Glasgow 1-0 Manchester

Harry Tattersall Smith

The much-heralded magic of the cup was not evident at Garscube, yet the drama was very much intensified by Glasgow’s inability to finish off the visitors. At times it seemed like Glasgow were contriving to lose; or at least eager to send the home crowd into cardiac arrest. Chance after chance went begging, and whilst they dominated a beleaguered Manchester the scoreline always seemed precarious.

Glasgow dictated the opening exchanges, playing at a furious pace which their dazed opposition struggled to handle. Manchester seemed almost punchdrunk — perhaps nerves caused by the grandeur of the occasion — and they were unable to generate any sort of rhythm. Glasgow were playing with the vibrancy of a team brimming with confidence. Neat interchanges and incisive through balls consistently split the Manchester defence on a day when only their finishing was culpable. Chris O’Day was guilty of squandering a good opening as he tamely lashed wide after bursting through from midfield, and Jamie Kerr fired over from an acute angle after being audaciously played in by strike partner Andrew Knight.

Jamie Kerr was a constant source of irritation to the Manchester defence. He incessantly hassled and harangued the centre backs — largely the dog’s work of the unsung hero, but he was unlucky not to see it pay off. The opposition centre half looked to be harmlessly shepherding the ball out of play and Kerr nipped in behind him, but his square ball was criminally smashed over by Micheal Mckay.

Chris O’Day, the Glasgow captain, was immense at the heart of midfield. He seemed to be everywhere, and his intuition was such that at times it felt as if he had scripted the whole affair. Manchester struggled to contain his vision and pace of thought, as they showed too much respect and allowed him to orchestrate the proceedings.

As is so often the way of football, the first clear-cut chance of the game came against the run of play. A misunderstanding at the heart of the Glasgow defence allowed Kurt Ayton to race through. He seemed suprised at the space left to him, and with just keeper Ashley Brown to beat, his scuffed effort rattled harmlessly off the post.

It was the wake-up call that the Mancunian outfit needed. Lackadaisical sloppiness was eradicated and replaced with ruthless efficiency. It made for a fine counterbalance; the flare and flamboyance of Glasgow versus the gritty determination of Manchester — football versus anti-football.

Manchester surged forward again, and seemed to be developing an ominous stranglehold on the game. Ayton was given too much space to turn and Brown did well to beat away the looping attempt that seemed to be creeping into the bottom corner. The resulting corner saw Brown produce an outstanding reaction save. The Glasgow defence temporarily switched off leaving Danny Brennan, who had crept up from the back, unmarked inside the six-yard box. He looked for the world like he was set to open the scoring but his bullet header was remarkably kept out by a spread-eagled Brown.

Brown has developed a reputation as somewhat of a Jekyll and Hyde goalkeeper. His shot-stopping was again sublime, yet questions will constantly be raised about his ability in the air. On several occasions he left hearts in mouths by flapping erratically at crosses.

The woodwork was again to be Glasgow’s salvation when a hopeful cross was launched into the box but took a wicked deflection off Paul Ruddy and arced agonisingly towards the Glasgow goal. Brown was utterly wrong-footed, but again the ball cannoned off the foot of the post, and a relieved Brown was on hand to smother gratefully.

They say lightning doesn’t strike twice, but Glasgow were again on the receiving end of divine intervention. Brown was the sole reason the homeside were on parity but he could only watch and admire as Kurt Ayton’s shot sailed past him, but ricocheted
off the post and was eventually scrambled away by a panicking Glasgow defence.

If ever a goal was to change a match then this was it. A well-worked corner saw Andrew Knight soar above the Manchester defence and power home a header past the despairing keeper. It gave the team confidence to push on, and as they grew in stature the Mancunians seemed to shy away from the fight. Chris O’Day swiftly reasserted control.

The general at the heart of midfield marshalled his players with a series of pinpoint passes. At his most brilliant, a chipped through ball found Jamie Kerr and his acrobatic effort was smartly gathered in by the goalkeeper.

Glasgow by this stage were rampant, with a lack of further goals being the only detriment in a performance that was almost complete. Jamie Kerr burst through and saw his effort smartly parried to Mikey Mckay whose follow-up snap shot was incredibly saved by a combination of goalkeeper and defender and, with the goal at his mercy, Andrew Knight squandered the chance to double his tally by smashing over.

The arrival of Aaron Scouller gave Glasgow an added dimension. The energetic winger constantly terrorised the Manchester defence by running at them and a clever ball to Kerr allowed the striker to dance through a couple of tackles before a heavy touch let him down at the crucial moment.

It was a day in which one thought for the world Glasgow would come to rue the catalogue of missed chances. A last minute corner saw a reverential hush descend on Garscube as the 300-strong contingent of Glasgow fans fell silent.

The deep corner caused chaos at the centre of the Glasgow defence, resulting in a mad scramble and from the ensuing pinball the ball ricocheted to the feet of Danny Brennan, but he agonisingly fired over from five yards.

The final whistle sparked raucous celebrations from a jubilant home support, but ultimately it was a game in which fingernails were unnecessarily gnawed to the quick in an excruiating finale. There will surely be mixed emotions for the Glasgow players — who will undoubtedly be frustrated at their failure to kill off a game, yet relieved at getting the job done, and thankful for the apparent twelfth man that is the goalpost.

Ominous weather forecasts had threatened to put a dampener on GUSA’s annual inter-faculty sports extravaganza, yet the glorious occasion was matched only by the gloriously unseasonal sunshine that flirted with Glasgow for the weekend before returning to its more characteristic grey. Speaking at the opening of the football tournament GUSA president Steven Flavahan claimed that the weekend looked to have seen over 450 competitors taking part in an event that has historically seen the Medical faculties fiercly battle it out with the Engineers for Glasgow University sporting sovereignty; and it was to be the the Vets and the Engineers who were to eventually be forced to share the spoils after a gruelling weekend of sport in perhaps the most unpredictable inter-faculty competition to date.

The weekend’s opening event was the highly anticipated netball which saw the hugely fancied Medics, a team spoilt for choice in regards to international talent, take a comfortable victory as they stormed to the title at somewhat of a canter. However anyone expecting something of a medical whitewash was to soon see any gland slam aspirations perish as they struggled in the volleyball. The volleyball and basketball saw intense levels of competition but were eventually won by the LBSS in a turn of events that seemed to highlight the topsy-turvy nature of the weekend as a whole.

In the hockey it was the Engineers who eventually prevailed, overcoming a resilient Dentists’ team in a heated final. The hockey at one stage had looked the most likely to succumb to the early morning frost but thankfully intense efforts from the Garscube ground staff saw the pitch deemed to be in a playable condition.

It was a final that was given added significance as news gradually trickled into the players that should the Engineers secure victory then they would joint champions for the tournament as a whole.

Tom Harley, GUSA property and Alumni Convenor, who helped manage the weekend and who played for the engineers claimed “when we heard that news it definitely made us push harder, but they didn’t make it easier for us.” Harley went on to speak about the weekend as a whole claiming: “It’s been a brilliant turn out, everyone has had a great time and had a good laugh and hopefully this will see more and more people getting involved in sport in Glasgow”.

These sentiments were echoed by Glasgow 2nd year Medic Iain Marshall. “I’ve played in both the hockey and the volleyball, and although we’ve not won either it’s been a great fun, and with weather like this you can’t ask for much more.”

On a weekend targeted heavily by GUSA to see all faculties competing there was one for the statisticians: the first ever Arts faculty side entered into the competition. On hearing this news the Arts football captain, Philip Hunter, claimed he was “shocked, surprised but ultimately proud. We are a really big faculty, perhaps too big, but hopefully this can really spur the arts community to galvanise itself and who knows, maybe lead to future cup glory!”

It was the football competition that saw the greatest turn out, with almost twenty teams and well over 100 players vying for soccer supremacy. For the footballing romantics the group stages saw the ominous power of the Vets take on the Arts minnows yet anyone hoping for a Hollywood ending were to be disappointed as the underdogs were clinically dismantled by a Vets side looking on course to capture the coveted crown. It was in this imperious form that the Vets eventually triumphed, through a talented squad that has obviously reaped the benefits of training together week-in, week-out.

Overall the weekend highlighted the student body of Glasgow’s enthusiasm for sport, which were sentiments re-iterated by organiser Stuart Rankin, “the weekend has been a great success, it’s been really hotly contested but it has also been played with great spirit.”

Harry Tattersall Smith

When Rhona Martin cast the immortal stone that gifted Britain an Olympic gold medal, not only did it signify our first Winter Games victory since 1984, it rejuvenated a society disgruntled by the omnipresent image of the Adonis Athlete. The triumphant curling team of 2002 resembled more a gaggle of jovial housewives than world-beaters, who would have looked more at place down the bingo than atop the Olympic podium. Not since Eddy the Eagle’s glorious failure inspired the nation have we had such relatable role models. Being Olympic champion — albeit in an obscure sport — was again a realistic ambition for all those who had once given up hope.

Overnight, curling was transformed from the slightly surreal sport of the absurd to the sexiest pastime time since Gary Kasparov beat a computer at chess. Perhaps regrettably for those in the curling world, the surrounding furore has somewhat subsided and the frustrations seem to be continuing. This year’s big freeze almost saw a once-in-a-generation event take place: the bonspiel, which sees 20,000 people descend onto a frozen loch in the highlands to compete. Unfortunately it fell victim to a last minute logistical cancellation, but curling has certainly been one of the few sports to avoid this year’s frost bite, which has cost Scottish sport as a whole countless millions.

It is with the Glasgow Curling Team I find myself as I continue my pursuit of uncovering the sport in which my world championship aspirations can be fulfilled. My attitude to housework may occasionally be negligible but I’m pretty confident in my ability to use a broom, and that’s all curling is, right? Madly sweeping ice with brushes — which to the extent of my knowledge have the consistency and certainly the appearance of regulation household ones — to alter the speed of stones directed at bright coloured circles painted on frozen ponds. Surely that’s it? The perfect sport to which I can be hone my aspirations of world glory after a couple of intensive sessions? Wrong.

Curling, if anything, is like chess on ice. It is tactical to the point of having plays antagonised over in heated team discussions, whilst such is the required level of technique required to even throw the stone in the general direction, let alone with sufficient force to send it the correct distance, that I’m left inelegantly sprawled on the ice on several occasions.

The concept behind casting the stone lies in pushing yourself off against a mount set in the ice in a bizarre, yet graceful, lunging motion before launching it towards the mass of colour at the opposing end. Although that perhaps does it a great disservice, launching suggests that it is hurled whereas, if anything, to curl properly it is caressed; a finesse that is in stark contrast to the manic brush shovelling that it precedes.

I always thought our success at curling tied in with our national psyche. Ultimately, we are good at anything that doesn’t involve any degree of danger. However, it is only in playing that I realise how people can become so addicted. It may not be exhilarating to watch but it manages to simultaneously balance skill and strategy whilst being energetic and, ultimately, fun.

For coaching I’m left in capable hands. Ian Copeland is fresh from representing Great Britain in the World Junior games in Beijing, and is being coveted as a potential Olympian for the 2014 Winter Olympics to be held in Sochi, Russia. Curling as a sport doesn’t appear that accessible, or at least if it is, the knowledge really isn’t out there. I grew up five minutes’ from Scotland’s largest ice rink blissfully unaware that it was co-habiting with Scotland’s premier curling facilities.

Copeland agrees: “It is definitely a sport that is family-orientated — my family all do it and I guess it was always something I was going to do. Who knows if I would have got into it if it wasn’t for them. Probably not though.” Copeland’s utter dedication to the sport is admirable — “I’m away most weekends” — but when asked if he views it as a potential career, he scoffs. “No, there is no money in it. Hopefully it’ll allow me to do some more travelling, but not a living. However, that being said, a team have just come back from Canada and won $70,000, so who knows?”

For information, contact: captain-curling@gusa.gla.ac.uk

Harry Tattersall Smith

The ill-fated teenage boyband North South once sang, “I’m a man not a boy”, and as a child I took that as my call to arms. But the North South revolution failed, and so did mine. People realised they were rubbish and my parents realised I was 8, and thus biologically not a man, and wisely ignored my tantrums in which I demanded to be allowed to move in with Scott down the road because, well, it was a free country and also because he had a Play Station and Sky TV, and ate dinner on the sofa.

I had forgotten all about those days until this month of Movember when the feeling has been depressingly dragged back to my attention. I may have the physique of a gangly 19 year-old, but in facial fuzz years I’m still very much the little boy who thought a crudely assembled reality TV pop group were the driving force behind a radical campaign for social justice.

This past month has seen the facial grooming glitterati take centre stage. Our very own Glasgow has become a moustachioed metropolis. I have attempted to masquerade as a fellow “moustache-kateer” for the sake of charity, yet have come to feel like a fraud, and am now seeking exile in a facial-hair-free world.

My patchy offerings seem like an ill-conceived disguise and one which I am scared, if kept, will continue to give moustaches the world over a bad name. It has been a month in which a love-hate relationship has swung back and forth, a month in which I have come to view the moustache no longer as a disturbing oddity but rather as a beautifully and painstakingly cultivated work of facial art.

Usually I would take being compared to a dictator as an affront, yet a month spent trying to cultivate a moustache has changed me. For the first time in my life, having people draw comparisons between me and totalitarian tyrants has filled me with an enormous sense of pride. “What? You can actually tell that I’m attempting to grow a moustache? Yes, I am aware that I currently look like a pre-pubescent Adolf Hitler, but the fact you noticed unprompted and without forcing me into doing my ridiculous and degrading pouting charade fills me with a long-lost sense of masculinity.”

However, these precious moments have been few and far between. Any time I’ve started feeling even remotely confident about the mass of barely visible hairs assembled together over my top and categorised loosely — for want of a better word — as a moustache, I’ve had to suffer the gut-wrenching experience of encountering one of those infuriating gorilla-esque men who you can tell were born with a 5 o’clock shadow, and have to take time out of their lunch break to shave. It leaves me feeling like the clingy kid at school who’s desperate to be included, complete with braces, thick glasses, a lisp and a perennial sniffle, desperately clamouring to the group of cooler and older boys up ahead — “Guuuys … Wait up for me!”

As a foolish young man, I had always assumed the ‘tache was the path to academic enlightenment — or at least the appearance of it — yet if anything, I’m now experiencing a deranged descent into a sort of manic moustache madness. I’ve come to view my moustache as a safety blanket, as a source of comfort. I occasionally catch myself licking it and am shocked. I catch other people catching me licking it and I am disgraced. It’s a slow and steady decline. December 1 cannot come round soon enough for the sake of my sanity. That said, it will feel like I’m losing a friend. Sure, a creepy, weird-looking one — but a friend nonetheless.

Harry Tattersall Smith

Everybody was Kung Fu fighting; yet the latest martial arts trend sweeping Glasgow is Kendo. You’ve probably seen them across campus — they cut striking figures dressed in long black robes with meshed silver masks. You could be forgiven for being slightly intimidated — there is a certain Harry Potter Death Eater aura about them, gliding ethereally in their billowing robes with expressions hidden away beneath cloak and visor.

Kendo, literally meaning ‘way of the sword’ has emigrated from Japan, and has seen its popularity surge in Britain over the last decade as people seek to go beyond the treadmill in search of a way of keeping fit that isn’t soul-destroyingly dull. Dull it is certainly not. Watching the experts fight really is mesmerising. We are in a relatively empty hall, yet it reverberates with the sound of people shrieking and smacking each other with massive bamboo swords. Not wanting to use hyperbole, but the energy and excitement gives me the proverbial shivers.

The grace of the masters is counter-balanced strongly by my “bambi on ice” inelegance. I can’t clap in time, so a sport in which rhythm is intrinsic to striking your opponent is a bit of a struggle. Altogether, I’m pretty self-conscious. Essentially I am walking back and forth across the hall repeatedly slicing thin air with my deceptively heavy saber. I’m assured that learning the basics is essential to mastering the poise and balance necessary in Kendo, yet I can’t help feeling I’m acting in a low budget Star Wars spin-off. However, once I overcome my sense of silliness, I realise that I am fufilling many childhood dreams about being let loose with a sword, and that I love Star Wars. This is my dream sport. It’s fun, energetic and about skill and strategy as much as power and fitness.

Niall Moore founded the club in 2007 after returning from a gap year in Japan where he picked up the sport. “I came back to Glasgow and in amongst all the clubs that GUSA offered I was surprised that Kendo wasn’t there.” For a sport that is so visually compelling it doesn’t seem hard to generate interest, yet Niall says, “there are about twenty or so members, but most of them are beginners.”

Although they may be a new squad, the team has a lot to be enthusiastic about. “We’ve just been down at the Mumeishi Threes down in London. It’s one of the most prestigious, international Kendo tournaments on the circuit, and although we didn’t win anything, our strong performance against some of the best in the world, suggests that in a couple of years this club will have a real chance of winning some major trophies.”

Photo: Sarah-Ann Lee

GURFC 11-25 Vets

Harry Tattersall Smith

After a year of tumultuous off-field controversies, it must have been a relief for the newly formed Glasgow Barbarians to start letting their rugby do the talking. Yet on a night when they were looking to put past demons to bed it was a performance that delivered perspiration but little in way of inspiration.

It was a Glasgow side crippled with injuries that took to the field, against an ominous looking Vet’s side that seemed to tower over the depleted Barbarians.

On a greasy surface at the Garscube, it was never going to be a night for creativity, and all too often it descended into a brutal battle up front. The early tentativeness set a precedent for the course of the match, with the Glasgow 9 seeming to lack faith in his back line as he constantly seemed to be trying to pin the Vets back with an overly ambitious kicking game. It seemed to be merely handing the impetus back to a Vets side growing in self-belief, and allowed them to set about with seemingly endless waves of pressure that a scrambling Glasgow defence showed great resilience to keep out. Yet the Glasgow rear guard effort came at a cost, and as bodies were put on the line, Thomas Horton was forced off with a suspected broken wrist. Queue reshuffling and a controversy that threatened to see the match boil over. As the intensity of the Vet pressure mounted it seemed only a matter of when rather than if. A well worked move from the breakdown saw David McFarland, a handful for the Barbarians all night, bundle over to open the scoring yet the Glasgow team seemed incensed, arguing that the ball was fumbled forward before being grounded. With the absence of any fourth official, it would have been a brave decision to not award the try.

Glasgow looked to hit back instantly, the mercurial Horner burst through the Vet line, but found himself isolated, and he was promptly wrapped up in a swathe of the maroon Vet defence and the chance was gone. It was the case for Glasgow all night: moments of incisive individual brilliance not backed up by the team as a whole.

The Vets looked set to further their lead shortly after the half hour mark. Smart hands in the corner exposed Glasgow defensive frailties but with the line at their mercy it was knocked on by Chris MacGregor to temporarily reprieve the flagging Glasgow backline. Minutes later the weight advantage of the Vets was to be demonstrated. A driving maul on the Glasgow 22 gathered unstoppable momentum, and with the defence unable to handle the sheer ferocity, it was left to MacGregor for the simplest of tries. It perhaps showed a
Glasgow defensive immaturity, with the defence surely thinking in hindsight that it would have been better to cynically collapse the maul and sacrifice the penalty.

Richard Flook was imperious with the boot all evening, kicking intelligently from hand, whilst he continued to dissect the posts from the tee. Whenever the Barbarians looked to be developing something of a foothold on the match, they were consistently let down by defensive indiscipline for which they were repeatedly punished by the right foot of the stand off.

Glasgow almost got the perfect response straight after half-time. The Vets failed to deal with the kick off, yet as Glasgow looked to get back into the game they were met by an impenetrable maroon wall.

Glasgow did get back into the game through a couple of penalties from Andrew Brown. Brown, the league’s top kicker, has been described by compatriots as a “metronome,” and another flawless performance with the boot did little to disabuse that notion. Yet penalties seemed to come tit-for-tat and Brown repeatedly saw his efforts cancelled out by his opposite, Flook.

The game’s decisive moment came in the 70th minute. Glasgow were enjoying a spell of intense pressure and for the first time the Vets looked genuinely rattled. An innocuous looking ruck saw the ball spilled forward, and from it replacement winger Oliver James was allowed to rampage the length of the pitch through a fragmented field before selflessly passing to Macgregor to complete the rout.

Glasgow did gain some consolation however, when a clever up-and-under from Horner saw Glasgow’s talisman surge past a static Vet defence, and with the favourable bouncing ball giving Glasgow some of the luck that had so far eluded them, was able to canter home to give the score line a greater degree of respectability, with the match finishing 25-11. The full-time whistle sparked scenes of jubilation from the vociferous Vet support, as they capped an impressive start to the season with another major scalp.

After the match Andrew Brown spoke to Guardian about the frustration felt within the rugby club, “It’s really tough for the side at the moment. We are not getting any investment, and we have only been able to train three times this year. The image we have has scared a lot of the freshers, whilst some of the older guys have become disillusioned and are thinking about leaving and joining club sides. No disrespect to the Vets, they really deserved to win tonight they were the much better side and did the simple things better, but I think if the whole thing with GUSA hadn’t happened it would have been a totally different story.”

If you wake up this morning, step out into the rain and think, “well yes I know I’m getting wet but think about that poor Glasgow University Guardian sports writer. Whilst I understand that my momentary discomfort is, well, discomforting, I’m sure that this rain is playing havoc with their scheduling programme. I wonder if they will be forced into filling the space by writing a frivolous and tenuously linked article on weather and sports?”

If you are thinking this then get out of my mind.

But I am going to use this brief relapse in all things sporting to make a serious hypothesis. Our soppy reaction to rain is why we are such damp squibs when it comes to sporting accolades. Not that I’m complaining. The cancellations have saved me hours of standing in gale-force winds and horizontal rains trying to take notes on women’s lacrosse whilst my scraggily piece of paper rapidly disintegrates, and with ink so far removed from legible writing that it starts to look like a Rorschach test.

Yet my selfish desire for warmth and home comforts aside, the cancellations do represent one of the aspects that is so inherently wrong with sport in this country: our readiness to quit when things get difficult. The nations that are annoyingly good at sport ingrain an attitude of ‘play at whatever the costs’ into their youngsters from year dot. From the moment beady-eyed parents catch their future world champion fooling around with sporting implements there are simultaneous reactions. First, a chance to live vicariously through this prodigy — incidentally the exploitative, pushy approach to parenting is one that I intend fully on adhering to as I turn my child into a winner — and second, kerching…
The concept of ‘play at all costs’ is perhaps best exemplified by our neighbours across the pond. Let’s look at American football. The rules state that conditions for a game to be abandoned must be to such an extreme extent that the players lives are in danger. Essentially we are talking weather of biblical proportions before the players are sent for an early bath. Here we just need the slightest drizzle before we’re getting the health and safety brigade crawling out of some humourless hole and the players are sent scampering off, sniffling with the sheepish airs of naughty school boys.

Anyhow, a bit of rain has the ability to turn sport into Shakespeare. Some people might say that death is the great leveller, but if you want sporting drama then chuck in tyrannical weather conditions and it can turn even the seemingly invincible into the run of the mill pub enthusiast. The immortal scenes of Hereford beating the mighty Newcastle in the FA cup are synonymous with Ronnie Radford, caked in mud, arms aloft being chased through the torrential rain, across the boggy pitch, by the adoring faithful who had invaded it.

Our very own Tim ‘Tiger’ Henman was infamously defeated in Wimbledon’s ‘raingate’. Henman looked odds-on to beat the wildly eccentric and erratic wild card Goran Ivanisevic in their classic semi-final before the heavens opened over SW19. A match repeatedly interrupted saw Henman choke under the pressure of Henmania, and the rejuvenated Croat surge to victory in what many describe as the greatest upset in tennis history.

Anyhow, in next week’s ‘excuse column for why Britain is rubbish at sport’, Glasgow Guardian looks at global warming…

What do Adolf Hitler, Josef Stalin and the Chuckle Brothers have in common? If you’re wondering whether Barry and Paul have recently been involved in mass genocide then, as far as I am aware, you’d be wrong. They are in fact all advocates of something society — and perhaps more importantly, testosterone — has denied me until now: a moustache.

This month it’s Movember, the one month of the year when ludicrous facial fluff can happily sprout on top lips across the world, secure in the knowledge that it can’t be ridiculed because it’s all for a good cause. Movember originated in Australia with the aim of raising awareness around men’s health issues and prostate cancer in particular.

So, for one month only, my flatmates and I will be transformed from mere grubby students into the Ron Burgundys and Tom Sellecks of this world. Maybe we’ll lack the cool — we’ll definitely lack the sex appeal — but come join us on the emotional rollercoaster that is growing facial hair for charity.

There’s a part of me that resents not discovering this Antipodean-based phenomenon earlier: it would have made rationalising numerous dubious high school facial hair-based mistakes that bit easier. Throughout my school days I had a permanent shadow nestled over my top lip. Greasy and spotty, its very emergence went some way to comforting me about the fact that puberty, currently ransacking my body,at least had some benefits.

Yet, when worn correctly, a moustache can have its perks. It can be the ideal accessory in bluffing your way to a new intellectual look. Here’s my foolproof guide to lording it over the library. 1. Take an unnecessarily large pile of books and grab a central seat to maximise exposure. 2. Stare furiously at computer, stroke facial hair and concentrate on looking pensive. 3. Revel in the looks of jealous admiration. There’s a science behind this: Einstein? Moustache. Descartes? Moustache. Adam Smith? Arty goatee. Think about it. Geniuses all tend to model some kind of facial hair. A coincidence? Ha! I think not.

I’m hoping that my moustache will have therapeutic qualities as well. I might make it a personal mission to try and confront society’s general suspicion towards all things mustached. It’s true that when it comes to the tousled top lip, we’re all just a little bit prejudiced. Be it due to the anally retentive uncle with the military background who comes over all OCD when it comes to the taming of the ‘tache, or the creepy old man in the corner of the pub who hasn’t stopped glaring at you all night and whose moustache seems almost alive, bathed in spittle and stout, his horrible lady-tickler perched almost precariously above a set of set rotting, nicotine-stained gnashers, moustaches don’t have the best reputation.

Ultimately, the fear is that three weeks or so in, I’ll be reproached by somebody disgusted by my shocking lack of committal. To which I’ll sheepishly have to reply that, “no, in fact, I’ve not shaved — ok? My ethno-genetic make up just doesn’t contain the right balance of proteins, hormones and amino acids to effectively produce hair follicles at an accelerated rate, alright? Jeez.” And they’ll probably laugh. And I’ll probably laugh. And then I’ll probably go home and cry.

Photo: Benzo Harris

Harry Tattersall Smith

We find ourselves in sinister times. The news treats us to a daily deluge of general unpleasantness; so much so that even now a simple trip to the shops can leave us with a sense of impending doom.

On my first arrival in Glasgow from the comparative safety of Edinburgh and the East Coast a native imparted on me some wise words that have followed me through over one year of mugging-free existence: “You’re in a pretty safe area but I probably wouldn’t venture too far north, south, east — or west for that matter.” In essence, Glasgow can be a pretty nasty place, and although it’s hardly time to start training for apocalyptic-style street warfare, the knowledge of how to defend yourself should be imperative for everyone.

Krav Maga is rough, it’s tough and it’s downright dirty. It hones the primal instinct of self-defence through a policy of “anything goes”. I think this is perhaps one of the most beautiful aspects of Krav Maga: the respect that seems to legitimise every method of dirty fighting I ever adopted in the days of savage sibling warfare. Biting, gouging, hair-pulling are all kosher as people are expected to sink to the very depths of savagery in the name of self-defence.

Krav Maga, Hebrew for “contact combat” was developed in Hungary in the 1930s by Jewish guerilla warrior Imi Lichtenfield. It was originally developed as a means of street fighting in Jewish districts against Nazi militias, but given its effectiveness, Litchenfield was charged with the responsibility of training up the Israeli Defence Force after the state’s formation in 1948.

It may not be pretty but aesthetics seem irrelevant when it comes to street survival. There seems to be a mantra behind every technique taught: If in danger, kick your attacker really, really hard in the genitals and run away. Whilst other martial arts avoid dealing with weapons, Krav Maga is grounded in reality, and seems to evolve with society. As we see knife crime infiltrate our society at an alarming rate, so Krav Maga adopts new techniques to deal with the threat.

Whilst attending one lesson has left me with a sense of invincibility all week, I still have the fear that in actuality, putting the skills into practice would be my downfall. The fear is that my enthusiastic, if misguided, fists of fury would be mockingly dismissed by some Glasgow thug before he took it upon himself to single-handedly beat me into oblivion.

And obviously it is impossible to recreate the intensity of a real life fight situation, yet Coach John Miller talks of achieving a state of muscle memory: “Eventually you should get to that stage where you get to the point where your body acts instinctively. That is what Krav Maga does — it taps into the body’s animal instinct to survive.”

Whilst some martial arts can be intimidating due to the intense levels of training required, there is something refreshingly inclusive about Krav Maga. You don’t have to be a Bruce Lee ninja warrior or of an Arnold Schwarzenegger physique to effectively defend yourself. It is about highlighting your own personal strengths and utilising them to effectively overcome any attackers.

Coach Miller argues: “It’s all very well being able to kick someone in the head, but realistically, how is that going to help me if someone attacks me with a knife?”

And he is right. In my youth I briefly struggled with judo, before the horrible realisation that although it came with martial arts status there was nothing cool or glamorous about it, and I can safely say that if faced with a Saturday night street brawl the last thing I would want to do is attempt to grapple and pin my knife-wielding would-be assassin. At times it can be easier to adopt the ostrich approach to life: a sense that avoiding any notion of nastiness will make it disappear. Yet it is foolish in these times, and with the resources we have so readily available, to not be in someway able to defend yourself. As elegantly surmised by Miller: “Better to have the know and not need it than to need it and not know.”

Details at www.ikms.co.uk

Photo: Claire Maxwell

Harry Tattersall Smith

Choosing a fitness regime can often leave you feeling like a kid in a candy store. If I do that thing I’m going to get totally ripped abs, yet if I do that, the advert states that there is a fantastic chance that in no time at all I’ll be infinitely more attractive to beautiful women. It’s a tough and fickle world, a world where plucky entrepreneurs exploit our deepest, darkest fears about self image and cash in. Fitness crazes are inclined to come and go, largely in sync with New Years’ resolutions, yet one such fitness revolution has quietly sprung into the nation’s consciousness: trampolining. With burgeoning numbers, it is now not merely a kitsch plaything but rather a fitness force to be reckoned with.

Now, I can openly admit that in a by-gone era I was the owner of an unloved trampoline. It did enjoy a brief spell of popularity in our back garden, and it had been a source of great pride to show off to admiring friends; a status symbol which I think for a brief period — circa 1998 — saw my popularity exponentially jump in parallel with the jumping revolution that was sweeping through my eight year-old world. The romance was to be short lived. An elderly neighbour was spotted working out on one and from then, the trampoline lost its alluring appeal and was sentenced to a life of ignominy; to slowly rust away before being deemed a health hazard and shipped off to the dump. Alas, after a ten year-long hiatus, I’m re-entering the wacky world of trampolines.

Any cynical thoughts I may have had towards trampolining are almost instantly vanquished when I finally, albeit precariously, get up on the tramp. The memories of childhood come flooding back, and although in many ways I have a resemblance to a fish out of water, it all seems insignificant. It’s a joy. I’m amazed. The media would have me believe that I can’t have this much fun without being on drugs and/or alcohol.

I feel liberated. It has been a miserable day, I’m hung-over, it’s raining, I have a cold and I’ve just lost more money than I would like to disclose betting on Fifa. And as much as I would like to stress that I am in no way an authority to make any judgements on physical or mental health, after five minutes contentedly bouncing away I feel rejuvenated.

Trampolining, however, does sadly fit into the class of sports that look easy but are ridiculously difficult. When I first get on I figure I’ll just go straight for it. Nail a couple of double somersaults, then finish it off by tucking into a triple-piked half-flip. No worries. But in reality, my first task is to jump around in a square — which is depressingly difficult.
I am a man who has always considered himself somewhat athletic, but this task seems to have tested my limits. Someraults on hold, I’m left flapping about, sheepishly grinning, with arms wildly waving and feeling a bit silly.

I speak to Stewart Campbell, one of the top talents to emerge from Glasgow University’s renowned trampolining club. He has a background in gymnastics: “I got into trampolining because Glasgow doesn’t have the resources to manage a full gymnastics club. It may be physically demanding but it’s a great laugh trying out new tricks on a giant trampoline.”
He also goes on to talk about the health benefits: “It is a great way to unwind and forget about all your university worries and just totally de-stress.”