Both feet in the rugby camp

Like the third round of the FA Cup and the Ashes test series, the Six Nation’s Rugby is one of those marquee sporting events that I have to mark on the sporting calendar.

But only because I want to avoid it.

I have a curious aversion to the game - and that is not fair on the game itself. As a sport, rugby can be intense, exciting and dramatic. It's the fans I don’t like.

Perhaps that is harsh because the majority of fans are great – especially the Irish, the Welsh and Scots . It’s just the England supporters that boil my blood.

But it’s not all of them. Like the England football fans, where a minority are unbearable, there is a small group of national rugby fans who are so cringeworthy that I can only look at them through the cracks of my fingers.

And what it boils down to is whether you are in the rugby or the 'ruggers' camp. I know where I stand.

It’s the Toff Tofington crowd that I can't abide, the fans who proudly sing Swing Low Sweet Chariot without knowing its roots in slavery and cling to the Calcutta Cup oblivious to its nod to the dark days of imperlaism.

Every rugby fan knows at least one supporter who fits the indetikit.

They are the fans who go to the pub in their replica shirts with upturned collars and loafers and loathe football for its “common” roots.

They pedal the myth that rugby is for thugs but played by gentleman, despite the spear tackling, the eye gouging and the arse poking in the scrum.

They treat rugby like a mark of class. A badge of exclusivity that separates the middle class wheat from the working class chaff.

At least you can watch football down the local, away from the hooray Henrys and Henriettas who are trying to seize the game for themselves.

I will be watching the weekend games but purely from the safety of my own home.

Then I’ll hold my breath before I have to go through it all again next year.

Trying to defend the indefensible

My housemate and I have been friends for more than 20 years and on the way to the tube station last week, via memory lane, the topic of conversation turned to childhood.

We started talking about living with our parents, the things we used to annoy them and their, often failed, attempts at trying to rein us in.

All the standard fare got a mention. The ‘wait until your father gets home’, the grounding (usually lasting for just a few hours) and the often underrated, and now frowned upon, slap.

Then out of nowhere, he said: “Did you ever get accused of showing off?”

It was something I had long forgotten and brought back vivid memories of the hundreds of occasions when my Mum, trying to get me to stop acting up when we had company, would level the immortal accusation.

“All the time,” I said. “And it always worked!”

And it did. The words could make the most unruly teenager stop in their tracks and rack their brains for the best response.

But there isn’t one. And therein was its power.

What could you say that wouldn’t make things worse? Denying that you were showing off always made it look as if you were being nonchalant about showing off – thus making you look even more like a show off.

And admitting to it made you look arrogant. It was like saying “I am showing off. And what of it?”

There was even the schoolmate version. If your mates ever needed to bring you down a peg or two they could accuse you of fancying someone – the least appealing the better because whatever you said just made things worse.

It’s the golden ticket of controlling behaviour – I just wish there was an adult equivalent.

The telephone voice

The majority of people I have spoken to in the past few days will probably have forgotten the sound of my voice already.

It’s nothing personal – I don’t stutter, I don’t have a serious lisp and I don’t squeak. My voice is that of a bog standard man, with a Luton dialect and a spattering of slang.

But all bets are off if you call me in the office.

People who have spoken to me on my work number would certainly remember my high-pitched, overly-eloquent, trying-to-sound-important-but-failing tones.

Anyone who wants evidence of this need only call the office after 6pm to behold my business answerphone message in all its glory.

Admittedly, at first I thought it was just me. Then I was able to listen closely to my colleagues and knew I was in good company.

Even my contacts at other companies do it.

One lady I met sounded like Kathy Burke when I met her face-to-face, which was particularly funny as I mistook her for Joanna Lumley when she phoned me the day before.

But what is the reason for the plummy, over the top, wordy way of speaking to business contacts when most people talk to their mates they are just their usual foul-mouthed, inarticulate selves?

What is it about the office phone that turns Len Goodman into Stephen Fry?

Is it a need to feel comfortable among colleagues and contacts? Is it to impress others? Or do we all secretly want to sound posh. And do posh sounding people use more slang and drop their ‘t’s when speaking on the office phone?

My conclusion is that I don’t know. It’s a complete mystery to me.

All I know is that it won’t stop!

Black to the future

I can’t help looking at the escapades of Doc and Marty with great envy.

Ok, so I haven’t yet invented the flux capacitor and I haven’t figured out how to generate 1.2 giggawatts of power but my attempts at time travel have been doomed to failure since the day I was born.

I would like a go at surfing the time continuium but as a black man the chances of me enjoying a flying DeLorean are slim.

I reckon I, and most other ethnic people, would enjoy the future – especially with Barack Obama around to shape it.

But how would we fare in the past?

McFly was able to go back 1885 and 1985 relatively unfettered. Granted, his modern clothes looked stupid but that would be the least of my problems.

The 16th to the 19th centuries are out immediately, as is the American Deep South during most of the 20th century (to be fair I wouldn’t visit during the present day) and I would stick out a mile as a serf in feudal England.

I don’t often feel the need to issue advice but if I was ever asked I would respond as follows: always be polite, treasure your friends and never, under any circumstances, travel faster than 88 mph.

The results may not be as exciting as they seem.

Childen in need... of a drink?

Looking back fondly on our teenage years, we all remember being turfed out or refused service at a pub, bar or some kind other drinking establishment.

Memories of sending my tallest friend (measuring a jaw-dropping 6’3 at just 15) into our local off-license to buy as many bottles of Hooch and WKD as we could carry still bring a smile to my face.

And while the pimpled faced youth of today remain unwelcome in places for adults, there has been a emerging trend in even younger pub patrons... toddlers.

I don’t remember it becoming acceptable, welcome or fashionable but there seems to be an explosion of parents smuggling their very young children into bars.

I was with my sister in a pub a couple of Sundays ago and we were almost outnumbered by the little people.

Children were skipping around, toddlers were sitting in high chairs mashing their fists into food and parents were looking on admiringly wherever I turned.

And this was in the middle of the night.

Not having children myself, I’m not in a position to say what is good parenting and what isn’t but it seemed unfair to both the other drinkers and – ironically- the children themselves.

As an adult, the pub hasn’t managed to retain any of its mystique. Literally they are places that just serve alcohol – usually at rip off rates.

So, simply put – for a child – the pub is boring. Which was probably the reason why everyone under five feet tall was engaged in a game of tag.

And like all the other drinkers, I had to mind my ps and qs. No rude jokes, no swearing and no objectifying the opposite sex.

It seemed a tad selfish of the parents to me – the pub is clearly a place not meant for the under 18’s let alone the under 5s.

Maybe pubs should have special areas for children... or maybe parents should leave the young ‘uns at home and let us joyless, childless folk pickle our livers in peace.

Champoholics Anonymous

Tidying my room last week and flicking through various CDs and games I came over all nostalgic when I realised that I had at least three 2D soccer simulation gems.

It pains me to admit that I still occasionally play Football Manager 2008 but nothing could beat the heady days of gambling away your future by starting up a game of Champ at the most inopportune moment.

My GCSE revision was interrupted on by my love for CM9798, playing the diamond with Barcelona and Juventus and buying in gems like Ibrahima Bakayoko, Richard Wright and Tom Youngs.

While doing my A Levels it was Championship Manager 3 and the new interface that was probably a contributing factor to my failure to make it to Nottingham Law School.

And even my degree suffered as I managed to take lowly Stevenage Borough through the league system from the Conference to the Uefa Cup on Football Manager 2005.

There were times when I would play for days at time – barely moving for the computer and only stopping to eat.

At times the love of the game can reduce the most civilized man into an unwashed, gibbering fool who is more interested in gaining promotion with York City than doing something more useful.

But who wouldn’t prefer comparing the merits of Luis Figo (20 for passing) and Zinedine Zidane (18 for shooting) than memorise a detailed history of equity and trust case law.

The worst thing about Champ addiction is that it blurs the lines of reality and fiction – at times I have had to remind my self that Arsenal didn’t sign Fernando Torres in 2006 and then go on to win back to back quadruples.

I’m going to have to write to the manufacturers and ask them to slip a sticker on the front cover. Warning: Champ ruins lives.

Better still we could all get together (and I know there is a lot of us) and start up a support group - Champoholics Anonymous.

“My name’s Leigh.... And I’m a Champoholic.”

Conversations I wish I had been a part of

Some people love London for the nightlife, others enjoy the food and some get a thrill out of being part of the world's most diverse city.

Personally, being a nosy bastard, I love the human drama.

Anyone who lives in the capital will know that it is difficult to exist without seeing mankind both at its best and its worst.

As people watching is my pasttime (I'm not a stalker by the way) I often overhear snippets of other people's phone conversations.

There have been a couple of incidents in the last month which made me wish I was the guy on the other end of the line.

Coming out of Tesco a couple of weeks I almost bumped into a posh woman talking on her mobile to who, due to the harsh tone, must have been her boyfriend.

“Darren!," she yelled. "I’ve told you a million fucking times that I can’t come. I’m in Namibia for a month.”

Poor Darren - he must keep forgetting about that. I didn't hear his response but I wouldn't have been suprised if he was grovelling.

The other was clearly between a couple of guys. It had to be - it was embellishment about a fight that had taken place the night before.

I was coming back from the Arsenal - Man City game at the Emirates and heard a burly Gooner say into his handset.

“You should have been there man. He got sparked out by a 15 year-old."

For good measure he added: "Cold!”

I almost pissed myself.

Sounded like a good fight though.

Apparently the teen is talks to fight Ricky Hatton!