In a rare moment of peace, before the postie arrives; the washing on the line; the weans on the wii, I caught up with some reading from the days when we were away and I had switched off, to some extent. I’ll spare you more of the SevcoStuff, more as it is a moveable feast and seems to be at a stage, before the season opens this weekend, of see who blinks first. No, better than that, in the aftermath of Andy Murray at Wimbers, have a read at this one. And continue reading into the Daily Mail article featured and on to the posted comments.
It occurs too that we should be sparing a thought or two for our sportsmen and women, before the beanfeast kicks off and the country descends further into financial oblivion. For it was quite a weekend wasn’t it?
Bradley Wiggins, peddaling furiously up the Champs Elysee in his yellow jersey, yellow helmet and on his yellow bike. It really was a staggering achievement.
Hashim Amla, 311 not out, at The Oval, against England’s finest, the world’s top team. I didn’t realise that he’s still only 20 years old, for he seems to have been around for ages. Give it time, for he undoubtedly will be. And Jacques Kallis – quite possibly the greatest all-rounder of all time. Looking forward to Headingley. Will England manage more than two wickets? I expect so, but the full 20?
And still on cricket we have Richie Berrington. Who? I hear you ask. Well he’s just the 7th man in the world to score an international hundred in the short form of the game. And he did so with a saltire on his chest, representing Scotland in their first ever win against a test-ranked side, Bangladesh no less. Now it’s only the 20 over thrash stuff, though that’s where the Bengalis are ranked at No 4 in the world, and not real cricket, but it’s an achievement to be applauded. I might even overlook the fact that he’s a South African and shouldn’t be anywhere near a thistle. For I don’t agree with that ‘qualified on residence grounds’ stuff, no matter what sport, no matter what country. You are who you are, born from your stock and in the place you were born. If you can’t get a game for those teams there should be no route to others, whether your name is Pietersen, Trott or Berrington, to name but a few.
Anyway, sporting achievement it was I think. As well as the cycling from Paris and the cricket from London, the screens were filled with other sports, or they were at Granny’s house for she’s the one with the satellite service, and we could flick back and forwards to the gowf, as they call it down the road from here, and watch the anti-climax that was The Open. It’s not often you watch the winning putt going in without knowing that it is actually soon to be the winning putt. But an implosion on the final holes is no stranger to the fairways, and it was gripping viewing in the wrong sort of a way.
And the GP drivers were strutting their stuff, as I was reminded when the golfers ensured the sponsors’ logos were in place for the interviews, revealing two-tone foreheads from a life of flogging two square inches above the eyes for media cash. Which reminded me of racing drivers somehow.
Ah, you’re in luck, for there’s the post van outside, and a wean at the door demanding a snack. And the sun’s shining too. Need to go.