Olympic countdown

On March 15, 2011 By Laura MorganIn Architecture and design, London, Sport2 Comments

I walked past the Olympic countdown clock in Trafalgar Square this morning:

It went up last night and it will count down the 500 days until the London Olympics begin next August. I walk across Trafalgar Square every weekday, so I’ll be able to keep a close eye on it and make sure nobody’s cheating.

Tickets for the various Olympic events also went on sale today. The process for buying them seems complicated, excluding and unfair, but I’m still going to try to get hold of some, which I suppose is what they’re counting on. If you have a monopoly on a hugely popular commodity, you can pretty much do what you like with it.

It’s disappointing that the ticket sales mechanism is so badly-designed, but not as disappointing as the design of that logo. Have another look at it:

I mean, what? It doesn’t even look like anything. It certainly doesn’t look like the numbers “2012”, unless you squint really hard. When it was first unveiled four years ago we were assured that we’d get used to it. Tessa Jowell, my MP and at that time the Olympics Minister, said:

“This is an iconic brand that sums up what London 2012 is all about – an inclusive, welcoming and diverse Games that involves the whole country.

“It takes our values to the world beyond our shores, acting both as an invitation and an inspiration.

“This is not just a marketing logo, but a symbol that will become familiar, instantly recognisable and associated with our Games in so many ways during the next five years.”

That’s clearly all bollocks, but what is especially bollocks is the part about it being “iconic”. When you use the word “iconic” to describe something that looks like this:

You pretty much defile its use to describe things that look like this:

Or like this:

Still, at least the London 2012 website doesn’t look like this any more:

I suppose that’s something.

A small victory

On February 3, 2011 By Laura MorganIn Navel gazing, Sport1 Comment

This is me:

I swam TEN LENGTHS today. Actually, I swam four lengths followed by twelve half-lengths, because they closed the deep end of the pool so that some burly men could practise diving with all their clothes on and pretending to rescue each other. They may have been trainee lifeguards, or army cadets, or just burly men who like diving in their clothes. I didn’t ask.

Anyway, I could barely manage two lengths when I started a month ago, so although ten lengths of a 27.5-metre pool is barely a quarter of a kilometre, I am pleased with myself, although you’ll be glad to know that I didn’t actually do a fist pump.

Weirdly, in just four weeks of swimming I have become noticeably (to me and the beloved, possibly not to anyone else) more svelte around the middle, too, so although I never intended to change my eating habits as part of my new healthier 2011, I now have the added benefit that I don’t even feel bad about the two croissants I had for breakfast, or the giant bowl of pasta I plan to eat shortly.

Interestingly, if you Google for pictures of Ian Thorpe, one of the first results is this one:

Which wasn’t appropriate for my purposes, but I felt like I should share it with you anyway.

Swimming

On January 9, 2011January 9, 2011 By Laura MorganIn London, Small pleasures, Sport

In an attempt to honour the third of my new year’s resolutions, which was to find a better form of exercise than Pilates, I have been thinking about going swimming. The last time I went swimming in this country was at Brockwell Lido this summer. The water was deep and icy-cold and I lasted less than a length before it started to feel like a struggle. I think I managed a total of three lengths in about twenty minutes, all the while panicking that I’d give up and drown in the deep end, even though I was never more than a few yards away from a lifeguard, and I was one of only three or four people at the pool.

But water does funny things to me. I can’t watch movie scenes filmed underwater without starting to feel nervous, and the anxiety I start to feel whenever I’m out of my depth is not nearly proportionate to the actual risk, although that must be a commoner reaction than I thought, or we wouldn’t use the term “out of one’s depth” to mean “in trouble”. I’m not a very strong swimmer, but I can float and bob around quite happily for forty-five minutes or so without needing to touch the ground, so it’s a psychological problem rather than a physiological one.

The problem is, most pools – especially serious, unheated outdoor pools like the Brockwell Lido – aren’t really designed to be bobbed and floated in. They’re designed for people who want to swim lengths. Frankly, I never want to swim lengths. I want to do star jumps and dolphin leaps and handstands. But if it’s a choice between swimming lengths and any other form of aerobic exercise, I will happily go for the lengths. I have no desire to lose weight (I feel compelled to say this in the light of my second New Year’s resolution, which was not to be bridezilla: I feel quite strongly that I don’t want to be one of those women who suddenly shoot down to a size eight in the weeks before their weddings, and as it happens this sits very happily with the fact that I have no plans to stop eating and drinking exactly what I want, whenever I want it), but I would like to be fitter and I would like to sleep better, and Pilates only offers small consolation in these departments. I need to do something that makes me tired.

So I think I’m going to sign up for a Swim London pass, which is cheaper than gym membership and covers forty pools across London. It doesn’t include the Lido, which is a shame since Brockwell Park is less than thirty seconds’ walk from home, but it does include Brixton and Crystal Palace, both a brisk walk or bus ride away, as well as the Oasis centre in Covent Garden which is two minutes from my office AND has a heated rooftop pool. I may not be able to bob and float there, but at least I’ll be able to swim a length without my lungs closing up in protest at the cold.

Because the thing is that as well as being afraid of the water, I love it. My two most vivid memories of pure physical pleasure in the last year are of swimming, once here:

And once here:

The first is a pool in Cyprus, the second Lake Huron. In Cyprus I swam twice a day, in a pool that was never deeper than I am tall. In Lake Huron I went out of my depth because the water was warm and soft and tasted of minerals and it wasn’t frightening. Actually there is an undertow in the lake, even though there are no tides, and the bottom has sharp rocks along it – a fact that scars on my right hand and knee will attest to. But you see, I wasn’t scared of injuring myself when I injured myself, so I didn’t mind. And when you’re out there bobbing and floating and spinning, with nobody to watch you except a few water birds and the occasional butterfly, there’s nothing in the world like it.

What do you suppose are the chances that swimming at the Oasis sports centre in Covent Garden will be more like Lake Huron and less like Brockwell Lido? Yeah, me too. But I’ll give it a go.

Badminton

On November 5, 2010November 5, 2010 By Laura MorganIn Navel gazing, Sport1 Comment

I like to play badminton. I’m not very good at it, but I’m not so bad that it’s not fun. In my last-but-one job we had a badminton league, where you played the three or four other people in your division over the course of a month, and the best player moved up a group and the worst player moved down a group – unless you were already in the bottom group, which I usually was. Occasionally I would make it into the second-bottom group, which was briefly encouraging, but I always went straight back down again. But that was OK, because it was fun, and anyone good enough to mind that I wasn’t very good usually wouldn’t have to play me again.

Then I left that job, and didn’t play for a while, until I noticed that my new workplace also had a badminton group, which played once a week at the local leisure centre, in casual games of doubles whose members swapped in and out over the course of an hour. So I joined, and suddenly it mattered that I wasn’t very good, because I would find myself paired with much better players – usually, I’m afraid, men – who really wanted to win and who would attempt to improve our chances either by shouting at me angrily every time I didn’t manage to follow their inexplicable instructions to the letter, or by creeping up behind me and sweatily showing me how I should be holding the raquet – both courses of action which, naturally, resulted in my playing much more badly than I had already been doing.

So I stopped going. And then I changed jobs again, and eventually I found yet another workplace badminton group to join, so three weeks ago I went along to Kensington Leisure Centre to try my luck again. This was another free-for-all, with two courts booked over two hours and an ever-rotating cast of players, so I was wary of being variously shouted at or molested by people who wanted me to do something other than whatever I was doing. But it was fine: everyone was very nice, and I had a lot of fun, and I ached for two days afterwards and decided I’d definitely go back. And last week I went back, and met the guy who organises it, and partnered him for a game and swiftly realised I was never going to go again. Not only did he shout and tut and sigh heavily at my lack of skills, he also couldn’t tell the difference between my not being able to carry out his instructions, which I couldn’t, and not being able to understand them, which I could. By the end he was speaking the kind of angry, staccato, exaggeratedly loud English popularly supposed to be how British people talk to foreigners, which somehow didn’t seem to improve my backhand at all. But even worse, and I’m almost as cross with myself for not saying anything about it as I am with him for doing it, every time he wanted me to move to a different part of the court, which was often, he would NUDGE ME IN THE BACKSIDE WITH HIS RAQUET.

I know, I should have told him off. I was just so surprised, and so already bowed down with the knowledge of my complete and perfect failure, that I somehow didn’t manage it. But whatever, I’m not going back, so it doesn’t really matter.

But what does matter is that, as I said when we began this conversation (doesn’t it seem a long time ago?), I really like playing badminton. And I feel as though it ought to be possible for me to play it in an environment where I am not told off or sexually harassed on account of not being very good; ideally against someone who, like me, is there for fun rather than because they really want to win, and who won’t mind that I am a bit shit and sometimes need to stop and have a rest. So in a first for gladallover this is a heartfelt appeal: if you are in London and are that person and would like to play badminton with me, please let me know. But I ought to warn you, I’m a bit shit.

Millwall

On October 18, 2010October 18, 2010 By Laura MorganIn Football

Crystal Palace played local rivals and legendary nutters Millwall on Saturday, and lost by a goal to nil, leaving us second from bottom of the Championship. So why did the game leave me in a good mood? I think there are three reasons:

There was a really good atmosphere, despite the segregation of the away fans in a heavily police-protected area of the Arthur Wait stand. Whole sections either side of the Millwall supporters were deliberately kept empty so as to provide a buffer between them and the home fans, and although somebody let off a smoke bomb at kick-off and a bunch of the fans swarmed one of the empty sections, we didn’t see any real trouble. Since we were accompanied by elegant American friends for whom sport is something that’s mainly meant to be fun, this was excellent.
We had great seats – five rows back in the Main stand, close to the players’ tunnel and mere feet from the action. We only had one opportunity to catch the ball when it came out of play, but it was still exciting. And the three most notable incidents of the game (a goal, a sending off and the removal of a Millwall fan who had infiltrated the home supporters’ end) all happened in our corner of the pitch.
All of our players are about seventeen, and although we lost the game, we looked the better side for long stretches of it. There’s plenty of surprises left in this season, and as Yazz once memorably said, the only way is up.*

* May not be strictly true.

Home and away

On August 22, 2010August 22, 2010 By Laura MorganIn Football, Reasons to be cheerful

Exactly one year ago, I was here:

I know this because today is my birthday. I turned 33 on the high seas, and I am turning 34 a day after arriving back from a completely gorgeous trip to Ontario, spent with family old and new as well as some good books and better friends. Due to a lack of planning, the photos are lurking somewhere in my dad’s luggage, but they will make an appearance here and elsewhere soon.

Anyway, it turns out going on holiday around my birthday is a good thing to do, partly because it’s a treat and partly because when people ask me what I’m doing for my birthday I can say “going to Canada”, and thus be relieved of the obligation to hold any kind of a party. I like parties, but I like them best when they’re someone else’s.

The only downside of being away at this time of year is that I miss the start of the football season (do you see how carefully I chose the title of this post?). We started off in fine form with wins against Leicester City in the league and Yeovil in the Cup, then folllowed up with consecutive losses to Barnsley and Ipswich. We usually draw the opening game of the season, but is otherwise a fairly traditional start for us. However, I was cheered by the news (texted to me while I was away, its importance clearly warranting the cost of an international SMS) that Edgar Davids has signed to the club on a pay-per-play basis. That can only be fun.

Anyway, it’s about time for me to go back to bed so that I can shortly be brought breakfast in it. I used to dislike having a birthday at this time of year, because the season is just starting to turn, so my birthday always felt like the end of something. But in recent years I’ve come to realise that the end of summer is also the start of autumn, and autumn has a loveliness of its own. So I’ll take pleasure in today’s grey drizzle and look forward to the leaves changing colour. After all, when that happens, it means it’s nearly Christmas.

The footie

On June 21, 2010June 21, 2010 By Laura MorganIn Football

I like watching international football in pubs in other countries. I think it’s because I can’t understand most of the commentary or the reactions of the people around me, so I just get to watch the game and avoid the dimwits and the thugs who beset most attempts to watch an England game in an English pub.

The last time I watched a major football tournament whilst abroad was in 2004, when I was in Alicante. Euro 2004 took place in Portugal, and on the news one evening a reporter interviewed people living near some of the stadiums to ask whether their lives were being disrupted by the football. “We’ve heard reports that there are English people rioting in the Algarve”, said the reporter. “Is that true?”. The local shrugged. “There are always English people rioting in the Algarve”, he said. “I don’t think it’s anything to do with the football.”

I was also in Spain for the 1994 World Cup, on a post-A-levels holiday with three friends. We caught a coach at Bromley South and travelled for a day and a night to get there, and a day and a night to get back. In between we spent a fortnight sleeping in a caravan on a rickety campsite somewhere on the Costa Brava; eating chips and salad and drinking sangria, making friends and getting into fights with the locals in the nearby strip of bars and restaurants that was the closest thing the area had to a town, swimming in the campsite pool and watching the football. I don’t remember anything about the football, except that I enjoyed it, and that it marked the point at which I got back into football after renouncing it forever following the debacle of Palace’s defeat by Manchester United in the 1990 cup final.

(That holiday was also the source of one of those weak jokes that I make instinctively and against my better judgement every time I hear the feeder line. As we boarded the coach the driver made an announcement giving us useful information such as where to find the toilet and how soon we would be making a cigarette stop. “There are rubbish bags at the end of each seat”, he concluded. “Oh I don’t know”, said a teenage boy behind me. “”They look quite nice to me.”)

This time, we were in Cyprus for the beginning of the World Cup. It occurs to me that another reason to watch football abroad is that lager tastes better in hot countries, and lager is the natural accompaniment to a game of football. Here’s the first lager of this year’s World Cup – a small Keo, in the Blazing Saddles Tavern in Coral Bay:

We watched England’s first game, against the USA, in a bar just around the corner from our apartment, on Tombs Of The Kings Road (did I mention that I love Cyprus?). Most of the crowd was English, though there were pockets of locals who had just come to eat and were largely bemused by the hooting and wailing of the white-shirted masses. With half an hour until kick-off, the barmaid distributed vuvuzelas and everyone gave them an experimental blow. They all sounded the same – just like the ones on TV – except for ours, which was the Barry White of vuvuzelas and emitted a deeply sonorous and surprisingly loud BLART which made everybody look at us momentarily, until we put it away.

A few minutes before the match was due to start, the manager decided to see whether he could get an English commentary version of the game. There were six or seven large screens around the outdoor area, where we were all sitting, but the controls were indoors, so he had to shout instructions to someone in the kitchen in order to navigate the channel browser. My Greek consists of about eleven words so I couldn’t make out the precise nature of what occured next, but somehow the TV ended up on a channel broadcasting what I think I would describe as hardcore porn (I am using a definition provided many years ago by my friend A, who told me it’s hardcore if “you can actually see it going in”). The manager sprang into action and switched off the TV, but this didn’t stop the scenes from being projected on to the remaining six-foot screens around the bar. Fortunately, since it was 9.30pm, there were no children in the bar, so it didn’t really matter that it somehow took them a good three minutes to switch over to another channel. By the time we got back to the Greek-language channel we’d started with, we’d missed the national anthems, but it was worth it for the spectacle of the four middle-aged woman sitting opposite us, who I think enjoyed their three minutes of free porn more than I’ve ever seen anyone enjoy anything.

I don’t much care whether England win or lose on Wednesday: my heart belongs to club football and Crystal Palace, and I am as happy watching Spain or Nigeria or Mexico, and as invested in the outcome, as when I watch England. But so far this World Cup seems to have been lacklustre, with a disappointingly poor show from African sides and some teams barely bothering to turn up at all (I’m looking at you, France). But there’s another week or so left of group games and then the knock-out stages to go, so there’s hope yet. For the record, my prediction is Holland, but I should warn you that I have never once got it right.

Phew

On May 3, 2010 By Laura MorganIn Football

We watched the first half of yesterday’s game at home, then we had to take a taxi to an industrial estate in Bermondsey, where we were rehearsing the music for a wedding we’re playing at later this month. It was raining heavily. I like to think it’s always raining heavily on industrial estates in Bermondsey.

The taxi driver took the scenic route, and it was already wildly optimistic of us to assume we’d make it in fifteen minutes, so it was about halfway into the second half before we got the TV at the studio working and were able to watch the rest of the game. I don’t think I’ve ever felt my heart beating so fast as it did in the few minutes after Wednesday scored the equaliser. By the end it wasn’t even really football; just a group of desperate men endlessly knocking the ball out of play. It wasn’t fun to watch.

Once the game was over, we went into the rehearsal room and played better than we’ve ever played before. I feel bad for Wednesday, but they’ll be back. And at least this result gives us the best chance of remaining a going concern, which was my main hope for the end of the season. Oh, football, you break my heart but I still love you.

Down to the wire

On April 27, 2010April 27, 2010 By Laura MorganIn Football

So. Crystal Palace’s survival in the Championship (what we used to call Division One, and before that Division Two – do keep up) will be determined by the outcome of our last game of the season – against the other relegation candidates, Sheffield Wednesday, at Hillsborough this Sunday.

We could have guaranteed safety by beating West Brom at Selhurst Park last night, but we could only manage a 1-1 draw, which under usual circumstances we would have thought a good result. These are not usual circumstances, though: the club went into administration in January and was docked ten points. Without the deduction, we’d have been basking in mid-table obscurity, like we do every other season.

As far as football goes, it hasn’t been a terrible season, you see. We’re not Portsmouth, which is why we still have a chance of staying up. Two chances, in fact: Wednesday are two points behind us, so a draw will be enough for us, whereas they need a win. When Portsmouth went into administration earlier in the season, they were docked nine points. Had our penalty been the same as theirs, last night’s draw would have been enough for us, because we’d be on 49 points to Wednesday’s 46, with a much better goal difference. They’d have needed to beat us by eighteen goals or more to stay up.

It’s OK, I’m not bitter.

As it is, if we are relegated this weekend the club’s unfortunate financial position means we’re unlikely to come straight back up again next year. We’ll become a third-tier club. It’s unthinkable! And that’s assuming the club survives at all, the alternative to which I’m genuinely not thinking about because it’s too horrible. But if it were to happen, the points deduction and subsequent relegation will have been the final nail in the club’s coffin, which rather makes me wonder what the purpose is of penalising already-struggling clubs in this way. After all, it’s the fans, not the the chairmen, or even the players, who stick around after the dust has died down and contemplate the mess that wasn’t of their making.

If you need me on Sunday, I’ll be hiding in a corner somewhere, feeling sick.

Coded messages

On April 8, 2010April 8, 2010 By Laura MorganIn Football

There’s a man who stands outside Brixton station some days – not every day – and tells the commuters about god. I’ve never spoken to him, because he’s not of the school of street preaching that encourages audience participation (he is more of a thousand yard stare man), and I’ve never really thought much about him, but I have vaguely noticed that he always, without exception, wears an Arsenal hat. I assumed it was just his hat. Hey, some people like to wear hats. I like to wear hats, and I have a selection that sees me through all the seasons. But some people have one hat.

Yesterday, though, I suddenly wondered whether there wasn’t more to his hat than I had thought. If you are a street preacher, how do you decide when it’s time to do a little street preaching? Does the urge rise within you unbidden, or does something have to happen that goads you into going out and praying at the people of Brixton? And what that might be? No way of knowing, of course – unless! Is the hat a clue? Arsenal, you see, went out of the Champions’ League on Tuesday night in a trouncing by Barcelona. And on Wednesday morning there he was, glaring at the sky and telling us about Jesus. Could his praying patterns possibly be football-related? After all, you wouldn’t wear an Arsenal hat every day, whatever the weather, if you didn’t care, would you?

So I’m going to start following the fortunes of Arsenal FC (the things I do for you) and I’ll report back if there does seem to be a correlation between their ups and downs and those of the sermoniser of SW9.

(Edit: There was another whole bit here before, but it was about work, and on reflection I think it was ill-advised. I’ll tell you all about work another day.)

Glad All Over

Category: Sport