End of the World (Cup) as we know it

So the World Cup is over for another year. I will miss it. I won’t miss the vuvuzelas, but I will miss the World Cup. Football begins again soon, though – Liverpool’s first real game is in less than a fortnight as they kick off their Europa campaign.

People have said that the World Cup wasn’t very exciting this year. That is because they are rugby supporters. This year seemed to be all about defence, and I used to play right back, so I am happy enough with that. It was all very well to display your silky skills up front, but if you were leaking goals at the back then you weren’t going to get through to the next round.

Spain may not have scored the most goals, but they conceded the fewest and that’s why they lifted that amazing 18 carat gold trophy. New Zealand have the distinction of being the only unbeaten side in the 2010 World Cup – that will be a pub quiz question for many years to come, in this country at least.

The media here is paranoid that football is edging out rugby in the popularity stakes. Actually, they call it ‘soccer’ (although the New Zealand Football association officially calls it football, along with every other country, apart from America), and refuse to give it the correct status as the beautiful game; more watched globally than any other sport.

The media make a lot of money out of rugby, so they don’t want to admit that more people are interested in football. New Zealand are top of the IRB World Rankings – there are apparently 95 countries that play rugby, approximately 20 of them competitively (Namibia and Romania are included in the top 20). 207 countries play football – a quarter of the way down that list we find New Zealand at 54, after gaining 24 places from their strong World Cup performance.

Glamour attaches itself to the All Blacks – there is a myth in this country that real men are hard and stoic (think monosyllabic and unresponsive – like your stereotypical Yorkshireman). They are afraid of emotion as it might demonstrate weakness (i.e. personality), so despise the fact that footballers hug each other in delight after scoring. A true New Zealander merely does a war dance and sticks his tongue out at the opposition – much more mature.

More children play football – just look at the sports fields of any city in the country on any weekend, but then they are lured away to the oval ball. Just in case this might not happen, they are reminded that they must worship the scrum. When the FIFA World Cup was on the television and graced the front cover of the SKY magazine – it is after all the most watched event in the world – the Kiwi press wrapped a picture of an All Black around it. They weren’t even playing any games that month. Running scared? I’d say so.

Private Lives; Public Heroes

During a text ‘conversation’ about football with my friend in England, he wrote, ‘Did you hear Gerrard rumour?’ My insides turned to ice as I replied, ‘I have heard several – what’s the latest?’ He answered, ‘Getting his wife’s sister pregnant, or brother’s wife. I can’t remember which. That was why Terry was so whingey in South Africa’, to which I shot back, ‘That’s okay then. I thought you were going to say something awful like he’s going to Man Utd.’

Don’t get me wrong – adultery is nothing to be flippant about – but what has it got to do with his football? I care very much about where Stevie chooses to play his football (and I hope he will stay with the not-currently-very-mighty-reds) but his private relationships (extra-marital or otherwise) are none of my business. It seems that many people think it is theirs. I found this from the Talk FC web-forum, where clearly Vicky Pollard is masquerading as ‘redmadmundo’:

“The part of the story is that nonsense is its Ronnie Whelan’s daughter, a lad I know actually knows the girl and there’s no way, the other one about his sister in law was even worse, when a lad in work got a text, I spoke to the fella sitting next to me who lives down the road where her mum lives and he said there wasn’t a sister!”

Since when did we expect sporting figures to be role models? We watch programmes like Footballer’s Wives and then pretend to be outraged if someone has an affair in real life. Steven Gerrard, John Terry, Tiger Woods – they’ve all suffered in recent months from our phony mealy-mouthed morality. We strip them of their endorsements, contracts and captaincy because they don’t set a good example. Basically, it’s mere envy because they are earning thousands of pounds a week, but they’re not earning them for saintly morality; they’re earning them for hitting a ball – and they still do that very well, if we let them.

If I had children I might want them to play football like Stevie G, sing like Dusty Springfield, and build businesses like Richard Branson and bridges like Isambard Kingdom Brunel. But would I trust their emotional judgement? How would I know? I don’t know who these people really are. There is an old joke that people mock David Beckham for not being very bright, but no one criticises Steven Hawkin for being crap at football. There used to be a school of thought that you should stick to what you’re good at – now we seem to expect our ‘stars’ to be paragons of virtue as well, and I don’t know why.

We were supposedly horrified when Gordon Ramsay cheated on his wife. Why? This is the man who routinely swears at and belittles people on public television, and yet he was voted ‘celebrity father of the year’ – clearly demonstrating that bullying is admirable. Serena Williams has the most smashing forehand in women’s tennis, but I wouldn’t take fashion tips from her.
 
In New Zealand Colin ‘Pinetree’ Meads is revered as the greatest lock forward ever – he has an MBE and was named the NZRU Player of the Century in 1999. He endorsed Provincial Finance with the immortal, emotive (and typically Kiwi) line, “solid as, I’d say.” When the finance company went under in 2006 and 14,000 investors lost their money, they seemed somehow surprised, having put their trust in the man rather than company. Again I ask, why? How does sticking your head between other men’s thighs qualify you as a financial advisor? Probably best not to answer that.

There are some public figures who are known to be lovely – Joanna Lumley; Michael Palin and David Attenborough spring to mind. Others less so. I don’t agree with many of Jeremy Clarkson’s opinions and would probably find him insufferably smug and arrogant if I ever met him, but his journalistic style is sublime. Similarly, Tom Cruise’s scientology and sofa bouncing antics may be completely bonkers, but he has made a number of good films (Top Gun; Rain Man; Born on the Fourth of July; A Few Good Men; Interview with the Vampire; Mission: Impossible; Jerry Maguire; Minority Report; Collateral; Valkyrie).

Some people (though God only knows who) might think Angelina Jolie has talent in her chosen field of pouting – oops, I mean acting – but does the fact that she has a bizarre necessity to recreate the united colours of Benetton adverts lessen her attributes? Are Roman Polanski’s films of less merit because of his controversial personal life? The Americans in a wonderful display of duplicity awarded him the Best Director Oscar in 2002 for The Pianist but refused to allow him into the country to accept it. Many singers, authors, musicians, artists have dodgy political viewpoints and personal lives: Michael Jackson may be a child molester of very limited mental faculties, but Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough is still one of the greatest disco sounds of the ‘70s.

I wouldn’t take political pointers from Sean Connery, as he is a rampant right-wing misogynist, but he’s a good actor. Conversely, does the fact that Bill Clinton chose to play hide-the-cigar with his intern have any relevance for anyone other than his wife? It was disgraceful that he lied under oath – and for that alone he should have been removed from office; no one should be above the legal system – but he shouldn’t have been in the dock for it in the first place. We should be ashamed of ourselves for being so enthralled by the salacious gossip. The ‘stars’ are only giving us what we want.

We used to have godparents who were supposed to be our role models and protectors. We respected our parents, teachers, religious leaders, and perhaps scout and guide leaders. I remember being influenced by my parents, aunts, uncles, a couple of teachers and the local Red Cross leader. If we now look up to singers, actors, celebrity non-entities and footballers, what sort of a life are we admiring? Perhaps we actually get what we deserve after all. But Stevie, please don’t leave me.

My newest favourite thing: Provisions in Arrowtown

My friend the Green Goddess will be gutted for missing the opening of Provisions Cafe in Arrowtown today. They were giving their ‘obscenely good’ sticky buns free to all punters. The Green Goddess loves these sticky buns and used to make trips through the gorge to Cromwell to sample them. When she returns from her sojourn in France (so she probably isn’t that gutted, as she will have been revelling in flaky French pastry for the last couple of months) she will no longer have to drive 60-odd kilometres to indulge her sticky bun passion. They will be baked right here (almost) on her doorstep.

It’s wonderful to see the old historic cottage being used for a practical purpose – these are immensely picturesque buildings but unless they are used they can easily fall into disrepair, and it’s quite a treat for the public to enter the cosy, low-ceilinged rooms. This was the opening day and the wee place was bustling. There is a courtyard where you can sit out on a sunny day – although maybe not in the middle of winter. A friendly black Labrador was greeting all-comers; did he get his complimentary sticky bun, I wonder?

There are all manner of sumptuous supplies for sale and for tasting. You are encouraged to try the fruit-bread and sample the range of mustards, jams and chutneys. Shelves display brightly coloured tins, tea-towels and cake-stands; organic muesli, lavender and thyme shortbread, and an array of fresh bread, buns and bagels. The flowers are a nice touch whether in pots, (hyacinths and cyclamens), fresh cut (orchids and lilies) or the big bunch on the counter bursting with vitality.

Today’s menu is written on a sheet of paper that will be torn from the roll and a new one written tomorrow. I like this concept – it gives you confidence that the specials really are, and when it says fresh, it means it.

The cheery staff were pleasant and efficient, allowing me to take photos and delivering our food and drink promptly to our table. I heard many people call out to Jane to praise her for an excellent launch, so I guess that was Jane Shaw wreathed in smiles behind the counter. And rightly so. The cabinet was packed with tempting baking including potato, leek and blue cheese quiche; bacon and egg pie; Cornish pasties and chocolate roulade. Even the lamingtons looked good (and I dislike this sickly confectionary – I’m sure it’s one of the foods you’ve got to be a natural-born-Kiwi to appreciate – along with feijoas, tamarillos and chocolate fish).

I was pleased to see that they offer the exquisitely refreshing Lake Sylvan rhubarb and gooseberry drinks, but I chose one of Michele Casson’s Stir Teas. The Blood Orange fruit blend was delivered to the table with a miniature hour-glass timer so that I knew exactly how long to let it steep. The blend of rooibos and citrus was intensely refreshing and later, when I looked up the ingredients on the website, I found they come from South Africa (rooibos), the USA (orange peel; apple pieces), Chile (rosehips), China (safflower petals) and Burkina Faso (hibiscus), so I feel as though I had a truly global cuppa.

The sticky buns were indeed a treat. Plates on the walls are emblazoned with commendations about the cleanliness of the kitchen and the merits of the sticky buns. Endorsements come from foodies such as Rosemary McLeod, Kerre Woodham, Paul Mercurio, Fleur Sullivan, Peta Mathias, Annabel Langbein, and Matt Preston. I believe these come from the Cromwell location, but they are equally at home here.

We walked home with Him Outdoors clutching a focaccia bread in a brown paper bag, studded with sea-salt and still warm from the oven. I think I may have found my newest favourite cafe in Arrowtown. There are so many things to sample – I’ll have to make frequent return visits to taste them all!

Worth the Wait

Waiting for Godot
(Theatre Royal Haymarket Productions)

St James Theatre, Wellington
30 June – 2 July

“The acting was fantastic, the set was great, but I don’t think I really like the play.”

“I didn’t really like it at the time, but I’ve thought about it so much since and seen many more layers the more I think about it.”

“There are many ways to interpret the play, and this production really accentuated the comedy.”

“I think this is perfection – I’m not sure that I ever need to see that play again.”

The above comments are from my friends who saw the recent production of Waiting for Godot in Wellington. I can agree with all of them. It’s a ‘difficult’ play. Ostensibly nothing happens – a couple of old blokes wait around for a man who never comes. A messenger tells them that Godot is sorry that he won’t be able to come today, but can they come back again tomorrow. They do so. We get the impression that they may have been doing this for some time now and may continue to wait forever.

People admire Beckett’s formidable reputation: they respect Waiting for Godot; they study it; they wrestle with it; they fear it; and they appreciate it. But do they really like it? After all; what’s to like (see synopsis above)? There is no real character development, no explanations, and no glib back-story: the characters merely are what they do and say, and that really isn’t very much. I have heard this described as “an actor’s play” but it could equally be “a directors’ play” because the interpretation is everything – and director Sean Mathias has worked with his actors to produce a sumptuous production.

Estragon (Gogo) – Ian McKellen – and Vladimir (Didi) – Roger Rees – are perfectly balanced like children on a see-saw that have rocked to a stand-still. Didi seems to be the practical, protecting one, while Gogo is the entertainer or whiner, depending on his mood. Didi tries not to laugh, due to a weak bladder and unspoken prostate complaint, but Gogo frequently has him in stitches. To pass the time as they wait, they try conversing, arguing and contradicting each other. Their verbiage is delightful and it is refreshing to hear Ian McKellen talk in his natural Lancashire (not Yorkshire as I have seen reported – he was born in the same hospital as Him Outdoors) accent.
 
The two old men are totally in-synch, and we believe theirs is a relationship that has blossomed over the years with equal parts affection and irritation. They are clearly afraid of being alone but even the talk of hanging themselves from the emaciated tree is done in a quirky and flippant manner. The humour masks the sinister, nightmare quality that can seep through this play. As Didi tries to explain to Gogo that they were here yesterday and what they did, Gogo’s inability to remember is not as dark as it could be – nor is the fact that he is beaten every night – by what or whom we don’t know, but it doesn’t seem to matter as much as it could.

Across their radar stumble Pozzo and Lucky. Matthew Kelly (yes, the one from Stars in their Eyes) is sensational as Pozzo. He uses his imposing height and commanding voice to tower over the cowering old tramps. But although he is the one literally cracking the whip and pulling the strings, he is helpless and lonely, demanding companionship from the macabre Lucky (Brendan O’Hea) who is anything but. He can command Lucky to sing, dance or think, which he does with energetic aplomb. These two are defined by this chilling master/servant relationship with an unidentified tipping point.

The raw emotion is paramount as the characters behave like vaudevillian clowns – Lucky even appears with white-face and big blackened eyes. The physical theatre is excellent from the business with the bowler hats and boots (as explicitly specified in the stage directions), to the shuffle dance and mocking imitations. This isn’t a long play on paper, but it lasts for over two and a half hours and the repetitions begin to feel increasingly surreal.

The silences are substantial as the men inhabit their feelings: anxiety; hope; fear; anger; frustration; sadness; envy; need; hunger. They cross the boundary between mental sensation and physical state. We have animal sensibilities but we are human in our need to relate. We are only who we are in relationship to each other, and how that relationship develops depends on the part we choose – yes, choose – to play. The theory that we can choose to determine our own development is the definition of existentialism, of which this play is regarded to be one of the greatest proponents. As ever, the great man was right: we are all merely players; and one man in his time plays many parts.

The set (designed by Stephen Brimson Lewis) deserves an individual mention as the ruined theatre confronts us. Is the rubble the aftermath of some violent event; should we be worried about the absence of Godot? Is it an indication of the deconstruction of the theatrical experience – no longer content to follow a traditional plot that troops through its chronological stages and sends us away satisfied with a happy ending? The spindly tree, frigid moon (lighting designer – Paul Pyant) and discordant sounds (sound designer – Paul Groothus) leave us aching with longing for something, but what? There really are more questions than answers in this play.

In essence, this raises the question of how we validate our existence. If I have been for walk, read a book, shopped for groceries, done the washing, paid the bills and written a couple of letters, I will still answer ‘nothing much’ when someone asks, ‘what have you done today?’ We spend a lot of time waiting for something exciting and diverting to happen to us – when it doesn’t, can we really say we have lived, or just existed? I think we can consider this production of Waiting for Godot to be one of the most exciting and diverting to happen in a long time.

Semi-Final speculation

Reports of the demise of European football have been somewhat previous. We heard so much about the dominance of South American football, and yet there are three European teams in the quarter-finals. Sure; the superstars have fallen by the wayside – Anelka; Cannavaro; Rooney; Ronaldo etc. – but the team-play rather than silky skills are rising to the top, and that is exactly what I like to see.

First up – Brazil v The Netherlands; the one everyone expected the world champions to win, including the world champions themselves. Expectation is a terrible thing – ask England – and the Netherlands quietly went about the business of puncturing Brazil’s illusions. Having scored a goal from an error (Felipe Melo was credited with the own goal), the Netherlands defended well and even managed to score again.

I heard the expression ‘Kuyt to the rescue’ and mention of his impressive work rate on several occasions. Just as Ferdinand might as well be christened ‘Given-away-by’, I seriously began to think that Kuyt’s sobriquet is ‘Unselfish-play-by’. Is there a prize for the most assists? If so, he should definitely be awarded it – perhaps it could be called the golden sock.

Melo’s game went from bad to worse when he was sent off for a dirty foul, stamping on the hamstring of Arjen Robben that could have ended his career. Actually, everyone in a blue shirt had a pop at Robben who spent most of the match flying through the air or rolling on the ground. The match became increasingly ill-tempered towards the end as Brazil were no longer the impressive exponents of the beautiful game and cards flew for deliberate hand-balls and simulation – forty fouls were given in all and Brazil showed more Gallic than Latin temperament problems; I can’t see Germany doing that.

The commentator quipped, “If Brazil are going out of the World Cup they are going out with a fight – quite literally.” He also referred to the Dutch defence as resembling “an orange jelly, just wobbling there – no wonder they’re nervous.” He must have so much fun thinking these things up...

I watched the Ghana v Uruguay game propped up in bed with a couple of female friends in a hotel room; there was honestly nothing dodgy about this (although the discussion about how nice the Ghanaians looked in their red and yellow strip against the bright green turf was a little iffy).

There was everything dodgy about Luis Suarez hand-balling Dominic Adiyiah’s definitely goal-bound extra-time shot off the line. He was given a red card and sent off. Ghana were awarded a penalty as the last action of the game – Asamoah Gyan should have scored and Ghana should have been in the semi-finals. He hit the cross-bar and they’re not.

The match went to penalties, the first of which Gyan took and scored with commendable coolness. Mensah and Adiyiah couldn’t convert their penalties – only one Uruguayan missed, and it’s all over for Africa. Penalty shoot-outs are a lottery: exciting when your team isn’t involved; sickening when they are. One of my friends was demanding, “Why can’t the ref just give a goal?” It’s a fair enough question, and I’m sure she’s not the only one asking, but them’s the rules and although there will a call for them to be changed in future, for now Uruguay are justifiably into the final four.

Asamoah Gyan was understandably distraught. So, slightly less understandably, were my tender-hearted maternal friends. “He’s not your son” I pointed out. “Yes, but he’s some poor mother’s son” one of them snuffled, somewhat illogically. I have seen this happen to England before and wasn’t going to waste my tears on other countries’ sons.

Speaking of cheating hand-of-God South American nations, I thought I might have split loyalties when it came to Argentina v Germany; who do I dislike least? After all; we’ve fought wars against both these countries (okay, so it might be hard to find a country that Britain hasn’t found itself in conflict with over the centuries). As it happened, all it took was one look at the puffed-up pigeon-chested Maradona to make up my mind and have me screaming at the TV, “Come on Germany!”

And they are a good young side with decisive passes and innovative play – of course, the word ‘clinical’ is never far from any description of the Fatherland, and it was a definitive demonstration of what to do with that unpredictable beach ball – split the defence and put it in the back of the net – but it was sublime to watch.

I like Lionel Messi and I like Javier Mascherano; in them I think Argentina has the best striker and defensive midfielder in the world, but as we have seen; this isn’t a tournament for individuals; it is a exhibition of cooperation and the Germans worked together as a tight unit, yes, alright, even an efficient one. There was added satisfaction in the fact that we put two goals past them and Argentina couldn’t even manage one. England don’t look quite so woeful in that light.

And then there’s Spain... People have been calling them under-performers, but they are through to the semi-final after grinding out a 1- 0 victory against Paraguay. The game had end-to-end missed penalties, disallowed goals, retaken penalties, unawarded penalties, squandered free kicks and one of the tightest mid-field contests seen so far in this tournament. Spain may not have set the footballing world alight, but you don’t have to play pretty football to win.

The only bet I have that is still vaguely alive is for Torres to pick up the golden boot. It doesn’t look like it’s going to happen, but he could always prove me wrong by bagging a swag of goals against Germany and progressing through to trounce the Dutch (assuming, as I do, that they beat Uruguay) with yet more bulging of the old onion bag. Like I said, it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen.

Hats off to the fans

Do you see what I did there? I went two whole posts without mentioning football, kind of pretending that I wasn't chewing off my fingernails as we limped through to the last 16. I'll be getting up in the middle of the night to watch England against Germany. I don't expect it to be good for my heart. In the meantime, I have loved all the drama and the passion and the headgear of the group stages. Here are some of my favourite images.

While I still dislike the vuvuzelas intensely, I do like the makarapas. These modified miners' helmets are as much a feature of this World Cup as that intensely irritating horn, and they are a lot more welcome and entertaining.