The Picture

Quite a palaver getting a picture taken. An old friend was visiting with her two children and I decided to take them to Le Grand Corona for a coffee. I thought there would be a photo booth at Alma Marceau. No. I asked at the ticket office and the lady said go to St Philippe du Roule or Franklin Roosevelt. Off I went to St Phil and sat in the booth. It swallowed my euro and then refused to work.

So back I went to Franklin. To abridge: it took me ages to get a picture. The pose that I managed to muster was remarkably calm given the trauma of the prelude.

The picture is now in the Angola visa dossier and I await the next step. We will fly out on January 5 on Ethiopian Airways. The radio station has not paid the broadcast rights.

I am still unsure as to whether I will be able to get into mixed zones and the like to interview the players.

If that doesn't happen, then it will be a very tough competition to cover.

The Experiment

And just as I thought it was safe to avoid the joys of Paris....


Thought I would try adding a bit of technology to the blog. The little breakfast extravaganza is available from a cafe called le Grand Corona which is just on the Place de L'Alma.

You could be macabre and say it is the perfect place to take a coffee before going to see where Princess Di and Dodi met their ends.

But I'm not like that. It is just a choice venue to watch the fashionable people and cars go by. It is also the best tartine and coffee I've had.

The Season

It's an absolute disgrace. Nothing added since the last time. But of course since then there has been abject failure on the football field which, let's face it, has been the main thrust of the blog.

The season in the top flight is a top fright. Each weekend brings another atrocity. But at least it's not a profession.

Good job too. But how long can it go on? Not long for me as I am out this coming game. Did something rather odd to my left leg a few weeks back.

I went last Saturday to go and be the linesman but as one player could only do 45 minutes and another turned up and just about managed to warm up, I waddled around. But it was very unsatisfying. Unable to accelerate at all was frustrating.

I am gradually becoming restored. But by the time it happens I should be in Angola. Going to cover the African Cup of Nations for the radio station.

Jolly decent of them too. Will have to work ferociously hard. But oh the sun. Get those short sleeves out baby.

And of course what DVDs to take? I took the Matrix trilogy last time. And I remember waking up at various moments during the night hearing the pounding soundtrack.

It was a bit too pompous. I am thinking Die Hard or even the Rockford Files - perhaps the latter as the dialogue is good and who knows it might give me a few ideas for my reports.

The Aftermath

Good grief it's only a game. But this is a far far bigger thing than all of us. The Irish FA want the France Ireland match replayed. Oh please the last one was bucklingly dull.

To play it over again? But why not since it was decided by outrageous cheating. Outrageous skill was never going to decide it so why not resort to the dark side.

Thierry you are no Jedi. Ho hum but the French football association and FIFA don't care about honour. it's results that count and what bigger result than getting to the world cup finals.

But at what cost to your mortal soul? Me soul? That went long ago.

I've seen enough on a Saturday morning with clunkers like me to know that odd things happen with people and football. The corinthian precepts go out of the window.

Perhaps that's why I would never have made it. I wasn't brought up to be like that and I never had being like that thrust upon me.

I once wrote in a blog that for me football is about how you can dine out on the game. Spouting off and being told to be quiet because no one wants to hear about the fantastic angled ball to set up a goal or the sliding tackle to avert a goal.

But these are things that can be dampened with good humour. Would you ever try to dine out on: "I handled the ball and got a cross in for my team mate to score. We were all pleased. The ref didn't spot it."

And with cameras galore watching the ignominy. You win a game. You lose the right.

Ta Ta Ti Ti

Quite how you are supposed to teach youngsters the joy of participation when you see the professionals being ever so dodgy.

France got through to the World Cup thanks to their captain Thierry (Titi to his team mates) Henry handling the ball and then passing it for William Gallas to score.

It wasn't the ball hit me hand ref, it was more I made sure I controlled the ball with me mits.

Oh well. France through and Ireland out. No feat of genius. No flash of skill. Just plain old fashioned cheating.

The match was tough to watch. Indeed it was dire fare and I don't think I was seeing the potential world champions battling it out.

Went off for supper before the match with me mate Charlie who was over from London. And then we saw the match from about the hour mark. What with extra time, it was about an hour's worth of "top quality" football. Dire.

While at tennis practice, there was a cacophony outside the tennisdrome. Klaxons galore as the Algerians all came out to blare their happiness as their team had beaten Egypt 1-0 in Khartoum to advance to the finals for the first time since 1986.

No element of a handball in their goal.

But then they're not the former world champions.

The Laugh

Early train from Paris. Into London and bright joyous sunshine. What are the options with a few hours to kill before work? A cycle along the canal to the zoo to make the most of my new London Zoo all year entry card? Or a bit of art?

Art. Royal Academy art. Anish Kapoor is gracing the galleries though I wonder just what it takes these days to be called art.

The boy Kapoor has done well. My favourite bit was having a canon fire a 50lb globule of wax at one of the white walls. This is art? This is damn lucky.

I guess the creativity comes from having the guts (and the back catalogue) to say to the curators: "Look, what we're going to do is explore the relationship between violence and formation in the supra context of global reduction." I paraphrase of course.

But the canon went off and caused a flurry of chattering. It was a loud bang and the splat of wax was equally impressive.

One room was devoted to sludges. It reminded me of Paris. Lots of doggie dejections piled up high. Needless to say I thought these particular pieces were crap.

Loved the mirrors. Anybody who gets people in to look at themselves while looking at his art gets my vote.

Gets my laugh too.

The Overload Over

I might well be able to be all athletic on the football pitch but after three evenings of yoga, I might be too zen to be competitive.

Small price to pay for being able to stay on the field. But what's the point of being on the pitch if you're not going to be aggressive.

Be corinthian. Not being like that at the moment in Egypt where tensions are boiling over the match against Algeria.

But world cup qualification is at stake. The match takes place on Saturday. Shortly after the match. The match being our latest attempt to win a game.

The star striker is playing for the first bit and only 12 players are available this weekend. Unlike last weekend when 15 turned up and it was chaos.

I sense a result.

Even if we don't get one me and the missus are going to try a new restaurant out in the evening. It's North African cuisine and is owned by the man who runs Momo in London.

Give us a cous cous.

More like give me a break. The TV is on France 2 as the France v South Africa international has just finished. It's the loto draw brought to us by two young and wholesome people.

Balls flying around everywhere. Presage of the morning's activities.