Today, Sepp Blatter will be re-elected as FIFA President. That is all kinds of wrong. As this video aptly demonstrates.
Tag: Italy
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7 Reasons to be…an Icetalian!
I’ve often been told that I’m more Italian than English. I like coffee, tiramisu and risotto more than I like tea, trifle and Yorkshire puddings; I like Fiat 500s more than I like Minis; I like sun more than rain; I like waving my arms around more than I like…er…not waving my arms around. All the signs are there. But last week I had a bit of a revelation. As I was celebrating March 1st (and the end of my traditional February abstinence) a friend tweeted me. March 1st is Beer Day in Iceland, he informed me. That’s funny. March 1st – the first day of the month that has my name at the start of it (this is Marc, by the way, not Jon. The month with his name in it is Jonuary) – is my Beer Day too. Perhaps I’m not just Italian, I thought, perhaps I’m part-Icelandic too. Maybe I’m…um… an…Icetalian! From Icetalia! Even if I’m not, here are seven reasons that I should be.
1. What’s in a Name? Is there a cooler word than Icetalian? Well, perhaps mantacular or shabazzle, but they’re only really words in my head. If you stack Icetalian up against actual words that other people would recognise it comes out rather well. It contains ice, which is an actual cool thing, and talian, which isn’t a thing at all, though it still manages to be evocative of Vespas and sunglasses. If you’re an Icetalian you’re instantly cool. It’s like being named Jet or Raffaela.
2. Cuisine. Icetalian food would be the best fusion-cuisine in the world. Italian cooking is already renowned the world over, featuring tiramisu, pasta, tiramisu, risotto, tiramisu, ice cream, tiramisu, bean stews, tiramisu and tiramisu. In short, it’s awesome. How, you’re probably wondering, can that be improved? Well, Icelandic food consists of salted fish, salted lamb, more salted fish and some other salted stuff. So essentially Icetalian cuisine would be Italian food but with more salt. And salt, as we know, improves all food. Has anyone with a tall white hat ever stuck a spoon in a pan and, on tasting the contents, said “Hmm. I think it needs less salt”? No, of course they haven’t. Everything always requires more salt. Even salt, probably.
3. Sightseeing. What’s the most famous tourist attraction in Iceland? No, it’s not Kerry Katona’s prawn ring, it’s the Icelandic Phallological Museum; that’s right, a whole museum devoted to the penis. But Iceland’s a cold place, whereas Icetalia (which would have a more temperate climate halfway between that of Iceland and Italy) would be much warmer. This would make the Icetalian Phallological Museum twice as impressive as the Icelandic one, even though it would have the same number of exhibits.
4. Expression. Italians are a voluble and wildly expressive people who, in conversation, communicate as much with their gestures as they do with their words. The people of Iceland, being rather more reticent Scandinavian types do not. They prefer to emote by not expressing anything at all. Ever. Icetalians would be a happy and healthy blend of these two styles of expression. If it goes right, they’ll be similar to the English and will express themselves in a physically moderate and understated way, and if it goes wrong then during conversation half of the average Icetalian’s body will remain absolutely, rigidly still while the other half will be an exuberant, wildly-flailing blur of expression that could resemble Riverdance: Officially The Stupidest Thing In The History Of The World.* I’m hoping that it will be the former, obviously. A land where people communicate with each other via the medium of Riverdance: Officially The Stupidest Thing In The History Of The World would be dreadful. And deafening.
5. Venice. I love Venice. It’s bloody marvellous. If they (whoever they are) were taking nominations for an eighth wonder of the world, I would nominate Venice. But the Icetalian Venice would be even better, because it would be almost exactly the same as the Italian version, but with ice skating during the winter months and sleighs instead of gondolas. And there’d be fewer American tourists because they’d fall through the ice. It would be a true winter wonderland as well as being a summer one.
6. The Flag. The Icetalian flag would contain the colours red, blue, green and white. That’s all of the primary colours on one piece of cloth plus white, which is the colour of nothing when the lights are on. It doesn’t contain black, which is nothing in the dark, but you can’t have everything. Though with all of the primary colours, perhaps you can. In any event, the Icetalian flag will clash with just about every imaginable outfit so nationalism will be kept to a minimum. It’ll be a nicer place to live.
7. Names. Icetalians would have better names than just about everyone else. In Iceland, the tradition is that the first name of the father becomes the surname of his sons and daughters. Thus the daughters of Gudmund Magnusson get the surname Gudmunsdottir, and the sons of Gudmund Magnusson get the surname Gudmundson. Why this doesn’t lead to irresponsible people giving their children the first names Son and Alison, I don’t know. Then, if their children did the same thing (any why wouldn’t they?), they’d end up with grandchildren called Son Sonson and Alison Sondottir. Within several generations, the Icelandic telephone directory would contain names likes Alison Sonsonsonsonsonsonsonsonsonsonsdottir and Son Sonsonsonsonsonsonsonsonsonson and would be visible from space. It would be brilliant. Why no one from Iceland had ever invited me to name anything I don’t know. Icetalian names would also be amazing (and only slightly shorter). Icetalian people would be called things like Ambrosiano Giordanoson and Ausilatrice Zoccolittosdottir. This would make introducing people to each other much more fun and ink manufacturers would be the richest people in the land. Oh, and this would also mean that school would finish at about the same time that the calling of the register ended, so teachers wouldn’t have to prepare lessons and children wouldn’t have to sit through them. The people of Icetalia would be thick, but happy. And work in my ink factory. I’m moving to Icetalia, it’s going to be brilliant!
*And now that I’ve mentioned it, how did Riverdance: Officially The Stupidest Thing In The History Of The World even come about? Someone must have done it first. Why didn’t other people just point and laugh at them? And who the hell was the second person to do it? Who, on witnessing someone clippity-clopping about like a deranged horse with a broomstick up their bottom and total paralysis of the arms and head, would think I want to dance like that person? There is nothing about Riverdance: Officially The Stupidest Thing In The History Of The World that makes any sense. At all.
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7 Reasons To Play The Brian Moore Drinking Game This Six Nations
Last week you may remember that Marc and I failed to deliver our regular Friday joint post. In an extraordinary turn of events we have repeated the trick this week as well. But that’s fine, because it gives me a chance to have a look at one of the greatest sporting events in the calender. Tonight sees the start of the 2011 Six Nations in Cardiff, with England taking on the Daffodil Nation. I could give you 7 Reasons to watch the Six Nations but I am pretty sure we covered that last year** and to be honest, not much has changed. You shouldn’t need to rethink it. Instead I am going to take a look at the commentators. And in particular the joy former England hooker Brian Moore will be bringing to the proceedings. With his passionate views, the words of Moore make this Six Nations the perfect opportunity to have a tipple. So here it is, the 7 Reasons Brian Moore Drinking Game.
1. Criticism. No matter which country a player is from, if he’s a silly boy, Moore will let everyone know about it. Similarly, if he feels a referee has made a bad decision, we will hear it. So, if Moore labels a player a ‘half-wit’ or brands the decision of the referee as ‘stupid’ you have to drink one finger.
2. Scrum. Given that Moore spent most of his career in the middle of one, I think he has the right to harp on about the issues of scrummaging for 80 minutes. And every time he bemoans a collapse, a reset or a wonky feed, you must drink two fingers.
3. Football. That’s right, every time Moore mentions those nancy boys in that round ball game and their rolling around on the floor antics, it’s time to drink three fingers.4. Passion. Let’s put it like this, Moore is not entirely unbiased. You get the feeling that he’d quite like England to win. And he’s not exactly scared of sharing his passion for the cause. So every time he shows his blatant England bias, drink four fingers.
5. Anti-French Sentiments. Being a proper Englishman, Moore quite rightly lacks appreciation for all things French. So when he comes out which such gems as, “Looks like he’s injured…I don’t care though, he’s French,” it’s time to drink five fingers. And cheer.
6. Admission. On the very odd occasion that Moore views a replay and admits his initial judgement on proceedings was in fact wrong, you must down the rest of your drink.
7. Cut-off. Sometimes Moore can get so worked up about something that his emotions begin to pour out of the speakers. In the past it has led the producer to pulling the plug on Moore’s microphone. Below is the perfect example of what we are looking for. If this happens it is time to refill your glass and down it in one.
Most of all though, enjoy the tournament! (If you are English).
*7 Reasons does not condone drinking to extremes, so if you feel yourself getting dizzy before half-time you may stop.
**I lied. We did not give you 7 Reasons To Watch The Six Nations last year, our guest writer Rachel did. You can read it here.
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7 Reasons Rome Clearly Had It In For Me
As an Englishman, when I travel abroad I like to cause as little trouble as possible. Sadly, when I went to Rome, trouble looked for me.
1. Roads. Now, call me a traditionalist, but I like two things from my roads. One: they should be fit for vehicles to manoeuvre up and down, and two: there should be occasional sets of traffic lights where those who have decided to travel upon foot can cross the road safely. While Rome provides both roads and traffic lights, it seems as if someone forgot to tell the drivers to stop when the little green man appears. As a result my holiday was nearly abruptly ended by six cars, two buses, fourteen mopeds and one skater.
2. Maps. I know it sounds like a cliche, but when one sees a free map, they should pick it up. I did just that. And for most of the first day I was able to understand it – we were still in Rome at least. That was until I started walking back to the hotel. The designers, in their Italian wisdom, had decided to mark the main tourist attractions on the map using small, 3D illustrations. And, to be fair to them, they did resemble the real-life draws. Unfortunately, they rarely appeared on the map facing the right direction. Consequently, I spent much of the walk home looking for the steps leading to the Campidoglio on the wrong road. To cut a long story short, we ended up back where we had started an hour earlier and I never held possession of the map again.
3. Wine. It is a well known fact in 7 Reasons circles that I am something of an amateur tea connoisseur. Sadly this is the only liquid based-substance that I have such a relationship with. Wine, for example, is something of an unknown quantity to me. There are three things I know about it. One, it comes in white; two, it comes in red; and, three, it should not be thrown over your girlfriend. Sadly, while Rome offered both white and red varieties, it also offered the opportunity for me to knock a glass over. Which I promptly accepted.
4. Gladiators. They’re an amorous lot. Even the fake ones hanging around the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, the Pantheon. Actually, let’s just call it Rome. They’re everywhere. And they took far too much of a liking to my girlfriend. If they weren’t trying to kiss her they were calling her Princess or offering to slay me. Yes, I know, it’s enough to make one quite nauseous. I mean, it was the type of behaviour I’d expect from the French or Piers Morgan.
5. String Sellers. Standing at the top of the Spanish Steps I was accustomed by two gentlemen, who – without invitation – decided to wrap string around my wrist. I was rather taken with the colours so allowed them to continue. ‘How nice,’ I thought, ‘no one has ever tied my wrists up in England before.’. As the string wound it’s way around my wrist to form a bracelet, I was told to make three wishes. ‘How nice,’ I thought, ‘this chap is certainly more friendly than that genie in a bottle.’. When he had finished, the other nice man decided to open his wallet to show me all the lovely notes inside. Initially I thought I got to choose which denomination of Euro I’d like, but after asking for €20 he became a bit grumpy. For a minute I thought he was asking me for money. Then I realised he actually was. At which point we became embroiled in a bitter stand off. They both wanted money for a bit of string, I wanted the string but not at a price. Sadly this story comes to a hugely anti-climatic end as, instead of letting me enjoy a bit of a fracas with Mussolini and Pinocchio, my girlfriend decided to gallop over and drag me away. At which point Pinocchio got all precious, whipped out his toe-nail clippers and cut the string. In doing so all my wishes were cast aside. Which just goes to show, in Rome you have to pay at least €5 for a yacht, a unlimited supply of tea-bags and a speaking dolphin.
6. Sarah. If I were a woman, and I can’t in all honesty say I have ever considered it as a career option, I suspect Sarah would be a name I would strongly consider. Or at least it would have been had I not been called it dozens upon dozens of times in Rome. On the first night, I assumed I had just done something effeminate with my hair, but, having altered my style every night thereafter, the Sarah-tag just wouldn’t leave. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Then I discovered they were actually saying, ‘Sera’. It means, ‘Evening’. I felt silly.
7. Hotel. I chose our hotel, so, upon arrival, I was somewhat relieved to find that I had indeed booked us into somewhere quite nice. There were no tea and coffee facilities, but on the plus side we did get slippers. The hotel carried on being pleasant until our final night when we suddenly noticed dozens of blue flashing lights creeping through the shutters in our room. Upon moving to the window, we opened the shutters to see the street lined with Police. And looking to our left we saw the start of a protest rally. Half an hour later the rally was holding a noisy, sit-down protest. In the road. Right outside our hotel. Like I say though, we did have slippers.
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7 Reasons My Italian Self-Teaching May Get Me Into Trouble
Hello. I’m on a plane. At least I am if you are reading this at 9am on Monday morning. If you are reading it at 9pm on Monday evening then I bloody well hope I’m not on a plane and if you are reading it in June 2014, well, I couldn’t really care less. I’m assuming, as I write, that it is 9am on Monday morning and I am currently on a plane that is destined for Italy. Yes, I’m going on holiday. I thought you’d be pleased. Over the last week, I have done a little language based learning. And, in what is quite a coincidence, I have been learning Italian. Unfortunately, I am not the best when it comes to languages. Partly because I always sound a bit Indian when speaking with another tongue and partly because I just can’t be bothered with it. Which, I admit, is an abysmal attitude to have, but I will gladly take any applause you are prepared to give me for honesty. As a result of these two factors, the Italians might be in for something of a shock. Here’s why:
1. Accents. My Italian accent isn’t very good. Unless you like Italian accents that sound Indian. I imagine the Italians don’t.
2. What A Mistaka To Maka. I can’t help it. Without a teacher I revert to learning my Italian from Allo! Allo! clips on YouTube. I keep adding the letter ‘a’ onto anything I say. Oh, and I’m speaking English.
3. Roma! Lazio! The only words I can pronounce with any confidence are the names of football clubs or, indeed, names of footballers. I may get away with randomly shouting ‘Cannavaro!’ and ‘Del Piero!’ but I imagine I would not with ‘Totti!’. And, talking about football, Italy are playing Serbia tomorrow night. Along with many people in the 1990s, I watched Football Italia on Channel 4. And, along with many people, I always assumed the phrase uttered at the end of the opening credits – ‘Golaccio!’ – meant…
4. ‘Goal Lazio!!’. That’s what it sounded like after all. You can see it here if you need reminding/have no idea what I’m going on about. Now ‘Golaccio’ may seem like a sensible thing to say if Lazio’s Sergio Floccari finds the back of the net for his national side. But it wouldn’t be. For the simple reason that the word is actually ‘Golazo’. And it’s Spanish. And despite finding this out, I know it’s not going to make any bloody difference. I am still going to shout ‘Golazo!’ if Italy score. Or Spain. Or Serbia. Or England. Because that’s me. And no one would have me any other way.
5. French. The only language I have ever learnt – apart from English and Latin obviously – is French. And, despite years of trying to forget such nonsense, I still seem to remember a fair bit of it. And the reason I know this is because unwelcome words keeps slipping into my otherwise expertly recited Italian phrases, ‘Buon giorno. Parla inglese, s’il vous plaît?’. If someone started asking me a question in English and then slipped in something about frogs-legs, I’d be furious. I would expect the Italians to be similar.
6. Hands. Whether it’s a myth or not, Italian’s are famous for their hand gestures. So I’ve been practising mine too. So far, I have the ‘bang on desk’, the ‘I’ve got the whole world in my hands’ and the ‘bunny shadow’ gestures in my repetoire. And they make very little sense with my Italian/French/Indian speil.
7. Pizza. I spent much of my time in the week before Rome, practising the pronunciation of pizza names using a Pizza Express menu. As a result I am unlikely to be able to eat anything other than pizza for the whole week. While this is not a problem in itself, the fact that I can only pronounce Margherita with any confidence, could be.
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7 Reasons Blue Peter 2010 Let Me Down
Hello, it’s me again. I’m still reliving my youth. I am sure it won’t come as much surprise to you, but instead of Grange Hill and Byker Grove, my childhood programme of choice was Blue Peter. Yesterday, I decided to watch it for the first time in twenty years.* I wish I hadn’t. What has happened to it?
Blue Peter Presenters: Joel (muppet), Andy (made to look a muppet) & Helen (female muppet) 1. The Opening Credits. What the bloody hell has happened to the Blue Peter theme? It sounds like the 1988 version has been put through a blender, drowned in the bath, driven over by a monster truck and spent a night in Jo Brand’s bed. Something like that. It isn’t good anyway.
2. The Presenters. I grew up with Caron Keating, Mark Curry and Yvette Fielding. Yesterday, I grew old with Helen, Andy and Joel. Muppets. All three of them. I remember Caron, Mark and Yvette being informative. The only thing Helen, Andy and Joel informed me was that they were idiots and that once upon a time some git had told them they were funny**.
3. Pronunciation. Within five minutes, Helen, has already baffled me with unfathomable English. “No rords with cors,” she said. If she hadn’t been reporting about a recent trip to Venice I will no doubt have been wondering why she felt it necessary to tell us that cows do not roar. As for telling me that there are no cars in Venice due to the lack of roads, yes, thanks for that.
4. Pets. In the good old days, a holiday for the tortoise was being put in a box with a load of straw and placed on a very high shelf. These days though, apparently she goes off to India, Paris and Egypt to get away from it all. Photoshop has a lot to answer for. I suspect when the tortoise finally snuffs it, instead of having Yvette solemnly breaking the news to us, Joel will try and convince us that he has gone on a round-the-world trip. The tortoise I mean, not Joel. Though that would be preferable.
5. Practical Demonstrations. What a shame that Helen has never heard of a ruler, that way she may have been able to demonstrate how high a three metre diving board is. Instead, she decided to use a balloon on a string. Outside. Where there’s quite a lot of wind. “Imagine if it was straight up,” she says, desperately trying to get the balloon above a 45 degree angle. Yes, Helen, I could have done that without the poxy balloons. Next time, why not just show us a picture of a diving board?
6. Vogue Bambini. Helen is in Milan. Which, while good news for us, isn’t good for the children of Italy. Especially as she has just encouraged everyone to pick up a copy of Vogue Bambini to look for the supermodels of the future. This I wouldn’t be so alarmed about, if Vogue Bambini wasn’t devoted to fashion for very young children. Unfortunately, it gets worse. Helen, Andy and Joel are going to photograph children. And, under the instruction of Vogue Bambini editor, Giuliana Parabiago, they have to be funny with the children. Joel’s face lights up. I don’t think I can bear to watch. Where are you Mark Curry?!
7. Joel. Yes, I know I have already talked about the presenters, but this clown needs a reason all to himself. Apart from annoying me with his unnecessarily silly antics throughout the show, he is now interviewing an eleven year-old male model. “I always thought modeling would be well hard.” No you didn’t Joel. You thought, ‘Modeling could be difficult at times’. “Come on Andy! Bring it like your mama gave it!” I despair. I really despair.
*Alright, fifteen.
**I have decided that Andy is actually quite good. He has just been brought down to the Joel/Helen level. My advice would be to get out before it’s too late.
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7 (+3) Reasons Why Spain Will Win The World Cup
1. Gerd Muller. German World Cup Winner in 1974. He looked like a girl.
2. Mario Kempes. Argentine World Cup Winner in 1978. He looked like a girl who didn’t care. She probably had hairy armpits too.
3. Bruno Conti. Italian World Cup Winner in 1982. He looked like a butch girl and someone had just stolen her skipping rope.
4. Maradona. Argentine World Cup Winner in 1986. He looked like a petulant girl intrigued by her very first waft of something illegal.
5. Rudi Voller. German World Cup Winner in 1990. He looked like a girl who had just sat on a pile of marbles and was beginning to like it.
6. Branco. Brazilian World Cup Winner in 1994. He looked like a girl who may well once have been a boy. And quite possibly a murderer.
7. Emmanuel Petit. French World Cup Winner in 1998. He looked like a girl who had just caught her reflection in a window and realised her ginger moustache was catching the sun a bit too much.
8. Ronaldinho. Brazilian World Cup Winner in 2002. He looked like a girl who was struggling to get the hang of her straighteners.
9. Andrea Pirlo. Italian World Cup Winner in 2006. He looked like a girl who had accidentally come across a car park full of doggers and just couldn’t take his eyes off it.
10. Carles Puyol. Spanish World Cup Winner in 2010. He looks like the kind of girl who just doesn’t want to be left out.
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Guest Post: 7 Reasons Watching Slovakia vs Italia Was An Education
After an eventful week – in which we concentrated mainly on football, John McEnroe’s hair and lots of funny codes doing lots of unfunny things and destroying the internet in the process – we are taking the day off. Slipping onto the sofa for the very first time is Gina Boiradi. Over to you Gina.
I’m going to start with a rather controversial statement. I hate football. I am a 16-year-old female and I follow Rugby Union and Cricket with all my heart, but I can’t stand watching football – in part due to the awful diving and injury-faking. Nevertheless, I cannot help but watch every single World Cup game. Being English with an Italian father, I watch England and Italy with the same nervousness and delight. After the glorious England game against Slovenia, I tuned into Italy vs Slovakia with the same optimism. Oh dear. Anyway, at least it was an education. Here are the reasons why.1. Commentators. They are very annoying. They come out with such ridiculous phrases and it makes me very frustated. “Fabio Cannavaro disappears, perhaps forever!” Um, news flash – he’s not dead. Nor has he been ushered away by a mysterious Sicilian bloke making him an offer he can’t refuse.
2. Mucho Do About Nothing. If you are a Slovakian goalkeeper, then you should all consider careers as actors. Seriously. Mucho was diving all over the bloody place with such melodrama, Dame Helen Mirren would be proud. I can see an Oscar nomination and an appearance in “The Bill” coming up right away.
3. Referees. Not all English referees are as hopeless as Graham Poll. Howard Webb did grand trying to contain the players. Diving, falling, tripping, fighting. It was a referee’s nightmare, yet he soldiered on. Even adding additional time onto the additional time because of Slovakia’s obvious time wasting. Good on him.
4. Papa’s Army. There is such a thing as too old a squad. Approximately 79% of the Italian squad were over 65*. I was ever so worried one of them may pop their hip out, or some other stereotypical pensioner ailment. Four years ago, that Italian team were in their prime (obviously, as they won) but now they are old. Bless ’em.
5. Iaquinto. He scares me silly. He is a man I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark, Italian alley. Or any other alley for that matter. But also seems like a right lovely bloke. Also, he adds some needed eye candy for us female viewers. Even if his nose is like a vuvuzela.
6. Pretty Boys. Posing, oiled-up in your undies is very good for your World Cup playing abilities. Beckham did it and, even though he’s not playing, England are doing well (Come On England!). The Portuguese captain I refuse to mention by name since last World Cup’s winking incident (I shall call him “The Winker” from now on) did it, and Portugal are also through. The Italian team did it 4 four years ago and they won. I’m getting distracted by images of oily Italians in undies. I shall move on.
7. It’s All In the Name. Bringing on substitutes with extraordinarily long names will do wonders when you are struggling. Quagliarella was brought on and scored a goal that got the ball rolling again (no pun intended) and provided the kick up the backside (again, no pun intended) needed by Italy – but sadly, too little, too late. England need a few subsitutes called “Hamilton-Wilkins” or “Mandeville-Brown” or something.
*Disclaimer: may not be true.
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Guest Post: 7 Reasons to Watch the Six Nations
If you get your news from 7 Reasons, you’ll be delighted to learn that the Six Nations starts today. We have decided to celebrate this with a guest post.
Our guest post comes from Rachel Simmonite, a 21 year old BA Hons Media and Communication (Journalism) student at Birmingham City University. When she’s not busy gracing Twitter with her wit, wisdom, and frankly astonishing knowledge of club rugby, she can be found writing here.
1. Birthday. This year, the Six Nations celebrates its tenth birthday. Of course, the tournament has been going on forever – in various guises of the Home International Championship and the Five Nations – but this year is the tenth year since the Italians joined the party; with their light blue kit, dodgy hair and sideburns, and their habit of beating Scotland every other year or so, Italy – despite being the whipping boys of the tournament – have always provided good competition. And they have the best national anthem.
2. Rivalries. Talking to an Irish or Welsh friend during this tournament means you get a lot more abuse than normal. National pride and traditional rivalries are all the rage during the Six Nations. Being English, and therefore supporting the red roses through thick and thin while thinking back to the good old days of 2003, you get it in the neck more than anyone else, as every side wants to beat you more than anything. The Celtic teams (Ireland, Wales and Scotland) need to beat you for bragging rights – I haven’t been able to face my Welsh friends for the past two years – and to try and get the Triple Crown or, in the case of Scotland, the Calcutta Cup, while the French and the Italians just like to join in with the English bashing.
3. Something for everyone. Whether you’re after someone nice to look at, or a good game, the Six Nations provides both. The annual desire to beat your local rivals for northern hemisphere dominance brings out the best of the teams, both in the forwards, and the backs. With the return of the rolling maul to the game – following last year’s ELVs* – the forwards can add that extra string to their bow again, enabling loads of fans (either in the pub or at the ground) to go “HEAVE” whenever it happens. As for the backs; as long as they’re running with the ball, it doesn’t affect the precise alignment of their gelled hair, and they’re stealing the headlines, they’ll be having fun.
Rugby isn’t just about the game now, it’s about the totty. Following calendars such as Le Dieux de Stade, the word “moisturiser” has become commonly used in rugby changing rooms, as has the phrase “fake tan” – particularly if you’re Welsh. If I was feeling shallow then my 7 reasons to watch the Six Nations would be very short: Jonny Wilkinson, Tom Croft, Leigh Halfpenny, Hugo Southwell, Brian O’Driscoll, Yannick Jauzion and Sergio Parisse. Of course there are more than seven good looking players in this year’s tournament, that selection are just my favourites.
4. Anyone can win it. The beauty of the Six Nations is that you never know who is going to win the tournament; there’s no runaway winner or clear favourite. I mean, nobody would have thought that Wales would win the Grand Slam in 2005. Likewise, we didn’t expect Italy to come fourth in 2007 – the year when France beat Ireland with a +4 points difference – but that was all that separated them. Of course, with Ireland having won the Grand Slam last year (only their second since 1948), they will be labelled as favourites for this year’s tournament. But on their day, anyone can beat anyone – the Welsh very nearly spoiled the Irish party last year and who knows what the French will come up with, having beaten the World Champions, South Africa, in November? We do know that the Scots and the Italians will probably be fighting it out for the wooden spoons, but who knows? And as for England…
5. The WAGs. Becoming a rugby WAG is increasingly popular – even a member of the royal family, Zara Phillips, is a rugby WAG. The recent crop started with Gabby Logan and Kirsty Gallacher; the likes of Kelly Brook and Una (from pop group the Saturdays) followed for England, with Duffy and Charlotte Church flying the flag for the Welsh WAGs. It is inevitable that if a well known rugby WAG is in attendance at a match the television director will give them plenty of screen time. If not, you’ll be able to see photos of them cheering on their men in the Daily Mail.
6. The singing. You can’t have a rugby match without the singing. The Welsh, in particular, are very good at the singing – it’s like their second sport after rugby. With the likes of Katherine Jenkins, Charlotte Church and that blond one off of the X-Factor to sing the national anthem, Delilah, and Bread of Heaven, they do their singing brilliantly. England have adopted a song that comes with actions, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”. I think you have to go on a rugby tour to learn the actions though. Ireland spoil the crowd with two anthems before a match while the French and Italian anthems are just great – I love them – like I love the bagpipes in Flower of Scotland. In fact, I love the anthems more than the bagpipes.
7. The romance. How could you treat your better half on Valentine’s weekend this year? Card? Flowers? Cheesy Marvin Gaye CD? How about a weekend in Cardiff, Paris or Rome? Arrive on the Friday night, take them out for a meal, let them do damage to the credit card on the Saturday morning and then – come the Saturday afternoon at about midday (or Sunday in the case of Rome) – announce that you’ve got tickets for the rugby and enquire whether they fancy a romantic afternoon watching thirty men run around a pitch for eighty minutes?
Of course, if your other half really doesn’t like rugby then you may find yourself in a spot of bother – but it is something that you love…
*Experimental Law Variations
