Wednesday, 4 September 2019

I love Var...

Here on Exmoor, last Sunday was a perfect end to the Summer. The sun shone pretty much all day and the wind, no more than a gentle cooling breeze. The perfect day for lunch in the garden, accompanied by some delightful Listel Gris from Camargue.

Before lunch I had spent an hour or so catching up on the football news, having been unable to get to Ebbsfleet the day before...and pretty much as always the back pages were full of VAR controversy.

The empty bottle of Listel Gris lay forlornly on the grass underneath my deckchair...

''I broke open the ancient shutters and recoiled……..it was going to be oppressively hot.

As far as the eye could see, clouds of dust hung over the burning white farmers' tracks between the gardens of olive trees and well-tended vines under a huge sun of a dullish silver which filled the whole sky.

Not a patch of shade, not a breath of wind. Nothing but the quivering hot air and the raucous cry of the cicadas, the crazy, deafening, urgent music whose loudness seemed the equivalent in sound of this immense quivering radiance……''

My augmented reality was broken by my wife calling from inside of our house....'the grass needs cutting....put the sports pages down...and get working'.

My mind was playing tricks on me. Why did the Sunday Times spell out the letters of Var, the department in Southeastern France. Surely its beauty shouldn't be reduced to V..A..R.

My mind was clearing...I was conflating a love of southern France with an innate dislike of Premier League football...a dislike that intensifies when televised, and subsequently taken apart by 'pundits'.

I certainly haven't taken much interest in VAR, as I really can't see it ever being applied at the Recreation Ground, but I do observe from afar that it is cruelly dismantling the natural beauty of our game by the necessity to deliver the 'perfect decision'.

Our game is not perfect...the refereeing decisions, both right and wrong, form the opinions that naturally divide us all.


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