Scorched by the African sons

Plans have gone awry.  Chaos ensued.

Unfortunately, my tournament has taken a turn for the worse.  Several, in fact.  I’ve now dropped points against Nick van der Nat and Daniel Jere, two of Africa’s most talented chess gems.  I’m not in anything resembling form, but they both played brilliantly, and deserve to be where they sit at the top of the tournament ladder.

Worse still, I’m about to encounter another African ‘bony chicken’, Zimbabwean Rodwell Makoto, fresh off a 2550 performance at last week’s African championships.  Hardly any meat on his 2150 rating, but enough bones to choke this starving Aussie.

My performance to date has been chiefly a combination of my terrible play, and my opponents’ outstanding efforts.  But if I was to use an excuse, I’d start with my strumpet of a computer.  My little netbook has decided to frustrate me in ways the Bush regime could only dream of.

First of all, Rybka, the world’s strongest chess engine and a grandmaster’s best friend on tour, has decided to commit suicide and leave me without a silicon analysis.  My chessbase program has decided to go the same way, and as if to hint at some sort of technological Doomsday cult, my entire Windows operating system has joined them in ritual suicide every fifteen minutes.

It’s difficult to describe to non-chessites just how imperative these computer tools are to a chess player.  Perhaps the best analogy I can use, given Wimbledon is in progress, is a tennis professional not warming up or stretching before a match – it’s probably not going to be a problem against someone really weak, but it’s a huge handicap against anyone of reasonable strength.

As an aside, while I’m playing my ninth round, Andy Murray goes up against Nadal with the hope of the British nation on his wiry shoulders.  Interesting pub trivia:  Murray and I have an astounding and amazingly improbable record of both losing big games on the same day.  Ominous.

Other than that, though, I can’t complain.  The tournament has been tremendously well run, and I’ve had a cracking time here with the South African locals, who have impressed me with their warmth, hospitality and good (albeit strange) humour.  Sure, I’m exhausted, shedding rating points by the dozens, have already had one trip to the emergency room and almost another, but when your base standard includes muggings and volcanoes, I have to rate my Tournament C as a win.

As Avril Lavigne once famously sung, “Why does it have to be so complicated?” (taking the liberty to correct her appalling lyrical grammar).  The tournament blog has called me a skater boy (“Sk8ter Boi”, in Avril-write).  I’m sure there’s a witty literary pun to be made here, if only I had the energy.

In less self-obsessed news, Gawain remains undefeated and shares the lead with the two aforementioned Africans and a few more seeds.  Harika is one of them, and has a chance at a GM norm if she keeps up the form.  Tristan started well but has faded a little to ruin his norm chances – though picked up a prize in last night’s poker tournament.  Nigel Short is, in my opinion, still the favourite, and I’d be very surprised if anything other than the Union Jack is raised at the closing ceremony.

And I’m, well, a wee bit grumpy.  Still, a new shirt, a new day, and tonight’s local braai (apparently that’s how you spell the South African bbq) will hopefully cheer me up.   As Avril once concluded, (in a terrible tune that bizarrely made number one in the States), so much for my happy ending.

(Lame, but I was running out of Avril puns from the few songs I know – unless one of you readers can work the lyrics “I don’t like your girlfriend/I think you need a new one” into a chess reference…)