Receiving a Sporting OchoCinco

Chad OchoCinco fancies himself as a footballer. Well, we all know that, but I'm talking the other kind of football. The non-gridiron pursuit also known as soccer or, to be entirely accurate if a tad cliche, "the beautiful game". 

Apparently the publicity savvy Cincinnati Bengals and former Oregon State wide receiver, he who famously changed his name from plain old Chad Johnson to big up his No. 85 jersey, hopes that he can slip into a Major League Soccer (MLS) team to keep himself busy through the NFL lock out.

He is currently involved in a four-day trial with Sporting Kansas City, formerly the Wizards, whose moniker changed ahead of the current season to coincide with a  move to a new stadium. I wish him luck but, at age 33, it will take a supreme effort to succeed in the game he last played at high school in 1995.

There is no doubt that the man will have the requisite fitness and athletic capability to match any of his prospective Kansas teammates and his passion is not in question. As he told Sporting's internal TV channel, "Although I love football, this (soccer) was always my first sport."

But it will take more than desire and a few days of ball work to up his skill level to professional levels. Unless OchoCinco is a natural and phenomenally gifted to boot, I can't see how he can make the Kansas roster. And how does the mind of an NFL wide receiver, honed to finding space and collecting the ball at pace with his hands, shift its focus to an entirely different discipline in which the ball is controlled by anything except the hands and arms? 

OchoCinco himself does not yet have the answer.

"It was as difficult as I imagined it to be, transitioning to another sport at this level," he admitted after Wednesday's session. "To be good at it takes more than just speed. It's not just about running around, there's a lot of skill to it."

I spent 30 minutes watching his trial live online at http://www.sporting85.com/tryout.php. It would be churlish and spiteful to judge the man on such a tiny snapshot, especially given his honest, almost boyish wish to make the grade. However, what I saw did not particularly excite - at times I cringed.

Part of me was smugly pleased. You see, I want every other American sports star or fan out there to realise what OchoCinco already knows, that soccer is a sumptuously nuanced game that requires a serious player to exhibit a hell of a lot of skill, ball intelligence, tactical awareness and selflessness alongside innate athleticism and developed fitness. For that reason, the darkly cynical side of my character had a smirk of glee at every missed kick or skied shot.

But I also believe wholeheartedly that OchoCinco really does have a love for the game. He warms up before NFL matches by keeping up a soccer ball; he numbers Thierry Henry, Kaka and Cristiano Ronaldo among his friends; he visited Real Madrid in January and met the "special one" himself, Jose Mourinho.

If OchoCinco does make the cross-over and successfully transitions from NFL All-Pro to MLS star, think of the publicity the league will garner in a vastly apathetic nation currently wrapped up in March Madness. People are already taking note of the fact that he is merely on trial. With the season only a week old and Sporting having won its opener in a 3-2 thirller against Chivas USA, the timing couldn't have been better.

The man is taking it seriously and, judging from his comments, he is humbled and honoured that Kansas has invited him to fulfill a long-held ambition.

"Kansas City offered to bring me out and treat me like a normal person (not a football star). There are a lot of other things I could be doing in my off-time but the opportunity to be here is just awesome," he said.

"Cristiano and Kaka said if I make it they'll come out and see me in a game."

OchoCinco is following a childhood dream. As someone who often dreamt of such a chance, I for one am rooting for the guy. Maybe there are better players out there who will never be offered the opportunity OchoCinco's privileged position has handed him but so what? As I've already noted, he has a mountain to climb just to get through the trial and if he does, he will have done so deservedly. For the sake of MLS and soccer's profile in the US, I hope he makes the team, in fact I hope the dream ends with Kansas' new No. 85 held aloft after scoring a fairytale winning goal in the MLS Cup.

That would be one for Hollywood!

UNITED END ARSENAL’S FA CUP QUEST

Manchester United turned the screw on Arsenal with a decisive 2-0 victory in the FA Cup quarter-final at Old Trafford tonight, a result that sent the Gunners crashing out of a third major competition in a fortnight following a Carling Cup Final loss to Birmingham and Champions’ League defeat at the hands of Barcelona.

Goals for Fabio Da Silva and Wayne Rooney not only sealed Sir Alex Ferguson’s men a place in the semi-final draw but gave the Premier League leaders what could turn out to be a crucial psychological edge over their closest pursuers as the season hurtles towards its climax.

United fielded a starting 11 bereft of Ferdinand, Berbatov, Scholes, Giggs and Nani in a 4-5-1 formation that gave the brothers Da Silva opposite berths on the flanks outside the blue collar pairing of Darren Gibson and John O’Shea, while Javier Hernandez led the line ahead of a deep-lying Wayne Rooney.

In the absence of Cesc Fabregas, Arsenal boss Arsene Wenger looked to the artisan Jack Wilshere to pull the strings and the England youngster masterfully played the role of ubiquitous fulcrum, receiving and distributing with an assuredness beyond his years.

With Denilson utilised as a spoiler in front of the Arsenal back line, alongside the industrious Wilshere, Arsenal dominated early possession as wide men Andrey Arshavin and Samir Nasri probed down the flanks, backed by the marauding Abou Diaby.

In only the second minute, Arshavin exhibited quick feet to skip by the floundering United right back Wes Brown before playing a one-two with lone striker Robin Van Persie.

The little Russian’s weak shot, easily saved low to his right by United’s veteran goalkeeper Edwin Van De Sar, set the tone for Arsenal’s night that produced no goals despite 11 shots on target and 54% of possession.

Three minutes later, Diaby played a push and go around a flat-footed O’Shea , slipped a pass to Nasri on the right flank and continued his run into the box. Nasri chose to cut inside, striking a poor shot straight at Van Der Sar.

And so it continued, with Arsenal stringing together sequences of silken passing but with no end product.

United’s central defensive pairing of Nemanja Vidic and Chris Smalling, backed by the brilliant Van Der Sar, kept at bay the Arsenal attack and on 15 minutes, the home side gave warning with a counter assault that should have produced the game’s opener.

Gibson took a leaf out of Wilshere’s book as he cleverly engineered space in the centre and spread a delightful pass wide left to Fabio Da Silva. The young Brazilian’s whipped cross found the charging head of his sibling Rafael, who headed powerfully over the crossbar from six yards out.

Arsenal failed to take heed. With the clock approaching 28 minutes, Van der Sar flashed an underarm throw to Fabio in a central position. The winger advanced at pace into the Arsenal half before playing an exquisite pass with the outside of his foot to Rafael on the right, who returned the ball to his brother.

Fabio dropped a short pass to Rooney , spun his man and continued into the box as Hernandez peeled off his marker and found himself in space at the back post. Rooney looped a perfectly weighted first-time ball to the little Mexican who powered a crisp header goalward.

Manuel Almunia stretched low to his left but pushed the ball into the path of the oncoming Fabio whose sliding shot rifled into the roof of the net.

Arsenal continued to press forward after the re-start and Van Persie went close just after the half-hour with an angled shot across goal from the right side that Van der Sar did well to flick around the post.

At the resultant corner, Van Persie blazed a header past the upright from six yards out.

Fabio gave way to the returning Valencia for the second half, back in action for the first time since breaking his leg against Glasgow Rangers in September, but the pattern of play remained the same as Arsenal came out fighting yet lacked a knock-out punch

First Van der Sar pulled off a brilliant double save, preventing an own goal with his legs and denying Laurent Koscielny with a left-hand reflex save on the follow-up, then Arshavin weaved through red shirts only to hit a tame shot wide of the target.

Again, United punished Arsenal’s profligacy when on 48 minutes Van der Sar once more started a goal scoring move as he fed Rafael who sprinted down the right flank and fired a low cross into the six-yard box towards the advancing Hernandez.

The admirable Johan Djourou stuck tight to the lunging Hernandez and succeeded in blocking the Mexican’s shot but the loose ball bounced up to Rooney at the right-hand post and the United man made no mistake as he headed cleverly in off the far frame.

Wenger attempted to shake things up with the introduction of Marouane Chamakh on 59 minutes but the Moroccan proved as impotent in front of goal as his teammates, missing a free header from a delicious Bacary Sagna cross with 15 minutes left on the clock.

Tomas Rosicky had replaced the increasingly ineffective Arshavin on 71 minutes and shortly after Chamakh’s tame effort, the Czech midfielder struck with venom from 22 yards out, forcing Van de Sar to produce another fine instinctive block.

However, it was Rosicky who missed arguably Arsenal’s chance of the night four minutes into injury time, when Sagna delivered another exquisite cross from the right flank that found his teammate in glorious isolation just four yards from goal.

Rosicky’s deer in headlights failure to make a meaningful connection with his head signalled the end of Arsenal’s FA Cup campaign.

Due to the eight minutes of overtime played as a result of Djourou suffering a season-ending dislocated shoulder, there was still time for a Paul Scholes booking and an uncharacteristic miss from Hernandez, who shot straight at Almunia from six yards.

Unlike Arsenal, Manchester United march on to the next round with a 12th FA Cup victory in their sights and still fighting for Premier League and Champions’ League honours.

Despite Arsenal holding a game in hand on United and being only three points behind their rivals, Wenger will have to use all of his experience to instil not only belief but also an elusive killer instinct into his players if they are to end their six-year trophy drought this spring.

Referee: Chris Foy

Attendance: 74,693

Midday in York

It was the Yorkshire Oaks today and oh, what a race we expected to see. Three crack distaffers. Sariska and Midday representing the cream of the older brigade, Snow Fairy the queen of the current Classic crop. Match ups like that don't come along every year. 

It wasn't even a three horse race. Eight of them lined up on the Knavesmire, all fillies and mares.

Trumpeters heralded their arrival at the start. Off-time, 3.25pm. Midday, a Breeders' Cup winner no less, let it be known that she'd be entering the starting gate at her own leisure. Sariska and Snow Fairy, dual Oaks winners both, meandered in as they pleased. Barshiba, the old lady of the field, needed four little men and a blindfold to convince her to load. Good horses have character.

All in. Under starters orders. Gates open. They're off!

Well, all bar Sariska. She was going nowhere. Jamie Spencer could push and shove all he liked, that lady was not for moving. Character, you see.

Barshiba set the pace. Midday skimmed along in mid-division. Snow Fairy stalked. Sariska sulked.

It was all over with three of the 12 furlongs still to race. Midday was cruising under Tom Queally. At a glance, Snow Fairy looked good too but Richard Hughes was on the three-year-old. Hughes always looks good with three furlongs to go. The trained eye could see that filly was beaten.

Midday shifted into overdrive. Snow Fairy chased her; Eleanora Duse ran on from deep. Nothing got near.

It was three lengths at the line. It would have been more if Midday hadn't got bored and drifted in the lead. Ears pricked, head slightly raised, I think she was posing for the crowd. Queally straightened her and kept pumping away. He didn't know about Sariska's strop. Sariska had beaten Midday three times already. Queally was expecting the big bay to loom upsides. She didn't.

Henry Cecil was presented with a rose bush before the race. It was for Midday, to recognise her second win in the Nassau Stakes at the end of last month. Henry said he'll plant it in his rose garden behind Midday's box. That's why he's a master trainer. So good with fillies. Wonderful with roses. I wonder what he'll get if she wins a second Breeders' Cup.

I love York races.

Primal recognition

Saturday was quite eventful in its way. Not only did my wife and I march to protest against cutbacks being imposed at our local hospital, we also dropped into Starbucks for a hot chocolate. Okay, so in and of itself, going to Starbucks is not in any way cool. But Starbucks, Highbury Corner branch, at 11.45am on this particular February morning was the exception. 

One thing about London is that famous faces are never far away. I've seen quite a few in my time and most I have not really been bothered about. I mean, the actress Juliet Stevenson was close by us on the Whittington Hospital march but so what. Most encounters with celebrities are of little consequence and barely worth noting. They are merely people, after all. In fact, I have forgotten about more such encounters than I actually remember. The exceptions being the ones like the time Jeremy Paxman almost ran me down on his bicycle outside the National Gallery or when the Queen gave me a dirty look at the Derby.  

Starbucks on Saturday was up there alongside my brushes with the reigning monarch and the BBCs chief interrogator. In fact, it probably edges in front. 

As we stood in line, debating whether to go tall or short, my wife turned to me and said that she was amused how the guy in front was telling his young son about the evils of the world. About how the capitalist masters screw the people - that kind of thing. I glanced at the said bloke and child. They were both lean with black shoulder-length rock legend hair. As I turned my attentions back to the menu, he turned his head and I caught a telling glimpse of his face.

It was double-take time. Was that really who it appeared to be? I looked again. He glanced sideways at me. I was wearing my aviators so he couldn't see my eyes. I was sure it was him. But maybe it just looked like him. Then he spoke. The Scottish accent was unmistakeable. It was him.

For the next three or four minutes, until our peppermint infused chocolate arrived, there was a barrage of swift, edgy, furtive glances cast in my direction. The great man was either wondering what kind of a fool wears sunglasses inside when it is actually dark and raining outside, or he knew that I knew. 

Bobby Gillespie knew that I knew.    

Marching for the cause

If you have embraced a creed which appears to be free from the ordinary dirtiness of politics - a creed from which you yourself cannot expect to draw any material advantage - surely that proves that you are in the right?
George Orwell

I marched on Saturday. I marched because I was angry, because I wanted to make a noise. I marched to scream and rail aginst the soul-sapping corruption of self-serving hypocrites messing with the lives of ordinary people. I'm tired of them interfering with my life and the lives of my family, friends, neighbours, colleagues and fellow citizens.

I marched because I believe deeply that the health and wellbeing of every individual is of incalculably greater importance than the balance sheet at Lloyds or the Bank Of England.

I marched because I know that mortality is fragile and life is precious.

I marched because I believe that the National Health Service, for all of its failings, is a beautiful concept and should be protected at all costs. 

I marched because I am angry at this cock-sure government that has dictated for 13 years, the supposed party of the people that is in reality a parasite, sucking the blood out of those that gave it life.

I marched because we the people should not have to pay with our lives when politicians and bureaucrats make a mess while fiddling the nation's accounts.  

I marched because I still believe in democracy.

I marched to say to Gordon Brown and politicians of every hue: "Keep your vile, incompetent, greedy, meddling hands off this country's hospitals."

I marched for my wife and my unborn child.

I marched to save the Whittington.

The modern art of conceptual deception

Modern art is rubbish. Not all of it, just a lot of it. I realise that I'm sweeping a broad brush in making that infuriatingly general statement but after watching last night's BBC show School of Saatchi, I can't help it. After so much grey, fudging, blurring, smoke and mirrors twaddle from the various wannabe Damien Hirsts and Tracey Emins, I feel the need to rail in simple black and white terms.

For those of you that have missed out on this gem of terrestrial entertainment, let me fill you in. Charles Saatchi, marketing mogul and self-styled Don of the modern art world, has hand-picked half a dozen hopefuls straight out of the pretentiously cool Hoxton set. In The Apprentice meets Art Attack, the said sextet must impress Saatchi and his team of expert confidantes through a series of challenges. One budding Jeff Koons will ultimately have the honour of showcasing his or her talent at the world famous Hermitage in St Petersburg as part of the Newspeak: British Art Now exhibition.

Now, to my mind and eyes, a large number of modern artists are in fact con artists. Hirst has no fewer than three exhibitions running in London. One of those, No Love Lost, at the Wallace Collection, shows the shark pickler to be an average painter at best. And of course Emin is most famous for passing off a dirty bed as a modern masterpiece.

I am reminded of an incident at Tate Britain's Art and The Sixties exhibition in the summer of 2004. Gustav Metzger, the "inventor" of auto-destructive art, had one of his sculptures thrown out with the rubbish. Well, hardly surprising when the piece itself was actually a plastic sack full of waste paper. It was quickly replaced with another polythene bin liner holding a new batch of waste and no one was any the wiser for a while. As auto-destructive art is defined as "paintings, sculptures and constructions having a finite existence - after which they will be destroyed," I reckon the sculpture's disposal was merely a fulfillment of its being. But can you imagine Rodin chipping the last piece of marble from The Thinker, looking it up and down and then taking a sledgehammer to it?

Of course, what I'm really objecting to is conceptual art and the "if you don't like it, it's because you just don't get it" mantra of its acolytes. This is where School of Saatchi is brilliant. From Saad Qureshi with his 2,000 stacked chipati breads to fellow Slade student Eugenie Scrase and her DIY-gone-wrong, the show has hilariously exposed several of the artists as cynically conceited blag merchants, mickey-taking charlatans or simply spaced-out fantastists with little demonstrable talent.

In last night's show, the artists were taken to Sudeley Castle in the Cotswolds, home of Lady Ashcombe, the last resting place of Katherine Parr (Henry VIII's sixth wife) and a treasure trove of art down the ages. Cue Qureshi and his bread, baked lovingly by his mother in the family's Oxford semi and transported to Sudeley's historic library.

"This work is not about food, it's about the love we share and we're going to give it on to Lady Ashcombe and her family," cooed Qureshi, who was on the verge of a hissy fit when renowned artist Mat Collison asked, "isn't it a bit...lame?"

Qureshi fully embraced the performance aspect of his piece by mailing a chipati to her ladyship prior to the big unveiling, for which, by the way, he took along his entire bemused family. After laying down his mother's old rug in place of some or other renaissance carpet, Qureshi slapped down his chipatis in piles and proceeded to tell us how every individual wheel of unleavened had a story to tell.

"Each chipati talks of the action we did at home."

Now call me cynical, but at no time did Qureshi reference his work to the library, despite his remit to produce a piece that connected with the room's history. Well, that was until fellow hopeful Suki Chan ruffled his feathers by trying to scatter black books across the floor. In objecting to Chan's arrangement, the chipatis embraced a new message. They were in fact not just the embodiment of love, the bread actually represented the pages of the books in the library. Beautiful bull!

But the best tosh came from Scrase who had constructed a bizarre motorized clothes line above a radiator in one of the castle's bedrooms. Powered by what looked to be a Black & Decker drill, a tassle taken from one of the curtains whirred around and around the line. She said she liked the idea of movement and was inspired by The Generation Game with its conveyer belt stuffed with prizes. Apparently, Sudeley Castle's treasures reminded her of Bruce Forsyth and Saturday night gameshow goodies. Shame there wasn't a cuddly toy in the room!

Scrase mimicked Qureshi in giving the distinct impression that she was making it all up as she went along. After a bit of trouble with her drill speed, she suddenly came up with a new and inspired take on her work.

"I had a bit of a change of heart" she revealed, gazing intently at the motionless tassle. "I decided I always liked the potential of movement but never liked the actual movement, and so I was actually thinking, I might keep it static. It's even more powerful when it's not working. They'll imagine it go round so there's a bit of effort coming from the viewer's point of view. It makes them think about...things."

In slagging off the subjects of the BBCs attempt at higher-brow reality TV, I don't want to sound as though I'm against all forms of what we generally and incorrectly lump together under the umbrella of modern art. For every crass Koons there is a wonderful Warhol; Hirst's horrors are counterbalanced by Dali's brilliance; Rothko's mundanity takes a back seat to a vibrant Pollock. And of course, the great caveat rings loud and true - it's all subjective.

Indeed, one of the Saatchi candidates, Matt Clark, seems to have potential. There is certainly merit to his work.

But when all is said and done, conceptual art can so often be fraudulent art. When Marcel Duchamp started the "movement" in 1917 with his signed urinal entitled Fountain, he was making a point. He was making an original statement that did not need repeating. Too many artists are simply revisiting Duchamp. Many lose sight of art as a thing of recognisable beauty in their increasingly blinkered quest for acceptance from the art elite. In a warped way, and despite artists apparently seeming to push boundaries, true originality is actually swamped beneath an unconscious adherence to what is deemed in vogue. A swathe of artists appear content to blag and bull their way to acceptance from a clique so wrapped up in a pretence of superior cultural wisdom that it can no longer distinguish the Fountain from the bedpan.

Put the tinsel back into Christmas

Yesterday evening, the wife and I got to talking about Christmas decor. As newly-weds, I felt it was important to gauge her opinions. First point of discussion:  real tree or fake tree? No debate. We're both real people (I'll be picking one up next Monday after work).

We live in a small but delightfully homely studio flat. Space is at a premium. So, second point: large girth, six-footer, or quaint little table-topper? Now, we would love a bulging, bristling Norwegian Spruce. But not enough to endure hacking through needle-infested branches every time we want to get to the bathroom. Naturally, we both agreed on a three-foot miniature verison.

Ah, it was all so easy. I was suddenly awash with excitement at the thought of transforming our abode into a Christmas wonderland. The sweet aroma of pine needles, cranberries and cinnamon. Aled Jones soaring from the stereo. Chestnuts roasting on the open fire. Multi-coloured fairy lights twinkling from the tree. Lanterns, stars and shiny, red, gold, silver, purple, blue and green streamers hanging from the ceiling...

And that was the snag. Apparently, shiny doesn't work in the 21st century. Shiny is 1970s glam. Shiny is 1980s kitsch. Shiny died an ignominious death sometime around 1997. Shiny is not the done thing.

Don't get me wrong. I love my wife, so her distaste for shiny streamers and garish giant stars will not be held against her. She even admitted to a liking for tinsel. She will gladly aquiesce and throw a bit around the place, even on our mini Scots Pine. But bright reflective coloured baubels are out. She's still considering the streamers.

*And therein lies the crux of the issue. In those pretentious circles that dictate "style" in the 00s, Christmas trees are to be decorated with popcorn on threads and dried orange peel. Bits of twig and holly leaves. Colours are to be carefully co-ordinated. Lights must be of one hue, preferrably white. Things should not dangle from the ceiling. Shiny, glittery paper is a major faux-pas.

Cobblers! I am leading a fight-back in favour of those unashamedly loud, garish, in-yer-face shiny Christmas decorations. Yes, Christmas is undoubtedly first and foremost about the birth of Jesus Christ. But it has a great side-line as a time to party and have fun.

I'm firmly in the Clark Griswald camp here. The hero of National Lampoons Christmas Vacation really gets Christmas. Huge tree, too much eggnog (whatever that actually is), Santa's sleigh on the lawn and enough lights on the house to burn a hole in the ozone layer as big as the Isle of Man! Bring it on! Rather that than endure a too-cool-for-yule sneeringly superior Christmas. Where's the fun in that?

I mean, think about it. Religion and faith aside, what makes Christmas magical? Obviously it's slightly different for everyone but essentially it's Santa Claus in his ridiculous red costume, elves in their silly green outfits, reindeer with harnesses festooned with shiny gold bells, colourful Christmas crackers and daft party hats, turkey and stuffing, Only Fools and Horses on the telly, a giant tin of Quality Street, ecstatic kids tearing brightly coloured wrapping paper, trees enveloped in tinsel and Noddy Holder in silver platform shoes screaming "It's Chriiiiiistmaaaaassss".

Give me tinsel any time!

* NB these are not the hard and fast views of my beloved, merely general observations.