Punting High And Low

United’s foregone title conclusion and more heroic tales of sports betting

Following Manchester United’s routine 2-0 win over Everton at the weekend, Betfred have announced they’re already paying out on bets for the Red Devils to be Premier League champions this season.

The wife of Fred Done, owner of Betfred, must be tearing her curlers out.  A United fan, Done has pulled this stunt a few times over the years and had his fingers burnt not once but twice, in 1998 and again last year when that Sergio Agüero goal handed Manchester City the title and cost Betfred a reported £1m in the process.  Can you imagine anything worse?  Your beloved team has the title snatched away with the last kick of the season; not only that, the winners are your ‘noisy neighbours’ from across the city; oh, and by the way, you’re a million smackers down on the deal.  Ouch!  That apparently prompted Done to promise his good lady never to be such a silly boy again; except he obviously had his charred fingers crossed.

In fact, Betfred is not even the first firm to make the early pay-out this season, rivals Paddy Power doing so before United’s game.  If you’re someone who likes a punt, I can highly recommend Power.  Their innovative money-back offers are second to none and they’re known to give their regular customers – or at least those who lose more than they win – a free bet once in a while.  And, no, I’m not on commission (although I do get the odd free bet).

What are the best bets in sporting history?

Rodney Marsh and Dennis Lillee – 1981

This could never happen today.  Not without the mother of all outcries, an ICC investigation and player bans as hefty as Mark Cosgrove.

It was the Headingley Test of the 1981 Ashes series, and Australia had England in all sorts of bother.  The hosts had followed on and, with seven second-innings wickets down, were still almost a hundred runs behind their opponents.  At about this time, in-play match odds were flashed on the scoreboard: Ladbrokes made England 500/1 to win the Test.

Rod Marsh, the Aussie wicketkeeper, and fast bowler Dennis Lillee clocked the price and raised eyebrows at each other.  500/1?  In a two-horse race?  Even with the match situation as it was, they reasoned, that was ludicrous.  They arranged, via a third party (their team coach driver, apparently), to place £15 on England.

What happened next?  Ian Botham 149 not out and Bob Willis 8-43, that’s what.  Astonishingly, England had won the match and Lillee and Marsh their bet.

Darren Yates – Frankie’s Magnificent Seven

Frankie Dettori made history on 28^th September 1996 by riding the winners of all seven races at Ascot.  For one punter, a joiner from Morecambe, it was a day that changed his life.  Darren Yates had staked £69.76 including betting tax (a concept as out-of-date as smallpox today) on multiples made up of Dettori’s rides, adding in the seven-horse accumulator for good measure.  He pocketed over £550,000.

For every winner, of course, there’s a loser.  One of the biggest on that day was bookmaker Gary Wiltshire.  By the time Dettori rode Fujiyama Crest to victory to complete the seven-timer – the horse had been a general 12/1 in the morning but returned at 2/1 – the larger-than-life bookie was down by at least £800,000, possibly upwards of £1m.  Even worse, Wiltshire was only at Ascot because he’d run into traffic on his way to Worcester.  How’s your luck, Gary?

It was much the same when I backed winners at 33/1 and 14/1 with the same bookie on the rails at Windsor in 2005.  The hapless layer dismantled his board and trudged off before the penultimate race.

These dog days are rare for punters, though, and it’s usually the turf accountants who win.  As my old man is fond of saying, “You never see a bookie on a bike.”

Kerry Packer – heads I win (your estate)

Not strictly a sports wager, this one, but since Kerry Packer brought us World Series Cricket, I’m allowing him in.

Which is more than can be said for one particular individual in the high-stakes room of a casino.  The story goes that Packer walked into the exclusive private area and this chap told him it was “for high rollers only.”  When Packer told him that was fine by him, the man said, “No, you need to go and play out there.  This is out of your league.”  “What’s your league?” Packer asked.  “I’m worth 60 mill,” said the chap.  “Toss you for it,” Packer replied.

The man, we hear, demurred.

Twelvetrees = 36

Great sporting nicknames of our time

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Nicknames perform important functions.  Some represent the high regard in which the recipient is held: Ace, The Panther, Big Man, Love Machine, that sort of thing.  But enough of my school days.  Others confer a sense of belonging, of acceptance to a group: Mr Cricket, The Kid, Eric The Red.

But, personally, I prefer the ones that give me a good old belly laugh.

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Billy ‘36’ Twelvetrees

What a start to the Six Nations.  I’ll let the proper rugby writers dissect England’s new sense of adventure, Ireland’s thrilling near-collapse in Cardiff and Italy’s monumental achievement in overturning the hapless French.

What I want to celebrate here is the emergence onto the international stage of the man with the finest nickname in the modern game.

Respect to Geordan Murphy.  It’s thanks to his Dublin accent that we arrive at this piece of mastery.  As in “Twelve trees are tirty six.”

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Mark Waugh – ‘Afghanistan’

Life isn’t fair, is it?  Mark Waugh was one of the most elegant batsmen ever to take the crease.  He was graceful, technically correct, possessed of a cover drive that somehow managed to be both languid and violent, and able to whip good-length balls from outside off-stump through mid-wicket better than anyone bar Viv Richards.  Not only that but he remains the finest slip fielder I’ve ever seen, gobbling up catches off seamers and spinners alike in kid-leather hands.

And what nickname did this giant of the game get saddled with, being less of an early flourisher than his brother?  ‘Afghanistan’: the forgotten Waugh.

Such is the luck of the draw when you’re a twin, I guess, particularly when that twin is the relentless Steve Waugh (another epithet Mark had to put up with was ‘Junior’).  However, one member of the Barmy Army once tried to redress the balance by shouting, “Oi, Stephen.  Best batsman in the world?  You ain’t even the best batsman in your family!”

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Alex Loudon – ‘Minotaur’

Cricket seems to throw up amusing nicknames for fun.  The late Graham Dilley was known as ‘Picca’.  Allan Lamb was, perhaps more obviously, called ‘Legga’.

My favourite of all time, though, even surpassing dear old Mark Waugh, was the title bestowed on Alex Loudon.  Although a highly talented all-rounder, Loudon never quite fulfilled his potential, gaining a solitary One-Day International cap for England.  He became known as ‘Minotaur’ because, as someone put it, “that’s all he ever went on.”

Still, Loudon had the last laugh.  He quit the game and started dating Pippa Middleton.

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‘One Size’ Fitz Hall

I shall never, ever tire of this one.

I could go on about how appropriate a moniker it is for a journeyman pro with an uncompromising style who’s equally at home in midfield as at centre-half.

But, really, it’s just a very funny pun.

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Martin ‘Chariots’ Offiah

Brilliant on so many levels, this.  As the man himself once explained when asked why he got the nickname:

“Because I could run very fast, I suppose,” he told the interviewer, exhibiting the sort of incisiveness that brought him 501 career tries, “and it rhymed with how people pronounce my last name.”

Reading between the lines, “how people pronounce” his last name is not the way that it should be pronounced.  Something like ‘OFF-y-ah’ is more correct, I believe.  But, hey, let’s not let that ruin a high-quality piece of wordplay.

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Stuart ‘Britsa’ Broad

I know I’ve banged on about cricketers a bit.  But I can’t resist finishing on yet another.

You probably won’t have heard this.  Mainly because the group among which it’s been shared has, thus far, been quite exclusive.  For me and a select band of cricket fans, the current England set-up includes characters such as ‘Tinker’, ‘Foxy’, ‘Yogi’, ‘Previous’ and ‘Vesta’.  But there’s one who stands head and shoulders above the others, and not just because he’s 6’5”.

Ladies and gentlemen, in case you haven’t read the sub-head above, I give you Stuart ‘Britsa’ Broad.

Beat that if you can…

All Fur Coat And No Knickers

Sports stars who make a greater impact on headlines than the field of play

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Thank God for Mario Balotelli.  Without him, this window would’ve been so dull we wouldn’t have needed curtains.

Until Monday, the overall newsworthiness of January transfer stories had been lamentable.  By-lines such as ‘Out-of-favour Aston Villa defender Alan Hutton on the verge of moving to Real Mallorca on initial loan deal’ seemed to take on vast editorial import.

Then along came Super Mario with his probable move back to Italy, hurtling to the rescue of the headline writers and etching his name in meteorites across an otherwise bleak night sky.

But not everyone in the media has greeted the news with the wonder and awe it clearly deserves.  Speaking to talkSPORT, ex-England international Joe Royle said, “I’ve never understood what all the fuss is about.  He’s got no work-rate.  I’ve never seen a player walk as much as he does on the pitch.  He doesn’t score enough goals and there are too many headlines off the pitch, what with the parking fines, fireworks and silly t-shirts.”

To those of us who – by accident of birth or some other misfortune – are Ipswich Town fans, the words of BFJ (the ‘B’ and the ‘J’ stand for ‘Big’ and ‘Joe’ respectively) will come as no surprise.  Here is a man whose most emblematic player purchase while manager at Portman Road was, arguably, Kevin Horlock.  A no-nonsense, hard-knocking, journeyman midfielder, Horlock came to represent a Town side of the mid-Noughties that favoured physical effectiveness over footballing aesthetics.

Balotelli’s goal-scoring record for City isn’t as woeful as Horlock’s was for Town (no goals in 58 appearances for the Northern Irishman).  However, the oh-so-hard-done-by Italian has hardly set the world alight this term, netting just once in 11 league appearances.  Even last season, during which his scoring stats were decent, my memory is of Balotelli as something of a passenger.  And a surly, troublesome passenger at that, his sending-off against Arsenal in April being his fourth of the campaign.

 “It would be no loss if he left,” Royle claimed.

That may be unjust.  But it’s hard to escape the idea that Balotelli’s media persona is greater than his footballing achievements warrant.

Who else from the world of sport is all fur coat and no knickers?

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Paul Nicholson ‘Bad Boy Of Darts’

Since its reinvention under the auspices of Sky TV, the Professional Darts Corporation (PDC) and Barry Hearn, darts has done a remarkable job of selling itself.  The spectacle we see nowadays is a million miles from the fags-and-beer, back-room-of-a-boozer affair that first hit our screens in the 1970s.  With light-shows, music-accompanied walk-ons, Vegas-style boxing announcements and packed, rowdy venues the country over, this is real showbiz.  The standard of the sport has improved too, thanks in no small part to a certain Phil Taylor.  More nine-darters, more 180s, more 100+ checkouts, and higher player averages than there ever were pre-1994 when Sky began its coverage.  So there’s substance beneath the razzmatazz.

Where there was a distinct lack of substance, however, was in Paul Nicholson’s assertion that he was the ‘bad boy of darts.’  The naturalised Australian has frequently walked unsmiling onto stage wearing sunglasses; he’s fired imaginary pistols into the crowd; he often shushes and cups his ears at he inevitable booers.  And he once imitated the antics of American wrestler CM Punk when he knelt on one knee during his walk-on and yelled, “It’s clobberin’ time!” before sitting cross-legged on stage as his opponent (only Taylor) entered.

These are not the actions of a bad boy.  These are the actions of, well, a bit of a twerp.

Perhaps Nicholson’s most infamous display of supposed bad-boy-dom was his calling out of Taylor in 2011.   Interviewed at the World Matchplay, he said, “Mr Taylor and me are gonna meet some time.  And he’d better bring his A-game.  ‘Cos if he doesn’t, I’m gonna put him to bed.”  Really, Paul?  Ovaltine and a Mister Man book with that threat at all?

Nicholson had in fact beaten Taylor at that year’s UK Open.  Next time they met, though, Taylor ‘put him to bed’ by winning 10-6 having been 6-7 behind.  After that, Taylor whitewashed Nicholson in the World Grand Prix.  Hardly the effect the Newcastle-born thrower would’ve been after.

The fact remains that Paul Nicholson has not progressed beyond the quarter-finals of any major PDC event; neither has he competed in the Premier League.  So if he needs evidence of how ‘bad’ he is, maybe his own performances are the place to start.

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Phillips Idowu

I was in a pub a while back and the name of Phillips Idowu came up.  “Ah,” said one of the group who, admittedly, is not one of the more fervent sports nuts I knock about with, “the one with the blue hair, yes?  The long jump fella?” 

Now, when your hair’s more famous than you (not to mention your chosen event), you have a problem.  If Idowu had gone on to claim triple jump gold at last year’s London Games, he’d probably have the universal acclaim his talent merits.  Instead, his preparation was hindered by a niggling injury, and the media reported a stand-off with Team GB’s head coach, Charles van Commenee, when the athlete chose to stay away from a pre-Games training camp.  When it came to the event Idowu, clearly not 100% match-fit, failed to qualify for the final.

The perception of Idowu as a supreme headline-maker rather than a supreme competitor is grossly unfair, of course.  Bar the Olympics, where he took silver in Beijing, he has won every major title, indoor and outdoor, that the sport has to offer.

However undeserved, though, the perception becomes reality for many observers and Phillips Idowu remains as well-known by the wider public for his image as for his performances.  Perhaps he should take a leaf out of Kevin Pietersen’s book.  After the 2005 Ashes, KP dispensed with the ludicrous skunk rinse he’d given himself, got his head down and became the model professional we all know today.  Never in the headlines for the wrong reasons.  What’s that…?  Oh.

Sublime Domination

Sportspeople and teams who have lorded it statistically over the opposition

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Maria Sharapova is statistically the most dominant woman ever to reach the semi-final of a Grand Slam.  In progressing like a shouty steamroller to the semis in Melbourne, she won 60 games and lost just nine in her five matches.  So, on average, she was winning her sets by 6 games to 0.9.  (Up to the semis, she hadn’t serve-volleyed once, though, the scaredy-cat).

If you love sport and, like me, dwell on the nerdy side of the bleachers, you’ll love a good stat.  Particularly one that highlights the complete dominance of a team, competitor or performance.  Have a look at this lot, world beaters and statistical freaks all.

Phil Taylor

The late, lamented Sid Waddell called The Power “the greatest sportsman this country’s ever produced.”  Leaving aside the argument about whether or not darts is a sport (it is, by the way, but we can decide that I’m right another day), it’s hard to quibble with Waddell’s assessment.

Taylor recently captured his sixteenth world championship crown.  Nobody else has more than five.  These sixteen titles have come from a total of nineteen finals; only Dennis Priestley, John Part and Raymond van Barneveld have managed to defeat the great man at the last.  In world semi-finals, his record reads 19/19.  That’s right.  Unlike a teenaged boy whose mother bursts into his bedroom, Taylor has never lost a semi.

Consider, too, his consistent high scoring.  Michael van Gerwen, the Dutch wunderkind whom Taylor defeated in this year’s final, last year broke the record for a three-dart average in a televised match, with a quite astounding 121.86.  However, prior to that, Taylor held the top ten highest averages.  He has nine televised nine-darters (van Barneveld is next on the list with five).  I’d also be amazed if he didn’t hold the record for the number of 100+ finishes and the regularity with which he hits his cover shot of treble nineteen – perhaps someone out there can confirm…

Somebody cleverer than me should invent a statistical analysis whereby top performers from different sports can be compared to one another.  A Champions’ Champions Index.  Factors would include: dominance versus other competitors; longevity of achievement; number of awards/accolades/titles; historical standing; and consistency.  I’d be willing to bet that Phil Taylor would emerge victorious on such an index, even against Sir Donald Bradman.

AP McCoy

One measure by which Phil Taylor would lose out is the number of times he’s been champion.  Anthony Peter McCoy – Tony or, more commonly, AP to the racing fraternity – has been champion Jump jockey for seventeen consecutive years.

For those not familiar with racing, this means he’s ridden more winners than any other jockey in each of the last seventeen National Hunt seasons.  Next on the list is Peter Scudamore with eight championships.  Unsurprisingly during that time, McCoy has smashed records left, right and centre.  He’s closing in on 4,000 career wins, with his nearest pursuer on about two-and-a-half thousand.  In 2001/2, he rode an incredible 289 winners, beating the record for Flat or Jumps that had been held by the legendary Gordon Richards since 1947.

But, as ever with statistics, the numbers only tell you the headline story.  ‘Will to win’ is an oft-used phrase in sport.  Well, McCoy’s is cast iron, as his body seems to be.  On 12^th January 2008, he fell at Warwick, fracturing one vertebra and shattering two others.  One possible treatment was to wear a body cast for three months.  That would’ve meant missing the Cheltenham Festival so McCoy opted instead for an operation to insert metal strips into his back and an intense course of cryotherapy; on the final day of his treatment, he endured temperatures of -150 degrees Celsius (breaking the previous ‘record’ of -145) and giving himself frostbite all over his body, “including the tender bits.”  His remarkable comeback was completed when he partnered Albertas Run to victory in the Royal & SunAlliance Chase at the Festival.  It was March 13^th.  Naturally, despite his two-month absence, he still won the jockeys’ title that year.

Spare a thought for Richard Johnson.  In fourteen of McCoy’s winning seasons, Johnson has finished second in the championship; he also holds second place on the all-time winners list without ever being the champ.

Miami Dolphins – the perfect season

“That record will never be broken,” commentators and observers occasionally say.  It’s nonsense, of course, because the nature of sport and human development means that constant improvement is always the most likely trend over the long term.

Which is probably why, legend has it, the surviving members of Don Shula’s 1972 Miami Dolphins team get together to share a toast as soon as the last unblemished record falls each season.  They know their 17-0 (seventeen-and-o) season will be matched one day but, until then, they can bask in the glory of being the only ‘perfect’ team in NFL history.

Puts Arsenal’s ‘Invincibles’ of 2003/4 to shame, doesn’t it?  With 12 draws, the Gunners failed to win about one-third of their games.

Kim Jong-Il

Not just one of the top dictators to walk the planet but, by a distance, the best golfer there’s ever been.  According to North Korean media, the diminutive despot shot a round of 34 (38 under par), including 11 holes-in-one.  And who are we to question the North Korean media?

One point, though.  On the seven holes where he didn’t get an ace, he took 23 strokes.  Plenty of room for improvement there, Kim.  Your being dead surely won’t stop you.

Frank Lampard’s shunning by Chelsea and other cases of sporting ‘disloyalty’

Poor old Frank Lampard.  Actually, not poor.  Not by a long chalk.  Not that old either.  But old enough for Chelsea to decide, according to Lampard’s agent, not to offer the England midfielder a new contract ‘under any circumstances’ at the end of this season.

It’s a move that’s been criticised by some as a display of disloyalty on the part the club.  I think we’ve got to be careful how we use words like ‘loyalty’ in the context of professional sport.  In much the same way as ‘loyalty card’ is a complete misnomer – it should be ‘bribery voucher’ or some such – notions of loyalty between club and player can only be viewed in relation to the contractual agreement between the two parties.

Sensibly for Chelsea, but unfortunately for Lampard who’s been a great ‘servant’ (now that really is the wrong choice of word), the club are not willing to keep him on the books on improved terms versus his current contract.  Why would they?  In business terms, he’s an asset whose value diminishes over time; no company in its right mind would pay more now than five years ago when he was worth a lot more.

If Lampard winds up at Manchester United, and neither the club nor the fans could complain if he did, that would fire up the disloyalty debate all over again.

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Kieren Fallon switches horses mid-stream

Kieren Fallon has said in the past that he prefers the company of horses to that of many humans.  Certainly, when the six-time champion jockey whispers sweet nothings in the pricked ears of his mounts on the course or the gallops, his words can’t get him into trouble.  When he does interact with people, he attracts controversy as a sweating thoroughbred draws horse flies on a summer’s day.  He’s been banned from racing for drug offences, beating Signor Dettori to that punch by several years.  In 2004, he was the subject of a tabloid sting on race fixing, an offence of which he was later found not guilty at the Old Bailey.

But perhaps the most bizarre row in which Fallon has found himself embroiled came before the Epsom Derby in 2011.  He’d been booked to ride the Ed Dunlop-trained Native Khan, a likeable grey who had a live chance of springing a surprise in the big race.  Fallon had won on Native Khan both times he’d ridden the colt, most recently in the Craven Stakes, a decent Classic trial.  But then, in the week leading up to Epsom, he announced that he would instead be riding Recital, trained by the all-conquering Aidan O’Brien and winner of another Derby trial in Ireland.

This horse-switching is not uncommon, particularly among the top jockeys who are much in demand.  It must be frustrating for connections but that’s just the way it is, for example, where retained relationships take precedence over freelance arrangements.  So when Native Khan’s owner, Ibrahim Araci, threatened legal action to prevent Fallon from riding another horse in the Derby, my reaction was along the lines of: “selfish owner not used to not getting his own way and being vindictive.”

But then it emerged that Fallon had signed a contract.  He’d actually put pen to paper on an agreement to ride Native Khan for a year whenever asked and, if not asked, not to ride a rival in the same race.  Fallon had openly and deliberately reneged on both of these contractual promises.  The result: the court injunction was granted and Fallon was left without a ride in the Derby.

On the surface, these appear to be the arrogant actions of a man who believes the normal rules don’t apply to him.  My take, though, is that Fallon is just, to put it politely, a little naïve.  Either way, best stick to the horses, Kieren.

As a footnote, Native Khan finished fifth under replacement jockey Johnny Murtagh behind the French-trained winner, Pour Moi, with Recital, ridden by Pat Smullen, two lengths back in sixth.

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“Say it ain’t so, Joe”

Perhaps the strangest aspect of the most infamous case of sporting disloyalty in history is that it was never proven.  ‘Shoeless’ Joe Jackson and his seven Chicago White Sox team-mates accused of throwing the 1919 World Series for $5,000 apiece were acquitted of any wrong-doing.

However, the acquittal came in 1921 and the interim saw enough media muddying of the waters for the stain to become permanent.  On the one hand, there’s very little evidence that Jackson himself under-performed in the series to lend weight to the theory that he was party to a fix: statistics note that his batting average was the highest on either side (he also holds the third highest career average in history) and that he made no individual errors in the field.  On the other, newspaper reports carried purported quotes from the grand jury trial in which Jackson owns up to ‘crooked work’ in the field that ‘netted the Cincinnati [Reds] team several runs that they never would have had if we had been playing on the square.’  Important to note, though, that the official grand jury record makes no mention of the quote.

Even the most celebrated incident of the whole sorry affair – where a young, dewy-eyed fan is said to have pleaded “Say it ain’t so, Joe” as Jackson left the courtroom one day – is widely thought to be apocryphal.

If we’re to hold true to the notion of ‘innocent until proven guilty’, we must maintain that Jackson and his team-mates were clean.  I do hope so.  Say it wasn’t so, Joe.

Nevertheless, it’s a slur on sport made more shocking through the lens of history because it happened in supposedly more innocent times.  Well, whatever the truth, the 1919 World Series scandal and the American media’s reporting of it teach us this: there were never more innocent times.

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Next up: Lance Armstrong explaining his alleged betrayal of cycling on Oprah…

Where Did That Come From?

Sometimes, ordinary sportspeople and teams deliver extraordinary performances.

World darts champion elect, Michael van Gerwen, last night hit a magnificent nine-dart finish in his semi final against James Wade.  It’s always a special moment when you witness sporting perfection – a hole-in-one, a 147, a 300-point ten-pin bowling game – but in van Gerwen’s case, there was something inevitable about his achievement.  His trebling in this tournament has been nothing short of astonishing; in his previous match against reigning champ Adrian Lewis, van Gerwen nailed more treble twenties than singles (170-odd against 140-odd).  So, whilst still a huge thrill to watch, the nine-darter wasn’t the biggest surprise in the world.  Had he completed a second in the very next leg – eight perfect darts were followed by a double-twelve attempt that missed by a millimetre – that really would’ve been something.

This year’s tournament at the Alexandra Palace saw the return to the world stage of Paul Lim.  In 1990, Lim made history by becoming the first player to take out a nine-dart finish in what was then the Embassy World Championship.  Unlike van Gerwen’s, Lim’s feat came right out of the blue.  He had never been further than the second round of the Worlds and most of his tournament success was achieved in less competitive events in Asia.  He was, in short, a decent player at world level but no more than that.  If anyone were going to do it, it would surely be Bristow, Wilson or Lowe (the only man at the time to have a televised nine-darter to his name).  But here he was, this unassuming naturalised American, demonstrating a steady throwing arm and unerring accuracy, and prompting some bizarre commentary from Tony Green: “Yes.  Yes!!  Yes!!!” (on the second 180); then, after the final dart, the wonderfully circular: “Is he excited?  We are.  Is he happy?  We are.  And with fifty-two thousand pound [sic] in the bank, so is he.”

Lim faced a certain Michael van Gerwen in the first round this year.  He lost, of course, but not before taking out a maximum 170 finish.  Proof that he still has the capacity for perfection.

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David Lloyd 214 not out versus India

Dear old Bumble.  Without doubt one of the most eccentric, charismatic and amusing commentators there is.  One of his stock phrases is “Start the car!”, indicating that a match is nearing its climax.  A couple of years ago, when the World Cup was held on the Indian sub-continent, Lloyd adapted this to “Start the tuk tuk!”  I almost fell of the sofa laughing.  An absolute genius.

But even Lloyd himself might acknowledge that he was less of a superstar as a player.  His first-class batting average was 33, he bowled decent slow left-armers and he helped Lancashire to four Gillette Cups in the early-mid 70s.  A good, talented, whole-hearted cricketer, no doubt, but not a world beater.  Nevertheless, he was drafted in to the Test team in 1974 to replace the self-exiled Geoff Boycott as opener.  In just his second match, against India at Edgbaston, Lloyd made 214 not out as England racked up 459/2 declared.

A Test match double hundred is a rare treasure.  By way of illustration, and to take a period of time not quite at random, it’s worth noting that between June 1930 and February 1933, only six doubles were scored in all Test cricket.  All of them by Don Bradman.  For Lloyd to add his name to the ranks of Test double-centurions, then, was a noteworthy achievement.

Sadly for Lloyd, he had a torrid time at the hands of Lillee and Thompson on the following winter’s Ashes tour.  He was injured, came home and never played another Test match.  His Test career spanned nine matches over seven months.  Years later, the peerless John Arlott wrote that Lloyd had been ‘effectively shocked and shattered out of Test cricket.’

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Coventry City 1987 FA Cup

Coventry were 70/1 with the bookmakers to lift the 1987 FA Cup.  I know this because a few years later I met a chap called Bernard who would have a tenner on them every year.  The £700 he trousered that year will, I’m guessing, just about allow him to break even over his lifetime.

Sorry, Tottenham fans, but everyone apart from you lot was cheering on the Sky Blues on 16 May 1987.  It was classic FA Cup.  The footballing aristocrats from North London versus the blue-collars from the industrial West Midlands.  How could the Lilywhites, boasting such talents as Hoddle, Waddle and Ardiles, be upstaged by the likes of Lloyd McGrath, Greg Downs and Micky Gynn?  [Clearly what swayed it for Coventry was having future Ipswich playmaker Steve Sedgley on the bench.]  This was Tottenham Hotspur, for God’s sake, bidding for an eighth FA Cup success.  The club had never lost in the final.

Having fallen behind to the prolific Clive Allen’s early goal – his 49^th of the season – Coventry twice came from behind to level the score at 2-2 after 90 minutes.  Their second equaliser, Keith Houchen’s flying header, is one of the most famous goals in Wembley history and earned the player that season’s BBC Goal Of The Season award.  In extra time, the footballing gods decreed that Gary Mabbutt should be the fall guy of the piece and it was his unfortunate own goal that handed the redoubtable Sky Blues victory.  Captain Brian ‘Killer’ Kilcline’s primal roar as he lifts the trophy is an enduring image.  As for Mabbutt, well, he too is immortalised in the Coventry fanzine GMK – Gary Mabbutt’s Knee.

The 1987 FA Cup remains Coventry’s only major trophy in their 93-year history.

Sporting Rock ‘N’ Rollers

 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.