Thursday 24 May 2012

The dying of the light


"People don't even know what to do with their Saturday afternoon's, what do I want with eternity?" - Tim Minchin, Desert Island Discs, BBC Radio 4

The above quote, which I heard just this week, alludes to a beautifully simple truth - one of the greatest joys of life is that it is finite.

It's a concept probably long bubbling under in my subconscious but that statement, plus the recent triumph of my favourite football team, have led to an acute focusing of the mind.

The theme of Chelsea's successful European Cup run has undoubtedly been one of resilience. The last 8 years have been the most glorious in the club's history but the most desired and prestigious trophy had remained elusive. The players who defined that period found themselves reaching the last chapter of their professional playing careers without the one particular honour they had expected to be by their names.

Only when the end was nigh, and in full realisation of their final opportunity to claim the prize, did this ageing and somewhat inferior team achieve its greatest ambition.


No player embodied this sentiment more than Didier Drogba. At 34, unable to sustain his past form on a weekly basis and no longer a first team regular, he made it his personal mission to take Chelsea to the next level. For each decisive cup tie in the latter stages of the season, he was able to reach new, unimaginable heights.

His goal in the Semi-Final of the FA Cup against Tottenham is one of the greatest individual goals I've ever seen from a Chelsea player - raw talent, of course, but also unmatched strength, determination and self-belief.

This was followed by the winning strike in the Final of the same competition, another crucial goal against Barcelona in the 1st leg of the Champions League Semi-Final and then, most memorably, in the Champions League Final, a thunderous equalising header with 2 mins remaining of normal time.

It was only fitting that his would be the decisive penalty in the shoot-out that followed. Confidently placed and with the shortest of run ups, in his words, he already 'knew' Chelsea had won prior to the kick. Bravado? Perhaps, but so decisive had he already been up to that point, that it rather suggests an unremitting self-belief had simply quashed the stupendous pressure of the situation.

"We knew from the start that the end was in sight" - Leave It When You Love, Tokyo Beatbox

Of course, but for circumstance and a little bad luck, Chelsea may have claimed the competition years before, yet it's difficult to believe that the coming end of an era didn't bring with it a clarity of purpose that unified and galvanised an otherwise disparate group of under performing individuals.

For the fan too the victory is somehow all the sweeter for knowing that this extended period of glory is most likely coming to an end. Chelsea won't be winning it again any time soon, nor are they likely to challenge for the league in the short term either, who knows if owner Abramovich, having plundered this bounty, won't seek out other unconquered arenas in which to dabble, taking his considerable financial backing with him?

Sport, as in life, is about grasping the moment. It is a trite cliché but when considered in the context of belief in the after life it suddenly seems like the one most logical and telling arrow to the heart of faith. Who in their right mind would desire an eternity?

In fact how liberating to be unequivocally certain of the end. A belief in forever only serves to invert an old adage - 'why do today, what you can put off 'til tomorrow?' Without the finality of death, would we ever achieve anything?

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light" - Dylan Thomas

Friday 11 May 2012

Jocky's Desert Island Discs: Disc 4 - Three Lions - Baddiel, Skinner and The Lightning Seeds

Few of my Desert Island Discs have been picked on artistic merit alone - although it's a major factor in why I love many of them - but 'Three Lions', a song designed to be hollered by largered up England fans, couldn't be further disassociated from the term.

Yet, pillorying 'Three Lions' for the leery, beery threat of English hooliganism, is not only unfair but misunderstands the fundamental charm of many perfectly harmless and humorous football chants that arise, often spontaneously, from the terraces.

'Three Lions' doesn't just channel that same community spirit but it is undoubtedly the best song ever written about the wider, self-deprecating phenomenon of football fandom.

It captures perfectly the perennial disappointment of the football supporter; the tragic pathos of having to cling to a few precious moments from history; the everlasting hope that keeps supporters returning for more, even when the odds of success are weighted heavily against them.

I was 14 years old when football 'came home' for Euro 96, old enough to be aware of the long wait for success endured by my elders but, crucially, still young enough not to be worn down by the repeated experience of major tournament heartbreak (England didn't qualify for the World Cup in '94 and I was but 10 at the time of England's unedifying exit in the group stages of Euro 92).

Naive enough too, to be swept up happily in the national pride of hosting such an event, without a conscience pricked by the historic misappropriation of the St George's Cross nor the xenophobic imperialism looming in the subtext of the press coverage at the time.

The English Premier League too was still in its infancy. Although players were no more role models then than  now - the squad being heavily criticised for their debauchery on a pre-tournament tour to the far east - fans could still relate to most of the individuals on the pitch, who maintained an everyman status now eroded by the obscene wages and inherent air of entitlement today's stars exhibit (In a way, Gazza's dentist chair shenanigans only served to embellish that everyman sentiment. At least the team were getting drunk in the spirit of togetherness rather than sleeping with their team mates wives!)

'Three Lions' then, doesn't only represent the euphoria of that summer - Gazza's wonder goal against Scotland, the 5-1 victory over the Dutch masters or even, that rarest of experiences, a penalty shoot out victory - but also represents the last time I was unapologetically proud of England as a nation.

As with Des Lynam's perfectly judged avuncularity and Stuart Pearce's moment of emancipation, Baddiel, Skinner and the Lightning Seeds captured the zeitgeist, soundtracking a golden moment of youthful certainty and exuberance that I'll never experience again. Like me, the England football team - and the nation it represents - were never really the same again.