Tag: 7 reasons

7 Reasons to be Glad We’re Playing Germany (Again)

It’s been a fraught week at 7 Reasons (.org). First we upgraded the website, then we redesigned the website, then we had a catastrophic failure of the website which left us offline for a day and then we fixed it, and are still tinkering with it to make it more stable. This caused confusion. We didn’t know whose turn it was to post yesterday. So, being diligent, conscientious humourists, we both wrote one. Sadly, we found our inspiration in the same subject. Fortunately though, we both said completely different things so, with apologies to readers in Australia, South Africa and Greece, we’re writing about England versus Germany again today. And possibly on Monday too (we’re a bit excited by it all).

1. The Great Escape. As comedy genius Bob Mills has observed, playing The Great Escape theme at England matches is pointless and out of context. On Sunday though, it could be in context. If we win, we will liberate ourselves from decades of World Cup tyranny at the hands of Germany. It actually could be a great escape. This may be the first match at which hearing The Great Escape played atonally on a trumpet will be meaningful, rather than just primal-scream-inducingly irritating. Then, perhaps, we won’t have to hear it again.

2. 5-1. The spectre of their ignominious defeat will loom large in the German consciousness. When we beat Germany 5-1 in Munich in 2001, Steven Gerrard was the architect of a lot that was good about our performance. And now he’s our captain! That should put the fear of God into them. Also, they can’t be unaware of the popular refrain, “5-1, even Heskey scored”, and Heskey’s in the squad too, so the Germans are at a psychological disadvantage before the game even starts. “Nein nein nein, es ist das Ziel Maschine, Heskey” will be the fearful reaction of the Germans upon his introduction to the game. Gerrard seems really up for it too. On Wednesday he said of the Germany game, “Bring it on!” . Well, he said “Brincchhh ii on”, in a voice so high that it startled dogs – I’ve had it translated.

3. Tyldesley. In commentary on Germany versus Ghana, Clive Tyldesley said, “…it’s a different Germany than we’ve seen in past tournaments”. This is excellent news. If Clive is right – and anyone who’s met a man named Clive will know that Clives are never wrong – this can only be good for us. After all, in past tournaments (except the one where the Russian linesman helped out), the Germany that we’ve seen have knocked us out (often on penalties). Bring on the different Germany!

Fabio Capello: Pictured outside a Little Chef.

4. Beer. Fabio Capello is coming to terms with the new challenges of managing at international tournament level. When we played well in the match against Slovenia…Slovakia?…no, almost certainly Slovenia, Fabio Capello attributed our much improved performance to permitting the England squad to drink beer on the night before the game. Germans, as we know, consume most of their beer in October so their team won’t realise its performance potential until November, by which time the match will definitely be over. It’s not tennis, after all. Is that match still going?

5. Common Bond. Germany and England have so much in common: They eat sausages, we eat sausages; they drink beer, we drink beer; they drive BMWs, we drive BMWs; they dress up in braces and leather hotpants and put a feather in their hatbands and slap each other’s bottoms, we…er…well…we don’t. Because it’s weird. But I doubt that lederhosen is what makes them good at penalties and, sooner or later, given that they’re so similar a nation to us, they’ll cock them up. After all, if the match goes to penalties Germany will have the pressure of expectation weighing on their shoulders. England certainly won’t.

6. Confidence. England had an uncertain start to World Cup 2010 but, on the evidence of Wednesday’s performance, we seem to be growing in confidence. We don’t have the self-possessed surety that the Brazil and Argentina teams seem to be imbued with, but there’s a way that we can attain that: By beating Germany. If we beat them on Sunday, our team will get the monkey off our back and will feel that they can take anyone on. The traditional obstacle to England’s progression in world cup tournaments will have been removed and we’ll believe we can accomplish anything. Except a Heskey goal, obviously, no one (except Germany) expects that.

7. Defences. The German defence looks suspect. Ghana created – and spurned – countless opportunities against them. The most notable of these occurred after thirteen minutes when Germany were totally undone by a fluid passing move at the right hand side of their penalty area. Sound familiar? Correct. That’s the same area that all of the brilliant creative interplay between Gerrard and Rooney took place in the England versus Slovenia match. They won’t be able to defend against it. “Take that, Mertesacker!” will be a particularly enjoyable thing to exclaim during the match when we score against them.

Our defence will be able to contain them. Most of the good attacking German play in this World Cup has occurred on the wings. And we have two fantastic fullbacks with Gerrard and Milner in front of them who’ll track back too. I don’t know what we’ll exclaim when we prevent them from scoring against us. “Blimey”, probably, or “crumbs”. But that’s what’s going to happen. We can win this. Be glad that we’re playing Germany on Sunday. Well…at least until kick-off. Then feel anxious as usual.

June 25, 2010
7 Reasons England Will Beat Ze Germans

1. Ze German Edlines. The German hacks are primed to write such classics as So Klose, But So Far. Although obviously they’ll write it in German. So it’ll be something like Zo Klose, But Zo Var. Basically, Miroslav Klose is going to take a shot from 50-yards which ricochets off the crossbar, flies up the other end of the pitch and finds the net. Net result England 1-0 Germany. German hacks have their headlines.

2. Ze Tactics. I am sure you have been wondering why Capello continues to play Gerrard on the left. It took me a while to work it out too. But finally I have. It’s all about balance. And ultimately making the opposition cock-up. Glen Johnson can’t defend for toffee (which is annoying because he loves the stuff). Anyway, the opposition think they should try and take advantage of this and attack down the left flank. However, because Gerrard tends to move away from his position on the left, the opposition see the gap on the right flank and wonder whether they should attack on that side. All this confusion results in them trying to compromise. And compromising means attacking straight down the middle. Right into Barry, Terry and Upson. It’s classic mind game stuff and the reason Capello is the genius that he is.

3. Ze Names. The Germans are named after lagers. A pint of Mertesacker. A pint of Schweinsteiger. A pint of Trochowski. The English are named after musicians. (David) James and (Gareth) Barry White. Oh, and there’s (John) Terry’s Chocolate Orange. You’re going to perform so much better if you listen to James and Barry White while munching on one of Terry’s Chocolate Oranges pre-game, than if you are downing three pints of lager.

4. Ze Beckenbauer. Franz said we have reverted to ‘kick and rush’ in this World Cup. How dare he! We don’t rush. We hang back and hope. Karma is a bitch and Beckenbauer will be summoned by Angela Merkel to explain why he gave the English such a great pep talk.

5. Ze 27 June. It’s Sieben Schlagfertig in Germany. Which is a day basically celebrated by muppets. If it rains on this day, it will apparently rain for the next seven weeks. I like the idea of raining on Germany’s parade and then continuously beating the Germans for seven weeks.

6. Ze Missing Of Ze Goals. Gerrard’s goal against the USA was missed by many because ITV decided to show an advert. Defoe’s goal against Slovenia was missed by many because the work experience boy at EDF Energy pressed the off button. England didn’t score against Algeria because everyone was watching. The simple conclusion to make is that I need to buy 10 million extension leads and forty million kettles. If I do that and press the on switch at 2:59pm on Sunday, I reckon I might just be able to blow a fuse somewhere on the National Grid and cause absolute chaos. We’ll all miss the game, but England will win 4-0. Don’t thank me, thank the nice people at Argos who are about to get a very big order.

7. Ze Zeven Reasons. I have drafts of 7 Reasons England Will Beat Argentina, 7 Reasons England Will Beat Portugal and 7 Reasons Why It’s Second Time Lucky For England And They Will Beat The USA ready to go. You can’t buy this kind of motivation. The England boys want to read my work. They are in a win-to-read position now. Which is so much more impressive than a boring win-t0-be-MBEs position.

June 24, 2010
7 Reasons John McEnroe Can Not Be Serious (About His Hair)

With the opening credits of BBC’s 2010 Wimbledon coverage came joy, happiness, extortionately priced strawberries and the horror of John McEnroe’s new hair. I say new hair, it’s probably quite old hair, but it does look different. And not for the better. Here are 7 Reasons – in a nicely packaged video format (just to show I can’t be outdone) – that explain why Mr John McEnroe should not have been tempted to rid the old look.

7 Reasons John McEnroe Can Not Be Serious (About His Hair)

June 23, 2010
7 Reasons To Love French Football

Sometimes, words are not enough. But that’s okay, we can always fall back on music and pictures.

7 Reasons To Love French Football

June 21, 2010
Russian Roulette Sunday: The A to Z of 7 Reasons (part I)

Crikey! It’s the first part of an A to Z of 7 Reasons. Whatever will they think of next? Yup, the second part. Almost certainly.

A is for Advertising. It’s something we haven’t quite got right yet. Since we blew the whole of our budget on an ad from Pearl & Dean, we have been kicking around trying to make the most of our own talents. Which is why we’ve created masks and stolen 1970s posters and changed the words. We’ll get it right though. Someday.

B is for Bath. Much of the creative thought that goes into 7 Reasons occurs in the bath. Many, many posts and website features have had their genesis there. The bath is a place of much 7 Reasons creativity. It is not, however, a place for 7 Reasons meetings. We won’t make that mistake again. Oh the horror.

C is for Cat. Or, to give him his correct name, Horatio Pyewackett Caractacus Fearns. This is who actually comes up with all posts for the Yorkshire side of the sofa. And probably explains all the scratches.

D is for Daily. 7 Reasons has a new post every day. Not always with the correct amount of apostrophes, but it’s there (or rather here) every day. We’re more reliable than the postman, more dedicated than god, and more committed than…in fact, we probably should be committed.

E is for Eighth Reason Competition. One of the better ideas Jon has had, though that isn’t saying much. You may not have realised it, but it is still running. All you have to do is think of an eighth reason for one of that week’s posts and you may well win a badge. Well actually, you will win a badge. Because no one else will enter.

F is for France. We’re probably not welcome there. Perhaps as a result of this image.

Or as a result of this post. Or this post. Or this post.

G is for Guests. Every Saturday someone joins us on the sofa. And they’ve come up with some intriguing observations. Things about gussets; and cricket kits looking like bananas; and freckles. And, rather frustratingly, they always prove the most popular posts of the week.

H is for Hell’s teeth! Which is what I exclaimed when 7 Reasons was first read in Ulaanbaatar. Strange that someone in Mongolia would want to know why Marc’s afraid of Flamenco dancers but there you go. The world: It’s a bit odd.

I is for Intelligence. This is something Marc and Jon are still striving for. Though until 7 Reasons is finally put to rest, they’ll go on looking at plant pots and Germans and tortoise shells and thinking there are 7 Reasons right there.

J is for Jennifer. Jennifer Aniston. Ah Jennifer, Jennifer. Jen Jen. One day we feel sure that you’ll respond to our phone calls/emails/faxes/letters/texts/tweets/notes written on beermats and pushed under your door/petrarchan sonnets performed from the depths of your garden hedge. One day. One fine day. One happy, happy day. One glorious day.

K is for Kent (via Sussex). This is where the first half of the 7 Reasons team is based. If we are doing it in alphabetical order. If we’re doing it in height order, it would be the second half. But we’re not. We’re doing it in alphabetical order. So it’s the first half.

L is for Lucubration. Like most good things, much of the work that goes into 7 Reasons happens at night, while mere mortals are sleeping or watching television or knitting or whatever people do at night when they’re not writing. They edit probably. We don’t know what they do, we are busy. We write. At night. Oh, and during the day too. We just wanted to show off our fancy word.

M is for Muppet. If it wasn’t for muppetry, you wouldn’t be reading this A-Z now. All will become clear next week. We’re very excited about next week. Be sure to clear three minutes and seven seconds in your diary next Sunday. We’ve cleared six minutes and fourteen seconds, but then there are two of us. Did we mention that we’re excited?

June 20, 2010
Guest Post: 7 Reasons To Shop At Ikea

Another Saturday comes by and with it another chance for Marc and I to get up from the sofa and stretch our legs. I am stretching them quite far today. From Fulham to some place in Kent. I’m moving you understand. But that’s enough about me, let’s focus on the issue in hand. Today’s 7 Reasons piece comes from regular 7 Reasons contributor, Simon Best. Who, when he’s not writing for us – or shopping in Ikea – can be found writing on twitter. He also does some other things that no one quite understands.

1. Names. Everything they sell at Ikea from the largest kitchen unit to the smallest tealight has a name, the vast majority with a Scandinavian touch, some with more imagination than others: the ‘Dimma’ lamp, the ‘Pyra’ wok, the ‘Slitbar’ knife. I doubt that ‘Slitbar’ is actually the Swedish for knife but it is not beyond the realms of possibility. The names are also the answer to parents who don’t want to name their offspring Apple or Chardonnay – Knubbig, Gnistra and Ivar offer perfect alternatives – it’s only fair after Ikea stole the name ‘Billy’ for their best selling item – it is now more widely associated with a bookcase than a boy.

2. Showrooms. Much of the space in Ikea is taken up with showrooms displaying Ikea furniture in various combinations: kitchens, bedrooms, offices, living rooms. They’re often given a lived in look which reassures you that it is not just you that left your bed unmade and a pile of washing up in the sink. They also show you how the furniture you buy will never look in your house, after all if they lose bolt E or joint B then there is a shop full of them, then there is a shop full of them.

3. Pencils. Everywhere you look in Ikea there are little wooden pencils. They’re handy for writing down measurements or noting down the location of things you want to buy. They’re also perfect for sticking behind your ear which is essential for making you look as if you are competent at DIY. The reality is that most men walking round Ikea with a pencil behind their ear are there because their wives have sent them out of the house while a professional comes round to fix the damage that they did the previous weekend with their drill. The preponderance of pencils in Ikea is mirrored by one in my house. I don’t buy pencils any more, I just go to Ikea, stick one behind each ear and forget they are there until I get home.

4. Lack of piped music. One of the things I hate about going shopping is the musak that pervades high street stores and shopping malls. When I go to the supermarket I don’t want to listen to THIS [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oofSnsGkops] I want to listen to Test Match Special so that I can hear England slump from a respectable 70 for none (by the cheese counter) to a disastrous 104 for 5 (while I’m deciding whether to buy Braeburns or Granny Smiths). Ikea has no music, which is a relief because I don’t think the world could cope with a cover of Waterloo or Super-Trouper played on Guatemalan panpipes.

5. A masterclass in bad parenting. Most of the people shopping in Ikea are families. People go at the weekend and take their children. Now Ikea stores are big but they’re not a park or an adventure playground.Children spend most of their week in pre-fab buildings with bright furniture and at the weekend they should be outside playing football or building treehouses or riding their choppers (oh, sorry I forget it wasn’t 1985 anymore). When children are taken to ikea they get bored – which is understandable as the only interest they have in furniture is its capacity to be adapted to a pirate ship or be used to shut their younger sister in. As a result parents get angry and shout. Go to Ikea on a weekend and you will observe a masterclass in bad parenting.

6. Trolleys. When you enter Ikea you’ll see normal shopping trolleys by the door. My advice is to leave them where they are. When you get to the warehouse where all the furniture is stacked you’ll find much more exciting flat-bed trolleys. While you are looking for Aisle 4 Section 17 to pick up your table they make excellent scooters – that is until you collide with a large woman carrying four pot plants and a selection of candles. You might even find the bored children following your example. Something that their parents will doubtless thank you for.

7. Meatballs. Quite possibly the best thing about Ikea is the restaurant – and specifically the meatballs with lingonberries Where else can you find delicious international cuisine for astoundingly good value. People go to Ikea at dinner time just to have some meatballs with the furniture being a side attraction.* You can even take some meatballs home with you to microwave which is a good thing as there is no way you’re going to have that kitchen unit assembled and be able to cook dinner in the space of a day.

June 19, 2010
7 Reasons Marc Fearns Should Be Celebrated

Keeping with the fine tradition of 7 Reasons founders celebrating their birthdays in June, today it is Marc’s turn. Now, I wouldn’t be the great man that I am if I didn’t dedicate this post to my fellow reasoner. So Marc, this is for you. And actually everyone else. Because you need to celebrate the great man. This is why.

1. June 18th. It might be a day in June, but apart from that, there is very little going for it. Sure, Delia Smith was born on this day, but so was Jason McAteer.* It’s about time we made this day special. A celebration of Marc Fearns is the way to go. And, if we celebrate June 18th, the day will probably go quicker.

2. Mystery. There is certainly an air of mystery about Marc Fearns. No one is quite sure how tall he is. No one is quite sure how old he is. No one is quite sure why he named his cat Horatio Pyewackett Caractacus Fearns. No one is quite sure how his brain works. But that’s good. It makes him intriguing. The last thing we want is to celebrate someone who is 5’8, 30 years-old, has a cat called Tibbles and whose brain works like clockwork. That’s been done.

3. Intrepid Experimentalist. You can say what you like about Richard Bacon – and many people do – what you can’t accuse him of though, is having a bad taste in experimentalists. There is little doubt that when it comes to cats, foil and the ability to walk, Marc Fearns is on the tip of Richard Bacon’s tongue. All because of this.

4. Rumour-Mill. What with spending most of your days making your cat walk over tin foil, it leaves a lot of time to muck around. Generally at the expense of others. Including me. The whole thing about me fancying myself? Marc started that. (No, seriously, he did). You may think me recommending you celebrate Marc – because he makes me look narcissistic – is an odd thing to do? Well, it’s not. In fact it’s quite logical. Sometimes, you are told something so much, that eventually you begin to believe it. Marc is the reason I am who I am. He could do the same for you.

5. Emotional Blackmail. How could you not feel sorry celebrate someone who looks like this?

6. Library Builder. Getting the builders in, is one of those things that fills people with dread. If it’s not how much mud they are going to traipse across the carpet, it’s how many tea-bags are they going to get through. Which is where Marc comes in. He can build a library in 90 seconds. And he doesn’t drink tea. If you want him to come and build a library for you, send him an email: [email protected]

7. 7 Reasons. The 7 Reasons concept wouldn’t exist without Marc Fearns. I know there are two of us who supposedly founded it, but I have been pressing for it to become 1 Reason for a long time now. Marc is the one who keeps it ticking over. Who keeps driving it forward. So if you like the concept, then it is he who you should celebrate. If you would prefer to read 1 Reason on a daily basis, celebrate me again. Just like you did last week. You remember, that day you really enjoyed.

*I have just discovered today is also the birthday of Fabio Capello and Sir Paul McCartney. It’s okay though. We can celebrate them all. Especially if England win.

June 18, 2010
7 Reasons That Bananas Are Amazing

1. Nutrition. Bananas are very good for you. They’ve got sucrose, glucose, fructose and things that don’t end in ose. There’s fibre, potassium and iron. They have five times more vitamin A content than an apple, they also contain lots of B and C vitamins, and probably some from further along the alphabet too. And, if you live (approximately) a 22.5 minute run from your nearest banana shop you can get all of the energy you need for a run to, and back from, the shop by eating a single banana before you go*.

2. The banana is like the sandwich. That may strike you as odd, but it’s true. There are many varieties of banana, but the one we all know and love; the one that we commonly call the banana is, in fact, called the Cavendish banana. It’s named after William Cavendish, the sixth Duke of Devonshire and the sandwich, as we all know, is named after John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich. Hence, the banana is like the sandwich. These men didn’t invent or cultivate them, they were merely notable early consumers of their eponymous products. Perhaps, using this system, Twitter will eventually be called Stephen Fry and the iPad will be known as the Git. Who can tell?

3. Flavour. Bananas taste of bananas, which is great. I like bananas, and if they tasted of tomato or houmous they’d be quite disappointing. But as it is, bananas taste like a sort of a wholesome, less rich, version of banana milkshake. Or a less cakey version of banana cake. Or a more banana-y version of not eating a banana. Look, just eat a banana and figure it out for yourself. They’re jolly nice.

4. Ripeness. When bananas aren’t ready to be eaten, they are green. When they are ready to be eaten, they are yellow. Simple. And when they’ve gone off and they shouldn’t be eaten, they’re brown. There aren’t many foods that so obviously and vividly communicate their own state of edibility. I want to describe the bananas inbuilt colour-coding system as awesome but it’s better than that. It hasn’t just provoked some awe in me, it’s provoked much awe. The colour-coding system of the banana is awemuch. It’s so amazing that I’ve invented a word.

5. Portability. Bananas are supremely portable. They require no implement to eat them, no special container to store them in (they already come wrapped in one) and they don’t need to be cooked. When at home, this is my daily breakfast: A banana, a glass of sparkling water and an espresso. That’s three things to carry away from the kitchen. But I only have two hands. Fortunately though, the banana’s innate portability means that it fits perfectly into my trouser pocket. Thus, I avoid making a second journey to-and-from the kitchen. Sadly, this practice is also the source of many a ribald remark, such as:

Wife: Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?

Me: It’s a banana in my pocket.

Or

Houseguest: Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?

Me: It’s a banana in my pocket.

Or:

Houseguest 2: Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?

Me: It’s a banana in my pocket.

Laugh? We nearly…no no, we didn’t. Anyway, the banana can travel anywhere, occasionally without provoking poor innuendo.

6. Prop. You can use it to do all sorts of things. You can make a smile with it – not one an American would like as bananas are yellow, but a smile nonetheless – and you can make an unsmile (what the hell is the opposite of a smile called?).

You can use it as a pretend gun, which is especially useful if people keep enquiring if that’s “…a banana in your pocket…?” You can also pretend it’s a telephone, but then you have to talk into a banana, which makes you look a little bit mad. And you won’t hear anyone talking back. Hopefully.

7. Novelty. Bananas are exotic. Well, unless you’re reading this in Latin America, Africa or Southeast Asia, in which case they probably seem quite humdrum. But in the UK we import all of our bananas. This means that during the Second World War there weren’t any to be had at all; my own father didn’t see his first banana until he was seven years old. Bananas seemed so novel and exotic back then, that during towards the end of WWII people actually advertised their banana flavoured barley pudding mixture(!) by drawing attention to their lack of bananas. Think on that, the next time you’re eating a banana.

*Never eat a married banana.

June 17, 2010
7 Reasons It’s Awkward Travelling On The Train (With A Strange Man)

1. It’s Monday morning and I am on the train to London. It’s after 9.00am so the train is fairly empty. I have a a block of six seats to myself. We pull into Maidstone East. A man gets on. He could sit anywhere. But he doesn’t. He sits opposite me, one seat across. Why? Why did he do this? But worse is to follow. He says, ‘Good Morning’. I feel awkward. I know shouldn’t. I know I should just be able to say ‘Good Morning’ back, but it feels strange. A stranger saying good morning to me on a train. I mumble a ‘Hi’ back, feel a bit embarrassed and go back to my book.

2. It’s no more than five minutes later. I am reading, but I can sense the man is looking at me. I feel awkward. I raise my head. Sure enough he is looking at me. He sees my attention on the book has lapsed and takes his chance. ‘Good book?’ he says. ‘So far, it’s very interesting,’ I reply. We spend the next five minutes talking about Harold Larwood. (I am reading his biography). I say we talk about Harold Larwood. He does most of the talking. I pretend to look interested.

3. There is a lull in what was never a flowing conversation. I feel awkward. Is now the time I go back to my book? Or is that deemed rude? Am I now supposed to talk to this man all the way to London Victoria? The man looks towards the window. I see this as the opportunity I have been waiting for. I turn back to my book. And I vow not to look up again.

4. We arrive at London Victoria forty minutes later. We haven’t spoken in that time. I stand up and grab my bag from the rack. The man is still sitting there. What is he waiting for? I feel awkward. What do I do? Am I required to say goodbye? I think about it. In fact I am sure I am about to say it. But I don’t. I just look at him. And half-smile. And half-nod. And half-walk off the train. The other half ran.

5. I’m waiting on the platform for a Wimbledon bound District Line train. Suddenly, from behind a bloke who is no doubt sponsored by Pukka Pies, appears someone I recognise. It’s the man again. And he’s seen me. I feel awkward. Now what do I do? I didn’t say goodbye. Surely that means I don’t say hello. But we can’t just stand next to each other and pretend we are just two people who have never seen each other before. That would be awkward. He’s getting closer. But here comes the train! I feel less awkward. I get on the train. I sit down. The man sits opposite me. I feel awkward.

6. My stop is next. Parsons Green. Surely this man isn’t going to get off here. We have spent twenty minutes not talking to each other. But I haven’t been reading. I have mainly been looking out of the window. But the window is behind the man. So occasionally I’ve caught his eye-line. And I’ve felt awkward. What should I have done? Is he thinking the same as me? Or have I hurt his feelings? Have I made him think he’s boring? Parsons Green arrives. The doors open. I stand up, turn left and alight. I walk down the platform. I dare not look back. I know, I just know, that if I do, he’ll be there. I walk home and never look back.

7. I’m in the kitchen. I’ve just flicked the kettle on. I decide there is probably a 7 Reasons post in this. Something about feeling awkward on the train. I get my notepad out and start scribbling down what happened. I get six reasons done and re-read them. As I read it, I feel awkward. I feel awkward about feeling awkward. I also feel very silly.

June 16, 2010
7 Reasons That Vuvuzelas Are Annoying

1. The Obsession. The nation is obsessed with the vuvuzela. It’s impossible to read a newspaper, listen to the radio, watch the television, go to the pub, or read an internet humour site without someone bleating on about vuvuzelas. But I think that this focus on the vuvuzela is causing us to miss out on other World Cup stories. We’re just not getting enough ill-informed conjecture about problems with the ball: Is it that it’s too round? Is it the altitude? Does it fly too straight? Doesn’t it fly straight enough? Does it look too much like a fly?

It's a fly!

All of the coverage of the vuvuzelas is preventing us from having what we really want. 24 hour per day coverage of the ball. And more Robbie Savage.

2. The Name. The English language is a fusion of many languages from around the world and a lot of our words come from other countries. We get bungalow from India, sepia from Italy, mammoth from Russia and surrender from France (rather unsurprisingly). Yet it’s safe to say that our language wasn’t aided in its evolution by anyone who had been involved in professional football as, in the past week – from various players and former-players – I’ve heard “vuvulas”, “vuvuslas”, “the horns” and from Sir Geoff Hurst, no less, “uvuvezlas”. The awful mangling of the word vuvuzela is possibly the only thing that’s more grating than the sound of the instrument itself.

3. Stadium Atmosphere. The din of the vuvuzelas drowns out everything else occurring in the stadiums. This isn’t always a bad thing, as it drowned out the sound of happy Germans on Sunday, but it drowned everything else out too. The crowd reaction, singing, cheering, chanting, abuse; in fact, just about all of the things that reflect the partisan nature of football. The drone of massed vuvuzelas is a relentless unremitting cacophany that doesn’t abuse the referee, ask Fabio to dance, play the theme from The Great Escape (sorry, poor argument); doesn’t do anything fun or interesting at all. It’s just noise. An incessant racket that drowns out everything good about the stadium atmosphere. Everything.

4. Domestic Atmosphere. The vuvuzela operates at a similar pitch and tone to the human voice which means that, when you’re viewing the World Cup at home, you’re trying to filter out the frequency that other people in the room are speaking at. Thanks to the vuvuzela, if my wife turned to me during a match and said, “Would you like a beer?” or “Jennifer Aniston’s at the door, she wants to know if you can come out to play,” I probably wouldn’t hear her. Experience tells me that she’s unlikely to say either of those things, but what if she did and I missed it? Catastrophe. I hate going to the fridge.

5. Envy. It’s substantial, straight and three feet long, and I must say that I’m quite jealous, as there’s no way I could take anything like that to a football match in England. I’d probably be fed to a police-horse or charged with possession of a vuva vovos avuvuvu…“I’ll let you off with a caution this time sonny, now on your way”. We don’t even get trusted with bottled water over here.

6. Sound. The sound of massed vuvuzelas is like the sound of a swarm of angry wasps, but deeper. Usually, the larger an animal is, the deeper the sound that they make – so it’s giant angry wasps that we’ll hear the sound of all summer. Giant angry wasps! Well I certainly won’t be falling asleep during a match, or at any time at all during the summer. Except when Andy Townsend’s “analysing” the action, that is.

7. We’re Stuck With Them. There is only one thing that would be worse than enduring the sound of the vuvuzela: That would be banning the vuvuzela. Just because we Europeans have our own expectations of how a football match should be viewed, it doesn’t mean that they should be forced on the rest of the world. This is South Africa’s World Cup, and god knows they’ve earned it. World Cup 2010 should be a uniquely African spectacle and, much to my annoyance, this includes that giant dung beetle thing from the opening ceremony and the bloody vuvuzelas. But we shouldn’t be downhearted about this; sometimes the most memorable parts of World Cups are the unique things that the host nations bring to them. Mexico ’86’s wave, Argentina ’78’s ticker-tape, Italia ’90’s Three Tenors and USA ’94’s blank incomprehension about some sort of soccer-ball tournament going on. Long after many of the matches and incidents are forgotten, these are the memories that remain. And so it will be with the vuvuzela. We will have to suffer it for a month or so, but in time it’ll be the thing that the tournament is remembered for. We may even feel nostalgia for it. Eventually.

June 15, 2010