Soccer Suffrage

So England's dear ladies have taken a leaf out of their male counterpart's book and crashed out of the world cup on penalties. Those of you have read any of my ramblings on the subject of our national team in almost any sport will appreciate that I am usually underwhelmed by our lack of achievement, whether it be a friendly against the Faroe Isles or a major championship.

Normally our lacklustre performances are put down to tiredness, lack of preparation time, undertraining, overtraining, poor pitch, bad weather, wrong type of equipment, biased refereeing, injury or absence of key players, food poisoning, unsuitable hotel facilities, partisan crowds or plain bad luck – in effect, any old excuse so long as it doesn't equate to lack of talent.

When I used to go to the park with a few of my mates after school for a kick around we didn't spend our time rolling about in the mud in feigned agony then march off expecting to receive shed loads of cash and a modelling contract for our effort, which seems to be the overwhelming objective for any professional sportsman/woman these days.

Of course times have changed, sport is big business these days, especially the TV rights. I grew up in an era of 'Pot Black' and 'World of Sport' – 'Pot Black' – one frame of snooker once a week, primarily scheduled to take advantage of the latest technological breakthrough, colour television. Who can forget Dickie Davies wiggling his quiff with glee at the delight of the World Kite Flying or barrel rolling championships. Who would have thought that the likes of snooker and darts would have become such money-spinners for both participants and promoters.

More recently cricket has tried to grab a slice of the action with the extensive promotion of 20 over cricket. As a cricketing traditionalist I detest this bastardisation of the glorious game, though I can see how it is a far more attractive proposition to sponsors and merchandisers.

Having dipped in and out of the Women's Soccer World Cup throughout the tournament it is plain to see how desperate the TV moguls and sponsors are to raise the profile of the women's game. Previously Women's international games have been the preserve of highlights only shown after 11pm on BBC2. This year, not only have we seen international matches on BBC1 at prime time but also the women's cup final and even the occasional live club game.

At the risk of offending a great many people I fear to suggest that there is a degree of desperation about the whole project – Where the public are being asked to buy into the concept of this latest 'cash cow', I am still seeing 'Dead Donkey', and judging from opinions around the offices I have visited lately I do not appear to be alone in my view.

I hear that it the fastest growing sport in this country, there's a new professional league and that the women's game is huge in the USA, but I still find it virtually unwatchable after only 5 minutes; I've even been known to switch channels to watch the fishing programme (it was a very bad day).

Don't get me wrong, I welcome the participation of both men and women in sport, especially at a professional level, where achievements can be so inspirational to youngsters, but when it comes to soccer there is something definitely not right and I cannot put my finger on what it is.

If you consider the likes of tennis, gymnastics, athletics, hockey, judo – women display incredible strength, stamina, dexterity, determination, control and skill but put them on a football pitch and they look like a herd of stampeding wilderbeest. Originally I thought it might be a team game issue, but I don't think that is where the problem lies, hockey after all is a team game. My recollections of hockey are that it is not a game for the feint-hearted of either sex, so I don't consider gentility to be the problem either.

Steffi Graf used to glide around a tennis court, Martina Navratilova had a delicate touch to her game and Maria Sharapova manages to make her gangly 6' 2” frame appear elegant when she plays (even if she does grunt too much). I reserve judgement on the Williams sisters – they are just scary.

Many female athletes demonstrate dexterity that would lead you to believe they do not have a single bone in their body, often at the same time displaying strength that is way out of step with their perceived physique.

Women's cricket used to be plagued by immobility. There was often more rigidity in the players than there was in the bat they wielded like an axe. Thankfully the game has now moved on and there is a healthy athleticism about the modern game that would put some of the male players to shame.

I still come back to football – there is something about the way many of the female players move, the way they kick the ball that is different. When Wayne Rooney kicks a ball it looks as if he has been kicking a ball all his life, when most of the top women players kick a ball it looks as if they have their boots on the wrong feet, or at least they've still got their platforms on. Please don't tell me it's the boots - I can't see how the presence of a few studs on the sole of a shoe could affect the ability of a woman to kick a football. Women's feet are generally hardened through years of abuse, and given their predilection for high heels you would imagine that their sense of balance would be greater than a man's. (A picture of Gareth Southgate in stilettos just entered my head, not a nice thought and not a great penalty taker either).

The goal celebrations in the men's game do not sit well with me, I have never been keen on the hugging and kissing, let alone the acrobatics and robotic dancing. You would have thought it would have been different in the women's game but I regret to say that their antics don't do much for me either.

Many years ago I was invited to attend a women's rugby international match, and since it was a nice day I accepted the offer to stand on the touchline of a private sports ground in South London. Strangely the game was very watchable. I can't remember who was playing (I have a suspicion that it was the South Africans, but I could be wrong) or who won but the style of play was not dissimilar from the male's game. The girls got stuck in, tackled hard, passed well and ran purposefully when they had the ball. There were no tears, no screaming or squealing, no punch-ups and tries were celebrated with a polite handshake, a wave to a friend in the crowd and an appreciative ripple of applause from the couple of hundred people who had turned up to watch.

I am not so much of an armchair sports fan that I would consider purchasing a Sky sports package, I mourn the loss of so many sports to the digital channels and would deplore the concept of barrel rolling ever making a resurgence on terrestrial TV. Sadly, until the standard of women's soccer improves it will forever remain a minority interest sport for me, one that is welcome to that 11pm slot on BBC2.

The changing face of the annual holiday.

For years as a confirmed bachelor I routinely had my preferred Summer holiday dates declined by personnel departments on grounds that the months of July, August and September were strictly the preserve of those employees with families whose leave needed to coincide with the school holidays. Now that I am married I find that requests to take my holidays out of season are increasingly being challenged because families with kids can no longer afford to take their holidays in the Summer months and would rather face the wrath of the education system by taking their little darlings out of school during term time.

As a consequence Lam, my long suffering wife (her words not mine), and I have just taken a short Spring vacation in July. This was not as we would have wished but the first week in July was the earliest week that our respective employers could accommodate our request for 5 days of leave (this was booked in March, just so that you don't think we left it until the last minute).

I will accept that the general behaviour of children on planes is a lot better than it used to be. More streamlined check-ins, faster turn around times, quieter aircraft and better facilities at airports seems to have reduced the number of tantrums (if only from the the kids). What has been very noticeable over recent years is the liberal approach taken by many 'Adults only' hotels. In a difficult economic climate it is understandable that tour operators are keen to fill vacant rooms with anyone they can but why should someone who has researched and paid for their holiday in the expectation of spending quality time in a child free environment have their peace and quiet disturbed by children running amok in an environment that was not designed to accommodate them.

I can't recall the last time I took a holiday in July but needless to say we were both looking forward to the break and getting away from the stress. That lasted as far as the airport lounge – What I had not made allowance for is that the college term for many has ended. We were in a queue waiting to board the plane ahead of a group of 3 male students, who not only stood behind us but had the seats behind us on the plane. We were in the queue for 30 minutes, boarded the plane and endured a 4 hour flight to Gran Canaria with these individuals who seemed oblivious of the strange looks and glares that were being cast in their direction by fellow passengers and cabin crew. I had an inkling of what lay ahead when they had a heated collective discussion before deciding that 50 x 200 equalled 1000 – definite future treasury department material. Not for a second throughout the entire journey did their jaws stop moving. It wasn't even chat, it was a constant stream of banal garbage conducted at very high volume, and when they weren't debating which of them had the largest lunch box they would be serenading each other with eclectic selections from their ipods. It was like sharing a cab for 5 hours with Dumb and Dumber.

I was so worn out by the time we touched down that I hardly had the energy to drag my suitcase to the waiting taxi to transfer us to our apartment.

This was the first time that either of us had visited Gran Canaria, it seemed a good thing to do before the Spanish economy followed Greece down the tube. I had visited Tenerife and Lanzarote in the past; most notably I was in Tenerife during the Barcelona Olympics and I was at a resort in Lanzarote with a large Belgian contingent during Italia 90 when David Platt scored a goal in the last minute of extra-time against Belgium to put England through to the Quarter-finals of the World Cup. Since there has never been anything that the English soccer squad has achieved that has surprised me the presence of a sole Englishman sitting in the corner, supping his pint with a rye smile passed unnoticed.

In some ways Gran Canaria was a strange choice of destination, we both like swimming in the sea and relaxing on the beach, though personally I prefer seclusion and listening to the waves lapping on the shore. I was impressed how clean the beaches were and enjoyed our evening meals at the various restaurants / cafés that abutted the beach were a relaxing venue from which to watch the sun set. What to me was a new, and unwelcome, experience was the overcrowding on the beaches. My natural tendency is to find as quiet a space as practicable – it may not be the best location or the most convenient but as long as there is room to breathe I will be OK. We had a choice of bays in the resort where we were staying and soon realised that there was one that was much nicer than the other. Every day we would turn up find a clear spot away from the masses and within 10 minutes we would find ourselves surrounded by several groups who for no apparent reason seemed to think there was something special about the area we had decided to occupy.

I have attended many sales courses during my career where the topic of personal space has been raised. How people find it intimidating when people encroach into their personal space. For most people this is around 18 inches, though my preference would be at least 6 feet. So you can imagine my displeasure at having some hairy-arsed Spaniard in a posing pouch waving his sun-kissed cheeks within an arms-length of me. Every time he stood up and reached into his ice box for a beer I wished that I smoked, ideally a fat, smelly Cuban cigar with a red hot tip.

It amuses me the seriousness with which people approach their relaxation. Most people had umbrellas to shelter them from the heat, though I guess some simply used them to stake out 'their territory'. A brave few chose to lie on their towels all day, flicking over occasionally as if they were on a rotisserie. What intrigued me was the number of people who would turn up day after day with umbrellas, tents, chairs, tables, inflatables, cold boxes and picnic baskets (I am sure there must have been people who brought their fridge and TV with them as well). We spent one day watching this group of around 8 people who set up camp not far from us. The centrepiece of their camp was the dining table with a central umbrella. They were difficult to ignore since, like the students on the plane, they all appeared to suffer from verbal diarrhoea. The Spanish language is not a pleasant one to listen to. To my untrained ear a conversation between 2 Spanish women sounds like 2 chickens having a scrap over a few grains of corn. What is more, every time we looked in their direction they were eating. Maybe there is something wrong with me but I find that I lose my appetite in the heat but for this family the day on the beach was spent shovelling food down their necks ad nauseam. I truly believed that this was a magician's box because I could not work out where all this food was coming from – I could see where most of it was going – into this bikini clad Mrs. Creosote wedged precariously on a plastic seat that formed part of this elaborate table. It is a toss up between her sizeable backside and Hairy-arse's thong which image is most likely to haunt me for the rest of my days.

Before we knew it we were back on the plane facing another 4 hours of tedium listening to the same students wittering on about nothing in particular while my luggage was despatched on another plane destined for the far end of the country. Thankfully it was eventually returned to me a few days later.

The world may be shrinking, it may be spinning on an unstable axis and it may throw up all sorts of surprises but the big question remains, if I can't take my Spring vacation until July, the Summer months are effectively off limits and the Autumn months are deemed by my employer so important that no one can take any leave how and when can I book a Summer vacation by the end of the year? By the time I have solved that conundrum I will have earned my 2 weeks' R and R.