By Stewart Weir
Saturday
If at any time on your travels you come across a pile of tattoos, there is a fair chance that underneath them all you will find a sportsman hiding.
Pain and the buzz of a Micky Bee machine is a mental and physical combination I can do without. Couple that to mediocre sporting ability (a specialist first-leg runner in the 4x100 relay and an unlucky spin bowler who never found a turning wicket) and you will therefore find no angels, Maori battle garb, flying eagles or pouncing big cats, crucifixes, weans' names in Chinese, Japanese or Cockneyese or pledges of love or allegiance here.
And I really take my hat off to those Olympians who have their rings done.
Donate to us: support independent, intelligent, in-depth Scottish journalism from just 3p a day
But in the world of sport these days, you just haven’t made it unless you’ve adorned your flesh with the odd pint of ink or three. Basketball star Dennis Rodman was the first I can remember taking body art to new extremes, way before David Beckham became a walking Tate Modern. These guys can literally carry it off, given the combination of their sporting prowess and their levels of fame, or infamy. They do what they say on the skin. Needless to say – or should that be needles to say? – I have a slightly different take on those guys playing in the Scottish Third Division and their need to decorate various parts of their anatomy. Just wait until you're 60 and your grandson asks: “Papa, what’s your Tasmanian Devil got to do with Alloa’s Clackmannanshire Cup win in 2008?” All of which and a bit more leads me nicely to the appearance of Scottish boxing world champion Ricky Burns at Braehead Arena and the latest defence of his WBO super-featherweight title. Burns defeated Ghanaian challenger Joseph Laryea, who retired at the end of the seventh round, supposedly with a broken knuckle – although the only way I could see that happening was if Burns had punched his hand as well. Burns looks a champion, in terms of both performance and tattoos – although I bet he doesn’t have the bottle to get his own knuckles tattooed in the fashion of one boxer I knew. Jealous of his brother’s "Love" and "Hate" combination, went out and got "Fish" and "Chip". Maybe it was Ubiquitous… If Saturday was profitable for Burns, in terms of Sky Sports covering his big night, then so too must it have been for Scots indie rockers The View. Their latest offering, Grace, has been used on Sky’s Soccer AM and as the wrap-up music on their World Cup cricket coverage and the boxing. Amazing! I just hope the royalties are as well. But judge for yourself. Sunday Another day of cup football north and south of the border. Over the weekend, there were glorious goals, as in David Goodwillie’s strike against Motherwell, further proving my point of a few weeks ago that it isn’t just Wayne Rooney who could do it. There were also glorious games, as in the contests between Brechin City and St Johnstone and the battle of the Scots bosses when Owen Coyle’s Bolton Wanderers got the better of Alex McLeish’s Birmingham City. Arguably the best action of the weekend, however, took place 12,000 miles away when the A-League Grand Final was contested between Brisbane Roar and Central Coast Mariners. This saw the Mariners lead 2–0 with just three minutes of extra-time left, before the Roar equalised then won on penalties to clinch the league and cup double. It was an amazing final. Actually, it wasn’t. It was an incredible period of extra-time and a nail-biting penalty shootout. Before then, the only thing memorable was the torrential rainstorm which emptied the 50,000 capacity Suncorp Stadium. Monday I remember Twickers trips of old when the Sunday journey home at least allowed half a chance to square yourself up before work on the Monday. But these Sunday matches are so inconsiderate. At least there was a morsel of comfort for those homeward bound that Scotland had put up a brave fight against the Auld Enemy, and it was only in the closing minutes that England used their superior numbers (in terms of having ten times the population to choose from) to good effect. That said, backs coach Gregor Townsend said in advance that Scotland – despite not having won in London since 1983 – had "the players and the tactics" to win at Twickenham. Do I hear cries for drug testing within the coaching set-up? Instead, Scotland will now face Italy in a bid to avoid the wooden spoon. Typical that the Italians will arrive off the back of their greatest-ever Six Nations victory, having beaten France 22–21. I watched that match avidly, not because of what the outcome might be, but because – like England–Scotland and the Calcutta Cup – the Euro duo have their own reward up for grabs, namely the Garibaldi Trophy. I was transfixed right to the end, desperate to see if said trophy was just a big biscuit. How good would that have been? And even better if it had been presented to the winning skipper by the school janitor, giving him a choice of that or a Digestive… Tuesday Less than 24 hours after it started, the digital clock in Trafalgar Square – counting down the 500 days to the start of the 2012 Olympics – stopped. "We are obviously very disappointed that the clock has suffered this technical issue," said a spokesman for the Swiss-based Swatch Group. "The Omega London 2012 countdown clock was developed by our experts and fully tested ahead of the launch.” I sincerely hope the official timing equipment for the Games works perfectly. Slightly embarrassing to declare Usain Bolt’s 100m winning time as “11 hours, 53 minutes and 27.28 seconds, we think…". Wednesday Sean Lourdes is Jonathan Watson’s die-hard Celtic-supporting character from Only An Excuse. Or should I say Sean Simpson Craig Gemmell Murdoch McNeill Clark Johnstone Wallace Chalmers Auld Lennox Substitute Fallon Lourdes, to give him his full name. Silly and funny – but it would never happen. Unless, that is, your mother and father happen to be raving Burnley fans. Welcomed into the world on 28 January (but only just revealed) is Jensen Jay Alexander Bikey Carlisle Duff Elliott Fox Iwelumo Marney Mears Patterson Thompson Wallace. And if you couldn’t make that up, then neither will you believe that the family name is Preston. You do have to wonder about what goes on in the head of some parents, leaving their poor child open to the ridicule he will face in later life when his friends find out whose name he has. Chris Iwelumo! And here’s why. Thursday With the noise, the music and most of all the beer, Premier League darts is more like a party with some sport taking place in the background. Having witnessed it first-hand, it really is a great night. Unfortunately, like some parties, a few of those you invite can waste it for everyone. So it was at the SECC. No doubt someone, somewhere, when they did the scheduling, thought local lad Gary Anderson against Adrian Lewis – the man who beat him in the world final – would be a good idea. And it should have been. Instead, it acted as the catalyst for an ugly night with racist jeering and bad – if not criminal – behaviour, with beer and coins hurled at players and the stage. It wasn’t any better outside. The public tunnel that leads from the nearby train station to the venue was awash with drink and piss, smashed bottles galore and discarded food and rubbish. And no, I’ve never seen it like that before or after any football matches at nearby Ibrox. It was a mess. It was an embarrassment. It was an advert for sport Scotland can do without. Friday Rangers manager Walter Smith reckons his side should have had a penalty as they exited to PSV Eindhoven in the UEFA Cup. Of course, with five on-field officials in the vicinity and a sixth on childminding duties, you would think that someone, somewhere would have noticed. I can just about buy why you would need a fourth official. But as far as I can see it, given that I have never seen any of them make a decision of any note in any game, those assistants beside the goals at either end do nothing other than enjoy a jolly to foreign lands for a few days. Of course, frustration got the better of many at Ibrox as Scotland’s last remaining European representative meekly exited. That included one punter, driven to despair and angry at American Maurice Edu’s contribution, who cried: “Edu, Edu, this is shite. You’re shit. This is f*cking fitba, not f*cking soccer.” The classic example of two nations separated by a common language…Donate to us: support independent, intelligent, in-depth Scottish journalism from just 3p a day
Related posts: