Is Club rivalry killing Country honours?

Yes. Clubs make England lose.
There you go said it. Read it and take in that one word.
The rivalry in England goes deeper than any other league. It is more inbred with the fans and more spirited across a larger number of teams than any other Country on Earth.
I know, I know there is Barca and Real with the most famous of all rivalries. The Milan derby, Glasgow derby, Brazil, Germany, France all have their major rivalries but none have as many as we do in the Premier League.
So what is the main derby in England? North London derby between Arsenal and Tottenham has the most history but then there are another 4 or 5 teams in London playing derbies with a hatful of history to bring emotions to the fore. But until only the past season or two the N.London derby wasn't the most important game to Arsenal as they went head to head with Manchester.United vying for supremacy year after year. The Manchester derby now takes a larger slice of the pie as the Billionaires bank account transforms City. Then there is the South Coast derbies and the North-East between not only Sunderland and Newcastle but Middlesborough also. What about Birmingham and Villa? Chelsea and Spurs. Chelsea and West Ham?
The list goes on and on until you only find a match without hate between Wigan and Manchester United. Oh wait, thats a derby as well.
Each and every game with its history, hate, love, passion, disasters. And thats just the fans? I don't think so sonny Jim!
And herein lies the problem, the so called mystery at why English players can't reproduce their dazzling goalscoring form from Club to Country. For far too long we have heard ignorant presenters lauding over who is or isn't World Class. Who is or isn't going to win the league beacuse of their Rooney or Lampard or Gerrard? Who cares? What we really want is England, champions of the World.
But it's not going to happen. It's not going to happen for a long while. Unless. And here comes the but. In two parts. The main players move abroad and experience different cultures, ways to play, managerial styles, fans, the lot. Secondly is to pick a whole new batch of players. Players that don't know each other so much. Players that don't hate each other so much.
And there it is. The rivalry between these players boils over every week. The red cards, crunching tackles, baiting of each other and oppostion fans. The need for 3points and the support from the foreign superstars.
The Premier Leagues English talent put together to form a squad to win a World cup has one major problem. They don't like each other.
They really don't like each other.
As time goes on we hear more and more about the rift in the squad between who shoud or shouldn't be captain. Who speaks up and who doesn't. Who hangs out together and who stays alone. The players never look happy and its because they don't like each other.
So Man up. Get on your bike and get abroad for a couple of years. No more crunching tackles on Cashley or Rooney. Follow Becks. Be a stranger and become a champion.

Is it right to want Murray to win? Is it ok to follow the Dutch?

The World Cup has become more interesting now england are knocked out.
No longer do we have to listen to the arrogant and shameless tv commentators and presenters mindlessly waffling about the best route to the final or 40 or 50 years of hurt. Who realistically thought we could make the final? Nobody who hasn't had a lobotomy that's for sure. And what are all these years of hurt the English go on about? Hurt, what the flipping heck is that! It is not your divine right to be World Champions. It is not like your Father has been locked away in a far away lan unjustly and without trial. That's hurt. Not winning the World Cup because the players are not up for it and can't get on is part of the problem.
I'm pleased england are out because now I can follow my tip for the Tourny - The Dutch. Van Persie, Van Bommel and the left footed enigma that Chelsea somehow let leave, Robben. I truly think they have what it takes to beat Brazil and go all the way to the final. Then its a lottery.
And as for the Tennis. A quick word on Murray. Win and hes a Brit. Lose and hes always Scottish. I'll prob be drawn into some emotional bullshit that will want him to win vs Nadal in the semis but really, he's still a dirty sweaty with a dislike of all things England (apart from the millions pumped his way and his home, tax and don't forget the Queen!)

Its been a while I know

To all my thousands of loyal readers, I am back and I apologise for going off radar for past couple of months.
Life does go on and England will continue to be knocked out of major football tournaments after underperforming once again. Who had the gall to say the only two certainties in life were Taxes and Death? Certainly not an England fan!
As I type this its Wimbledon Festival time. Semi Final time only proves another truth that drives me mad for two weeks of every year. By far and away the biggest embarrasment to British sport, even greater than Polo or Cheese rolling.
It is the festival end of June and July they like to mask over as a sporting event and call it Wimbledon. Coach load after coach load of Caucasian day trippers make their merry way to outside courts, inside courts, centre courts and numbered courts of some Eastern European description. These out of towners from Surrey, Berkshire and Buckingham throng through the gates knowing the faintest about tennis. Maybe they are members at the local club, but thats probably due to the Gin and Tonic's and the time away from the kids that draws its charm.
These are the 'locals' that have no idea who won the French, Australian or Us Open titles this year or last. Becker or Sampras? Guessing at Federer or Nadal is pretty easy.
Here is an event where a large portion of the crowd have no idea in what is going on. Its like taking the Glastonbury and taking it to an Old Peoples home in Kent. The old folk might have a good time cracking walking sticks on the floor in time to The Scossor Sisters latest gay pop debacle but just as relevant as the timewasters at Wimbledon.
Lets face it. Henley, Ascot, Wimbledon, Goodwood. They all contribute nicely to the economy and serve as a nice day out. But the majority who go don't give a babboons red arsewho wins or loses. Its all about the social, the strawberries, the champagne and the badge that says members enclosure or Royal paddock.
Get over yourself and don't con anyone into believing you actually know anything about what you are watching.
It's good to be back.

Can anyone ever fall out of love with Tiger?

Go to You Tube and watch a hilarious parody of the new Nike advert. The original is simple enough; an unflinching and unemotional 30second stare from Tiger in black and white while his late father speaks eerily of how to behave and act and whatever else he said because it was so boring I switched off.
The you tube take-off is along the same theme but with Tiger pleading for one of his mistresses to take his number off her phone and warning her that his wife Erin might call and to not to answer and please don't spill the beans or whatever else it goes on to say as it petered out into something a bit sycophantic, if that's possible.
Fast forward to the first tee, round one at Augusta and the US Masters, Tiger's comeback and the World awaits his aura back on tour. He joins the thousands crammed in to the small space and a heroes welcome and plenty of smiles and whoops is what he is met by.
The point is can we ever really fall out of love with a superhero? Tiger is a superhero. There aren't many waking this planet. Federer? Schumacher? Tendulkar? Messi? That's about it I guess. Tiger had about 18 or 20 extra-marrital affair if all is to be believed. And he's stll a hero and not a zero.
It's now Sunday morning and hes perfectly placed to win on hs return, one of the last out and few off the lead. The World waits once again.
If he won he would really win. And oh my would he win. Its not just the trophy but more adoration, a million more column inches or the hundreds of sponsors crawling at his cell phone to get him back with more Zero's than plausible. It would be his cocksure manner that he really is an untouchable. A man that, even in such a religious and Christian society as America, can literally shag around and then smile all the way to the bank!
For humanity's sake and for the love of Augusta. For the love of respectability. For the love of man and what is right.
If anyone can affect the result. Let the green jacket not be Tiger's. It wouldn't be right.

One man united in Yellow and Green

There was a joke when Michael Owen was in his prime that went something along the lines of - It was England vs Scotland at the old Wembley. Beckham and the boys say to Owen, 'Michael - Its only Scotland. Fancy playing on your own and we'll watch from the pub?' Michael agrees and after a game of killer darts the England team turn on to see half time Owen has scored twice and we lead 2-0. Back to the darts and the boys check the score again. Full time England 3 Scotland 4. Owen walks into the pub for a pint looking a little sheepish. Becks pipes up, what happened Michael - 'Well I got sent off after 70minutes. Sorry lads.'
Man.Utd vs Chelsea on Saturday saw the most one sided top of the table clash for years. Chelsea, without many first team players including the heavily influential Essien, Bosingwa and the best left-back this side of the moon in Ashley Cole still put Man.Utd to the sword, sort of.
Chelsea have hiccupped through the last few weeks, falling from 1st and failing to get past Mourinho's Milan before thumping 7past Champions League chasing Villa and then outplaying United on their own turf in front of their never happy travelling fans.
Chelsea are showing unity, true team spirit and an ability to dig deep. United seemed lost without their talismatic striker in the form of movement, passion, desire and general urgency around the park. Rooney is a bigger loss it would seem to United than he would be to England come the World cup.
It is a big week for United. Bayern midweek and another banana skin in the premiership on Sunday away to Blackburn could turn what was a potential treble trophy winning side into a bare cupboard for once.
Who would write them off at this stage, with their squad, with their knighted manager, with a record of wins and trophies and strength at the end of the season after season?
It looks like I just have.
Take note. Its not too long odds that would have United losing four on the trot, they are already half way there after all.
If it does happen, expect the Glazers to get a bit more stick and start seeing even more green and yellow being waved around the Theatre of Dreams!
Ronaldo who?

Big Danger for the Hayemaker?

Lennox Lewis was never lauded as much as he deserved. Part Canadian, part enigma, 100% boxing royalty. Whatever you think of him his record can't be denied.
The big man who was born in West ham but subsequently schooled and won Olympic gold for Canadia beat every one he faced inside the square circle. He won the belts 3x ala Mr.Ali, Tyson and Holyfield. He had presence, dynamite power in his paws and the ability to adjust to every size and style he faced and beat. There will never be many like him.
Lennox was the last British Heavyweight great. Some have come and gone without as much as a murmur including the next Heavyweight champion, Audley Harrison (if you believe anything he says).
But now there is a real pretender to the throne, David Haye. The man who slayed the dragon in form of cartoon caricatured Russian monster Valuev. Possibly the hairiest man ever to to be called a champ.
Ask any boxing fan a year ago what David Haye's best attributes were, his monster 'hayemaker' and his mouth would probably prove most destructive. His self confidence not far behind.
Today, just before getting in the ring for his first defence against the 2x journey man and self named 'Quiet Man' John Ruiz, Haye is a different beast.
He is a boxer and a thinker. He is also basking in the glory a little too much of becoming 'Champ'. He speaks of knocking out the Klitschko brothers a little too frequently, even before America has paid notice.
His chances against the big Ukranians is debatable, better against the younger brother than the older because he looks like a bear hugger rather than an imposing brawler.
Haye's chances against Puerto Rican Ruiz? Questionable. Ruiz hugs and holds and leans and is bigger and more experienced. Haye is the bigger puncher and more charismatic.
The Brit living in Clapham needs to get in and out sharpish or he could become fodder in a messy holding fight that would frustrate and ultimately ruin his chances of Worldwide adoration and untold riches.
Something he cleary strives for.

Welcome to S.Africa Mr.Beckham

Wayne Rooney is officially the new King of England. Official? But what makes him so official?
Because he has been stamped by quite a few endorsements, some he can hardly say, most he can hardly spell. Official, because with 30goals in an already champagne season he sits lofty and proud on a castle turret with not many to knock him off his perch.
Official, because he holds the ability to light the torch that millions of English fans across the country hold so tenderly.
He is officially the best player in England, officially one of the best in the World and without doubt he holds the only right footed and square headed chance England have of winning the trophy that realistically is way beyond our reach without him.
But all that is yadda yadda talk compared to his predecessor as footballing royalty and now part time paparrazi prince, part time model, full time father but always full time game changer, Mr.Beckham to you.
The former Manchester united, Real Madrid pin-up poster boy, L.A Galaxy marmite muncher and Milan makeshift midfielder still has it all.
The King may have scored and scored and scored again during the Champions league tie between two of the top teams from England and Italy but it was still Beckham, of no goals and no assists and only 30minutes match time that caught the front pages.
Why? Because, Beckham inspires, is interesting, is looked up to, is lauded by all and is right now a dead certain for Mr.Capello to be included in England's World cup squad.
Well he should be. Imagine 20mintues to go, World cup semi-final. Penalties a real option. Crosses aren't landing on Crouchies or the King's head. Free Kicks are flying into the stands, who do you turn to SWP? I don't think so.
I rest my case.
Welcome to S.Africa Mr.Beckham is what he will hear and not welcome back to L.A.

One tattooed belly to regret?

Picture a big fat belly. A really big fat belly whose home is the south coast. A huge beachball of a gut covered in blue ink that scrawls an upside down smile, slightly wonky in times roman. It says Portsmouth FC.
Being close to the naval epicentre of Britain's floating fighting industry has done something for the 'Pompeii' fans love of blue ink and the stigma that comes with it. But now times are different and the ship is sailing in a different direction, firmly upstream.
All fans on board, fighting against the winds of change and desperately trying to plug the hole that is leaking through their club.
Hemorraghing is more accurate to what has happened to the fortunes of Portsmouth over the past 18months. A mutiny would have seen less unrest from FA cup glory runs to World class players on ridiculous lottery wages. And therein lies the problem. Lottery wages and misguided wealth spent by a crook?
I'm sorry to offend but look at Leeds, look at O'leary. Surely the time has come to look at Portsmouth, look at Harry?
Has the once loved, neigh, idolised son of the South coast gone and blown a fortune right in front of everyones eyes?
Well, we know that is a yes but has he done it without any sign of management and more signs pointing to mis-management.
You have to feel sorry for the clubs fans, loyally inked and shirtless on another drab Winters night, tirelessly shouting for their United Nations squad to impress on the frost while Harry is tucked up nicely down the road in his Sandbanks mansion having just returned from North London's Jewish community.
Now there's an irony.

Does two go into six?

So what of the Six Nations to date? The cream of Europe playing in a highly competitive tournament in packed stadia. Highly anticipated drama, passion and age old rivalries once again rekindled. The promise of new blood spilt whilst fighting for the right to be called the best. England, prove your worth and make a country proud. All sound too good to be true?
And then the reality of it kicks in like a mule being tickled down an alleyway. The truth is we stink. The rugby from England is boring and going nowhere fast, apart from downhill. The 2010 Six nations is already a mish mash of the good, bad and oh so ugly.
Where is the promised enthusiasm with flowing moves, breathtaking decision making and lionheart defence? Where is the crowd pleasing breaks, high scoring multi phase moves crossing most of the pitch intertwined with cheeky individual breaks from talented super fit athletes in their prime? Nowhere to be seen, not from my view.
Where are the upbeat and well watered crowd pleading for more? Each and every one hanging onto the thread that next week can cause an upset, a bigger drama, more of the same. Tens of thousands going away thirsty still for highlights reels that expose the other home nations in an embarrassing regularity, masterminding the French to a sorry bucket of despair or the Italians to a soggy frozen pizza from an English high powered microwave.
The boys just don't seem hungry enough. It's not there, the passion or pride, nothing is there to dazzle and make us believe that the team is flourishing and improving. The drama from England only lasts for minutes yet continues to be causing heartache for most of each and every game.
Patriotic St.George flag wavers will always spend thousands and more thousands watching their (anti) heroes and former World champions falter, stumble and eventually fail time and time and again. It doesn't matter what the results, its more about the week-end away than the result to stay. So why oh why are they playing so negatively? At least make these long suffering fans happy in Rome or Edinburgh.
The coach is a hero. He is a monster amongst mere mortals. A brute of a man who doesn't smile or change expression whether winning, losing or being interviewed by another BBC drone. The man is an anamoly of human nature, a true sporting freak from the dark ages with a presence to put fear not only into the opposition but now, it seems, also his own team.
What has happened is team Martin Johnson are like a squad of lemmings, following their coach without question, afraid to break from the family circle of trust and devoid
of their own thinking. The captain, 'steady Steve Borthwick' seems glazed over at the suggestion he could be leading a team bursting with energy and potential down a tepid road filled with muddy potholes to wallow in for a few years.
Is there a situation that Mr.Steady can't 'take lots of positives' from. He is blind to running rugby, nearly as much as the ever present darling Wilkinson. But that is another story for another million cloumn inches. Pass the ball Johnny, pass the ball please.
If England aren't playing at all, Italy aren't good enough and Scotland have less players by the day then who is there to watch? What team is going to send me down the pub for an extra pint rather than the sofa with my wife's milky tea to keep me company?
Ireland look like yesterday's champions more and more with half a team too inexperienced or past their running best. Wales are confused whether they are good enough or not, whether they should run and kick or run and tackle or kick and kick some more. Potential but its just that, potential. A bit more exciting but still the fear of the nation is there on each and every shoulder.
The saving light being France and their want to pass, run, score and entertain. The French, with their fickle Parisian fans and evergreen Gallic flair we are fed in commentary cliche time after time. The French, with their abandon to the normal, the love to dance and tickle through minute gaps and mesmerise with the touch that comes from a coach's freedom to express.
The one team that really gets us interested, applauding, crying and wanting more. The mainland Brits should look and learn, the fan won't be this obedient forever. Allez les Bleus est Laissez les bons temps rouler.

Arse-nil, again and again. Time for change?

Arsene Wenger is going backwards. There, I've said what even the most devout Arsenal fan has locked away in his head but scared to mutter in public for fear of being condemned for madness and burnt at the gooner stake.
The much vilified mega manager has a track record to be proud of including, er, erm, nothing since 2005.
So what? What is making those alarm bells ring from Highbury all the way to Monaco?
The end of the season is what. The end of the season without Arsenal, again. Well, not strictly speaking. They will be there but trophyless once again. Guaranteed.
The end of the season always gets the juices flowing from the man in the pub, black cabbie or white collared colleague. Will it be United again? Can Chelsea do it without Mourinho? City to come from a dark holeand surprise everyone?
One thing is for sure. Arsenal wont win it with Wenger. Not now and probably not next year, or the year after. Especially with the lack of firepower, sterility being shown and the constant necessity to pass the ball into the net. Arsene. Sort it out or go home and crush grapes.

New Torvill and Dean anyone?

Winter Olympics anyone? For those old enough to remember and romantic British Ice Skating fans there will only ever be two names worth mentioning, Torvill and Dean. The pair that spun and waltzed on ice so memorably to Bolero picking up the seemingly impossible 12 perfect 6's leaving the British public in awe and celebrating that rarest of rarities, a British Gold medal in the Winter Olympics.
Vancouver 2010 promises to be a whole lot different, more medals, more close shaves, mor people at home not giving a monkey's about a load of kids on wheel free skateboards and more lycra than at a Tory S and M party. Medals and more is what we want buthow about the chances?
A whopping 26years of, well nothing much happening at all as far as British frozen sport is concerned. Since T and D slid to Gold the only other victory has come in 2002 - womens team Curling. The show stopping event/sport that is a mixture of bowling and shuffleboard as millions of us became glued to the box for a few days as Rhona Martin and her Scottish housewives took to cleaning, I mean Curling the ice better than a load of Canadians or Russians could polish it.
What does two and a half weeks of Olympic sport have to grab the public starting on Feb 12th? What is there to get us excited about? A promised three medals from Olympic chiefs is what they reckon. £6.5m of spending to pay for extra tight thermals and a spare pair of salopettes seems quite a lot to me.
However, look a bit closer and for once the boys and girls from Essex, the Home Counties and North of the Border have got something to prove. Somehow Britain are to be ranked in the top 12 nations competing! Not bad for a non-alpine Island, even better when you consider there will be over 50 of us flying the flag in -25Canadian degrees. Not bad at all for a country that stands still at the first sign of a blizzard, let alone compete in it.
So where is the focus of attention going to be for the truly mad sports fan tuning into Eurosport's religious coverage or BBC2 when they can be bothered? Forget downhill, slalom, giant slalom or any other take on getting down a hill as quickly as possible with falling over - Almost guaranteed is a Brit no show on the podium.
Instead, i'll be tuned in to the one Winter sport 'we' excel at - Skeleton or 'Tea Tray' as its more affectionately known. The one sport where Britain has never failed to take a medal including the sole medal in 2006 from Shelley Rudman's skeleton silver. Last year Britain had two World silver medallists with Shelley finishing in the top four in every event but one last year and Amy Williams also a consistent top performer, a 1-2 is surely not entirely out of the question.
You may not care now, as I don't really, but come the middle of Feb as another dark night settles down over your Coronation Street gloom and you flick through the channels to two girls in skin tight outfits flying down a piece of ice at up to 140km/h you might get a prick of interest. A sport designed for kamikaze pilots, agile athletes and superheroes has been taken over by the Brits in crash helmets with Lion hearts and fast legs.

Sprinting, sliding, crashing, splitting and dealing with up to 5G's of pressure is all part of the game when deciding who comes out on top. For once, lets get all Arctic and follow the girls down the ice with a bit of passion and hopefully in a month's time we will be celebrating Great Britain's best ever Winter Olympic Medal haul with thanks to Curlers, Bobsleigh and lots of lovely girls on their skeletons!

Does anyone really care about Tennis?

It is an early Summer's day in South-West London and Elena Baltacha has just won her first round match sparking countless interviews and back page tabloid spreads indicating how 'Our Girl' gone and done well.
Fast forward six months and its Elena Who? Baltacha load of Whose? I'll tell you who and what, Britains best female performer at the Australian Open is what. Making the third round for only the second time in her career, pride of Middlesex (place of residence), Scotland (place she first represented for UK) and er the Ukraine (Elena is of Kiev parentage!) is what.
Elena is currently enjoying her highest ever world ranking of 83, has almost reached half a million dollars in prize money and is more than twice as successful as any other current female tennis player in Britain. It's not groundbreaking stuff when compared to a Williams sister or any countless Eastern bloke clone but she is the best there is ourt there under the Union Jack. I had to look these facts up, because I don't really care about Tennis. Just like most people. Tennis, to me, is a complete waste of time and I find Wimbledon a pain in the backside. A tournament that involves as much hypocrisy and wasted pomp and ceremony as found on a trans-Atlantic cruise.
So why don't we care? Is it because we like to believe we are a nation of winners? Is it because other sports take up so much time and space that Tennis is on the backburner almost constantly? Do we have enough room for only one Scot? Or is it that we really don't give a Monkey's about the mostle fickle of national institutions?
Tennis, the game we love to think was invented here in lovely England but was really formed by the Egyptians and bastardized from the French to palaces such as Hampton Court with soft balls and sloping roofs (facts researched and not known once again, i'm afraid).
Tennis is the sport noone cares to follow and I know why.
It is because the beacon leading the way is a dour man who has no time for the press or being a happy hero and in doing so has often come across as surly, rude and uninterested. 
It is because the British public have a short attention span and in doing so show more affection for what is truly quintessentiality English - Strawberries, cream and queueing?
Well, yes and yes and yes. Andy Murray, unfortunately, doesn't care too much for the limelight and why should he when he's already earnt enough to retire, even at 23. Won enough to be proud, 14 atp titles to date and been the highest ranked Brit for, well, as long as memory serves.
He is also a proud Scot living in England, playing under the Lawn Tennis association's funded courts and facilites in London, but really doesn't like it and milking it for what it's worth to him, which happens to be millions. Now there's a young man knowing who butters his bread. If only he was born in the home counties, or not.
But that is it, the home counties middle classes have driven this apathy to Tennis more than the other way round or anything else. Or is it the want to be middle class and from the home counties that drives society on its back?
Because we have proof that it is all wrong. Every year we see them, the lowest of the low, camping on an SW18 backstreet overnight in their hundreds, in the most miserable of conditions. Overnight they queue! In pain from boredom but enjoyment from how stiff their upper lip is and then we, the viewer, grimace as prime time drive time tv interviews with the mad folk reveal they are there just to get grubby hands on tickets.
Two Centre court semi-final tickets to a match they have no idea about and no interest in. No knowledge of the records and form of the two players competing. No real credence as to why they are there excpet for the fact they believe they have to be. Now that sounds much more British to me. We should employ these people as negotiators in times of war as they would never give up, never back down. Just coax them with a few pieces of red fruit and a position at the front of the line.
It is likely that the love of being a luvvie overrides all other sentimental emotions when finally inside, chest pigeon puffed out in pride of making it. Anti-rain dance complete. Bank loan confirmed and finally bar hit. Oh, there's tennis?
An afternoon happily spent on what was once Henman Hill having just grabbed an overpriced (plastic) glass of bubbly amongst a scrum of other wanabee it girls and boys. Taken a seat on checked picnic blanket to enjoy scoffing some even more highly inflated non-organic strawberries and cream in a little outfit for 'the fortnight'. Now that is what Wimbledon is really about. Being completely uninterested in the Tennis. Pretending to care but failing to convince.
Oh, and did you know that Murray plays some bloke from Spain in the quarter of finals of some tournament in Australia tomorrow?
Thought not.
By the way. That bloke Federer.
He's Swiss.

A diamond with a flaw is worth more than a pebble with imperfections

The one they call the Hitman is getting back into the ring for one last hurrah, to massage his ego, to finish on a high or simply because he's completely bonkers and can't stay away (from the fridge).
Ricky Hatton is leaving the public split on whether he should or whether he shouldn't fight again. And i'm in his corner. Firmly in it.
Go on Ricky, have a punch up and finish your career on top of the podium or as near as you can get to it but not flat on your back looking at a Las Vegas casino ceiling.
Finish it in Manchester in front of the hardcore of fans that have followed you back and forth to the Nevada desert over the past few years. Those trips costing thousands in air fares, hotel rooms, bar bills, tips and well erm everything else you can think of.
I've been lucky enough to watch Hatton twice in Vegas. Would I go again to see him fight in a one off against another Mexican just past his prime? Probably not. Would I go to Manchester on a jolly with the lads for a week-end as a send off? Definitely.
Ricky Hatton has his knockers. Right now they are more than likely calling him The Fatman, Ricky Hasbeen, Vicky Fatty and anything else lardy you can think of, because he is living true to his age old nicknames and its not doing him any favours. The past six months he has piled on the pounds even more than his regular inbetween bout excesses and boy does it show.
Chinese food, deep fried anything and shit shirts worn in the local pub with the boys followed by plenty of ale and a game of darts have really taken their toll and hes looking more Ricky 'The Hamster' Hatton than anything else. But the defeat to Pacquiao in Vegas last year obviously hit him hard emotionally and the larder has been his therapist, so for once lets give him a break and remember how good he is. Let's not be stereotypically British and knock another slightly fallen sport star from pilar to post. he's a big boy and knows what he's doing.
But, and there is a big but lurking in the shadow. Ricky is fat, really fat. Fatter than normal. He has admitted to being over a stone heavier than his usual famous ballooning state. Right now he is weighing in at nearly three stone heavier than on the scales before his last fight against Pound for Pound champion, Manny Pacquio.
He says this will just mean a bit longer on the road followed by the same time in the gym. But has he turned into Marmite and have the public got bored of the loveable Guinness drinking joker who has time for everyone and anyone? Has the ego of the Hitman overtaken the love of his once adoring fans asking him to stop?
The most famous voice in combat sport, Michael Buffer, calls him the pride of Manchester. Floyd Mayweather says he has the most annoying song in World sport. Oscar De la Hoya says Vegas had never seen anything like it every time the Hitman's circus rolled into town. So why carry on? Whats wrong with thoe memories and adulation spared for so few.
It's only his pride and wanting to finish on the up. If he can sell out the MEN and 20,000 get to see him fight for a hidden world title in the Summer then why not?
Why knock him. If you don't want to see him then don't watch. Simple.
Is Ricky turning into the one we used to love to love and nothing more than a joke? There is an argument that if he comes back and is seeing stars inside a few rounds then all the knockers would say I told you so and all the believers out there turn against him.
But he is a grown man and hes not fighting for the money. He feels he has something to prove after a disastrous training camp where he said walking to the ring felt like a corpse with gloves on. He has lost just twice and each time to the best of the best, not just in his weight but in his sport. He feels he is among equals in the highest echelons and, rightly or wrongly, still thinks he would win one of those super fights against Mayweather or the man best known as 'Pacman.'
Love him or beginning to loathe him for coming back, it looks like he will fight again. This time with a few more layers than normal taken off.
A few days ago he admitted to having the hunger back, and not a midnight Doner Kebab sort of hunger. He says he wants to go out on a high and i'll be there behind him singing there's only one Ricky Hatton at the top of my lungs. Good luck and do us all a favour Ricky, get in shape, proper shape. Get in the right frame of mind, get in get out and call it a day. Fight a man on a level, fight a name. Fight a fight you know you can't lose, not think you can't and then have a pint with every fan from all over the world because by then you will truly deserve it. 
We'd much rather the flawed diamond than a perfect pebble and you can be the flawed diamond any day of the week, even if it means being a bit too imperfect for some people's taste.

Deep doubts, deep wisdom; small doubts, little wisdom.

Ask any English Cricket fan if they would have been happy to take an away series draw with S.Africa a couple of months ago and you might be lucky to have your wrist in tact, let alone a badly chewed hand.
Here was a chance for a positive English building block going into the final match, not only to fire the team up the controversial world rankings or to win a much needed away series but by gaining confidence towards the greatest prize of all at the end of the year, The Ashes. The one series that grabs the public's attention and unites all walks of life, Cricket fan or not.
When Andrew Strauss won the toss and elected to bat first at The Wanderers in J'Berg he must have had little doubt that it was the correct thing to do already leading 1-0. The right decision to not only maintain the lead but push home the advantage and even win 2-0. He must have believed that having taken into account all local conditions and advice from the backroom staff and fellow players that batting first was the only answer.
The sparce opening day crowd cheered upon hearing the toss with his opposite man Smith a much relieved Springbok thinking next years Christmas was already upon us and odds of a drawn series falling by the minute.
So Andrew, why did you not learn that you didn't need to gamble? England have had their fair share of inconsistent, dull, poor and good captains over the past fifteen years for you to draw experience on? From the positive but astute Michael Vaughan who not only battled and beat the Aussies but also cried into his hadkerchief when Sidebottom was picked infront of two test hero Graham Onions. Evidently Onions was a bit jaded and needed the rest, unfortunately this was news to him. We have Nasser Hussain on the other side of the spectrum who seems unable to be personable with anyone, constantly referring to everyone by their surnames and aside from driving most of Sky Tv's viewers insane with his monosyllabic waffle he is also the captain that made the worst toss decision in history by putting an already rampant Australian team in to bat on a first test road allowing them to score freely (364-2 close day one) and march on likeunchallenged warriors to another easy Ashes win.
So why didn't you learn Andrew? After all Strauss is a very well educated and well spoken young man. He is also very well traveled and has two half Australian sons to prove it. Here is a man who has been a pretty good captain of his country with a resume including that famous little urn to prove it.
So what went wrong? Strauss decided to back his badly firing batsmen after a slight rush of blood to his South African born bonce. He obviously believed that there was a 400plus first innings score on that soon to be wet track.
The moment he decided to bat first on an unpredictable wicket, with rain due and against a team thirsty for blood with an attack packed heavy with seamers the game was all over. Anyone with an inch of gambling nous would have taken up the generous odds on offer from friendly bookmakers and made hay while the sun wasn't shining.
England have taken some heavy criticsm about their boggling selection, and fairly so. After double batting heroics from the far from lofty number 11 in two of the previous three tests by Graham Onions he was duly dropped for a leaden footed Sidebottom who tries and tries and tries but never really delivers.
Sidebottom is akin to the poker player going all in with a pair of 7's hoping he will hit a winning hand when he knows, deep down, he probably wont even win a bluff. Every now and again it comes off but more often than not its a telegraph delivery asking for the batsman to wait, wait, wait and half volley four. Send Sidebottom back to county cricket where he can clean up the mediocrity and earn a decent living.
It's time for England learnt from their errors, look forwards to the future, grab the sparce talent that is out there bowling wise and nurture it into match winning heroics. We must learn that by now Matt Prior is going to be hit and miss with his batting. Me must finally learn that Stuart Broad will never bat No.7 for England and is in danger of swapping the true all rounder white handkerchief over to the consistently over performing and never under hyped Graeme Swann.
Australia in Australia is a different kettle of fish to playing them in a transformative state in your own back yard. Just ask a certain Mr.Flintoff or the Pakistan team. It is well overdue for England and Strauss to look long and hard at their selection, tactics, stats, averages and personal belief's before the next time they take the field wearing the three lions with pride. All that can be seen currently is a small amount of wisdom arising from the small questions they are putting upon themselves. What we all want to see is a group of international players doubting themselves deeply so as to come through a dark underground tunnel a whole lot wiser.

Do not fear going forward slowly; fear only to stand still

If one man is a chef and Liverpool a city of culture then surely you would be able to return your food if it turned up without the gravy you were promised? All the talk this week is of Rafa's consistency to serve cold turkey for a luke warm restaurant that is consistently fully booked but permanently overhyped and overpriced. A wannabee in the Michelin awards book but a culinary misfire bad enough to leave the foulest mouth in the Ramsay speechless? Slightly unfair on yesterday's service or is he a roadkill in waiting? It seems fair. The critics are turning up becoming more and more vocal week in week out. They are pleading for the head chef to let them go home happy with bellies full of fluent passing, mouth watering half volleys and solid pints of lager in defences. The men and women who pay their wages wanting to be entertained have had enough. It's just not satisfying enough. Fresh talent is needed but the kitchen coffers are bare. The man in charge has nowhere to go and too many of his vegetables are, well, vegetables - albeit on the physio's table for a week or a month. The prices have been too high for too long and the wine has been more Isle of Man than European. Its time for a change on the menu, Rafa. Put another lump of ice in my drink on the training pitch, an extra potato on the injury table and walk away knowing you've done yourself proud. You've won a trophy or two including the one that avoids that French chef Arsene and hang up your pinny knowing full well you've achieved, but not to the highest standard reached by so few. Its time for a new cook to burn the scouse steak. Just do us all a favour and do it before it all gets nasty as the vultures are circling and nobody likes to see a beautiful animal picked at week after week until all that's left are unwanted bones. Don't stand still or you will be looking to serve Paella abroad without redundancy rather than milky tea or a mutton stew, just like you know you love. Good luck with acquiring fresh produce this transfer window and lets hope you can clear the fridge of some unwanted dairy. All in all its not looking great for that elusive Michelin star this year.Certainly not in this restaurant.