Stop it, Aggers

I posted the following short message on facebook, and received so many overwhelming offers of support, that I felt obliged to write about sport again, especially as it is the-weekend-when-no-bugger-reads-it.

“As you all know, I pride myself on my physical prowess, but tomorrow on the electric television there are two cricket games five rugby games and two soccer games, and they are just the ones that I want to watch. Any tips on

maintaining stamina during such exertions are welcome.”

Of course I did not enter this lightly. I was well prepared, having watched young Sachin score his celebrated double century this week. I am sympathetic to the views of those who do not allow a Murdoch box into their house, but, well, you missed it, you fools. The only time he came close to getting out was when he ran for a two and was nearly run out – he had already passed 150 by this time and must have been severely knackered. Exquisite shots and perfect timing.

Having completed today’s marathon, (I watched 4 rugby games, 5 if the England qualifies as rugby, a soccer match and last week’s ‘Rugby club’ – I still have a cricket match and the ‘Super 14’ show recorded) I can report that I feel quite well, and ready for another session tomorrow. I am as lithe and supple as I was at the start of the day and I am also able to bring you up to date on the state of the planet’s sport and address some of the issues brought up on facebook.

I wish it were not the case, but the sports coverage on Sky is way better than anything the BBC do. There are a few commentators who are less than satisfactory (Willis, Croft and others) but none as dire as the whining twassock Jonathan Davies. Hugh Bladen, who is a rugby commentator from South Africa, has a voice that sounds like the rusting engine of a 1962 Hillman Minx being dragged slowly across coarse gravel, and his delivery is so monotonous that he makes Bob Willis sound like Gielgud, but he knows how to pronounce the names of the South African players. I defy anyone to hear him say “Doppies La Grange” and not to be aroused, if not actually achieving orgasm. (For those of you not fluent in Afrikaans, La Grange is not pronounced the way you would think). I only truly appreciated how erotic Mr Bladen is when I heard the New Zealand commentator try to get his tongue round La Grange today, missus.

I am sure that there is a strong relationship between the names of the players in the southern hemisphere and their prowess as compared to the current bunch of second rate clowns who adorn the six nations. Bismarck du Plessis, Hosea Gear, Aled de Malmanche, De Kock Steenkamp, Quade Cooper, Israel Dagg, Josevata Rokocoko, Junior Poluleuligaga (he would have passed you three times and scored before you could say his name) and Tendai Mtawarira – these are proper names, worth a ten point advantage before kick off. The French, who are the only decent team in the six nations currently, tried to adopt this tactic, but peaked too soon with Harinordiquy. They couldn’t keep up that standard and now have to resort to names that sound numeric – Trinh-Duc and Dusautoir. The elegantly named Andrew Hore scored a try today that was better than any I have seen from a northern hemisphere player in the six nations this year, and he is a hooker.

Of course, one of the great pleasures in watching the super 14s is to regularly see Australian teams being the worst. This doesn’t happen anywhere else.

Some of my correspondents suggested that I might turn my attention to the Olympics. I believe that they were alluding to the Winter Olympic Games that I believe are being conducted somewhere on the North American continent. Oh dear. Snow and sport do not go together. Most of the “games” involve sliding in one form or another, much of it downhill; yes, you can win a gold medal by being the best at obeying the law of gravity. In the UK we do this once a year – it is called the Cooper’s Hill Cheese Rolling competition. We recognise that there are some people with a morbid interest in falling down hills and paralysing themselves, and provide an annual outlet for this perversion. No one gets any medals for it. I saw, quite by accident, those prize morons Torville and Dean once. I prefer to be non judgemental, as you all know, and recognise that there is no accounting for taste. Some folk like musicals, after all.