Beth Tweddle. Back of the net. Back of the bloody net.

Could you do that?  No.  Could David Beckham?  no.  Could Beth Tweddle earn a percentage point of his income?  No.

Could you do that? No. Could David Beckham? No. Could Beth Tweddle earn a percentage point of his income? No. Is life just?

I totally agreed with Robert Kitson’s column in The Guardian today that lamented the relative prominence of news stories on Monday; reflecting on the weekend’s sporting achievements.

Like many, I was enthralled by Jenson Button’s critic-bashing performance.  Sublime, determined and gutsy.

Well done mate.  You showed the sneering hacks.


It wasn’t a bloody patch on Beth Tweddle’s.

My youngest daughter knocked her pan in for a number of years as a member of our nearest gymnastics club (10 miles away as it happens).  She grew muscles that put me to shame.  She was fit as a butcher’s dog.  She had extraordinary strength AND flexibility and yet she was at the bottom of the gymnastics ladder.

Gymnastics is for superheroes and you better believe it.

And Britain (as Kitson rightly points out) is football’s equivalent of the Isle of Man (reserves) on the world gymnastics stage.

So, the fact that Tweddle crashed and burned in her top apparatus (the asymetric bars) where she had previously gained our ONLY EVER world gold, yet picked herself up to qualify for the floor final was a feat of incredulity in itself.

But that wasn’t the end.

She won it.

Yes.  She won it.

Unlike Andy Murray.

Unlike any British golfer in the sport we taught the world, in a major, in ten years.

Unlike England’s football team since 1966.

Unlike all of our highest paid sports, ahem, personalities in most of their disciplines.

But Beth did.

We voted for Beth to win Sports Personality of the Year the last time she won gold.  Fat chance.

This time, she didn’t even hit the bloody headlines. That achievement should have been front page news.  Not in the sports sections – in the main papers.

It’s a bloody crying shame.

Beth Tweddle.  We, the Gormans, salute you…

Asymetric bars

Get out the freaking road ya radge.

Get out the boody way.

We watched Beth Tweddle kick the lower bar in her qualifying routine but still qualify. ( i think it was a secret part of her routine that added to the degree of difficulty. I mean, it would have been much easier to miss it!)

But the thing that gets me is those blokes that dive in and about the poor lassies’ feet in case they fall off

It’s my contention that it’s not despite these crazy guys that they fall off it’s because of them.


You didn’t see that big British lass, Becky Downie, using one of those ‘catchers’ – she’d have flattened the poor gadgey. And she never fell off.

Point proven!

The highlight of the competition was listening to that female English commentator (Christine Still) willing, really willing, the French to fall over on every piece of apparatus so that England could qualify.

The sense of hollow compliments as time and again the French did a bit better than they needed to was hilarious.

“Yes (I suppose) that was very good (bitch)” She’d proclaim through teeth more gritted than the M8 in a snowstorm as another French burd got a 14.3 or thereabouts.

“We only need one of them to have a cardiac and the English are through.” she said at one point. (Nah, she didn’t but she might as well.)