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Springsteen, Super Bowl's and soccer....
6 min read
It's snowing where I live, I've had Four hours sleep, maybe. But that's what the Superbowl does for you. I'd been rooting for the Arizona Cardinals principally because it would have been nice to see Kurt Warner finish his career with a second super bowl win. Alas, it wasn't to be, looks like he'll have to settle for knowing that he played a great game, and aside from the quick slant at the end of the 2nd quarter (only the biggest single play yardage wise in Super Bowl history) he was near flawless. It was a shame there were so many penalties in an otherwise engaging contest but all in all it had everything the big game should have - points (51), drama (The 3rd down conversion that became a safety), big plays (see Harrison's pick and of course the magnificent Fitzgerald) sub plots (Tomlin vs. Whisenhunt) and late game heroics (kudos Big Ben for that laser guided beauty you somehow dropped on a sixpence for Santonio Holmes who then snags it with a tremendous clutch catch to take the game). Notable mentions should go to Darnell Docket, a terrier of a player if ever there was one, and the entire Cardinals defence. In the end it all came down to the perverse brilliance of the chess match that is American football - Arizona simply scored too quickly at the end of the game.
It's hard to say either team was the better, both played their part in what was an absorbing, somewhat stop start affair.
Notes: The halftime show didn't work at all. Don't get me wrong I'm a huge Springsteen fan but he's the kind of musician you listen to when submerged within a beautifully morose moment of life, the sort where you get drunk on whisky in a dead end bar before staggering hopelessly to a rancid downtown motel with an ageing out of work stripper on your arm. It's beautiful but it ain't celebratory in the way the Super Bowl is supposed to be. The Aerosmith/Britney show remains the best yet, if only for that sublime moment when the little vixen strutted her way down the set in that marvellous cat suit to a background break beat thud and the crackled love of an electric guitar.
Secondary notes and wonderful sideline curiosities: Brenda Warner's development from boot camp drill instructor to Stacked blonde bombshell super milf. It's now abundantly clear why the Warner's have so many kids.
Onto other weekend notables:
The five set epic that occurs whenever Rafa Nadal and The Fed happen to meet on a tennis court didn't fail to deliver yet more majestic brilliance and titanic effort from both players, and this time even offered us an inner glimpse into their souls. For any sports fan it cannot be understated how fortunate we are to be witnessing the sustained and continued brilliance of two men who not only play the game with bludgeoning power and sublime finesse, but display the very essence of sportsmanship, something often lacking in modern times. Both men hold themselves with dignity and it was extremely moving to see Federer first burst into tears on the podium, no doubt realising that the torch had well and truly been passed, only for Nadal to offer him tender and genuine words of support. That Nadal managed to be as humble in victory as he was, and in being so only matched Federer's response, which was to somehow make his runners up speech so that Nadal could enjoy his victory in the manner it deserved, epitomises the quality of both men. Where Federer goes from here only he will know. Suffice is to say that Nadal displayed the sort of gritty determination and mental tenacity that few in any sport can match. As the match closed out, with Federer on the ropes, his manner espousing how well and truly beaten he was, I heard a rumour that Evian had set up a distillery in Nadal's hometown, the water they are bottling there is to be called Iron Spine and by my reckoning it should sell by the bucket load. After playing for five hours and fourteen minutes versus Verdasco in the semi's, Nadal still managed to beat one of the greatest players of all time but a day and a bit later. Phenomenal.
Football.
Spurs appear to be re-buying all their old players from the side that was nearly relegated last season - in a bid to beat relegation this season. Go figure.
If Chelsea's lame, spineless performance in their two nil loss to Liverpool is anything to go by then Big Phil appears to be settling into semi-retirement rather nicely. As he oversees the capitulation and general malaise that has become Chelsea FC he must take regular private moments to remind himself of the enormous financial incentive that lured him to Chelsea, and that if he keeps coaching them as badly as he is doing he'll only have to see out the season before he's canned and can pootle back to Brazil with a nice pay off. To the outsider he doesn't appear to give a tiny rat's backside about anything, though one might argue that he was sold a doozy when he joined the team so why should he. Scolari thought he was getting a Manchester City that actually had clout and some players but instead got a bored owner who doesn't want to pay or play anymore. Ironically, his competitor for the Chelsea job, Mark Hughes, thought he'd missed out on the open cheque book football wonderland and somehow fell arse first into another, only to probably now realise that his was very definitely a case of be careful what you wish for as he too will likely be out on his ear come June. They whisper that he's not a big enough name for the chaps over in Abu Dhabi - my recommendation? Deed Poll. Hughes needs to leg it down there and change his name, to something like 'Sparkymarkyspecialone Mourinhughesguson', yes, that should be big enough.
Tony Adams is a number two, but I think we all knew that from day one.
The penalty awarded to Newcastle in the Tyne Wear derby was a joke, Sunderland ought to be allowed to check the ref's bank account for suspicious payments after that decision. On the subject of ref's, Frank Lampard has every right to demand Mike Riley head to Specsavers after his laughable sending off.
It's hard to say either team was the better, both played their part in what was an absorbing, somewhat stop start affair.
Notes: The halftime show didn't work at all. Don't get me wrong I'm a huge Springsteen fan but he's the kind of musician you listen to when submerged within a beautifully morose moment of life, the sort where you get drunk on whisky in a dead end bar before staggering hopelessly to a rancid downtown motel with an ageing out of work stripper on your arm. It's beautiful but it ain't celebratory in the way the Super Bowl is supposed to be. The Aerosmith/Britney show remains the best yet, if only for that sublime moment when the little vixen strutted her way down the set in that marvellous cat suit to a background break beat thud and the crackled love of an electric guitar.
Secondary notes and wonderful sideline curiosities: Brenda Warner's development from boot camp drill instructor to Stacked blonde bombshell super milf. It's now abundantly clear why the Warner's have so many kids.
Onto other weekend notables:
The five set epic that occurs whenever Rafa Nadal and The Fed happen to meet on a tennis court didn't fail to deliver yet more majestic brilliance and titanic effort from both players, and this time even offered us an inner glimpse into their souls. For any sports fan it cannot be understated how fortunate we are to be witnessing the sustained and continued brilliance of two men who not only play the game with bludgeoning power and sublime finesse, but display the very essence of sportsmanship, something often lacking in modern times. Both men hold themselves with dignity and it was extremely moving to see Federer first burst into tears on the podium, no doubt realising that the torch had well and truly been passed, only for Nadal to offer him tender and genuine words of support. That Nadal managed to be as humble in victory as he was, and in being so only matched Federer's response, which was to somehow make his runners up speech so that Nadal could enjoy his victory in the manner it deserved, epitomises the quality of both men. Where Federer goes from here only he will know. Suffice is to say that Nadal displayed the sort of gritty determination and mental tenacity that few in any sport can match. As the match closed out, with Federer on the ropes, his manner espousing how well and truly beaten he was, I heard a rumour that Evian had set up a distillery in Nadal's hometown, the water they are bottling there is to be called Iron Spine and by my reckoning it should sell by the bucket load. After playing for five hours and fourteen minutes versus Verdasco in the semi's, Nadal still managed to beat one of the greatest players of all time but a day and a bit later. Phenomenal.
Football.
Spurs appear to be re-buying all their old players from the side that was nearly relegated last season - in a bid to beat relegation this season. Go figure.
If Chelsea's lame, spineless performance in their two nil loss to Liverpool is anything to go by then Big Phil appears to be settling into semi-retirement rather nicely. As he oversees the capitulation and general malaise that has become Chelsea FC he must take regular private moments to remind himself of the enormous financial incentive that lured him to Chelsea, and that if he keeps coaching them as badly as he is doing he'll only have to see out the season before he's canned and can pootle back to Brazil with a nice pay off. To the outsider he doesn't appear to give a tiny rat's backside about anything, though one might argue that he was sold a doozy when he joined the team so why should he. Scolari thought he was getting a Manchester City that actually had clout and some players but instead got a bored owner who doesn't want to pay or play anymore. Ironically, his competitor for the Chelsea job, Mark Hughes, thought he'd missed out on the open cheque book football wonderland and somehow fell arse first into another, only to probably now realise that his was very definitely a case of be careful what you wish for as he too will likely be out on his ear come June. They whisper that he's not a big enough name for the chaps over in Abu Dhabi - my recommendation? Deed Poll. Hughes needs to leg it down there and change his name, to something like 'Sparkymarkyspecialone Mourinhughesguson', yes, that should be big enough.
Tony Adams is a number two, but I think we all knew that from day one.
The penalty awarded to Newcastle in the Tyne Wear derby was a joke, Sunderland ought to be allowed to check the ref's bank account for suspicious payments after that decision. On the subject of ref's, Frank Lampard has every right to demand Mike Riley head to Specsavers after his laughable sending off.
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Reason for being here....
1 min read
i'm doing the deviant thing as a means of stopping my head from exploding when i'm not doing what i do. So let it be known that i'm just some hack with a camera who thinks it's kinda cool that he can 'hang' some of his pics in his own gallery and occasionally one or two are appreciated. I suppose this is a disclaimer putting me somewhere (on a distinctly expansive horizon) between Flint and Degas. i.e Hackville, south of Virtuoso and north of Smutcentral, though the journey south seems possible on the pole of inspired erotomania, whereas the journey north is blocked by a multitude of laughing no entry signs.
Occasionally i may add shots in relation to this meandering pontification. Then, at some later point i'll probably remove them. It's just the way it goes with me.
Occasionally i may add shots in relation to this meandering pontification. Then, at some later point i'll probably remove them. It's just the way it goes with me.
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a deviant returns.
1 min read
i like to go a wandering. With some new shots and upgraded weaponry I have returned.
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