greatest hits

If you love sport, there’s nothing like walking into a new stadium - reaching the top of the stairs, seeing the field and getting all excited in spite of yourself. I’ve been lucky enough to go on sports adventures home and away - here’s my top 12 stadiums, ranked in totally subjective order, based on factors like how *thrilled* I was to go there, the matches I saw and, erm, how drunk I got.

*Click the images to make them bigger*

12. Croke Park
This is Ireland’s national stadium for Hurling and Gaelic Football in Dublin, and is a gleaming, modern stadium for these quaintly traditional sports. The atmosphere is rabid, but friendly, kind of like NPC Rugby when it meant something. It’s up there with Twickenham and Old Trafford, and has real history.

11. Carisbrook
I got to experience that scarfie atmosphere for an All Blacks v South Africa test in 1994 - it was the Boks’ first time back since the Apartheid ban, and they shamefully refused to face the Haka, instead lining up to sing an old anthem to the grandstand. Bad move.

10. Lansdowne Road
Lansdowne Road is a bag of shit when you’re soaked through watching Ireland make hard work of beating Andorra in a largely meaningless World Cup qualifier on an open terrace. It’s better watching Richie McCaw make his All Black debut on a gloomy afternoon with yer mates over from London. It’s best, though, watching underdogs Ireland beat 6 Nations favorites France in bright Autumn sunshine, the crowd going absolutely crackers. Afterwards a bunch of Irish cricketers took me to a pub that looked like someone’s house, it was so packed that pushing the front door open disturbed drinkers pressed on the other side. My All Blacks jersey got me shouted several pints, and later that evening the 25 minute walk back to Rathmines turned into about about an hour’s stagger. The Irish *really* know how to enjoy a day’s Rugby - we could learn a lot from them, team.

9. Old Trafford
5-1 win over Wimbledon with Beckham wonder goal. Did the tour, and had a good nose through the super store, but passed on the pencil cases and duvet covers. It’s a magnificent stadium.

8. Lords
Parents were visiting wayward son on OE, and Dad wangled a Lords press box ticket through his correspondence with Jonathan Agnew, on what turned out to be the old press box’s final day before the move to the 2001: Space Odyssey-style new one. There was a little speech. Middlesex were playing someone or other, but no-one was too interested - the scribes were busy stuffing their faces at the buffet and wiping the crumbs with their ties. I didn’t get any scornful looks from anyone in a B+E tie, which really disappointed me for some reason.

7. Sydney Cricket Ground
New Zealand beat Australia, and having put up with sheep noises all day, I was a very happy Young Guns fan indeed. It’s a great place to watch cricket, and a real thrill to visit having seen it on telly for all those years. The best bit’s not having to put up with the Channel 9 commentary team, though.

6. Twickenham
NZ v England 1999 Rugby World Cup. Twickenham is a vast, imposing, deeply impressive stadium worthy of that ‘HQ’ label. Maturely, I chose my one and only visit there to be as drunk as I’ve ever been at a game (with possible exception of Waikato v North Harbour shield defence. Ahem.) After mid morning pints at a Richmond pub, two companions + I got off the bus busting for a slash. After bow-legged sprint across the road we found some keen All Blacks fans in a park smoking something suspicious. We got in the ground with about 10 minutes ’till kick off and elbowed in to get Guinness, two pints each. We reached the top deck, only to be told we couldn’t bring the pints in. We looked at each other. Fuck. Six skulls later we were there. HQ. It’s massive, and still had that funny little stand at the open end of the horseshoe. The locals weren’t impressed with having loud, pissed Kiwis on their turf, especially ones that could barely stand up at about 1.30pm, and were keen on making their presence felt. Two guys from Whakatane in front of us shared a hipflask of something home made, and it’s fair to say we weren’t feeling much pain. I can only imagine what we sounded like in Hamilton in the dead of night in obligatory half time calls home. Lomu scored, we had a win to celebrate, and we streamed out full of the confidence of All Black fans in the in the early stages of a World Cup. I remember slurring to someone on the tube home that “Us Kiwis. We’re not good winners. We’re not good losers, either”. How apt.

5. Wembley
Anyone who ever got up with a Milo for the FA Cup final, or laughed at Prince Charles’ Live Aid dancing had to see the twin towers on their OE. I saw Sean Fitzpatrick’s last test v Wales there, and Michael Owen’s England debut in a Chile friendly. My fav Wembley memory, though, is going to see Arsenal play Barcelona in a Champions League match, and missing a Rivaldo goal by refusing to stand up for the Gooner fans’ incredibly witty ‘Stand up if you hate Tottenham’ chant. Fuck ‘em. New Wembley looks amazing too.

4. Seddon Park
When I was a boy, I’d race around Seddon Park armed with Hadlee Hits Out or similar, demanding  autographs off visitors Ian Botham, the Chappells and Greg Matthews, as well as Richard Hadlee, Geoff Howarth, Lance Carins and any number of other heroes. When I was a student layabout, I spent one summer in particular at tests against the Aussies and West Indies, sat out for five days each on the grass banks, with mates, perfect weather, Sports Roundup on the radio, and a replay screen a languid twist of the neck away. We’d bowl back to one guys’ flat around the corner at the breaks to listen to music and play back yard cricket, even though we could probably have still got away with a tennis ball match on the field itself. Doesn’t get much better. It’s a perfect test match ground, and has had bloody crackers one dayers lately - I hope this dedicated Cricket ground keeps getting the fixtures it deserves. I can’t wait to take sportreview jr before too long.

3. Waikato Stadium
Going with me Dad as a boy, 1992’s ‘eye gouge’ NPC final, seeing Andrew Merthens, 12, taking the shield off us… I loved the old Rugby Park and miss the wooden terraces and big-cowshed-main-stand, but the new Waikato Stadium is easily the best Rugby watching venue in New Zealand now. The family was there for the opening match v Canterbury, and already I’ve seen NZ Maori beat the Lions, Waikato beat the All Black laden Canterbury side 59-41, and the Chiefs make the semis by beating the Brumbies. The routine now is the comfortable main stand if I’m with the family, and the bogan / student packed ‘Green Zone’ if I’m with the chaps. Either way you get great atmosphere, a fantastic view and beers easily.

2. Eden Park
A top three:
3. All Blacks v Wallabies 2008 - that crushing performance. Everyone loves seeing Aussies crushed, don’t they?
2. New Zealand v South Africa 1992 Cricket World Cup. A typical performance from that mad, crazy summer when we swaggered through the round robin in a very un-New Zealand-like manner, taking the best sides in the world to bits all over the place. We got them for not much, and our openers laughed at the 3.8 required, with Rod Latham punching drives at will, while Greatbach seemed intent on putting every ball on the roof of the main stand. The most exciting Cricket match I’ve ever seen live.
1. Waikato v Auckland 1994 Shield challenge. This was the 61 shield defense Auckland of Fitzpatrick, Fox, the Brookes and Kirwin v the Waikato side of Gatland, Mitchell and Foster. And we bloody did them. There were 45,000 there, and I think we saw most of them on the motorway on the way up. With five minutes to go the PA crackled “Would the crowd please stay off the field at the conclusion of play.” Not bloody likely, we all ran on to see Mitch lift the Log O Wood, and danced around on the green, green turf like a pack of school kids let out fifteen minutes early. Magic.

1. White Hart Lane
I was at my most Tottenham-rabid when I set off on the OE, so getting to the Lane after seeing it on TV upteen times was pretty special. Between 1997 and 1999 I got along seven times, unfortunately co-inciding with Alan Sugar’s Tottenham at its’ most dark and dire, smack bang in the Christian Gross, Ruel Fox, Alan Neilson, Steffen Iversen, scoreless draws with Wimbledon, George Graham era. There was an awful lot of shit football. The upside? Seeing David Ginola play, the French sticking plaster on Sugar’s mess. His goal v Chelsea was the best moment I saw live (I  was sitting with Chelsea fan Nick in the Spurs end, he had to suppress his celebration when Goldbaek did this in the same match. You can probably see us in the crowd behind the goal). The best match atmosphere was seeing George Graham bring his Leeds side to White Hart lane amongst swirling rumors Tottenham wanted him - he copped terrible (or excellent, depending on your point of view) abuse from the Spurs lot AND the Leeds fans, and we equalised in the last minute to draw 3-3. There was also the UEFA cup tie v Kaiserslautern, with the home fans chasing the supporters’ bus up the high road, and the German fans  taking their shirts off en masse on a cold London night. It’s compact and intimate stadium, and easily the loudest I’ve ever been to.

sportreview.net.nz made its long awaited* debut on the radio today on National Radio’s Mediawatch show, weighing in on TV One’s Olympic commentary efforts.

Download away. It’s the 17th of August show, I come on at 7′55″.

*this bit’s not actually true.

Sportsfreak and Cricket With Balls have both applied for the Black Caps coaching job - that seemed like a nickable idea, so here’s mine.

Jeremy Coney, on his first tour to Australia, was given some money to buy himself a pair of cricket shoes. He came back with a twelve string guitar. This is the model for my coaching regime.

Let’s face it, we’re a small, remote, Rugby obsessed nation with no meaningful domestic scene to speak of, and we punch above our weight as it is. We’re going to embrace humor and guts, and get on with it. I reckon we’ll do brilliantly.

Our players will all be free to play in England, India, even (especially) Australia if it means they front up for the Black Caps and score runs and take wickets. All up and comers must play a year in Ireland at my old club to get some solid life experience / piss down them.

From now on, NZ Cricket’s priorities will be tests, then everything else. We’ll play with style and imagination, and we’ll never take an embarrassing towelling again.

These are the kinds of players I’ll develop:

The Latham. No nonsense opener who knows how to stay out there and make runs. Can also bowl dobbers.

The Wright. No nonsense opener who knows how to stay out there and make runs. Is also really funny.

The Fleming. Captaincy genius. Works opposition batsmen out to the extent they can’t fart without a fieldsman being on hand.

The Crowe. A ‘where did he come from?’ batsmen with shots so elegant the Aussie quicks weep into their moustaches.

The Jones. Guy with style as ungainly as using an ironing board to change a lightbulb in the dark, but scores runs.

The MacMillian. Fearless, swashbuckling shotmaker. Can also bowl dobbers.

Brendan McCullum. I’ll have two, please.

The Hadlee. Makes the ball talk, saying stuff like “You’re shit. Get back in the shed”.

The Harris. Folk hero batsman who specialises in getting us home against Australia in the tight ones. Can also bowl dobbers.

The Dan. Every team needs a guy in glasses. We may need a fat guy also.

The Bond. We just need someone really, really quick.

Other initiatives include:

The Dobber academy. We’ll play to our strengths and produce a nation of slow mediums that can tie down an end and take vital wickets.

Marketing will be immediately handed over to Mike and Paul of the Beige Brigade - this should have been done years ago. NO music will be played at the grounds when cricket is being played, ever

John Parker will be manager. Martin Sneddon will be ordered back from Rugby once he’s done a brilliant job at that.

TV and radio commentary will be handled by Leg Break and the Mike on Cricket lot, along with Jeremy Wells. JRod will do the interviews / keys in the pitch bit.

That’s my application. Remember, a vote for a smart-arse blogger coached Black Caps is a vote for New Zealand, pies for lunch, beers after work, and beating Australia.

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I’m stoked 2007 is over, sports-wise. After three World Cups and a big yacht race for no trophies, we’re left to pick up the pieces after a year of early starts, late finishes, big build-ups and crushing disappointments. What have we learned? Nothing, if you believe Henry’s reappointment was a mistake (which I don’t), but 2008 will be very interesting indeed, with Robbie Deans leaving the rabid for success for the slightly shit. So bollocks to 2007, but it’s time to get over it.

Luckily, blogging-wise, I’ve really enjoyed it. Getting a cartoon in the paper was nice (another one soon!). I liked this one. And this one. This wasn’t a good idea.I loved making up news stories.

In 2008, I really need to get my shit together with a proper domain (keep your eye on sportreview.net.nz) and Wordpress, particularly before sportreview jr. comes along.

Here’s my best for 2007.

Sporting moment
Hard one. A couple of America’s Cup races were pretty amazing. I’m too childish to nominate Fiji v South Africa. Oher than a few Berbatov goals, it’s looking pretty bleak. I’m going for Luaki handing off Richie McCaw - it’s been that kind of year.

Web
Guardian Unlimited (football and sport) remain my go-tos for sport news, writing, and youtube clips. Locally, the Dropkicks podcast is the best in NZ sport on the web. I love the communities springing up at Sportsfreak and The Silver Fern - I wish I had more time to participate. I joined Facebook, and found it great for finding the long lost, but kind of annoying otherwise. I discovered last.fm. I really enjoy Public Address and Jason Kottke, still.

Links on Friday
- Richie Benaud on the underarm
- Zombie vs Shark
- Never poke a big cat with a stick
- Full Metal Wii
- The Mack vs the Nuge

Albums
Person Pitch - Panda Bear (thanks, Fraser), Happy Ending - Phoenix Foundation, Sound of Silver - LCD Soundsystem

Book
The Yiddish Policeman’s Union - Micheal Chabon

Films
Superbad, The Devil Dared Me To, Hot Fuzz

Top three songs on last .fm
Ramble Tamble - Creedence
Fourtunate Son - Creedence
Sleepwalk - Santo & Johnny

I’m Dan Surechzek, Senior VP, Adidas Minority Pussy-Ass Sports Division, Pacific rim. Last night, Dan Surechzek slept like a fuckin’ baby. A heavily sedated baby. But this morning… it’s 7.15am and there I am, takin’ a shower after my 14 mile run to the office, and the phone rings (yeah, my fuckin’ iPhone’s waterproof). I take the call - it’s New Zealand on the line, but this ain’t some some hairy-dick hobbit wanting his ring back, no, they’re screamin’ “Dan! We got ourselves a fuckin’ SITUATION!”.”You can’t tell the jerseys apart!” they’re sayin’. “The All Blacks and the only other team in the world with similar colors are playing, and you fucked it up, Dan!” they’re tellin’ me. The thing they don’t realise, right, is that Dan Surechzek NEVER fucks up. Sure, there was that one time in college, but if you wanna join Pi Lamda Kappa, man, those are the risks you take. No-one FORCED the kid to run off that car park roof in blind terror. He chose his own path. He’s gotta look at life in a wheelchair as an opportunity, am I right? It’s up to HIM now.

Anyhoo, as we all know, when the shit hits the fan, El Surechzekio goes straight into solution mode. I get Vantella-May to bring me a triple shot mocha no cream, with some Avocado on toast on the double so I can think, and roll the tape. If New Zealand has got a problem, my 8.30am Racquetball game goes right out the fuckin’ window, lemme tell ya.

Here’s the deal. On one side, we got Richie McCaw and the All Blacks. On the other side, we got some bunch of fuckin’ pussies from Scotland. Hang on… hold the fuckin’ burrito - Surecheckarino’s spotted the problem straightaway - you Kiwis just don’t know how to watch Rugby. Sure, the whole thing’s a mess of grey and black and blue and grey, but you gotta forget about that. Forget it. Listen close. What are the All Blacks wearing? That’s right, a three fuckin’ dimensional garment with bodymapping technology. Made out of ClimaCool. IT! DOESN’T! FUCKIN! MATTER! About the color! And I haven’t even mentioned the Powerweb. Are you guys blind, or what?

And Scotland? Scotland got Canterbury jersys. With piping. And a chest-zone-separate-and-lift-power-strip. And what are those jerseys made of? That’s right, Temex Polycotton. You guys got me out of the shower for this? You’d have to be retarded not to tell the difference. AND a fuckin’ moron. Temex! ClimaCool! Temex! ClimaCool! It’s not so hard, is it? Sheesh.

I am so fuckin’ on. I get New Zealand back on the line, and after a bit of the ol’ Surechzek hairdryer treatment, they’re soon seeing things my way. Lemme tell you guys, we don’t spend an absolute shitload on R+D for some shit for brains with three sheep in his ass to interrupt my shower and tell me they can’t tell a ClimaCool from a fuckin’ Temex. Fuck me. Sideways.

Still, that fire’s out, and I can still make my 9.45am Pilates class. And hey - I mean, this is Rugby right? At least it wasn’t Hockey, or Basketball, then we’d have a REAL fuckin’ situation on our hands. Hasta manana, amigos.

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SRNZPA: French efforts to win the World Cup are moving from the playing field to the bedroom, launching a campaign to distract the All Blacks by stealing their girlfriends. Experts believe the players’ unrelenting focus on World Cup preparations, not sweet nothings whispered in ears, could leave them exposed to a brigade of oily French marauders. The news will come as a bombshell to Dan Carter’s girlfriend, hockey player Honor Dillon, and whomever Ali Williams is knocking off this week.

Alarm bells are ringing in the All Blacks’ camp at the potentially disastrous consequences sudden, unexpected heartbreak could have on the campaign. Despite smelling mainly of garlic, onions and cheap aftershave, French men are renowned for their sensitivity to a woman’s physical and emotional desires, compared with our Kiwi fellas’ grunting emotional unavailability. Tactics at the French gits’ disposal include admiring the starry lights of Paris by night, getting caught in the rain and seeking shelter in a cafe, browsing second hand bookshops wearing a beret, and speaking French, the language of love.

The All Blacks are now playing catch up, learning key romantic French phases like “Ici, ayez une chemise de polo d’Adidas, je l’a obtenue libre” (Here, have an Adidas polo shirt, I got it free), “Là où sont mes chaussettes propres?” (Where are my clean socks?), and “La jeune mariée d’emballement est sur le câble ce soir, bébé” (Runaway Bride is on cable tonight, baby).

In a rearguard action, All Black legend Colin Meads is being rushed to Paris to chaperon the player’s partners, organising a series of bingo and bridge nights to distract them from any skinny, cigarette smoking fuckwits. Meads has promised to deliver any French arseholes sniffing around “a farkin’ backhander right in the Eiffel tower”.

This tactic is not without precedent. In 1986 the French attempted to steal Wayne ‘Buck’ Shelford’s girlfriend after brutally ripping open his nutsack during a test match, for the love of all that’s holy. Luckily, they were intercepted at an after match function and ran off into the night, chased by Shelford (gingerly) and All Black officials.

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SRNZPA: There were red faces at the All Blacks’ farewell at Auckland Airport last night. The team was presented a cylinder supposedly filled with turf cuttings from all 1071 of their predecessors home grounds. But when the container was opened, it was discovered to actually contain cuttings of the 1071 All Blacks themselves.

“Ohhhhhhhhh, that makes a bit more sense” said Adidas Cylinder Ambassador Peter Harvey-Withers. “That fax DID get a bit smudged, but I never double checked. I got some funny looks going into all those cemeteries with a shovel and saw, let me tell you. What a turn-up, eh?”.

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I’m a guy who spends most days at a desk, my manhood being tested only by locking horns with Windows XP. So when the chance to go big game fishing came up on my holiday… well you’ve got to go, don’t you? I was ready and waiting at the resort wharf at 7.30am on Friday, the harbour quiet and glassy as the boat pulled up. I clambered on board to meet skipper Fabrice, a local, and his son Stefan the decky.

I was a bit nervous, frankly. My preparation for a new sport is usually sitting down with a book on it, and having read about epic man vs. fish battles lasting several hours I wondered if I’d bitten off more than I could chew. I went on a fantastic fishing trip off Great Mercury Island earlier this year, pulling up Snapper by the bucketload, but Marlin the size of horses would be an entirely different (ahem) kettle of fish.

Handily, it’s a quick trip out of Vanuatu’s harbour to the open ocean, and we quickly went from gently rolling seas into big old swells in 100-150 metres of ocean, and the Nikita, an 8 metre fibreglass boat started pitching up and down. I’m generally OK at sea, but wondered if repeated viewing of ‘Jaws’ and an overactive imagination were the best way to settle the nerves. Stefan had quickly organised 6 rods with impressive reels and brightly coloured lures looking like SpongeBob Squarepants’ mates - and we were fishing.

Vanuatu is renowned for its Marlin, Sailfish, which is like a Marlin with different fins, MahiMahi, a big fish with a weird round head, and Wahoo, “very agressive fish, teeth like Shark” explained Fabrice in his thick French accent. We trawled through the swell for an hour or so, before hitting Pointe Diablo, an impressive place where the ocean swell smacks the coast hard from very deep water - Nikita started bobbing more erratically than a Wallaby walking home from a team night out.

We followed the coast back into the bay, and just as we were headed out to sea Fabrice started shouting “Fish! Fish!”. I leaped up and into the chair, heart pounding… 30 seconds later I sheepishly pulled a thin little Tuna of no more that 30 centimetres on board. This was a great sign according to Fabrice, as it was our prey’s favourite snack, but Stefan gave me a quizzical look as I snapped a photo - surely it was too small to waste pixels on?

It was back out to sea, and my little Tuna was quickly speared with a big hook and chucked overboard to add variety to the menu we had on offer. The swell was just as big, and despite Fabrice’s constant pleading “Where are the fiiiish?”, we had no luck. He was on the radio to other fishermen, and of the four or five boats out that morning, only one caught a fish, a 22kg Wahoo. It wasn’t my day, and as we went back to the harbour, I thought technically, I’m not a big game fisherman yet (I’m on my way though - on observing Fabrice and Stefan’s bare feet, I quietly kicked my jandals off under my seat - smooth). I enjoyed being out in the ocean and listening to the tales of better days and bigger fish, I’ll be back out there for sure.

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Observer Sport Monthly has the top 50 Tragic Moments in Sport. Being British, penalty shootouts feature heavily. Here’s my top ten tragic moments in New Zealand Sport.

10. Some Marketing guy hears Dave Dobbyn’s ‘Loyal’ and thinks “Wow, that’ll be a great theme tune for the America’s Cup, no-one will ever tire of hearing that 23 times a day”.
If you were in NZ in 2003, you know what I’m talking about. Closely followed by…

9. Sailing Away by All Of Us.
Satellite Spies? Eh? What is it with The America’s Cup and music? If I was in Team New Zealand, this song would ‘inspire’ me to jump off the boat when far out to sea.

8. Wayne Shelford dumped as All Black captain.
Not just ‘cos he restored the All Black Haka to what it is today. Not just ‘cos he was an all time great captain and #8. Not just ‘cos he played against France with his sack ripped open, but because it gave birth to Bring Back Buck, probably New Zealand’s most overused and underfunny three words ever.

7. New Zealand 31 France 43 -1999 Rugby World Cup Semi Final.
John Hart kept job after losing all those matches in ‘98 as the Boer Busters all retired at once. Our forward pack was “mobile and skilled” (read: inexperienced and lightweight), while our backline was “dynamic” and had “special moves we were saving” (read: bung all the flair players in, including Cullen at centre, and see what happens). There was so much SHIT that came on the back of the new Adidas sponsorship - ie those shiny jerseys, the massive billboards all over the world, the over-produced ads on the telly, and the bloody jet with the front row painted on the side. I was living in London then, and it was bad - god knows what it was like at home, with almost 4 million rabid Kiwis getting carried away together. We cruised through the pool matches, upon which the players buggered off to the south of France to have their photos taken on the beach. They came back for a half asleep performance against Scotland, and then THAT loss to France. With no real on field leadership, the All Blacks fell to bits. All the hype, overconfidence, and overexposure had been for nothing. I arrived at work to find a croissant on my desk. So this is professional rugby.
You can read the team talk here.

6. Dave Latta’s brain explosion.
Poor old Otago. Just ahead of Canterbury in the dying seconds of a Ranfurly Shield match, Latta dived out of a ruck and conceded a penalty in front of the posts. The LOOK on his face said it all - Otago had one of the best sides around for many years, but had never taken home any silverware, and Latta had just helped keep that run going. Cruelly, Canterbury supporters still call the block at Jade Stadium built at the time the “Dave Latta’ stand. Ouch.

5. The Underarm.
Yes, we should probably get over it, and Brian McKechnie was unlikely to hit that last ball for six at the huge MCG, but still… There’s been too much written about this murky little incident, so I’ll move on.

4. Phar Lap poisoned.
The Red Terror, Timaru’s Phar Lap was a folk hero who won 37 of the 51 races he ran, including a Melbourne Cup, winning the hearts of Australasia. He was given arsenic and hemorrhaged to death in California with rumors of Mafia involvement, a hugely unjust end to his glorious life.

3. New Zealand 262-7 Pakistan 264-6 - Cricket World Cup Semi Final 1992.
It was a golden summer when anything was possible - beating Australia, Dipak opening the bowling, Greatbach and Latham spanking the world’s best bowlers into the stands. It was magic, we hadn’t had a good build up and people were worried we’d embarrass ourselves - no longer, the whole country loved the, erm, Grey Shirts (Black Caps hadn’t been coined then). I went to see us just destroy South Africa at Eden Park - I’ve never seen a crowd more charged up in any sport, Greatbach hit some HUGE sixes, and wasn’t afraid to charge down the pitch to Allan Donald, a very fast bowler known as White Lightning. We dealt to everyone (except, ominously, Pakistan) and topped the table at the end of the Round Robin. We were at home and in blinding form - surely we were a great chance to win the bloddy thing. We batted first, posting 262, which was good. Martin Crowe was hobbling on his dodgy knee, which was bad, his captaincy and runs had got us this far, and he stayed in the shed for Pakistan’s run chase. We were doing OK, until a young Inzamam-ul-Haq came out and scored a very rapid 60, and got Pakistan over the line, and it was all over. The players did a lap of honour to thank the crowd and the nation for their support. Some of the players, the guys that had done so brilliantly and entertained us all, making cricket perhaps as popular as it had ever been in New Zealand, were crying. It was very, very sad.

2. Team New Zealand 0 Alinghi 5 - America’s Cup 2003.
When Sir Peter Blake was shot on the Amazon, it arguably began a sequence of events that ended with Team New Zealand sailors frantically bailing the boat out in race one of the 2003 finals. The America’s Cup was a very Auckland event - this city’s obsession with water, money, yachts, real estate, expensive sunglasses, technology and drinking shitloads of piss all converged nicely with the arrival of the Auld Mug. Remember, Aucklanders wouldn’t have the Viaduct Basin to play in now if we hadn’t won in San Diego. After some frantic scrabbling to get ready we laid out the welcome mat in 1999 for all these sophisticated vistors to little old us, especially if they said nice things about us, remembered their chequebook, and didn’t win any races. We loved Prada and their cool grey and red uniforms, especially when they got Zip to our Five in the final.

Then it all turned to custard. Coutts and Butterworth dropped their toys and were off to Switzerland, prompting a gang of loudmouth shitbags working in Advertising to form the Blackhearts, a group existing solely to sling mud at some true champions. Anyway. Team New Zealand was under new management, and the boffins that served us so well in the past had the reigns. We unveiled the magical Hula keel, as Alinghi won the Lois Vuitton series ominously comfortably. In race one, leg one of the finals the two boats were neck and neck. “We’re faster!” cried my Dad, but then the sailors were bailing water out of the boat as Alinghi sailed to an easy victory. Really easy. Embarrassingly easy. Same thing happened in the next five races, apart from the one where our mast broke, but by then we’d lost interest. Aucklanders move on pretty quickly.

1. South Africa 15 New Zealand 12 - 1995 Rugby World Cup Final.
We won at home in 1987 of course, and let the Aussies have it in ‘91, but in ‘95 we needed it back, thanks. Laurie Mains had a pack chockablock with all time greats like Fitzpatrick and the Brookes, who along with a young Josh Kronfield brutalised teams to supply Bachop, Merthens, Wilson, Little, Bunce, Lomu and Osbourne all the ball they needed to re-invent rugby. On the wing, Lomu was busy making the the world wake up fearing corned beef and taro, and in the England semi made Keith Quinn scream “LOMU! OUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHH!” at the nation at 2.30 in the morning. Then Zinzan, a NUMBER EIGHT, drop kicked one from half way. The world had gone mad - there was no WAY we’d lose. The Herald’s typically understated headline was, from memory, ‘Why We’ll Win’.

New Zealand got up (or played sleep roulette after 13 pints) to see the All Blacks lose the final to the hosts in agonising fashion. There’s two images that stick - Jeff Wilson being sick on the bench, and Merthen’s dropkick drifting wide in the depths of normal time (OK, THREE images - Nelson Mandela giving Francois Pienaar the trophy counts, I guess). Laurie got a detective to investigate Susie the waitress, but really, it was over, and it’s now 20 years since we won the big one. This was the one that got away.

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I love me some Zombies, and can’t wait to finish writing this shit so I can get back to Resident Evil 4. At my house, nothing says Xmas like getting drunk and shooting at some re-animated rotting flesh, so here’s my top five Zombie gifts for this special time of year.

5. Sean Of The Dead. Yeah yeah, it’s a couple of years old now, but if you don’t have it, get it. If you have it, get Spaced for added Simon Pegg / Edgar Wright action.

4. Mob Zombie. This game is played with a specially designed portable PC - you walk around the room to avoid the zombie hoarde on screen getting at your brain. Just the thing if it rains Xmas day.

3. Zombie Survival Guide. Tagline: Organise Before They Rise. Perfect for beach reading while working on your sunburn. Can Zombies swim?

2. Dead Rising. Must. Get. XBox 360. Dead Rising is based on the Dawn Of The Dead premise - a Zombie attack goes down while you’re out shopping, and it’s up to you to get creative with the consumer goods to control the outbreak. Park benches, beach umbrellas, dumb bells, you name it, you can use it to mow ‘em down. I’m heartened they’ve included a shot gun, though, it’s the knife and fork of any Zombie attack.

1. Zombie Portraits. Send this bloke in Canada a photo of yourself, and he draws you as a walking corpse. It’s just fantastic, and the kind of thing those loser portrait drawers at Leicester Square and the like should look into. How about getting a Zombie-fied drawing of a your normal living room portrait, and swapping it to freak your xmas guests out?

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This is on The SilverFern too
Last week, I bashed out a short article about Radio Sport for my blog, which Bart was good enough to post on The Silver Fern. The next thing I know, he emailed to say Matt Gunn responded on his show. Honestly, the adrenaline was flowing faster than Floyd Landis at his doctors as I loaded up the clip.

“Gutless Scumbags… Softcocks, basically, is the only category that I can put you into… Just like me, you rate highly in the dickhead stakes… I wish I could headbutt that person”.

That showed me, and conveniently illustrates the type of moronic debate you can expect these days on Radio Sport, which is why I’ve started switching off. I really WANT to listen to sport on the radio, and LOVE the idea I can hear it 24 hours a day, but as I said before, the blokey boy’s club atmosphere of the breakfast show, and level of debate on the talkback is turning me off. Guys, it’s just getting boring.

So I decided to share my thoughts with the world - I care about Radio Sport, I really do, and I tried to be constructive, outlining why I used to love it, why I don’t love it anymore, and gave some brief suggestions on making it better. Yes I called Matt Gunn a dickhead, but Matt, you’re a loudmouth talkback host, and comments like that come with the territory. I’m sure you’d be a top bloke to have a beer with when you’re not doing your RadioSportsGuy persona, but if I was you, I’d spend those long, lonely breaks between calls sharing some thoughtful and informed opinion, promising callers a worthy debate, not just an argument.

As for your headbutt offer, no thanks, I’m only a gutless scumbag after all. However SilverFern Overlord Jason Bartley of Whangamata is willing to deputise for me, and there’s more volunteering on the forum and my site. And because my anonymity bothers you, Matt, my name’s Richard Irvine. Dig around my website, and you’ll find that fairly easily, but hey, I’m just some guy on the internet - if I was you, I’d be more worried about WHY I wrote it.

I’m a guy in his 30s living in Auckland, a radio listener who loves going to Rugby and Cricket, playing sport at the weekend and catching games on TV. I’m a professional guy, I earn a crust - in other words, I’m your target market. The forum crowd on TheSilverFern are your target market too, and they (mostly) agree with the sentiment of the article. That’s golden feedback my friend, and I’m stoked the article is on your Smoko room wall. Like I say, I’ve tried to be constructive, and I’ve shared my opinion - surely that’s better than just turning Radio Sport off and never listening again?

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Matt Gunn has shared his thoughts on my article on Radio Sport. Apparently he’d like to headbutt me!

Now violence doesn’t solve anything - but if you’d like a headbutt from Matt, leave your name in the comments.

So yeah, my name’s Richard Irvine, Matt, and I was trying to be constructive! Rebuttal here.

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Note - this is also on The Silver Fern.
Have you LISTENED to it lately? Fresh back from my OE in 2001, I was very excited to learn there was a dedicated sports radio station - “They even play the sports news first on the hour!” Yes, you could listen to Cricket commentary alright, but it promised a whole new world of sports talk, led by Martin Devlin in the mornings. Informed, opinionated, quick witted, he was passionate about NZ sport, obsessed with Man United, and didn’t take any shit. He rightly hauled Kevin Roberts (or ‘KR’) over the coals for saying winning the Tri Nations was more important than the World Cup for All Blacks fans. That’s the kind of utter shit the Rugby Union expects us to believe, and I loved hearing someone actually calling them on it. The first nail in Radio Sport’s coffin was when Devlin left to do Radio LIVE, and hang out with Mike King full time.

The rest of the day’s programming was very listenable. Brendan Telfer did his cantankerous bit in the mornings, using his no doubt extensive contacts book to get some thoughtful interviews, and I enjoyed the golf show, with tips from a dry as a bone golf pro, along with ‘JK’ of the driving ranges getting off his death bed to contribute. Afternoons was Graham Hill, a very clever guy and my favorite BFM breakfast DJ ever. He’d present thoughtful interviews and nostalgia with some big names of the past, which was great radio. Where the station fell down was talkback.

Talkback is cheap for radio stations to do (which is why there’s so much of it*), but for me, it was like sitting in the car with that bloke who sits silently through All Black tests until someone drops the ball, then pipes up with “WELL THAT WAS SHIT!”. Yeah, THAT bloke. Whinge feckin’ Central, where rumours and misinformation spread like wildfire. It got old really quickly, and before long I was working and couldn’t listen to the radio all day, so Radio Sport was relegated in favour of BFM in the car.

I’ve tuned in a little again lately, and it turns out those were the good old days. The unfeasibly fast talking Tony Vietch (reportedly a nice guy in the flesh) is the boofhead’s boofhead. Sexism reigns supreme, and his laddish references to his nights out on the pull and whatever else comes across as insulting, annoying and just plain irrelevant to a sports show. Charming Aussie Matt Gunn (whose favourite meal is ‘any wog dish’) scores very highly in the dickhead stakes, too. Talkback has got even worse due to a lack of callers bothering to ring anymore, forcing the hosts to adopt more and more ludicrous ‘points of view’ to get a reaction. It’s desperate stuff, and dumbed down radio at its worst. It must be a lot of work to fill all that on air time - I don’t envy them at all. Can I suggest:

How to save Radio Sport:
1. Hire Leigh Hart to do Breakfast. Actually no, he’d be dumbed down by the hopelessness of it all, and I couldn’t handle that.
2. Get regular caller ‘Zane’ to host night time talkback. He’s on every night anyway showing the hosts up with his well prepared and thoughtful calls, so why not let the inmate take over the asylum?
3. Eliminate the sexist bullshit. It’s offensive, and pandering to some radioguy’s imaginary ‘Kiwi Bloke’ demographic is insulting to us kiwi blokes, let alone everyone else. We’ve all got mothers and sisters, you know. Why not get more women on, while you’re at it?
4. I’m all out of ideas. Judging by the extremely high repeatition of commercials, advertisers can’t be bothered either, so all this might not be a problem for much longer.

*Marcus Lush appears on Radio LIVE ads saying ‘Talkback radio is the only true artform, cos it’s made purely of people’s ideas’. Marcus, if you took the world’s stupidest person and hit him with the Stupid Stick for three weeks before driving him off Mt St. Stupid in the Stupidmobile while wearing the Stupid suit, you couldn’t make him say something that stupid. Honestly.

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Here kicks off sport review NZ’s Germany 06 coverage. I’m going to be providing some New Zealand perspective on the world’s biggest sporting event. Mostly from the couch. After some (pretty minor) soul searching, I will hereby be backing England in this World Cup. Here’s why.

I started off supporting England when I began taking a proper interest in Spurs in 1993 or thereabouts. It went hand in hand for me - I knew the players, the All Whites were pretty crap, so why not? It just felt right. I got a copy of the Italia ‘90 semi final on VHS and watched it a lot.

It really kicked off with Euro 96 - Terry Venables had the coaching job, and put Teddy Sheringham, Darren Anderton and Nick Barmby in the team. Gazza was back, Wembley was bathed in sunshine, they had grey shirts, I had a Sky decoder - what could possibly go wrong?

“You look like you’re going to vomit” said my then-girlfriend when Southgate missed his penalty. Some welcome.

Then came France ‘98. By now I was living in London, and had seen England lose to Chile at the old Wembley stadium with my brother and a couple of mates, a game notable only for the England debut of M. Owen. I warmed up with the rest of the boys from the office at a Southwalk pub, laughing at Scotland losing to Brazil. “This is brilliant” I thought - World Cup football in the same timezone! And booze!

England had three pool games to negociate, but no-one seemed too worried, all eyes were on the Argentina match. I watched from the floor of a Wapping pub in front of a big screen. It’s safe to say that by kick off, I’d had a few, my office went to a wine bar for someone’s birthday, so we could all get pissed beforehand, they were bloody considerate those guys. I remember Owen’s goal alright, and I remember leaping to my feet to celebrate (pre-Judas) Sol Campbell’s goal, only to be ruled out by Alan ‘bloody’ Shearer’s thoughtless elbow on an Argie defender. I remember using some very bad language on my stagger to the tube station afterward, and can only apologise to anyone Argentinean who may have heard it.

Then God Hoddle shot his mouth off and England got Keegan. I loved his Newcastle side like everyone else, but always thought he was a bit of a Muppet. By Euro 2000 I was living in Dublin and took my life in my hands cheering Shearer’s goal vs Germany in a Leopardstown pub - that didn’t go down to well with the locals (”It’s OK, we’re Kiwis” “Ye’re feckin eeejits”). England were a bit shit, of course, and this was the beginning of the end, Keegan was apparently great at ‘geeing the lads up’, but was utterly, cruelly clueless tactically.

I packed it in when they lost to Germany at Wembley’s last match in the worst performance and Keegan resigned immediately afterwards. “I don’t need this shit” I thought. “I’ve got enough bloody teams to worry about without these guys”. I watched Beckham beat Greece on his own impassively. I laughed at Seaman’s ponytail and Sven’s inability to keep it in his trousers. I tried backing Italy (The Sopranos) and Brazil (Ronaldo) in Japan/Sth Korea 02, but didn’t get tooooo worked up. Everyone loves Brazil deep down anyway. I watched Rooney go off injured and England going out of Euro 04 and felt a twinge of… something.

Now I’m back, chastened. The time is right, England can play some nice football. There’s loads of Spurs players in the team and squad. They’ve got a great chance of winning it, and they’ll have me yelling for them. I only hope they’ve been practicing penalties.

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It seems like the whole country is suffering from a collective post - Lions hangover. You go to the pub - there’s no-one there. You go to watch the sports news - what’s the point? You can reach out and touch the listlessness with your hand. But hang on… there’s a Tri Nations to play, and while everyone’s trying hard to feign indifference, underneath it all, we can’t wait to see if that magic in Wellington (and Christchurch to a lesser extent) can be recreated against the old enemies.

We were too busy arguing about the flat back line last year to care, and it was one of the more mediocre tournaments in a competition that has more same-ness to it every year (can’t wait for that extra round). After a year together, we’ll get to see what this potentially ’special’ All Black side is made of.

And it’s great to see the Wallabies responding to the threat of a resugent South Africa and ominous New Zealand by getting on the piss…

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I sat down one day and made a ‘cartoon’ about Clive Woodward and what a goose he is. Then I sent it to Bart, who put it on his site. I was stoked, so I did a couple more. You can see them here, here and here on thesilverfern.co.nz, or click on the pics for my Flickr site below - there’s a few photos from the rugby there, too.

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  I’ll confess, I’m a huge Sir Richard Hadlee fan. As a cricket mad young boy I pored over this book, and borrowed it from the library many, many times until my grandparents gave me my own copy.

“Hadlee Hits Out” covers a historic period in NZ’s cricketing history, from the underarm delivery (this chapter still makes the blood boil), Hadlee’s time with Notts in England, through the World Cup of 1983, to the first test win in England at Headingly. There’s a huge amount of detail on the games, but the fascinating parts come when Hadlee muses on a wide range of issues, from touring South Africa, to Geoff Howarth’s form with the bat, through to his tussles with NZCC.

The opening chapter has Hadlee’s thoughts on his team mates in that legendary mid eighties team. He obviously handed each one a questionnaire asking their favorite food, TV show, memorable moment, etc. “Charlie’s (Ewan Chatfield) special interests include gardening. The last book he read was the Yates Garden Guide. He likes playing squash”. Despite valiant efforts at amusing anecdotes, his humor free reputation is confirmed - on Trevor Franklin’s nickname “Herman” - “A few years ago on the telly there was a programme called Herman Munster, and he looks very similar to the actor who played that part”.

He has strong views on his NZ Cricket boss Martin Snedden - “He likes all sports and is a bit of an intellectual. The last book he read was The Parsifal Mosaic by Robert Ludlam… He always has a comment to add that has very little to do with the subject being talked about”.

Hadlee has no need for a ghost writer to help with his forthright views, and comes across as a man totally focused on cricket and measuring up to his own exalted standards. This may explain his aloof reputation, but the fact remains that Hadlee remains the greatest cricket player New Zealand has produced by some distance.

You can’t argue with his record as a fast bowler and all-rounder at time when the Zimbabwes and Bangladeshes weren’t playing test cricket. The team that was built around him put New Zealand cricket on the map, and as we saw when it broke up, rebuilding takes a long time.

Hadlee was a marvelous player and we were lucky to have him. Reading this book won’t give you many deep and fascinating insights into his thoughts as he ripped through batsmen, but it will bring back some fond memories.

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