THE TIMES FINALLY SETS THE JFK ASSASSINATION RECORD STRAIGHT

After years of obfuscation about the Kennedy assassination, the New York Times has finally set the record straight. In today's obituary of Paul Bentley, the Dallas police detective who arrested Lee Harvery Oswald at the Texas Theatre, and whose masonic ring allegedly caused the shiner Oswald sported after that arrest, the paper makes an important correction. When Jim Leavelle was escorting Oswald through the basement of the Dallas jail, and Jack Ruby killed Oswald, the hat Leavelle was wearing was NOT a Stetson, it was a Resistol. Resistols were impermeable, just like the Times.

OH THE SHARK BITES....GREG NORMAN, CHRIS EVERT, ANDY MILL PLAY MIXED TRIPLES

Best quote of the British Open golf so far, from skier Andy Mill, re the curiously rejuvenated Greg Norman (first day leader and second day second place) and Mill's ex-wife and Norman's fellow 80s celeb Chris Evert: “Greg Norman at one time was my best friend and a year-and-a-half ago I would have taken a bullet for this guy,” he said. “But I didn't realise he was the one who was going to pull the trigger.”

When Evert filed for divorce from Mill, she cited 'irreconcible differences', which would make a great new nickname for the Great White Shark. Although Mill might find Shark appropriate too.
And I've got to ask: are his teeth REAL or was he taking the nickname too seriously?

Apparently Mill is a shoo-in for the US Ski Federation's Spider Sabich Unlucky In Love award.

And exactly how many husbands do you have to go through before you stop being America's sweetheart?

Meanwhile, let's discuss in an adult fashion the Evert-Norman relationship: fuzzy balls v dimpled balls, balls in holes, balls in cups, flagpoles in cups, two-handed backhands, second service, foot fault, putter, mashie niblick, fast greens, in the rough, love-forty, ad-in, backswingers, serve and volley, chip shot, mixed doubles, dogleg.....

Have I missed anything?

REVERSING THE RED SOX CURSE (or THOSE WHOM THE GODS WOULD DESTROY, THEY FIRST LET PICK UP STRIPPERS)

The revelation that stipper Candice Houlihan distracted A-Rod with the second of their two nights of brief sex and extended talking during the 2004 ALCS loss to the Red Sox doesn't really explain the Yanquis' monumental foldo, but it helps. It doesn't help explain why 32 year old A-Rod would be buzzing round the 133 year old Ayesha-clone Madonna either. Vanity Fair ran a picture of Madonna a couple of months ago, in their ecology issue, bizarre as that seems, with the caption 'Timeless Beauty'. I suppose in the sense that plastic and silicone never decay they were right! This isn't like Nuke LaLoosh desperately seeking Susan Sarandon (oh wait, she married Tim Robbins, so it IS!)

Meanwhile C-Rod, who saw rod and reeled in Lenny Kravitz in Paris (nous sommes seulement bonnes amies, he said), is back and filing for the big D. Michael Strahan is probably laughing all the way to the TV studio as he wonders what Cynthia Rodriquez is going to get out of this one.

It may not explain the Red Sox winning their first World Series since 1918, though with a name like Houlihan she's got the credentials to be a Sox fan. But it does reinforce Rodriquez's quest to become the highest salaried wuss in history. It's not so much that his wife was pregnant with their first child (she got pregnant with number two while they were repairing their marriage after ARod got caught with a different stripper). It's that they talked about the fact that this stripper was a former basketball player, and he found that 'weird'. That the conversation got THAT deep may be considered a surprise if this is any indication of the depths of the distaff side, explaining why she slept with the Yanqui even though she knew he was married:

“It was killing me and I felt bad after,” Houlihan said. “I’m not a bad person. I know how it feels to be cheated on, it sucks. But a couple of drinks later, I didn’t notice all that much, to tell you the truth.”

If they ever want to bury Rodriquez wrapped in a Big Papi jersey underneath the new Yanqui stadium, he can have an honour guard of stippers lining the way. Bring back Derek Jeter and Mariah Carey Yanqui fans probably regret Rodriquez's wife wasn't using him to order human growth hormone, like Debbie Clemens. But put it this way: if Madonna shows up outside Fenway looking for Manny Ramirez this September, someone tell Manny: just say no!

OLD CLICHES NEVER DIE, THEY JUST KEEP ON DANCIN'

I was almost pleased to see the headline in yesterday's Sunday Times over an article about Brazilian players in English, Scottish, and Faroe Islands football. Yes, the Faroes; it's worth a read. But the headline was classic, restoring my faith that none of the old prejudices and stereotypes that made Fleet Street great have really died. You can see a picture of two of Chelsea's latest recruits alongside this column.

'SAMBA STARS ON THE WAY', bringing back the image of a conga line of dancin' Stepin Fetchits juggling footballs with their toes while jiggling to a beat that's far beyond Land Of Hope And Glory. I mean this is nothing as bad as the back page headline from the Daily Mail back in 1983, when Scotland's Alan Welles placed fourth in the World Athletics Championships' 100m to three Americans. WHITE LIGHTNING! screamed the Mail, informing us that Welles had just become the 'world's fastest white man'. I am not making this up, by the way.

Of course the Times means it innocently enough, they know that we all know Brazilians are naturally talented, great dancers, laugh a lot, are some of Rupert Murdoch's best friends and so on and so on and scooby dooby dooby. Different strokes for different folks, as it were. We can only guess what their reaction might be were the Brazilian press to label English players Cloggy Morris Dancers, plodding round their soggy pitches.

But headline aside, I recommend the article, by Jonathan Northcroft. In its sidebar it also includes an interesting 'League Of Nations' table, which points out that there are 14 Brazilians in the English Premier League. But what is interesting is first, that of the 525 players who appeared in the EPL last season, only 184 were English, or roughly 35%. That's not promising for English football, though it is for English spectators.

But what was even more interesting to me was that America was represented by only one fewer player than Brazil. 13 Americans played in the EPL, more than the 12 Dutchmen or 11 Portugese, and just behind Scotland (14) Spain (14) and Wales (16). That's pretty good for a nation which can't understand soccer. Believe me, that whole 'the sport the Americans call soccer' chiche is a topic for another post.

But remember, in the 2002 World Cup, the Americans got to the quarter-finals where a Scottish referee handed Germany a bitterly-fought match, while no one in particular at home watched or cared. Meanwhile, in England, our heroes were the subject of months of 24/7 media hype and attention, and they got to the quarter-finals and rolled over like whipped dogs before the, uh, samba skills of the Brazilians! As a supporter, which situation would YOU rather be in?

And don't forget, the US national team did every bit as well as the English in the recent European championships, didn't they?

IRRESISTIBLE TARGETS

I started this blog as an experiment and exercise, and the first thing I learned was that it would probably be more useful for me, trying to reach an audience, if the format were more specific...so I'm trying a second blog, for crime fiction reviews and maybe some other things.
It's called Irresistible Targets, from the John Stewart song, and it's available at

http://irresistibletargets.blogspot.com

I've opened with the Pelecanos piece as blogged here, and links to a couple of Crime Time reviews.

My imaginary dialogue with Robert B Parker and my rant about the Guardian's review of Fred Vargas last year will be posted soon....

SIX DEGREES OF EXECUTION

The French army shootout in Carcasonne was an easy way to play the Kevin Bacon game, as anyone who remembers Animal House will appreciate. According to the reports I read, the one soldier with live ammo may have been the one chosen not to have blanks, for reasons no one could explain. Perhaps they were trying for the inverse of a firing squad, where one member is traditionally given a blank so that all of them can pretend they might not have been the executioner. I'm not sure that held true in Germany between 1939-45.

As it happens, on the day of the shooting we were driving from Ceret, close by the Spanish border, to Cuq Toulza, between Toulouse and Castres, and as we headed up from Castlenaudary, a convoy of about 10 APCs passed us going the other way (direction Carcasonne, as the French road signs say, invariably only after you're on the right road). Kirsten asked what they were up to and I guessed there had been a sighting of a New Zealand Greenpeacer in Carcasonne. Little did I know.

I remember as a kid watching parades of military stuff with great delight, so I suppose I shouldnt be that surprised that the French were staging a show of 'anti-terrorist' tactics as a pre -Bastille Day diversion. Since all of us are potentially terrorists in the brave new Bush/Blair/Sarkosy world, it's probably useful to see. It's also fun to watch the new French right-wing Prime Miniature going head to head with the military because he didn't show them the proper respect after they'd shot up one of the country's prime tourist towns. Luckily no one was killed, including a child shot in the heart, but don't mention that either, because then you're just Michael Moore entranced by the French health system. Their tax system, as we heard from the hoteliers in Coq Toulza, is something else indeed!

happy Fourth of July! Le 14eme s'approach!

US ELECTION FACT

A small fact gleaned from Harpers:

In the last four US presidential elections, the candidate who served in an overseas war has lost each time. That's Bush to Clinton, Dole to Clinton, Gore to Shrub, and Kerry to Shrub. Three of the four losers (Bush I, Dole, and Kerry) received combat medals, were, in effect war heroes.

Not many ways to tar Bubba and Shrub with the same brush, are there?

Could the electorate be punishing those who serve? According to the media, Americans idolise soldiers.

CELTICS WIN: MIKE'S SPIKE PRESENTS RED AUERBACH'S GUARDIAN OBIT

They weren't my first sporting love: that would be Yale football, or my second, that would be the New Haven Blades, but the Boston Celtics weren't far behind that. Bill Russell, Bob Cousy, Tommy Heinsohn, Satch Sanders, Bill Sharman, Sam Jones, KC Jones, Losty in their low black Converse; every kid I knew who played basketball had to have Converse; would spit on US Keds, and those of us in the know wanted black ones. My parents wouldn't cough up the extra dough for Cons, not until I could make up the difference myself, and black ones weren't easy to find in those days. Not like now, when they're style accesories, and of noticeably cheaper build since they've become that and Converse was bought out.

Is there an American man alive who would know what 'parquet' meant were it not for the floor of the Boston Garden? I mean the old Gahden, not the TD Banknote North or whatever it's called arena. Note to the sponsors: you want me to remember the name, you better sponsor ME. And above it all hung the cigar smoke of Red Auerbach.

The Celtics winning their first title in 22 years, their 17th overall, and stopping Phil Jackson from breaking Red's mark of 9 as coach had a certain emotional power to it. Not that I feel for the team as passionately as I did in college, when I watched them deflate the hearts of my Philly and LA fan friends (Moid and Jay, you know who you are). Bailey Howell, Don Nelson, Larry Siegfried, Willie Naulls. Nor the Dave Cowens-JoJo White-Don Chaney era teams, nor the exceptional days of the 80s, when Bird, McHale, Parrish, Ainge, DJ, Wedman, Walton, Sichting, Westphal may have been the best NBA team ever. You don't believe me, watch a few clips on YouTube, which I did late one night last week: it's amazing team basketball.

I was worried the team was cursed. Red's legerdemain in getting Len Bias in the draft was erased by his cocaine OD the next day. Then draft steal Reggie Lewis died. No team could bounce back from that. I thought they had sunk to levels of mediocrity that would turn Red pale. So give Danny Ainge immense credit for bringing in Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen. For assembling the supporting cast (was Rajon Rondo the MVP of game six or what? Was Posey great? Is Big Baby the kind of guy the old Celts would love). Doc Rivers may be the second coming of KC Jones as a coach, who knows?

I may not be as passionate about the Celts, because I'm not as passionate about basketball (the game seems more athletic but less interesting than I remember), and because I don't see many games (when you stay up to broadcast, it's harder to make yourself stay up NOT to broadcast!) and because the mystique seemed to be gone, but this team certainly brought some of that feeling back. There isn't a whole lot of mystique in sports these days. There's lots of hype.
There's lots of image. But mystique? It's as rare as a Johnny Most interpretation of a call that was biased in the Celtics' favour.

But it is as if Red were still there. Loads of the Old Celts were there, and someone noted that in Boston, only championship banners are hung from the rafters. None of this 'Atlantic Division runners up' crap you'll find in Hooterville, Florida or Georgia.

In honour of the Celtics' being NBA champions once again, and all (well, maybe not all, but all things basketball) being right with the world, I'm going to post a gem off Mike's spike: an obit of Red Auerbach which was commissioned by the Guardian, but never used. In the end, someone always felt Red's brilliance wouldn't translate to a British audience. See if you agree. And remember, I left out all the good stuff that would have taken too long to explain!

Here it is:

RED AUERBACH: ARCHITECT OF BASKETBALL'S GREATEST DYNASTY
In the late moments of basketball games at the Boston Garden, often with the outcome apparently still undecided, Boston Celtics’ coach Red Auerbach would lean back on the bench, and, with elaborate pretence, light the cigar ever-present in his mouth. This ‘victory cigar’ cued a roaring wave of Churchillian triumph. It also produced hostile rage from visiting players, coaches, and fans, but crucially, that rage would be directed at the short, balding man in the loud jacket, whose team would, more often than not, beat theirs.
Auerbach, who has died aged 89, was professional basketball’s greatest coach. Between 1957 and 1969, his Celtics won 11 NBA titles, a dynastic dominance un-matched by baseball’s Yankees or ice hockey’s Montreal Canadiens. Auerbach coached the first nine champions, then as general manager oversaw the next two, and two more in the 1970s. In the 80s, as team president, he built another nascent dynasty, with three more titles; one which, but for tragedy, might have extended into the next decade.
You can compare Auerbach to a number of legendary football managers. His taunting cigar was the prototype for the Mourinhos or Fergusons, bosses who deflect attention from their players, leaving them free to concentrate on their games. It led to Greg Kite, a reserve whose entry into a game usually signified its wrap-up, being nicknamed ‘the human victory cigar’. Like another football manager, Brian Clough, Auerbach possessed the rare ability to judge talent, constantly stealing other teams’ under-valued journeymen or aging veterans, who then blossomed in his system. Red’s seemingly uncontrollable temper, however, put even Clough‘s to shame. Unlike Clough, Auerbach‘s outbursts, including fist-fights with players, fans, and even an owner, were always directed at opponents. He was as canny a handler of players as Alf Ramsey or Bill Shankly. ‘You don’t handle them,‘ he said. ‘Players are people, not horses’. Auerbach drove the happy-go-lucky Tom Heinsohn relentlessly, yet allowed star centre Bill Russell to rest through virtually all practice scrimmages. And Red could boast the dress sense of Don Revie.
Having grown up Jewish in Brooklyn, where his father, an immigrant from Russia, ran small businesses, Auerbach’s experience of prejudice put him in the forefront of basketball’s integration. He selected Chuck Cooper, the first black player drafted by the NBA, in 1950. Ten years later, in a league whose unwritten rule was ‘2-3-5‘ (‘start two black players on the road, three at home, but play five when behind‘), he started the NBA’s first all-black lineup. After his record ninth championship as coach (since matched by Phil Jackson), he named Russell the NBA’s first black head coach.
Auerbach was a hustler, always looking for a edge, and usually finding it. Small ones, like keeping the visitors’ dressing room in Boston Garden small, dirty, and unheated. And bigger ones, like arranging to choose Russell whose defensive and rebounding skills would prove crucial to the Celtics’ success, in the 1956 NBA draft. Celtic owner Walter Brown controlled the Ice Capades; Auerbach offered Rochester, who held the draft’s first pick, extra dates in their arena by the profitable show in return for passing on Russell. Knowing Hawks’ owner Walter Kerner, who held the second pick, was wary of bringing a black star to segregated St Louis, he offered a star player in return for the pick, and, when Kerner insisted, threw in his current starting center too. The Celtics soon beat St. Louis to win their first NBA title. But it was Russell’s triumphs over Wilt Chamberlain (whose Guardian obit I also wrote) that became the stuff of legend. Only the slender 6-9 Russell could keep the massively talented 7-2 Chamberlain in check, though never completely. But year after year, in the playoffs, Russell seemed to rise to the occasion, and the Celtics with him. So when Philadelphia made Chamberlain the NBA’s first $100,000 player, the otherwise frugal Auerbach gave Russell a contract for $100,001.
Auerbach’s road to Boston began at Washington’s George Washington University, where he played for three seasons. He coached in Washington DC high schools, and taught at a reform school, before serving in the Navy during World War II. In 1946 he was named coach of the Washington Capitols, for the NBA‘s inaugural season, and compiled three winning seasons. After the only losing season of his career, with the Tri-Cities Blackhawks, he was hired to coach the hapless Celtics in 1950, and immediately led them to their first playoff appearance.
Over the years Auerbach would risk drafting players committed to other sports, like baseball’s Danny Ainge, or, like superstar Larry Bird, who could have re-entered the draft the following year. By convincing San Francisco he would draft a player they coveted, in 1980 he extracted Robert Parrish and the pick that became Kevin McHale; with Bird they completed the greatest frontcourt in NBA history. He repeated the chicanery to draft Maryland’s Len Bias just after Boston won their last title, with Auerbach as team president, in 1986, but Bias died of a cocaine overdose two days later, which signalled the end to the Celtic’s dynasty, a signal reinforced by the sudden death from heart failure of another shrewdly-drafted star, little-known Reggie Lewis from Boston’s Northeastern University.
Auerbach remained with the team, even once forcing out an owner by threatening to join the New York Knicks unless he sold the club. Three days before his death Auerbach attended a ceremony at which he was honoured with the US Navy’s ‘Lone Sailor’ award. He died of a heart attack before he could travel to Boston for the season’s opening game; the Celtics will dedicate their season to him, though these post-Auerbach days, that is hardly a tribute. His wife of 54 years, the former Dorothy Lewis, died in 2000; he is survived by two daughters.
Arnold ‘Red’ Auerbach born 20 Sept 1917 Brooklyn
Died 28 October 2006 Washington DC

EUROPEAN CHAMPIONSHIP DRAW FIXED? OR JUST STUPID?

What is it with international soccer tournaments? I've been watching World Cups and European Championships for more than 30 years, and I even took charge of the world feed for the 94 World Cup matches in Chicago, but I've never understood the prediliction for formats designed to maximise either negative play or unfair matchups. With Germany playing Austria tonight, I was reminded of their 1982 World Cup match where they played to a nicely weighted 1-0 win for the Germans, just enough to sneak both past Algeria, who had played earlier in the day. Round robins in groups of four are always going to produce clunkers in the final games, especially in the era of the three-point win, but it's unlikely the round-robin groups will ever be any larger.

But the current Euro format has a crucial flaw: the quarterfinals seed teams was the same groups into the same semifinal bracket...Group A and B have their winners and runners-up cross-paired, with the winners meeting in the semifinal. This creates the possibility, for example, that Portugal, having beaten Turkey 2-0, might have to play them a second time 18 days later to reach the final.

This is particularly unfair to the two teams that escape the so-called 'group of death', Holland, Italy, France, and Romania. Indeed, with Spain being joined by either Sweden or Russia, you could argue that half of the draw is far stronger than the one which boasts, coincidentially enough, both host countries, Switzerland and Austria, and their German cousins.

If I were a Dutch supporter, which would I prefer--Spain or a repeat match with either Italy, France, or Romania? Or would I rather face, say Turkey or Croatia?

Strangely, with Croatia, Poland, and the Czech Republic added to those three, six of the eight
teams in that half of the draw are what we might consider Mittel European, while the other eight traverse most of the continent. Was the fix in? Try to keep those home teams in as long as possible? Make sure Germany has a good shot to stay alive, in case they don't.

Or is it just unthinking complacency to miss the anomalies? It would be a simple thing to mix the second place teams from groups A & B aginst the first place teams from C & D, and fairer by far. But of course, once you put those little cards with the country names on the board during the draw, you have to keep the lines running straight. Or else you'd be offside.

MY GUARDIAN OBIT OF TIM RUSSERT

My Guardian obituary of Tim Russert is in today's paper.

This wasn't commissioned until after I'd posted Saturday morning's quick reaction to Russert's death, and I wrote it Sunday.

It has been edited slightly: I liked his line, after testifying in the Libby trial, that it was easier throwing grenades than catching them, and I also gave him credit for recognising Ohio as key to the 2004 election. I had included a quote from Nicholas Lemann, describing how his book is not really about his dad, but about validating the likeable, just-folks, Russert 'brand'.

There was also a bit describing the apotheosis of the celebrity/inside problem, pointing out that the April Clinton-Obama debate, where Charles Gibson (celebrity chat show host) and George Stephanopoulos (ex political insider) took their imitation of the Russert method to near-parody in their embarrassing chase of the 'gotcha' moment through trivial question after question. It was a valid point, but for a piece on media, not for Russert's obit, and I'm glad it was lost. The lead bull isn't responsible for every word from the herd.

One thing I didn't write, but I can't help thinking, and the photo the Guardian used reinforced my thought, was that if you were going to hire an actor to play Russert, it might be WC Fields.
Or vice-versa.

Re-reading it, I don't think I emphasized quite enough just how much agenda-setting Meet The Press could do, and, especially in the sense that Russert's tenure on the programme virtually paralleled the presidencies of Clinton and this Bush, how pathetic, how trivial, how tragic, that agenda-setting was. But perhaps that would be speaking too much ill.

Follow this link: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/jun/16/usa.television

GIVING IT A REST: STRAHAN, OGDEN RETIRE

Two NFL players this week announced their retirements, and both are going to be sure-things for the Hall of Fame. The most attention went to the Giants' Michael Strahan, after all, they are coming off a Super Bowl win, and it is New York. Strahan is a lively personality, who
wasn't hurt in the eyes of the often-vicious New York press by either his early feud with coach Tom Coughlin, his Brett Favre-ish retirement dance before last season, or an acrimonious divorce, mostly because he remained such an open and good interview. He was very accomodating to us at Five both in Atlanta, when we did the Giants live, and in London.

I remain dismissive of Strahan's single-season sack record: the NFL were wrong to award the record-breaking sack to him not because Favre deliberately lay down for him but because Favre wasn't running a pass play: there were no receivers to throw to, and thus it was a run, not a pass. But I have never been dismissive of Strahan's skills. Always an explosive pass-rusher, he built himself up into a fine run defender too, and maintained that ability even as he deliberately lost weight to maintain his quickness.

What is most interesting is that, unlike most premium pass-rushers who play the right side, to attack the (right-handed) quarterback's blind side, Strahan always played the left, which is generally considered the spot for a run-stopper (most teams run more to their right). But when you think about it, putting your best rusher on the left gives you two advantages--first, he's rushing against the other team's second-best tackle, usually a guy considered stronger as a run blocker, and second, you're rushing in the QB's face...you can cause panic, watch his eyes, read passing lanes, and knock down balls. Yes, you lose the possible turnovers when you hit the passer from hism blind side, but I've always thought the advantages outweigh that.

Anyway, Strahan goes out on top with a Super Bowl win, and that's always a good thing.

Jonathan Ogden goes out after an awful season by the Ravens, in which he played hurt when he played at all, but that should not overshadow exactly how dominant a left tackle he was.

If QB is the most important position, the guy who rushes the QB is probably the second-most important, and the guy who blocks the rusher is probably third, which is why good left tackles get the big bucks, why the Dolphins decided to build their new team around Jake Long, and why so many tackles went in this year's draft's first-round. The logic was the same as when Ozzie Newsome decided to build the Ravens around Ogden, whom he took with the fourth pick of the 1996 draft.

Ogden wasn't the favourite of every scout, because he didn't fit the template of his sort of player. He was highly intelligent, from an affluent family, and skipped spring football to throw the shot for the track team. Plus, at 6-9, he was taller than the conventional upside for a tackle: extreme height makes it harder to generate leverage. It also helps explain why Ogden's toe injuries were so crippling. But Ogden made up for that with amazingly quick feet, tremendous hands, and smarts which allowed him to cut off most rushers before they'd finished their moves. Anyone who read John Feinstein's excellent study of a Ravens' season knows how much his teammates respected Ogden, and to me he's the second coming of Baltimore's great Jim Parker, whose legacy sadly rests with the Colts in Indianapolis, at least according to the NFL. It would be nice if Ogden and Strahan went into the Hall together, and maybe did a little one-on-one, just for fun.

FATHER'S DAY: IN NEW YORK, LA, AND ENGLAND

My friend Bruce Tyson, who's only just younger than I am,
has had his second daughter, after a twenty-some year hiatus.

He wrote a touching blog on his reminiscence of father's day,
for the website of his breast-pump company,
Pumpstation (so it isn't like he abandoned the infancy thing
completely in the interim!)
here's the link:
http://www.pumpstation.com/pumpstation
/dept.asp?s_id=0&dept_id=3434&mscssid=

Meanwhile, for my father's day I was brought coffee,
cards, and a little gift in bed by Nate and Kirsten. Nate asked
why Mommy's card was addressed to Michael, not Daddy?
Because he's your daddy, but he's my husband, Kirsten told Nate.
He thought about it for a second and then said, 'when I grow up,
I'm going to be your husband.' That's my little Oeddie!

RIP TIM RUSSERT

While reading the eulogies for Russert, who by all accounts was a likeable sort of guy, and a Buffalo Bills fan, it is important to remember that he was perhaps the first of the political 'insiders' to move into a media analysis role, and all the way to celebrity status. Unlike, say, Cokie Roberts, he wasn't a hereditary member of the Beltway mob, but he opened doors for more staffers to move into punditry. It was no coinicidence that George Stephanopolous was, like Russert, at the center of punditry controvery during the debates. Criticisms of the questioning during this year's primary campaigns usually concentrate on party-partisanship, but beg the question of the bigger partisanship, which is the view from inside the Beltway, and the disconnect between there and the rest of America. It's hard to see what's really going on when you're in your Georgetown townhouse and moving for the summer to Nantucket alongside Jack Welch.

Instead, the insiders go on television and radio and use sex and gender and race to pander to their audience and set an agenda designed to serve as a red flag to a bull. It's the electorate that suffers.

In Britain, we're still in the stage of journalists doing political TV, sort of where the US was in the 50s and 60s, but because journalism has been an hereditary insider profession in this country for so long, there's actually more movement from journalism (or TV production) TO politics here.

Though British media does seem to regard it as their duty to provide a living for certain politicians after the voters reject them --such as Portillo (and his emanuensis, Gove) and Oona. Perhaps it's an Oxbridge thing?

HOLLAND 2 EUROPE 0

Having just beaten the two World Cup finalists by a combined 7-1, the current Dutch are looking like their glory teams of the 1970s. It's not 'total football', there's more traditional positional discipline, but unlike the Dutch teams of the past decade or so, there's also none of the finger-pointing, Kobe Bryant-style, me-first attitudes that seemed to stymie those teams in the clutch.

The interesting thing about both games is how easy it would have been for either Italy or France to have drawn or even won the game, yet how dominating the Dutch have seemed. Of course France were helped by a German ref who seemed to think this was UFC, not UEFA, and the Makelele was actually Kimbo Slice.

Quite a contrast to the Italy game, where the Swedish ref and his linesman contracted a huge case of Testicular elephantitis and ruled Van Nistlerooy onside for his goal. Correctly of course. If you could play someone offside by leaving the field, you'd do it all the time. And when two teammates collide and one decides to play dead (I read in the Guardian that he was 'obviously injured', except he received no treatment, didn't leave the game, and continued playing, as you'd expect from a soccer player who was in a near-death state moments before, at full speed) it would be harsh to penalise the opponents who are attacking their goal.

Now if the Dutch were Italians, they would go out and lose deliberately to Romania, thus ensuring neither France nor Italy go through to the next round!