, but from where I sat in the stands, any time a German, a Serbian, and the ball were found in the same hectare of land, there was:
- a free kick (usually against the Germans)
- a yellow card (usually against the Germans)
- advantage played (always against the Germans)
The ref spent half the game indicating advantage. The German players spent more time looking at the ref and trying to interpret what they'd done wrong this time, and less time looking at the ball or the Serbians. I'm surprised that the ref managed to make it through 93 minutes of having his arms extended in front of him without spraining something in his back. How to confuse and disrupt a young team in the World's biggest tournament, lesson one: Whistle down absolutely every incidental contact until they are so paranoid about going near the ball that their only recourse is to lob floating balls over the last defenders and hope that the linesman won't blow offside again. Oh wait, there he goes. OK, there are no plays to be made. What a joke. If ten-man Germany could still manage to struggle valiantly against fourteen man Serbia, I say congratulations. I just wish that a black African ref would have officiated a game. I would really love to see an African ref awarding kick after kick to the most virulently racist, ethnic-cleansing yobbos in the tournament. Leave it to the Spanish to fully get onside with the boorish intolerant bigots. They're good at that. Réal Madrid has a special place in the Bernebéu set aside for that lot. So congratulations to the incompetent, the intolerant, and the mediocre. You have won a tremendous triumph.
Must run. Back when I can.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
17 June 2010
First live game of the World Cup
Greetings gentle readers.
Well, after dozens of hours of travel, a thoroughly ruined biological sense of sleep-wake cycles, trials, tribulations, and living in an icebox for half a week, I`m finally getting ready for my first live match. Yeesh. After all of the sacrifices and expenses, we`ll finally see if this is worth it. Or see if it`s nothing but a vuvuzela festival that results in ear-splitting headaches and possible irreversible brain damage with a scoreless, meaningless, and dour footy match to add mediocrity to the occasion. Worst case scenario. Just bracing myself.
Saw the South Korea v. Argentina game in one of the big casinos along the strand in Happy Valley last night. That was interesting, if only because of the two tiers of fans. The bar-sports-lounge area is semi-circular, with another ring of horseshoe booths facing the large screen at the centre. One row above that is a long bar with stools. The Korean contingent sat in the booths, the Argentinians sat above them on bar stools. The loudest cries of the night came on the Korean goal, since the Koreans greatly outnumbered the Argentina fans, but one Argentina fan, loudly braying his support and waving his over-sized flag, seemed determined to rub their faces in the lopsided loss. I just thought it was ironic that the lad was wearing a Juan-Roman Riquélme jersey... one of the players that was unmercifully chopped from the squad by Maradona.
A bit of joy for South Korean fans, though, as Nigeria shot themselves in both proverbial feet, and managed to get a mittful of players suspended for the last group game. Korea should be able to handily make it past whatever makeshift outfit of patchwork players Nigeria can field, despite the fact that Nigeria has already been confirmed as the first team to go home. They`re out, they`re demoralized, and their ranks are decimated. South Korea looks as though they can still grab second as long as Argentina keep improving and smoke Greece.
Bought a new German kit, so my father and I should both be able to go to the game wearing the colours. Will try and snag an oversized flag along the way to the park-and-ride, but wish that I had a large marker so that I could write "Für Robert" on it. Interestingly enough, we got the tickets from my cousin Yvette, who had to pay about 40 rand for them. That`s a little less than six Canadian dollars. She fits into Category 4 - locals. Category 1 - rich Americans - have to pay over ten times as much for the same ticket. And fight over the internet for the lottery rights to do so. And then get plane tickets. If you see clusters of empty seats - a lot of them are the result of people entering for a lottery shot at a whack of tickets, and then either getting more than they need, or being unable to attend because they didn`t make their travel plans early enough. FIFA is really nasty about the resale of tickets. My father and I have to carry a letter from my cousin and a photocopy of her South African birth certificate in order to explain why her name is on our tickets.
The tickets for the round-of-sixteen game are about four to five times as expensive for all categories. Incidentally, I may have found a connection that can get us tickets to the semi-final game in Cape Town, so there may be more fun and excitement on the horizon. Just hoping that the Germans or the English are still afloat by that point. Bafana Bafana is hanging by the most ridiculous of threads. They have to play to goal-differential, hoping that Uruguay beats the living excrement out of Mexico, and that they cream France with the awesome power of righteousness normally associated with apocalypse mythology. There`s seven goals of differential, so it doesn`t really matter which game has the lopsided scoreline, or even if both do. If Uruguay wins 6-0 and South Africa wins 1-0, the net result is the same as Uruguay winning 2-0, and South Africa winning 5-0. As I said, the odds are hanging by a pretty ridiculously, perilously thin thread. Stranger things have happened, but usually only in host countries run my military juntas.
In any event, I hope I get the quotation right, but I trust that Gary Lineker`s explanation of footy holds true this afternoon:
"Football is a simple game where 22 men chase a ball for 90 minutes... and then the Germans win."
I should be back at my Uncle Joey`s place this afternoon after the game, so I should be able to resume my rambling without taxing my 3G USB modem too greatly. I have no idea how my account is billed on this thing, so I don`t know how much wireless access I can use before I need to recharge the thing.
Until then, Deutschland über alles, and all that. Would tell you where my seats are, but that would probably be meaningless. Probably in the nosebleeds somewhere. Weather looks to be reasonable today, so I shouldn`t freeze my tuckus off. Hoping to hit mid 20`s in terms of °C. Yum. May even defrost a little.
Until then, good night England and the colonies.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
Well, after dozens of hours of travel, a thoroughly ruined biological sense of sleep-wake cycles, trials, tribulations, and living in an icebox for half a week, I`m finally getting ready for my first live match. Yeesh. After all of the sacrifices and expenses, we`ll finally see if this is worth it. Or see if it`s nothing but a vuvuzela festival that results in ear-splitting headaches and possible irreversible brain damage with a scoreless, meaningless, and dour footy match to add mediocrity to the occasion. Worst case scenario. Just bracing myself.
Saw the South Korea v. Argentina game in one of the big casinos along the strand in Happy Valley last night. That was interesting, if only because of the two tiers of fans. The bar-sports-lounge area is semi-circular, with another ring of horseshoe booths facing the large screen at the centre. One row above that is a long bar with stools. The Korean contingent sat in the booths, the Argentinians sat above them on bar stools. The loudest cries of the night came on the Korean goal, since the Koreans greatly outnumbered the Argentina fans, but one Argentina fan, loudly braying his support and waving his over-sized flag, seemed determined to rub their faces in the lopsided loss. I just thought it was ironic that the lad was wearing a Juan-Roman Riquélme jersey... one of the players that was unmercifully chopped from the squad by Maradona.
A bit of joy for South Korean fans, though, as Nigeria shot themselves in both proverbial feet, and managed to get a mittful of players suspended for the last group game. Korea should be able to handily make it past whatever makeshift outfit of patchwork players Nigeria can field, despite the fact that Nigeria has already been confirmed as the first team to go home. They`re out, they`re demoralized, and their ranks are decimated. South Korea looks as though they can still grab second as long as Argentina keep improving and smoke Greece.
Bought a new German kit, so my father and I should both be able to go to the game wearing the colours. Will try and snag an oversized flag along the way to the park-and-ride, but wish that I had a large marker so that I could write "Für Robert" on it. Interestingly enough, we got the tickets from my cousin Yvette, who had to pay about 40 rand for them. That`s a little less than six Canadian dollars. She fits into Category 4 - locals. Category 1 - rich Americans - have to pay over ten times as much for the same ticket. And fight over the internet for the lottery rights to do so. And then get plane tickets. If you see clusters of empty seats - a lot of them are the result of people entering for a lottery shot at a whack of tickets, and then either getting more than they need, or being unable to attend because they didn`t make their travel plans early enough. FIFA is really nasty about the resale of tickets. My father and I have to carry a letter from my cousin and a photocopy of her South African birth certificate in order to explain why her name is on our tickets.
The tickets for the round-of-sixteen game are about four to five times as expensive for all categories. Incidentally, I may have found a connection that can get us tickets to the semi-final game in Cape Town, so there may be more fun and excitement on the horizon. Just hoping that the Germans or the English are still afloat by that point. Bafana Bafana is hanging by the most ridiculous of threads. They have to play to goal-differential, hoping that Uruguay beats the living excrement out of Mexico, and that they cream France with the awesome power of righteousness normally associated with apocalypse mythology. There`s seven goals of differential, so it doesn`t really matter which game has the lopsided scoreline, or even if both do. If Uruguay wins 6-0 and South Africa wins 1-0, the net result is the same as Uruguay winning 2-0, and South Africa winning 5-0. As I said, the odds are hanging by a pretty ridiculously, perilously thin thread. Stranger things have happened, but usually only in host countries run my military juntas.
In any event, I hope I get the quotation right, but I trust that Gary Lineker`s explanation of footy holds true this afternoon:
"Football is a simple game where 22 men chase a ball for 90 minutes... and then the Germans win."
I should be back at my Uncle Joey`s place this afternoon after the game, so I should be able to resume my rambling without taxing my 3G USB modem too greatly. I have no idea how my account is billed on this thing, so I don`t know how much wireless access I can use before I need to recharge the thing.
Until then, Deutschland über alles, and all that. Would tell you where my seats are, but that would probably be meaningless. Probably in the nosebleeds somewhere. Weather looks to be reasonable today, so I shouldn`t freeze my tuckus off. Hoping to hit mid 20`s in terms of °C. Yum. May even defrost a little.
Until then, good night England and the colonies.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
And then the sun came out.
Greetings, gentle readers.
Have got my new laptop-type thing, but need to charge the battery for 16 hours, and I'm also working on juicing up the SIM card with credits for my wireless access. In the meantime, I'm back using my uncle Joey's computer. He's not technically my uncle, but to work out his exact relationship to me would require a master's degree in geneology and enough hyphens to cause Norman Mailer to faint dead away. "Uncle" will do just fine for now. Ditto for the majority of relatives over here. Just close your eyes and swallow the inaccuracy along with all of my purple hyperbole.
After the darkest moments of South Africa's short World Cup™ history, the sun came out this morning, and the sub-Antarctic conditions finally broke.
Last night was the prime lesson in Uruguay 101 — how to transform a minor bit of incidental contact into a full-blooded rendition of the stations of the cross, the rape of the Sabine women, and the fall of the twin towers as an interpretive dance. I agree with James that the red card was a very harsh decision, as indeed was the penalty. There were some very sad South Africans about this morning. I tried to be as jolly and cheering as possible, but trust my father's penchant for the odd tactless bit of humour to undo anything I may have done to lift somebody's spirits.
In any event, the temperatures this morning shot upward, driving the mercury of thousands of thermometers over that precious 10°C mark, and thawing some of our bones. Considering that most houses in Port Elizabeth don't have clothes-drying machines (why should they?), we can now use the ultra-modern washing machines, and then air-dry our laundry. Just in the bloody nick of time. Considering that I've been wearing half my wardrobe to sleep each night for insulation, I'm sure that some of the wardrobe items are starting to pong a bit.
Heard some family stories last night that reinforced what I saw again in the Greenacres mall today: the Rainbow Nation is not just some sort of mythologized concept that people use when lionizing Nelson Mandela. It appears throughout South Africa as people of all races, colours, and creeds merrily interact, in the case of my family, when they marry one another. Just found out last night that we have a Muslim Arabic branch of the family to complement the Jewish, the Boer, the French, etc., etc.
I was under the impression that Jo'berg was the hive of scum, villainy, carjackings, kidnappings, drive-by shootings, muggings, parking offences, and bank teller fraud, and that Cape Town was the cosmopolitan centre of the universe, and the rest of South Africa was rapidly descending into the gaping maw of history that has already swallowed up most of Mozambique.
Granted, Cape Town is awesome and liberal and all that sort of thing. I was warned not to wear any football paraphernalia (i.e., scarves) on the street, or carry any pieces of technology about, lest I be mugged. Bah. On Long Street, I saw a gorgeously curvy blonde lady wearing nothing but a Dutch scarf, a skin-tight orange body-leotard, and a micro-apron flounce up to a group of Dutch fans with vuvuzelas and kiss them in the rain before flouncing off again. Bring on that sort of attention, I says. I then turned around and went into the Long Street Lunchroom, which is basically a big cafeteria. The number of laptops, netbooks, iPhones, etc. was staggering.
Fine, I thought. Cape Town is obviously an exception. Nuts to that. Port Elizabeth is packed with laptop-toting young adults of all sorts of description. The KFC in "The Bridge" mall has a Bluetooth special, where you can download coupons from the Bluetooth network and present them using your Blackberry at the till.
Bottom line, and I'm not going to harp on this again — South Africa is a first-world nation. The roads and rail lines are better than Canada's, and the mountain ranges make the Rocky Mountains look pedestrian. There is a 3G wireless network nation-wide, and the P.E. "Happy Valley" tourist resort area by the bay could give Monte Carlo a solid run for its money. Particularly the casinos, which managed to fleece me out of a couple of hundred Rand today before the Korea match.
Must run again. The Nigeria-Greece match is on, my father just hired a vehicle, and I've got to plot out how we're going to get to East London on Saturday morning and then back in less than 48 hours. It's 300 km away, and we've got to be back in P.E. before the Chile-Switzerland game on Monday. It's looking to be the only trip that we'll make out there, so we've got to try and cram as much activity into the time as possible. As we've done since we arrive here last week. At some point, I'm sure that I'll get a second's rest. Eventually.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
16 June 2010
More travel, less footy.
Greetings, gentle readers.
Well, after another 10-hour bus ride from Cape Town to Port Elizabeth, the term "jet lag" is no longer sufficient to express the strange feeling of utter exhaustion that leaps up to throttle myself and my father approximately every four hours. I reckon that our bodies have just gotten used to nodding off in planes, trains, and automobiles at any old time, so whenever there isn't some form of imminent physical danger, we just crash out into unconsciousness.
The place is also bloody cold. I thought that we might escape the sub-zero temperatures and freezing rain that Italy and Paraguay somehow endured if we busted a move across 800 km of the country, through a mountain range, across plateaus, around fjords, inlets, and salt flats, etc., but the weather followed us. Suddenly, the Eastern Cape is getting snow for the first time in 35 years, and what were predicted to be drought conditions all year have suddenly reversed, as my father and I apparently brought enough rain to irrigate the entire province. Considering that no houses here have any sort of central heating, the concept of room temperature has become a strange and foreign one.
Also, the xenophobes that reckon that South Africa is some sort of cesspool of violence and crime can tell their media sources of misinformation to do something physiologically improbable to themselves. Not only have I seen people accidentally drop money, and perfect strangers pick it up and run it to them, but I've actually left a digital camera on a bus, and had it found and reported to me, untouched. Where Canada has "squeegee kids" that hang out at street corners and ambush traffic with unsolicited windshield washes for money, Cape Town has rubbish pickers that stand outside in the wind and the rain to collect rubbish from your car (along with a modest tip). The itinerant get a bit of income, drivers pay for the convenience of waste disposal, and the city stays clean. Everybody wins. In Port Elizabeth, people at busy intersections are either pretty girls distributing advertising flyers, or vendors selling sports paraphernalia like flags. More than half the cars in the country are flying flags. They're predominantly South African, but I've seen Dutch, Brazilian, American, and South Korean flags flying proudly and flapping wildly on the roadways. Not only are none of these tokens of nationalist fervour vandalized or stolen, but the visual infection of vehicles has expanded from there to include "sock" coverings of side-view mirrors and bonnets of cars with flags and symbols.
My plan includes dashing off down to the mall again tomorrow, as I've got a line on a tasty and inexpensive netbook that should expand my ability to keep better notes and post more extensive blog entries. I'll just have to keep a closer eye on it than I did with my camera.
Before I go, just a few South African World Cup 2010 key words:
- Vuvuzela — the honking, long neck bugle-things that drone throughout matches.
- Zakumi — the green-haired leopard mascot for the games http://www.fifa.com/worldcup/organisation/mascot/index.html.
- Jabulani — the funky, slightly more plasticized, anti-Robert Green ball with 11 panels to symbolize the eleven players each team has on the pitch, as well as the 11 June start and 11 July finish to the tournament.
- Bafana Bafana — literally "the boys, the boys." Nickname of the South African National Team.
And with that, I take my leave, since I need to get back to being sociable.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
14 June 2010
And now for the weather...
Greetings gentle readers.
Having been rained on in Vancouver, misted over in Malibu, sat on the runway because of thunderstorms in Washington, and now thoroughly drenched in the deluges of Cape Town, a conspiracy theory about precipitation is beginning to emerge. We leave in the morning for Port Elizabeth, and I've just been informed by my Auntie Jennie that the rainstorms currently wracking the Western Cape are moving east at about the same pace as, say, a bus leaving Cape Town in that direction. Looks to be a bit of a damp vacation, with some humid matches with soggy pitches. The venues at altitude (Bloemfontein and northward) should be okay, but the coastal stuff is loking kinda wet. I'm not used to this sort of thing, since my last African expedition was at altitude, and winter was the dry season.
Tremendous newspaper reporting in Cape Town. Here's the description of Robert Green's goaltending gaffe from the Sunday Times:
"As Jabulani dawdled happily over the England goalline, Green's universe crumpled into a small, mortifying hole.
He'll get over it — all keepers have to. But he has carved his name into an ever-lengthening hall of English goalkeeping shame, and probably also won himself a grim holiday on Capello's bench.The Italians must have been rude to his charges because England re-emerged in a filthy mood. They pinned the Americans to the wall, in the way that a hoodie-clad yob would do to a spelling-bee champion."
In any event, before I run too far behind, here are some quick notes on the games that have been played in the World Cup thus far.
- South Africa probably ought to have just barely edged Mexico, but in this instance, fate intervened and a drunk-driver killed Nelson Mandela's 13 year-old grand daughter the night before, preventing Madiba from attending the match and providing that tremendous intangible advantage that only a frail 90-year old man can. Katlego Mphela should and will get better and not miss such obvious goalscoring opportunities in future.
- Uruguay and France demonstrated why I want these teams to finish third and fourth. Uruguay are dependent on getting the ball to Forlán and Luis Suarez, and France are a pack of undisciplined individuals led by an impetuous Patrice Evra. Both teams dive, foul, and behave badly in order to substitute for team cohesion.
- Everyone fails to rate Park Ji-Sung because Alex Ferguson uses him only when it's a gibbous moon with an "r" in the month, but he's a fast, hard-working player with some great dribbling skills. South Korea become the first team to score more than one goal in the first win of the 2010 World Cup. If I haven't mentioned it before, Alexi Lalas is a muppet for thinking that Greece are some sort of ultra-secret elite force that will surprise everyone and make it to the quarter-finals.
- Nigeria and Argentina post a surprisingly low score in a very free-flowing game with plenty of opportunities at both ends. Entertaining, athletic, and skillful, with Argentina coming away with a deserved win in the end.
- Frank Lampard should be replaced in the squad by something - anything - don't care. Hell, play with 10 men and give him a holiday on the bench. People say that Stevie Gerrard cannot replicate his club form at international level. Those people obviously don't remember the last World Cup, and they probably didn't see this game either. Robert Green embarrasses himself in the same way that every England goaltender since Shilton has a tendency to do. Odd. England produced Clemence, Banks, Foulkes... why has the production line dried up?
That's all for now. I'll try and catch up later tonight. Must run now and meet people before doing things. Cheers, all.
—mARKUS
13 June 2010
36 Hours After...
Greetings, gentle readers.
So, after 29+ hours of travel, including delays at both John Foster Dulles International in Washington, D.C. and Dakar International Airport, Senegal, and a 10 hour time-shift forward, I find myself in Cape Town, South Africa. It's after midnight here, so my impression of the city thus far can be summarized by one word: dark.
Only one notable observation during the drive to Liesl's place in the 'burbs. Along one street, there was a boarded-up and abandoned petrol station. Two fellas were camped out under the gas bar roof-bit to get some shelter from the rain in raggedy old green blankets. The station was boarded up and in some state of disrepair and age. A sad, very third-world-y sort of sight. Not 500 metres down the same stretch of road was a gaudy, neon-soaked festival of capitalist excess. It was a strip mall filled with steakhouse-pubs, a Nando's chicken franchise outlet, a brand spanking new 24-hour petrol station with convenience store attachment, and various other late-night sources of pizza, beer, Blockbuster blu-ray discs, etc. It was as though someone thought that a couple of hundreds of yards west was GHETTO, and that they obviously had to let it fester and die while they erected a newer, shiner temple to Mammon down the way, where it would be more aesthetically appropriate.
But how were the flights getting here? Well, I watched a lot of in-flight movies. A LOT. Some I'd seen before, some I'd heard about, and some were just impulse viewings. Some quick summaries:
- The Book of Eli. A highly derivative work in which Gary Oldman basically plays the same villain as he did in "Fifth Element," Denzel Washington reprises his character (and the director of photography rips off the visual effects) from "Man on Fire," and Meg Griffin plays the female character from that crap Jean-Claude Van Damme film. ("Cyborg?") Nary an original thought to be found in the entire thing.
- Alice in Wonderland. Mainly harmless. Fun picking out the voice actors, though. Alan Rickman was a dead giveaway, but it took me a while to get Stephen Fry.
- Goal 2. Not sure if it was worth the years that I waited to see this sequel, but it had some very endearing bits. Anna Friel is spectacular as an emotional nexus of the film, and the Réal Madrid Galacticos idiocy is treated very gently and ironically. Ostensibly, Madrid are praised to the heavens. In the background, though, one may note Steve McManaman making cameo appearances at key points of the film.
- Sherlock Holmes. If one buys into this premise, then it's a bit of fluffy fun. The chemistry is utter gibberish, except for the bits that do not require criminal masterminds to understand. (e.g., cyanide is bad for you.) There's just enough Arthur Conan Doyle floating about in it that it can almost be considered a literary adaptation. But not enough.
- Kicking and Screaming. Great film except for that idiot from Saturday Night Live that basically renders the lead character so mind-numbingly myopic that he certainly loses my sympathy. Ditka and Duvall make the show. And the kids with the awesome footy skills.
- Invictus. Fantastic film. Great adaptation of "Playing with the Enemy." Couple of scenes I would have added. Will wait for the Director's Cut to see if Eastwood agrees with me.
- The 2006 World Cup. Hours of footy overdose because I couldn't watch the games live mid-flight, drat it all. Was heart-warmed to hear the French fans booing Cristiano Ronaldo during the Semi-Final. Reminded me that I don't hate French fans... it's the team that are worthy of disdain. After Thierry Henry's ghastly and uncalled double-handball that knocked the Irish out of the World Cup this year and cemented their tickets, I found this quotation from the newspaper"Le Parisién":
"The handball of Henry has brought a decisive contribution to the theme 'being French is being ashamed of one's national team.'"Also started watching "Percy Sledge and When a Man..." erm... "Percy Jackson and the Olympians," or some such. Then they shut down the entertainment thingy. Intriguing enough that I'll have to give it a watch on the way back. Sean Bean, Pierce Brosnan, and Lucius Vorenus were cool enough that I thought this might be an interesting vehicle to get kids interested in ancient mythology again through modern cultural relevance. Kevin McKidd. That's Vorenus' actor's name.
Anyway, I've started rambling, and I need some sleep. Will try and do a footy roundup to date later. Am trying to meet up with my old pal Brendan to try and catch the Denmark-Holland match that I reckon should turn the footy community upside-down.
Oh, and "Greece will be the surprise package of the tournament"? Alexi Lalas is a muppet who should get stuffed. What a ginger prat.
Cheers,
—mARKUS
11 June 2010
Last Hours in Brentwood
Greetings, gentle readers.
Well, I'm not complaining, but I've been stuffed like a goose since I got to L.A., and despite my best efforts to work some of lunch off on the basketball court this afternoon, all I've succeeded in doing is making myself into a sweaty, smelly mess before dinner. So it's the showers, laundry, bed, then up at 0500h to rush to the airport and continue the journey. Yes, it truly is all about the journey.Brentwood is an interesting place. Many nouveau riche and nouveau pauvre brushing elbows along San Vicente Boulevard. Had a lad on a bicycle shoot past me at some ridiculous speed whilst shouting "Boo, Canada, boo!" Didn't realize that he had the time or the visual wherewithal to notice my Canada scarf, considering the relativistic length-dilation effect. My scarf should have looked an inch long.
Also found an entire supermarket-sized outlet store dedicated to all things footy. Still operating under strict luggage restrictions, so didn't buy anything. Maybe on the way back... they were starting to stock the 50% off racks, so stuff might be readily available on the cheap in a month.
Worked out that I'll be spending 25 real-time hours on planes and in airports, but because we're losing 10 hours going east, it will seem like 35.
Must run. A shower and yet another meal beckon.
Back before you can read "A la Recherche du Temps Perdu."
Cheers,
–mARKUS
10 June 2010
New Frontiers in Travel
Greetings, gentle readers.
Well, what can one say about air travel? When I was under the age of sixteen, it was cooler than solid helium. Now, it's the same tedious procedural rubbish, lousier on-flight food and service, more queues, smaller aircraft, more cramped conditions, and the supporting staff are even more annoying, if that's possible. In fact, in the last two flights, I didn't even get any food, save for a fruit bar and two crackers. Oh, and the supporting staff are the same stereotypical posse that fill up the remaining seats on a half-empty aircraft so that you think that the airline is far more popular than it actually is. The shrieking baby; the smelly, obese grandmother with a purse full of photographs of her cretinous descendants; the fat, sweaty guy that snores and drools on anything within arm's length; the obnoxiously loquacious toddler who loves to start unwanted conversations; and the young couple who are so star-struck with one another that they can no longer tie their shoes, decide on a beverage, remember their seat numbers, squat before defecating, etc.
Be that as it may (and it probably will be) I find myself in Los Angeles. We were picked up at the airport by one of my uncle's drivers. This was an inkling of things to come. Of the fabulous island-kitchens with up-to-the minute stainless-steel professional appliances and tools, I haven't been able to cook a single egg, nor wash a single dish. The servants are wonderful people, and I love them to pieces, but I can't help but feel a bit useless and spoiled. Speaking of which - no pictures from any of my uncle's stuff, or any of my family here. The security staff are fantastically attentive to every little detail. They act as site guards, mobile patrols, lifeguards, chauffeurs, delivery men, secretaries, liaisons... you name it. I've never seen such men with such obvious military training perform their duties with such diligence and delight. They do what they do well, and they love it. Most ex-SEALs and marines would be silent or mildly grumbly sentinels. Not these lads. Nothing quite like being driven through heavily exposed areas on gridlocked streets, and feeling safe because Ares the god of war himself has got your back. And he can make joking references to Boyle's Law.
So - one more day in L.A., and then it's off on Saturday morning. What is the deal? I hate American customs officials. They're snide, unfriendly, xenophobic, ignorant, trumped-up little gits. I hate dealing with all of their bureaucratic little forms because I don't want to blow up their buildings, nor crash their aircraft. In fact, I don't even want to be in their ghastly country. The sooner they quit searching my backpack and asking me inane and non-germane questions, the sooner I can go about my business and leave them and their politico-economic minefield in my vapour trail. I have better places to be and better things to do than hang around the United States for any sort of purpose. So there are two American airports left to suffer through before I can relax in the relative civility and decorum of Dakar, Senegal, and Jo'berg, South Africa. Then I have to deal with three on the way back (LAX twice).
Meanwhile, here's to:
- German success. They're the third-youngest team in the World Cup. They're playing without their injured captain and their goalkeeper Robert Enke, who died tragically last November. They shall overcome.
- English achievement. As far as England are concerned, they've underachieved for the last 44 years. They've always flattered to deceive, reaching quarter- and semi-finals, but always stumbled at the final hurdles for very avoidable reasons. This year, Steven Gerrard is the captain, and he's always been a hero in clutch situations.
- French failure. The team hates one another, notably Gourcuff, who has been victimized in recent friendlies BY HIS OWN TEAMMATES. The team hates the manager, Raymond Domenech. Domenech is the Inspector Clouseau of international footy management, and is also loathed by the French people. Ireland (in addition to people who despise cheating) hate everything the French team stands for. Thierry Henry's former employers hate him. Domenech likes Sidney Govou, to the dismay of 9 of the other starters. Wash, rinse, and repeat. This team would overachieve if they managed a 100% success rate at a mass-suicide attempt. And the world would rejoice. Wankers.
- The low level-radar. Everyone is trying to pick the "sleeper" team of the tournament. Steve McManaman picked Chile. He's obviously never watched them play live. To my knowledge, no one has even detected Denmark yet, and they'll surprise the snot out of people. Did no-one notice that they qualified ahead of Portugal with attackers like Nicky Bendtner, midfield maestros like Christian Poulson, defenders like Daniel Agger, and a proven 'keeper in Thomas Sorensen?
- Spain returns to historical form. The European champions have such a ludicrously easy group that I reckon they do themselves a collective injury laughing about how easy it was to win all three group matches. They'll be wheezing so hard that they'll stumble in one of the following two rounds, and confound the predictions of the "experts."
In any event, I'll try and fire off another blog before I leave L.A., and after a raging, surging crowd in the middle of three million vuvuzela-blowing Sowetans and one quiet, little, grey old man lift Bafana Bafana to victory over Mexico.
Amandla!
—mARKUS
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
