The State of Things to Come

Back by popular demand - ie The Referee consulted himself and made a decision in the absence of any dissenting opinion - I am proud to bring you the second in the ground-breaking series, "Things I Learned from Studying My Children's Plastic, Easy-Wipe Place Mats" (see my message of 27 July, or 7/27 as they like to say here).

(You will have noted, I am sure, that the apostrophe in "children's" - ie something belonging to the children - goes before the s, and not after it, as is usually the case with plurals (eg "the boys' waistcoats"). This is, of course, because it is necessary to distinguish between "the boy's waistcoats" - a number of waistcoats belonging to the same boy - and "the boys' waistcoats" - a number of waistcoats belonging to a number of boys. "Children", however, is necessarily a plural, despite the fact that it has no s, and so there is no need to make such a distinction by putting the apostrophe after the s, and so it stays in front. Best to clear that up at the outset, I thought.)

Anyway, a big shout out (whatever that means) to the good people at Painless Learning Placemats - painlesslearning.com - for inspiring this series, the second of which might be sub-titled: "Why is it that some States are more interesting shapes than others"?

I am sure you, like me, will from time to time have spent an idle moment or two staring at a map of the USA and wondering how such different shapes and sizes could possibly have emerged. In particular, I often wonder whether those in the very boring almost-rectangular States are secretly insanely jealous of their neigho(u)rs in the State next door, which is so much more random and, well, wiggly.

Texans, for example, must be intensely proud of the splendid and unfathomable shape of their huge State, particularly the southwestern part which meanders along the Rio Grande and around the corner created by the Gulf of Mexico. And how much more pleased with themselves must Texans be when they look to the north west and see New Mexico - by all accounts a beautiful area - but which is almost entirely rectangular, except for the bit in the south west corner which looks as though the ruler of a small boy drawing a map slipped south a couple of times, and for some reason he didn't have time to erase it and start again, and so New Mexicans will forever have to put up with a funny little step in their south west corner.

And what about Kansas and Nebraska and the Dakotas (North and South)? All periously close to being depressingly rectangular, except for the saving grace of the Missouri River and Minnesota River respectively, which meander along their eastern extremities just enough to make them slightly interesting.

Now, in case you should think I am wittering on incoherently (imagine that!), I should point out that I have, in the interests of research, decided that mere subjective description of the shape of the States is insufficient. And so I have developed a highly scientific and objective method for calculating how interesting or dull the shape of a State is exactly.

Now, you are no doubt thinking, if such a method exists, surely it could be used on other countries and states anywhere in the world? Well, maybe, but let's not run before we can walk.

I have called this measurement the Geographical Interest Index (GII). The GII of a State can be measured by calculating the proportion of its borderline which is defined by rivers, coastlines or is otherwise natural and wiggly-looking, minus that proportion of its borderline which has clearly just been drawn on a map by someone with a pencil and a ruler.

Well, the results are very interesting. What a statistician might call the median State - with a score of precisely 0 - is the lovely State of Oregon up in the Pacific Northwest - which scores 0 because the percentage of interesting borderline is exactly matched by boring straight lines. (I hope you're following this.)

Just to the south, the great State of California scores a surprisingly poor -4, since its lovely coastline is more than matched by the horrible straight lines someone decided to draw inland in order to ensure that neighbo(u)ring Nevada (which scores a shocking -90) goes round a 140 degree corner.

A special mention should be made of Idaho which, despite scoring a rather modest 2, manages an attractive narrowing towards its Canadian border which serves to draw the eye away from the hopelessly square bit at the bottom.

But, without further ado, joint last place goes to Colorado and Wyoming, both of which manage the lowest-possible GII score of -100 - in other words, not one yard of the border is the slightest bit natural or wiggly - all of it is shamelessly drawn by a cartographer with something of a right-brain creativity deficit.

And, finally, congratulations to the marvellous State of Michigan, nestling as it does between the Great Lakes, which scores an unbeatable 76, thanks in large part to being defined by lakes Superior, Michigan and Huron, which are, without exception, commendably wiggly.

So Good They Named It Thrice

Regular readers, if there were any, might find this difficult to believe, but The Referee was recently told by a colleague that he is a "geography anorak". All I had done to deserve such a compliment was to point out, during a conversation back in Blighty about what a nice day it was, that it was in fact the warmest September day since 1940-something. Which happened to be true.

(Which reminds me, those who are unsure about all this climate change fuss should ask themselves why it is that every weather record you can think of has been beaten within the last five minutes.)

If I have established this reputation, deserved or not, I thought, I may as well dine out on it for a while. And so I offer the following local anorakism which I thought you might enjoy. And even if you don't, I'll enjoy telling it.

You will no doubt be familiar with the old Gerard Kenny song, "New York, New York", in which we learn that my adopted city is named twice because of its inherent qualities, rather than the actual reason, which is of course that New York is the name of both the city and the (roughly) triangular state in which it nestles - in the southernmost corner, to be precise.

You might also know that New York city comprises five boroughs - Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx and Staten Island. (A brief aside - is it just me, or does your blood also boil when you see or hear the phrase "comprises of"?. For those who can't see what's wrong with this, please pay attention: the word "comprise" means "consist of". There is already an "of" built in. Please don't feel the need to add another one.)

Anyway, what readers outside of the Big Apple might not know is that the five borough names listed above are in fact only informal nicknames. This is because the five boroughs of NYC are formally counties of NY state, and have official county names to go along with that status.

Now, in a couple of cases, this does not amount to a great deal to write home about - the official name of the Bronx is Bronx County and Queens is formally known as Queens County. But - try to contain your excitement if you can - in the other cases it's not quite that simple. Brooklyn is more properly known as Kings County, and - keep this under your hat for next time you find yourself at a pub quiz - Staten Island is actually called Richmond County.

Which brings me to the bombshell that Manhattan is in fact called - and I expect you're ahead of me here - New York County. Oh yes.

So, when you're next strolling thr(o)u(gh) Greenwich Village, lacing daisies into the hair of your beloved as you dodge the splash of rainwater caused by the trundle of an early morning delivery truck thr(o)u(gh) an overnight puddle, as I often do, don't forget that you're strolling thr(o)u(gh) New York County, which is one of the five boroughs of New York City, which nestles in the southernmost corner of New York State.

So good they named it thrice.

Get Me POTUS On The Line

Fans of the West Wing (that's everyone, I assume) will remember that the original pilot episode contains a string of difficult and embarrassing situations for Sam, the White House deputy communications adviser (played by Rob Lowe). The most difficult and embarrassing is that he spends the night with a woman whom he discovers only the next day is what he euphemistically describes as a "high-priced call-girl". He makes this discovery because, after their tryst (whatever that means), they each inadvertently leave with the other's pager. During the next day, Sam receives a number of interesting and surprising requests, whilst his new girlfriend receives a number of mysterious messages from "POTUS". She takes this to be a friend with an unusual name, until Sam points out that the messages are from the President of the United States.

As my regular reader(s) will be aware, The Referee sees part of his mission to be painstaking research on aspects of American culture, such that you, dear reader, are able to benefit from my travails without the trouble of having to put in any effort. Now, I would like you to think that this involves me pouring for days over historical tomes in the Smithsonian library, but that is not always the case. In fact, it's never the case.

This occasion is no exception. In this message, I am proud to bring you the summarised highlights of what I have been able to glean from one of my children's plastic, easy-wipe place-mats, entitled "Presidents of the United States of America".

Firstly, although we are currently enjoying/experiencing/enduring (delete as applicable) the tenure of the 43rd POTUS, the current President is in fact only the 42nd person (by which I mean "white bloke") to have held the office. That is because Grover Cleveland (a Democrat and later a '70s soul singer) was President on two separate occasions: 1885-89 and 1893-97, separated by a stint from Benjamin Harrison (Republican).

Coincidentally, Cleveland and Harrison both appear in perhaps the most historically significant sub-category: serving Presidents who sported facial hair. A number of Presidents deserve an honourable mention on this point, but the most salient facts are perhaps the following:

* shamefully, it has been almost a century since we have been blessed with a President who displayed any facial hair whatsoever - well done to William H Taft (R) (1909-1913);

* before Taft, citizens of the USA enjoyed an unprecedented 40 year period in which all Presidents were facially hirsute - back to and including the splendidly-named Ulysses S Grant (R) (1869-77) - with the disappointing exception of the hopelessly clean-shaven William McKinley (R) (1897-1901);

* before Grant, the only incidence of Presidential facial hair was thanks to the one-and-only Abraham Lincoln (R) (1861-65), who was famously the only President ever to sport a beard without a moustache; although an honourable mention should be made of Martin Van Buren (D) (1837-41) who sported flamboyant and unruly sideburns;

* only five Presidents have sported full beard & moustache combinations: Grant, Harrison, Rutherford B Hayes (R) (1877-81), James A Garfield (R) (1881), and Chester A Arthur (R) (1881-85) - although it should be noted that Arthur's was one of those beards that is all edge and no middle, and therefore the purist might prefer to assign him to a separate list all his own;

* only three Presidents have favoured a solo moustache: Cleveland, Taft and Theodore Roosevelt (R) (1901-09).

In case you are looking for some political significance here, and heaven knows why you wouldn't be, it should be noted that, of the nine Presidents to have sported some sort of facial hair (not including Van Buren's sideburns), eight have been Republicans - well done once again to the marvellous Mr Cleveland, the only Democrat of the bunch.

On matters hirsute of a more general nature, there is not a great deal to write home about, except for the admirable James K Polk (D) (1845-49), who favoured what fans of 1980s British football would describe as a "mullet". With some regret I have to report that there has never been a completely bald Leader of the Free World, although the consecutive pairing of Harry S Truman (D) (1945-53) and Dwight D Eisenhower (R) (1953-61) at least made a nod in that direction, so to speak.

The only other President who made any serious effort to lose his hair whilst in office was John Quincy Adams (1825-29), whose father was the second President, John Adams (1797-1801), and who therefore shares with the current President the distinction of keeping it in the family.

On a more serious note, four Presidents died in office of natural causes - William H Harrison (Whig) (1841), Zachary Taylor (Whig) (1849-50), Warren G Harding (R) (1921-23) and Franklin D Roosevelt (D) (1933-45). Harrison (whose designation as "Whig" has nothing to do with his slightly dubious comb-over) has the distinction of being the shortest-serving President ever, at a rather minimalistic one month. That makes 1841 one of only two years ever to see as many as three serving Presidents: Van Buren, Harrison and John Tyler (Whig) (1841-45); the other being 1881 (Hayes, Garfield and Arthur).

The splendid and grandfatherly FDR - forever immortalised by an ugly and permanently-congested dual carriageway running down the east side of Manhattan - shares with Benjamin Harrison and Lyndon B Johnson (D) (1963-69) the distinction of sharing the surname of a former President without having been his son.

Four Presidents were assassinated: Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley and, of course, John F Kennedy (D) (1961-63), who, like the second Roosevelt, has the distinction of being immortalised in a somewhat inappropriate transportation landmark - in his case, New York's largest and most-infuriatingly congested airport.

Only one President has ever resigned: Richard M Nixon (R) (1969-74), who fell on his sword after testing positive for a banned performance-enhancing steroid.

Finally, and perhaps most significantly of all, only one POTUS shares his name with a former Crystal Palace striker sold to Everton this summer for GBP 8.6M - step forward Andrew Johnson (D) (1865-69).

I don't know about your hopes for November 2008, but personally I'm holding out for Hillary v Condi. At least we wouldn't have to worry about the facial hair.

Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Converted A Penalty

No hope, no harm, just another false alarm.
Last night I felt the semi-finals around me.
No hope, no harm, just another false alarm.
So tell me how long, before the next one?
And tell me how long, before the right one?
This story is old, I know, but it goes on.
And on.

With apologies to Mr S Morrisey, another ignominious loss to Portugal on penalties at the quarter-final stage is not exactly what The Referee had predicted (see my message of 15 June). Nevertheless, that prediction was based on empirical scientific evidence, and you can't say fairer than that. Needless to say, I will be going back to the proverbial drawing-board to check my calculations.

In the meantime, a thought: if we lose to Portugal on penalties in the quarter-finals for a third time, do we get to keep the wooden spoon?

Whilst you're pondering that, I am pleased to report that US interest in the World Cup of Association Football, at least in the NY area, appears not to have been dented in the slightest by Team USA's early exit, which was hastened considerably by the penalty kick awarded to Ghana on the basis that the USA's new promising central defender, Oguchi "Gooch" Onyewu, was apparently guilty of being tall and well-built in the penalty area.

On the contrary, most locals that I speak to about such things appear to have been "rooting", as they like to say here, for other teams as well as their own. I have been pleasantly surprised to note that England has often been the favoured choice of second team (and sometimes first team), particularly since we are "celebrating" independence this week.

In case you are finding that concept difficult to grasp, I can tell you that, over the weekend, not one, not two, but around half a dozen of our American friends and neighbo(u)rs sought me out in order to say variously that they were (i) sorry that England had been eliminated, or (ii) disgruntled with penalty shoot-outs (or should that be "shoots-out"?) in general terms, or (iii) not particularly enamoured with the sort of sportsmanship that involves running halfway across the pitch in order to point out to the referee (rather than The Referee) that an opponent really might appreciate a brief glimpse of the redder of his two cards.

In defence of our Portuguese friends, and in a spirit of fairness, I felt obliged to explain that, in "soccer", it is not generally considered appropriate to stamp on the delicate parts of one's opponents, whilst accepting that in "football" it is considered almost essential.

Having agreed on that balanced approach to things, my American friends have largely been content to return to more important matters, such as following the Mets v Yankees weekend series, or organising the 4 July fireworks.

How long, indeed.

Sporting Math

Americanisms are so infuriatingly inconsistent, at least in the logic department.

For example, "sports" is so much more logical than "sport", since there are of course more than one of them. On the other hand, "math", in the singular, is a rather poor abbreviation of "mathematics", which is clearly plural, and therefore the Britishism "maths" has it. At least according to the Referee. And he is, after all, the Referee.

To its credit, the US media - if not its people - is making a good effort to become caught up in World Cup fever. Following the opening-match 3-0 humbling of Team USA by the Czech Republic (in which I take no pleasure at all, absolutely none), there has been an outpouring of outrage and disappointment which is all too familiar to those of us who have been England fans at any time in the past 40 years.

The New York Times astutely pointed out this week that that outpouring is the most important thing to have happened to US soccer in a long time. In other words, although the performance was poor, the public angst with which it was greeted can be taken as a sign that Association Football might just be starting to matter here, at least at the national level.

It is often said that, given 20 years or so, the omnipresence of well-organised soccer at youth level here will come to fruition and the US will lead the world. I don't buy this, as they like to say over here. Were people not making the same point 20 years ago?

The lack of US dominance at national level - to which it is accustomed in so many other sports - is not because they are not doing enough to develop young talent (they are probably doing more of that than any other country in the world), but because Association Football has not mattered here. And, because it hasn't mattered, talented kids drift away in their teens to play "football", baseball or basketball instead.

If they start to care here - if the beautiful game becomes "much more important" than life and death, as Bill Shankly put it - the rest of the world will have to watch out.

In the meantime, a word about England. Whilst my fellow countrymen are working themselves into a lather about our boys' rather pedestrian performances to date, they might not have noticed a fascinating and statistically significant pattern, which I share with you now, at no additional charge.

England won their first game 1-0. They won their second game 2-0. Can you see the pattern yet?

Given that there are a maximum of seven games at the finals, I hereby confidently - and scientifically - predict that England will win the World Cup Final 7-0.

You heard it here first.