Or they could opt for the direct train from Kings Cross, which will whisk you to the heart of the city in just over two hours.

Just make sure you don't end up in Bransholme – you'll be pregnant or delinquent before the final whistle blows.

"New voice saying new words at a new speed," wrote one of Hull's most famous sons, Philip Larkin.

I doubt he was directly referring to Gary Lineker on Match of the Day, but we'll celebrate it nevertheless.

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No time to waste...

Monday 25th August, 2008    Posted by David Welch

It could be close deciding on the most deserving British casualty of an otherwise splendid Games in Beijing: the tourist chief apparently responsible for allowing Myra Hindley a cameo role in the London hand-over; Leona Lewis' dress designer; or the performance director of British athletics, Dave Collins.

The awarding of the Games was always going to prove a catalyst for improved sporting performance in this country. That it has not yet happened in athletics - while other sports have responded magnificently - is of serious concern.

Just as the Olympics provide a non-negotiable deadline for the delivery of facilities, financing and development, so they leave no room for continued talk of near-misses and excuses on the field of play.

With more than 140 medals available (if you don't drop the baton), the British athletics team failed to reach their unchallenging target of just five in Beijing. Would that meagre 3.5% return...or even six, seven or eight medals have justified the sport's management team escaping scrutiny?

Higher targets should be aspired to, and athletes will have to be convinced that domestic success and subsequent financial security is not what drives on the Jamaicans, Kenyans, Australians, Americans, Russians and Chinese.

Our other sports have already embraced this. There will never be a greater incentive than a home Olympics, and athletics has the best chance it will ever have of repairing the damage done by years of scandal, neglect and mal-administration. Change at the top is needed now.

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Pears'd off...

Wednesday 10th September 2008    Posted by Ben Jacobs

When Nigel Pearson - the chubby Buzz Lightyear of football - took over, I thought (my team) Leicester were 'taking the Pears'. And, despite an unbeaten start, it still wouldn't surprise me if our Championship push goes Pear-shaped.

Milan Mandarich promised a "world class" manager to replace Ollie the Wally (or Ian Holloway as I'm told he prefers to be called). He then had the commendable audacity to approach Paul Ince.

...a week later and Nigel Pearson arrives (sighs)... the one manager who, bar Leicester's own Basil Fawlty incompetence, combined with a drab final-day stalemate at Stoke and Southampton's own scrappy 3-2 win over Sheffield United, would have taken another ex-Premier League giant down.

Pearson's appointment was no Cilla Black surprise. It came just days after ex-Saints' Chief Executive, Lee Hoos, arrived at The Walkers. Hoos reminds me of the Roman Emperor, Caligula. No... he's not an imperious mastermind. Caligula, like Hoos, took charge and promptly appointed his best friend as lead consul. The only problem - his top chum Incitatus was ...a horse.

So far, Pearson is proving me wrong, but, by May, I predict Milan might have sent him to pasture.

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Murray still misjudged...

Wednesday, September 12th 2008    Posted by Sue Mott

It’s funny...the more Andy Murray wins, the prettier he gets. At the start of the year, he was this weedy, obnoxious, grunge-wearing brat with Scottish nationalist tendencies who had let down the British people by refusing to play Davis Cup. By Wimbledon, courtesy of a death-defying five-set, fourth-round victory against the Frenchman Richard Gasquet, he was creeping into the nation’s affections.

But, post his fabulous run in the US Open, thrashing the world number one Rafa Nadal and only losing in the final, with some gallantry, to no less a god than Roger Federer, we are beginning to seriously appreciate his virtues. Never mind his dress sense, what about that forehand slice?

The British number one is not weedy any more. He has biceps. He has a following. He - the crux of the matter - has a serious possibility of being the first British male to win a Grand Slam tennis event since 1936. In the circumstances, the nation is willing to overlook his unapproachable personality.

This is an irony. He has a lovely personality, something few have been able to detect given the fractured and fractious nature of his relationship with the media since his arrival on the scene, aged 17. For various reasons: part-stitch up, part-bloody-minded teenage awkwardness, the best of Murray’s nature has yet to be revealed. His immediate post-match speech in New York provided a clue, paying homage to the victor, honour to the crowd and, rather sweetly, saying it had been the best week of his life.

Sooner or later, those firmly grounded in the antipathy brigade will put aside their dislike of his sideburns, baseball cap and aggravated suspicion of fame, and see the charming young man he is. This will be when he wins this first Grand Slam. So 2010 at the latest.

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Spoiling the script...

Monday 15th September 2008    Posted by Laura Williamson

Nestled in St James’s Park stand amidst a festering, turbulent sea of black and white, I watched Newcastle hearts shattered on Saturday afternoon.

The Premier League’s new boys, Hull City, were supposed to be the side show, a mere obstacle to be surmounted in an afternoon of demonstrations and unrest.

The Tigers are managed by a Mackem, for heaven’s sake; a lad from South Shields sporting a ridiculous moustache and goatee, who learnt his craft from that Bolton bloke who had a go at managing the Magpies before the Messiah commeth again.

But Hull City were in no mood to make up the numbers.

Still seething from their 5-0 drubbing at the hands of Wigan, Phil Brown’s men played focussed, intelligent, determined football and simply outclassed Newcastle.

I kept my Yorkshire accent quiet as the bloke next to me, dressed like an extra from Auf Wiedersehen Pet in head-to-toe denim, became increasingly vitriolic in his cries of "H’way man! Use ya heeds."

Geordie fanaticism made way for an outpouring of hurt and passion as a banner bearing the sentiment "Cockney mafia out" was paraded around the ground to thunderous applause.

Tactful as ever and jubilant with their 2-1 victory, the City faithful chanted: "Keegan, give us a wave" and "Are you Grimsby in disguise?"

There’s nothing like rubbing salt in the wounds.

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No time to choke...

Thursday 18th September 2008    Posted by Paul Hayward

Muhammad Ali's plight could reduce anyone to tears, but none of us expected Captain Faldo to reinvent himself as Captain Kleenex as he announced the first of the Ryder Cup pairings.

All week here in Louisville we'd been jousting in the interview marquee with Europe's leader. It hadn't been going well. When I asked him about his ego perhaps distorting his judgement he flinched and became dismissive. The next day he was downright rude as he dealt with the excitement generated by Sky's TV pictures showing the pairings he had jotted on a scrap of paper.

Faldo is here to represent European golf. He's its ambassador and figurehead. He appeared to mistake a ceremonial role for a chance to be prickly with Danish journalists asking about Soren Hansen.

Then, three hours before the opening ceremony, somebody mentioned Muhammad Ali. My colleague Brian Woolnough, in fact, who has grilled a few England managers in his time. Faldo's eyes filled with tears and words deserted him. But that was just the start. A follow-up unleashed more emotion. Raising his hand to his forehead, he said: "I've had everything up to there this week, so it was bound to come out."

Vulnerability had not been his most obvious trait. The only way the average journalist might have wanted to hug him was by the throat. Suddenly, Captain Combative seemed on the verge of being snapped in two by the pressure of this 37th Ryder Cup.

Later he explained that it was merely the anguish of seeing Ali in such a reduced state.

Reporters raced from the chamber to start punching lap-top keys.

The Ryder Cup isn't the Nick Faldo show. He won't swing a club. But still you sense he's capable of winning or losing it for the Europeans.

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When You're Smiling...

Monday 29th September 2008    Posted by Laura Williamson

Well, well, well. Would you believe it?

Arsenal 1  Hull City 2.

It does make you chuckle, doesn't it? There's a certain deliciousness in seeing such an utterly ridiculous score line.

Unless you're an Arsenal fan, of course. Then you would lament the missed opportunities, the bad luck in hitting the bar and the resilience of the City back four.

But everyone else will just smile.

Phil Brown had the audacity, the sheer cheek, to play 4-3-3 at the home of flowing football and it paid off.

The mid-week chat was of bullishness and physicality, but City stuck to their game plan, closed Arsenal down in the final third and took their chances.

The Brazilian everyone was talking about played in black and amber, not sky blue - the recalled Geovanni was wily, industrious and his superb strike brought City level at the Emirates.

Ashbee versus Fabregas (even the names sound worlds apart) was a battle of substance versus style. And substance won.

Yes, it's Roy of the Rovers stuff, but who cares? There is something wonderfully honest about City's refusal to conform to the pre-season predictions of the pundits.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright.

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What not to wear...

Friday 3rd October, 2008    Posted by David Welch

Hull fans are barely able to contain themselves. Newcastle supporters continue to believe their side should be title contenders. Both (...sorry, Laura) face impossible tasks.

Some will assume this is because of lack of investment, the influx of foreign owners and players, or failing facilities.

The real reason is much closer to home. Much more basic - and much cheaper to remedy: they are wearing the wrong shirts. Any decent sports psychologist would be able to make a convincing case against the sporting of stripes.

Somehow, in this country, this look manages to convey a second-rate, brawn-based, unsophisticated and uncultured image which has long been outdated. Just ask yourself when a team wearing stripes last won top league honours.

Unsuccessful in 16 years of Premiership football, we must go back to before the Second World War to find (believe it, or not) Sunderland lifting the trophy. That's more than 70 years ago.

This season? Hull (6th) lead the way from Wigan (10th), WBA (12th), Sunderland (13th), Stoke (18th) and Newcastle (19th). Meanwhile, the sleek, smooth, streamlined superstars of the country's leading clubs who wouldn't be seen dead in such old-fashioned kit, continue to set the pace.

The throw-backs might win the odd Cup or two along the way, but if its Premiership glory they are after, Newcastle's potential new owners would do well to stop worrying about the likes of Keegan, Venables and 30 million pound signings. Just lose the stripes.

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No defence this time...

Thursday 30th October, 2008    Posted by Sue Mott

I never thought I’d say this. Please, Arsenal, be less beautiful. The joys of an eight-goal collision at the Emirates between the two North London rivals, featuring a "Superman" goal, scoring centre halves, capering keepers and as preposterous an ending as a Marple rewrite was hard to appreciate in a liberal, even-handed sort of way while screaming with rage into a cushion.

Arsenal 4 Tottenham 4 was both a travesty and entirely predictable. Arsenal were the better team, of course. They played the better football, of course. And yet they conjured a draw having led 4-2 in the 89th minute because...they defend like the cast of the Nutcracker. Come to think of it, Darcey Bussell is better in the air.

By the final whistle Arsene Wenger was crouched like a frog in his technical area - a literal not a racist observation, by the way - unable to bear the sight of his naive, innocent and bumbling defenders giving the game away. But, in a crucial way, he carries the responsibility.

It is all very well creating a team that dance like motes of light across the field of his dreams. Yet what use is all that quick-stepping glory and forward thrust, if the back line can’t kick a ball out of the danger zone. A rival arrives in their half and they welcome him, like a maitre d’ with a napkin over his arm, to help themselves to the goal area. "A 40-yard volley, Sir? Lovely. Will that be with a garnish of a Gael Clichy slip and deftly prodded equalizer off the goalpost? Certainly Sir. Coming right up".

Aged Arsenal supporters are beginning to fantasize about George Graham’s defensive drilling. When the back four were knowingly drained of whimsy and individuality and bloody well stuck to their task. Do not mock. Wenger won his first Double with that defence.

Arsenal’s current manager, a sage and prophet of the glorious game, seems philosophically - even spiritually - unable to embrace such grim task mastering. All his defenders go forward. Two centre backs, Gallas and Silvestre, scored half the Arsenal goals on the fateful night. But in terms of locking the gates, manning the barricades, fending off the hoards they are utterly and totally hapless. It confounded their season just gone, having led the Premiership by miles at Christmas. It threatens to engulf their progress this season. You fear a time when the best footballing team in the country do not make the Champions League because of this strange, aversion to calculated defending.

Can Wenger change? Can we buy a ball-belting, order-bawling, commanding defender with no ambition to score the goal of the season? Please, Arsenal, for all the beauty, can you not become just a little crude and cynical again.

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Time to go, Joe...

Saturday 15th November 2008    Posted by Ben Jacobs

Boxing rarely provides fairytale endings, so it's time for the undefeated Joe Calzaghe to quit. He's beaten two legends: Bernard Hopkins in Vegas & Roy Jones Jr at Madison Square Garden in New York. Jones Jr was demolished & The Welsh Dragon didn't even need Kryptonite gloves to beat the self-appointed "Superman".

True, the fight went the distance, but don't let that fool you. Calzaghe reduced Jones Jr to a Cyclops: for half the bout the American's eye was locked-shut, spewing more blood than The Godfather. The fight should have been stopped, but liberal referee, Billy Connelly, turned a blind eye to, well...Jones Jr's blind eye, perhaps because Calzaghe consciously eased-off (he was "enjoying it too much to finish it").

So Jones, spared the embarrassment of a knock-out, gingerly laboured to the final bell.

Five years ago, Calzaghe-Jones Jr would have been the fight of the year, but, here, both men were clearly past their best. No, Calzaghe isn't at his peak - that came against Mikkel Kessler last November. There has been a subtle decline since then. The worrying first-round knock-downs to both Hopkins & Jones are testament to this. The once fastest hands in boxing are discernibly slower. To crawl-up off the deck and win both fights is impressive, but the victories shouldn't masque the message - hang-up your gloves Joe.

Joe's dad and trainer, Enzo says a "big-money" offer or "sheer boredom" may stop his son retiring. Nonsense. Joe won't quit. The post-fight twitter is just a ploy to publicise a real finale at Cardiff's Millennium Stadium.

Calzaghe wants £15 million for this, but I fear greed could dish him a first defeat, unless he picks a Micky Mouse opponent. "The Executioner" Hopkins wants a re-match. The pair appear to despise each other and it could almost be a street-fight which Calzaghe would struggle to win.

The point is, Calzaghe either takes on a viable opponent and runs the risk of retiring in defeat, or fights another Jones Jr has-been and bows-out rich, but on an anti-climax.

Joe should stop. He still has his looks and senses and, in the ring, very little to prove.

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