The 'C' Word

First off apologies for this article in that there is unlikely to be any real direction with it. This is merely an opportunity for me to get some feelings out. I have just taken a thirty minute walk around London’s streets trying to put my thoughts into some sort of order, but all I have lingering around in my skull is one word. The ‘C’ word. No, not the ‘C’ word that would get you a slap in your mouth from your mother if you ever were stupid enough to mutter it in her presence, but the ‘C’ word that brings about only thoughts of death, and somber ceremonies. That word is ‘Cancer’. What a horrible, dirty word. I even feel slightly embarrassed typing it into the computer.

What brings about this sudden thought is something that threw me shortly before my Friday lunch. A time I usually spend relaxing, reading a good book in one of London’s many parks. While searching to find out if, let us say, an old friend had finished a book I knew they were writing, typing their name into Google brought a completely different article to what I was looking for. This person I last saw, perhaps, a year ago and greeted me with a cheery and firm handshake even when there could easily have been a slight animosity between us. This person was, perhaps not fit, but certainly healthy the last time we met. And this article sitting in front of me informs me that this man has that horrible disease that only brings about thoughts of death. The article itself is actually expertly written by the man who is suffering with the- I’m not entirely sure what the best term for it is- illness and successfully makes some light of such awful news.

While trying to clear my head on the walk I came across a number of- while depleting still high amount- people sitting with that little white stick in their mouth. On a few occasions I wanted to march up to the foolish fellow, rip it out from between their lips and stamp it into the pavement. But then I realised something. While ‘experts’ inform us that the more we smoke and drink alcohol the higher our chances of catching the illness- I actually cannot bring myself to type the word again- it really does appear to be a very random disease. The friend who wrote the article admits to smoking just one cigarette in his life while I know people who smoke twenty a day that are still living comfortably into their sixties. Or the three year old child diagnosed with Leukemia who, you hope, has never been near a cigarette in their short life, yet the old man who admits to drinking Scotch like it was water and endlessly filling his lungs with tobacco lives for over a century.

Why is this dreadful disease so seemingly random? Is it because God wants to test us and show us hard times so that we appreciate the many good times in life? Is it because God is, in fact, a horrible, evil b@stard who is not the benevolent being many see him to be? Or is there really no God and it really is just a random calculation? Many will have their opinions but no-one will ever know for sure. What is certain is that the quicker scientists can find a way of ending the disease the better.

Ok, Ok, I got it wrong

Sometimes you have to admit when you get it a bit wrong. Last week I foolishly predicted that the winner of this year's British Open would not truly feel like a champion due to the absence from the field of a Mr T. Woods from America. How wrong I was. While it is impossible to predict whether Woods' absence had any affect on the players, allowing them to relax a little, this certainly was the greatest Open in recent history.

It could have all gone so wrong though. At the start of the tournament the world number one's name was thrown about in almost every sentence and when Sandy Lyle, a former champion of this event, left the course in a sulk after just ten holes many, including myself, believed that Royal Birkdale's first open in a decade was to be a nightmare.

However, Saturday arrived and Woods and Lyle were forgotten and there were other names to be focussed on. Most prominent of these was The Great White Shark, Greg Norman. The fifty-three year old who admits he occassionally plays golf in between pursuing his many business interests sat atop the leader board hoping to reclaim the trophy he last one back in 1993. Many, once again I was in that group, believed his presence at the top was just a quick visit before disappearing into the pack. However, the Australian was still leading the field on Sunday morning and put up a valiant fight in the final round to finish in a very strong third place.

Chris Wood, the Bristolian bean-pole was another to come away with much credit from the week. The twenty year old playing in his first major gave himself a real chance of collecting the Claret Jug before eventually finishing fifth-although he might want to invest in some sun cream when he returns next year.

Even Ian Poulter very nearly ended a tournament with more said about his golf than his fashion but the horrendous pink trousers he wore on the final day were just too ridiculous to be ignored. The Englishman, however, put up an incredibly brave fight to push the eventual winner all the way.

That winner, for the second time running, was Irishman Padraig Harrington. The holder was expected not to enter the tournament earlier in the week due to a wrist injury, but he put in one of the greatest performances in recent years to pick up the coveted trophy, symbolised by an incredible approach to the par five 18th that all but confirmed his victory.

In the end I admit to getting it wrong, and will be gladly proved wrong again if it leads to more great events like this weekend's.

Something missing

As the open gets underway this week, anyone who even slightly follows Golf will be aware that there is something missing. You might have heard the name bandied about every now and then. Tiger Woods. The man who has won 14 major championships, 3 claret jugs and who won last months US Open with half his knee hanging off, ring any bells?

Despite what people may say, and as magnificent as the Open Championship will be- as of course it is every year – whoever takes home arguably the most coveted prize in Golf will always have the Californian’s absence hanging over them. Yes to win a major championship is a remarkable achievement- certainly more than I will ever achieve – yet this weeks victor will know, deep down, that they did not do it against the greatest golfer on the planet.

Don't Let Dwayne Go

After all the waiting, all the talk, tomorrow we finally find out whether Dwayne Chambers will be competing in this summer’s Olympic Games. You will have heard the story but, if not, this is it in a nutshell. Many, many moons ago now -2004 to be precise- Dwayne Chambers, Britain’s golden boy of sprinting at the time was found guilty of using the banned steroid tetrahydrogestrinone (THG) and banned for two years, as well as being given a lifetime ban against competing in Sport’s greatest spectacle, the Olympic Games. That ban was and, at this time, still is a policy of the British Olympic Association in the hope that it will deter young athletes from taking performance-enhancing drugs to further their careers. However, Chambers’ bid to compete in Beijing next month may change all that.

Personally, I have a lot of respect for Dwayne Chambers as a person. He has attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to make a career out of other sports where his obvious talent would help him. Unfortunately for Dwayne, anyone who knows the slightest thing about Rugby League knows that speed alone will never make you an elite athlete. The same, I’m sure, can be said for American Football. After these two disappointments, Chambers decided to return to the sport that he knows best and earlier this year stated that he intended to overturn the ban that has stood for so long, the ban that every athlete in this country is aware of. If you are found guilty of taking drugs, you will not compete in your sport’s pinnacle.

The ban is not an opportunity to punish those drugs cheats, but a deterrent for potential athletes to prevent them from taking the easy route in the sport. Admittedly, and the current situation is a prime example, it does not always work, but imagine the situation we would be in if we send a message to young athletes that if they take drugs, they may just get away with it.

Whos afraid of the big bad lift?

Perhaps it is rude to admit it, but if I have just entered the office lift and am waiting for the doors to close when a colleague swings into view hoping to catch the lift I am already in, I will pretend I am too engrossed in the morning’s newspapers to notice them and enjoy a peaceful, twenty-second comfortable ride to my floor. Yes, I admit this is perhaps a tad rude, yet there is something about the office lift that I find remarkably uncomfortable. I could be chatting to a great friend of mine, reeling off the greatest story ever told, then I step into the constricting, grey box and my train of thought comes to the end of the line and I completely lose my focus spending the remainder of the journey awkwardly smiling at my companion or pretending to read the only sign that is in the lift, the sign I now know off by heart.

It seems however that the strange grey box does not only bring about a change in my behaviour but also in my work colleagues. Let us pretend that most mornings, no matter how hard I try for it not to be, my lift-buddy is the same person. Let us also pretend that lift-buddy is called Jean and that Jean works in the Human Resources department. Now, during the roughly seven hours, fifty-nine minutes and forty seconds that we do not share a lift Jean does not even recognise my existence in the office. We pass each other, me offering a slightly nervous but-I like to think-friendly smile of acknowledgement while Jean looks dead ahead, her eyes not leaving the dull, brown carpet-which really isn’t very attractive-much like Jean.
In the mornings, however, when she becomes my lift buddy I am greeted with a wry, wide smile that appears to be held open by string. The greeting I am offered could be one of three depending on the day of the week. Monday’s bring a cheery ‘How was your weekend?’ The other end of the week I am asked ‘Up to much this weekend?’ and if it is any of the three days in between it is generally regarding the state of Britain’s weather, positive or negative depending on London’s weather that morning. But I wonder whether Jean really cares about the answers to these questions because as soon as we have reached my floor, the smile fades and it is back to the solemn stare at the ground.

As a result, I have found myself deliberately being ten minutes late for work to avoid the awkward moment and was delighted when greeting me as I enter the lift this morning was an attractive secretary I have seen around the office but not yet spoke to. We stepped into the lift, a few moments silence before ‘How was your weekend?’