My wife is a teacher. If that sounds a little like my personal introduction when debuting at a Teaching-Spouses Anonymous meeting then I apologise to all teachers.
However, if anybody is contemplating launching such a group, I'd be only too happy to sign up.
Don't get me wrong, I love my wife dearly - and I know she works very hard. But at this time of year it's very hard being the non-teaching spouse of a teacher. It's all down to holidays.
Mrs Bunky is now in the fourth week of an eight-week summer break. She knows nothing different having left university and walked straight into the teaching profession where she's remained ever since.
I, on the other hand, last had a long summer break in 1979. Since then I've had to get by on four - or if I'm very lucky five - weeks holiday a year. I'd never really had a problem with this until I met and married a teacher.
Teachers, it would appear from my self-help sessions with other spouses, do not understand how precious our holidays are. Take last week as an example. I took a week off - 25 per cent of my annual leave entitlement - to be with Mrs B. It was intended to be a week 'just chilling' - and, for the most part, it was.
But as always when 'she who must be obeyed' spends anytime in the house it ended with home improvements, which when I'm involved is a bit of a misnomer. To me, DIY has always stood for 'Don't Involve Yourself'. I pride myself in having a good relationship with all sorts of tradesmen around our town, so often have I called them in.
But when it's a simple case of re-hanging a towel rail I'm forbidden by my marriage vows from spending our hard-earned on manual labour . . . apparently.
So the last day of my week's holiday was spent filling holes, sanding down walls, repainting and attempting to re-hang the world's most badly designed towel rail. I choose my words carefully here: 'attempting' and 'day'. You will have gathered I am not the world's most adept handyman, nor it has to be said, the most enthusiastic.
What should be no more than an hour's work for a skilled DIY enthusiast turns into the best part of a day's labour for me. It also shows up the worst side of my vocabulary. At the very sight of me leaving the garage clutching my drill and toolbox, neighbours cover their children's ears and hurriedly push them inside as spouses close and lock all windows.
Even I didn't know I knew some of the words that come out when my drill bit meanders across an obviously badly constructed wall. At 3pm I was sat in a pool of sweat and dust attempting to insert the world's smallest allen key into a hole clearly created by a bitter IKEA designer on his last day in the job.
Two hours later I was sat in a pool of more sweat and more dust attempting to insert the world's smallest bent allen key into a second hole clearly created by a bitter IKEA designer on his last day in the job.
Stressed and exhausted - admittedly it doesn't take much - I eventually finished, only for my spirit level to laugh at me. That was enough for me and I retired to the lounge clutching a beer only for Mrs B to inform me that she had decided the garage needed clearing and that she would be taking everything to a car boot sale "on Wednesday" (today).
The following day I returned to work more stressed and more tired than I had been the day before my holiday started. Mrs B will return from the car boot sale this afternoon, with youngest son in tow, looking forward to another four weeks of house-painting, gardening and exam-paper marking. She loves it.
Hi. My name is Dave . . . and my wife is a teacher!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Maradon't
As a Pompey fan I'd just like to say: Diego Maradona? Please don't let it be true . . .
As if Portsmouth FC isn't becoming enough of a joke as it is.
As if Portsmouth FC isn't becoming enough of a joke as it is.
Cink in a quandary
Sorry I've been quiet . . . Ok you're not, but I am.
I've been off work for a week spending time with wife and kids and I've tried to avoid going near a PC.
But I couldn't go a week without posting something, so . . .
When Stewart Cink awoke on Monday morning and saw the Claret Jug on his hotel desk, alongside the complimentary notepaper, budget biro and the note that tells you all adult movies will show on your bill as 'room service', he must have been in something of a quandary.
Not because he missed the note that tells you all adult movies will show on your bill as 'room service' but because, the previous day, in his victory speech at Turnberry he'd thanked God for his victory.
And Stewart won't need an atheist like me to point out to him that if there really was a God, he would surely have ensured a win for Tom Watson . . .
I've been off work for a week spending time with wife and kids and I've tried to avoid going near a PC.
But I couldn't go a week without posting something, so . . .
When Stewart Cink awoke on Monday morning and saw the Claret Jug on his hotel desk, alongside the complimentary notepaper, budget biro and the note that tells you all adult movies will show on your bill as 'room service', he must have been in something of a quandary.
Not because he missed the note that tells you all adult movies will show on your bill as 'room service' but because, the previous day, in his victory speech at Turnberry he'd thanked God for his victory.
And Stewart won't need an atheist like me to point out to him that if there really was a God, he would surely have ensured a win for Tom Watson . . .
Friday, July 17, 2009
Eddie's a Shore loser
The lack of comments on this blog does not concern me. I'm old enough and ugly enough to realise that if you really want to stir up the proverbial hornets' nest you need to poke it with a big stick.
I've not done any poking yet. I'm not sure I necessarily want to be controversial just for the sake of it. I leave that to my newspaper columns.
But some bloggers rejoice in riling people. Take American Eddie Shore as an example. He's decided to lay into the Open Championship, presumably because it's not the 'throwing darts' version of the game with which he's familiar.
He claims:
He knows he's going to get abuse, but at least people are acknowledging his existence. I think I'm going to go away and pen a piece about how US baseball's FA Cup is called the World Series when 90 per cent of the world don't play the sport.
I've not done any poking yet. I'm not sure I necessarily want to be controversial just for the sake of it. I leave that to my newspaper columns.
But some bloggers rejoice in riling people. Take American Eddie Shore as an example. He's decided to lay into the Open Championship, presumably because it's not the 'throwing darts' version of the game with which he's familiar.
He claims:
- It's not real golf
- The Scots invented the game, but the Yanks "perfected it"
- It's not a proper major
- US greenkeepers get paid to "grow grass, not kill it"
- The Open is always played "in the middle of an abandoned WWII airfield"
- And it starts at 3am his local time
He knows he's going to get abuse, but at least people are acknowledging his existence. I think I'm going to go away and pen a piece about how US baseball's FA Cup is called the World Series when 90 per cent of the world don't play the sport.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Feeling blue . . .
There's an advert currently running on TV for EDF Energy with a school choir seeing Kermit the Frog's old standard It's Not easy Being Green. Well trust me on this one, it ain't easy being blue at the moment either.
As a Pompey fan of some 40 years now I've enjoyed some ups and downs and it's only in the last few years we've really had anything to shout about. Much of that success is down to Harry R*****pp . . . I'm sorry I just can't bring myself to write his name.
No, it's not because he went down the road to 'them' less than a week after saying "Of course I wouldn't go down the road."
Nor is it because he went to White Hart Lane a week after saying "I'm here (at Pompey) for life. This is my last job in football."
Those are the sort of things I expect from him because he is so duplicitious. His problem is he loves sounding off so much he forgets what he's actually said, so contradictions are - to use a phrase he would appreciate - par for the course with R*****pp.
Anyway I digress. My dislike for R*****pp the man, his personality and the media's buy-in to everything he feeds them is irrelevant currently.
What pains Pompey followers at the moment is the long, drawn-out process involved in the 'takeover' by Sulaiman Al Fahim (SAF). Ken Bates would have moved clubs twice in the time it has taken for due diligence* to be completed.
This delay is meat and drink to the rabid pessimists among the Pompey faithful, among whom, I have to admit, I count myself. Forty years of promised stadiums which consistently fail to materialise; more false dawns than Tony Orlando; and a remarkable ability to wrench defeat from the jaws of victory . . . these are the things which shape our outlook.
News of SAF's involvement in a potential buy-out was initially met with whoops of delight even by me - though I admit to telling my son "Like the stadium mate, I'll believe it when I see it." Cynicism is a hard habit to break.
Yet a couple of months on from the breaking news, we're still waiting. We've sold Glen Johnson; we appear to be on the verge of selling Peter Crouch and Sylvain Distin; and half the rest of last term's team is out of contract.
News that we have entered the Barclays Premiership Super Sixes won't come as too much of a surprise as we could just about muster a squad for that.
Add to that newspaper reports that Paul Hart is to remain as manager and I struggle to keep my head out of my hands (actually as a former Sunday League goalkeeper I can assure you if I did put my head in my hands I would drop it at somebody's feet).
My optimistic friends - there are some even at Pompey - assure me there's nothing to worry about: Newspaper reports are generally wrong. It's all speculation. Nobody spends £60m on a football club only to strip it of its assets. Six players have already signed pre-contract agreements. Michael Jackson and Elvis are playing a gig at our local pub tonight.
I just hope it sorts itself out soon. As John Cleese said: "It's not the disappointment, it's the hope I can't cope with."
*Is due diligence any relation to comedy songster and Countdown regular Richard Diligence?
As a Pompey fan of some 40 years now I've enjoyed some ups and downs and it's only in the last few years we've really had anything to shout about. Much of that success is down to Harry R*****pp . . . I'm sorry I just can't bring myself to write his name.
No, it's not because he went down the road to 'them' less than a week after saying "Of course I wouldn't go down the road."
Nor is it because he went to White Hart Lane a week after saying "I'm here (at Pompey) for life. This is my last job in football."
Those are the sort of things I expect from him because he is so duplicitious. His problem is he loves sounding off so much he forgets what he's actually said, so contradictions are - to use a phrase he would appreciate - par for the course with R*****pp.
Anyway I digress. My dislike for R*****pp the man, his personality and the media's buy-in to everything he feeds them is irrelevant currently.
What pains Pompey followers at the moment is the long, drawn-out process involved in the 'takeover' by Sulaiman Al Fahim (SAF). Ken Bates would have moved clubs twice in the time it has taken for due diligence* to be completed.
This delay is meat and drink to the rabid pessimists among the Pompey faithful, among whom, I have to admit, I count myself. Forty years of promised stadiums which consistently fail to materialise; more false dawns than Tony Orlando; and a remarkable ability to wrench defeat from the jaws of victory . . . these are the things which shape our outlook.
News of SAF's involvement in a potential buy-out was initially met with whoops of delight even by me - though I admit to telling my son "Like the stadium mate, I'll believe it when I see it." Cynicism is a hard habit to break.
Yet a couple of months on from the breaking news, we're still waiting. We've sold Glen Johnson; we appear to be on the verge of selling Peter Crouch and Sylvain Distin; and half the rest of last term's team is out of contract.
News that we have entered the Barclays Premiership Super Sixes won't come as too much of a surprise as we could just about muster a squad for that.
Add to that newspaper reports that Paul Hart is to remain as manager and I struggle to keep my head out of my hands (actually as a former Sunday League goalkeeper I can assure you if I did put my head in my hands I would drop it at somebody's feet).
My optimistic friends - there are some even at Pompey - assure me there's nothing to worry about: Newspaper reports are generally wrong. It's all speculation. Nobody spends £60m on a football club only to strip it of its assets. Six players have already signed pre-contract agreements. Michael Jackson and Elvis are playing a gig at our local pub tonight.
I just hope it sorts itself out soon. As John Cleese said: "It's not the disappointment, it's the hope I can't cope with."
*Is due diligence any relation to comedy songster and Countdown regular Richard Diligence?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
When good words go bad
I've decided the modern world is rubbish - at least when it comes to the English language.
Everything I was taught when I started out as a journalist now seems to be forgotten - and Samuel Pepys was a damned good lecturer.
For example, I was always told that despite its constant erroneous usage, the word 'myriad' is an adjective not a noun. For years I have subbed out 'a myriad of' to be replaced by simply 'myriad'.
Now, dictionaries are listing myriad as a noun, as well as an adjective, so common has the error become. And I'm not happy about it.
Likewise the constant use of 'try and' instead of 'try to' which is almost always the correct form. Some of the worst offenders are presenters and reporters on the BBC, who, quite simply, should know better.
And the same can also be said for broadcasters' use of 'due to' instead of 'because of' (or 'owing to') when not modifying a noun.
My first editor would turn in his grave; if he were dead that is . . . which he isn't. He lives on the Isle of Wight, which may be considered the same thing.
Yes, I know I'm a grammar pedant. And an anorak. And possibly even have too much time on my hands. But the English language is such a beautiful thing it seems a pity to allow sloppiness to ruin it.
Everything I was taught when I started out as a journalist now seems to be forgotten - and Samuel Pepys was a damned good lecturer.
For example, I was always told that despite its constant erroneous usage, the word 'myriad' is an adjective not a noun. For years I have subbed out 'a myriad of' to be replaced by simply 'myriad'.
Now, dictionaries are listing myriad as a noun, as well as an adjective, so common has the error become. And I'm not happy about it.
Likewise the constant use of 'try and' instead of 'try to' which is almost always the correct form. Some of the worst offenders are presenters and reporters on the BBC, who, quite simply, should know better.
And the same can also be said for broadcasters' use of 'due to' instead of 'because of' (or 'owing to') when not modifying a noun.
My first editor would turn in his grave; if he were dead that is . . . which he isn't. He lives on the Isle of Wight, which may be considered the same thing.
Yes, I know I'm a grammar pedant. And an anorak. And possibly even have too much time on my hands. But the English language is such a beautiful thing it seems a pity to allow sloppiness to ruin it.
*This rant can be considered an application for the BBC's excellent Grumpy Old Men
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Naval chief can handle choppy waters
The Ladies PGA Tour sailed into some choppy waters last year when it attempted to introduce a 'mandatory English language' rule, almost certainly to placate sponsors.
Amid accusations of xenophobia, the powers-that-be relented and the Koreans - for that was in effect at whom the change was aimed - stayed on tour and continue to win majors.
Now, following the resignation of LPGA commissioner Carolyn Bivens, the new acting commissioner is Rear Admiral Marsha J Evans, US Navy (retd).
The board's chairman, Dawn Hudson, insisted they wanted somebody with "experience of leading a large organisation" . . . and they certainly have that.
Perhaps they're fearing some more choppy waters, for the US Military is hardly renowned for its tolerance towards foreign nationals . . .
Amid accusations of xenophobia, the powers-that-be relented and the Koreans - for that was in effect at whom the change was aimed - stayed on tour and continue to win majors.
Now, following the resignation of LPGA commissioner Carolyn Bivens, the new acting commissioner is Rear Admiral Marsha J Evans, US Navy (retd).
The board's chairman, Dawn Hudson, insisted they wanted somebody with "experience of leading a large organisation" . . . and they certainly have that.
Perhaps they're fearing some more choppy waters, for the US Military is hardly renowned for its tolerance towards foreign nationals . . .
No pleasing some people
Golf fans - and golf writers - are a difficult breed to please.
When Tiger Woods was winning everything - before he admitted his leg was busted and gave everybody the psychological boost they needed, before taking it away again by saying he'd won the US Open with it - people were bemoaning his dominance saying it wasn't good for the sport.
'Where are all the other challengers?' the pundits mused. 'His dominance is ruining golf' they claimed.
Fast forward 10 months and followers of the women's game, particularly in the US, are upset for the opposite reason: there's no dominant woman - primarily there's no dominant woman, or even emerging woman, to whom the US public can lay claim.
After 23-year-old South Korean Eun Hee Ji took the US Women's Open title on Sunday, critics in the US started bemoaning the fact that 16 different players had won the last 17 majors, with only world number Lorena Ochoa winning twice.
What really rankles one would imagine is that only eight of the last 37 major championships have been won by an American.
Surely the competition is great for the sport? One only has to look at Premiership football to realise how dull and uninteresting a sport can become if its front-runners are already determined before the start of the campaign.
In the last few years more focus has been on the bottom end of the table where the excitement and unpredictability is riveting.
Personally, if 16 different players had won the last 17 men's majors I'd be overjoyed - not least because chances are my Paddy Power account wouldn't look quite so bleak...
When Tiger Woods was winning everything - before he admitted his leg was busted and gave everybody the psychological boost they needed, before taking it away again by saying he'd won the US Open with it - people were bemoaning his dominance saying it wasn't good for the sport.
'Where are all the other challengers?' the pundits mused. 'His dominance is ruining golf' they claimed.
Fast forward 10 months and followers of the women's game, particularly in the US, are upset for the opposite reason: there's no dominant woman - primarily there's no dominant woman, or even emerging woman, to whom the US public can lay claim.
After 23-year-old South Korean Eun Hee Ji took the US Women's Open title on Sunday, critics in the US started bemoaning the fact that 16 different players had won the last 17 majors, with only world number Lorena Ochoa winning twice.
What really rankles one would imagine is that only eight of the last 37 major championships have been won by an American.
Surely the competition is great for the sport? One only has to look at Premiership football to realise how dull and uninteresting a sport can become if its front-runners are already determined before the start of the campaign.
In the last few years more focus has been on the bottom end of the table where the excitement and unpredictability is riveting.
Personally, if 16 different players had won the last 17 men's majors I'd be overjoyed - not least because chances are my Paddy Power account wouldn't look quite so bleak...
Monday, July 13, 2009
The hair and now
Before Billy Connolly became a sort of eccentric British travel ambassador you may recall he was a stand-up comic - possibly the best in the country at his peak.
I always remember a routine he did, after seeing a new product advertised, about shampoo which contained jojoba.
"Ho-ho-ba? What the f*** is ho-ho-ba?" he exclaimed before going off on one of his legendary rants.
I recalled this routine just this morning while taking my shower, as my wife has purchased a shower gel containing 'essential oils' of patchouli and ylang ylang.
I tried to imagine that wonderful Glaswegian accent yelling "Ylang ylang? What the f*** is ylang ylang..."
It wasn't easy, for while I have an MP3-style memory for accents with snippets that lodge in my brain, it's much harder to imagine the originator saying something which I don't even know how to pronounce.
But what struck me more than anything is how much of a nanny state we now live in. Even our shampoos and shower gel tell us now how some of its constituent parts are 'essential'.
Well I'm sorry, I might just want to live life on the edge. I might want to be non-conformist. What I want in my shampoo is non-essential oils, so I can get the thrill of risking my follicles: say, rapeseed oil, or maybe Castrol GTX.
Let's face it, what are the chances of me turning to my loved ones on my death bed and saying: "My one regret in life is that I didn't put more ylang ylang oil in my hair ..."
I always remember a routine he did, after seeing a new product advertised, about shampoo which contained jojoba.
"Ho-ho-ba? What the f*** is ho-ho-ba?" he exclaimed before going off on one of his legendary rants.
I recalled this routine just this morning while taking my shower, as my wife has purchased a shower gel containing 'essential oils' of patchouli and ylang ylang.
I tried to imagine that wonderful Glaswegian accent yelling "Ylang ylang? What the f*** is ylang ylang..."
It wasn't easy, for while I have an MP3-style memory for accents with snippets that lodge in my brain, it's much harder to imagine the originator saying something which I don't even know how to pronounce.
But what struck me more than anything is how much of a nanny state we now live in. Even our shampoos and shower gel tell us now how some of its constituent parts are 'essential'.
Well I'm sorry, I might just want to live life on the edge. I might want to be non-conformist. What I want in my shampoo is non-essential oils, so I can get the thrill of risking my follicles: say, rapeseed oil, or maybe Castrol GTX.
Let's face it, what are the chances of me turning to my loved ones on my death bed and saying: "My one regret in life is that I didn't put more ylang ylang oil in my hair ..."
Monday, July 06, 2009
Genetically-modified TV
I did not imagine, even in my wildest nightmares, that the current fad for all things 80s would see a return to our screens of that Lycra-clad loon Mr Motivator.
He certainly motivates me to do something but I don't think he would approve - though his dentist might appreciate the work. EVERYBODY SAY AAAH!
I detest the sight of Brits - albeit in this case a Jamaican-born Brit - as pseudo Americans, with all the "let me hear ya say yeah!" and constant whooping and hollering. What's more the sight of it over the breakfast table is enough to make me choke on my Fruit and Fibre.
However, Mr M is not the worst of it currently. He has been joined on GMTV by Deanne Berry who looks great but sounds like somebody pulling a cheese grater over a blackboard.
If there's one thing worse than a Jamaican-born pseudo American fitness guru it's a whining Aussie pseudo American fitness guru. Whoo! Yeah!
Berry rose to prominence by appearing as a fitness instructor in the video for Eric Prydz's hit Call on Me in 2004. She was great in that because she had no dialogue. Hats off to the video's producer who knew what he or she was doing. More fool GMTV for giving her voice.
But what should we expect from GMTV? When it was first launched as TVam 26 years ago, it was seen as a serious rival to the BBC's Breakfast-Time. Now it's not even a serious rival to CBeebies.
As a hack, one has to feel sorry for journalists like John Stapleton and Richard Gaisford who are often sent out to report on one of the genuinely important news stories of the day only to be cut short by Emma Crosby - the non-thinking man's Kelly Brook - who wants to fawn over a boy band or an actor from a US teen show.
"I'm sorry, we're unable to hear any more about the nuclear explosion which has just taken place on the Bakerloo line because somebody you've never heard of, who is set to appear in a film you'll never see, was prepared to give up five minutes at last night's Los Angeles premiere to talk to Carla Romana (somebody you wish you'd never heard of)."
I console myself with the thought that Stapleton, Gaisford and the rest of the 'news' team are planning a Great Escape-style breakout, tunnelling their way through to a 24-hour news channel which will allow them to give full details of the breaking story without interruption from OK!TV and the latest on the Peter Andre/Jordan break-up.
I see it now: the veteran Stapleton pleading with the rest of the team. "Take me with you - I can still see a proper news story!"
Tragedy strikes and the tunnel comes up short. Gaisford turns to his colleagues and says: "Right chaps, we're left with no choice. We have to make a run for it in the clearing and join Channel 5."
"Channel 5?" They respond in horror.
"Calm down chaps. It's not ideal but at least we won't have to put up with Mr bloody Motivator every morning. Who's with me?"
He certainly motivates me to do something but I don't think he would approve - though his dentist might appreciate the work. EVERYBODY SAY AAAH!
I detest the sight of Brits - albeit in this case a Jamaican-born Brit - as pseudo Americans, with all the "let me hear ya say yeah!" and constant whooping and hollering. What's more the sight of it over the breakfast table is enough to make me choke on my Fruit and Fibre.
However, Mr M is not the worst of it currently. He has been joined on GMTV by Deanne Berry who looks great but sounds like somebody pulling a cheese grater over a blackboard.
If there's one thing worse than a Jamaican-born pseudo American fitness guru it's a whining Aussie pseudo American fitness guru. Whoo! Yeah!
Berry rose to prominence by appearing as a fitness instructor in the video for Eric Prydz's hit Call on Me in 2004. She was great in that because she had no dialogue. Hats off to the video's producer who knew what he or she was doing. More fool GMTV for giving her voice.
But what should we expect from GMTV? When it was first launched as TVam 26 years ago, it was seen as a serious rival to the BBC's Breakfast-Time. Now it's not even a serious rival to CBeebies.
As a hack, one has to feel sorry for journalists like John Stapleton and Richard Gaisford who are often sent out to report on one of the genuinely important news stories of the day only to be cut short by Emma Crosby - the non-thinking man's Kelly Brook - who wants to fawn over a boy band or an actor from a US teen show.
"I'm sorry, we're unable to hear any more about the nuclear explosion which has just taken place on the Bakerloo line because somebody you've never heard of, who is set to appear in a film you'll never see, was prepared to give up five minutes at last night's Los Angeles premiere to talk to Carla Romana (somebody you wish you'd never heard of)."
I console myself with the thought that Stapleton, Gaisford and the rest of the 'news' team are planning a Great Escape-style breakout, tunnelling their way through to a 24-hour news channel which will allow them to give full details of the breaking story without interruption from OK!TV and the latest on the Peter Andre/Jordan break-up.
I see it now: the veteran Stapleton pleading with the rest of the team. "Take me with you - I can still see a proper news story!"
Tragedy strikes and the tunnel comes up short. Gaisford turns to his colleagues and says: "Right chaps, we're left with no choice. We have to make a run for it in the clearing and join Channel 5."
"Channel 5?" They respond in horror.
"Calm down chaps. It's not ideal but at least we won't have to put up with Mr bloody Motivator every morning. Who's with me?"
Photographers, photographers, photographers...
For years now Colin Montgomerie has been Europe's Ryder Cup talisman. Let's hope Ian Poulter can take on that mantle, for he sure seems determined to take over Monty's status as the grumpiest man in golf.
OK, an inexperienced snapper took pictures in his downswing; we accept that's off-putting. OK he shouldn't have done it; but for heaven's sake get over it. His post-final round interview was cringeworthy.
Poulter could do worse than to look at his contemporaries in tennis - there the world's top players are constantly being photographed but they are so focussed it makes no difference to them.
They are also gracious in defeat despite being clearly upset - or at least Andy Roddick is.
In his post-Wimbledon final interview he admitted how disappointed he was and how strong his opponent, Roger Federer, had been. He didn't complain about the surface, the photographers, the crowd interruptions - which are starting to become unacceptable - or the quality of the Robinson's Barley Water.
He gave his best, came second and took it on the chin. Ian Poulter take note.
OK, an inexperienced snapper took pictures in his downswing; we accept that's off-putting. OK he shouldn't have done it; but for heaven's sake get over it. His post-final round interview was cringeworthy.
Poulter could do worse than to look at his contemporaries in tennis - there the world's top players are constantly being photographed but they are so focussed it makes no difference to them.
They are also gracious in defeat despite being clearly upset - or at least Andy Roddick is.
In his post-Wimbledon final interview he admitted how disappointed he was and how strong his opponent, Roger Federer, had been. He didn't complain about the surface, the photographers, the crowd interruptions - which are starting to become unacceptable - or the quality of the Robinson's Barley Water.
He gave his best, came second and took it on the chin. Ian Poulter take note.
Taking Sport to the Masses
Back when Peter Alliss was taking golf to the masses via the BBC's Pro-Celebrity Golf, the sport was considered elitist - very much for the middle and upper classes.
It had been that way for some time; for example, PG Wodehouse wrote 97 books - according to Wikipedia anyway, which also states he was Marilyn Monroe's father and the first man to sail down the Thames wearing nothing more than a flat cap - and while golf featured regularly in the outings of the minor aristocracy, the likes of football or boxing only merited a mention when one of the major characters ventured into the seedier parts of East London.
For most of the 20th century, sports such as football and boxing were the preserve of the working classes; the middle classes satisfied themselves with cricket, golf and tennis - co-incidentally primarily non-contact sports.
Actually being in physical contact with another person was obviously beneath those who would only engage in such shenanigans in the comfort of the maid's own room.
But times changed: thanks to Alliss and the success of Tony Jacklin's Ryder Cup team in the 80s, golf suddenly became attractive to everybody; the sight of Chris Evert's well-turned calves and the bad-boy antics of John McEnroe, increased the popularity of tennis; and while Ian Botham is hardly a working-class icon, his pot-smoking and other off-field antics certainly endeared him to a new generation of fans, as an old-school tie was no longer deemed a prerequisite for a career in first-class cricket.
But the popularity of all these sports became a double-edged sword in the 90s - and the blade now cuts even deeper as the 21st century's second decade looms over the horizon.
The satellite broadcaster Sky threw money at football in England and the sport broke through a fiscal glass ceiling. Other sports saw the potential and wanted a piece of the action - and with a knowing grin Sky acquiesced.
Prawn sandwiches (copyright Roy Keane) became de rigueur at football instead of Bovril and Wagon Wheels and, as players' salaries increased to ludicrous levels, ticket prices were hiked accordingly, meaning it was no longer the working man's sport.
Now, if you want to watch almost any live sport you have to subscribe to Sky Sports, which, in theory at least, means that most sports are now the preserve of those with plenty of disposable income.
Which begs the question, how come you see more satellite dishes in the narrow terraced streets of Liverpool, Wolverhampton and Portsmouth than in the leafy suburbs of Esher?
Answers on a postcard please . . . or alternatively as a comment below. I'd be fascinated to know.
It had been that way for some time; for example, PG Wodehouse wrote 97 books - according to Wikipedia anyway, which also states he was Marilyn Monroe's father and the first man to sail down the Thames wearing nothing more than a flat cap - and while golf featured regularly in the outings of the minor aristocracy, the likes of football or boxing only merited a mention when one of the major characters ventured into the seedier parts of East London.
For most of the 20th century, sports such as football and boxing were the preserve of the working classes; the middle classes satisfied themselves with cricket, golf and tennis - co-incidentally primarily non-contact sports.
Actually being in physical contact with another person was obviously beneath those who would only engage in such shenanigans in the comfort of the maid's own room.
But times changed: thanks to Alliss and the success of Tony Jacklin's Ryder Cup team in the 80s, golf suddenly became attractive to everybody; the sight of Chris Evert's well-turned calves and the bad-boy antics of John McEnroe, increased the popularity of tennis; and while Ian Botham is hardly a working-class icon, his pot-smoking and other off-field antics certainly endeared him to a new generation of fans, as an old-school tie was no longer deemed a prerequisite for a career in first-class cricket.
But the popularity of all these sports became a double-edged sword in the 90s - and the blade now cuts even deeper as the 21st century's second decade looms over the horizon.
The satellite broadcaster Sky threw money at football in England and the sport broke through a fiscal glass ceiling. Other sports saw the potential and wanted a piece of the action - and with a knowing grin Sky acquiesced.
Prawn sandwiches (copyright Roy Keane) became de rigueur at football instead of Bovril and Wagon Wheels and, as players' salaries increased to ludicrous levels, ticket prices were hiked accordingly, meaning it was no longer the working man's sport.
Now, if you want to watch almost any live sport you have to subscribe to Sky Sports, which, in theory at least, means that most sports are now the preserve of those with plenty of disposable income.
Which begs the question, how come you see more satellite dishes in the narrow terraced streets of Liverpool, Wolverhampton and Portsmouth than in the leafy suburbs of Esher?
Answers on a postcard please . . . or alternatively as a comment below. I'd be fascinated to know.
Success v Personality - A Difficult Choice
I'm pretty eclectic when it comes to following sport.
Obviously, as I spend a lot of time working in golf, I'm a keen golfer. Football - the European variety as opposed to Gridiron - is another one which gets my juices flowing.
But of course, at the moment, the whole country's only interested in the 'I can't believe it's not real' tennis variety - the one at Wimbledon.
And watching Andy Murray's progress through to the semi-final had me feeling a little sorry for Tim Henman - not an emotion I ever thought I'd feel. It's a fair bet that the surly Scot will achieve more in his career than Tiger Tim did. If he goes on to win Wimbledon this week, the bookies will stop taking bets on the winner of the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award. And that's somewhat ironic, for Murray makes Henman look like Timmy Mallett.
He is devoid of any personality and must make the BBC sports interviewers long for the chance to ask the taciturn Gordon Strachan for a 'quick word' - "velocity" was the then Saints' manager's whimsical response.
What a trade-off we have to make for sporting success in this country - if we want to win something we have to endure a non-personality (Nigel Mansell); or we can put up with being a popular second and maintain the slapstick traditions of the British pantomime (Frank Bruno).
It's a tough choice and if Murray falls at the semi-final stage we won't yet have to make it.
"C'MON TIM!"
Obviously, as I spend a lot of time working in golf, I'm a keen golfer. Football - the European variety as opposed to Gridiron - is another one which gets my juices flowing.
But of course, at the moment, the whole country's only interested in the 'I can't believe it's not real' tennis variety - the one at Wimbledon.
And watching Andy Murray's progress through to the semi-final had me feeling a little sorry for Tim Henman - not an emotion I ever thought I'd feel. It's a fair bet that the surly Scot will achieve more in his career than Tiger Tim did. If he goes on to win Wimbledon this week, the bookies will stop taking bets on the winner of the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award. And that's somewhat ironic, for Murray makes Henman look like Timmy Mallett.
He is devoid of any personality and must make the BBC sports interviewers long for the chance to ask the taciturn Gordon Strachan for a 'quick word' - "velocity" was the then Saints' manager's whimsical response.
What a trade-off we have to make for sporting success in this country - if we want to win something we have to endure a non-personality (Nigel Mansell); or we can put up with being a popular second and maintain the slapstick traditions of the British pantomime (Frank Bruno).
It's a tough choice and if Murray falls at the semi-final stage we won't yet have to make it.
"C'MON TIM!"
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