It’s all about the heat – or at least we hope it will be. But should a summer soundtrack cool the fevered brow during baking hot city commutes; or stir one to love and passion on foreign beaches; or provide a fitting background to a lazy picnic by a babbling brook or al fresco suppers as the day (hopefully) cools?
It is May-June releases that have traditionally provided the pop soundtrack for our summers. One of the first was Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues” in 1958; and ten years later The Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Summer in the City” perfectly captured Manhattan’s scorching summers. This year the talk is that Mariah Carey’s “E=MC2″ is going to be the album of summer ‘08 – but we’ll have to wait for next year to see whether we remember this year as Mariah’s year. Gentry has plumped for the tried and tested and this eclectic mix of rock, pop, classical, RnB and jazz aims to keep you both cool and hot as the weather dictates.

5. Street Fighting Man - The Rolling Stones
“Everywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, boy” - but this summer those feet will likely as not be hurrying along to Whitehall offices or corporate boardrooms. However, when Mick reputedly swooped down from his Chelsea aerie into Grosvenor Square to see what all the fuss was about his conclusion was that “in sleepy London town there’s just no place for a street fighting man.” This 1995 “accoustic” concert captures an energy and vibrancy that should rouse you from a hot sleepless night to venture forth to earn your daily bread.

4. LDN - Lilly Allen
With two releases in 2006, LDN yielded two distinct videos either of which will hopefully bring a smile to your face. Based on a sample from “Reggae Meringue” by the early-60s Jamaican band The Skatalites, LDN cleverly conjures up the crazy mixed-up London that equally fascinates and infuriates its residents. But if Ms Allen doesn’t quite do it for you she might lead you deeper into Ska (Jimmy Cliff and I Can See Clearly Now) and thence to the 2-Tone bands of the 80’s (Madness, Fun Boy Three, Bananarama).

3. Summer from “The Four Seasons” – Antonio Vivaldi
This glorious music will fill those languid days when one’s mind refuses to be still in dog days of summer; for while its opening captures the fierce heat of the northern Italian plains, the concluding allegro portrays a thunderously destructive storm. If the languorous days of summer deter one from sufficient preparation for the coming autumn then Vivaldi will rouse one to action. Alternatively, you can ditch Vivald’s Four Seasons for Frankie Vallie & The Four Seasons recreated on the West End stage in the Broadway musical “Jersey Boys”.

2. Crazy in Love – Beyoncé feat. Jay-Z
Beyoncé‘s first solo album Dangerously in Love introduces sixteen songs of hot summer RnB but it’s this opening track that uniquely that captures everything a man could want from a summer romance. When it’s too hot to dance these two singers will get you on your feet. So whether you are discovering a brand new love, rekindling a current affair or just hoping that cupid’s arrow will find your heart this has got be the song that expresses everything that is fabulous about tumbling totally, chaotically and madly in love.

1. Concierto de Aranjuez - Miles Davis
As Miles Davis once said, “That melody is so strong that the softer you play it, the stronger it gets, and the stronger you play it, the weaker it gets”. Joaquin Rodrigo composed the original concerto for guitar in 1939 but Miles Davis tender horn playing wonderfully evokes the blistering dry heat of central Spain. If Spanish jazz seems a contradiction in terms then it is worth remembering that New Orleans was once a Spanish city and the architecture of the original French Quarter principally dates from that period. Taking the concerto as a starting point Davis and composer/arranger Gil Evans developed an entire album of Spanish influenced jazz Sketches of Spain that since its 1960 release has become one of the classic albums in any genre.

Mr. Peter Delaunay

Tuscany still has its secrets and the small hill city of Pontremoli seems to exist only as a whisper. An hours drive from either Parma or La Spezia, Pontremoli (which translates as “Trembling Bridge”) is one of the most beautiful outposts of the vast and splendorous Massa-Carrara region.

One of the oldest towns in Northern Italy, it has existed in some form or other since 1000 years BC, flourishing in the 12th and 13th centuries, coming under French control (naturally to the people’s distaste) from 1508 to 1522. Also under the control of Milan and Modena at various historical junctures, the delicate layers of history and architecture can be seen when wandering around the two main piazzas.

Birthplace of Carlo Collodi, the author of Pinocchio, there is a large statue of the wooden boy that was recently, strangely, vandalized by the naturally bored anti-capitalist youth of Pontremoli. The fun to be had, as in any ancient European city, is simply to wander and wish you lived there. The cafe’s are plenty and the geletaria in the older part of town is the best of its kind, with fittings and decor surviving its 60s hey-day. There is a large market on Saturdays and Wednesdays, great for sampling the best cheeses and fruits of the region.

Local specialties to be found in most of the small restaurants include Torta, horridly addictive potato and spinach pastries. Another regional favourite is risotto la bomba, a sumptuous kind of baked risotto cake with meat and sauce at its explosive centre. Wild boar, rabbit and porcini mushrooms are common to the region and find their way onto most menus. The choice restaurant - Casa del Moro - is just out of town and offers the most delicious gnocchi outside of a glutton’s imagination. Reasonably priced and situated before an unreasonably picturesque  backdrop, it’s antipasti is unmissable.

The nearby frazione (small towns) that twinkle around Pontremoli at night contain a mixture of hardy French and Italian (and the odd English) farmers. Of particular interest are the villages of Monti and Navola, idyllic little places built upon Etruscan foundations where you cans tumble upon priceless arches and walls in almost perfect condition. A little excursion will take you to the vibrant ski-town of Zeri. Car hire is cheap but you’d be missing out on a cinematic trick not to pick up a Lambretta or Vespa at some point. Zip up to Cervara (birthplace of invincible Juventus goalkeeper Gianluca Buffon) and you’ll see the wonderfully grotesque gargoyles that adorn each of the older houses - an inexplicable oddity not present in any of the other nearby villages.

Walk beyond Monti to find the mysterious road to Bratello. The walk is serene and almost always uninterrupted, not to mention hard going. Wending further and further up into dizzily fresh air along rocky roads, the journey to Bratello becomes worthwhile as the pine trees slowly wind into view. The town of Bratello seems to consist of a solitary trattoria and a war memorial. Of greater interest after the two hour walk is the trattoria. They’ll cook any basic dish, within reason, with a selection of ham and wines to strangle your hunger and ambitions to return home. It’s a cyclists dream (torturous as it is) and a walker’s purgatory.

A short drive from Pontremoli can take you to the lovely port town of La Spezia, or better still, the beaches of Marinella. Nothing beats the saggy posing of an Italian beach, a genuine mix of the bold and the beautiful. The marble green sea is framed by the mountains in the distance, a view bordering on an event. The various towns along the coast make for the best nocturnal adventures, Pontremoli offering only modest but lazily atmospheric bars.

The most enjoyable route to take to Pontremoli is to drive from Parma as it allows the mountains to roll into view as you make your way along this almost always empty stretch of the autostrada. It’s a great feeling to know that within the hour, you’ll be up there, too, convincing yourself that you’ll never leave.

http://www.nozio.com/en/Europe/Italy/Tuscany/Massa_Carrara/Pontremoli/morehotels/

Mr. Paolo Cabrelli

Gentrystyle always enjoys the New York Magazine’s five point escape plan, and having just completed this trip to the Italy, we urge you to take a well earned break…

Where to Stay?

Experience total isolation at Vigilius Mountain Resort (from $412), a carbon-neutral, mountaintop hotel accessible only by cable car. Sustainable-architecture star Matteo Thun designed the 41 minimalist larch-and-slate rooms and eschewed TVs for terraces with panoramic views. Borrow a mountain bike from the lobby and take the nearby trails through the Dolomites.

Thun also created Pergola Residence (from $248), which melds into its surroundings with a heather-covered roof and patios camouflaged by pergola. The twelve rooms each have a state-of-the-art kitchen and are steps from the center of the picture-perfect village of Lagundo.  Reconnect with civilization at the full-service Steigenberger (from $205), in the city of Merano. The hotel boasts its own spa, indoor-outdoor pools, whirlpool, sauna, in addition to an underground tunnel to the adjoining Thermal Baths. Book a suite for a balcony view of the surrounding mountains.

Where to Eat?

Chef Armin Mairhofer earned one Michelin star for his Mediterranean-inspired fare at Anna Stuben. There are only four tables in the snug, raw-wood dining room, so book ahead of time.
Go rustic at Tilia, a tiny eatery housed in an 800-year-old, stucco farmhouse. Snag a hand-carved wooden chair or sit upright on a pine bench, while sampling the seasonal handiwork of 35-year-old chef Chris Oberhammer. All the herbs come from the garden out back.   Wrought-iron partitions offer privacy to Jasmin’s twenty diners, but don’t be fooled by stuffy floral-patterned banquettes. Chef Martin Obermarzoner’s cuisine is ultramodern, marrying unlikely ingredients into daring dishes like oyster shooters with white-chocolate shavings and a passion-fruit purée.

What to Do

South Tyrol’s wineries produce a bounty of hard-to-find (in the States) Gewürztraminer, Pinot Noir, Vernatsch, Lagreins, and Spumantes—they’re also a showcase in striking, sustainable architecture. Tour them along the Wine Route, stopping off at Manincor Winery, the region’s largest estate producer. The semi-subterranean modernist wine cellar, designed by local architect Walter Angonese, was built with minimal impact on the land. Alois Lageder, in Margreid, produces award-winning whites in a solar-powered ultramodern steel-and-glass building; even the equipment is run off a photovoltaic energy system.

The best way to protect the saw-toothed Dolomites—which have more than 10,563 miles of trails—is to explore them on foot. For rigorous hikes, take the Vigiljoch Seilbahn cable car up to Monte San Vigilio, grabbing a trail map at the station. Take the three-hour climb to Hochwart, a wind-swept peak boasting postcard panoramas. For a more leisurely stroll, head back to the valley floor to the Waalweges, a 100-mile network of pathways that follow century-old irrigation channels through orchards and vineyards. From Lagundo, the hour-long Waalwege to the medieval village of Dorf Tirol is idyllic for its twelfth-century castle.

Have your pick of 25 pools (salt-water, indoor-outdoor, cool-dip, whirlpool) at the 50,000-square-foot, state-of-the-art Merano Thermal Baths. A transparent cube of glass and steel, designed by Thun, houses sauna, spa, and pool rooms, while the sprawling outdoor complex is dotted with larger pools and landscaped with lily ponds and rose gardens.

Insiders Tip

South Tyrol is lightly treaded by English-speaking tourists, so your trip will go much more smoothly if you speak the language—actually, languages. The region (known as “Südtirol” in German and “Alto Adige” in Italian) is bilingual, so pick up a few phrases in German or Italian to get by.

An Odd Ball Day

Drive the storied Stelvio Pass, one of the Alp’s highest and most scenic mountain passes—its heart-stopping corkscrews and 60 hairpin turns once derailed famed race-car driver Stirling Moss and have starred in countless car commercials, TV shows, and movies. From Merano, drive west on SS38 about an hour to the Stelvio National Park, stopping at a few leg-stretching points of interest—like the botanic trail or the 700-step staircase canopied by 500-year-old larch trees. Continuing on the park’s main road, begin the zigzagging, fifteen-mile climb up the pass. At the top, rest up at Livrio, a summer-only ski resort (it’s closed the rest of the year because of the high risk of avalanches) located at an altitude of 10,400 feet on a glacier with thirteen miles of trails. You could join the Italian ski team on the trails—they train here during the summer months—or just calm your nerves with a whiskey-soaked “Bambardino” in Livrio’s bar (open 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. for non-guests).
South Tyrol’s Portal has in-depth guides and tips on top walking trails and hikes.
Southern South Tyrol, an Über-localized official tourist Website, is up to date with hotel deals, restaurants, and festivals and cultural events.

The Sudtirol blog has reviews in three languages from travelers’ recent trips to the region.

Whether you’re spending your holiday on the sandy beaches of Forte dei Marmi, in a summer house in Norway, on a boat along the Dalmatian coast, or just hanging out for a long weekend at the Tresanton…we have choice books for all destinations. Summer reading presents two options – read all those newly released and over-hyped paperbacks from the autumn/winter season before (no!) or pick up and read or re-read the world’s great books (yes!). In no particular order, here are 11 favourites that will be making into our travel bag. (Note: The 1960s feature heavily here, as does America, for reasons we can’t explain.)

John Cheever, Bullet Park (1969) Too little read in the UK, Cheever is one of those great American writers of the 50s-70s, slicing open the guts of northeastern suburban middle classes. His short stories are superb (See ‘The Swimmer’ turned into a weirdly wonderful film of the same name, starring Burt Lancaster); his journals profound, but for a seething account of the American dream as nightmare, Bullet Park can’t be bettered. One part Salinger, one part Updike, two parts gin.

JD Salinger, Franny and Zooey (1961): And while we’re admiring 1960s American fiction of the non-countercultural kind, why not revisit one of our favourite little novels, Franny and Zooey, the bittersweet account of the existential angst and general disillusion a brother and sister during a weekend in 1955. More or less perfect of its kind.

Alex Bellos, Futbol: The Brazilian Way of Life (2002 ): South American correspondent for the Guardian in the late 1990s, Bellos’s book on football in Brazil, where football isn’t just for life, it’s for eternity, is one of the best books about the beautiful game ever. EVER! He gets their passion, their madness, and he tells you all kinds of great stuff, like where the yellow shirt comes from.

John McPhee, Levels of the Game ( 1969): Arthur Ashe, the first great black tennis champ, vs. Clark Graebner, old-school Republican, middle-class white guy tennis champ, slugging it out at Forest Hills. This is McPhee’s brilliant conceit in a narrative not only about tennis, but about racial and class politics in America in a turbulent time of change. McPhee is one of the greatest sports journalists ever, and he parlays his sporting knowledge into a deeply affecting study of two opposites who meet on centre court.

Donna Tartt, The Secret History (1992): Okay, it’s basically glossy trash, but of a high order. A campus murder novel about a little clique of classicists, Tartt smartly sniffs out the cruelty of class and privilege. We can’t remember what actually happens, though, so are willing to give it another go.

Francois Truffaut, Hitchcock (1967): One of the world’s best filmmakers interviews one of the world’s best filmmakers, at length, and it’s brilliant. Take a stack of Hitchcock DVDs on holiday with you, bring this book along, and you’ll be guaranteed hours of intelligent fun. (You might also bring along Truffaut’s film, ‘The Bride Wore Black’, his most obvious homage to Hitch.)

The Letters of Noel Coward (2007), edited by Barry Day: We used to avoid letters, but the more we learn to resent email, the more we long for the epistolary form. Coward knew everyone, of course, and his charm, wit and bon-vivance litter every page. The British do letters better than most – see also that recent collection of letters by those crazy Mitford sisters (they don’t make them like that anymore!), or for something both sweet and sour, the letters of Kenneth Williams.

Geoff Dyer, But Beautiful: A Book About Jazz (1995): Most holidaymakers would probably opt for Dyer’s globe-trotting travel book and general life-musing, Yoga For People Who Can’t Be Bothered To Do It, but we’re a bigger fan of this riff on 8 jazz greats. Less about the music than the men, he roams freestyle across the drug-addicted, depressed, self-obsessed, mentally unstable, wandering lives of folk like Duke Ellington, Chet Baker, Thelonius Monk and Bud Powell.

WG Sebald, Rings of Saturn (1998): Essentially, a long, long walk around Suffolk, Sebald’s genre-busting book takes in the decay and ruins of that strange and uniquely British thing, the seaside town. The landscape is mediated by Sebald’s own memory, but also the collective memory of the countryside. Thoughtful and thought-provoking. A good one to take with you to Aldeburgh.

Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West (1985): Before there was the Border Trilogy, before there was that bijou masterpiece, The Road, there was Blood Meridian, a bold, stunningly written account of the violence at the heart of America’s western dreams. Almost obscenely bleak at times, the novel is redeemed through word-perfect prose. Some think this the greatest American novel of the 20th century.

Eveyln Waugh, Brideshead Revisited (1945): We’re anticipating the autumn release of the new film of Brideshead, starring Emma Thompson and Ben Whishlaw, by rereading it this summer. Okay, it’s fey and overwrought in places, but it’s still a fine summer read (we hope), and an engaging account of the fall of the aristocracy during a time of war. Catholics, claret and queers don’t always make for page turning, but this does.

Others we’d like to include but didn’t:

Michel de Montaigne, The Complete Essays
The Brothers Goncourt, The Goncourt Journals
EM Forster, Howard’s End
‘The Complete Short Stories’ (if they exist) of the following: JG Ballard, Lorrie Moore, William Trevor, Katharine Anne Porter, Saki and the short fiction of Henry James.
Flann O’Brien, At Swim Two Birds
Edward Thomas, Collected Poems
Alan Hollinghurst, The Line of Beauty
James Ellroy, American Tabloid

Gary Burns takes a look at Wimbledon and British tennis past, present and future and asks if we can host the finest Grand Slam why can’t we win it?

Seven years or so ago a young lad came back from an under-14’s tennis tournament in Spain. He’d lost to a Majorcan boy in the final. When his mother asked how he got on upon his return, he fumed, “Do you know who he trains with?!” She couldn’t offer an answer. “… Carlos Moya.” And who do I practice with? My brother.

The young lad was, of course, Andy Murray - the British number one now (arguably at 21 years of age still a young lad.) The Majorcan was Rafael Nadal, now blazing a Borg-like trail, especially on clay where he recently dismantled current world number one and arguably best player of all time, Switzerland’s Roger Federer. Carlos Moya is a former world number one and the elder statesman among a group of Spanish players - Juan Carlos Ferrero, Fernando Verdasco, Feliciano López, David Ferrer, Albert Costa, and more recently Nicolas Almagro - who’ve been practically omnipresent in the latter stages of big tournaments and Grand Slams for years now. For the record, the brother was Andy’s older sibling, Jamie.

Andy Murray has, quite rightly, been identified as a potential winner of Wimbledon but - honestly - that’s just missing the point! Just as he was at 14, he’s out there on his own - in this country and within the LTA he is peerless in terms of talent and the potential to win, win, and win some more. Immediately after the disappointment of losing that junior tournament he, with the help of mum, Judy, planned ahead. At 15 he departed to train at Emilio Sanchez’s highly-regarded tennis academy in Barcelona. Almost irrefutably the experience turned him into the player he is today. His slightly older brother, Jamie, stayed on with the LTA and while he managed to emulate Jeremy Bates mixed doubles triumph just last year at Wimbledon (with the help of Serb Jelena Jankovic) - it’s likely to be the first and last time he overshadows little brother on the world stage.

So, here we are, presented once again with an unruly perm and unmistakably Celtic roots. For a mere kid he is his own man and, as the LTA found out recently, not afraid to speak his mind. It appears they are to be haunted by the kindred spirit of McEnroe. Though if you are going to be haunted you could do a lot worse. Not only does he resemble Mac (in a loose sense) physically - he acts a bit like him too. Emotionally, sometimes a little too close for comfort; certainly for a conservative group like them. Though he falls short of the four-letter tirades and umpire-baiting that Mac the Mouth used to engage in - he’s been a bit of a brat, granted, but he’s no ‘Superbrat’. Stropping and flopping around the court like Harry Enfield’s Kevin the Teenager was Murray at his most irritating. A side of his character and court persona he appears to have outgrown; naturally, as he’s left his teens behind and moved into his twenties. Even during his interviews he has an almost relentlessly stern calmness about him; it is uncannily like McEnroe.

More encouraging, however, is that he plays like him. An absolute natural. His touch play is deft and for one so young he has a mesmerising range of shots at his disposal. His volleying and net play are also immensely impressive for a player who can sit just as comfortably at the back of the court and grind out an accomplished baseline game. With forehand and backhand he hits crosscourt winners at ridiculously acute angles and his anticipation of his opponents play - and movement to deal with it - is perhaps the single-most imposing weapon within his armoury. His drop shot is delicious and can be delivered from just about anywhere on the court.

If there is a weakness it’s that the effectiveness of that drop shot sees him overuse it on his bad days. On occasion he has appeared physically exhausted at relatively early stages of important games; this would appear to be a combination of factors. Murray’s tall and possessed of a fairly gangly frame. At times earlier in his career he resembled, not so much McEnroe, but a baby giraffe. He looks to have filled out now. As a result he shouldn’t be so susceptible to the minor injuries that have stifled his development. No doubt affecting his ability to train and build the stamina reserves required to compete for three, four or five long sets of top-class tennis. In truth, he looks ready to step up.

With grass arguably his favourite surface, Wimbledon 2008 could be the defining year of Andy Murray’s career and potentially the beginning of a new chapter for British tennis and the LTA. Perhaps it’s time for ‘Murraymania’ possibly ‘Andymonium’ to supecede ‘Henmania’? We should leave Henman Hill to Tim though; after all Murray’s Mound isn’t nearly as catchy. Before we get too excited though we’d do well to remember that British tennis is still founded on principles that can only be described as unstable. And could easily contrive a situation where the aims of Murray and the LTA appear at odds with one another?

His recent criticism of the LTA in the press and in his somewhat premature biography Hitting Back, showed he - again like McEnroe - is not afraid to clash with authority. His criticism centres on the vast expenses that coaching incurs. LTA chief executive Roger Draper chose to fudge the issue by pointing out that Andy Murray’s own time with Brad Gilbert and the £750,000 a year they paid for it made him a chief beneficiary. Murray had in fact already conceded that he’d benefited when they picked up the tab for Gilbert. It was his decision to dispense with the American’s services and finance his own training.

He also wrote that someone “in authority in British tennis” needs to admit that Britain is “doing really badly” as a tennis nation. For his part, he probably just wishes there was somebody with whom he could hit a few balls, apart from his brother or Tim Henman - when he’s not mowing the lawn. You can sense his frustration and it’s wholly understandable but Draper and his LTA president Stuart Smith simply never saw Murray coming, his self-imposed exile took care of that. They hadn’t legislated for him in their plans and are well-placed enough to know that you cannot fudge an answer to that accusation. So they didn’t even try. They’re both fairly new to their jobs after a much-needed bloody coup at the LTA in 2006 and are actually showing ominous signs of coming up with a cohesive plan going forward.

Their focus, is where it should be, the future of the game: the ‘Blueprint for British Tennis’ the result of Draper’s exhaustive consultations during his first six months in the job. The document includes a raft of measures that sound suspiciously like common sense. The previous 51 jargon-filled ‘performance indicators’ have been replaced with three: to get players in the world’s top 100; to put as many 14 to 18-year-olds as possible on track to reach the top 100; and to have as many juniors as possible competing regularly. These new indicators have drawn criticism that they will ignore grass roots tennis and there will be no one cultivating the kids to come through the system. Draper though insists that the the vastly simplified targets are merely one of the two main aims for his organisation: “One is to grow the game, getting more people picking up bats and balls; the other is to make sure there is a system or structure in place so that talent can come through.”

Draper has also engaged with long-standing critics of the LTA; the likes of David Lloyd, former player turned entrepreneur, Tony Pickard, coach of former Wimbledon champion Stefan Edberg, and Sue Mappin, one of the most dedicated administrators involved with the game at community level. He’s confessed to being shocked at some of the feedback from those meetings: “Decisions were being made based on anecdote and shaggy-dog stories. There was no clear, fact-based approach, and, you know, there are some clear facts that actually work. Profiling on talent ID, rather than trusting to chance, which, in essence, is what happened with Andy Murray. Andy worked bloody hard, had fantastic parental support and did all the right things, but in a way did it outside the system.”

You get the impression that he’ll be working outside Draper’s system for most of his career. An accomplished talent - and arguably world class having beaten the likes of Federer on the tour - at 21 he is no longer a priority. There’s nothing wrong with that as long as he receives all the support he needs. The coaching set up at the new £32M National Tennis Centre in Roehampton is undeniably world class. Likewise the sports science and physiotherapy facilities, if they could only jet in some foreign practice partners, to go with the expensive foreign coaches, he’d be all set? As Draper suggests, Murray has come through simply because sheer talent and ability wouldn’t allow for any other outcome. If the LTA can right the wrongs of the past - while Murray fulfils his enormous potential - there’s a chance we can be as serious about playing tennis as we plainly are about hosting it.

Mr. Gary Burns

Roger Federer has raised the fashion stakes for men’s tennis. His swish cardigan is probably the only garment that could ever adequately express his on-court elegance. But Roger’s flamboyance isn’t an isolated thrust, tennis has a long history of style and flair. Gentry takes a look back at some of the lawn icons who have ruffled our fashion feathers.

Tennis is an individual sport and this may go someway to explaining the need of the players to reach out for means of self-expression. According to superbrat Johnny Mac, tennis is the sport that piles the most psychological pressure on a single participant, a game of inches in which whole careers can hang on keeping cool. It is not a surprise then that some players find a means to release some of the tension. Some, not many, have a sense of humour. Tennis clown Henri Leconte is an infamous prankster and Novak Djokovich reached notoriety in the locker room for his brilliant impersonations. However, it is rare that the jokers reach the very top of the game. The grinder that was Jimmy Conners became a crowd pleaser as a means of working the crowd against his opponent. Others, such as vodka-brusier Marat Safin, simply smash things up and go into a kind of on-court primal scream session. The creative types, however, and usually those whose game sparkles with invention, often show a little of themselves through their apparel. Wimbledon is a good proving ground for the tennis-stylist as there is the overriding restriction that their outfits should be white and, in some sense, tasteful.

Roger has done wonders, not only with his cardigan but his white blazer and the immaculate cream trousers he sometimes warms up in. He was clearly trying to push the white blazer as an equivalent of the green jacket of the US Open. Tennis trousers are a lost gem of the sport. Images of Fred Perry trotting across the bumpy old courts in the ankle length slacks are endearing still. A little impractical today maybe, for anyone other than the world’s best as most of the also-rans on the circuit are too athletic and mobile to be contained by such a refined style.

Most, of course, opt for the standard (boring) sponsor friendly sportswear. Indeed, of the current crop of men, it is only the eminent Fed-Express who makes the effort. However, in the past, there are quite a few style icons who should be honoured. Look no further than bearded robot Bjorn Borg. Admittedly, Borg was caught helplessly within the manicured style tallons of the 70s, more a product of his elaborate times than an all out pioneer. But the man wore his era well. The tight shorts, the headband, the hair, the v-neck collared shirts - Borg was as in control of his look as he was his notoriously rigorous game. It is no surprise that a man with such a sense of timing and style should go on to launch his own underwear range.

Not to be outdone, machoman and wildboy Ille ‘Nasty’ Nastase brought some Carpathian decadence to the all England club. His brooding good looks were framed by his wild hair and beard. His basketball-style socks and black / white combo turned him into a moody chairascuro flash.

It doesn’t take much to excite sports fans and early in Andre Agassi’s career, he became a firebrand for wearing MULTICOLOURED (!) clothes. Thus, there was much anticipation over his early Wimbledon outfits in that they displayed an absence of colour. For Agassi, it was about what he wasn’t showing. Occupying in the corrupted fileserver of my mind the same space as Bruce Willis, Agassi was always dressed for battle and his immaculate garb would always end up as sweat-stained and battered as John McClane’s iconic vest. Agassi brought a little Vegas trash to the court - his Bon Jovi hair, his gas-station stubble and his all round 80s sense of vice was a fashion statement in itself.

The women have it good at present. Russian grunter Maria Sharapova has been wearing an unusually formal piece this year. Branded as a tuxedo of sorts, Sharapova’s grueling style is well countered by her delicate attire (and smashed to smithereens by her renowned coital grunts). This attempt to bring non-tennis wear to the game is admirable. She is only a few sets away from a ballroom gown and gloves.

Not be outdone, Serena Williams (well known for her fashion forays) warmed up in what can only be described as a Mac. Obviously expecting rain, this entirely impractical piece of clothing moves tennis one step closer to wrestling. I would now like to see Amelie Mauresmo wear a cape and Lucha Libre mask.

Of course, there are some women stars of the past who made great strides, style wise. Just think back to the brooding groupie style of Gabriella Sabatini. Overtly, Anna Kournikova sexed-up Wimbledon higher than it was prepared to go. Setting the courts ablaze decades earlier, however, Chris Evert brought men to their knees in awe and women to their knees in defeat. Her win / loss record is the greatest in the history of women’s tennis and her fresh-out-of-college looks brought her greater fame yet. She famously dated Burt Reynolds, no better qualification could be gained from the 1970s style-school than that. There’s no doubt that, beyond displaying individual style, in the easily impressed world of sports fandom, if a little extravagance can endear a player to the gallery, it is a distinct advantage.

Ultimately, tennis is a sport of flair and invention, of individuality and self-expression - the very qualities required of any respectable, successful fashionista.

Sometimes, of course, less is more:

If you can think of any other stylish tennis stars, let us know!

Mr. Paolo Cabrelli

]]> http://gentrystyle.com/2008/06/27/tennis-style-wowing-wimbledon/feed/ http://gentrystyle.com/2008/06/26/can-we-be-serious-part-two/ http://gentrystyle.com/2008/06/26/can-we-be-serious-part-two/#comments Thu, 26 Jun 2008 08:23:33 +0000 Brendan Murdock http://murdocklondon.wordpress.com/?p=414

Gary Burns takes a look at Wimbledon and British tennis past, present and future and asks if we can host the finest Grand Slam why can’t we win it?

Stockport-born Fred Perry took up tennis fairly late at 18 but by the age of 26 he’d won the Career Grand Slam of English, French, US and Australian championships and is still the youngest player ever to do so. His father, Samuel Perry - Labour Party MP for Kettering - apparently could have raised the the question of a Brit winning Wimbledon in the House without so much as a suppressed giggly. Duly, his son took the title three times in three years, beating Australia’s Wilmer Allison in 1934 and Nazi Germany’s Gottfried von Cramm consecutively in 1935 and ‘36. Fred Perry was unconventional. He’d fashioned a tennis game from his time as a ping-pong champion in his teens; using a continental grip and striking the ball as it rose. His timeworn legacy, quite apart from the iconic polo shirts, shorts and wristbands with the stitched laurel logo (which he took from the old Wimbledon crest) is simply the stuff of legend; Fred Perry is English tennis.

Which, conceivably, explains one or two things. Not to decry the man or his achievements but he last won the title over seventy years ago. He was immortalised in 1984 within Wimbledon’s All England club, a statue of Perry stands inside the Church Road gate marking the 50th anniversary of his first singles championship. That his part in the formative years of the sport in this country are recognised is only right and proper. That the repercussions of his brief period of dominance are still being felt throughout the sport and across the nation today are a more worrying state of affairs.

Perry, had his detractors. One such figure was American Jack Kramer, a world number one for years and arguably one of the finest ever men’s singles players. While considering Perry a great he made certain caveats known to those who enquired. He said that Bill Tilden (another legendary American player) called Perry “the world’s worst good player”. Kramer added kindly that he was, “…extremely fast; he had a hard body with sharp reflexes, and he could hit a forehand with a snap, slamming it on the rise - and even on the fastest grass.” He had less complimentary things to say about other aspects of his game though: “His only real weakness was his backhand, he hit underslice off that wing about 90 percent of the time, and eventually at the very top level - against Vine and Budge - that was what did him in.” Kramer went on to become a promoter and was a staunch advocate of the open format that took the sport into a new era in the 60’s. His comments about Perry, though not at all well-received over here at the time, were hard to refute looking back at the record of Perry against Americans Don Budge and Ellsworth Vines.

Regarding Perry’s personality Kramer was less guarded, he described him as “… a selfish and egotistical person, and he never gave a damn about professional tennis. He was through as a player the instant he turned pro. He was a great champion, and he could have helped tennis, but it wasn’t in his interest so he didn’t bother.” He also accused him of a lack of respect for opponents that most considered ouright arrogance, “Whenever an opponent would make an especially good shot, Perry would cry out ‘Very clever!’ I never played Fred competitively, but I heard enough from other guys that that ‘Very clever!’ drove a lot of opponents crazy.” His own parting shot was to intimate Perry had, albeit unintentionally, “…screwed up men’s tennis in England. Kramer explained, “He could hit a forehand - snap it off like a ping-pong shot - Perry was a physical freak. Nobody else could be taught to hit a shot that way. But the kids over there copied Perry’s style, and it ruined them. Even after Perry faded out of the picture, the coaches there must have kept using him as a model.”

Kramer later named Perry among the six best players of all time in his 1979 autobiography, Jack Kramer. It was clear though that among many of his contemporaries, Perry was admired more for his talent and extraordinary technique than anything else. While no one has ever chosen to openly refute Kramer’s assertions, it’s fair to assume his words caused some consternation within the LTA. Did coaches try and teach Perry’s technique? It’s hard to imagine them not doing so really. After all, however unorthodox, it brought English tennis its only real success. How many years would have passed before they realised the technique was simply non-transferable - the coaching equivalent of bad cheque?  Did they set about teaching kids ping-pong first when they found out it wasn’t working in the hope it would convert them to tennis champions later? Is that why ping-pong tables sprung up in recreational areas frequented by bored males all over Britain? While its a beguiling little conspiracy theory we may have to accept they simply appeared at the same time that table tennis, or ping-pong, became popular.

Historically, criticism of British tennis has centred on the privileged roots of the sport in our sceptred isle. It would indeed be a criminal understatement to say that tennis is not a sport for the masses here. It’s probably not too far ahead of polo in terms of broad social inclusion over the past century. I have always believed the sport has been starved of numbers, and therefore prospective talent, by those who administer it at the highest level. After all, it’s an entirely tangible belief that a bunch of overprivileged buffoons are denying the nation, and the average man on the street,  a crack at greatness. Based on the time-honoured logic of ‘it wouldn’t be the first time’. Actually - since researching this article - I have been swayed, not inconsiderably, in a different direction.

You see, tennis here is far from an esoteric pursuit. Many millions tune into watch Wimbledon. Viewing figures for other tournaments - not just grand slams - on digital channels like Sky Sports and Eurosport are not entirely unimpressive. Certainly they’re comparable with most sports outside of the big ratings winners: football, rugby and golf. There is a better than rudimentary understanding of the game here  and far from a dearth in terms of interest. Therefore, the argument that generations have been turned off the sport by its blatantly bourgeois background doesn’t really hold water. Of course, watching and playing are two different things but the interest is there - tennis is a long way from being an unfashionable sport in Britain.

To assert that during Perry’s days, and maybe for four or five decades after, children of less privileged backgrounds were turned away from the sport wouldn’t be at all unreasonable. To assume this has continued until today, or even in the last 20 years, would be wrong. Though it might be viable to suggest they haven’t received the necessary levels of encouragement, or incentives to break with a pattern of non-participation?

Schools, especially underfunded state schools, are always going to be mindful of how to occupy groups of children with the minimum number of staff and the least expense. During PE, notoriously under-taught in recent times, this is a primary concern. Tennis is not the best way to solve the problem for most. With football or rugby you can manage large groups of boys; and large groups of girls are easily suckered into a game of netball. Needless to say, we don’t have a huge problem with these sports at both club and international level. (Though some might argue where football is concerned but that’s another story entirely.) Organising games of tennis between two to four kids and supervising them, even if you have enough courts - or any courts - not to mention rackets and balls? All this presents something of a logistical nightmare for most schools. Tennis balls get lost, rackets and their strings are easily broken. Courts and nets require maintenance and many schools, unsurprisingly opt for fields. Fields are easier and easier is invariably cheaper.

If you are trying to break a pattern of non-participation in any sport, leaving it to the ravages of a state school system spiralling out of control may not be the way forward? With well-documented - and mounting - economic and logistical issues, most of our schools simply don’t want or can’t handle such added responsibilities. So, although not intentionally, the LTA continues to narrow the field with social exclusion and it’s no less damaging because they’re not doing it on purpose anymore.

Mr. Gary Burns

Gary Burns takes a look at Wimbledon and British tennis past, present and future and asks if we can host the finest Grand Slam why can’t we win it?

This month hordes will descend on a leafy SW19 suburb; home to the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. By Church or Somerset Road: journalists, team support, data analysts, web editors, bar staff, chefs, silver service, plate-waiters and a plethora of other providers. Not forgetting trusty ball-boys and ball-girls picked from local schools. Each and every one will squeeze in alongside hundreds of TV cameras and burly, overworked - oft unemployed? - chaps who drag tarpaulin across sixty feet of turf for a living. All barely leaving room for feasibly sexy Sue Barker and improbably squeaky Boris Becker to tell us how it all plays out. I will watch on, as I have done since I was a small child: hoping year on year for more than just a fleeting sense of national pride.

Such a hubbub, such a menagerie, such a wonderful bricolage of quaint traditions and more strident modern tastes: strawberries and cream served alongside sushi, straw sun hats obscuring Dolce & Gabbana shades, ornately carved picture rails and staircases beset by sleek plasma screens. The best, busiest and easily the most auspicious Grand Slam of them all. More than that though a truly unique and - lest we forget - quintessentially English event.

Yes, every year we rejoice in the grandeur, splendour, pomp and ceremony of Wimbledon fortnight. Considered, with some justification, the definitive tournament of any tennis season. The one all the players really want to win. A crying shame then that we Brits have more chance of putting togther a manned Mars mission than we do of finding a Wimbledon champion from these shores? The odds are in fact so depressingly remote, that questions regarding the possibility are rarely taken seriously these days; or even posited in the first place. A cheeky parliamentarian might chance it on a slow day in the House and they’d be guaranteed riotous guffaws all the way to the back benches if they did.

It seems tennis has once again fallen into the realm of Great British mystery, next to: ‘Where is Lord Lucan?’, ‘Why does ITV still broadcast?’ and “Who likes Piers Morgan enough to keep giving him work?’ Strange, as it only seems a few years ago that some in the sport felt passionately enough to stand up and implicate the chattering classes. The complex riddle over the sport’s apparent exclusion of anyone without their own court, or three-figure monthly club membership, had been solved. Tennis, in this country we’d realised, was merely a pursuit for those who could afford to play - and very few could. It had all fallen neatly into place, or so we thought?

One-time ‘Superbrat’ and three-time Wimbledon champion, John Patrick McEnroe, even quipped: “For the English, tennis is not so much a sport as a fortnight.” Considering I knew just one lad at school who belonged to a tennis club - and at least a hundred who played football or rugby competitively - he may have had a point? Though I realise mine is hardly a representative sample as I was brought up in Luton. Hardly a breeding ground for the country’s next fresh-faced tennis star? Or even a young - dashing - ribald new entry in to the world of equestrian three-day eventing, perchance? Although, reflecting on those criteria, perhaps it is a representative sample after all? Anyway, demographics and social factors aside, McEnroe’s stock has risen exponentially here in the UK. A huge turnaround for a man who was, for a time, thoroughly reviled in this country. Apparently for unseemly behaviour during his playing days. Though it might have been as much to do with his unruly perm or Celtic ancestry in less enlightened times? For some, more about dalliances with drugs or tawdry tales of his short, tempestuous marriage to Tatum O’Neill?

There were no shortage of reasons, it seemed, to pick up the collective cudgels and seek out the curly one. McEnroe though managed the British press with the same brilliant tenacity and verve as he did most opponents. When a young Alastair Campbell (then working for the Daily Mirror) enquired - with now familiar belligerence - whether Mac had any regrets regarding his on-court behaviour, McEnroe snapped back: “My only regret is that I have to deal with people like you.” (A response that would ring true among Campbell’s colleagues in later years.) Somewhat surprisingly then, Mac the mouth is now Mac the mentor and, to a burgeoning CV, can add some time as a consultant to the LTA (Lawn Tennis Association). An organisation he has criticised quite vociferously and openly in the past. Were he asked, he would probably do so again today; though perhaps more circumspectly than in previous dispatches.

When he won his three All England titles in the early eighties, there were no credible British rivals. Including Wimbledon McEnroe won seven Grand Slam finals out of the 11 he reached - not to mention three end of season Master’s tournaments; and a record 155 top-level tournaments during his career. Across tennis as a whole Britain could only muster a very short list of also-rans. Despite reaching a Grand Slam final, at the 1977 Australian Open, John Lloyd was one of them. (In fact he probably was the list?) He’d lost to America’s Vitas Gerulaitis in five sets, like many of his compatriots before and since - he lost well. Lloyd also never progressed beyond the third round of Wimbledon; often losing not so well. Sadly, even after McEnroe’s era had been and gone, more of the the same: Greg ‘clearly Canadian’ Rusedski made the US Open final 20 years later. He was duly battered into submission by bearded Australian, Patrick Rafter. Apart from his lacklustre performances at Wimbledon, that was Rusedski at his most English; on such form he could even have played cricket for England. Cricket though to Greg would probably have meant the surname of Jiminy, insect friend and confidante of Pinocchio.

The following summer of 1998 a very English ‘Tiger’ Tim Henman sparked ‘Henmania’ when making the semi-final at - yes - Wimbledon! He did brilliantly to repeat the feat in 1999 and successively in 2001 and ‘02. Henman also made the quarter-finals on four occasions in the intervening years and beyond. Easily our most consistent performer since little-known Jeremy Bates, who actually won Wimbledon in 1987. In (*ahem*) the mixed doubles with Jo Durie. Seriously though, despite two creditable fourth round appearances in 1992 and 1994, Bates was never quite the Wimbledon master. Which is perhaps a blessing, considering our tabloid press and their propensity for wordplay.

No, though Jeremy played his part on a couple of balmy June afternoons, Henman’s consistency in the tournament is unparalleled since the days of Fred Perry. He’s even had a large grassy hill - where fans gathered to watch his matches on a big screen - in the All England Club’s grounds unofficially named Henman Hill. An outstanding servant to British tennis in spite of the fact that, like most rare gems, you sense he was unearthed by accident. His achievements though are all the more remarkable for that.

Look out for parts two and three later this week…

Mr Gary Burns

Sometimes we all need a helping hand when perusing the vast expanses and endless possibilities of the local bookstore. It’s not always easy to make a smart choice when each and every publication boasts quotes of “Brilliant!” and “A modern classic”. Thus, Gentry have devised an informed guide to some of the most provocative and arousing books to  give you endless nights of literary pleasure.

This week we look at those crushing, heart-wrenching stories that concern themselves with longing. This most beguiling of emotions is a staple of many a great novel, traversing the borderlands of romance and tragedy, a nomadic sentiment exiled from passion.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (Carson McCullers, 1940)

Carson McCullers’ typically beautiful (sorrowful) tale is set in a small Georgia town in the late 1930s. At its heart is John Singer, who lodges in the Kelly house after his fellow deaf friend, Spiros Antonapoulos, is banished to an asylum. The pleasant Singer takes befriends four of the town’s misguided misfits — Mick Kelly, a lonely teenage girl who longs to become a trained musician; Benedict Mady Copeland, the town’s black doctor, thus an outcast by default;  Jake Blount, a mechanic (and socialist alcoholic); and Biff Brannon, the muted and pensive owner of the local café. They all regularly visit the amiable Singer, telling him about the tumult and pain in their lives.

Each lonesome soul assumes that only the equally afflicted Singer can understand their predicament, although Singer reveals nothing of his true self to them. He does, however, miss Antonapoulos dearly, saving his hard-earned money to buy a movie projector for his troubled friend. They all take advantage of Singer to some degree and it is not until the novel’s startling climax do any of these lonely souls fully appreciate Singer’s importance in their lives.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is a definitive tale of longing and desperation, perfect for the long hot summer nights.

Moby Dick (Herman Melville, 1851)

The infamous story tells the adventures of the wandering sailor Ishmael and his voyage on the whaling ship Pequod, commanded by the monomaniacal Captain Ahab. Ishmael soon learns that Ahab seeks one specific whale more than life itself, Moby Dick, a quasi-mythical white whale of tremendous size and ferocity. Only a few whaling ships know of  Moby Dick, and fewer yet have encountered him. In a previous encounter, the whale destroyed Ahab’s boat and bit off his leg. Ahab intends to exact revenge and spear the whale, putting and end to his torment.

Melville’s story is one of the most particular and powerful stories ever told, so complete and monstrous is it in its vision. The enclosed world of the Pequod is meticulously recreated, an horrific microcosm heading toward oblivion. Ahab is the grandest of creations, alongside Conrad’s hideous Colonel Kurtz and Jack London’s devilish Wolf Larsen. The tale itself illustrates themes so grand as the limits of knowledge, the deceptiveness of fate and the insatiable lust for revenge. However, Melville’s tale is also obsessed with the deep longing to understand and confront the fears and wonders that lurk beneath the surface. A terrific and thrilling take like no other, Moby Dick is the book you wish you had read, even as you turn the final, brilliant page.

Lolita (Vladmir Nabokov, 1955)

The shocks that Lolita offers are not only ethical or moral. Humbert Humbert kidnaps and seduces his fourteen-year-old stepdaughter, Dolores Haze; estranges his victim from her family and friends and relinquishes her of her childhood; conceives one murder and successfully carries out another. However, how much can we believe of what we read? There are too many coincidences and wishes fulfilled in this warped vision. Memory and imagination mingles in the indulgent reminiscences. One feels that the author, whose powers of control and fabulation are seemingly without bounds, is toying with what the reader finds outrageous and unacceptable.

Considered somewhat unsavoury, even today, Lolita is a masterpiece of psychological fiction. Humbert Humbert’s overt needs and lust are presented nakedly before the reader in an act of cruel self-examination. It is hard to think of a more intelligent, sophisticatedly constructed tale than this. Lolita is a fiction within a fiction, where only the central desire and longing can be considered authentic.

Dracula (Bram Stoker, 1897)

The classic tale of repressed sexuality needs little introduction. Who does not know the basic plot in some form? It is one of the most adapted and filmed texts, reworked and reimagined endlessly. Jonathan Harker’s visit to Count Dracula’s decaying, Dracula’s seduction of Lucy and romancing of Mina, the disgusting slavish Renfield, the deathly ghost ship Demeter, the wild vampire-hunter Van Helsing - all of these elements have been disseminated into the public domain in one form or another again and again.

Yet, what remains, what always resonates, is the longing and desire at the heart of the tale. The sexual thrill that pimples the flesh of the characters, the eternal yearning of Dracula for his lost love, the lusty-appetite of the corseted Victorian woman, the need to bleed and taste. Bram Stoker forged an unforgettable and captivating tale in the fires of the human spirit in this wonderfully inventive novel. Told primarily through journal entries and letters, the sheer ingenuity is amazing.

If you think you don’t need to read Dracula, if you think you are already familiar with it, think again. Stoker’s book, on repeated reading, retains its seductive bite.

The Go-Between (LP Hartley, 1953)

The story takes place in 1900, and is told fifty years later by the elderly Leo Colston, a lonesome man who has spent his life cataloguing books. The wheat fields glisten in the English sunshine and the temperature burns when the thirteen-year-old Leo is invited by a classmate to spend part of the summer at Brandham Hall. There, a poor boy among the wealthy, he is put at his ease by his friend Marcus’s older sister, Marian, with whom he quietly falls in love. As the days go by, Leo comes to feel increasingly wary of the intimidating lady of the house, Mrs. Maudsley; to admire the kindly and easygoing Viscount Trimingham, who was wounded in the Boer War; and to identify with a muscular young tenant farmer named Ted Burgess. Above all, he rejoices with almost pagan delight in the hot weather and the fertile landscape. Then, one afternoon, Ted Burgess cautiously asks Leo to take a letter without telling anyone — to Marian. The reader, of course, guesses the truth immediately. But Leo does not. Slowly the sensitive boy finds himself increasingly confused by complex emotions and conflicting obligations. As he carries messages back and forth between the illicit lovers, the summer advances: croquet on the lawn, visits to the local church, the big Hall-versus-Town cricket match, a concert, roughhousing with Marcus, the prospect of a ball, the announcement of Marian’s engagement to Trimingham.

This slow-burning, perfectly crafted tale swells with a muted, understated longing at its tortured core. Hartley’s book is a classic of quiet desperation silent regret.

If you cannot wait to run your eyes over the books above, check out JD Salinger’s remarkable short story ‘The Laughing Man’ online, perhaps the greatest short fiction of all time and a wonderfully crafted evocation of a longing for youth, the past and the resolution of a tormentingly compelling narrative.

If you have any particular recommendations, do let us know in the comments section.

Mr Paolo Cabrelli

No international tournament is complete without the azzurri shirt. It is one of the most iconic garments the sport has to offer. This coming Sunday, at Euro 2008, the deep blues of Italy will match-up against the clashing red and gold of Spain - a kit, rather like the character of the Spanish team itself, fiery but often queasy. The grinding, winning football of the nazionale ensures that we usually see plenty of the distinctive colour, the almost unnerving staying power of the team so frequently evident. Perhaps only the gauche tones of Brazil, the selecao, is more recognizable, but certainly not quite so considered, the brash hues of green and gold a little too overbearing for us Europeans. Gentry takes a look back at the Italian shirts of the past to see how the fashionable shirts may have contributed to their sporting successes.

Football history is made of personal memories, shared moments registering wildly between infatuation and heartbreak. There is no team in world football more frustrating, more romantic and more dastardly than the Italians. Sure, they do it. But they always do it the hard way. They monopolize tension, escaping defeat time and again, long after safety seemed possible. Many a misguided British pundit rattles on about the ‘dark arts’ employed by the azzurri, as if common sense were some kind of voodoo, as if allowing others to make their own mistakes wasn’t at the very heart of the most practical sporting philosophies. Unlike so many teams of the current era, Italy have retained a distinct identity. There is a great weight on every player in the Italian team, one of honour and dishonour, of victory and defeat, of an approach to football particular to the peninsula. Thus, to wear the shirt, as a fan or as a player, you are taking a stance, you believe life is about certain things, you understand that it is more important to win than anything else, often at the cost of high-entertainment and fleeting glory. As Jose Morinhio put it so sweetly, it is more important to be happy after the game than during the game.

One of the first Italian national shirts to tickle the fashion circles could be the tight and complementing jersey of the early 1970s. Despite the humiliation of the team by probably the greatest international side of all time (yes, THAT Brazil team), The Italians managed to look good, even as they were made to look so bad. The simple, style, did wonders for the players so hindered by side-partings and moustaches. The seventies saw many a great football shirt: Cryuff’s Holland in their brilliant orange; West Germany in their spotless white; and even England in their majestic red. Many of today’s kits hark back to this era in the hope of recovering their cut and jive. It was the Italians, however, who offered a Rugby-influenced touch of class that would lay the fashionista foundations of tournaments to come.

Recollections of international Football in the 80s, for Italians, are dominated by images of Tardelli screaming in desperate disbelief (see above). Rightly so, as Tardelli, Rossi and co, were lucky enough to wear what might well be one of the most stylish football shirts ever conceived, This neat polo-style number was perfectly finished with red, green and white on the collars and sleeves. The v-neck harked back to the seventies and the deeper, deadlier shade of blue spoke of a more serious and difficult Italian team. Indeed, the no-nonsense physicality and practicality of the azzurri in this special year blew everyone else away.

It wasn’t until 1994 that Italy truly re-emerged as style contenders, once again. Their Diadora numer was loose, baggy and expressive, much like their definitive number 10 Roberto Baggio. Il divino codino (the divine ponytail) with his snaking, shimmying hips and swiveling turns, showed off the silky fabric of the most outrageous and comic-book-like outfit in the history of the team. The competition was blessed with beautiful sunshine, which served only to naturally select the tournament’s stand out teams, beaming dazzilingly on old enemies Brazil and Itlay once again. Although Baggio’s miraculous turn ended in tragedy, would the images of him blubbing in defeat be so memorable if his shirt was, say, mint green?

In Euro 2000, another bitter defeat awaited Italy, this time in the final to new-old-enemies France. However, apparel-wise, the nazionale made huge strides in donning the now standard stretch-style shirt (even Tottenham Hotspur have copied it). The revolutionary material was intended to make it easier for the referees to spot when a team was pulling on a player’s shirt, the effect exagerrated by the thin, elastic material. The results backfired somewhat with Marc Juliano’s penchant for dragging players back. In 2006 Italy were again on the cusp of shirt innovation, adopting a lightweight material that allowed the skin to breath more effectively. Uncomfortable for fans (it was like wearing NASA designed pajamas) but efficient for the players, it undoubtedly played its part in the tireless displays that drove the team to world cup glory.

This year, Italy will be relying upon their rather retro shirt, with the oddly pixelated numbers that UEFA seemed to have imposed, to lead them all the way. If they come up against Holland in the semi-finals, surely Sepp Blatter must step in and award Italy the result in advance purely on the basis of the choice of the Dutch team to wear sky blue socks with their bright orange shirts and shirts. I mean, really.

Here’s a run through the Italian sides of the past some of their most resplendent attire:

Mr. Paolo Cabrelli