Weer Balking Pola Nazón De Breogán.

Las ideas nacen dulces y envejecen feroces

 O País da Galiza exhibe 313 concellos. Inglaterra, si redondeamos al alza, cuenta con unas 10.500 civil parishes. Todos los Porcos Bravos nacen reyes y mueren en el destierro. Menos uno. 

- La Distancia. ¿Cuántas veces yo pensé volver? Na Galiza, la mínima exigida es de 23.788 metros. Y la máxima se fija en 34.666 metros. Ni un metro arriba o abajo de estas dos cifras.

- La Duración. El Weer Balking no podrá durar en ningún caso, menos de 6 horas con 6 minutos y seis segundos ni más de 13 horas con 13 minutos y 13 segundos. Siempre computadas en el plazo de un día natural.

- El Trayecto del Balking. Un pie delante de otro. Eso que llaman caminar. Prohibido correr o hacer marcha. Y os tiene que doler. Nada de llanear todo el rato o ir por la sombra. La ruta, que puede ser circular, en diagonal o como ustedes quieran, debe incluir repechos salvajes, cambios de ritmo, corredoiras y pistas deturpadas. Está prohibido recorrer caminos trillados y señalizados por la superstición asiática. Debe transcurrir sí o sí por 3 concellos pero nunca por más de 5.

- Las Paradas de la Weer. Se valoran especialmente tascas, tabernas, tugurios y furanchos con el encanto de lo enxebre y una antigüedad anterior a 1974. También se tendrán en cuenta para el solaz de la comunidad, los archiconocidos watering holes oficiales del porcobravismo rampante. Como no lo estamos poniendo fácil, todo lo demás lo fiamos al sentido común y al olfato del caminante. Las paradas no pueden ni deben ser inferiores a 6 ni superiores a 15. Es indiferente el detenerse a beber en cada concello atravesado o el concentrar todas las paradas en uno solo. Importa el número, no el lugar.

- Número de participantes. Uno es soledad y nueve gangbang de Nazgûl.

- Ingesta de la gesta. Un mínimo de una cerveza por local. La unidad básica a efecto del recuento es la botella de 33 cl y a mayores, nunca se podrá superar el contenido de una yarda. Como se puede repetir, no hay un máximo de consumo pero apelamos otra vez al sentidiño del caminante y a la importancia de su misión. Puntuará especialmente que la cerveza sea de nacionalidad gallega (tanto industrial como artesana) o inglesa.

The Turn of the Screw. Nadie piensa que deba recordarse lo que está escrito en un blog. Un blog, digo, se escribe para el olvido, deliberadamente para el olvido. Pero desde hoy, aquí se varan los primeros estatutos del Weer Balking, pues también somos lo que bebemos y caminamos por las sendas de la Anglogalician.

Y quizá todo sea mejor así, esperado y ebrio porque al llegar no puedes volver a Yardley Gobion, tan lejana y sola, ya no tan sola, ya paisaje sobrio que habitas y usurpas, nunca, nunca quiero llegar a Yardley Gobion aunque sepa los caminos de memoria.

Rising From The Ashes Of An Umpire. Inglaterra Batea De Nuevo A Los Murciélagos del Mundo

CRICKET LOVELY CRICKET

"The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new." (Samuel Beckett, Murphy)

No todo fueron derrotas para los ingleses en 2019. Cierto es que perdieron la final del mundial de rugby contra los bóeres. Y lo que más les duele. Fueron vencidos en casa cuando la XVI Anglogalician.

Pero por primera vez en su historia ganaron the ICC Cricket World Cup, que como habrán deducido, es el mundial de ese peculiar deporte llamado cricket.

Admiremos como Algernon Mouse defiende los wickets con su sapiencia habitual.

There's Murphy moving in the shadows as though free; what a fine short leg he makes -an Irishman on an English stage. At a very silly point, Belacqua, entertaining the dual throng of hard-bitten, twice shy members in front of the old pavilion, where the important ins and outs happen.

Then there's Brian O’Nolan’s nameless policeman at third man talking to his bicycle about Sergeant Pluck and Policeman MacCruiskeen and the lack of action.

And, at a very deep mid-wicket there’s Myles na gCopaleen mirroring my mood before a cricket match, where “all my senses were bewildered all at once and could give me no explanation.” (The Third Policeman, Flann O’Brien)
We  all know Godot won't, can't turn up but we, like Didi and Gogo, cannot resist staying until the bitter end, putting any doubt beyond hope that every doggerel has its day.

Cricket becomes a habit -a great deadener of conversation unless happenstance should ever throw your way a fellow naked-in-the-chair absurdist that welcomes the arrival of two very qualified people in white coats.

Then there are the two men in white coats sucking Malloy's stones, measuring the sun's slap-dash, indifferent progress across the velveteen earth with white markings making creases in the fabric of absurdity, waiting for Nile-ist deliveries infinitely slower than the current tide.

Malone dives under the covers, like a flash rain shower, cutting off a petty four and looking at the sky for half a dozen of one and six of l’autre, unable to prevent crafted singles so that the electronic counter continues to sparkle in recording history of Krapp's annual innings, when draws were honourable after three, four or five theatrical acts.

The tools of these gentle comi-tragic tirades are: six sticks of ash (with four little stubs of the same wood rest atop); a box of carefully stitched leather covered aniseed balls; two lumps (at a time) of lovingly carved willow; a large expanse of greenery; and a length of rope to hang the hopes of a few thousand folks who assemble to witness the spectacle that is cricket.

The produce is of overs and outs -called in the parlance dismissals- constituting multiple innings to achieve one of at least five outcomes: win/loss/draw*/tie/abandoned*.

However, the most important outcome all these results aim to produce is cricketing happiness. This is a complexity of Beckettian dramas recalled by cricket lovers as Krapp's Last Tape. Cricket is found between dust sheets and buzzing ears; memories played over in the brain; Box 3, Spool 2, and where's the banana? Cricket grounds are places of worship where subjectivity playfully tussles with fact; where fiction too real to be dismissed entirely, has a friendly arm wrestle with the cold, isolated numerical non-fiction.

Like those mathematical devotees who find beauty in numbers, cricket lovers find narratives in averages and numbers which are attributed to names to produce iconography and iconoclasts alike. Where scorers fastidiously etch little stories with the title, 'I was there, were you?' The officionados who recall passages of play that might, on the surface, appear deeply mundane, or, as some cruel critics have described as watching the matt white lose its moisture before you hide it behind an underused bookcase or merely hopeful, flat-pack trophy cabinet. Recollection of a discriminating number three, at the fall of the first wicket, intent on smothering even the juiciest half-volley outside off-stump so as to avoid a game of dominoes. Instead he or she shuffles cautiously forward like the second draught in a contest with a chess master.

A word to the wise for those who find themselves attending a cricket match instead of imbibing the sweet smoothie of daytime TV entertainment shows that vaguely resemble cricket: check the scoreboard before you fall asleep, and never sleep with your mouth open.

Apart from the impromptu fly lunch you might involuntary intake, you could also be suddenly woken with a sensation of being a stuck pig as a boundary four hops off the rope like a frightened rabbit on heat, or a boundary six might lodge itself in the gaping cake hole and dislodge your natural smile.

You will also need to be aware of the duration of the match before contemplating entering the land of nod during playing hours. A four day, five day encounter should render places at fine leg, cow corner and, every other over, behind the wicketkeeper and the five run helmet, safe havens.

However, if it's a one-day game of obscene brevity, there's nowhere technically safe as they've invented a few weird shots that can propel the ball anywhere in the 360 degree gamut. If you get an obsessive 'ramper' then anywhere in the cover region should be a good bedding area.

If you do manage to get some shuteye, then you may not miss out on the action as it has been scientifically proved that subliminal cricket 'watching' is possible, now that the public address systems disperse so much information regarding the action of a game.

I would recommend watching the game with eyes and mind wide open to fully appreciate the repeated spectacle of the white-clad players resembling LS Lowry figures lurch, bend, walk slowly in as the bowler runs in with shoulders slumped as if fighting a force-ten gale.

Then there are captains who scatter their field like seed in the belief that victory will grow, unlike the captains who use sextants, theodolites, spirit levels and spread betting in order to change fate. This cosmic range of approach is a wonder to behold when watching, following or contemplating the essence of cricket.

Before the curtain goes up on a game, the covers are removed and the officials and players come on to the field. Then the batters mark their territory hoping it's not a cat on a hot tin roof wicket, and the bowlers plot their stepped approach as precisely as an air traffic controller, hoping to land in the right area at the crease to deliver their Barnes-Wallis bombs at their damned foe for the day.

A strident burp from the well-breakfasted crowd signals the bowler's run in, before the sacred first ball in a projected, contractual (a modern addition) 576 balls for the day's work, rest and play. The fielders are scattered like dice, reflecting the team's hopes and fears for the immediate future.

A full slip cordon,  gully and square point with possibly a short square leg in catching position would signal attack; whether hopeful folly or wilful expectation would be determined in due time: would it be willow-cracking, ash-cracking or palm warming as a thermometer of the contest's temperature. Will the day's narrative be prose, poetry, doggerel or mime, or indeed, as is more often the same, a potent cocktail of all four?

Once enticed, you might find yourself as Vladimir and Estragon, puzzling over a great existential dilemma: should we wait? Should we go? Let's go! We can't, we're waiting for cricket!

Cricket isn't the easy viewing of last-ball frenzy performance days, it's the sixty delivery spring watch of a batter who is going through cricket hell: who sees the wicket as a vast arid desert, the extent of which his strokes cannot traverse. Alternately, the hell of a bowler, steaming in over after over, who cannot for the life of him make the batsman play a delivery: it's as though the wicket and the ball are of the same polarity in rejecting all the efforts of the non-for worker.

Cricket is one of the biggest, deepest, most profound questions we ask ourselves in life: why are we here? Anything else is merely misguided entertainment. Cricket isn't HD, HDMI or 5G, it's lantern slides and 2D, hand-drawn single-cell animation. Cricket isn't easy listening of the everyday dross of commercial radio and TV, it's Hendrix played at 0.5 rpm. Why else watch a purist top-order batter endure a nerve-jangling half hour without hope of a run then see a farmyard machinery yahoo merchant carve a six first-ball, and accept the sense of it?

Beckett dramatised cricket without trying. The drama is so context-specific. Its narratives are deeply affecting, especially when appearing most boring. It's the train number you haven't seen yet, even though consisting of twelve alphanumerical digits, it differs by one from the ones already seen. Every dot ball is different. If you think two consecutive nudges by the same batter to the same fine leg are repetitively the same, then you are not watching fully. Even at the bald number-crunching level, cricket doesn't produce absolute repetition in its essence. Yes, formulaic structural changes to accommodate the modern professional dutiful day at the office player have brought apparent repetition but it's incomplete as the mandatory 96 overs can take anything from six and a half hours to the eleventh hour.

Cricket gives uneasy birth to tales taller than Goliath. Tales of ripping stickies taking Medusa-like turn, enough to make the mightiest of willows weep; and Boy's Own stories of strident sun-kissed strips where the leather was tanned and dried and stitched like a kipper; yarns of toe-nail extracting Yorkers, Y-front endangering beamers, ball-bursting bouncers and deviously deceiving seamers, all countered with desperately beautiful drives and embarrassing knicks, carving cuts and hopping hooks, petulant pulls and quick glances, all part of the livery of cricket's anvil-forged equipment, displayed in nostalgic meadows, racecourses, amphitheatres and educationally sound grounds in the shadows of academia.

A quick manifest of equipment:

• Pads like a mother's protection from the bruises and knocks picked up in the rough and tumble of play.
• Box to protect lineage and eye-watering ball contact, whether direct or the result of an edge.
• Helmet (a modern addition) as a safety standard to keep the players conscious.
• Bat to preserve dignity and yet...it can be a paint brush, a wand, a cross to bear, a cudgel, a knife, a rapier, a stonewall, a brickbat, a small tree (a modern phenomenon) waving on a wind, windmill tilting at immortality. And, at the worst of times, a bat can be a cocktail stick poking at the cherries as if drunk before being bounced out in an act of mercy.
• Sunglasses (a modern addition) to deflect the gloom of an English summer from sleepy eyes still in pyjamas (a modern addition) advertising the commercial influencers of cricket's future.
• As a fielder, you only need to wear the basic shirt, pants, socks and shoes, over the fundamentals of underwear, probably logoed and sponsored.

An underlying premise of fielding is the ability to dream. Imagining you might cradle a catch in the slips to delight your bowler; or pouching a square cut in the gully or on point duty; bagging a dolly off a skier after stretching a long leg to wait under a mistimed hook or pull. Or to swoop like swallow and shy at the castle to enact a glorious run out, or flip like a dying fish and make the catch of the day at silly point, silly mid-on or very silly short-leg. Or, on those cosmically cruel days a fielder might graze on lush grass, not feeding on any cherries from life's bowl, merely watching the Rosebud bloom from a distance, unsullied by the fielder's hand, completing a day's ruminating without registering in any scorebook or being remembered by one man and his dog, realising that even the dog's barking had nothing to do with you. At least days like this give a cricketer time to read and cogitate over an Albert Camus novel or two depending on their thickness. Where someone of a certain character can savour their role in folding the space time continuum by spending an hour at the crease scoring fiver runs in five tortured scoring strokes only to see another player of a dissimilar character score one more run in the blink of an eye with one weft of their hefty loom. The term 'different strokes for different folks' could not be better illustrated. Just as a clinician often wears white, a rude mechanical often wears (a modern addition) coloured overalls.

And so, the noiseless tenor of cricket's way ploughed over and the combined harvest of money boils the colours and turns the ball into a pigeon pellet, shrinking the eloquent attire of the funny old game.

Today, stumps light up and the old heart dims, and faulty jacuzzis can stop play. The numbers spin like a one armed bandit, spinning and crunching whilst the narrative of cricket is gradually silenced, outspoken, drowned out by brash loudmouthed chattering big cash.

Some say, quietly, out of earshot of any listening device, and with a real tinge of sadness, that might lead to lachrymose sepiage, that modern scorebooks have a double-entry system and that coins tossed are too clean with their fixed win-loss monologue mindset.

Cricket is a myriad narratives reliving the escapades of colourful characters - even those recalled in B&W -who made pigments of themselves feasting on occasion, setting a banquet before audiences hungry for heroes. Audiences, aka crowds, that hang around like puddles under a seeping frieze-grey sky wishing for even an hour of Beckettian play, eager to see a rocket pinging off a helmet, with tingling hands remembering the very first sting of swallowing the little red pills that turned out to be anything other than they seamed.

Whether it was a missile hissing not so sweet nothings in an ear, or a whispering, beguiling siren song of a high looping googly, and grandiose poesy of a destructive Bosie bringing down a wild giant, or long, lonely sojourns in the longer grass waiting for a late cut, an edge or a leg glance so you could show off your prowess at throwing, knowing there's nowhere else in the wide world you would rather be.

These exhibitions of glorious absurdity might be to temporarily possess ashes, or indelibly establish a great name in the game, it may be merely to establish the title of cock-o-the-north, or to be the true champion county, but only when the attire and not the ball is white, you'll find an existential tussle you can scoop like ice-cream, number-crunch like wafer, causing your brain to freeze in wondrous absurdity.

At the home of the cobblers, where Samuel Barclay Beckett shuffled briefly, a single breath, for two consecutive years, in a worldful of obscure statistics and fictions fused with fact.

His brief contribution is noted in the cricketing Bible (Wisden) where records are studiously kept of exploits of dons who were taught lessons by their pupils; illustrating like Boz, the detailed episodes of how their uppity charges outscored them in practical tests; where coal miners could tap into another seam with the wind behind them, chasing ducks by throwing hot coals at the surface-dwellers, doing simple, twenty-two yard mathematics in taking away one or two from three to avoid further addition to the score; and where legends are made of the like of fiery Fred destroying castles to become the first of the three-hundred club, and his pal Brian moving at anything but a snail's pace understatedly and modestly devastating all and sundry; then there's Jack Hobbs, the leviathan of runs, and the Don - an honest giant of the game, defying the averages and becoming the father of all batsmen, striking fear into others without any semblance of malice towards opponents; and the West Indian threesome of WWW, connecting the world to cricket long before the world wide web was conceived.

The Old Masters mostly have only two lines of statistical dialogue in the cacophony of numbers, yet their voices have so much resonance and tremendous timbre in speaking to us of the essence of cricket.

The modern phalanxes of experts analysing to a pixelated degree somehow sully the essence of cricket. This revisionist cynicism - fuelled by mammon and a misguided neophilism - puts me in mind of a wonderful Spike Milligan poem of love and trust destroyed by crass ignorance:

            “Painful though it was,
                        I cut my last winter rose for her.
            She turned it inside out
                        to see who the manufacturer was.”
                                    (from Open Heart University, Spike Milligan)

 So, on that melancholic note I'll leave the ground to darkness and to tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow with an abiding memory of a classic Black&White, pre-streaming TV cricket moment: Colin Croft, playing for Lancashire in a Roses match, bowling in such an idiosyncratic,  efficaciously fearsome manner, removed the off-stump of the great GB; the middle stump of a future England international, and the leg stump of one of Yorkshire's greatest stalwarts, causing the stumps as well as the modest, hardy crowd to dance, all in the space of a few twilight overs.

Now, you could look up the event to find out what exactly happened, on record in bald statistics, and possibly prove my memory faulty and/or fanciful, but you could also let such a vital, vibrant, voluminous vision enter your mind, move across your synapses like sunshine shadows scudding over verdant fields: it's your choice but either way it will always be cricket. As the lad himself said:

"You must go on. I can't go on. I'll go on." (watching cricket) Samuel Beckett The Unnamable.

The Melón in His Arms. Up and Under of a Rugby World Cup

Who would have imagined, when William Webb Ellis picked up the ball and ran at Rugby school in 1823, that we would end up here. From 18th September, when England meet Fiji at Twickers to 31st October we are expecting a feast of International rugby like we have not witnessed before. What we won’t see is grown men rolling around the floor like they have just been shot, the inability of so called International players to pass the ball over 5 yards or hit the goal from 2 yards out. We won’t see managers haranguing the ref, and making excuses for a lack of entertainment when their team sets out to park the bus for 90 minutes. We won’t see players constantly trying to cheat, stealing yards at free kicks, calling for throw-ins that they have clearly kicked into touch and “time-wasting” by making three substitutions in time added on to hold onto a barely deserved lead. This isn’t Football, Ladies and Gentlemen welcome to the Rugby World Cup. It’s fitting that such an event should be played in the home of Rugby. As is the case with other sports the Brits “invented” we are no longer its primary exponent. Though, unlike Football and Cricket, there are high expectations that the England side reach the Semi-Finals at least, which for us is a major achievement in an International Competition. It beggars belief that we actually have 20 Countries able to field a team capable of competing in such a spectacle (though in reality some of them will undoubtedly struggle to stem the tide against the “big” teams). I know Rugby is strong in Galicia and in Pontevedra particularly. Is there a Spanish National team – or Galician? How close were they to making the World Cup? Rugby is a game where it seems to be much more difficult for sides judged as “minnows” to upset the big boys but here’s hoping for the odd surprise or two along the way.

I grew up playing rugby (and football and cricket) at Middlesbrough High School and gravitated to Middlesbrough Rugby Club who at the time ran 7 Senior and 2 Junior Teams. The first team included England Internationals Alan Old, Rob Andrew and Rory Underwood at different times and the standard was very high. I played “social rugby” usually around the 5th or 6th team, enduring many a Saturday afternoon game in all weathers (I remember playing on a pitch that was a sheet of ice) up and down the North East, in every Pit Village from Boro to Berwick.. All for the pleasure of a pie and pea supper and a night on the beer. As a fully paid up member of the front row union – I played Hooker- the constant pressure in the scrum meant it usually took until the Friday after the game before I could move my head only for it to happen all over again the following Saturday. My love of the games social aspect meant that I continued to play on much longer than I intended as it was a major commitment – training twice a week and every Saturday taken up from August to May, which meant I couldn’t watch much soccer during that time – night matches were a rarity – though we could see the ball in the air from Ayresome Park when we played our home games at Acklam Park.

Why did I continue to play a game that is so physical? I remember playing next to soccer pitches and being embarrassed by the behaviour of the footballer’s, with much swearing and arguing every time the ball went off the pitch along with a constant barrage of abuse aimed at the referee, the opposition or team mates. In rugby the word of the ref was and still is law. Any dissent was quickly punished by a 5 yard penalty and your own team would tell you to keep it shut. I also liked the way teams would applaud each other off the pitch even when they had spent the game trying to tear your head off. You know what they say: Rugby is a game for thugs played by gentlemen and football is a game for gentlemen played by thugs.

The game has changed a lot from my time. The players all seem to be beefed up behemoths – even the scrum halves – the jockeys of the Rugby world. The rule changes have also made it much more difficult for teams to turn the ball over. The scrum seems to be becoming more and more redundant. How many times to you see a strike against the head? Despite this it’s still a game I love and watch when I can. The “Six Nations” is a major part of the sporting year and we often spend all day in the Lord Byron pub on a rugby weekend. The banter is great especially as I have a Scottish friend who takes great pleasure in England’s every miss-step. Funny that.

The rugby field is still a place to relive old National grudges. Games make the spectator revisit clashes of the past – the Scots can’t get past Bannockburn when they sing “Flower of Scotland.” You had your chance for independence and you blew it, get over it lads. And the Welsh and the frankly ludicrous, but admittedly rousing “Sospan Fach” or little saucepan!?!. Plus we get the ‘Oirish singing the decidedly Republican “Soldiers Song” even though the team is picked from Northern Ireland too. Don’t expect many of the Ulster lads to be singing along. Then there is the legendary Hakka, don’t you point that tongue at me mate, and the Aussie anthem erm “Australia forever” or something. You can’t expect anything lyrical from a bunch of convicts. I recall during the last World Cup watching Russia play Georgia in a boozer in London (I was in the boozer, they weren’t actually playing the game in the lounge of the Porcupine Inn you understand). There were only a couple of people watching but one chap, obviously a Russian, was singing away until a couple of very large lads, who turned out to be Georgian and could have easily made their front row, came in. Things went rapidly downhill from there as National boundaries’ were drawn and insults traded. it wasn’t long before the Police were called to separate the two factions. Despite the rampant Nationalism on display I’m looking forward to passionate renditions of National Anthem of Namibia, though hearing the “Star Spangled Banner” still seems just wrong on a rugby field (or anywhere come to think of it).

To help the uninitiated I’ll provide a brief run down of the combatants.

Pool A

England – We can only dream. Have beaten Wales, Australia and New Zealand in the past few years so a good side but will the expectations of a Nation prove too much? Will we regret leaving out Cipriani? Swing Low Sweet Chariot etc etc.
Wales – An excellent team who on their day can beat anyone but they always struggle against the Aussies and England beat them last time out so may just fall short. I expect the Porcos will be rooting for these Celts…
Australia – One of the favourites, strong in all areas, with a real big game temperament. Will only really fear the All Blacks who I hope kick their collective arses.
Fiji – Expect the usual mix of flair and brutality in equal measure but a team in decline. Will provide some great moments but no shocks.
Uruguay – Semi-pros find themselves in the Group of Death with 3 of the world’s top 6 ranked teams. Could be a humbling experience.

Pool B

South Africa – Another one of the favourites. Success built on their always powerful pack but due to meet New Zealand in semis so it could all end there.
Scotland – Performed poorly in 6 Nations though there were signs of moving to a more attacking game. In a weak group there will be some success but not enough.
Japan – Excellent record against the weaker opposition but cannot make the step up to match the big boys.
Samoa – They will be committed and dangerous. Have the ability to provide an upset against Scots or Japan.
USA – Sorry this is just wrong! A team in decline they will finish bottom of this group. Stick to rounders lads.


Pool C

New Zealand – The overwhelming favourites. I just can’t see anyone beating this lot and some of the teams in this group could be in for a major mauling. I suspect we’ll be seeing the Hakka at Twickenham come the end of October.
Argentina – Another team who sporadically threaten to get into the big league then fail to progress. Strong pack and always have a good kicker they should finish second in the group but that’s it.
Tonga – Ageing and inconsistent they will struggle to make any real impact in the competition.
Georgia – Like a team of lumberjacks these lads are very powerful in the set piece but have little to offer in the flair department. Rugby as it was played in the Dark Ages but strangely compelling.
Namibia – The lowest ranked side in the competition. They will be lucky to get out of their own 25 most games so expect a few cricket scores against them.

Pool D

Ireland - Another team who on their day could beat the best. They will be well prepared and dangerous in all areas but capable of the odd slip-up so they will ultimately miss out.
France – What’s happened to French rugby? Nowadays they seem to have little of the legendary Gallic flair that could destroy teams in an instant. Though there are always brief flashes of brilliance they just can’t sustain it. Wide open for an upset and not make it out of this group.
Italy – The Auzzuri have gone backwards in the past year or two despite trying to move away from their previously forward dominated tactics. Lack of a consistent goal kicker will always haunt them. Could fall to one of the minnows.
Canada – Another team in terminal decline. They’ll be hammered more times than a Porcos in the Toon. Expect them to finish bottom of this group.
Romania – A decent side that could cause a few flutters before ultimately bowing out.

So enjoy the spectacle boys and girls. There will be a few beers supped during this marathon I suspect. Let battle commence and the best team win – as long as it’s not Australia.

PINCELADAS DOUTROS DEPORTES: A BILLARDA

Mentiras dun ácrata con noite libre; non normativo; constructivista.

                      “...Quén? Quén de nós? Quén de nós non?
               “Galiza é unha nai, velliña, soñadora...”

“Nese tempo divertínme, nas
                                                                        tascas, antre mariñeiros, e

                                                                        fagendo, ás veces, copras

                                                     de rexoubeo”

No blog das metáforas de dor de barriga e da prosa restalante, sinxelo escrito a golpes de barra de bar e trasteo eternáutico, coma todo o de Blackemperor. Breve introducción á Billarda, para veciños de alén mar, dificultade media.

Definido:
Ensoño de liberdade; en pontevedra: O Lipe. Un único pensamento na cachola:
“non haberá leira grande abondo”.
Metáfora do comportamento dos porcos bravos, nun xogo de dous paus e unha besta  de carga.
Para entendernos, un criquet de agro e fouciño.

Situación.
Galicia, adro da igrexa. Campo cheo de paus afiados e ledicia no balbordo.
Balbordo de xuntanza da comuna, na parroquia que deixou unha roma pagá.
Á tardiña, pois, a xente, no adro, que se xunta a falar ben e facer voar a Billarda, debuxa un cadrado no chan.

Golpes.
Dentro do cadrado, cun pau longo, o palán, golpea o pau pequeno, a billarda.
Forzas hai dabondo, mais sabiamos dende nenos que se o boi e forte, vai enxugado toda a vida.
Dotados do palán como brazo extenso non é forza o preciso pra coitar ben lonxe, é retranca a que voa o pau.
Meus amigos de alenmar, -pois a vós e a ninguén máis vai dirixido este escrito- sabede, para protexervos nestas terras, qué outras formas adopta a retranca: ás veces ven con pau pero sen billarda, as máis é xogo e pinchacarneiro.

Parábolas e coordenadas.
A billarda voa e cae. Preparado no cadrado illado, cachola, illa, e billarda colgada do ar, golpe e vóo. Fumos tras da billarda -os galegos-, non nos gustou o que miramos, pensamos que quedaramos no cadrado, voltamos, pero alí xa non estabamos, ai dos millóns atrapados no vértice!, como se Philip K. Dick escribira como ser galego.

Golpeamos -os porcos bravos antergos-. Pronto; a forza xusta; a retranca voadora... e sacamos a billarda do adro xogando cos paxaros, e fixemos comunidade, unimos terras, botamos marcos abaixo, bébedos da gloria da derrota. Bébedos ignoramo-lo vértice, a vertixe; como tolos sacamos punta ás billardas e lanzamos en todas direccións, escachamos o espello tras de nós. Estes, e non outros, son os galegos cos que estades a tratar, ainda lucidos para fuxir de Itacas e buscar sereas orfas na tormenta. Bestas con compás axustado na ponte, e sen medo, porque tamén hai galegos así, podédesme creer.

A besta -soña-
Máquina de sacar cartiños da terra que, escollendo medir o mundo golpe a golpe, fixo voar a billarda. Máis alá, onde a besta quer, cae.  E tras dela vai a besta que soña, e a besta volta golpear.

Bestas que escollemos a mesma corte e comemos da mesma pía!, porcos!:corramos tras da billarda máis alá; deixando o luscofusco as nosas costas xa xuntamos terras cun rego no medio pra ser ben.

E entón, así, veciños de alén mar, o lipe e un xogo, unha irmandade pública, un desafio ó silencio, a billarda e un arma en tempo de paz, un xogo pra demostrar afouteza, a billarda une co seu vóo as nosas leiras nunha soa. Sigamos sempre a billarda, non miremos cara atrás e caídos xa os marcos plantemos patacas a fartar.

Pontevedra, 22 de Febreiro, 07:22

Pinceladas doutros deportes: Rugby

Nas primeiras "reunións" da Anglogalician Cup (AGC) unha das ideas foi a extensión da nosa competición a outros deportes. O deporte que todos tiñamos na cachola non pode ser outro que o rei dos deportes de equipo, o RUGBY; os nosos lector@s poden comprobar leendo os ultimos comentarios dos nosos compañeiros Stags, a sua querencia por outro deporte que aos ollos dun lego na materia pode parecer cando menos "curioso" e de seguro incomprensible o CRICKET, I hope
our friend Thomo explain us what in hell means CRICKET and how can we understand this estrange game. Pois iso, que Thomo falaranos seguro de cricket, eu vouvos dar unhas nocións de rugby; e así, con este primeiro paso, cecais, algún día a teñamos unha copa para cada deporte.

Conceptos xerais: quince xogadores por equipo, deles oito son dianteiros, os que forman as famosas meles. O balón ten que pasarse sempre cara atras coa man e pode ser pateado cara diante. O equipo que ataca debe avanzar ata posar o oval na línea tras dos paus; o equipo que defende ten que parar os atacantes "placando" dende os pes aos hombreiros. Estas son as máis importantes, ainda que como veredes neste video hai moitas mais.

Se agora xa estades emocionados falemos do que e de verdade o rugby: o rugby e a paixón e a loita, o rugby e o respeto ó rival e a honra de atoparse o lado de 14 mais e enfronte doutros 15 que van loitar ata que non nos queden azos.

O rugby naceu na cidade de Rugby, alí peregrinaron xa os porcos bravos a presentar os seus respetos ó señor William Webb Ellis que, en 1823, sendo o seu equipo incapaz de conseguir un tanto naquel deporte que era o football, colleu o balón nas mans, e botou a correr cara diante esquivando e derrubando ata anotar un gol nulo. Mente preclara, intelixencia única, o gol nulo mais importante da historia e exemplo para todos do pensamento transversal: "teño que chegar co meu balón ao outro lado do campo, hai un grupo de tios que non me deixan pasar, cal e a solucion mais intelixente? darlle patadiñas e que non me fagan falta, ou coller o balón e avanzar?" Que os porcos bravos teñan moi presente o espirito de W.W. Ellis.

Moitos coñeceredes o rugby pola selección de Novazelandia, que se fixo moi popular nos noventa, pola sua estrela Jonah Lomu e a sua Haka. Habería moitas cousas que contar do rugby: ata os ano 80 o rugby foi amateur, as seleccións nutrianse de xogadores que non tiveran contratos profesionais de rugby league, o carpinteiro, o carniceiro, o carteiro; aqueles barbarians do ano 73, feitos de orgullo de mineiros galeses que crearon o ensaio mais belo da historia, o seu lema : "O Rugby e un deporte que poden xogar homes de todas clases, pero non estan admitidos os malos deportistas de ningunha clase".Hai que contar que é no único deporte onde Irlanda xoga unida, norte e sur, hai que dicir que temos a competición mais antiga do mundo, o actual seis nacións; e non olvidemos que do rugby sae xente como Homar Hasan, que colgou as botas tras do Mundial para atender o seu contrato no Covent Garden; e con todo isto as comparacións co futbol e os seus xogadores son odiosas, violencia, insultos os arbitros, millonarios que non poden nin subordinar unha frase( na cabeza o "Si,bueno,no..." de Raul).

Permitide que vos conte, para rematar, que estiven en 2007 no mundial, en Cardiff, nun partido Gales-Australia; corentamil almas, cervexa nos bares do estadio, nin un so policia, aficións mezcladas; cando saimos, as ruas o redor do estadio pechadas o tráfico e 40.000 persoas cantando, bebendo e paseando, unha rua de catro carrís e, de supeto, escoitase unha patada e un balón oval sube polo aire ata vinte metros de altura e cara o noso lado, un home mira o balón e o colle no aire, mira aos lados e posuido polo espirito de W.W.Ellis corre cara diante, a cinco metros un dos que ven de frente lanzase contra el, atrapao pola cintura e o fai caer, o meu lado a xente comeza a correr pasan por riba dos xogadores no chan e outro home saca o balón e o pasa. Tiñamos montado un partido de rugby de duascentas persoas. Non sei se hai mais deportes no que esto ocorra.

Se podedes pasar por Pontevedra, non deixedes de ver xogar a Escola de Rugby de Pontevedra, onde xogan tres futuros membros dos porcos bravos e algun mais cando teña a idade, e onde se forma o futuro do Rugby galego. E se tes fill@s a partir dos 7 anos ¿a que esperas para apuntalos?

E para rematar, xa que estamos poñendo videos a porrillo, e como a quinta provincia fai unha publicidade estupenda, aqui vos deixo un percorrido por xogadores de todalas epocas do rugby arxentino aprendede dos vellos, e porque non hai razón para xoga-lo rugby.

A miña intención co artigo, que pasedes de ser uns "futboleros" e vos fagades algo mellores.

Como regalo deixovos himnos variados:
Inglaterra vs Irlanda por primeira vez na historia en Croke Park templo do deporte irlandes e simbolo de loita, escoitade como cantan baixiño os ingleses que recibiron unhas clases de respeto ó que significa Croke Park, os irlandeses cantan dous himnos, como podedes aprender aquí.
Escocia para min o mais bonito.
Francia e non me podo resistir a por un con traducción, que maravilloso himno revolucionario, o que mais me gusta de Francia xunto con Baribal a revolución francesa e a Comuna de Paris. Que momento da historia do cine o himno en Casablanca.
Gales o himno dos que voltan a casa para escoitar a poesia dos seus bardos, tedes que pasar o minuto 2.23.
E, xa que estamos, e como concesión aos futboleiros e como sei que a algun porco bravo vaille gustar (cecais non a todos que non se pode contentar a todo o mundo) Himno galego en Balaidos.