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| Nothing says 'football' better than a blue and yellow armadillo, right? |
Yesterday the first round of the World Cup 2014 reached its
conclusion. Even as an ingénue to the world of organised sports I know that
this heralds a few weeks of extra time and distressingly disappointing penalty
shootouts. ‘What?’ you cry – ‘has Jonesisdying lost the plot so badly that he’s
resorted to writing about the antithesis of ‘culture’?' Sport: that stuff enjoyed by vaguely right-wing types in white
trainers braying at ceiling mounted LCD TVs in public houses, or maybe the
stuff that summons up of the childhood indignity of always being the last to be
picked for any team during our ‘halcyon’ schooldays? So many of my Facebook friends have expressed both
disapproval and dismay at the amount of media coverage given to any 90-minute
display of human-on-pigskin action. Wimps, the lot of 'em...
Well, amazingly I DO watch the World Cup, and a friend yesterday
actually asked me to post something about the current competition in Brazil
from the point of view of an ‘aesthete’. Pausing only to point out that
describing me as an aesthete is like calling David Cameron a ‘keen European’ (I
was tempted to post a picture of my living room to make my rather messy point,
but no one deserves to see that); I do (occasionally) relish a challenge, so
here are a few not-very-salient points regarding the jamboree/bunfight/crucial
tournament (delete as applicable).
Firstly, some context: it will come as a surprise to no one
who knows me that I hardly EVER watch sport. I could point to Brian Eno’s quote
about organised sport mirroring the condition of fascism if I could be bothered
to find it, but that’s easy stuff. My objection to televised games is nothing
more, really, than the mewlings of a man who just has other obsessions to fill
up his time and distract him from doing anything useful. I just find no glamour
or commonality in the struggles of arbitrary ‘teams’, ‘personalities’ or the (masculine) predilection for endless
statistics involving leagues, tables, goal differences, touchdown percentages
blah, blah… I would not and could not ever deny my own peccadillo for knowing
who was the second bass player for Uriah Heep or the order (and year) in which
David Lynch’s films were released. Working up the enthusiasm to actually CARE
if Andy Murray wins at Wimbledon or that a team which I have randomly picked to
be my favourite has won against another eleven-man bunch of overpaid tabloid
whores will never move this writer who, at the age of 11 or 12 decided that
David Bowie may just know the secrets of the universe (it turns out he didn’t –
boo). And yet I know that many of my eloquent, erudite friends DO care for such
things as WELL as caring about music, literature, film whatever… Apparently
these interests aren’t mutually exclusive. Quelle
horreur…
Yes, I’m the kind of guy who, if, in the middle of a heated
debate about the relative merits of Miles Davis before and after Bitches
Brew finds the conversation has drifted into whether England may win
the Ashes (whatever they are) will be
nothing less than disgusted. All of which marks me as a steaming great
hypocrite, I know. Arguments as to the horrid, corporate nature of modern sport
are built on sand when you consider the self-delusional cant of my beloved
counterculture with regard to ‘selling out’ or the nauseating amount of
marketing, sponsorship and dodgy finance involved in everything from the Turner Prize via just about any architectural endeavour of note to even Henry Cow’s
involvement in this year’s London Jazz Festival. Fucking hell, it’s an ethical
minefield out there, mate…
And claiming moral high ground when I DO watch a couple of
major sporting events (I even used to watch American Football in the days when
it was on Channel Four, finding it akin to a vast, boring game of human chess,
which appealed to the pervert in me) is also odious. The Olympics (winter AND
summer) as well as the object of this post will pretty much always draw me in. Willingly. But what
makes these acceptable to such an anti-sport prig?
My friend’s request for my take on the lengthy World Cup
campaign made me sit back and mull for all of, ooh… ten minutes last night as I
watched the Belgium vs South Korea match.
And the not-really-very-surprising conclusions I careered
into last night were as follows:
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| You seemingly did, Ray: YOU ate all of the pies... |
1) The ITV coverage is horrible compared to the BBC’s, if
only because they insert adverts and idents into gaps that could be measured in
gnat’s whiskers. Add to this the creepy editing of Ary Barroso’s fabulous song ‘Brazil’
into the last two notes, the inevitable appearance of that Ray Winstone
floating head advert (where he makes the word ‘taaaablet’ sound like the most
disgusting thing on the planet - see above) and Adrian Chiles’ puffy miserable face and even
Gary Lineker’s Mr Clean act seems preferable. On which note, tradition dictates
that I insert this clip:
2) Having noted the above, one point in favour of ITV vs BBC
is that ITV do not have Robbie Savage as a commentating pundit. I understand
the attraction of having an ‘expert’ on hand to comment on proceedings, tactics
etc. yet Savage’s miserly, bitter Northern pronouncements are utterly
depressing. Once he gets an idea he seems unable to relinquish it and move on.
The BBC came under attack for their recruitment of Phil Neville (allegedly he
was boring – well, durr) but in my mind Savage is far worse. Like the offensive
professional Yorkshire arrogance of Geoffrey Boycott in the even more occult
land of cricket, his know-it-all demeanour really gets my goat.
2a) Even more objectionable is the constant need for producers to cut to shots of 'attractive ladeez' in the crowd, but others have noted this way before me...
3) I LOVE the introductory pre-match computer wizardry that
shows us each player rotating towards us with arms folded and a sexy
come-hither look on their dear sweet, dim faces. I’d like to see this approach adopted everywhere.
I’m frankly amazed that they don’t do it at Glastonbury this weekend. Pre-show
Metallica gurning (but with less tattoos than footballers) would make my
weekend.
4) And on that point, the flair and variety of modern
footballers’ appearances is astounding. They’ve taken David Beckham’s
peacock-shaped ball and run right out of the stadium with it (ouch, sorry for
the mangled metaphor)! Tattoos are the least of it. Facial hair; science
fiction hair-dos; flourescent footwear; even dreadlocks for goodness-sake. For
the first time in recorded history, the World Cup shows more sartorial daring
than 150,000 posh kids at Glastonbury Festival. Maybe football really is the
new rock ‘n’ roll…
5) As a temporarily re-vibrated Englishman (who actually
could not care less about his home team, but more on that below) I suddenly cannot
bear the idea of the USA winning anything to do with football. While I admire
Jurgen Klinsmann’s success in partially making a nation of insular ‘we’ve got
our own massively corporate-sponsored games’ types sit up and take notice as
well as shaping a team (mainly by stealing them from his native country) that
at least made it into the last 16, I rail against the world’s most arrogant
country sullying a pastime which really belongs to Europe or Central/South
America. For this reason I also took offence at the Australians taking part.
But then, they went and called themselves the ‘Socceroos’, and for that alone
they deserved to be knocked out.
6) See what happened there? I became, to all intents and
purposes slightly racist for a
second. And this is my next point – the commentators and pundits throughout
provide us with the slyest, most socially acceptable form of racism while
passing judgement (i.e: making huge generalisations about a team’s ‘national
characteristics’). Last night it took seconds before Alan Hansen (that scarred,
ultra serious provider of truisms and humour-free comments on defensive
failures for every World Cup since god-knows-when) referred to the Germans as ‘ruthlessly efficient’. An
hour later they were ‘the sharks of the World Cup’. And so it goes… Latin
Americans are passionate yet cynical cheaters. In fact the word ‘cynical’ now
seems exclusively reserved for the art of tackling until this is all over.
Americans and Australians are relentlessly positive (well, they just are) while any far eastern team deserve
the ‘plucky’ label. And, let’s face it, you can’t be plucky unless you’re SMALL
compared to the opposition. Well, not in someone as provincial as Robbie
Savage’s mind, you can’t.
7) Further to this, I haven’t, you’ll notice, mentioned how
England’s performance has affected me. The answer is not one jot. On every level
the England team were rubbish to my un-tutored and unqualified eyes. Ugly,
dull, and lacking any grace: and that was just the manager… Their early
departure hasn’t abated my interest in the slightest. If I were to profess any
preference it would probably for those ruthlessly efficient Germans.
8) Which brings me onto the last brief observation: that I
don’t really care who wins. It’s the HOW they win that amuses me and keeps me
engaged.
So my cursory conclusions came down to this: I like the
world Cup because it’s a WORLD event. Asked yesterday whether it was the
political subtext that drew me in, I have to say, no, not entirely, but it’s
undeniable that there’s a rather satisfying sense of ‘we’re all in this
together’ about the whole affair that makes it more intriguing. There we have it: it’s the NARRATIVE
that entices. I actually find myself envying those diehards who know every back
story behind every player and their history on the pitches of the world’s
regular leagues. How much more exciting to know that player A, playing opposite
player B in term-time plays in the SAME TEAM. Or that player C is well known
for his trademark fouls/headers/acrobatics/ball-handling skills/speed etc. etc.
etc? But to an amateur such as myself, the prospect of a limited and yet
extensive set of skirmishes establishes a foreseeable result, rewarding close
attention, and also (with the help of aforementioned pundits) means that you
can pretend to have opinions about matters. Admit it, you felt strangely
qualified to speak to a near or dear one on the subject of Luis Suarez’sadolescent biting behaviour this week, even if you’d no idea of his record over
the last few years.
But unfortunately the regular three-ring circus of Premier
league football is still best represented in my head in the following way:
Or maybe its arbitrary partisan nature could be better
demonstrated like this:
Yet, just like a mini-series or box set of a TV show, you
can binge on the World Cup but be sure of both a conclusion and of some thrills
and spills along the way. It’s the True Detective of sport. I know the
end will be disappointing, but it functioned well as a distraction for a short
period.
Given the above, it seems fair to surmise that the function
of nearly all sport which is passively consumed shares the same goals as a
digital drama series and that the two are equally guilty of drawing us away
from what really matters in life: the ability to create rather than consume.
Giant world competitions such as this are expressions of capitalism in excelsis. And so was Breaking
Bad. Both function as a socially codified excuse to sever our
connection to the outside world and, as such, I’m back to where I started. To
criticise is aimless, because from my ivory tower of aestheticism, I’m not
doing anything more worthwhile, other than writing about it. And maybe this is
the most positive point I can make about the World Cup 2014. For five weeks my
uptight universe coincides with another alien one, and briefly I can pretend to
be part of something that for the other three years and 11 months is as remote
as Alpha Centauri.
So come on my son, nice one Cyril, or whatever you
footballists say. Score one for team Jones!
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