AS Usual, I thoroughly enjoyed coverage of the BBC’s Sports Personality of the Year, won this time by Olympic gold medallist Chris Hoy.

Before the programme began I half expected the award to go to Lewis Hamilton, although I didn’t want the 23-year-old Formula 1 world champion to win it – not yet.

When he has won his third or fourth world title, maybe, although because Formula 1 has such a huge fan base in Britain, I thought that more votes would have been cast for Hamilton than anyone else.

But no, not a bit of it. A cyclist won, having taken three golds at this year’s Beijing Olympics, and I was chuffed to pieces for the affable 32-year-old, partly because riding a bike is usually one of those sports normally at the back of national newspapers somewhere between fly fishing and darts.

All of which renews my faith in the vast British public, who rarely complain en masse but do love to vote against the perceived wisdom of the press and media, when the latter think they know better.

Turn to any popular tabloid and you’d think that the only sport we’re interested in is football or, at the top end of the paper, footballers’ wives. But no. Joe Public is a much shrewder person than that.

I was also delighted that in third place we voted for Rebecca Adlington, our first double-winning gold medallist in an Olympic swimming pool for almost half a century.

And as the girl from Mansfield was interviewed, what struck me (apart from her modesty) was the fact that she has actually spent an entire year – out of the 19 that she’s lived – in a swimming pool.

All I can add to that statistic is that I presume, in a previous life, that she must have been a dolphin.
As a further aside, Hoy’s thighs are each 27 inches in circumference. Lillie Langtry’s waist was at least an inch less.

Why the boys from the Royal Artillery really are a class act

Over the last 12 months I have argued that for all of sport’s importance in our daily routine, you can’t place it on the scales to be weighed against far more serious matters. Life, for example. Or perhaps the taking away of life.

In November I was reminded of this by the officer in charge of the Royal Artillery rugby team who came to the Island and lost to the Jersey 1st XV. He told me that he never knew who would be in his team because wars in such places as Iraq and Afghanistan got in the way of team selection.

‘And did you know that if a player is injured during a game, we’re forbidden to call out the local hospital, for insurance purposes? We have to call in our own medics or go straight to 999,’ he added.

Apparently insurance companies have become increasingly uneasy since they realised that if you’re part of the military, you stand a greater chance of claiming money back from them in any potentially dangerous environment, unlike your normal 9 to 5 day clerk who works in a bank.

Last Saturday the game between the Royal Marines and Jersey was cancelled because of the weather, although the visit did give the 24-man squad an excuse to enjoy what they described as ‘Jersey hospitality – second to none’ and gave me an opportunity to talk to Jan Hicklin, the team manager, coach Tony Hands and 1st XV captain Colin Milkins as the rain poured outside the JRFC clubhouse.

All three are proud of the players they call into their side, two-thirds of whom will represent the Navy in the annual Army v Navy game at Twickenham in May next year. They reckon that 50,000 people will watch the match, but they seemed keener to talk about their annual Boot Match, in which the senior NCOs are given the chance to take on their officers in front of a handful of spectators.

‘It’s more like an 80-minute war out there!’ explained Tony Hands. ‘It’s the only chance in the year for the men to take on their officers: two lots of men smashing all hell out of each other. And afterwards, there’s no distinction in rank – they’ll go to the mess and enjoy a few beers. Rank doesn’t come into it. On the pitch they’ll smash each other to pieces but afterwards they’ll be the best of friends. That’s one of the beauties of rugby. No rank, no class distinction.’

A revealing game that casts the unwanted ones adrift

A week from now there will be no Friday comment page because a week from now it will be Christmas ‘proper’. There will be no sport (apart, perhaps, for a quick dip in the sea at Ouaisné or Havre des Pas, or a run at Bouley Bay Hill), although Christmas seems to have been with us for the last month or so, according to the number of seasonal meals I’ve been invited to.

At the last dinner I attended, having been placed next to people I had never met before and will probably never meet again, to break the ice I turned the conversation around to desert islands. If nothing else, it provided us all with an hour’s entertainment based purely on one simple question: Which sporting hero or heroine would you least like to be stranded with on a desert island?

As a topic for party debate it proved its worth, and I would encourage anyone to include it in their repertoire of Christmas games, alongside charades (or, in the Lake household when I was growing up, interminable whist drives).

What surprised me most was that while everyone could name half a dozen sports people they would not wish to share a desert island with, it was much harder for them to say who they would like to be there.

A few of the men, of course, immediately plumped for the likes of Sharon Davies and Gabby Logan, although I pointed out that I doubted if either could build a tree house, skin a goat or rub two sticks together to light a fire.

However, with almost passionate conviction, and despite admitting their admiration for both men’s talents, the two sportsmen that the table agreed would make them heave themselves into the jaws of any passing shark to escape from their fellow latter-day Robinson Crusoes were John McEnroe and Geoffrey Boycott.
Sorry John. Sorry Geoffrey. I might have introduced the game, but I had no say in its final outcome …

Come on, lads – your sport should run and run

THE under-18 football game between St Brelade and Jersey Wanderers last Sunday was a much quieter affair than the previous weekend’s match between St Paul’s and Trinity, but the skill factor was just as high – if not higher.

Indeed, there are some excellent teenage football players in the Island, including several from either of these sides who have caught the eye of UK scouts.

However, much as I enjoyed the game and conversation with watching parents, I do have a gripe. The skill factor? Extraordinarily high. But fitness? No. I am amazed at how many footballers of 16, 17 and 18 who walk around the pitch when they don’t have the ball. They’ll make a tackle, but then stand still. If the ball’s on the left while they’re on the right, they’ll watch what’s going on rather than running into space or trying to anticipate the next phase of the game.

So, as we approach a time of roasties and Christmas pudding, if I was a youngster who really wanted to be a sporting superstar, I would spend the next two or three weeks pushing myself as hard as I could to be the fittest teenager on any pitch (and, come to that, in any sport) come the New Year.
I repeat: talent alone in the 21st century isn’t enough to turn you into a world champion. As Rebecca Adlington would happily confirm.

How Sachin makes it look so easy …

TWO BONUSES: Hurray for the new town skate park, although twice I’ve nearly been bowled over by a surplus of skaters outside Sand Street car park either on their way there or on the way back again.

And congratulations to a batting genius in Sachin Tendulkar, whose century saw India win a memorable first Test against England at the old Chepauk Stadium. I predicted they would win. But then in the light of recent events, I wasn’t too concerned about the result of the game. Instead, I was delighted that the match was played against so many odds and eventually gave millions of people a very simple, earthy delight.

Without sport and our sporting heroes, this world would be a terribly oppressive to live in or to hand on to the next generation.