As wannabe modfather Bradley
Wiggins wins SPOTY, which other sportspeople have been known for their rock ‘n’
roll tendencies?
What I know about cycling you could pretty much write on the back of a
postage stamp with a fat crayon. But
even I can appreciate the magnitude of Bradley Wiggins’ achievements in 2012.
I’m a huge fan of Jessica Ennis (show me a man of my age who isn’t) and
wanted her to win BBC Sports Personality Of The Year purely because she had to
withstand more pressure than any other competitor in the run-up to London 2012. As the poster girl of the Games, she had a
good eighteen months of expectation to deal with, and deal with it she did in
emphatic fashion.
However, Wiggins’ unique success is worthy of the highest
recognition. Claiming the Tour De France
is, on its own, a staggering feat and one never before achieved by a
Briton. As if losing out to Britain in
the race to host 2012 wasn’t difficile
enough for the French to swallow, here’s some skinny, brash, side-burned fella
from these shores winning their race
and lording it over the crowd on the Champs Elysées. To follow that up a week later with Gold in
the time trial at London 2012 was nothing short of superhuman.
And did you see him at the Excel the other night at SPOTY? The studiously brushed-forward hair, the
bespoke double-breaster by Soho tailor Mark Powell. Wiggins’ hero is Paul Weller, in case you’re
blind. He also did his best to remind us
that the P in SPOTY stands for ‘personality’, impishly referring to Sue Barker
as ‘Susan’ throughout their interview (sorry, Brad, Matt Dawson’s been doing
that for years) and, later, urging everyone to make full use of the free bar
laid on by the BBC.
So, not only the best-loved and most-garlanded sportsperson of the year
but a man who looks, sounds and acts like a rock star. Mind you, he’d be doing well to match the
exploits of the characters below.
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Serena Williams
Everything about Serena Williams screams rock star. The clothes, for starters. Black lycra catsuits, knee-high boots, short
denim skirts and white trenchcoats are just a few of the items she’s worn. On the court.
She even has her own apparel label, called Aneres (see what she’s done
there?).
Williams has appeared in music videos, lent her voice to The Simpsons, done
a turn on a comedy improv show and, if rumours are to be believed and a leaked
hip-hop track extrapolated upon, is planning to release an album.
She’s also a complete beast on the court, allying a savage will to win
with considerable talent. I remember
watching the Wimbledon final in 2002 when she played big sister Venus, and
thinking to myself that only one of them truly wanted it, while the other would
be happy to lose graciously to her sibling.
Scope for some proper, deep-seated Freudian analysis there but evidence,
for our purposes, of Serena’s unstinting single-mindedness.
Her on-court brutality has, on occasion, manifested itself in ugly
outbursts. When she was foot-faulted at
a crucial stage of her 2009 US Open clash with Kim Clijsters, she allegedly
told the hapless line judge that she would “…take this ball and shove it down
your fucking throat!” Rather puts
McEnroe’s “You’re the pits, man” in the shade, doesn’t it?
Even Pete Townshend would’ve been proud of the abuse she dished out to
her racquet that day.
Robin Friday
George Best will be many people’s definitive rock ‘n’ roll
sportsman. But in my view El Beatle couldn’t hold a candle to
Robin Friday; if Best had tried, Friday may well have used it to cook up some
heroin.
You see, if Serena Williams embodies the glamorous side of being a rock
star, then the former Reading and Cardiff City striker represents its seedy,
grimy underbelly. Think Ozzy Osbourne,
Pete Doherty or Amy Winehouse in their darkest days.
Friday was a supremely gifted footballer. He scored goals, he made goals, his vision
was on a par with more vaunted flair players of the age such as Tony Currie,
Alan Hudson and Stan Bowles. Friday’s
manager at Cardiff, Jimmy Andrews, described him as “the complete centre-forward.” Many felt he could, and should, have played
for England. When the BBC ran a poll to
find the ‘all-time cult hero’ of all English and Scottish league clubs, Friday
won the accolade for both Reading and Cardiff.
No other player appeared in the top three of two different clubs.
Friday was as vicious as he was blessed.
On his debut for Cardiff, he lined up against Bobby Moore’s Fulham. Not only did Friday score twice, but he also
grabbed Moore’s testicles, pre-empting Vinnie Jones’ famous attack on Gazza by
nearly a decade. Then there was his
sending off against Brighton after he kicked a prone Mark Lawrenson in the
face. With the game still in progress, Friday
left the ground. But not, legend has it,
before depositing a large piece of himself into Lawrenson’s kitbag.
Throughout his career, Friday consumed vast amounts of alcohol and drugs
such as cocaine, LSD and methadone. He
would binge for days, steal statues from churchyards, dance naked in
nightclubs, and turn up to training wearing winklepickers and carrying a
plastic bag.
In the end, Friday died a true rock ‘n’ roll death: struck down at 38 by
a heart attack brought on, according to his biographer, by a heroin overdose.
Curtly Ambrose
OK, let’s forget all the trappings of the rock star – the drugs, the
destructive behaviour, the finery – and talk about someone who’s the real
article.
Curtly Ambrose has been playing the bass guitar in the splendidly-named The
Big Bad Dread And The Baldhead more or less since the day he gave up
terrorising international batsmen. For
good measure, the group also boasts ex-West Indies captain Richie Richardson on
rhythm guitar.
If the rhythm section of Big Curtly’s band is as metronomic and menacing
as his bowling, ‘The Dread’ will be a tight little outfit indeed.
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