7 Reasons

Tag: World Cup

  • 7 Reasons That Vuvuzelas Are Annoying

    7 Reasons That Vuvuzelas Are Annoying

    A fan with South Africa face-paint blowing a vuvuzela, the horn from the 2010 South Africa World Cup (vuvuzelas)

    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?

     

    The South Africa Football (soccer) World Cup 2010 ball, the Jabulani, as the head of a fly. A fly's head. Flies.
    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.

  • 7 Reasons You Shouldn’t Write 7 Reasons While Watching The Football

    7 Reasons You Shouldn’t Write 7 Reasons While Watching The Football

    7 Reasons You Shouldn't Write 7 Reasons While Watching The Football

    It seemed like a good idea at the time. Ghana v Serbia, one of those games that I’m not desperate to see, but because it’s the World Cup I feel I should. So I did in the knowledge that it would also give me 90 minutes (plus half time) to write 7 Reasons. Easy.

    1.  The Girlfriend (Part A). She knows I’m watching the football whilst trying to write 7 Reasons. She asks me what the topic is. I say, ‘Darling, it’s 7 Reasons you shouldn’t write 7 reasons while watching the football’. She muses for a second, then replies, ‘Multitasking. Men can’t multitask’. I look around. She’s on the kitchen floor, watching the football, talking to me and cleaning a barbecue grill with a toothbrush. I feel admiration for my girlfriend. She can multitask with the best of them. But now I feel challenged. I must finish my 7 Reasons piece before Ghana finish Serbia. I don’t like the pressure.

    2.  Spelling. I spend more time concentrating on the football than on the page in front of me. This is dangerous, as when I don’t concentrate I have a habit of miss-spelling ‘tootbrush’, writing the incorrect version of ‘peace’ and adding multiple erroneous apostrophes. I also spell ‘eronous’ incorrectly.

    3.  Clive Tyldesley. Nothing is really happening in the game. Ghana have a throw-in just inside their own half. If I am ever going to get a chance to write something while watching the football, this is it. I look down. But as soon as I do Clive gets excited. I can only assume this is coincidence. I look up. Nothing is happening. Serbia have a goal-kick. I look down. Clive gets excited. I look up. Nothing is happening. I look down. Clive gets excited. I look up. Nothing is happening. I look down. I feel my neck. It’s beginning to hurt.

    4.  Immaturity. I see a player called ‘Panstil’. This amuses me. I spend ten minutes desperately trying to think of a joke that involves the word pants. I finally think of one. All I need is for Panstil to make a sliding tackle and lose his shorts. If he does I can say, ‘Lucky he’s still got his panstil’. I then realise this isn’t very funny. I note I still have a lot of growing up to do.

    5.  The Girlfriend (Part B). We are into the second half-time. The score-line reads Reasons Done 3 – Reasons Still To Go 4. My girlfriend – now attacking the grill with a brillo pad – asks what I’ve got so far. I read them to her. I wait for the laughter. It comes. Eventually. But then, so does, ‘You have a very strange brain’. I would have preferred her to compliment my shorts. I am wearing nice shorts. Clive gets excited. I look up.

    6.  Other Sport. Watching the football means I am missing all the other sport that’s on. I still am not sure which position Jenson Button is on the grid  – and the F1 coverage has started on the other side. Nor, by watching the football, am I keeping up to date with the domestic cricket scene. I stop writing reasons for a minute. I also stop watching the football. I check cricket scores on my iPhone. I look around. My girlfriend is looking at me. I realise I am not doing much in the way of multitasking. Clive gets excited. I turn back to the screen. Nothing is happening. I have fifteen minutes to think of a final reason.

    7.  The Girlfriend (Part C). I am struggling to think of a seventh. My girlfriend asks me how I am getting on. I say, ‘Darling, I am struggling to think of a seventh’. She replies, ‘Well if you manage to think of a seventh I know that you can multitask. So next time the football is on you can peel some potatoes too.’ I am conflicted. She has just given me the seventh reason I shouldn’t have written this while the football was on. I have done it. I have proved men can multitask. But I have also proved why men shouldn’t multitask. Clive gets excited. It’s full-time. Ghana have won. And so has The Girlfriend.