This is the b-side of our platter, sports fans

If clubs and sports kit manufacturers are just going to callously ignore our vision of design future, as they have pointedly been doing in the four days since it was published, then they should at least strive for the no-shame-in-that, Tyson Gayian silver medal and look towards Paris. For Stade Français have outdone themselves.

Last year, we reported on how Stade gleefully flaunted the conventions of sports kits, wrecking some heads in the process. A basic summary: a Warholian representation of Blanche of Castile, wife of Louis VIII; and pink — bold, distinctly un-rugby-like pink. It met with our approval.

This year? Lo:



Wow. Talk about never resting on your laurels. If there's a better pair of jerseys in sport right now, I have yet to make its acquaintance.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking Fred, ordinarily I enjoy to the point of awe your wickedly ironic take on the world of sport, and would gladly pay you a considerable quantity of euro for the privilege were it not gratis — in fact, I'm writing out a postal order as I think — but to be honest, you're starting to frighten me. These shirts are an abomination, an affront to all that's decent and proper. Tell me you're joking!

No. No, no, a googol times no. Look, if you're happy with your templated, pipe-and-slippers jersey orthodoxy, that's grand. Really. But in this squalid, neglected back lane of the global village, we salute its arrogance, its perversity, its dedication to the spirit of — to borrow a phrase from Tony Wilson* — just being bloody wilful. We hereby adopt it as our home jersey.

Spiritually, of course, not actually. The only time a man should pay €80 for an article of clothing is if he's getting married in it. (Hey, there's an idea...) But it's the thought that counts, it really is.

H/T on the new Stade jerseys: football_music @Twitter

* 24 Hour Party People DVD extras, nerdlingers!

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"What could be, what might be...what is"

Bart: This isn't bad.
Homer: Isn't bad? Tell me one thing mankind's ever done that's any better?
Lisa: The Renaissance?
Homer: This is better.

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A prologue to history

If you find yourself being sucked into a black hole all of a sudden this Saturday, it's not that they've fixed the Large Hadron Collider: it will have originated at the Millennium Stadium.

Ordinarily, I don't get as worked up about rugby as about football. It's great when Ireland win and not so great when they lose, but it's not as if it matters that much. What's more important is that it's a good game.

But this weekend? With Ireland one win away from a second ever Grand Slam (the first for six decades), a first championship since 1985 and a just reward for one of the greatest Irish teams ever, in any sport? With Wales still in with a chance of a second consecutive Six Nations, still sore about losing their chance at another Slam, at home, pepped up by some residual Gatland bitterness? In the last game of the least aesthetically-pleasing Six Nationseses in years?

Man, it's going to be ugly.

So sod that for a game of soldiers: as much as I like the Welsh rugby team, here's to an Ireland win, no matter how.

In the spirit of wilful perversity, here are a couple of great Welsh moments from the past. Or more precisely, a couple of great Phil Bennett moments. The first is from 1977 against Scotland; the second is that try scored by the Barbarians against New Zealand in 1973 — finished off, of course, by Gareth Edwards, but begun by some Bennett trickery.




Why the Bennett stuff? Why, I've been listening to the Manics, of course. No other band could get Bennett, Steve Ovett, Shaun Ryder and Neil Kinnock into the same song. Nicky Wire: you may be a Spurs fan, but I salute you.

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BO'D is your G-O-D

Oh, just a heads up in case you missed the news at the weekend: whatever deity you've been praying to all these years has been usurped by Brian O'Driscoll. In the words of Richard Williams, "the 30-year-old outside-centre showed how a great player can grab a mediocre match and bend it to his will, calming the anxieties of those around him and giving shape to the collective endeavour". Fear him, praise him, bash him in the head: he is indifferent to your petty human foibles or borderline concussions.

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Is this the best kit ever?

The Guardian's Mikey Stafford today poses the question 'Is this the worst kit ever?', referring to Parisian rugby club Stade Français' new third kit. Pardon me, Mikey, but you're way off.

This may be the greatest kit ever because it's practically an anti-kit. None of your hoops or quarters or swooshy nonsense. No changing the width of the piping on the sleeves and breathlessly selling it as THE BRAND NEW JERSEY. If you're going to charge €75 for a replica shirt, the very least you can do is subvert the entire concept of sports apparel with a pop-art portrait of a 13th century French queen.



Stade's maverick ways are also in evidence with their home and away jerseys: the former adorned with images of pretty pink flowers of some kind (botany ain't my strong suit), the latter ditching the home shirt's coyness and just letting the pinkness all hang out (that's not a euphemism, by the way). It also has some lightning bolts emanating from the crest which look unfortunately like stink-lines - but such an error of judgement serves only as a contrast, highlighting the brilliance of Stade's attire. It's sometimes hard to believe that rugby union is barely a decade removed from amateurism, with its doggedly functional jerseys, so heavy they were used to weigh down prisoners in parts of the world where police forces couldn't afford handcuffs. Now, it's stepping into the sort of avant-garde territory which even the bravest of soccer kit designers of the early '90s dared not approach.

Also, the idea of a sport wrapped up in a self-image of rampant heterosexuality being confronted with the type of kit which could be specifically designed to annoy the hell out of many of its practitioners is somewhat pleasing.

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