Why an Olympic gold rush can restore our pride

There is nothing wrong with British sport that would not be cured this year by England playing like Arsenal, English rugby decreasing its dependence on

Jonny Wilkinson's left instep, 20 Olympic golds in Beijing, Andy Murray winning Wimbledon, a home-bred golfer reclaiming The Open and Premier League referees learning mob dispersal techniques from the SAS.

Since writing columns in

newspapers confers the

extraordinary privilege of telling

people what you think about

everything, there now follows a

personal wish-list for the year

when the Olympics bump down in

Tiananmen Square and Fabio

Capello's England hit emotional

rock bottom when Euro 2008

sparks into life.

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FOOTBALL

Manchester United and

Arsenal would be high on any

list of modern British success

stories, even if the

closest an Englishman

generally gets to Arsene

Wenger's starting team is in a

steward's touchline coat.

These two great institutions are

the Real Madrid and Barcelona of

the English game: beacons of deft,

life-enriching football, played on the

carpet in cathedral stadiums.

Each

time greed, fan-aggression and disrespect

for match officials threatens

to do to the Premier League what

Vesuvius did to Pompeii, you fix

your eyes on Arsenal or United in

full symphonic flow.

Wenger and Sir

Alex Ferguson have made historic

contributions not just to Britain's

national game but to its culture, by

defending beauty against the

Philistines.

This column would give up a lot to

have the 50th anniversary of the

Munich disaster respected in every

seat in every stadium. But that's

probably asking too much of such a

warped tribal culture.

The average Premier League

game is a riot in a luxury cinema.

The white van of everyday English

fury rams our football grounds with

stunning force.

But we can always

escape into the artistry of Cesc Fabregas

or Cristiano Ronaldo, surely

the most gifted footballer to work

here since George Best (though

Thierry Henry, in his pomp, had his

moments).

And yet we keep tripping over the

anomaly of the £30million bill for

five Italian coaches, hired to correct

the absurdity of England's 42 years

in the wilderness.

This year, please

God, a National Football Centre will

rise as a university for coaches and

England teams of all ages so the

mother country can start playing

the same game as football's proper

superpowers.

Euro 2008 will bring

gnawing embarrassment for the

absent British, so be ready to

squirm.

Two other hopes: Alan Shearer to

come off the sofa and learn his trade

in management, as Roy Keane and

Gareth Southgate have.

Far bigger

is the wish to see the Football

Association summon the courage to

protect referees from gang intimidation.

This deference to celebrity

and club-power just has to stop.

HORSE RACING

THE great Cheltenham Festival

hope: Kauto Star and Denman to

jump the last together in the Gold

Cup, thus unleashing a roar that

will make the Cotswolds shift on

their moorings.

OLYMPICS

BEST bet of the year: China to top

the Beijing medals table. America

mined more gold (36) than the 2008

hosts, in Athens four years ago, but

the gap was only four and the

Chinese will have prepared for these

Games like a space race.

Thankfully, the International

Olympic Committee have not added

flattening rebellious students with

tanks to their already packed roster

of sports.

Away from the medal

rostrums, the prime fascination will

be observing the tension between

rampant sports capitalism and

authoritarian repression.

China

want all the fruits of western

consumerism without having to

climb the tree of individual liberty.

The hosts may point out that

there are state executions in America,

too, and remind civil libertarians

there and here in Britain about

the horrendous consequences of

invading Iraq.

Whatever: there

should be some tasty moral tennis

if protesters disappear in the night

and China turn the Games into a

propaganda festival.

On the field of play, let's see how a

global audience treats track and

field after the Balco scandal and the

shaming of a generation of

American athletes, including Justin

Gatlin and Marion Jones.

This will

feel like a nail in the heart of noncheating

runners, throwers and

jumpers, but many of us no longer

trust the showcase of Olympic

sport.

Back here in Britain, the prayer

must be that the Government's

budget-botchers withdraw from the

London project, leaving it to Ken

Livingstone's office and Lord Coe.

Ministers manage big infrastructure projects as well as Fabio Capello can

talk about Shakespeare in English.

CYCLING

LIKE all addicts, the recidivist Tour

de France will plead for one last

chance.

More offensive than the

drug-taking in professional road

racing is the annual insult to the

intelligence that comes with the

protestations of innocence.

Bambi

is dead, not resting.

GOLF

SUPERIOR team spirit has wiped

the clubhouse floor with American

individualism in recent Ryder Cups,

to the point where the last one, at

Dublin's K Club, felt anti-climactic.

The political equilibrium in the

European camp now has to withstand

Nick Faldo's talent for provocation,

which has already upset

Colin Montgomerie.

In the commentary boxes of

America, the lone-hunter Faldo has

discovered how lucrative it is to

stay off the fence of ex-pro platitudes.

But now he has to switch

from being a wise guy with a lapelmic

to something akin to EU president,

melding Spanish, English,

Swedish and Irish voices at Kentucky's

Valhalla, where even the

most semi-detached American will

feel the heat of the home crowd on

his neck.

Another European victory

would make the Ryder Cup golf's

answer to Barbarians games in

rugby: a nice throwback, swallowed

up by money and the fixture list.

On the home front, my Sportsmail

colleague Derek Lawrenson has

advanced a convincing case for

Tiger Woods to sniff a Grand Slam

of Majors on courses that will suit

him.

A personal wish is that Justin

Rose goes on rising. Cod psychology

suggests that when Rose really

believes he can win a Major, heading

into holes 68-72, then he will.

MOTOR RACING

LEWIS HAMILTON to come home

from Switzerland and pay his taxes

like the rest of us, before winning the

F1 Championship without help from

data thieves.

Hamilton is one to

treasure, and his end-of-season wobble

adds psychological interest to his

sophomore year in the fast lane.

RUGBY

JONNY WILKINSON is such an

authentic national treasure that you

feel almost treacherous urging England

to look beyond the old certainties

of his kicking shoe, but it's downright

obvious that Brian Ashton's

post-World Cup XV need to evolve

beyond bash-and-boot.

The reversion to type in France

was anti-art with bruises. Mind you,

it was worth it just to annoy departing

Australians and All Blacks, who

spent so long trying to develop two

invincible teams they forgot to finetune one.

It worries me that the

Rugby Football Union ignored

strategic rifts between Ashton and

his two main assistants, John Wells

and Mike Ford, and left the coaching

team untouched.

This time

Wells, the forwards coach, must submit

to Ashton's grander vision.

With Paul Sackey and the excellent

David Strettle scorching the

wings, and Danny Cipriani offering

an alternative to Wilkinson at No 10,

there could be no excuse for shoving

the ball back in the pack and

racking up points from penalties.

Traditional forward ferocity, joie de

vivre among the backs: this is the

formula the loyal hordes who stuck

with them at the World Cup deserve

to see when Wales arrive at Twickenham

on February 2.

BOXING

ANOTHER season of stellar violence

ahead. David Haye v Enzo

Macarinelli will revive the great tradition

of big domestic fights, while

Joe Calzaghe will send Bernard 'The

Executioner' Hopkins into retirement

with a convincing British conquest.

Affectionate memo to Ricky

Hatton, a proper stand-up guy: don't

fight at welterweight again, and box

more, brawl less. To Amir Khan:

ignore the artificial target of Naseem

Hamed winning a world title at 21,

the same age as you. Go steady. You

have as much time as talent.

CRICKET

THIS will be the year when Andrew

Flintoff's ankle either stabilises or

points the way to premature retirement.

The great yeoman Achilles of

English cricket, Flintoff will fight his

infirmity while Alastair Cook establishes

himself as an opening batsman

of world renown and coach

Peter Moores extends the search for

a wicket-keeper with dancing feet

and velcro hands.

DARTS

ENOUGH with the Sid Waddell idolatry.

Microphone-jocks, however

good, should never inflate themselves

above their sport.

In fact, just

to see how it sounds, I'd like to see

him cover the noble sport of arrows

in the style of John Arlott or the late

Brian Johnston. Just for a day.

'Oh,

I say, a Mrs Pilkington from Cheam

has just sent a rather splendid pint

of Tennent's Super to our commentary

box. How delightful.'

A man must have his dreams.