Alan Coleman

I was looking around online earlier and came across this great picture of Bernard Hinault and Greg Lemond settling their differences at the top of Alpe d’Huez during the 1986 Tour de France. It’s a defining moment in Tour history, a truly inspiring image and a tribute to the sportsmanship of both riders. The two of them are up there with the people that I admire most in life. Hinault, very much the master at this stage of the relationship, is a picture of joy as the emerging understudy Greg Lemond looks on with admiration and respect. The whole image, Peugeot, Credit Lyonnais, paint on the road and the smiles all combine to give a perfect window into that late 20th century European psyche.

This is often referred to as the Golden Era of cycling, before helmets removed all its personality and drug use became an acceptable fate. Certainly the riders have changed in as much as they all seemed to come in different shapes and sizes, ranging from tiny Columbian climbers like Luis Herrera to enormous Dutch sprinters who attacked the flatlands with relentless force. Maybe attitudes have changed too, sure it was competitive but it wasn’t so much about being the eventual winner as having a couple of glorious moments.

It’s like all these things though isn’t it? It’s the romance of it all, the memories, the sound of Phil Liggett’s exited voice and the feeling of pride as Robert Millar leaves Pedro Delgado behind in the Pyrenees. Cycling isn’t the most skilful sport in terms of individual competitors, but it’s probably the most romantic and certainly the most stylish.

Two Things. The first is the London Marathon. I’d only ever watched this on TV before and always considered it quite tedious, all those wacky costumes and over enthusiastic charity types seemed a little bit too much. We went to see some friends who live in Canary Wharf on Sunday so got caught up in the crowds on the way there, and bloody brilliant it was too. Despite my ill informed judgment (who would have thought it?) about the event it turned out to be not only really good fun, but also quite inspiring. Moreover, in the current climate of hysteria surrounding our identity here we have an event that shows that we can be a great nation without necessarily involving the tabloid press.

The costumes, the pain, the smiles and the decency all underpinned a general feeling of pride both in the spectators and the runners. As the Samba bands played in the sunshine, and pubs spilled out onto the cracked pavements on the Isle of Dogs, we suddenly had a glimpse of how life can be lived without politics, greed and Richard Littlejohn.

The second thing is a gig I went to at the Electric Ballroom last week. And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead has been one of my favourite bands (aren’t they all?) for years, and last Thursday didn’t disappoint. I won’t bother using F7 to come up with a load of adjectives other than to say that they’re the real deal, and as I’ve said time and again, all the best bands are American.

Things are looking up!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/alcoleman/sets/72157617401351574/

http://www.trailofdead.com/

This is a fantastic picture, and one of my favourite images of the last few years. Even if you’ve been living in Mongolia since the turn of the century and don’t recognise them, they look like the sort of people you’d like know, right?

Look at Joe Calzaghe, with his humble stance and cool as thumbs up. When he answered his critics by teaching Jeff Lacy how to box in Mach 2006 I honestly thought that it was a defining point in my life. Still unbeaten after 45 fights, he is quite literally, a great bloke. Victoria Pendleton’s shy smile hides a personality that ignored her coach when he insisted that she was too small for track cycling. She went on to dominate her sport as the undisputed champion of the world with far too many titles and gold medals to list here. Lewis Hamilton’s friendly hands in pockets confidence is the epitome of cool. He ignored the racist slurs and backstabbing that accompany his chosen sport to rise as a true champion in unbelievable style.

I have no doubt whatever that any one of the above would stop and help you in the street if need be.

As a simple picture, it’s the embodiment of personal achievement, good nature and everything that is great about our country. Stuff The Daily Mail, the Royal family, the BNP and waving plastic flags at Last night of the proms. These people are what Great Britain is all about.

I was accused of being a glory hunter at work today because I follow Manchester City. I use the word follow because I’m not a real fan, I don’t go to matches and I’m not from Manchester. The accusation did come from a Spurs supporter, so you have to understand that there’s going to be a little bit of sour grapes what with them being crap for the foreseable future.

I’ve been to see City play once, at the Emirates stadium, I sat behind a bunch of apathetic Russian women in complete silence, literally. The only noise to be heard that day was that from the few thousand City supporters at the other end, singing and taunting despite Arsenal running rings round them. I’ve even been to the City of Manchester stadium once, but by the state of me I could well have been watching Oasis from the Barside at Layer Road.

I Also like City because they’re not Man United. Alex Ferguson with his petulance, chewing gum and old man gait. It’s just Man Yoo isn’t it? The ever greasy Christiano Ronaldo, Old Trafford and Rio Ferdinand with his Simpsons style plasticine mouth. Mick Hucknall supports Man Yoo, he would do wouldn’t he? And who’d want to be associated with anything to do with that fucking twat? It’s no wonder that Liam Gallagher punched him in the face for being, “An insult to Manchunians”. Mick Hucknall. Why in the name of Jesus H. Corbett would you you support the same football team as Mick Hucknall?

United fans are finding it hard to disguise their jealousy, especially after being saddled with millions of pounds worth of debt by an American that openly admits that he doesn’t like them. Liverpool fans too are whining with envy, in their case the debt that they ended up with came from an American that didn’t even realise that there we’re two teams in Manchester, duh! Even Mandy knows that.

Anyway, you have to support a football team don’t you? So it may as well be a proper one, not one whose entire fan base has a Hackney carriage plate, a crash pad in Fulham or a bicycle rental business in Phukhet. And if you don’t support a football team then what’s the point of watching Match of the Day? Or Shite of the Day as Mandy calls it.

But after all that, I follow City because I felt sorry for them when they where shit. I liked Maine Road, Kevin Keegan, Stuart Pearce. I liked the way that the City fans respected the 50th anniversary of the Munich air disaster, and the way Mike Summerbee conducted himself in front of booing Man Yoo fans at Wembley. Talking of Mike Summerbee, he starred alongside Sylvester Stallone and Pelé in Escape to Victory with another City player, Kazimierz Deyna. Escape to Victory, no Manchester United players were involved with the film.

We, yes we, are loaded. Deal with it. Money doesn’t buy silverware? Oh yes it does.

He’ll probably get off the train at Cannon Street or London Bridge. Along with his important AACCA documentation, his work clothes and sensible shoes will be tucked inside a cheap Fitness First day bag strapped to his back.

On alighting the train he will go about unpacking his Brompton folding bike, tugging and screwing at the various parts with his elbows and backside banging into other commuters struggling to get past. The whole procedure will have about it an earnest importance that comes with the lower ranks of middle management, that quiet and serious demeanour of corporate life by which the bored justify their bored existence. The concentration, blank look and scruffy sweatshirt at the weekend (Nottingham University).

Now he’s queuing to get through the gate, bobbing from side to side with impatience as he makes last minute adjustments to the Brompton folding bike, sturdy and traditional. He’ll be wearing a bright yellow rain resistant cycling top that will probably smell of stale sweat, that’ll be accompanied by a pair of lycra shorts that will be stretched to capacity by his ever expanding bottom. The legs will be unshaved and as anyone with any knowledge of the sport will tell you, that is a big NO if you’re going to wear Lycra. The side pocket of the cheap rucksack from the gym he never goes to will have a copy of the Metro stuffed in the side, it’s free after all. The full effect will be topped off by a garish helmet of metallic blue and red that he’ll drop when he gets his travelcard from the outer pocket of the backpack. You think he looks stupid now, wait until he gets on the Brompton folding bike.

Overweight blokes on bikes are all about momentum. Once they get going they can’t stop, and the city accountant on the folding bike is no exception to the rule. He’ll thunder along the streets balanced precariously over those tiny little wheels, panting heavily as his huge thighs pound and wobble a low gear. Like his company’s corporate policy, it’s definitely a case of no pain no gain, which is why he’ll be sweating like a pig by the time he gets to Ludgate Circus.

Don’t get in his way because a pair of utterly ridiculous wrap around blue mirror shades will render this 20mph unstoppable lump completely blind. Don’t bother shouting either, because he’ll be listening to Massive Attack album on his iPod (White earphones).

Utterly, ridiculous.