The International Olympic Committee are a Bunch of Idiots

I can’t believe what a bunch of numpties the International Olympic Committee are. They are, allegedly, the most esteemed leaders of sporting endeavour the world over. Former athletes, coaches and sporting mentors gathered together representing all that is good in the sporting world. That was until 2002 when they awarded the games to China’s best loved and most polluted city Beijing. Now, as we are a few short months out from the games the protests have started, and the IOC and China are crying foul…

Let’s first look at what the Olympics stand for. I did a bit of a search on the interweb and discovered this most interesting of facts on Olympics.org – their own website. Below is a quote copied directly from said webpage – it is part of their own charter.

Olympism seeks to create a way of life based on the joy found in effort, the educational value of good example and respect for universal fundamental ethical principles.

So, can someone please tell me, when the games were given to China were those old men at the IOC asleep in their luxury chairs – chairs that were probably gifted to each member by the Chinese delegation – did they decide that China’s gross abuses of human rights to it’s own people and the illegal occupation of Tibet equaled (and I quote) “respect for universal fundamental ethical principles?”

China have been the boss of Tibet for between 60 and 700 years, depending on who you believe. China says Tibet has been a territory since the 14th century – Tibet says it hasn’t. Tibet suggests it was, in fact, an independent nation between 1913 and the Communist invasion of 1949 or thereabouts. It doesn’t matter who is right or wrong in this scenario, what is clear is that it is very easy for a massive superpower, such as China, and, more recently, the United States of America, to unilaterally invade a smaller nation, such as Tibet, or Iraq. Invading Tibet must have been sooooo hard for the Chinese back in 1949. Bhuddists the world over are well known for their violent, bloody outbursts and ferociously brutal resistance when faced with situations of this nature. What is also clear is that the international community has been sadly lacking in their condemnation of this, and other, occupations.

Whoopdepoop, I hear you say. What has this got to do with the Olympics? Let me draw your attention to the Berlin games of 1936. Mr A. Hitler, leader of the Nazi regime, used these games as a platform for their message of hate. Thankfully a ridiculously fast Jesse Owens was able to gazzump Hitler by winning 4 gold medals and outpacing even the fastest Arian.

If the International Olympic Committee thought that China was going to consign their javelin of oppression to the javelin container of history because they were awarded the 2008 games then they are, as I have previously mentioned, a bunch of numpties. China was only ever going to use it to promote their own prowess as an international sporting, and thus, world superpower. It happened back in the days of East vs. West when everyone looked on in horror as 14yo East German female gymnasts took out gold after gold after gold thanks to strict training regimes and testicular-based strength. Being atop the medal table at the end of the games is the only reason you turn up. The country that ends up there is the best in the world. At everything.

I was watching breakfast television this morning, not really known for it’s ability to get down and dirty with the more controversial of topics. A featured guest was the head of the Australian Olympic Committee who suggested that the games should be free of political statement. He said those people protesting the Chinese occupation of Tibet at the Olympic torch lighting ceremony in Greece shouldn’t have. He said now just wasn’t the right time. What a dick! Any protester worth anything knows in the current world of a mass globalised media, the best time to mount any kind of protest and provide the world a glimpse of your point, is when thousands of journalists and cameramen are right in front of you. You don’t wait until they go home to wave your Tibetan flag. You wave it while they are there.

These days more journalists than athletes turn up to an Olympic Games. This year’s games was already a political statement long before any Free Tibet protester began making their point. If you want to condemn a Tibetan for wanting a free homeland, you might as well give up on democracy and adopt whatever system they are using in the United States (Free and fair elections? My arse. The person with the most money wins, they always do. And another thing: the US were so keen to invade Iraq when Saddam invaded Kuwait, why don’t they invade China in retaliation for their invasion of Tibet?).

I don’t believe I will be watching the Olympics this year. And good luck to the athletes trying to slice their way through the carbon-based air of Beijing. Although I wouldn’t put it past the Chinese authorities to ban the use of motor vehicles and coal-fired power stations in the coming months in an effort to clean up the air.

Good luck Tibet. May you become your own country very, very soon.

Boon x

Age Has Conquered My Knees

Salutations to you all…

It is with a weary heart and tired thighs that I write these words. My age has crept up on me. I know this for a fact and I will include several examples of why this is so over the next 40,000 well constructed and correct gramatically paragraphs.

Firstly: The other day I began talking about my 40th birthday. Due to the fact there are a group of us who will be turning 40 around about the same time we started discussing the merits of holding some kind of combined party. Ok, fair enough. You would probably save money on venue hire. That is a sensible option for more mature types.

Secondly: Every time I crouch down to pick something up my knees crack like a pair of over-excited starter’s pistols. One goes, quickly followed my the other. It’s like a false start at the olympics but without the endemic steroid abuse.

Thirdly: I’ve begun sounding and acting like my dad. I seem to be constantly grappling with waves of uncontrollable stubbornness. I now have a couple of sayings that make absolutely no sense, yet I tend to say them anyway. Repeatedly. I sometimes tell the same story three times in one conversation. Back in my day kids never sounded like their fathers.

Despite these knee and parental issues, age is helping me to enjoy myself more.

I’m now far less concerned about what people think of me. I remember in my teens and 20s, it seemed that was all I did was think about what people were thinking about me. I look back on those years of self doubt now and laugh. The older and wiser me doesn’t care what that person over there thinks of the way I eat a peanut, or what that person on the other side thinks about the kind of beer I’m drinking. I sometimes feel like yelling from the rooftops, “I don’t care what you think! I am my own man!! You can’t make me do or think anything!!!” I don’t, of course. What would people think?

It is also pleasing to know that, being a male, and having gone to an all boys secondary school for some three years, I am still made to giggle by someone breaking wind. I am still tittilated by a joke or comment regarding a person or persons toileting habits. So confident am I that others share my fascination with this type of jocularity, I have tagged this page with the terms: bum, poo, wee, and lesbian, in order that I might increase my blog stats 10-fold. My body may have graduated primary school in the early 80s, but my mind didn’t (I promise to have stats to prove my hypothesis in the coming week).

Age need not cause you to become maudline. Embrace it. Feel free to express yourself – just watch the knees and other such joints in time of activity.

Enjoy the rest of your evening.

Boon x

Sports Teams of New Zealand

Greetings and hello-type salutations to you all.

Last time I went on about the Black Caps; the time before the All Blacks. This time I will go further…

There is a definite theme running through the nicknames of the various sporting teams that represent this great land on the international sporting stage. There is a desperate need in most sporting bodies to try and cash in on the All Blacks cow. The thinking is: if the team’s name sounds something like the All Blacks, people will watch.

It all began many years ago… New Zealand, through some kind of international sporting fluke, qualified to play in their one and only football world cup – Spain, 1982. New Zealand had played qualifying matches not in the usual national colours of black with white bits, but in an all white strip. Most of their matches were played in extreme heat against Pacific Island nations and Asian nations. I believe they may have also played a match against Israel, who were not as welcome in their neck of the woods as you might think. They ended up playing in the Asian league. A bizarre choice made by FIFA – there are plenty of Muslim nations in southern and eastern Asia…

Anyway, the white strip with black numbers, and the fact that a national side was winning quite a few matches, led to a bit of support being thrust their way and lo and behold, a nickname was born… The All Whites – a nice and simple play on the All Blacks. It was a wonderful world cup for the All Whites. 2 goals for, 12 against. The two we did score put Scotland out of the cup.

The national netball side, the Silver Ferns, need to be mentioned here. Not because they play a minority sport – far from it. More people play netball in New Zealand than rugby – mind you, it has a long way to catch up to gardening as the top leisure activity. They have been called the Silver Ferns for a long time, and their nickname has been cut up and thrust into the melting pot also.

At some point in the late 1980s or the early 1990s the serious money started to flow into New Zealand sports. Some of the country’s largest companies began throwing all sorts of riches around – figures in the hundreds of dollars were regularly mentioned. Of course, once the money starts flowing then the bean counters start counting. Returns on investments have to be made. Profiles have to be increased. The public have to be able to identify with the players and the team as blokes or blokesses who could be their neighbour or dairy owner or taxi driver. Someone to cherish and support. Once this thinking began, then what started out as a slow trickle of crappy nicknames turned into a nomenclature tsunami.

So now we have the Tall Blacks (men’s basketball), the Tall Ferns (women’s basketball), the Black Ferns (women’s rugby), the Black Caps (men’s cricket), the White Ferns (women’s cricket), the Football Ferns (women’s soccer), the All Whites (men’s soccer), the Wheel Blacks (wheelchair rugby), the Black Socks (men’s softball), the Ironblacks (men’s gridiron – American football), the Ice Blacks (men’s ice hockey) and the Ice Fernz (women’s ice hockey). I didn’t realise there were people in this country that played those last three sports. The rule seems to be: men’s teams have to contain black, womens need to have ferns in there somewhere.

The winner of the stupidest use of Black or Fern in their name has to go to the New Zealand men’s badminton team. Their national body decided on rebranding the team one year recently and started releasing press statements which talked about the strong performance of the Black Cocks. After the laughter had died down they decided against this most turgid of monikers. And quite rightly. I shudder to imagine what the women’s team would have been called… (comments readily accepted thank you).

The New Zealand rugby league team has it made. They have always been called The Kiwis. That says it all.

I know I’ve been talking sport a lot recently… I promise to include other thinks in this column in the coming weeks…

Word

Boon x

Black Craps (oh how they are soooooo crap)

And so the torture begins again…

We now live in an marvelous age when the rugby season merges into the cricket season. They can play cricket on Eden Park the same week of a Super 14 match (the Super 14 is like a rugby version of the English premiership football championship, but without the hooligans or flamboyant, one-name, showponies who drop to the grass at the thought an opposing player may brush their shin lightly with a wayward ankle).

To all our Northern Hemisphere counterparts who perhaps think cricket is a small chirpy insect with a tendency to bounce tall bushes in a single hop, I am talking about the game. I say it’s a game because you can’t really call cricket a sport because when one is “playing”, one tends to spend most of one’s time waiting around for something to happen. Like a wicket, a run, or that most cricketing of intervals – the tea break. Indeed, they stop the game to have afternoon tea. Good plan that. So knackered after an afternoon standing around waiting for nothing to happen. Better have a sit down and a cuppa.

The same can be said for watching the game – although even more so. You can wait and wait and wait and wait and wait. Then you bend down to pick a toenail or scratch yourself and the moment is gone. Thankfully if you are watching the game you have the benefit of an action replay to help you come to grips with what you missed. If you are playing and you miss something, you might have to wait for a match report, or wipe the blood from your shattered nose.

For a gentle game such as cricket, there are an awful number of ways one can be severely injured. Being hit in the conkers is one (either by a ball, or someone wafting a bat). Smashed in the face by a ball even. I heard that an Indian player tripped over whilst running and was impaled on an upturned stump. Thankfully, however, most of the time cricket is a walk in the park – or rather, a stand in the park. Thanks to long periods of inactivity back when I was playing, my nose was consistently free of any mucusy build-up whatsoever.

Unlike the New Zealand rugby team (a featured extra during my last column) who are consistently winners (except at those important occasions when it counts), the New Zealand cricket team are inconsistent winners – some might dub them perennial losers. There was a brief moment of glory in the early to mid-1980s when the likes of Sir Richard “Paddles” Hadlee, Lance “Master Blaster” Cairns and Geoffrey “Gin” Howarth were the mainstay of our team. I remember several of my teen summers spent on the couch watching as we thrashed the likes of Sri Lanka who were then dubbed ‘minnows’ – today’s Scotland. The New Zealand team would turn up with all these fantastic players and beat all sorts of great teams, including Australia, who were the laughing stock of the cricketing world. Greg Matthews and David Hooks were no match for our thundery might. Hadlee would thunder into bowl off 6 paces at the start of the game. The crowd would be banging their cast-iron Double Brown cans together and chanting, and every so often there would be a wicket off the first ball. Fantastiko!!

Those were the halceon years of New Zealand cricket. Years when you could spend days in front of the box waiting for that split-second moment of excitement. Back in the day when the unbiased commentary of Dunedin in-pat Billy (coach of Geoff Howarth) Ibudulla rang true from the booth. Picture Geoff Howarth walking out to bat in one test; “Oh I think that Geoff Howarth is looking very good,” Geoff Howarth continues to stroll amongst the sunshine of the day looking slightly bemused possibly due to the Seagar’s – but, according to the strict libel laws of this country, perhaps not. “I predict,” continues Billy, “that Geoff Howarth will be in for a big, big score today.” Geoff Howarth hits the crease, ready to face the first delivery, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes out today there and knocks up a ton.” Geoff Howarth eventually out for a skillfully and masterfully acquired 3. The commentary arse-lick session was made all the more hilarious by Mr. Ibudulla’s thick Otago accent.

As I watch the New Zealand cricket team at this time of my life the buzz has gone. No longer are we called New Zealand, or the Kiwis. We are now known as the Black C(r)aps. A team full of great names? When you look at the Fultons, the Marshalls and the Cummings of this world, as you watch them on the pitch giving it their all for the country, you can’t help thinking to yourself, “you know…. I would rather have my john thomas and jatz crackers pinched in an unfortunate bicycling accident than watch this abortion.” I remember when I first heard the term underwhelming – it was used to describe the Black Caps. Those good old Black Caps – useless ’til the bitter end.

We’ll see at the end of the summer how things go. I’m picking shite. But at least we’re playing Bangladesh this year… and England. So there might be the odd win peppered in amongst the failures.

Bring on the rugby season.

Boon x

PS: having said all that they’re not doing too badly against the Saffies overnight…

In addition to my previous PS, the mighty Black Craps have capitulated to a record loss in South Africa. What a bunch of losers.

I knew it. I just knew it.

As the dust settles on yet another All Black failure I can’t help thinking back to about June-time. I watched them flap and flounder against the Australians or something and I thought, “Goodness (not my exact words), these chaps could be rubbish at the world cup also.”

My suspicions have been proved all too correct.

Foreigners who watch Association Football – Soccer – and the Chinese and Indians will be wondering whether this is actually a waste of a first ever blog. How can you write about the Rugby World Cup after 2 solid weeks of small minded town New Zealand harping on about the ref, the cheating French, the cheating ref, the blind linesmen, the cheating French ref, and the cheating ref. Surly they’ve had their say and let that be that for another 4 years. I wanted to say I knew it (or maybe I told you so).

I knew it. I just knew it. They never looked like they were going to win. The NZ Rugby Union spent nearly $NZ50 million (that’s $US7 or £3.50; we rate quite highly against the Thai Baht though) trying to win this world cup. They could’ve given me the money to piss up a flag pole on booze and sugary treats and it would have been better spent. They sent the ABs to the world cup flying first class – put them at the back of the plane with the rest of the normals. Better still, throw them in a crate and ship them DHL. Cheaper. More money to fix up the after-match damage at Heathrow.

The next world cup in 2011 is in good old New Zealand. We should win that one shouldn’t we? Hometown advantage and all. I can see the Radio Sport listeners salivating with their hands down their trousers as they think about the joys of a Clash of the Minnows between Bulgaria and Uruguay at Rugby Park in Gisborne. You know that there will be more money. No first class flights needed for the ABs – they’ll all stay in the Hilton in Auckland. Dougie won’t be playing over here then either, so the Beemers’ll be safe.

But will we win it? Will we ever win it?

Who knows. We haven’t won since 1987. 20 whole years ago. The New Zealand public, and this includes the so-called experts, who consistently (over?)rate the All Blacks far above any other team in the world, will be desiring the home win as their right. We’re assuming at this point that Eden Park and the Rugby Union can come to some kind of agreement over the doing up of New Zealand’s premier rugby ground. The new Auckland mayor says he’s not going to pay. Fair enough. Councils should be paying for things like taking my rubbish and recycling away and filling in that pothole that’s claimed my ankle once or twice this year walking down to get the milk.

Anyway, back to the question. Will we win in 2011? I’d be more comfortable putting money on Hillary Clinton letting Bill show interns around the Oval Office if she gets the US presidency next year.

Boon x

• As a kind of a PS I should say something about the final played by Saffies and the Poms and won by our African neighbours. But I’m not going to…