SIR ALEX AND ARSENE

So Sir Alex Ferguson breaks his seven-year vow of silence and agrees to chat to the BBC, nobly ending the famous seven year rift. Hats off to Mark Thompson. According to The Guardian, the BBC Director-General went to Manchester in person to seek an audience with the great man. Wonderful father, husband and trophy-winner he may be, but Ferguson is notoriously thin-skinned and prickly with the wrong sections of the media. The BBC, in his book, goofed inexcusably in 2004 with the screening of Fergie and Son, a documentary looking at transfer shenanigans and pointing the finger at his boy Jason in what was “a horrible attack on my son’s honour”. No post-match MOTD utterances since, the nation and football’s loss, having to make do with the mighty Mike Phelan.



It’s difficult to get too excited about Thompson’s coup. Man who presides over era of cutbacks and dumbing down at temple of broadcasting cuts deal with bolshy, tantrum-prone football boss who is, frankly, old enough to know better. Can Thompson now sort out Syria?

With nervous MOTD hacks now in line to quiz the maestro, can we expectsome probing off-pitch stuff about bedroom antics that went wrong? "The lad Giggs is stilll a champion shagger..."   Methinks not. I for one would like to know what Sir Alex, the man from Clydeside who backed the Miner’s Strike, makes of the disturbing, stratospheric salaries on offer at rivals Manchester City. But Ferguson, like others, has been disappointingly supine in confronting football’s culture of excess and selfishness. Perhaps someone out there could set up ‘Fergie nd Fergie’, handing over interview duties to the Duchess of York, another public figure much-maligned by the media who could bring out her namesake’s more cuddly side.


In a perfect world, Ferguson would have gone before the BBC’s intrepid mike-wielder after a humbling home defeat. But life isn’t like that. In fairness, there was no crowing or hurling of pizzas afterthe 8-2 demolition of Arsenal's Second XI, , but some quite kind and gracious stuff about injuries and Arsene Wenger being a worthy adversary. But what odds another bad mood Fergie moment before Xmas?

I have greeted previous Arsenal disasters with smug relish. Particularly fun were the shaming FA Cup exits at York City (1985) and Wrexham (1992), ‘Nayim from the half-way line’ and the League Cup meltdown against Luton in 1988. I meanly punched the air in celebration after Tony Adams was sent down for drink-driving. Then again, I did see Crystal Palace go in 1-4 down at Highbury on the first day ofthe 1990s. Those days of Arsenl-baiting and hating are long gone. It would be unseemly now to empty the salt cellar into open wounds . Sort it out, Arsene.

MCJ IS NO CMJ

It's always a relief to rediscover a lost copy of Marcus Berkmann's The Rainmen and feel again that instant kinship with cricket-watchers from an era long before England's over-hyped climb to the cricketing summit. Berkmann's book is brutally, but beautifully nostalgic. You can almost hear 'Soul Limbo' by Booker T and the MGs bursting out as he reminds you of the mid-order collapses and routine pastings that haunted English cricket and the BBC's men at the mike who documented all this.

Overbearing Test Match Special devotees always made a point of turning down the TV commentary and pumping up Arlott, Johnston, Swanton, Trueman et al as a point of principle. I am still fairly happy in the company of the their TMS successors, Aggers, Tuffers and naughty but nice Blowers, but do miss some of the TV stalwarts, loving recalled by Bekmann. It's difficult to remember that Jim Laker is 25 years in the grave. I now wince at the bile I directed at the largely harmless, and also long departed,  dome-headed Peter West, but must concur with Uncle Marcus that Jack Bannister was (and still is?) dismally dreary, so too 'Lord' Ted Dexter. 

Sky subscribers can now get all the cricket they want and more, but what the discerning cricket lover, bound by terrestrial constraints, surely wants, is a well-delivered TV highlights package. In the past, this was there, fronted by Richie Benaud, still without peer as a sharp, judicious summariser who tells it like it is. In days of yore, the BBC offered us late night Richie,  the perfect way to round off a night's viewing, particularly if you hadn't followed the days's play and knew nothing of the score.

Sad to say, Channel Five's early evening round-up falls horribly short of Benaud's standards.
The music is truly horrid.  Some years back, Channel Five (or was it Channel Four then?) went for Lou Bega's Mambo Number Five  as its theme music.  Better than Chihuahua perhaps, but I thought this was a paen to tropical bonking, "a little Sandra in the sun...a little Mary all night long" etc, not really what you want when the covers are being brought on again at Trent Bridge. 

Today, we are reminded that "The Time is Now", a message relayed at begining and end, while  trailing and closing the interminable ad breaks, which are full of plodding sponsor plugs and other drivel. Some late night Googling suggests this may be the work of Russell (or Russ??) Ballard, a soft rocker whose efforts have been recorded by Rainbow, the Bay City  Rollers and Frida from Abba. Anyone remember the Phil Collins-produced 'Something going On'?

Viewing figures are on the up, topping 1.5 million, but the message boards are alive with angry punters complaining about the bad timing and serious online deficiencies. Vaughan, Boycott and Hughes are all fine up to a point. It is mein host, M.C.J. Nicholas  you want to hurl bumpers or beamers at. As a CF malcontent pointed out: 'the camera clearly loves him and the relationship is clearly reciprocal'.  

I tend to agree. I would rather have a hail and hearty Peter West welcoming me to the proceedings than oleagnious Mark. I hesitate to use such a big adjective, but the dictionary offers: smarmy, unctuous and fawning, which seems to sum up MCJ's presentational qualities all too well.  I am sure he was a fine skipper of Hampshire,  although one recalls his appointment triggering the departure of county veteran pro Trevor Jesty, who moaned about the committee's preference for a posh schoolboy with too many initials over his own claims to the capaincy. Sour grapes, Trev, but you may have had a point.

MY KIND OF PRINCE

It was all rather downplayed and overlooked amidst the fuss over phone hacking, but spare a thought or two for 'Airmiles Andy', dropped and sidelined, no longer 'Special Envoy' for British industry. Where were the lavish tributes from export titans and other heavy hitters? Nicholas Witchell, normally reliably wet and sycophantic on matters royal, contributed a rather bitchy look back at Andy's role. There was snide reference elsewhere to unfortunate friendships and Jeffrey Epstein not being the kind of guy a roving prince should hang out with.

Perhaps the wrong chap for the wrong job? It must be said that quizzed on his role batting for Britain, Andrew did tend to glaze over. You got the impression his heart might not really be in flogging missile systems to potentates or whatever he did. Never mind. I'm sure there are plenty of other openings out there. Perhaps a directorship of a strip club franchise, or a more active role at Norwich City, too much foreign travel having prevented regular attendance at Carrow Road.

While even hardened republicans may concede that the Queen is pretty good at her job, that Charles, albeit in a rather batty way, cares about the planet and Anne has more than done her stuff for Save the Children and other noble causes, the gloves tend to come off when it comes to the younger princes. What can be said in Prince Edward's favour? At least he had the nouse to quit the Marines in the face of his father's contempt and appears to be more naff than nasty. And as for Andy....

Born in 1960, Andrew was the first son born to a reigning monarch in 100 years. For years, wicked tongues have wagged, suggesting he was the product of a tryst between Her Majesty and Harry Porchester, manager ofthe Queen's racing stable. Inexplicably, Prince Phillip made little reference to this in his recent round of 90th birthday interviews.

Long before Harry did his stuff in Afghanistan, Andrew was in a helicopter over the Falklands, part of his 20-year career in the Royal Navy. But even then, the Press always went for the 'Randy Andy' angle, rather than the 'Helicopter Hero'. My favourite punch-line to off-colour royal joke:
"the Argies couldn't blow up Andy 's chopper".

It is fair to say that the 'chopper' in question has seen quite a bit of active service,prompting suggestions that Andy was more interested in trophy escorts that UK exports. Year ago, there was Vicki Hodge, older and naughtier, one time star of 'Confessions of a Sex Maniac'. Better remembered is Koo Stark, who has battled breast cancer and bankruptcy in recent years and sounds to have been ill-treated by the Royals. There has been a Bond girl or two, a Cadbury's Flake model, Robert Maxwell's daughter. Rock diva Courtney Love said Andrew knocked on her door, but to no avail.

Andy may be a double-chinned playboy, but he also seemes to be a devoted dad and a stout friend to the wayward, but unforgettable Fergie, whose goals come in hat-tricks.

I have never met a Royal, but did once attend a rather dour event hosted by Anne, which involved skipping lunch in recognition of gloval hunger. I can't see that being Andrew's kind of caper. But I can imagine a night on the town with him, on th back of some boring export promotion gig. . "Where's the totty round here?" he would enquire and we would head off to a 'Pimps and Hookers' party across town, the booze flowing freely, the conversation getting ever more louche and indiscreet, while Andy assured me I was a "bloody good bloke". You are too,sir. Trebles all round.

ANORAK ATTACK - WAS BEEFY THE BUSINESS?

Cricket lovers have a lot of anniversaries to choose from in 2011. Much has already been made of Graham Gooch’s doggedly magnificent century against the Windies in 1991, which helped England to their first home win since 1969 against opponents just beginning to lose their sheen. Australians will remember Richie Benaud (oh so missed when Channel Five give us the smarmy Mark Nicholas) spinning Australia to victory in 1961. In retaliation, there was Illingworth’s Ashes victory Down Under, 1970-71.

But inevitably, most of the attention has gone to 1981, year of Royal Wedding, Toxteth, Ricky Villa at Wembley, Aldaniti’s epic Grand National Victory, ‘Ghosttown’ (and ‘Japanese Boy’) and this writer’s twin failures: to secure a place at Oxford University and lose his virginity to a Swedish engineering student and Beatles/Bowie fan on a ferry to Crete.

But inevitably, much of the focus has been on ‘Beefy’s Ashes’, how a bearded I.T.Botham, still only 25, stripped of the captaincy after a double duck at Lords (bowled by slow left armer Ray Bright in the second innings, ouch) blasted his way back, helped by shrink and guru Mike Brearley. The rest everybody knows: “Botham bats like Jessop” to make 149 at Headingley, the prelude to an amazing Bob Willis demolition; Botham given ball at Edgebaston and cleans up with five wickets for one run; Botham goes on the rampage at Old Trafford, quick-fire, pugnacious ton off Lillee and company after crowd treated to warm-up act of Tavare and Boycott crawling along at 1.5 runs an over.

The BBC documentary, “Botham: the Legend of ‘81” was predictably reverential, but quite good in parts. Contemporaries, notably a still chippy Bob Willis, long without those fabulous locks, Viv Richards, Joel Garner, David Gower and Mike Brearley were all up for it. It would have been good to have something from Geoff Boycott or Brian Close. Peter Roebuck, the enemy of Taunton, was also missing, but this was maybe not the time or place.

Botham’s other biographer, the languid Simon Wilde, was fair enough, but the non-cricketing pundits brought little but clichés, cod analysis and drooling schoolboy hero worship. Pick of the bunch was Elton John, who clearly knows the man, even if one winced at all that "he was James Dean...Marlon Brando" stuff. I would rather lend my Playfair annuals to Elton John than Mick Jagger, whose love of cricket has always seemed as much an affectation as as his love of the Blues. "He was a real anti-establishment hero", said the Street-fighting knight. Takes one to know one, Mick. Botham is a good Tory, I suspect. It would surely be more entertaining to meet the un-knighted Keef in the Long Room. The ubiquitous Stephen Fry was over-indulged as always and wholly surplus to requirements. So too were most of the accompanying pop tracks: “Starman” by David Bowie (1972, when Botham was in Somerset Second XI), Blondies’s unmemorable ‘Atomic’ (1980, when our man and team-mates were losing to the Windies).

To my shame, John Major’s over-professed love of cricket, tea-time chats with Jonners, spotted on camera looking studious at The Oval etc, has softened my contempt for the man, but I think we have heard enough from this quarter. “It was a miracle like Dunkirk”, gushed John. “What Botham did really lifted the nation”. I’m not sure all those hooked sixes and Aussie batting collapses meant all that much to the hundreds of thousands unemployed, John. It was the Falklands Factor, not the Botham Factor that saved Maggie at the polls. I’d still be curious to know if Major and Edwina Currie were tuned into Test Match Special on while getting it on, but that’s just me. Nothing from Tim Hudson, the man who saw Ian Botham storming Hollywood, one of many king-sized prats to attach themselves to the great game and its icons.
On the credit side, Botham’s wife and kids were good value. The man’s marching campaign against leukemia was moving and well told. I could have done with a bit more former Miss Barbados, broken beds and dope-smoking, plus his infamous take on Pakistan as “the kind of place you’d send your mother-in-law on holiday”, but no matter. At least we didn’t Ian in panto, angling or playing football for Scunthorpe.
On the pitch, we did get hints of the disappointments that came later. A journalist friend, less-than-charmed by a declining cricket champion during a terse, unrevealing phone interview, commented acidly that “most of Botham’s highlights in recent years have been in his hair”. The haircuts did get pretty horrible at times. Mercifully, the man who smote the Aussies in ’81 had a solid yeoman look; the blonde mullet came later.
As for the cricket…Botham rated his century at Brisbane in 86/87 as more important than anything in 1981. In truth, there was not much thereafter. Injury took its toll after 1987. International appearances dried up. There was the odd cameo in the 1992 World Cup, plus some old-fashioned Aussie-bashing for lack of respect for the monarchy, but as in previous tournaments (1979, 1983 etc), the Botham input was modest as it always was in international one-day cricket. Critics (cynics?) point out that many of the best-known Botham heroics came against lesser teams. He destroyed a post-Packer Pakistan 2nd XI in 1978 and the 1981 Aussies, led by Kim Hughes not Greg Chappell, were not overburdened with stars, although Allan Border was fast-emerging. Botham may be held in great regard by Richards and Garner, but his record against the Windies in their pomp was decidedly poor.
I’m still a bit unconvinced. I only saw Botham in action twice. Brought in for n early one-day match in 1976 against Lloyd, Richards, Holding and co, Botham was carted out of Edgebaston by Gordon Greenidge. Two years later, Botham made 80 against Sussex in the Gillette Cup Final and had a quick burst of wickets, looking a straightforward bet for Man of the Match. But that honour went to Paul Parker, who steered Sussex to a comfortable victory. Parker played only one Test for England, appearing at The Oval in the last match of Botham’s summer.

SO HURT BY HELEN

It takes time to adjust to the end of another 'Apprentice' series. For reasons too complicated to mention, I have only managed to watch two of these epic, three-month battles and rather wish I had seen more. A poisoned left food and doctor's orders to do nothing too arduous enabled me to see ALL of 2009's offerings, the Year of Jasmina, big-mouthed 'Pantsman' Phillip, sinister Deborah, Sandhurst Ben et al, even tuning into Five Live for the day after expulsion interviews. A shopping expedition to Aylesbury was redeemed by an invaluable, cut-price complation of series past, so I can refer knowingly to 'The Badger' and other stuff.

Ths year it all seemms a bit anti-climactic and pallid. Must admit that, even as a golfaphobe, Darren Clarke's triumph at Sandwich meant a wee bit more than Lord Sugar's wary endorsement of nice but nerdy Tom's Bad Back Chairs. So too did the Murdochs' day out in Westminster.

It was fun but cruel to see Jim run out of cliches and unravel under interrogation. The Eastwood of 'Grand Torino' or 'Dirty Hary' would have fought harder and longer. I will be sure to give winsome Susan a cheery wave should I ever find her flogging exotic soaps and potions at Greenwich Market, but boy was she a pain. But what of Helen? So cool under pressure before, so clear-eyed and focused. Ten wins out of eleven, but her collapse on the last leg was worse than Devon Loch's at Aintree.

Lord Sugar clearly felt let down, so too, one imagines, Helen's friends and family. But the greatest shame and disappointment of all surely fell to Greggs. The finest bakery chain in the land (or in Christendom, I would venture) and she an annointed daughter. But come the hour, come the greatest test of all and what did we get? A half-baked (pun fully intended) life supervision service, seemingly plucked from some fourth-rate American self-improvement manual. Thinking outside the box streamlining the day to day....zzzzzzz.

What we should have had was surely a little Greggsian empire-building and some sound advice to the cash-strapped on how to fill your face for £1.79. All those years working with the company that gave us the Sausage, Beans and Cheese Melt, the awe-inspiring Soup and Sandwich combo, the mighty Tuna Bloomer, plus her own star performances on biscuits and pie n'mash and all we got a was a humiliating, last-ditch attempt to win over critics with a bakery-based Plan B. I was close to tears. Could Helen not have swiped a few secrets (chief assistant to CEO and all that), improvised some recipes (perhaps with inventor Tom) and come up with a GLOBAL range of high carb treats? As a longtime Greggs consumer I would gladly have taken on a consultancy and test piloted a new range of snacks. The mainstays are well-known and reassuringly British. But how about something a bit more Continental? For the savouries, a Wiener Schnitzel, Grueyere and Baked Bean Strudel could be just the ticket, leaving just enough room for a cheekily fattening Fudge Fondant or Marshmallow Mousse?

Waiting for a train at Newcastle, I was tempted by a Greggs Belgian Bun, topped by twinkling cherry. But such a heavenly treat felt wrong in the immediate aftermath of Helen's humbling. But like Gregg's under-rated pastry, she will rise again.

HATS OFF TO HAILEY

Having already rhapsodised about L. Garde du Peach and early Jilly Cooper, time surely to pay long and lavish tribute to Arthur Hailey. Nope, not Alex Haley of 'Roots' fame, but the Luton-born, Bahamas-based writer of "pure entertainment", who left us in 2004, but not before getting his teeth into politics, the newspaper business, drug company shenanigans, the automobile industry, hotels, airports and...international finance, selling millions as he went. Haileyites may row long into the night over which was Arthur's finest hour, but I was more than happy to get reacquainted with 'The Moneychangers', 50p from Cancer Research in Kelso and described as "his best effort" by American Publishers Weekly.

I would certainly have backed that view in 1977, when Hailey offered a more than welcome distraction from Physics homework and David Soul's domination of the singles charts (forget this being the year of Punk). Years before Enron and the Crash of 2008, Arthur gave us banking deals gone badly wrong,takeovers with strings attached, tales of greed and massive misjudgement. In 'The Moneychangers' boardroom breakdowns and dody ccorporate hospitality are complemented by all manner of nastiness on the streets, where the man you don't want to cross is Tony Bear Marino, a one-way glass devotee (never a good sign) with a penchant for "detailed, graphic reports of gangland beatings". Acid-spraying Tony makes Al Pacino's Tony Montana look like Hugh Grant. Hailey also took us into the cells, as debt-ridden, white collar thief Miles goes through a shaming arrest, confession, conviction, gang rape and a homosexual interracial relationship with lifer Karl, before finding redemption and a cure for his impotence ("what should have been a young man's ardent, rigid sword was flaccid, ineffectual") in the arms of forgiving Juanita ("he knew, through her, he had found his manhood once again").

Hailey adapatations were a mixed bag. Dean Martin was a rough-edged pilot in 'Airport' the movie. Rod Talor made a wooden hotel manager in 'Hotel'. Rock Hudson was meant to turn all the girls on in 'Wheels', the Detroit-based car series, with troubled wifr Lee Remick losing it big time, or having about as much fun as she did in 'The Omen'.

The Moneychangers on TV more than passed muster. A young Timothy Bottoms played Miles, one of the better casting decisions. Christopher Plummer was about the right age and managed the right amount of ironic detachment as randy Roscoe, who eventually (spoiler alert) plunges off a building having clocked up huge escort girl charges fooling around with Avril, "like a Greek Goddess in her nudity". Avril, all tumbling red curls and cool seduction in the book, was played by JOAN COLLINS, already in her early forties, pre-Dynasty. But some of the blokes were even more implausible. Kirk Douglas,pushing sixty, appeared as young Alex, the banking hero. Even at 13, I could see there was something not quite right with Kirk's make-up. Surely he could have given this one to Michael.

GONE ON GOOGIE

My memories of 'Within These Walls' are a bit hazy. Early evening on LWT? A little less camp and outrageous than the supremely silly 'Bad Girls'. Did it segue into 'The Professionals' at one point? Doyle and Bodie put away, or take out the bad boys. Sensible Governor Faye Boswell takes care of the errant girls.In a perfect world, she would have hooked up with Cowley, CI5's boss, a Googie-Gordon combo. They must have been of a similar vintage.

I know Withers was in 'The Lady Vanishes' (1938) and was a steady second division star of stage and screen for years. But prison governess roles linger longer in the memory. Obituaries suggested that the Aussie creators of legendary 'Prisoner Cell Block H' wanted Googie to get back in the office and sort out the hard nuts at Wentworth. She declined, leaving the stage free for the fabulous Patsy King to become Erica Davidson, boss to Jim, Vera, Meg and co. Patsy was also classically trained. I know little of her other work, but still dream of her on a regular basis, fantasising that I am sent to Wentworth for skipped deadlines or poor washing up and left in her tender charge. She did brave the London stage, one of a handful of cast originals to grace the deplorable stage production of 'Prisoner' put on at the Dominion in 1989. I had hopes for a post-performance gin-and-tonic with Erica/Patsy afterwards, but the sheer awfulness of the first act provoked a mutiny by my companions and we quit the theatre at half-time.