Category Archives: Sport

Terry’s All Gold

Yesterday Stephen Gerrard joined the fray in calling for some sort of quota system restricting the number of foreign players in the Premier League. What can have influenced his judgment? Could it be the sheer mediocrity of many of the foreigners he has played alongside at Liverpool that has blinded him to the valuable contribution many of the imports have made? Would he, I wonder, be as well disposed towards some sort of quota system should it scupper a future move to AC Milan or Real Madrid, were Italy and Spain to also introduce some measures to “protect” their national teams?

There certainly appears to be a groundswell of opinion growing surrounding the matter of imposing quotas on foreign players in football. This week Michel Platini and Steve Coppell joined Sepp Blatter, Alex Ferguson and others in supporting restrictions on foreigners in the game, mainly on the grounds that it will help the development of indigenous talent. This is bollocks, of course, and the matter shouldn’t need detain us for long. Do we really think that those English players who do break through to Premier League level are anything other than vastly improved by the fact that they play alongside and against superior foreign talent? It seems so blindingly obvious to me, but so it goes. Presumably those calling for quotas are sincere in believing that such moves will remove those foreigners currently blocking out our native talent and so allow more Wayne Rooneys to grace the top flight of the game, but that begs the question “why are the foreign players here in the first place?” I am equally as certain that such moves will just guarantee our teams are cluttered up with more Ben Thatchers and similar and so protect their exalted positions. Certainly, looking back to a time before the influx of foreigners into the game I can’t exactly remember a surplus of homegrown Rooneys; rather my memory is littered with grim visions of a legion of Thatchers, and sub-Thatchers. It seems clear to me that regarding the quality of the players – if not the entertainment – we are much better off these days (and incidentally, my antipathy towards Ben is purely down to his very average performances while playing for my club, and not because of his surname, although that probably didn’t engender my instant respect.)

Perhaps more complex is the whole matter of players’ wages, but there was a similar almost-consensus the other week when, with David Beckham now more or less out of sight and out of mind, John Terry assumed the mantel of being the footballer-most-likely to be used to criticise footballers’ salaries in the Premier League. Sports minister Gerry Sutcliffe apparently “slammed” the “obscene” salary of John Terry and others; although as is often the case when it is reported than someone “slams” something, rather than making an orchestrated attack on the subject Sutcliffe probably just fielded a reasonable question by providing a reasonable answer. What was the response from the very highly paid world of football to the question of whether John Terry and other footballers are too highly paid? Well, Gordon Taylor of the PFA said, “every labourer is worth his hire and Mr Abramovich thinks he’s worth it.” Chelsea boss Avram Grant countered, “everybody likes to speak about the money of the footballers. Why does nobody speak about singers who get more money in one year than any player?” Manchester United’s Alex Ferguson similarly said, “there are some tennis players and golfers earning enormous amounts of money. Is that wrong?” while Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger correctly pointed out that “we are in an economy where the company decides who pays who and how much and we have to respect that.” All is true, but all avoid the question of whether or not football players’ wages are obscene, and the simple answer to that is “yes, of course they are.” Or, if not exactly obscene, then certainly a bit daft.

Personally I have no major objection to the top players earning such daft sums. There is a shed load of money in football at the moment, and when you get a unique talent like a Wayne Rooney being competed for by a number of clubs with pots of cash then there is only one way the price is going to go; that’s just the way it is. I’m actually much less comfortable with journeymen like the aforementioned Ben Thatcher who, while poorer than Rooney, is still mega-rich. Despite having played for many teams, I’ll bet no football fan has ever welcomed Thatcher on arrival at their club, or mourned his passing; his existence in the Premier League is seemingly more down to every team needing 11 players and the league needing 20 teams; and he’s not all that bad you know, I mean I suppose he’ll do. Quite why such a bog standard talent should benefit from being (theoretically) in the same market as someone like Rooney I’m not too sure, but it seems he does. This is something I think is more obscene, if obscene is the right word; Thatcher being quite rich, rather than Rooney or Terry being stupidly rich.

But even regarding top players like John Terry, I do think it is interesting to consider just what forces have led them to their massive income. There is hard work obviously, the drive and ambition to succeed that will have led other similarly gifted or more talented players to fall by the wayside, and that is to be applauded; however hard work is only a part of it. Putting in the same hours as a cricketer, or a chartered surveyor, would result in a far more meagre reward for Terry, no matter how hard he worked; part of the reason for Terry’s wealth is the good fortune that comes from being able in a field that has so much money swirling around it. To that stroke of luck you can add another other stoke of luck, that of Terry having a natural talent for football in the first place; no matter how hard I work at my football I will never be good enough to play anywhere other than my back garden, even the local rec is beyond me. And returning to all that hard work Terry must have put in to get where he is today, even then that “drive and ambition” I mentioned earlier must surely be part nature, part nurture. In summary, then, Terry’s salary is down to being blessed with a natural talent (luck), in a very well rewarded sport (luck) alongside his own efforts (partly luck). Well good luck to him I say.

What to do? Well in the first instance, nothing. I would much prefer for Terry and others to earn the money they do than for there to be some individual salary cap or maximum wage, either in sport or in the wider economy; but this is where taxation comes in, and where for me one of the better cases can be made for a redistributive – or at least a more progressive – tax system. Critics of income redistribution often deride their opponents as envious whingers who moan childishly about redressing society’s “unfairness”; in contrast it is said that taking from the hardworking and giving to the feckless is, well, “unfair”. But as I have said, being hard working is only one of the variables that has led John Terry to his riches, and I don’t think that footballers are a unique case; luck can come in many forms. It is worth saying at this point that I am far from convinced that tax should be used for redistributive purposes, to simply take from the rich to hand to the poor; rather I can see the sense in the rich paying proportionally more in tax than the poor simply because they can more easily afford to, although I concede that in practice they are probably pretty much the same thing.

Have we come all this way just to read a defence of progressive taxation? Well yes, I reckon, it certainly looks that way to me, that and as an excuse for me to make use of the title “Terry’s All Gold”; but sometimes I just feel that the self-evident needs to be evidenced, or something, and we’ve had fun along the way, haven’t we? All I guess I’m trying to say, if I’m even trying to say anything, is that while some people may complain about Premier League salaries, the alternative to footballers – yes, and singers, tennis players, golfers and others – earning vast sums seems to involve unpleasant things like dictatorship and authoritarianism; far better to happily let such people earn their silly money in the first place. But then, rather than bluster that they simply deserve their subsequent wealth, they should accept their good fortune and realise that it’s not unreasonable for them to pay back through taxation a share of what they owe the system that allowed them to earn such absurd amounts of money in the first place. Fair’s fair.

Oh, and as for the matter of quotas for foreigners; footballers – and all other workers while we’re at it – should pretty much be able to work wherever the hell they like; don’t you think?

Sland Main

So I’ve voluntarily given up my season ticket for Eastlands, and thanks to our “Frank” Shinawatra I’ve been forced into selling my shareholding in Manchester City; so what should I do with my money instead? Well, watching the half-time adverts while sat in The Queen’s Arms last night, during the piss-awful tedious toss that passed for City’s 1-0 victory over “Roy Keane’s Sunderland”, I was presented with this opportunity.

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At which I sighed, polished-off my second pint of sublime draught Stella that slipped down sweet and cool as you like, then ambled to the bar and ordered one more. Returning to my prime spot, slap-bang in front of the pub’s generous 40”+ plasma screen, I sank back into my seat and briefly pondered the kind offer while savouring my third exquisite pint.

Now just why would I want to go and do a stupid thing like that?

Fingertails

Language is not a static beast; it constantly evolves, although not in a planned, linear manner. I hope that yesterday the English language made one of its many osmotic advances as, with the score at 1-1 and the ball bounding around inside the England penalty area, Steve Wilson – presumably the only Match Of The Day commentator the BBC could drag to Moscow for an October fixture – declared

England (are) hanging on by their fingertails here.

Quite inspired; announce the winner, inform the OED, bookmark this post and remember the moment for series 42 of Balderdash And Piffle when Dame Victoria Coren explores the etymology of the word. Fingertails; I love it, honest. It’s as if we are somehow going beyond the mere strain and uncertainly of hanging on by our fingertips, like the situation is even more precarious than simply hanging on by our fingernails (which seems positively secure by comparison.) Wonderful. I’m going to try to work the word it into my everyday conversations from now on. Would Steve have possibly put it any better if he had successfully managed to articulate either of the words I assume he was trying to utter? I don’t think so.

Yes indeed, England were hanging on by their fingertails. So it was then in the match, and so it is now with regards remaining in the European Championships beyond the group stage; although just a short while ago the idea that our prospects of progressing were hanging by such a thing would have seemed aspirational when the campaign was going as poorly as I’d predicted and before injuries forced McClaren into fielding a balanced team, so prompting a change in our fortunes. Scotland meanwhile have approached this the other way around by getting off to a cracking start that just refused to peter out, but they have ended up in a similar situation to England after fatefully repeated their classic error of entering a match (in this case against Georgia) as favourites, and with people thinking they stood a good chance. Will they ever learn? We all surely remember where we were when Scotland first proved to us that while they will do well when they don’t stand a chance they will bugger things up with ease once the pressure is off. For myself that epiphany came while I was on holiday at Butlin’s, Pwllheli – watching Archie Gemmill’s goal against the odds that helped put paid to serial World Cup runners-up Holland, but was ultimately in vain as Scotland had forgotten to turn up against Peru the week before – but I know you will be able to name your own time, place and match.

It’s not over yet – England can pray that other results go their way, and Scotland will benefit from being the underdog in their final match against Italy where victory will ensure qualification – but I fear the worst. I have a feeling I could be looking at a European Championships where I will have to adopt another nation to support; that is if I want to have any interest in the competition beyond a sort of detached curiosity. Let’s hope that feeling turns out to be pessimistic. Fingers crossed.

Social Commentary

On Saturday, Jacqui Oatley broke through the testosterone ceiling in becoming the first female commentator on Match Of The Day. Big deal. It’s amazing, isn’t it, that a woman has managed to cause a stir by doing something unremarkable, something that only convention has prevented another woman from having done before?

Steve Curry of the Daily Mail for one was particularly opposed to the very idea. Speaking on BBC Breakfast he stated he was against the notion of females shrieking their high-pitched excitable tones through the telly, feeling it would detract from the beautiful game. Contrast, I suppose, such pained feminine warbling with the high art of John Motson, Mike Ingham and Alan Green.

Steve Curry is a bit of a tit; anyone who has ever heard him speak would surely agree. But his arguments deserve some consideration; all the more so because they are so easy to pull apart. One argument voiced has been that as no women has played the game at the highest level they are unqualified to comment on Premiership football; an argument that means everyone I know should also keep schtum, as should most TV commentators (Mark Bright meanwhile is someone who has played the game at Premiership level, but demonstrates that such experience is no bar to talking utter claptrap on a regular basis). The idea that women’s voices themselves are unsuitable seems especially odd. Presumably no woman can ever pass muster, while Joe Pasquale is suitable purely because he is a man? Or perhaps we should only source commentators from the RSC? If football commentary was the sole preserve of the likes of Joss Ackland then I could see how the arrival of some squeaky voiced upstart could alter the status quo, but looking at the current cabal of MOTD commentators I can’t see how a woman would alter the balance that much.

In the event I thought Jacqui acquitted herself just fine while commentating on the Fulham / Blackburn game; afterwards Gary Lineker pondered that their female commentator had done a good job, to which Lee Dixon gave a resounding “yeah” and then swiftly moved on to discuss the match itself. It was the correct, dismissive response; not to the idea that a woman can commentate competently, but to the fact that it is an issue in the first place. And amongst other things, the reason it isn’t an issue is because in essence football itself is fucked so it really doesn’t matter. To the vast majority of football fans MOTD and the rest are just playing out time. There is a very real chance as I write this that the Premiership, FA Cup and European Cup will be fought out between two teams that everyone hates; it is a tribute to Chelsea that we are now in the situation where even I as a Man City fan can’t really choose between them and United. Whatever the talk of this being a golden era for English club football I’m praying for an AC Milan victory in the Champions League as the only respite we may get from the success of these two unlovable clubs (I’m not sure where Liverpool fit into all this, but I must confess I’m not a fan of theirs either).Football has become so boring these days that whoever commentates on the game is irrelevant.

But anyway, just what is this sacred order of commentators that women are in danger of breaking into? Okay, Sky’s commentators are alright in the main, but have you listened to the rabble on the BBC and ITV recently? Apart from the humble old guard of the likes of Tony Gubba and Mike Ingham who just get on with it and can still do a half decent job, we have some ne’er do wells such as John Motson, Clive Tydesley and Alan Green, and then the young(er) ones like Peter Drury, Jonathan Pearce and Guy Mowbray who think their job is to come up with some ever more painful, smart-alec wordplay for every ill-suited occasion, so showing themselves up each time as smug, preening fuckwits. Is anyone telling me that no woman can improve on that shower of arses?

Women have many faults. None of them can read a map without turning it around up to 270 degrees so that it is in line with the way they are facing, and they seem incapable of successfully parallel parking unless they fully employ all the laws of chance. But were you to ask me; are we saying that a female cannot commentate every bit as poorly as a juggins* such as Jon Champion? Well, then I must insist that they can. From my experience I fiercely believe that a woman can be just as inept as any man out there.

*Juggins n. inf. silly fellow. A great word I discovered while looking in the dictionary for a “J” my son could take into nursery for the “letter of the week” (in the end we settled on a carton of apple “juice”).

Any Port

It was a bit of a false start, really. Abandoning my City season ticket in May after umpteen years, the new season saw me attend my first pre-season friendly in ages as City took on Porto. I never had any intention of going to the match, but when my parents offered to take my lad to what would be his first City game I just had to be there; to witness the event, and to lend the folks a hand.

And I am delighted to report that he had a great time, eating Smarties and Pringles with his back to the pitch, while “fixing my seat” with a stone he had picked up from the floor; so he showed more imagination than anyone in the City team that day. Fair’s fair, it is a bit much expecting a 3 year old to remain interested throughout a 90 minute match; but then it is tough on anyone who isn’t in a yogic trance to sit through a pre-season friendly at City, so I think he did really well.

Then Wednesday saw me sat back in my old seat to watch the Portsmouth game – well, it was one of the few home matches before Christmas not to be televised, and I always thought I would probably go to our first match of the season – and while at the start of the match I wondered if I would miss my jaunts to the City of Manchester stadium, by the second half of the nil-nil draw I was convinced of the rightness of my decision. By full time I was desperate to get home.

So yesterday truly marked the start of the new regime; perhaps fittingly, while last season’s home fixture against Arsenal was my last as a season ticket holder, yesterday’s home match against the same team was the first where I chose The Weavers over Eastlands.

It will be interesting to see how becoming an armchair fan affects my viewpoint. When I was someone who attended every home game I could I hated the 5:15 Saturday kick-offs; they were a real pain in the arse, completely buggering up your Saturday night. Now, however, I think they’re great. I pop to the pub, have a few pints, pick up a take-away pizza on the way home, and we are tucking into our Thin-Crust Sicilians with extra jalapenos while others are stuck on the match bus, or in a traffic jam. Certainly it seems a far more painless way to watch a somewhat fortuitous victory.

So I don’t know when I will grace a City home match again, not while Sky give me every opportunity to go to the pub instead. The next home game that is not on telly and where I am available is Bolton on the 23rd of December, and that fixture hardly sets the heart racing. Christmas shopping and an impending new born may scupper any chance of me going to that game, even if I want to. But after Porto and then Portsmouth, perhaps for the sake of neatness I’ll wait to see if we ever play Port Vale, either in the cup or even in the league, before I once again watch a City match in the flesh.

I may be in for a long wait.

Lakeland Reflections


Last Wednesday, after we’d pulled onto the car park of the Water Edge Inn at Ambleside, the wife and boy grabbed a table by the lake while I went to the bar. About to order a Stella for myself I noticed the beer pump for Kronenbourg Blanc, and being on my holidays, decided to live a little and give it a go. As the barman tilled in the price of £3.40 I decided Kronenbourg Blanc would have to be something pretty special for me to have another pint.

In fact I had two more. One swig and I was hooked; it was bleeding gorgeous. I’m not a stranger to white or wheat beers; I’ve had the occasional Hoegaarden for a change, and have whiled away many a happy hour in Sinclair’s Oyster Bar with a pint of Sam Smith’s beautiful Ayingerbrau Hefe Weizen, but this was nicer still. A clearer looking pint than I expected, with a sharp, fruity, citrus tang without being too sweet. Delicious.

The only fly in the ointment was the slightly disconcerting feeling that I’d been suckered into a marketing wheeze; that Kronenbourg Blanc is not a revival of an old classic but a recent launch dreamt up by a committee tasked with brand stretching, its fine flavour the result of extensive market research, and that I was really drinking little more than an expensive and cloudy lager and lime.

It was though merely a minor discomfort that passed with the numbing of the senses as another beer was imbibed, and I decided that I was more than happy to be a willing dupe. Mine’s another pint.


We awoke in Bowness on Thursday to the same news as everyone else; that there had been a string of terror suspects arrested and that the airports were in chaos. We watched the news for a bit then set off, as planned, to the rather splendid South Lakes Wildlife Park. I’m familiar with Chester Zoo, a fine place to be sure but a bit overwhelming; you can lose the will to live there before you are even half way round. At South Lakes Zoo though we seemed that bit closer to the animals, and it was far more compact, as I imagine London Zoo to be (perhaps; I’ve never been but it looks neat on the map. Last time I was in Regent’s Park I kept seeing signs for the zoo but I couldn’t track it down; until, strolling up The Broad Walk I looked to my left and started when I saw an ostrich, keeping up with me, pace for pace, just the other side of a fence, and I realised I’d found it).

So we had a great time, and it wasn’t until we were sat having a drink in the Hole Int’ Wall pub that we thought again about the morning’s news, and that for all we knew the plot may not have been foiled and thousands of people could be dead.

Of course, we know now that that didn’t happen, whether because of excellent police work or because there was no such plot. I think some scepticism is understandable, after the ricin, red mercury and chemical vest plots that apparently weren’t; but until we find out for certain what the quality of intelligence was this time I’m prepared to give the security services the benefit of doubt.

Some of the conspiracy theories expounded have been pretty outlandish; I can’t see the entire aviation network being buggered just to manipulate public opinion, or to put the squeeze on Blair when he is out of the country. Some questions disappear into thin air the moment you have thought of them. Why, for example, keep the terror threat level at critical if the plot has been disrupted and the suspects detained? Simply because perhaps we can’t be certain all the suspects are in custody, and if those at large are no longer under surveillance they are free to regroup. That said, I deny anyone not to have experienced a shudder when they first viewed that hideosity John Reid making his horrible, horrible address to the nation from his Home Office bunker. There really was a chilling coup d’etat vibe about the whole thing, if not a full-blown “we have commandeered all your puny Earthlings’ broadcasting frequencies” feel to it. Thankfully, our Deputy Prime Minister’s address later on brought some welcome, if unintentional, comic relief.


Our last day in the Lakes was Friday, which brought the sports news that “Hatchet” McClaren had swung into action, axing David Beckham from the England squad for some pointless midweek friendly in the next week or is it the week after against oh-I-forget.

I think it is fair to say that even Steve McClaren didn’t want Steve McClaren to be the England manager, but we are all stuck with him now as he tries to make the best of bad job, the first act of which obviously has to be to make the visible break from the ancien regime, to appear the daring and decisive new broom rather than just the same old damp and tired mop as you move into the top job; and dropping Beckham surely proves it.

Or does it? After all, Beckham laid the groundwork himself by resigning the England captaincy after the World Cup, and getting shot of him is something the media and supporters have been crying out for for ages. If I had a penny for every time someone has said to me “Beckham’s not played well for England for four years” then I’d be halfway to affording a bag of crisps by now (I don’t have the widest circle of friends) but most people would probably have enough for a down payment on a Maserati, or could buy a Kia Pride outright, if you allow a discount for cash.

So I don’t have a great deal of optimism about the McClaren reign; even when he apparently stamps his authority by telegraphing a brave and bold decision, the reality is that he has made the obvious, plodding and unimaginative move. But while the Beckham “sacking” has taken the headlines, I think a more telling decision has been buried in the small print.

When Beckham gave up the captaincy battle raged over who should replace him; John Terry or Steven Gerrard. In this regard, McClaren has completely bottled it, by making Terry captain but giving Gerrard the consolation prize of the vice-captaincy (and a colouring set). Now, we all know that, unlike in cricket, football captains do fuck all really, other than clapping their hands together a lot and shouting “come on lads” (which Terry is very accomplished at); so what on earth does a vice-captain do? In this case it appears he lets Steve McClaren off the hook; it is an administrative weaselling that means he doesn’t really have to choose between two players from different well-supported clubs, coached by vocal managers who seem to have an enmity for each other. It doesn’t bode well; even on a basically irrelevant decision McClaren has chosen the road of timidity, or at the very least the timorous politician’s path.

We’ll see how things develop from here on in, but rest assured that following any successes for the England football team under McClaren’s stewardship this post will be radically rewritten in the Stalinist style; but I’m not anticipating any such action.

Still Gleaming

Well that’s that for another four years; the World Cup is over and bang on cue, two days later, here are my topical thoughts. This time around the end of the tournament has the added bonus that Charles Clarke has promised to shut the fuck up from now on, so that in itself is cause for celebration (Update: he’s just broken his word). I successfully fought the virtually non-existent urge to regularly issue predictions and comments on the games as they have gone on and rightly so; if I had then I would surely have been proved wrong at every turn. Now, however, I can fraudulently claim that I always thought Italy would edge it due to their solid defence, and you can’t prove a thing.

Overall I think it has been a pretty average tournament, with few games that really grabbed the attention, but I am glad for Italy. Of course I wanted England to win (though I could never see that happening) and I have also always had a bit of a soft spot for Spain (being a Hispanophile in general and out of sympathy for their perennially underachieving football team in particular); but with both those sides predictably out of the running I wanted the Italians to do it, primarily because I was in Sorrento four years ago when they got knocked out of the 2002 World Cup and I will never forget the eerie silence when we drew into town, how all the television channels had this air of mourning akin to a state funeral. I would have loved to have been back there on Sunday to judge the difference.

I felt very lucky watching England this tournament, I must say; while the commentators and summarisers were scratching their heads wondering where a good performance would come from, I just sat back watching what I had always expected would happen unfold in front of my eyes. I really feel sorry for all those optimists who thought we stood a chance. We didn’t play well simply because we aren’t very good. I know Sven gets a lot of stick, and rightly so, but listening to some you would imagine that he alone has held back the best team in the world. I’m not denying that we could perhaps play better under a different manager, but not by much.

Part of this is down to how we continually exaggerate how good our players are. The summarisers will say that there aren’t many players from other teams that they would want in the England side, but can you imagine many England players that other nations would want? This is symbolised best in “Fanny” Lampard, one of the best players in the world apparently, certainly one of our stars. Everyone seems to agree that he has had a poor tournament but I’m not so sure; I’ve never thought he was that good anyway. Surely the most over rated England player since David Platt, take away his goals (as it appears someone did; the only way he would trouble the scoreboard is if it was positioned directly behind the goal) and he contributes almost nothing to the side.

Yes, we could win the World Cup one day, we prove each competition that we can consistently finish in the top eight (ie. we are equivalent to a Bolton or Blackburn in premiership terms), and we could fluke onwards; if we had performed only badly in the penalties, as opposed to abysmally, then it is conceivable that we could have reached the semis since Portugal missed two of their spot kicks. However, the fact that we could fluke a semi final appearance is not the same as this misguided belief that we should do better, and I have no faith, based upon the comments of the pundits, that a sense of realism will arrive on the scene anytime soon.

“England expect better than the Quarter-Finals” I kept hearing it said, but we have rarely been further, only once on foreign soil. There have been plenty of occasions when we haven’t qualified for the finals at all (eg. the seventies). Then there is the bizarre paradox that when other teams played badly some pundits would announce that it revealed the team simply didn’t have what it takes to win the World Cup, but when England played badly the same pundits would announce that it is irrelevant because “we know we can play better and will come good in the end”. Based on what?

And even when we did get knocked out, after never playing well, we had a ready made scapegoat in “Chico” Ronaldo, who cruelly spoke to the referee and so “got Rooney sent off”; as if players never crowd round the referee in England. Now don’t get me wrong, Ronaldo is a little shit, but Rooney was right to get sent off; if not for the stamp then for stupidly pushing Ronaldo out of the way. It is right to hate Ronaldo, but not to blame him for England’s exit right on schedule. If Ronaldo wasn’t being blamed then of course it was Sven for playing Rooney up front on his own; but many pundits on television, Lee Dixon among them, had hardly a bad word to say about that system after the Ecuador game; the talk was all about how England seemed to have found a formation that they liked and that worked, while I just shook my head, replayed the images in my head of Rooney stranded upfront without any support, and wondered if the experts had seen the same game that I had.

The punditry in general has been entertaining enough, good value and all, but full of the same old hypocrisies and clichés. When the group stages ended there was the typical “great, the knockout round starts here”, “the last 16 is where the good matches get played”, despite the fact that since USA ’94 the group stages have always been better, when three points for a win means it is worth going for victory while in the latter games it seems more important just to avoid defeat. Then there were the complaints about foreigners diving, as if we never see such things in the premiership (although I admit Henry surprised me when he dived against Spain; I can’t imagine he would have been so blatant for Arsenal). But I did find it bizarre to see Alan Shearer complaining about underhand play and players pressuring the referee; there was never a corner taken where he wouldn’t give an opponent a handy shove, and he was certainly never shy about giving the referee the benefit of his experience. As for Alan Ball’s appearances on Match of the Day as a summariser, as someone who has suffered at his hands I think the less said about his expert analysis the better.

But if the punditry has been poor the commentary has been even worse. I can’t think of a good commentator on BBC and ITV at the moment (TV that is: BBC’s FiveLive coverage is fine). I need not waste my time explaining Motty’s failings, but my new bete noir is Guy Mowbray, for serial dreadfulness but particularly for his appalling “Brisbane, Sydney Melbourne, Perth…they’re all wild about Harry” line when Mr Kewell scored against Croatia. I am indebted to Peter Crouch, however, for refusing to do his robotic dance when he scored against Trinidad And Tobago; not that it stopped Clive Tyldesely from saying “he’s scoring with robotic regularity”, but at least it made Clive look even dafter than he otherwise would have done. Sepp Blatter seems to stick his nose into most other aspects of the sport; should we petition him to introduce minimum standards for commentators?

But now thoughts turn to the domestic season, and my decision not to renew my season ticket is looking inspired. Up until Christmas only four City home games remain unchanged for telly (yet), and of those four I am at work for two of them. Can we stop this charade of publishing the fixtures and then waiting for Sky to piss about with them? Why not draft them, hand a copy to Sky, let them get to work and then publish them so we drones can view them for the first time with all the changes already having taken place. As it stands, when the fixtures are first released the only correct reaction is to shrug your shoulders, say “whatever, let’s see” and then to wait a few weeks to see what turns up.

And with Sven having finally gone it is also time to look forward to the exiting era of Steve McClaren, England Head Coach, as choreographed by his publicist. Funny though; looking back at my first full post on this blog I see that I talked then about the FA, the England manager and some bloke called Max Clifford. The more things change…

PostScript: No World Cup post would be complete without a “man of the tournament” award; and I have to go for Graham Poll. Not just because he booked a Croatian player three times in the game against Australia, but also for missing two blatant penalties in that game, making a host of other bad decisions and completely losing the plot in the most entertaining fashion possible. Cheers, Graham.

Mark His Words

I was watching the second-half of Brazil v Croatia last night (after I had spent the first half with Springwatch; you need a bit of give and take in a relationship I find), when John Motson goes all statistical on us, wibbling on in irritating fashion as is his wont. Do I really care that if Brazil beat Croatia then it will be their eighth straight win in the World Cup finals, a new record? If Motty were even a half-decent commentator that I could ignore his numerical excursions, but his continued pre-eminence on the BBC is an affliction I really hoped would have been dealt with in the appropriate manner by now. Will there be no end to his reign of tedium?

But then I perked up when he continued “and if Croatia lose then it will be their first competitive defeat in four years”.

Eh? You’re probably thinking what I was thinking; did I dream Rooney ripping their defence apart two years ago in the European Championships? It was Croatia, wasn’t it? It was, I was certain of it, but for a moment I began to doubt my sanity.

The ball went out for a corner to Brazil, and Motson piped up “as I was saying, Croatia’s last defeat was two years ago to England in Portugal”.

As I was saying! You lying git. Or was he? I questioned myself again, wondering this time if I had initially misheard.

But technology is a wonderful thing. I pressed rewind on my Sky+ like PVR until I saw Roberto Carlos take a throw, and listened again as Motson clearly made the claim that Croatia were undefeated in four years, and then continued on to make his “as I was saying…two years” comment; then I pressed the red button, selected Radio Five’s audio, and ditched the pillock once and for all.

I wouldn’t have minded if he had said “oops, silly me, my mistake, what was I thinking of”, but no; instead he embarked on a shameless attempt to airbrush his error from history, to try to purge the mistake from his spotless record on statistics. It was all very ugly.

How did he realise he had got it wrong? Did it just suddenly occur to him and panicking he blurted out his lazy covering tactic; or more likely did Mark Lawrenson, off mic, point out that he had fouled up? I don’t know, but I have enough fear in me to be anxious for Lawrenson’s welfare; I don’t think Motson appreciates someone pointing out his feet of clay. Please, as soon as someone spots Mark safe and well, leave a comment on this post and put my mind at rest.*

*I don’t count a surreal sighting of Mark Lawrenson reading a story at the end of the Bedtime Hour on Cbeebies. I am sure they were recorded ages ago, (and I pray that they are not all we will have to remember him by).

Like Rose And Thistle

So here it is, my obligatory World Cup post. It had to happen, what with the whole country once again united as one, exchanging knowing glances and daring to seek an answer to that eternal question: what is it with the Scots, and why won’t they get behind England? Yes, I know Gordon Brown reckons 2/3rds of his countrymen will be cheering on the English, but not for the first time I think the Chancellor’s prediction will turn out to be wildly optimistic.

Perhaps it is useful to do a bit of empirical research. My wedding was the day after England beat Argentina in the last World Cup. The evening before the big day (my wedding, not the match) I was chatting to a clutch of my Scottish relatives in a hotel bar, and there was a less than celebratory atmosphere once the conversation turned to the football. To be honest, considering the hyperbolic overreaction that followed this (as every other) England victory, I would be hard pressed to argue with their attitude.

But before some England fans complain about how outrageous it is that their fellow Brits don’t follow the “local” side, we should make the obvious comparison. How many Mancuncian City fans supported their local side, United, in the 1999 European Cup Final against Bayern Munich? I would say precisely none. At the time I had to put up with quite a bit of stick from United fans casually tossing the “bitter blue” accusation at me, but my response was simple; why should I support United simply because I am from Manchester? The fact is that I hate United, all the time, whoever they are playing; I didn’t then see any reason to start supporting them just because they were “flying the flag” for the UK (which they weren’t really, were they?) against a team with whom I had no grievance. I suppose I could have supported United out of hatred for Germans, but that would have made me a racist twat, which I’m not. It is also noticeable how few United fans extended this theory that you should support you local side to cheering Liverpool’s European Cup victory last year, or who sided with Arsenal against Barcelona a month back.

And while it is true that many England fans do support Scotland, it is also a fact that you will find many United fans who don’t mind City doing well. That is a luxury the dominant team in a relationship can indulge in, but which is rarely reciprocated. Even if I had wanted United to win the European Cup I would surely have regretted it during the triumphalism that followed their success, once I found that work colleagues who had never shown any interest in football before were suddenly boasting and preening because of “their” team’s victory. Even those Scots who would like England to do well may change their mind if England actually enjoy a modicum of success, and an unbearable crowing is unleashed that they will feel little part of.

Ultimately the Scots are not English, so why should they support the England team? If some Scots want to wave the George Cross then fine, but I can see no reason why they should.


And how will England do? Well, I don’t know if you have heard this, but apparently we have the best chance of winning the World Cup since 1966; so that’s nice. The only problem is that the people who are predicting glory tend to be the ones who say the same thing every World Cup and European Championships, and it hasn’t happened yet. This year, however, the optimism seems to have gone into overdrive, with talk that this is the best set of players England has ever had.

Now I would love to think we can win the thing, but I doubt we will, certainly not on merit. It is a possibility but no more. That said I am a serial cynic, doubting until the last minute that our cricket team would win the Ashes last year, and scoffing at the thought of London succeeding in the race to win the Olympics, so what do I know? However, on the matter of whether or not we can win the World Cup I make the same prediction every four years, and currently I have a 100% record.

I don’t quite get this “best England side ever” thing; sure we have some world class players like Gerrard and Rooney, but that doesn’t make a team, and I can think of many players from the recent past – Lineker, Shearer, Gascoigne, Seaman, Pearce – who I think would walk into the current side. If nothing else we would certainly kill for an Ince or a Batty. People seem to forget in the pre-tournament euphoria that this isn’t that different a side from the one that in Euro 2004 could batter a team like Croatia but whose talent-stuffed midfield was completely sliced through when up against a side of the quality of France or Portugal. It is also largely the same team who were deservedly beaten by Northern Ireland not that long ago.

Of course anything is possible; if we had fluked a win against Brazil in 2002 then we would have stood a great chance of winning that World Cup. Greece’s success in Euro 2004 shows what can be achieved, although they were a balanced and well organised team, which I don’t think England are.

When I was younger of course I dreamed that England could be likely winners of the World Cup, but then I also fancied City’s chances in the league. Time passes and perhaps I have put away some childish things while picking up some adult pessimism along the way. But while some say that the only difference between optimists and pessimists is that the optimist has a better time, I tend more to the view that pessimists have the better of it, constantly being surprised and amazed by their good fortune. I’m just going to enjoy a great summer, what will be will be, and any fleeting World Cup success will be a bonus.


No post on the World Cup would be complete without having a dig at Embrace, purveyors of the latest anodyne official England song; but not just because it is dreary rubbish. The young whippersnappers clearly have no sense of football song history, or they wouldn’t have picked a title horribly similar to the appallingly poor 1986 effort “We’ve Got the Whole World At Our Feet”. If you can’t remember the track then lucky you; but for the record it sounded not unlike the 1982 shocker “This Time”, which in turn sounded like a watered-down and petered-out version of “Back Home” stripped of any of the nostalgic “well-it-was-of-its-time” charm that that latter song could claim. For harking back to an earlier monstrosity Embrace should be strung up.

It has been said that these days England songs are better than they used to be since the FA co-opted some decent bands in to write the tunes; but there remains only one good England song, and it isn’t “Three Lions”, despite that songs popularity and success as a football chant (that line “Jules Rimet still gleaming” for Christ’s sake, which is exactly the sort of thing Baddiel and Skinner would take the piss out of if they hadn’t been involved in its production). Getting a great band like, for example, Echo and the Bunnymen to create an England song is irrelevant when the result is a tedious washout.

No, New Order wrote the only England song ever to cut the mustard (with perhaps an honourable mention going to Black Grape for their unofficial track “England’s Irie”). Perhaps if they must then they should re-release “World In Motion” every four years; or better still, just not bother with a World Cup song at all.

End Of An Era

It was Halloween, appropriately enough. I was sat on the bus travelling back from the City of Manchester Stadium. We had just convincingly defeated Aston Villa 3-1 to go 4th in the Premiership. The bus was abuzz with chatter about how well we were doing, my Dad was positively beside himself revelling in a glorious season; but it was there that I first toyed with the idea of not renewing my City season ticket.

I suppose all football fans have had that “what am I doing here” feeling from time to time, but this one was different. Sat alone amongst a sea of blue plastic seats when I watched us tumble out of the League Cup to Lincoln a few years ago, beaten by a comical goal in front of a few thousand spectators, you can understand why I questioned my sanity; but in those days there seemed something to fight for and I couldn’t desert my team at such a time. But to question your loyalty when you are in the top six on merit, possibly looking at a European place, and yet you are bored witless, signified something deeper.

In part it is down to City’s circumstances. For years we City fans were treated to relegation battles and promotion scrapes on an almost annual basis. Now, (more or less) comfortable after four straight seasons in the Premiership, there seems little to fight for. I never thought we would hold onto 4th spot, and we didn’t, but nowadays that is the very top of our ambitions, and it doesn’t excite me. Outside the top clubs the very best you can hope for is to fluke a good season into the preliminary round of the Champions League, where you are unlikely to even survive as long as the last of the summer’s wasps. Fall a bit short and you could still end up in the UEFA cup. Whoo-hoo. Last time we competed in that competition it just served as an irritant, forcing us to reschedule the few remaining fixtures that hadn’t already been rescheduled by Sky. So on that Halloween night I realised that for a City fan this was about as good as it was likely to get, and I wasn’t inspired.

But it’s not just City, it is football in general. I remember in the old days you would watch a match where one side would put the other team under a bit of pressure, where the crowd would roar as your team forced corner after corner, or your side would defend valiantly against your opponents onslaught which could last for 10 or 20 minutes. That rarely seems to happen nowadays as teams act so negatively, even coming to such an anti-fortress as Eastlands deciding to pack midfield for 90 minutes and get bodies behind the ball to hopefully force a 0-0 draw. Goals and chances appear, if ever, seemingly out of nothing following a prolonged period of probing and parrying. If in days gone by teams could be said to press forward trying to inflict a knockout blow, today sides spend much of the match sparring, while I sit in the stand and daydream.

I think Jose Mourinho has had a negative influence on the game. With all the wealth at his disposal he could have built a wonderful side in whatever image he chose; but he went for a solid, dependable and relentless unit. He deserves his success, but I don’t want to watch his side. He also seems to have influenced other managers in their dealings with the press; the Wenger “I didn’t see it” has been replaced by the Mourinho “I did see it, and there was nothing wrong with it”. I am getting pretty tired of referees and their assistants making correct decisions only for the managers to defend their players antics and cry victimisation. I am not trying to pin all the blame on Mourinho, but he deserves his fair share.

This all seems a bit unfair on Stuart Pearce. Under his stewardship City are more attack minded than many other sides, and in interviews he seems almost saint-like in his reasonableness. It isn’t his fault, but that is the way it is. Since making my decision not to renew my season ticket I have seen little down at Eastlands to make me change my mind or regret my decision. Almost every game I have seen, win or lose, seems to follow the same dull and un-engaging pattern. I still intend to go to the odd game, and I will watch matches on TV (in the pub or at my parents’) and on the (ahem) internet, where it is easier to sack it if it is boring; but the sense of duty which kept me going for a while is long gone. With tonight’s 3-1 defeat to Arsenal (ironically one of the more entertaining games this season) I have watched my last match as a season ticket holder, and the overwhelming feeling is one of relief.