June 2010

You are currently browsing the monthly archive for June 2010.

beer1
(Cool World Ceer posters here)

So here’s the rest of the round one beer match ups. Here’s the idea explanation and here’s the first batch

Italy v New Zealand

Speight’s
Allan Prosser: This is a good honest beer – and I’d expect nothing less from New Zealand. This is the sort of beer that I would drink at the Middlesex sevens over ice on a long afternoon. This is the taste of the south island, where most of the beer comes from, and it’s very good.
Rory Bevan: A light lager ale. It has its ancestry very much in Britain. You’re back into the session beer — a very good drinking beer — very balanced — it’s not too light, not too heavy, bitter or sweet. This shows its English heritage — it’s a good, colonial beer.
Adrian Russell: Like the Kiwis, it is probably more suited to rugby. I can imagine getting through a lot of this in a New Zealand winter tour, but I don’t know how suited it is to football terraces. It tastes good and I like the quaint branding.

Peroni
AP: I feel, much like the Italian team, this is an old, predictable beer. I’m going to go with the basic honesty of the New Zealand beer against something that I think is passed its sell-by date. It’s a designer label that doesn’t live up to it.
RB: The Peroni is stylish but is lacking in substance. Speight’s is good old colonial honesty — if that’s not a contradiction in terms.
AR: I had this in Bari last season when Ireland nicked a draw with the Azzuri. Like the Serie A, this is solid and expertly crafted though not very exciting, admittedly. I love Italian football and Italy itself so this is a draw for me, despite the Kiwi’s brave offering.

Verdict: New Zealand 2 Italy 1
It’s All White on the night as the new world charm of New Zealand’s Speight’s edges out Marcello Lippi’s boys.

Portugal v North Korea

Superbock
AP: This is a nice beer, I think. Too many of these and you might fall down which is appropriate for the country that’s given us Ronaldo. I can imagine drinking this while the fish is cooking in the background. I think the Koreans will have to pull out a big performance to beat this one.
AR: It’s 5.2% which seems unusual for a light, barbeque-type beer. It promises much and is light and flighty a bit like the Golden Generation. Though i can imagine sipping a few of these fairly easily on the patio of a Lisbon cafe. Could be a dark horse.
RB: It’s quite reasonable – dry with our being over dry – and has drinkability. The predominant feature is its graininess and there’s nothing wrong with it at all. It has notes of your traditional Irish lager with the graininess and certainly has plenty of character.

Hite
AP: This is an okay beer too – it’s not the first time we’ve seen them this tournament and for me it’s consistent but lacks flair on the second outing. It drinks fine flat though and would probably complement a nice spicy meal. But Portugal take it for me this time.
AR: Yeah, I think we know a little too much about this formerly mysterious crowd. The beer is tangy and fairly flavoursome but I don’t think this will last much longer in South Africa. That’s a Portuguese win for me – despite another structurally sound display from the Dear Leader’s outfit.
RB:It has a sour character which is a good attribute in beer. That would be its predominant flavour. It’s a decent beer -being fruity and mellow. On its second outing it might suffer, I’d agree but I’d call this a draw. It’s just a preference thing – they’re both good beers.

Verdict: 2-0 to Portugal
Former United No 2 Carlos Queiroz may be more used to supping on Fergie’s post-match bollinger rather than a Superbock, but his Portugal side put their best beer forward with this one. The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea can hold their heads high despite this setback.

Argentina v Greece

Quillmes
AP: I’ve never seen this beer before – even in London. You can see that in the Hand of God, cant you? It’s probably the beer that drives Boca Juniors supporters mad. The greatest shame for Maradona is that he can’t stuff it up his nose. 1-0. I have this down as semi-finalists at the very least. It’s a fine beer; it moves around the palate like Messi on a good day.
AR: It’s a hot country beer and this is very good. Like El Diego today, it’s full bodied, enigmatic and lacking chemicals. The bottle is cool and i can imagine knocking back a couple of these during a Buenos Aires ticker tape parade.
RB: It’s understated – even the labelling is retro. I could see myself drinking this with a one kilo Argentine steak. It’s clean and lightly hopped; it’s certainly a contender. It’s again a light pilsner which is nicely balanced. It grows on you – which in anything – is a good quality.

Keo
AP: There’s nothing about it really though it’s fine. The Greek offering is decent if a little unmemorable and it’s not going to beat the Argies this time around. !-O to Maradona and the lads.
AR: This one — though brewed in Cyprus – qualifies under FIFA rules. It’s fairly airy, fairy and has nothing substantial to back it up really. Ideal for hot weather maybe but it will struggle today against the rough aristocrats from South America.
RB: Again, a warm country beer. Not much distinctive about it and no real redeeming features. The flavours don’t marry as well as the Argentina beer so i think this is a whitewash. Quillmes is certainly one to watch.

Verdict 3-0 Argentina
After a week and a half of beer tasting, things get Messi. Though the Greeks served a perfectly functional warm weather drink, they can have few complaints against a classy Argentine beer. Don’t be surprised if we see it later on in the tournament.

Australia v Serbia

Coopers Sparkling Ale
AP: it’s a loud beer a bit like those Aussie neighbours at a bbq – and the longer the day goes on the louder they get. But it tastes good and could go a long way.
AR:
It is quite brash and fun. A craft type ale designed for the educated beer drinker’s palate. But probably not for everyone. Their team could go walkabout early in South Africa but this beer may well go a bit further, I’d guess.
RB: It’s 5.8% so has quite a good kick to it and is bottle-conditioned which means there’s yeast left in the bottle which keeps it fresh and helps it retain its character and flavour – it’s a difficult process. It’s hoppy, bitter, and there’s caramel notes in there. A dry beer but it’s very nice. It’s probably a beer designed for the connoisseur beer drinker.

Jelen Pivo
AP: Given the choice between this and the aussie one at a BBQ, you might use Jeklen to douse the flames afterwards. The Australian beer is a much better presented bottle too – which is a factor.
AR: This is technically adept – I’d be quite happy ot be served that watching the last games of the group stafes. But against the more unusual, well crafted Coopers, it’s a bit of a is-match isn’t it. Plenty of eastern promise – but maybe this tournament came a few seasons too early for Jlen, if you’ll allow me to pour a cliché.
RB: it’s grainy, with plenty of body and fullness. It’s much hoppier and has a bitter aftertaste – which is an attribute of beer It’s s fine beer too but for me the Australian is better, though it’s a matter of tsaste.

Verdict: Australia win 3-0
This could be the first time an Australian could be described as tasteful, inoffensive and leaves you wanting more? We couldn’t possibly comment, but Coopers sparkles this time around anyway agasint the workmanlike, honest Serb offering.

Slovakia v Italy

Zlaty Bazant
AP: this is a professional beer. I’m rather put off by the emblem which reminds me of the Tottenham Hotspur crest – I’m tempted to mark it down for that reason. It strikes me as the kind of beer that it would a big mistake to switch to at 1am some night.
AR: It’s strong. As this is brewed in Slovakia – where Stephen Ireland killed off two grandmothers in one night – I’d call this a potential three-granny beer. But it’s full and flavoursome – you mightn’t get through too many.
RB: The Slovaks have a long tradition of brewing and this is certainly a good continental, fullsome lager. I find it a little bit heavy on the satiating – that is a heavy on drinkability. You wouldn’t want to be going to extra time on them. Nice branding too.

Birra Moretti

AP: This is lightweight in comparison. It’s the kind of beer that goes well with a good pair of sunglasses; it’s a fashioned beer. I’d be happy to drink this in the shadow of the Colliseam watching the girls go by on their mopeds.
AR: It is light, you could probably get the Vespa home after two of these. The golden peasant – which is what the Slovakian beer translates as – is probably for the more mature drinker to sip quietly, whereas the fashionable Italian lager would end up in the discotheque.
RB: This is typically Italian – clean and crisp; this beer has good tailoring. But they’re two different styles of beer – one is full and flavoursome, while the other is light, more like the frascati of beers. I think the Morreti – as a drinking beer – would slightly shade it for me. It’s about balance and for me the Italian has more drinkability.

Verdict: Italy 3-0
Despite a lovely, typically well-crafted Slovakian offering the Italians run out comprehensive winners. The world champions may be wobbling, but at least their fans are sipping a stylish, light, drinkable beer. Forza Azzurri.

Portugal v Brazil

Superbock
AP: This is a nice beer, I think. I’ve been to Portugal a few times on football trips and this is probably representative of the light, decent beer you’re served in Lisbon or Oporto. Depending on what they come up against, this could go a fair way in this tournament.
AR: We always expect so much from the stylish, technically gifted golden generation but this certainly delivers. The sports editor managed to sourced this one from the Portuguese tourist Board, and I could certainly see myself logging onto Ryanair in order to sip a few more beachside. Deceptively strong too at 5.2%.
RB: We’ve had this before of course and I think it went okay. I like it – it’s dry without being over dry – and has lots of drinkability. It’s nice and grainy which is a characteristic of beer. It has notes of your traditional Irish lager with the graininess and packs a punch, like Ronaldo I suppose.

Brahma
AP: This is not a good beer in my opinion. It’s insubstantial and insignificant. The Portuguese will likely conquer Brazil again. 1-0 to the Europeans.
AR: It’s another hot weather beer – suitable for a lazy barbecue rather than a night on the tiles I suppose. We spat it back in Dunga’s face the last time out but I think like the Selecao, it seems to be working its way into the tournament. Better on the second tasting – 1-1 for me.
RB:As I’ve always said – there are no bad beers, some are just better than others. This is light and flighty and would be fine served cold on a summer’s day. They’re not too dissimilar but the Superbock has a bit more body to it and is a bit more flavoursome on balance. And like football, brewing is all about balance.

Verdict: 2-1 to Portugal
We vote yes on Lisbon as the Portuguese lads edge out the Samba Boys with a full-bodied, powerful and tasty offering that might see them go a long way this year.

noelhunt1

Au revoir as they say in Waterford. H/T the excellent Balls.ie.

Incidentally, we have a great piece in tomorrow’s Examiner about Le Bleus’ meltdown by Philippe Auclair, author of Cantona: The Rebel who would be King. From the rave/class divisions to the FFF’s inertia to the political ramifications, it’s fascinating stuff.

This is going to be about a hurling man – but let’s start with some baseball.

Like boxing, America’s Game is one that lends itself to great sports-writing. And it entices some of the best to huddle here with us in the damp, shadowy corners of the back pages.

When John Updike – one of the bold-face names of 20th century literature – gambolled into Fenway Park one sunny afternoon, he unknowingly sat into the bleachers of the famous old chocolate box of a stadium on the last day of the legendary Ted Williams’ career at bat.

The smiling writer watched curiously for the duration and was ultimately so exercised by the theatre that played out in his lap that he submitted a now-celebrated piece to the renowned New Yorker magazine.

Updike sketches wonderfully Williams’ curmudgeonly farewell speech to Boston, before he typically spits a final rebuke to those in the press-box or “the maestros of the keyboard up there”.

Ultimately, Updike explains how Williams dotted a full stop in his cartoon-strip career with a final, predictable home run.

“Like a feather caught in a vortex, Williams ran around the square of bases at the center of our beseeching screaming. He ran as he always ran out home runs – hurriedly, unsmiling, head down, as if our praise were a storm of rain to get out of. He didn’t tip his cap. Though we thumped, wept, and chanted ‘We want Ted’ for minutes after, he hid in the dugout, he did not come back. Our noise for some seconds passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry to be saved. But immortality is nontransferable. The papers said that the other players, and even the umpires on the field, begged him to come out and acknowledge us in some way, but he never had and did not now. Gods do not answer letters.”

Gods do not answer letters. Home run, John.

(Incidentally, Ted Williams – the greatest they ever saw in Boston – died in 2002 . Sparking a very messy legal mud fight, two of his children froze his head cryogenically. Some insisted that the signature they insisted franked his approval of this unusual request was merely an autograph. Sports Illustrated writer Rick Reilly visited the icy head once, starting his subsequent column: “Hung out with Ted Williams the other day. Pretty cool. He’s spending his time in a one-storey cement building in a warehouse district next to the Scottsdale, Ariz., airport, frozen, upside down, waiting for science to bring him back from the dead.”)

Some time ago, I wrote here of Clare man Flan Marsh. A roofer by trade, he filled the now yawning days in his workshop at the end of the garden where he developed – slowly but surely – a hurley, that like himself, does not break.

His patent-pending technology involves lacing the hurley – still an authentic piece of ash – with a filament that holds it together safely as it cracks in the white heat of battle. This grit in the oyster prevents the familiar sight of half a hurley spinning dangerously into the summer sky.

I drove up to Broadford and stood in the centre of the club’s field before witnessing a full-blooded demonstration. It works.

So… here come the fast-talking Americans in ten-gallon hats and smelling of crisp dollar bills. A friend of Marsh’s in the States read the article online, opened up the Gmail account and fired off an email to baseball’s biggest of wigs.

Ten minutes later, a reply dropped in from ‘the Office of the Commissioner of Baseball’ on Park Avenue in New York. Now we’re in business.

This morning in Broadford in east Clare, the out-of-work roofer is waiting on 60 bats to arrive from the MLB.

It’s estimated – in the big leagues alone – that players go through approximately one bat every 50 at-bats. Where these sharp, fast-travelling missiles land, nobody knows. A firm of New York lawyers are kept busy with law suits caused by broken bats spiking into the cheap seats. With his new technology, Marsh will send the suits to the Hamptons early.

He plans to pump the bats with his silver lining and bounce them back to the new world where they await inspection in a lab by MLB’s experts. In the meantime, he’s kept going with the hurleys in his shed.

On Tuesday he bumped into former Banner manager Ger Loughnane and pressed one of the sticks into his hand. The Sunday Game pundit swung it around, examined the unusual spine with the intelligence that won two All-Irelands and offered Marsh his congratulations.

When Christy Cooney, GAA president, was in the county for the Feile na Gael last week, so too he was treated to a new hurley.

“I’m delirious. It’s very exciting,” he said this week. “The bats are made from ash – same as the hurleys – and we can fix them no problem at all.

“I’m run off my feet with the hurleys too – more than ever – and that’s great. But the baseball bats could be massive; they have a problem – and I can solve it.”

God may not answer letters. But he replies to his emails pretty quickly.

adrianrussell@examiner.ie Twitter: @adrianrussell

003

So… hiccup… our beer-tasting tournament has been running for a couple of weeks now. I sat down with Heineken master brewer Rory Bevan along with Irish Examiner columnist and Chelsea Shed Ender Allan Prosser before the kick off in South Africa to work our way through a drink from each of the participating countries.

The last game of the group stages – Portugal v Brazil or Superbock against Brahma as we call it – will round off an expensive call. We’ll chill out for the duration of the second round and come back, empty glasses in hand, for the quarter-finals I think. Everything in moderation.

The first week of panels is below, I’ll stick up the rest over the weekend at some stage. Read the rest of this entry »

Stylish hurling

ReservoirhelmetTee

RealmenhelmetsTee

Kevin O’Leary of Fresh Milk Clothing – who I play ball with of a Tuesday – has sent me on some lovely new hurling designs. Check them out here.

Game on, Ger.

delap3

Human slingshot, Rory Delap strides into the room, a new World Cup football loaded in his oxter. Over a firm handshake I ask him to teach me how to throw like he does on the telly.

As he looks, curious, from one member of his entourage, to me, and slowly back again – I think of a celebrated article about a famous weightlifter, by Paul Solotaroff, that I once read.

‘“One day a kid walks up to him between sets and said: ‘I want to be like you, Steve Michalik. I want to be Mr America and Mr Universe.’
‘Yeah?’ said Michalik in thick contempt. “How bad do you want it?”
“Worse than anything said the kid, a scrawny 17-year-old, more balls than biceps.”
Right, says Delap. Let’s go.

The Stoke City man, of course, is renowned for his laser-accurate, long-distance throw-ins which he darts in from sidelines in Premier League stadia. A weapon, but not so secret.

Hurled in at around 40mph, and averaging distances of 100ft (!), with an unusually and dangerously flat trajectory, the Ireland man is largely responsible for plenty of the Potters’ goals and their subsequent success in the English top flight over the past two seasons.

So, is this technique something I can bring to the Tuesday night five-a-side?

We’re now standing outside the impressive new Grand Canal Theatre in Dublin city centre on a wet mid-week morning. Perfect laboratory conditions for our experiment, I discover.

“It’s very important, on a day like this, to dry the ball,” Delap explains as he drags the new Jabulani around in his arms, as is his familiar trademark while teammates flood the box and goalkeepers, essentially, freak out.

“When we’re at home, the ball-boys have towels and they can quickly throw them to me and I give the ball a good drying. It’s one of the most important bits.”

Away from home, however, when conditions aren’t perfectly conducive to his distinctive set-piece, he admits to wearing ‘an old, raggy vest’ that envelops the wet ball while he steps backwards over the line as if he’s tip-toeing out of the cold sea.

That is, of course, if he’s allowed to take his customary few paces, bounce three or four steps forward onto the line, before bending like a sapling and whipping the ball goalwards. No, the opposition often make it harder than that.

“I was walking out the tunnel at Upton Park last season, and Zola looks up and says: have you seen the pitch?
“I said, no – why?
“It wasn’t my idea,” he says. Delap smiles at the memory of the then West Ham boss’s embarrassment. He took the field to see the advertising hoardings almost scuffed by chalk, as they hugged the sideline.

But you don’t bring a knife to a gun fight. Delap, typically unfazed, just stepped out over them.
Perhaps, though, the key to understanding the throw-in is found in Delap’s sporting DNA. His trademark set-piece sometimes overshadows what a good footballer he is – he’s played in FA Cup finals, won promotion, scored some corkers and should certainly have more than the 11 Ireland caps on his dresser. But it’s also the case that his teenage years were spent – kicking a ball, sure – but throwing a javelin too. The young Carlisle-raised lad – to Irish parents – was a schools champion in the field event.

After he dries the ball carefully, he places it carefully in his palms, the tips of his thumbs touching each other and his fingers spread to form a butterfly-type grip. “This is important. As you can see, I don’t have big hands or anything, so I catch it like this and…” he takes his left hand away from the ball with a flourish, like a magician waving his glove in front of a handkerchief. “You need to be able to grip the ball with one hand and not drop it.” He turns the ball to hold it only from the top half, like a Harlem Globetrotter, and it stays where it is.

So now it’s show-time. There’s no verbal missiles raining down as us this morning, no din from the stands and no opposing full back is hopping on his heels in our path. But let’s imagine there is.

“I don’t really have a routine now,” shrugs the 33-year-old. There’s no Ronan O’Gara schedule, no Jonathan Edwards-like hop, skip and jump. I tell him – after a particularly sad evening spent watching his throws on YouTube – I’ve noticed he usually takes four strides, including one longer pace. “I just do whatever’s easiest. I don’t know. I wouldn’t be able to deal with the hoardings would I if I had a set routine?”

He steps back, then jumps onto the imaginary line and releases the ball from over his head, licking on some back-spin to keep it flat and fast. It flashes to the other end of the square. “Now your turn.”

My first effort isn’t too bad – but the footballer insists my run-up was a bit dandyish. I give it a go, this time determined to send the new ball into the canal. My approach is less Strictly and I plant my feet firmly on the line, draw the ball over my head and – pop – it skips into the air before coming down on my crown.

“That’s why you need a towel,” says Delap dryly. Good advice.

Adrian.russell@examiner.ie Twitter: @adrianrussell

From high in the south terrace or Curva Sud of the Stadio San Paulo, Napoli’s ultras hang a bespoke banner at every game. Stitched carefully into the sky-blue fabric is the poetic epithet: “I have seen him, now I can die”. The tifosi need not say who they mean.

Diego Armando Maradona’s Argentina visit the Lokomotiv Stadium this evening for a friendly game with hosts Russia. The trip to Moscow is the latest step on what has been a rocky road for the former No 10 as international manager, having already overseen a humiliating 6-1 defeat to Bolivia and a damaging loss to Ecuador, as the South American giants stumble clumsily towards South Africa next summer. It all started however, like a Billy Connolly joke, in Glasgow.

Another banner in the Mezzogiorno explains that Naples – an industrial town which offers the world a grubby face scarred by organised crime and poverty – has but three beautiful features: the bay, the Vesuvius and Maradona. Glasgow doesn’t have any volcanoes or a beautiful harbour. But for one night, it had Diego.

It was in Hampden Park that the then Boca Juniors prodigy made his debut in 1979 and here also where he’d take his first bow as boss. And when the former tri-quartista — a hero to millions of my generation – was sensationally installed in the job, I realised this would be my chance to touch the hem of the cloak of a childhood hero.

I set out on a quest, sans press credentials, to meet an icon amid a perfect storm of global interest. I wanted to shake the Hand of God. Read the rest of this entry »

rte1

Giles, Dunphy, Hamann, Billo, Ossie, Souness, Dinny Irwin, Killer and of course the crazy genius of the beloved Aprés Match.

RTÉ’s World Cup coverage, this year, is exactly like this video of Gaga, Springsteen, Elton John, Sting, Shirley Bassey and Debbie Harry having a go at Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’.

beerfestival01

An Irishman, an Englishman and a master brewer from a Dutch-owned beer company walk into a bar. And as Con Houlihan used to say: now read on.

After the lingering, wine-induced Parisian hangover, we now accept we will not be in South Africa tonight when the champagne bottles pop.

The party is about to kick off with all the cool kids already inside, while we wait at home – the now forever-famous 33rd team – constantly glancing at the phone, willing that text to pop in from Sepp.

Well that’s not going to happen. Unless Australia launches a thermo nuclear attack on New Zealand over the weekend and they’re both kicked out, we’re on the couch for the month with only the warmth of England’s unlucky exit to keep us warm.

So how are we to supplement the football?

Archimedes had his eureka moment in the bath; most of mine come in the pub. Quietly sitting at a bar counter, idly trailing my finger around the rim of a glistening tulip glass of imported, frothy wheat beer it occurred to me that we should use beer – responsibly – to wet our World Cup whistle.

There, reader began a global journey to collect a beer from each participating country and play them off against each other. It was a voyage so epic and circuitous that, at one stage, the BBC insisted I take Ewan McGregor on a Harley Davidson to the next off licence.

Some were, of course, pretty easy to source. I would’ve been happier, I’m almost ashamed to admit, if I flicked on Sky News last week and found that Angela Merkel and a few brickies had reconstructed the Berlin Wall, meaning both East and West Germany would be heading to South Africa. In short, there is hundreds of what Jamie Redknapp would call: top, top German beers on the market.

Australia too has exported almost as many lagers as it has bar workers to these islands. But not quite.

The USA also offers a wide variety of beer that reflects the enormous span of their country. Clear, crisp offerings from high in the Rockies or a sweeter, dryer tipple from its yawning southern gulf. Along with Italy, Spain and – spit – France, that was an easy early round.

But try getting your hands on an Algerian beer. Or a pint of Ghana’s best. Or even a Honduran.

Like Jimmy Breslin, the renowned New York columnist, used to say “do what all good reporters do; hang out”. So I hung out. I’ve spent more time in pubs than Bet Gilroy.

I left a message on a Serbian immigrants’ message board soliciting help; one gent named Aleksander has his mother bringing in a few bottles on a Ryanair flight – but it hasn’t got here yet. I bet she was glad she answered that phone call.

The South Korean embassy in London put me in contact with a little restaurant in Dublin, where I took receipt of two kinds of bottles this week after an extended period of phone calls where my charming Leeside lilt was evidently an obstacle. Nevertheless, we got the goods – and as North Korea refuses to export ANYTHING – I’m repatriating one South Korean brand to Kim Jong Il’s barmy army, for our purposes this month.

We had some of our correspondents in France and England and friends in New York, peek into ethnic shops and ask stupid questions. I’ve learned that Czechs and Slovakians barmen don’t like answering queries about Slovenian beer.

I bought a crate of Cypriot beer from a Greek restaurant in Malahide on Tuesday night, and they assured me it’s very popular ‘on the mainland’. I had it once the night before Cork City played in a Champions League game there and can confirm it’s from the Greek side of the island. Under FIFA rules, I’m counting it.

The excellent Bier House in Cork sourced lagers from as far away as Japan for us and hosted our sit down. Irish Examiner columnist Allan Prosser – our English representative – arrived with two bottles of Spitfire pulled from his own fridge. That’s the do-it-yourself spirit that built empires, ladies and gentlemen. But I’m not sure if his country’s ‘special relationship’ with America will survive his remarks on the Californian pale ale we sampled.

In the other corner, we had Rory Bevan, a man who spent 25 years at Beamish and Crawford’s before ‘moving with the furniture’ across the river to Heineken in recent years. His knowledge – on things like oxidation to bottle-readiness – flowed as much as the dozens of beers.

Watching sport – particularly the football over the coming month, maybe – we like to think we’ll earn a deeper look at a country’s psyche and personality.

The Argentine people’s idiosyncrasies are betrayed by the rough magic of their wonderful players; Germany’s functional and hard-working Mannschaft allows us to file them neatly under efficient; the Australians’ athletic and brash outfit reflect the competitive, up-front Aussie people, perhaps. Pop-psychology played out on a pitch.

Hopefully, now too we can add another prism to how we view the action: beer. Everyday we’ll take a look at one from each of two competing teams and play them off, before giving our score. It’s not scientific – apart from the chemistry that goes on behind the curtain to produce these drinks – but it, certainly, is fun. Cheers.

Contact: Adrian.russell@examiner.ie Twitter @adrianrussell

This column first appeared in today’s Irish Examiner newspaper

This is amazing stuff.

Speculation is spreading online after a video blogger named Michele Bufalino produced footage that combined parts of a report on motorized bicycles from Italian television with footage from two races won by the Swiss cyclist Fabien Cancellara this year

It’s well worth a watch for the clockwork, Victorian-era scheming which makes a change from the chemical cheating we’re now used to.

The piece is also an example of slick multi-media journalism which is beautifully practical.

It won’t let me embed the footage in a size to fit this website, so check it out here, if interested.

grad12

Thank you students, please sit down. It’s an honour to address the class of 2010. I know you guys are busy cramming ahead of the Leaving Cert’s commencement in a few short days. Very quickly if I may, I’d like to offer some advice to you, our athletes of tomorrow.

Firstly, if you’re going to write a book – really, I can’t say this enough, guys – do NOT hire an Australian to write it. Tadhg Kennelly once sat where you are – he learnt that particular lesson the hard way.

Don’t roll your eyes, young lady – and while I’m at it – read it before you charge €10 a copy in Eason’s. You know the way you and your friends sit on the top deck of the last bus and get your stories straight on a Saturday night? Well, it’s the same thing – get your story straight.

Pick up the phone to your grandmother every now and then – particularly if you’re in Bratislava and you’ve concocted a tissue-thin story centred on her demise. She’d like a call. For realsies.

Seeing Marty Morrissey in a white tuxedo means you’ve either made it to the Burlington for All Stars night, or you may be unconscious after a particularly heavy knock. Either way, walk away from Marty. Walk away.

The same way you couldn’t feed the Gremlins after midnight, do NOT wake The Duffer before midday.

You’ll have read the term ‘friendly fire’ in your history textbooks. If you find yourself on the turf at Twickenham and one Paul O’Connell is thundering by… duck.

Tom Humphries once described sports writing as a form of assisted living. You bright young things will one day bound from a dressing room, warmed by a great victory. You may notice your pastel-bright, Skins episode of a life is suddenly darkened by the sorry sight of overweight, under-paid, middle-aged, white men huddling in the doorway like they felt the first shudders of an earthquake. These are the journalists.

Please, assist them. When they point a Dictaphone (it’s like an iPod shuffle drawn by Roger Hargreaves) throw them the crumbs of a quote or two. You can then dash off to Krystle.

Don’t listen to those who tell you to tuck in your shirt. Who was the last man to win Wimbledon with his shirt tucked in? Michael Stich. Stich? Yeah, exactly. Wear what you like – but wear the jersey with pride.

If you’re being criticised by Dunphy, you’re probably doing something right. (Although, I was once reprimanded by the main man when working as a researcher on his radio show; given the simple job of looking after the morning’s text poll, I accidentally transposed the results. When he incorrently informed his audience that Steve Staunton’s appointment had the backing of an amzing 81% of respondents, he was not happy and hastily cut to an advert. I don’t work in radio any more, you may notice.)

Like taxes and death some things in life can be relied on; if you’re warming up under the Hogan Stand before a Leinster final, factor in a few more stretches while the Dubs trickle in from the Red Parrot.

Fitness never kicked a point from 40 yards.

IF Tracey Piggott does not try to wrap you in a warm, maternal, embrace after a memorable victory, change barber or deodorant.

If cast in the heroic role of third-man-in during a run-of-the-mill melee or in the platinum-plated biennial Internationals Rules shemozzles then simply windmill wildly like Pete Townshend on a second encore. What…oh… Pete Townsend? The Who? Never mind.

When asked for your greatest ambition for inclusion in the match programme questionnaire, you must ALWAYS say: winning the county with the club. If you do not, the very fabric of this universe will be compromised, the sun will go supernova and the earth may well topple of its axis rendering that year’s county championship void.

Soccer players, wait till you can afford an equally ostentatious car before you wear football boots boasting colours that were developed so astronauts could see the abort button as the sun explodes (see above).

Feel free to loosen up with the quotes. When an ashen-faced feature writer, defeated by your apparent omerta, collapses onto the restaurant table and asks, like the final act of a dying wasp, ‘what was the last film you saw?”, he’s not trying to catch you out. We don’t need an alibi. We just want you to admit to seeing Robin Hood so when you score an OG we can write a lazy intro about giving to the poor and get the graphics department to superimpose a felt hat on your head.

If you ever hear yourself, like Ashley Cole, bemoaning a €55k a week offer from your club, take a long hard look at yourself in Cheryl Cole’s bedroom mirror. Is this where you want to be, boys?

Don’t believe the hype.

Treat the FAI like the Churchill Dog – do not believe a word he spits out. If they book you on a pre-World Cup training break somewhere in the sub-continent, ask them to show you on a map with their finger and to forward on a copy of the ticket, post haste. Oh yes.

Let Tommy Bowe have a go on the Singstar every now and then. We know he’s bad. But that’s what sport’s about.

Adrian.russell@examiner.ie Twitter: @adrianrussell