A Good VAR These Days is Hard to Find

 Complaining about VAR is just what they want, of course. The more publicity, the more traction it gets, further cements its place at the centre of the game and our mental well-being, having first sky(sports)rocketed there in 2018. The rant I am about to go on will be as pointless as the thing itself, but do you starve attention-grabbing provocateurs of the oxygen they crave or does that make you complicit, even a supporter? You can now, via modern means, call out celebrity baddies as well as challenge your ignorant in-laws, but while affecting change seems more hopeful when applied to direct relationships, VAR is the untouchable enemy protected by self interests and profit. It feels like we are helpless viewers watching Wallace from Wallace and Gromit putting together another well-meaning invention that will harm the world, but without Gromit there to stop the evil doings.

The agitators of VAR were the beleaguered managers on the wrong end of a tight decision that week in conjunction with armchair fans who needed an outlet for their rage and were not content with just goal line technology; the ‘there’s too much at stake now’ line, with an extra coating of ‘people’s livelihoods are at risk’. 

Those managers are mostly out of work now, their trotters up like David Cameron, having poured on the petrol and then fucked off when the fire came. But the rise of the machine was inevitable, marching forward like Cybermen unveiled by hapless buffoons trumpeting a revolution of the game as we know it. If we can put people on the moon, we’ll find a way to do that, if we can watch a programme on one side and still get to see the one on the other side that’s on at the same time, we’ll sort that.  Likewise, if we can exterminate a goal because there might have been an offside that no one’s seen or appealed for and is almost not offside, leave it with us…what do you mean, you didn’t actually want that? 

I had a problem with goal line technology at first - the idea of averting one injustice without paying attention to the rest, but I had to admit there was something satisfying about the simple efficiency of it, not to mention the elimination of all the mithering - or at least, the mithering on that front. Not that mithering is a bad thing; it can be both liberating and amusing, but in football it has helped ease the path of Big Brother’s entry. In city centres and banks, cameras are essential; to deploy them in football is less compelling an argument, but as the mithering went, people on telly can see the injustice but not the ref, how is that right? No one English gives a shit that Geoff Hurst’s shot didn’t go over the line, but when it’s your team on the wrong end, or a pundit is emphatically earning their right to be called back to the studio next week, a cauldron will start to bubble. 

Six years on from its entry into the mainstream, VAR is still there - despite, or fuelled by, the mass of dissenting voices -throwing deckchairs off the titanic every weekend and midweek. We were told, or at least I remember Gary Lineker telling us (at the beginning of Russia 2018) that VAR would only come into play to intervene in the absolute “howlers” - your Maradona and Henry handballs, your Lampard ‘over the line’ no-goal, your wild Tevez offside that stood. This proved to be balls, notably in the Final of Russia ‘18 when the ref was asked to award a penalty against France that only VAR was asking for. Now, we are told that VAR will definitely - promise - only pipe up for the clear and obvs errors. Still this proves to be balls. The examples I’m about to give from over the last week of English football include those that went against my team and went for the local rivals of my team, which is very apt of course, as self-interest is exactly the vehicle that has got to us where we are today. 

Brighton and Hove Albion versus Arsenal last weekend, January 4th. There had been controversy in the corresponding fixture when VAR had influenced a second yellow card for Declan Rice, who’d tapped the ball away after the whistle prompting Jan Veltman to rise from the turf and kick Rice,  pretending he was aiming to take the free kick. The decision to dismiss Rice was retrospectively compounded by Brighton forward Joao Pedro booting the ball down the touch line in the same circumstances and not receiving a booking. I honestly think that if the ref had given Rice red for the first yellow, a late lunge, I could have lived easier with the entirely human decision made. This perhaps contradicts my issue with Brighton’s equaliser at the Amex Stadium in the return, but I’m confident I will regain credibility by the end of this. Last week, with Brighton 1-0 down to Arsenal, again Pedro is once more a leading figure in the fallout. He heads the ball sideways in the Arsenal penalty area, Arsenal centre half William Saliba goes to make a header, colliding with Pedro, Pedro crashes to the ground holding his face. Ref Anthony Taylor hesitates, then points to the spot. About 4 hours later (no, not the duration of the VAR check) Match of the Day commentator, Jonathan Pearce is heard vindicating Taylor’s decision after the slow-motion replay and later sucks up to Brighton manager Fabian Hurzeler during the post-match interview about it. Hurzeler had answered that it was a clear penalty, which he may or not believe, there’s mounting evidence that he’s a shit-stirring little turd (my biased views are my own.) Back to the studio, and Lineker, not a seasoned Arsenal cheerleader, dismisses Hurzeler’s self-righteous smirk, backing up Arsenal manager Mikel Arteta’s words that he’d never seen anything like that penalty decision before. In addition, further analysis of the incident showed that Saliba’s head had actually made contact with the ball before connecting with Pedro. VAR clearly hadn’t seen what someone in the MOTD cutting room had, and later it transpired that it had been a very quick check. Which is fine, nobody wants (actually it’s hard to know what people want), I don’t want, emotion-sapping delays to the game over every penalty box incident (and it is the penalty box where VAR invariably operates, as only goals seem to be the focus, as if everything leading up to it is of no consequence) and Taylor has every right to give a penalty if he thinks it’s one, furthermore if there is no immediate clear and obvious error, the decision should stand.

But…

December 8th, Fulham vs Arsenal. The score is 1-1 with just a couple of minutes left when Bukayo Saka runs in from the right to head a Gabriel Martinelli cross past home goalkeeper, Bernd Leno, a vital moment in the title race, Arsenal staying within reach of Liverpool as Saka takes the acclaim of the away support and dispirited Fulham players trudge back to towards the halfway line. Then the ref is told, after a four-minute VAR check, that Martinelli had strayed fractionally offside when receiving the ball - the customary toe-nail - and the goal is disallowed. A four-minute check does not associate itself with ‘clear and obvious’, nor the toe-nail, nor the lack of protests from Fulham. 

Back to the Brighton game now.

An unexplored controversy was Pedro’s presence on the pitch in the first place. In Brighton’s previous game on December 30th (two days before Arsenal’s, I’ll just get that in there) at Aston Villa, Pedro swung an elbow deliberately intended for the face of Pau Torres, who’d been pulling his shirt. As the commentator on MOTD said, you can be dismissed for violent intent, but as I said, VAR aren’t interested in anything outside the penalty area that doesn’t result in a goal that they can chalk off, so Pedro was free to play and affect their next match against Arsenal. I do not say that Fulham wouldn’t have found time to equalise Saka’s goal nor that Brighton wouldn’t have got one without the penalty, but 4 points have arguably been denied Arsenal there. Arsenal finished 2nd by 2 points last season. That in itself is perhaps too a simplistic point; maybe Liverpool only drew with Man United at home the day after the draw at Brighton because they were in a subconscious comfort zone. But maybe, too, that isn’t the point.

Wednesday January 8th, Tottenham Hotspur vs Liverpool, Carabao Cup semi-final. A potentially historic night and momentous occasion. 5 Live commentator, John Murray, had been far too professional to say anything more than that about the prospect of a VAR announcement to the crowd, though once The Emirates, mercifully, hadn’t become the first venue in England to be sullied by that monstrosity during the previous night’s other semi between Arsenal and Newcastle Utd, Darren Fletcher similarly played up the looming threat at Spurs. Hopefully, the Tottenham Hotspur stadium will be the only ground where it happened. When the time came, following an offside call against Tottenham’s Dominik Solanke, the crowd ordered itself into an abrupt communal hush on the ref’s audio whistle, as if an impromptu one minute silence had been signalled. What followed was appropriately mournful, ref Stuart Atwell verbally confirming a decision with no more information that couldn’t have been displayed on the scoreboard as usual - just as had happened during the Women’s World Cup in 2023. Co-commentator Michael Brown was scathing of the announcement, but I’m not sure what he expected.

An equal talking point was Tottenham’s winning goal, scored a few minutes from the end and just after Tottenham midfielder, 18 year old Swedish midfielder, Lucas Begvall had ‘escaped’ a second yellow card for a foul on Liverpool left back, Tsimikas, who was off the field receiving treatment when the goal went in. I appreciated the post-match remarks of both managers, Liverpool’s Arne Slot saying it was unfortunate that Attwell hadn’t been asked to announce the decision not to send off Begvall. Of course, as stated, VAR aren’t interested in anything that doesn’t happen near a goal, but I resonated with the sarcasm. Ange Postecoglou disputed the opinion that Begvall’s first challenge was a yellow, adding “we’ve been screaming for that all season”. I know how it feels when something that’s gone against you consistently without interference then goes for you and suddenly sparks attention. Then there was his pleasantly anticipated grump over the VAR announcement, adding that only he, an Aussie, seemed to be the one railing against the increasing deformity of our game.

Consistency of course was an oft-repeated droan pre-VAR, and everyone will have their stories of despair and injustice. Perhaps people were actually soothed by the idea of technology removing, or at least reducing, the unfairness, which albeit is a reality of life and sport. In 2009-10, Arsenal drew 0-0 at home to Sunderland after Andrei Arshavin had two goals disallowed for offside that weren’t even close to offside, and yet the next week, Sunderland manager Steve Bruce was whining on about his team being on the wrong end of poor officialdom. 

I don’t have a problem with Pedro booting the ball away after the whistle or throwing an elbow at an Aston Villa irritant, or Begvall arriving late to a challenge. I don’t have a problem with human error. I have a problem instead with stodgy and unnecessary interference. It isn’t what you start playing the game for.

During team training sessions as a child, my team mates and I would get frustrated with the manager stopping play every few minutes to make points about our game play, but I know now, and probably did then, that it was designed to improve us as players and as a team. 

I don’t get that with VAR.

It’s beginning to look a lot like the usual bull…

 For those lucky enough to have had some time off over Christmas there will be the bind of having to return, but very quickly the Friday feeling - for ‘conventional’ workers - will be back, but then you wake up on Saturday without the festive bubble, and you admit to yourself that that mould patch on your bedroom ceiling really is spreading a bit, and then there’s the overflowing recycling bin problem because they did the last collection earlier than usual before Christmas but aren’t coming again until the end of the first week of January, and on top of that, you can’t temporarily use the black bin because you missed that collection just before New Year when your sleep was all over the place, as was your awareness of the days, and though back then it was kind of ok as it was still festive, the reality of the situation is now stark, on top of which, you still haven’t got a working car for when your kids return to school and clubs next week, and if all that isn’t enough then you find out that for next Tuesday’s Carabao Cup semi finals, the refs will be asked to announce the VAR’s decisions to the crowd. 

The EFL have taken responsibility for this latest terrorist attack on the game, but no explanation is forthcoming as to whether the announcing (which will presumably take place once the five-minute delays have been concluded) will constitute the same words broadcast on the big screen. They can save it, because I’m not really into explanations, although someone has decided that they are really important and will really please the fans, or ‘improve the in-stadium experience’ just like VAR has. 

The truth is the opposite of course, it’s not just an attack on the game but also the fans, whose input into the ‘event’ is further decreasing. The clubs and authorities have done a great job of taking the ownership of match day away from those keeping the game going. We are hosted on arrival by the adrenalin junkie on the PA system, then presented with the theatre of the Premier League music and adornments as the untouchable Gods shake hands, are invited like 7 year olds to yell back the surname of the player who has just scored, and  encouraged to belt out Sweet Caroline under the illusion it is a feel-good anthem and not an act of crowd control in conjunction with William Hill. 

When Sepp Blatter (whose corrupt-controlled reign at FIFA elicits more dewy-eyed nostalgia with every passing day that Gianni Infantino is in the job) spoke against video replays, arguing that fans moaning about decisions was an essential part of football, he was derided (by Gary Lineker among others) but I honestly think he was promoting community. So many times I’ve been to games and missed why someone was sent off, or not seen how a fight on the pitch started, or even just seen the tail-end of the ball looping into the net. You used to find the answers from other people in the stand or even on the train home, and then you’d rush to see footage of the thing you partly witnessed.

Football is creating more of a distance from the supporters under the guise of serving us. I really wanted to go to the Newcastle game, only to receive the ‘unfortunately’ email that has followed every other home match I have applied to go to this season. For the first time though, I am not disappointed. The announcement announcement came seconds after the ‘unfortunately’ email and served as a consolation amid the despair of EFL’s atrocity. Not getting a ticket I can accept, outright vandalism is tougher to shrug off. 

I can only hope this trial fails. Above the emotional and passionate pleas, how would it even work out for deaf fans, unless we’re enrolling refs on sign language courses? No doubt the additional act will give something else for the front row tourists to film, but I can’t see how else this will do any good.

Football used to put a shield up against the strains of everyday life, but it has been edging towards the other side for a good while now, and we can only rely on Christmas, even with all its marketing excess and reminders of sadness and loneliness and expressions of prejudice around the festive table, that is keeping up its end of the bargain. 

The spirit of Christmas Day gone

 Monday December 30th and the Christmas spirit is with me: I saw an old friend in town today, someone prominent in my life for two years over 2 decades ago, someone who I was only thinking about the other day, and I went over and said hello instead of sneaking past him. He’d been looking away and on his phone so wouldn’t have even noticed if I’d just walked on by, dragged away by my natural avoidance tendency. 

I even took my hood down to reveal myself, and then there we were, reminiscing about shared laughter and the comedy quotes that got us through the tedium of labour when we worked the part time evening shifts at Royal Mail together between 1998-2000. His kids came over after their temporary fairground ride and I said hello to them and his partner. I didn’t take up much of their time, and we bid a fond farewell, my friend joking that we’d bump into each other in a few years from now when he was back in town now that he lives away. 

I went off to complete my store returns in a heightened mood, glad I’d made the effort to make a tribute to a part of my life story. Perhaps I’d been inspired by a lovely night previously, spent with my sister and her girlfriend and my niece, who were visiting from the south coast. Reprising connections nourish the soul if you can overcome the pull against it. 

I don’t always go through with it, though, exemplified in my local supermarket, pre and post Christmas Day. I averted contact with two other significant social buddies of the 90’s and beyond, both from the two Sunday league football teams that were my life back then. Rival teams that I played for and against, like Mo Johnstone and Sol Campbell. On about 23rd, the captain of my first team was with his partner, providing the trolley while she put in the graft. True to his vision on the field, he appeared not to notice me as I skulked off down another aisle. This was nothing against him, just my natural setting. True, I did, in ‘98, take his then girlfriend (not the person in the supermarket) back to my bedroom after a night out and removed my trousers in front of her (you thought I was such a nice boy, didn’t you?) but all that had been ironed out back then (crucially, she’d opted not to cheat on him like he’d cheated on her multiple times), what’s more, I allowed myself this blanking as I’d previously acknowledged him in a prior supermarket encounter, which itself had been inspired by a sighting of him a time before that when I’d avoided him and later felt uncomfortable about it.

Yet, this time on the 23rd, I did end up actually making contact, noting him standing on the end of an aisle, potentially not noticing me, kind of staring into space, but I felt I couldn’t risk it and waved in his direction. He broke out of his trance, waved back, smiled and, hopefully got, by my frenzied put-on expression, that I was too rushed to talk. It wasn’t until today, after speaking with my Royal Mail friend, that I realised I’d missed an opportunity to tell him that it may well have been 30 years to the day that we’d had our inaugural Sunday league team Christmas night out that he’d played a starring role in. 

On Boxing Day, or maybe the day after, a player from the other, more successful team, who I’d  won trophies and gone out on memorable nights out with - including over the last couple of years - was in the same supermarket with his kids, appearing not to see me (a theme?!) in one aisle and then later picking up laundry detergent with his back right to me, as close as we’d been when having our arms round each others necks on the dance floor during £1-a-pint club nights on Monday and Thursdays. The only music playing now was Lucky You by the Lightning Seeds over the sound system, a tune he sang to himself as he walked away back up the aisle without interference from me. Again I forgave myself, as I’d chatted with him in there a couple of months before. I believed myself to be in credit, and I’m sure you agree, so with that cleared up, I’ll change tack and tune in on the Lucky You bit of that riveting story. Not just that song in particular, but the always strangely abrupt ending to the Christmas songs once 25th has passed. I say, keep ‘em coming!

There must be an argument, even if only I am making it, that Mariah and Brenda and WHAM! and Elton etc, (probably not Slade, as they inquire about stockings going up on walls) are better enjoyed after the big day of presents. Before then, the festive songs are just a soundtrack of anxiety to the mass spend, impossible organisation and impending intrusion of relatives insisting that you hear their thoughts on politics and quotas. Get all that out of the way and, if like me this year, there is no upset or tragedy affecting me during the festive period, then the true magic of Christmas, which is its power to catch all the day-to-day stresses in a sack and tie it up, allowing you to watch old festive Top of the Pops from years gone by (1998 is a smasher - Spice Girls, Bewitched, Leanne Rimes and a truly moving performance of No Matter What by Boyzone, interspersed by presenters Kate Thornton, Jayne Middlemiss and Jamie Theakston slap-sticking Jane MacDonald in a Santa outfit) and eat and drink just because it’s there, the wonder of all those Yuletide bangers can be truly appreciated. One year my missus was mildly irked by my wearing of Santa pyjama bottoms throughout the year, and while I’m not condoning that excessive behaviour, I’m still on the Christmas playlist during this (now) most wonderful time of the year. 

The influence of a teenage prodigy

 ‘Southampton versus Brighton & Hove Albion in the Premier League. What is the worst possible way we can treat that derby?’

This was the daunting task befalling Sky Sports’ executive match-ruining committee a few weeks into the season, a responsibility eventually handed down to a work experience  student to properly crown the end of their two-week placement. 

Said 16 year old Joanna Furlong: “I’d sensed that the task was becoming overwhelming for the group, not least after a long day of pressing high against the lounge bar, and like all top temporary staff, I was on my toes waiting for a chance to come my way. I knew that the scheduling of the south coast derby had been the number one item on the agenda, but reading the game like I know I can, it was clear that when my superiors returned to the office they’d become distracted. It can happen, procrastination is the curse of the workplace, be it on site or online, but I was determined it wasn’t going to be my master.’

The tenacious Furlong explained that she had to tap in to flowering leadership skills to get the supporter-averse arrangements over the line.

‘As they came shuffling through the door, puce-faced and boisterous, I decided to make my mark: “It has to be a Friday night. A Friday night derby”, I boomed in front of them, stopping them in their disjointed tracks. “Saturday lunchtime, Monday night, they’ve both got their strengths in belittling the supporters, but with a Friday we can finish their football interest even before the weekend’s started!” 

‘I concluded the argument with growing confidence, and I could tell they were impressed. They went with it in a heartbeat.’

Furlong is warm and engaging during our short interview, happy to talk about her motivations for learning about the dark arts of fixture rescheduling. 

‘I’m only young but I am keen to make a difference’, she added. ‘Sky Sports literally gave me a platform to do that. Before we got involved, Southampton v Brighton & Hove Albion was an eagerly anticipated Saturday 3pm local derby, with folks happy to end the week with a tipple or two in the Friday night hostelries, glad to have packed the working week away and looking forward to the next day’s big game. Excitement would rise on the morning of the match, still time to spend with families and friends or admin, and then maybe head out for a bit of lunch or another tipple or two on route to St Mary’s, just like it always used to be before 1992 (I’ve done my research!) But with just one decision, I managed to change all that: instead, in came the Friday rush hour factor and the opportunity for our loyal subscribing neutrals to flick through the channels and settle down for a bit of reliable old footy. To be responsible for that, well…I have to say it was quite empowering’.

I asked Furlong where she saw herself in twenty years.

‘Well, that’s the question! I have a vision, so many ideas, so many time slots to tap into. The Christmas Day match is there for someone bold enough to implement it, in between the King/Queen’s speech and ‘Enders. Amazon are inching towards it, but I question their ability to go the extra mile. Wherever I end up, I want to be innovative, a trailblazer, a disruptor. And if a work experience student wants to put forward a 1am kick off to pull in the Kuala Lumpar audience, who would I be to not to listen to that?!’

It’s quite clear that Furlong is one to watch for the future. With FIFA president Gianni Infantino set to rename the FIFA Club World Cup the ‘Gianni Infantino Trophy’ (or GIT, for short) by 2029 (or ‘27 if his full dreams are realised) whose to say she won’t have her name on it in years to come?

Growing the game

Cowering in the corner, the Carabao (nee League) Cup is whipped into action this week, serving its sole purpose to ensure that a week doesn’t go by without any football being played, or rather, broadcast. 

There has been talk of the competition being withdrawn, some of it by Pep Guardiola, but how exactly would that help, oh master - surely you can’t be advocating a bit of breathing space for the players and supporters, to actually miss the game for a bit, appreciate it?

What people don’t understand is that if you’ve got a good thing going you have to flog it to death before the subscribers, er supporters, lose interest. You’ve got to create overloads, press to the point of strangulation, bully them with goodness.

More is more, momentum the holding midfielder keeping it all together. It’s about educating people. The Super League revolt was a terrible disappointment, and a sad indictment of the average fan’s intelligence. It’s like they don’t want to be force-fed Real Madrid v Juventus twice a season every season! Just harming themselves really. Some people are even against the FIFA Club World Cup! You’d think they’d be grateful to have something on in the summer while we hang around every other year waiting for a World Cup or a Euros or a Copa America or an AFCON or a Confederation Cup. Think of the boost to economies. Of employment. More travel, more accommodation, more games, more pundits - more opinion creating more emotion. Another underwhelming Spurs or Aston Villa player from the 2000s having their scripted say. Can people not see the social media rollercoaster? It’s a tornado of football comment; it’s so clear people need this, yet some choose to deny themselves, to deny others. Only today there have been millions of posts on the subject of injured players.

Sky Sports provides the perfect model. Listen to friend of the game and friend of the world, Richard Keys, reassuring viewers tuning in for the inaugural Monday Night Premier League episode (Season One.) in 1992. “Depressing Mondays are a thing of the past”. Now look, we have Friday Night football, 12:30 Saturday football, 5:30 Saturday football, not to mention the enlarged European feasts spread throughout the week - a working week that now brings comfort instead of overrated anticipation. Did you ever see that advert, in between a comedy sketch show, highlighting all the football all of the time. Values that chime perfectly with the modern day.

Reductions should only be made when necessary, and you can see that the Carabao Cup is proof that sacrifices have been made, two-legged games cut, replays banished. It’s a two-way process. We listen. We understand our cherished top teams need to rest the top players so that they are ready for that beautiful expansion of those European games. There’s examples of this in the FA Cup too, a competition where fan priority is again evident: it is there, in the hotly anticipated draw for the next round taking place while the current round is still ongoing. None of that preposterous stuff of (thankfully) old, making people crowd round a radio on a Monday lunchtime - nearly 48 hours after the last piece of action - as if in some desperate scramble for bread. One vision of the future is to stop games mid-flow to make that draw, perhaps during a VAR check. We know there are tedious critics of the VAR system, and once more, here’s a solution. Hear it again: the FA Cup draw read out during a VAR check. It’s mind-blowing, I know.

It’s also called growing the game.

Something borrowed, something claret and blue

 Is the Aston Villa team that beat Bayern Munich 1-0 at Villa Park in the Champions League on Wednesday better than the Aston Villa eleven who beat Bayern Munich 1-0 in Rotterdam to win the 1982 European Cup Final?

Comparing eras is difficult, I understand, (during his co-commentary of England-Argentina at France ‘98, Kevin Keegan said that after a period of even five years such a thing was pointless, let alone forty two), and for a start this year’s Villa have entered the competition after a fourth placed finish in the Premier League, while the ‘82 vintage went in as champions of the First Division (the only other English club joining them was Liverpool, courtesy of having won the cup the previous season.)

You could argue that finishing fourth behind the Manchester City empire and an Arsenal team just two points behind them, followed by a good Liverpool, was as equal to the achievement of winning the top flight in ‘82, but it’s not just budget and power that’s the difference, it’s also about not being allowed to get pissed in the build up to the biggest game of your life or, as Ken McNaught did, go on a long run the night before it. Different times, different tools, different culture.

The names of the players involved in the goals perhaps underlines the disparity: Gary Shaw (RIP) to Tony Morley to Peter Withe in Rotterdam, Pau Torres to Jhon Duran in Birmingham. Withe’s shot went in off the post despite him being only a few yards out; Manuel Neuer was caught out being 20 yards removed from the goal line. 

Bayern, for once, didn’t win the Bundersliga last season - didn’t even come second - and would you say Harry Kane is as effective as Karl-Heinz Rummenigge? Is Joshua Kimmick at the same level as Paul Breitner? Seems it is good not to compare and just enjoy the respective eras. But you can, though, appreciate the echoes of Emiliano Martinez’s save-heavy performance standing between victory and something else on Wednesday, just as the largely unknown Nigel Spink did when coming off the bench for the injured Jimmy Rimmer to keep Bayern at bay in the 1982 Final. Martinez undoubtedly has a bigger ego than Spink, but he also owes the surge in his career to an injury, sustained by Arsenal’s then No.1 Bernd Leno at Brighton & Hove Albion in the Covid-hit season of 2019-20, which introduced the 27 year old perennial loanee/ reserve Martinez to Arsenal’s first team, impressing as they went on to win the FA Cup under Mikel Arteta, who had replaced the sacked Unai Emery in November, a situation that has suited both parties, with Emery now leading Villa back to the grand stage via a successful rehabilitation at Villarreal. 

The season that Villa won the European Cup, they finished 11th in the league but won the Super Cup against UEFA Cup winners Barcelona. The following season they went out in the Champions Cup quarter final to the Juventus of Platini and Boniek and most of the Italian World Cup winning team, including top scorer in ‘82 and European Footballer of the Year, Paolo Rossi, who was substituted in the Final that they lost to West Germans Hamburg thanks to a goal by Felix Magath, former boss of Fulham, where Leno now plays in goal. Four years later, Villa were relegated, a jet-propelled decline that would later be matched by Blackburn Rovers (Premier League winners 94-95, relegated 98-99) and Leicester City (Premier League winners 2015-16, relegated 2022-23.)

Two seasons after Leicester’s title win, Hamburg were relegated from the Bundersliga for the first time in their history, but perhaps one day there will be a Champions League match-up between themselves and Juventus - a 1-0 win for the home side maybe. Impossible though it seems for a Villa or a Hamburg to win their respective leagues, the modern format at least gives hope for romantic reunions, if only because it’s in the past that romance exclusively lives. 

A foul red card but I’m above it all

 The Big Controversy involved an Arsenal player this weekend just gone, one that went against the Arsenal player involved, in the first match of said weekend. It turned the game and cost Arsenal the lead at home to Brighton & Hove Albion, emulating Arsenal’s second game at home last season when they also ‘dropped’ two points at home to Fulham.

Following that 2-2 draw with Marco Silva’s side back then, I resigned myself to the reality that Arsenal wouldn’t win the league, because you don’t get pegged back at home to mid-table opposition, conceding two very avoidable goals, if you claim to have a chance of usurping Manchester City. As it turned out, the title challenge went right to the last day, so although I was right, I was also premature, which is likely after just three games into a season.

Thomas Partey was blamed for one of the Fulham goals, or rather his positioning as stand-in right back (centre back Gabriel was kept on the sidelines with Saudi interest alive, and usual right back, Ben White, moved over to cover him), and this weekend Partey was again blamed, this time in his customary midfield role, for allowing the goalscorer Joao Pedro to run off him and equalise. 

Partey’s midfield partner Rice had been sent off minutes earlier, the victim of a Letter of the Law red card, already on a yellow and nudging a rolling ball away that Jan Veltman conveniently missed and followed through on Rice, felling him and prompting Chris Kavanagh, the kind of man who gives the impression he hangs around bars judging women while holding his pint over his mouth and smirking, to send the Arsenal man off.

I was of course fuming when I heard about this, no, seething (if that’s a stronger emotion), as the injustice gathered pace, twinned with news that Pedro hadn’t been cautioned for booting the ball away in the first half. This was just the thing I said would be beneath me in the summer.

My righteous indignation may be devalued by the fact that, three days on from the incident, I still haven’t seen footage of it. Other people, like lapsed West Ham fans or those catching the first half before heading out to the Bescot or glory-hunting Man U supporters (ha!) will have seen the whole darn shooting match live on whatever self-serving shit-stirring channel the match was on. But not me, an actual fan of the home team, caught up in (pleasurable) trips to Adventure Golf on the Watford bypass, Oriental food courts in Collindale and all-series reruns of The Americans and early starts for the beach. I’m in the ballot for Southampton at home in October. Couldn’t get Leicester City for late September, but let’s hope once more. 

I may watch it tonight, though time is ticking. Everyone else’s rage or mirth is wearing off. I remember a Saturday in 96-97, knowing Arsenal had lost at struggling Nottm Forest, managed for the first time by Stuart Pearce, with Ian Wright sent off and Dad directing me to Arsene Wenger’s words on teletext, gearing us up for the outpouring of ire on Match of the Day. It was then quite disappointing to see that Wright did actually bash Alfie-Inge Haaland and there wasn’t much to cry about. It was tempting to see Haaland, like Ole Gunnar Solskjaer back then, as a menacingly evil Scandy noire, and when you see how upset he made Roy Keane, perhaps there’s something in it. But then the fact Keane and Wright were involved…it’s not clear-cut. How do they manage praising Erling Haaland, I wonder. At least ITV don’t have much football, and Norway don’t qualify for any tournaments. 

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I’ve seen the incident now and it’s a farce. The non-booking for Joao Pedro makes it almost comical, like the Guimaraes elbow-to-the-head assault on Jorginho that went unpunished last season. When Arsenal next get a massive helping hand like that, I will reference it. Hopefully it’s in the next league game, at Spurs, after that most treasured of fortnights, the international break. For now, I hope the 5 year old Brighton manager presides over an astonishing derailment of form that sees his whinging, cheating little babies relegated to the championship. 

Sometimes you have to allow a bit of perspective in.